Liminal State

Christmas had exploded in the Calgary airport. The lights, the decorations, the staff wearing those stupid elf hats… There was even a huge Christmas tree in the middle of the concourse. Another flippin’ obstacle.

This was Estelle’s first visit to Calgary, and all she knew of it so far was that it was nearly as cold as Whitehorse, at least according to the pilot.

But when she went through the sliding glass doors and joined the throngs on the sidewalk outside the terminal, she revised that: Calgary was just as cold as Whitehorse. She should have brought her parka.

As she dug through her wool jacket’s pockets for her hat and gloves, cars swooped to the curb to pick up passengers and then merged into traffic again. The smell of exhaust made it past her frozen nose, turning her stomach, which had, until then, been clamoring for dinner.

Jack had said Door Six. Well, she was at Door Six. Where was he?

As if called up by the thought, a forest green Chevy Colorado swerved to the curb into a spot too small for it, leaving its back end sticking out into traffic. The driver’s side door opened and a bundled figure rushed around the front and descended on her. She almost stepped back before she recognized Jack under the sheared sheepskin flap hat.

He gave her a quick hug, then opened the back door, grabbed her suitcase, and tossed it effortlessly into the back seat.

“Come on,” he said, “before someone runs into me.”

He opened the passenger-side door and she swung her almost six-foot frame easily into the seat. Moments later, they had joined the line of vehicles heading away from the airport.

“Good trip?” asked Jack, tossing his hat over his shoulder onto the back seat. Estelle wasn’t quite ready to take hers off.

“Uneventful,” she said, raising her voice to be heard above the heater. “Is this your truck?” Surely to God they hadn’t driven from Montreal?

“Charlie’s,” he replied, naming his son-in-law. Then he concentrated on getting out of the airport grounds.

She had questions but didn’t know how to approach him. How was Clara? Was she in pain? Why on earth had they risked the five-hour flight from Montreal, followed by a one-hour drive to the small town where their daughter Olivia lived with her family?

Jack and her sister Clara had been married for almost 40 years, but Estelle still didn’t really know him. Certainly not well enough to quiz him. They’d never even lived in the same province. Or territory.

Grumpy, she concentrated on the view.

They were between day and night, that in-between state that she hated to drive in, but that always felt as if anything could happen. As if magic lurked just beyond her sight.

With a silent sigh, she settled into her seat.

* * *

Olivia’s house was smaller than Estelle had expected, and it was older, on a tree-lined street filled with similarly older, snow-covered homes. The house was bedecked with small, multicolored lights. Even the trees in the front yard had strings of white lights wrapped around them.

Back home, she’d hung a wreath on her front door. Some years, she didn’t even bother putting up her artificial Christmas tree.

As they pulled into the driveway, the glass doors that seemed to serve as the front entrance slid open and her niece Olivia hurried down the deck to the driveway. She opened Estelle’s door, letting in a cold wind, and barely waited for Estelle to jump down before hugging her fiercely.

“Thank you for coming, Aunt Stella,” she said in Estelle’s ear. “It means so much to Mum.”

Estelle’s stomach did that funny little flip it did lately anytime she thought about Clara.

“How is she?” she asked. She could ask Olivia, but not Jack. She’d always been close to her niece.

Olivia pulled away from the embrace. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears.

“Still dying,” she said in a low voice as Jack hauled the suitcase from the back seat and headed for the deck. “But she’s so happy to be here.”

Estelle nodded and followed her niece. After two years in remission, the cancer had come back to finish its job. To kill Estelle’s baby sister.

* * *

After a dinner of tourtière, homemade baked beans, and butternut squash, Estelle and Clara sat in the living room listening to Christmas music while Olivia and Charlie gave their boys, Owen, four, and Barney, two, their bath. Jack busied himself in the kitchen, cleaning up.

Clara sat in the comfy recliner, wearing a heavy sweater, warm socks, and slippers. Her bald head was covered by a Christmas-themed cashmere wool cap that Estelle had knitted her. Deep, dark circles shadowed her blue eyes. Her pants hung on her and her cheekbones stuck out prominently.

Clara looked Estelle over just as carefully.

“You look good,” she said. “All that skiing agrees with you.”

Estelle sighed. “You don’t look so hot, Clara,” she said. “This trip …”

Clara just smiled. They had always been bluntly honest with each other. “I wouldn’t look so hot back home, either. This is my last Christmas,” she said quietly, and Estelle didn’t contradict her. They had never lied to each other and wouldn’t start now. “I wasn’t about to make Olivia pack up her whole family and spend all that money. Besides I wanted to see where she lives.”

Sure. But how had this travelling, especially at Christmas, depleted her?

Clara read her face, like always.

“Stella Bella,” she said, using the nickname from their youth. “This is what I wanted to do. I’ve got all my favorite people around me. I’m going to have a wonderful Christmas before I die. Just be happy for me, okay?”

Estelle shook her head, but what could she say? They were already here. The damage, if any, was done.

“You were always too stubborn for your own good,” she grumbled to the strains of Bing Crosby’s White Christmas.

Clara took a deep breath. “There’s something else.”

“What?” Estelle looked at her full on, alarmed by something in Clara’s voice. What could possibly be worse than her baby sister dying of cancer?

“I’ve applied for Medical Assistance in Dying.”

Estelle blinked, unsure she had heard correctly. She replayed the words in her head.

“No,” she said. “No, you’re not doing that.”

Clara sighed softly. “Yes, I am.” She raised a hand to forestall Estelle’s objection. “Not right now. I’m not ready. But it’s going to get ugly, and painful. I don’t want my family to go through that.” She paused. “I don’t want to go through that.”

“They have good drugs,” said Estelle, leaning forward. “You won’t feel any pain.”

“And I won’t be present, either,” said Clara, her jaw clenching momentarily. She lifted a hand in a chopping motion. “I’m not asking permission, Estelle. I’m telling you how it’s going to be.”

Estelle stared, aghast, at her determined sister.

How could Clara even consider robbing her family of whatever time they had left with her?

At that moment, Barney, the two-year-old, came running from the hallway, fresh from the bath, clutching a book. To Estelle’s alarm, he made a beeline for her, stopped at her knees, and thrust the book at her.

“Story?” he said, looking up at her with huge blue eyes.

Estelle glanced at her sister, but she was no help, sitting there with a grin on her face.

Estelle leaned down to the boy.

“You know I don’t like kids, right?”

Barney’s head tilted slightly. Then he smiled. “Story?” he repeated, as if she hadn’t understood the first time.

“How can you resist those big blue eyes?” asked Clara through a laugh.

Estelle frowned. “This conversation is not over,” she warned.

“Just read the boy a story!”

With a sigh, Estelle plucked the boy up and plunked him on her lap. She opened the book and started reading.

The night he wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind

and another

his mother called him “WILD THING!”

and Max said “I’LL EAT YOU UP!”

so he was sent to bed without eating anything.

Estelle paused and looked at Barney. “This isn’t even a Christmas story.”

“Read?” said Barney.

She started reading again, only to be interrupted by Owen, freshly dried and dressed in Christmas PJs, running down the hallway and launching himself at the couch to snuggle next to her.

“Start again,” he ordered.

By now, Clara was having trouble smothering her laughter, and Jack, Olivia, and Charlie were clustered in the kitchen doorway, watching with fond smiles on their faces.

Good grief.

Then she noticed Jack’s gaze fixed on Clara. The look on his face persuaded her. If reading to the boys could help her sister have the best Christmas of her life, then Estelle would read to the boys.

She restarted the book, only to be interrupted again by a frantic knocking at the side door. Charlie disappeared around the corner. There came the muffled voice of a man, and Charlie’s concerned reply. Even the boys had lost interest in the book, their gazes glued to the wall hiding the side door.

A moment later, Charlie emerged, followed by a man in his 50s. He wore an open navy parka, jeans, and a sweater. No hat, no mitts. Geez.

“Olivia,” said Charlie. “Have you seen Earl tonight?”

Olivia shook her head. “Not since this morning, when I brought over cookies. I thought he was going to your place for Christmas.” She addressed the newcomer.

“He was,” said the man. “He is.” He was trying to control it, but it was hard to disguise worry. “I was coming to pick him up but there was an accident on the highway. He didn’t answer his phone.”

Estelle’s arms automatically tightened around the boys and they glanced at her.

It had to be close to -30 degrees out there.

“You’ve checked the house?” asked Olivia. She glanced at her mother. “Earl is our next-door neighbor.”

The man nodded.

“Are his coat and boots missing?” asked Estelle.

The man turned to her like a drowning man turning toward a life preserver.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just checked the house for him, then I came over.”

Estelle glanced at Clara. She was sitting forward, concern etched on her face.

Dammitall.

“Have you called the police?” Estelle asked the man.

He looked startled, then shook his head.

For pity’s sake.

She slid Owen off her lap and stood up with Barney in her arms, before turning to place him on the couch.

“How old is your father?” she asked.

“Eighty-one,” he said promptly.

Lord love a duck.

“Charlie, go back with…” She realized she didn’t know the man’s name.

“Fritz,” said Olivia.

“Go back with Fritz. Check to see if Earl’s boots and coat are there. Then do a thorough search of the house. Once that’s done, if you haven’t found him, call 9-1-1. Ask them to issue a Silver Alert.”

To Charlie’s credit, he immediately turned Fritz back toward the door, presumably to don his winter clothes.

Clara was looking at Estelle. “Are you going to wait for the police?”

“Of course not,” she said. She glanced at Jack, but he was looking at Clara. “Olivia, you and I will search his back and front yards, then those of the neighbors on either side. Look for footprints in the snow. Do you have flashlights?”

Clara was shaking her head. “Olivia needs to put the boys to bed,” she said firmly. “Jack will go with you.”

“I’m not leaving you alone,” said Jack. “The police will be here soon enough.”

Clara looked at her husband, and Estelle recognized the tilt of her chin.

“That old man could be in a snow bank, freezing to death. I’m in a nice, warm house. Go find him.”

In spite of the situation, Estelle almost smiled.

* * *

Earl’s front yard was clear. No footprints, no body. No car in the driveway. The old man hadn’t driven in years, according to Charlie. The backyard was a mess of footprints and tracks — impossible to guess how old. Without a word, Estelle and Jack split up, Estelle to search right and Jack left.

Even with borrowed mittens and warm socks, the cold worked its way through Estelle’s winter coat. And her ear muffs were not keeping her forehead warm.

But Earl, the old man they were looking for, had no winter coat or boots on that they could determine. Earl’s son had stayed behind to speak with the officer who showed up, and Charlie had joined the search, too. Olivia was going to call the neighbors to have them join in. Estelle didn’t bother asking for homeowners’ permission to search their yards. If someone came out to see what she was doing, they soon went back inside to get dressed and join the search.

Clara’s concern kept playing back in Estelle’s mind, and she walked faster, sweeping the beam from her flashlight over each yard, looking for footprints. Across the street, searchers were doing the same, calling Earl’s name. Nobody wanted a tragedy on Christmas Eve.

After ten minutes, she stopped. Time to get strategic. Why had the old man left his house? Clearly, he’d forgotten that his son was coming to pick him up. Where would he have gone?

The patrol officer would also be trying to determine what Earl would likely have done.

She scanned the snowy, bejeweled street, noting that at least half a dozen people were scanning yards with flashlights and calling out Earl’s name.

Impulsively, she pulled off her mitt and dug her phone from her pocket. She found Olivia’s listing and tapped it.

“Did you find him?” asked Olivia breathlessly on answering.

“No,” said Estelle. “Is there a coffee shop that he goes to regularly? A seniors’ center? Any friends that he usually visits?”

Olivia was quiet for a moment.

“There’s Fred, who lives two blocks away. They drink coffee and play cards every day, since Fred’s wife died. But he’s in Florida with his family for the holidays.”

Earl, the old man, had dementia, clearly, or he wouldn’t have gone out without boots and a coat. What if he didn’t remember that his friend was gone?

But wouldn’t someone have seen him wandering the street without outerwear?

She glanced around at the glittering Christmas lights and drawn curtains. No. Everyone was focused inside, on their own families.

“Where exactly is his friend’s house?”

* * *

The Alberta cold was even more brutal than the Yukon cold, but maybe that was because she was seriously underdressed for it.

She walked as fast as her long legs would carry her, but Jack still managed to catch up to her. Unlike her, he wore his heavy parka, sheared sheepskin flap hat, and matching mittens.

“Where are you going?” he asked when he caught up.

So she told him what she suspected. As she talked, more police vehicles passed them, all with RCMP markings. Good. The more people searched, the better chance the old man had.

The frigid air froze the small hairs in her nostrils and she pulled the scarf up over her nose. On the left, Olivia had said. A blue house with a white front door. Decorations in the window. This block was quiet, though there were lights on in most of the houses.

“Thanks for doing this,” said Jack suddenly.

She glanced at him. His face was ruddy with the cold. “You’re doing it, too.”

He nodded.

“But you took charge, organized the search, gave orders. You made Clara feel that everything would be all right. Her big sister the retired cop was there.”

Tears welled up from Estelle’s throat, threatening to close it, threatening to overwhelm her. Jack didn’t seem to notice.

“I heard you two talking about Clara getting medical assistance to help her die.”

Estelle stopped abruptly. Jack turned to face her. He was a little taller than her at six foot one.

“When the time comes,” he said quietly. “I promised I’d support her.”

She suddenly yanked the suffocating scarf from her face. “You support her cheating us out of whatever time we have left with her?”

In the light of the street lamp, his brown eyes looked dark and sad.

“I support her choosing to die with dignity, when she’s ready to go.”

“You’re a bloody idiot.” There were drugs that could keep Clara comfortable until … until she died naturally.

“She’s not there yet,” said Jack calmly. “And she plans to live as fully as she can until she dies. But she refuses to end up so drugged up that she doesn’t even know we’re with her. She doesn’t want us to see her like that.”

“You mean you don’t want to see her like that.” Even to her ears, the words sounded vicious. She brushed past him. She’d talk to Clara. Talk some sense into her.

Her entirely inadequate boots squeaked on the packed snow of the sidewalk as she took long strides to distance herself from Jack. Her toes were frozen and she couldn’t feel her fingers anymore. The traitorous tears froze on her cheeks.

The house, when she found it, seemed to be blue, though it was hard to tell in the street light. The door was definitely white. It was the only house without lights on this side of the street.

Jack stopped next to her. Behind them, a flurry of activity clustered around Olivia and Charlie’s house as police organized search parties. But this block was quiet. She glanced at Jack.

“We’ll check the doors, front and back,” she said, but she already knew the old man—Earl—wouldn’t have used the front door. There was a two-inch layer of pristine snow on the walk leading up to the front porch. No boot prints to be seen.

Jack nodded, though he could see as clearly as she could. The left side of the house had no door, so she followed the sidewalk until she could see the right side. No door there, either. The empty driveway on the right was trampled, however, but much more than one old man walking to the back door could have done. Maybe there were kids next door and their play had spilled over onto the snow-covered lawn.

With her gut tightening at every step, she tromped down the side of the house toward the backyard. She heard Jack rapping sharply on the front door.

She followed the side of the house to the darkness of the back yard. She flicked her flashlight on and played the light in a sweeping motion.

There were rectangular shapes in the snow. Garden beds. A small greenhouse looked forlorn in the far corner, and in the opposite corner stood a brown metal shed that looked like a miniature barn.

She stepped further into the back yard and saw that a single-track trail separated itself from the trampled snow. Her beam followed the track up the stairs to a deck with covered deck chairs.

And there, crumpled at the door, was an unmoving, dark figure.

“Jack!” she yelled even as she ran up the stairs. She turned the still figure over, knowing it was Earl.

Jack came around the far corner of the house.

“Call 9-1-1,” she ordered, going to her knees. “Tell them an elderly man has been found unconscious, outside.” She removed her mitt and placed fingers on his carotid. No coat. No hat or boots, just felted slippers. “Tell them he was not dressed for the weather. Pulse is thready and weak.”

As Jack complied, Estelle took off her coat and wrapped it around the frail body. Jack finished talking to the 9-1-1 operator, then took off his parka and laid it over the old man before taking off his hat and placing it on the old man’s bare head. Then he ran back to the front of the house.

Estelle rearranged her coat to cover Earl’s legs and feet and tried to wrap Jack’s parka all the way around his body. She lifted the old man so that his back and head rested on her chest, to share what heat she had left. He weighed nothing.

“Don’t you die, Earl.” She hugged him fiercely, the tears streaming down her face. “Don’t you dare die!”

Earl opened his eyes and looked up at her, shivering.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he said in a halting whisper.

“The ambulance is coming,” she assured him, wiping her face before the tears froze.

The old man nodded. “Sorry to be a fuss,” he said, his voice a little stronger. “I just wanted to see Fred. Forgot he was with his family.”

Estelle held him tighter. “You’ll be with your family soon, too,” she assured him.

* * *

By the time the ambulance drove off with Earl and Fritz, Estelle was thoroughly cold, even after regaining her coat. Next to her on the sidewalk, Jack shivered uncontrollably, too. Only Charlie seemed to be all right, but he hadn’t been coatless at -30.

Neighbors slowly made their way back home, their voices excited and relieved. Within minutes, the street was deserted again, with only the half-moon and the stars witnessing their slow return to Olivia’s house.

Fifteen minutes later, they all sat around the dining room table, debriefing and decompressing. Olivia had checked on the kids, who slept, oblivious to the activities inside and out.

“He can’t have been out there very long,” said Charlie, pouring coffee into mugs.

“He would have had serious frostbite,” agreed Clara. She wrapped her hands around her Christmas mug in a gesture so familiar it sent a stab of pain to Estelle’s heart. How many more times would she see her baby sister do that?

She added extra sugar to her coffee and a touch of cream before taking a sip. Perfect. She and Jack sat warming up with blankets tucked around them and woolen socks on their feet.

Olivia set a plate of fruit cake in the middle of the table — much to Estelle’s disgust — and sat down with a sigh. In the background, the McGarrigle Sisters sang “Il est né,” one of Estelle’s favorite Christmas songs. Someone had remembered to plug in the tree’s lights, and now the dark living room glowed softly as if all was right with the world. Piles of presents spilled from underneath the tree, reminding Estelle that she had yet to unpack, let alone place her own gifts under the tree.

Restless, she stood up with the blanket still around her and wandered to the living room to stare out the big window at the street. The tree stood reflected next to her. A moment later, Clara joined her.

They stood shoulder to shoulder, staring out at the night, the moon, the stars. In the reflection, the circles under Clara’s eyes disappeared and the worry lines smoothed out. She looked like the old Clara. From the kitchen came the muted chatter of the other three as they enjoyed each other’s company.

“Pretty magical, isn’t it?” murmured Clara, still staring out the window.

Estelle watched her sister bathe in the joy of being with those she loved best. Unlike Earl, Clara had all her faculties. What right did Estelle have to tell her what to do with the little time she had left?

It occurred to Estelle that Clara was in a magical state of her own, that time between day and night, between life and death.

She had no real idea what lay ahead for her baby sister. Whatever it was, Estelle would be there for her, like always. They all would.

She put her arm around Clara, wrapping her in the blanket. “Yes, it is,” she said. “Pretty magical.”