1986
The cool breeze blowing in off the
water licked Barbara’s cheek like the tongue of a friendly dog. She walked up Comox Street, leaving behind
her the hospital, the Psychiatric wing and Rafael, who was authentically mentally
ill. Why hadn’t she guessed? But how, while feeling thoroughly victimized
by him, could she ever guess that he himself might be… a victim? For half an hour while she visited he sat
next to her on the sofa, frighteningly thin and crumpled into a heap of bones
barely covered by skin, hospital pyjamas and robe. He said almost nothing to her throughout,
until, as she got up to leave he touched her lightly on the shoulder and
weeping he told her “Hans is dead”. He
thanked her for coming and asked that she please return again soon. She was trying not to tremble. She was walking fast, past the park on her
right and the old houses of Mole Hill on her left. All the fear, hate, terror and resentment he
had once summoned in her, now had been drowned in a slough of compassion. She was easily moved to pity, had always
been. It didn’t seem fair, and she knew
she was letting him off easy but she couldn’t help it. She had just narrowly avoided wrapping her
arms around him when she left, it somehow would have seemed inappropriate. She still wanted to hold him, Rafael, in her
arms and rock him into a leaden slumber.
She knew she would be returning to see him, perhaps not tomorrow, but
soon, likely later in the week.
She didn’t know whether to believe
what he said about Hans. She carefully examined
herself, her state of being, to determine if this would be indeed upsetting
news to her. She really couldn’t
tell. She didn’t think that she’d ever
really actually loved her husband Hans, who controlled her and ruled her life
for her more than anything. She supposed
that she had at one time respected him, but soon the respect had given way to
terror, which soon manifested itself as hate.
Then, after the out of court settlement, with having a greater sum of
money awarded to her than she might ever hope to see in her lifetime, Barbara
had summarily forgotten that she had ever known the man. He had, upon her leaving and returning to
Canada, simply ceased to exist for her.
She supposed that she did feel a certain sorrow, if he was indeed
dead. The marriage had lasted a little
over two years. They had first met at
that party where she had also met Rafael for the first time. She had not thought, at first, much of either
of them, simply that Rafael was a bit repulsive and Hans was rather cold and aloof. Otherwise, she hadn’t expected that upon
re-encountering Hans in that café. He
had quite insisted on taking Barbara out for dinner, and after several such
tries, successfully led her to the Justice of the Peace.
She didn’t know where she was going.
Barbara supposed that she was heading towards Stanley Park. Well, she could think of worse places to go
to. She needed to be surrounded by nature right now, especially after those
thirty minutes spent with Rafael inside the Psychiatric ward. She was still feeling fragile herself and
could only tolerate so much stress. Her
psychiatrist had been adamant that she take things easy, that now was not the
time to even think of looking for employment.
Besides, she was comfortably fixed for life, and really didn’t have to
work again, not if she didn’t really want to.
She knew that she ought to find some constructive way of occupying her
time. She had long been interested in
helping prostitutes. Her own modelling
experience, for Barbara had really presented her with some rather interesting
parallels to the oldest profession. She
also knew that she was indeed one of the lucky ones. She did not have to apply for social
assistance nor for disability payments.
She lived in a nice apartment in one of the better parts of the West
End. She really considered herself to be
a very lucky woman.
She walked all the way up Comox
Street, flanked by apartment buildings of various sizes, shapes, and
vintages. Then she crossed Denman,
ignoring the temptation of visiting the various interesting shops that lined
that street. She continued along the
remaining few blocks to the park. The
rhododendrons were no longer in bloom, and many of the huge bushes still held
brown dead flowers that looked rather like soiled tissues trapped amid the
green leaves. She had heard that there
were prowlers in the park, and that no sensible young woman ought to be walking
there alone. Barbara supposed that she
was sensible enough. As for young, she
was now forty, but could easily pass for thirty. She didn’t expect that anything untoward
would happen to her, and she didn’t even feel inclined to watch her back. She felt that she was on some kind of quest. Like Glen, she decided to simply allow God to
lead her in the way she should go, which was never easy, since Barbara was
often at a loss as to what was really divine guidance. She went past the tennis courts, then took
the path down through the Rhododendron Garden, then further to the edge of Lost
Lagoon. A thin dark-haired man in a
teal coloured tee shirt sat on a bench staring at the swans that sailed on top
of the water with arched wings and serpentine necks. As Barbara drew a bit nearer she realized
that it was Randall.
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