A Fatal Grace

Mother Bea looked overtaken by some emotion Clara couldn’t quite identify. Fury? Fear? Extreme concern of some sort, that much Clara was sure of. And then it was gone, replaced by Mother’s peaceful, cheery face, all pink and wrinkled and open.



‘Come on, let’s go over.’ Ruth struggled to her feet and took Gabri’s offered arm. ‘There’s nothing much happening here. When the inevitable hordes arrive, desperate for great poetry, I’ll race back to the table.’



‘Bonjour, dear.’ Tiny Émilie Longpré kissed Clara on both cheeks. In winter, when most Québecois looked like cartoon characters, wrapped in wool and parkas, Em managed to look both elegant and gracious. Her hair was dyed a tasteful light brown and was beautifully coiffed. Her clothes and make-up were subtle and appropriate. At eighty-two she was one of the matriarchs of the village.



‘Have you seen this?’ Olivier handed Clara a book. CC stared back, cruel and cold.



Be Calm.



Clara looked over at Mother. Now she understood why Mother Bea was in such a state.



‘Listen to this.’ Gabri started reading the back. ‘Ms de Poitiers has officially declared feng shui a thing of the past.’



‘Of course it is, it’s ancient Chinese teaching,’ said Kaye.



‘In its stead,’ Gabri persevered, ‘this new doyenne of design has brought us a much richer, much more meaningful philosophy which will inform and indeed color not just our homes but our very souls, our every moment, our every decision, our every breath. Make way for Li Bien, the way of light.’



‘What is Li Bien?’ Olivier asked no one in particular. Clara thought she saw Mother open her mouth, then shut it again.



‘Mother?’ she asked.



‘Me? No, dear, I don’t know. Why do you ask?’



‘I thought since you have a yoga and meditation center you might be familiar with Li Bien.’ Clara tried to put it gently.



‘I’m familiar with all spiritual paths,’ she said, exaggerating slightly, Clara thought. ‘But not this one.’ The implication was clear.



‘But still,’ said Gabri, ‘it’s a strange coincidence, don’t you think?’



‘What is?’ Mother asked, her voice and face serene, but her shoulders up round her ears.



‘Well, that CC should call her book Be Calm. That’s the name of your meditation center.’



There was silence.



‘What?’ said Gabri, knowing he’d somehow put his foot into it.



‘It must be a coincidence,’ said Émilie, evenly. ‘And it’s probably a tribute to you, ma belle.’ She turned to Mother, laying a thin hand on her friend’s plump arm. ‘She’s been in the old Hadley place for about a year now; she’s no doubt been inspired by the work you do. It’s a homage to your spirit.’



‘And her pile of crap is probably higher than yours,’ Kaye reassured her. ‘That must be a comfort. I didn’t think it was possible,’ she said to Ruth, who looked at her hero with delight.



‘Nice hair.’ Olivier turned to Clara, hoping to break the tension.



‘Thank you.’ Clara ran her hands through it, making it stand on end as though she’d just had a scare.



‘You’re right.’ Olivier turned to Myrna. ‘She looks like a frightened doughboy from the trenches of Vimy. Not many people could carry off that look. Very bold, very new millennium. I salute you.’



Clara narrowed her eyes and glared at Myrna whose smile went from ear to ear.



‘Fuck the Pope,’ said Kaye.



CC straightened the chair again. She stood dressed and alone in the hotel room. Saul had left without a goodbye kiss offered or expected.



She was relieved to see him go. Now, finally, she could do it.



CC held a copy of Be Calm and stood at the window. Slowly she brought the book up to her chest and pressed it there as though it was the piece that had been missing all her life.



She tilted her head back and waited. Would this be the year they eluded her? But no. Her lower lip trembled slightly. Then her eyes fluttered and a small lump fizzed in her throat. And then they came, racing cold down her cheeks and into her now open, cavernous, silent mouth. And she tumbled down that dark chasm after them and found herself in a familiar room, at Christmas.



Her mother stood beside a long dead and undecorated pine tree propped in the corner of the stark, dark room, a sprinkling of sharp needles on the floor. A single ball hung on the tree and now her mother, hysterical and howling, yanked it off. CC could still hear the storm of needles hitting the floor and see the ball racing toward her. She hadn’t meant to catch it. Had only put her hands up to protect her face, but the ball had landed right in her palms, and stuck there, as though finding a home. Her mother was on the floor now, rocking and crying, and CC was desperate for her to stop. Desperate to shut her up, silence her, calm her before the neighbors called the police again and again her mother was taken away. And CC was left alone, in the company of strangers.