The Girl in the Wall (6 page)

Morven needed new equipment. The Kodak wasn't good enough anymore. George took her downtown to Sam the Camera Man. They zeroed in on a Nikon camera with a motor drive, a real beauty.

She put her old Kodak on a shelf in her bedroom. It was the only item on the elaborate set of shelves that covered part of one wall.

By now George had switched to business-related subjects at the University of Manitoba. He still had absolutely no idea what he wanted to do and going to school didn't disagree with him. His father assumed that one day George would follow him over to the stockyards but he didn't mind when, as long as his son was furthering his education. Learning never hurt anyone, he was fond of saying, no matter what the subject.

George had a new girlfriend; Dina had fallen for someone else. The new girl's name was Pam and she was a fine arts student majoring in sculpture. She tried to talk to Morven about her photographs but she was usually rebuffed. Morven didn't trust her. She figured Pam was only being nice to her to impress George.

After a family meeting, minus the mother, George signed Morven up for the photographic technician program being offered at the new Manitoba Institute of Applied Arts. It was the fall of 1968, the year she turned nineteen and the year John and Yoko were photographed naked. Over a year had passed since she took her picture of the dead boy.

It was a ten-month program all about photo processing and printing, which was exactly what she needed.

The drugstore had balked at Morven's pictures of the dead boy. She wasn't sure if it was Ross, the druggist, doing the balking or the processors of the film, but she had never been back. Since that uncomfortable day she had taken her film downtown to Sam's.

In spring of the following year, with George's help and the new knowledge she had acquired at
MIAA
, she set up a darkroom in the cellar. The four walls already existed; it was the old coal room. It just needed some fierce cleaning, some modest modifications and, of course, equipment, which her dad paid for.

Now she was all set. For what, she wasn't entirely sure, but she knew it had everything to do with that summer day in the emergency department.

She took to hanging around the hospitals with her camera at the ready. She practised a positive look in the mirror each time before she set out, not quite a smile — that felt dishonest — but an approachable look. No words were spoken about her idea: she didn't want to ruin anything by trying to explain it in its first vague form.

Part of her plan was to take buses to different hospitals to avoid being noticed as a familiar fixture in any one place. She longed to be a magical being that could move in and out of invisibility as needed. She'd heard about a book called
The Invisible Man
by someone named H. G. Wells, so she borrowed it from the Norwood Library and read it to see if it had any practical tips. But it was beyond her with all its scientific terms.

The General Hospital, the Grace, and the Victoria all became part of her regular route, but the St. Boniface was her favourite. It was close to home, it was where she got her start, and it was near the Red Top, where she always stopped in for a jam buster on her way home and watched the teenagers act out their lives.

And sure enough, the St. B. was also where her second opportunity presented itself. It was early on a July morning. As she prepared to leave the house that day Morven heard on the radio that Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones had been found dead in his own swimming pool. That's what she was thinking about as she sat in the front lobby. She wished that she could take a picture of him; he was so beautiful. She imagined him to be even more so in death.

“Could you…?” It was a girl who spoke. She was young, younger than Morven, who rose immediately to her feet and followed along with the family. The mother looked less sure of the idea, but didn't protest.

“He died just a few minutes ago,” said the girl. “He almost isn't even dead yet.”

This time the eyes were open and Morven felt a fluttering in her chest, as though a tiny bird were passing through. She moved softly and quietly around the hospital bed, touching nothing but her camera, getting in no one's way. It was as though her dream of becoming invisible had almost come true.

Morven, in the widest imaginings of her future, hadn't pictured that there would be a call for such a thing. Her imaginings hadn't reached very far, but even so.

It was hard work. There was usually somebody weeping: a wife, an aunt, a son, a father. There was every combination of grievers imaginable, hovering. Morven would have liked to ask them to leave while she did her job, but she sensed early on that it would be perceived as unacceptable. She could tell that even the people who sought her out thought her to be strange somehow on the inside and they wouldn't have trusted her alone with their dead ones.

She didn't blame them. Also, she wasn't sure if it was true. Intuition was something that George had spoken about. She was interested in it as an idea, but she didn't trust it if it belonged to her. Sometimes her inner voice was wrong. Often it was wrong. Her brother had helped her with it over the years and her big mistakes were getting fewer and farther between. But even so. If she understood it correctly, it shouldn't have to be a learned thing like the date that Christopher Columbus sailed over the ocean blue or what crops grew in Argentina and Brazil. You were supposed to be born with it; it was supposed to be effortless.

Her powers of concentration became finely honed as time went by. To do her job properly she needed to ignore the hoverers as best she could, to feel that she was alone with the deceased, one on one.

It was near the beginning of this new life that Morven changed her name to Mrs. Mortimer. She hated her first name, her so-called Christian name. It seemed to her that most Christians she had met were mean: like her Sunday school teacher who kicked her out of class for staring; and the minister, Mr. Rutnick, who clenched his teeth when he smiled and scared the wits out of her with talk of going to hell for the slightest indiscretion; and the hordes of nasty kids who walked home from Sunday school behind her and told Little Moron jokes really loud. She knew the jokes were about her. Why did the Little Moron walk home from Sunday school all by herself? Because no one liked her. Why did the Little Moron stare at people? Because she was a little moron.

The church secretary, Miss Morton, was an adult whom Morven had never forgotten. She had been so kind to her during the days when she liked to sit by herself in the pews. Plus she had worn high heels in different colours and her summer shoes often had open toes. So Morven took Mrs. Morton's name and changed it a little; she didn't want to be a copycat or worse, a thief.

Her new name, Mrs. Mortimer, freed her somehow from the old jokes and the kids who told them and from a whole lot of other bad memories as well. It turned her into more than just a peculiar person with a camera slung around her neck. And the Mrs. part of it gave her a legitimate air. She felt it immediately, the change. It didn't give her a new personality, but it buffed up the one she had, lent it a finer edge.

Mrs. Mortimer didn't want to get into trouble. She'd had too many years of getting into trouble, never having much of an idea why till George would explain it to her every time. There was little doubt in her mind that this new thing she was doing wouldn't be acceptable to people at large: teachers and neighbours and church ladies and doctors. She didn't even tell George, at first, the extent of her new activities.

She wasn't much for hurrying — didn't do a lot of it — so she was in no rush to build her business. It grew on its own at an agreeable rate. There was no need to advertise; word of mouth was enough. All she asked for in the way of payment was enough to cover her costs. Usually people added a bonus, an honorarium, as she liked to think of it, as a thank you to her for performing this unusual service. She accepted as graciously as she could.

What she was doing wasn't against the law. It just wasn't done, was all, and she found she could manage that. Some of the people out there needed what she had to offer. All she had to do was concentrate on the job at hand and ignore the judgments and criticisms that were bound to come her way. She could handle it. She was Mrs. Mortimer.

One wintry day in early November of 1969 she had her first experience with being called in before life had entirely left a body. The wife feared that her husband would be whisked away before Mrs. Mortimer had time to get there and render her services so she called her at five o'clock in the morning and asked her to please come. Mrs. Mortimer dabbed on a little of her mother's lavender perfume before she left the house.

Again, it was St. Boniface Hospital. She trudged through the slushy streets, careful to keep her camera safe and dry as the wet snow fell around her.

She met the wife in the husband's room. It was silent there, except for the laboured breaths of the man. A nurse had said that he was breathing like someone at the end of his life.

His eyes were closed and his mouth turned slightly downward as though with just a whit of disapproval. His nose was aquiline on a face smooth now that death was near.

Mrs. Mortimer wanted very badly to kiss the pale, pale forehead of the husband. She stepped aside and the wife did just that.

As they both looked on he opened his eyes wide, as wide as eyes go and the woman said, “Dan?”

And then she said, “Danny?”

Mrs. Mortimer recognized an excitement in the woman. Perhaps he hadn't opened his eyes in some time.

But then there was a gurgling sound in his throat, the sound that everyone has heard about and the wife squeaked like a newborn pig.

She choked out, “Nurse,” and ran from the room.

Mrs. Mortimer was left alone with the man.

She stared into his eyes. They were the same blue as his hospital gown, the same blue as the eyes of Pookie, her white-furred cat. Leaning over with her arms across her stomach, she didn't look away, not for an instant. She stared into his eyes until she was almost sure there was nothing there. A curious warmth filled her torso. The eyelids closed and began to open again. Mrs. Mortimer stood up and after a quick glance over her shoulder she gently kissed them shut, first one, then the other. Then she stepped back. They stayed closed this time. He was gone.

The nurse came and did what she had to do, with her pulse searching and chart keeping. No one asked if he had closed his eyes on his own. The wife tried to use the phone. It wasn't working for her — her fingers couldn't manage the numbers — so finally she just sat and watched while Mrs. Mortimer took pictures. The nurse left them to it.

“I thought for a second there that he'd come back to me.”

It took her a moment to realize that the wife was talking to her.

“When he opened his eyes so wide, I mean. They were so clear and normal looking. Why did I run away?” she asked. “Why didn't I stay?”

“I don't know.”

“I should have stayed.”

Mrs. Mortimer clicked and clicked.

“Oh God, if only I could turn back the clock and do it over again.”

“No. No,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “You didn't do anything wrong.”

She was done with her pictures but she couldn't take her eyes off the husband yet.

“What did I miss?” said the wife. “I would give both my legs to go back ten minutes in time. I'd give my face away.”

“No, no. Please.”

“Did you see him die?”

“I think so.”

“What…what…?”

“I think, that is, I don't think…”

She pulled her gaze away from the husband and looked at the wife.

“I don't think he was seeing his actual surroundings when he opened his eyes for that last time.”

The wife hung on her words.

“I think he was already far, far away,” said Mrs. Mortimer.

“So he didn't miss me.”

“Not then, no. I'm quite sure of that.”

“And he didn't know that I ran.”

“No. I'm quite sure he didn't know that you ran.”

“Quite sure?”

The woman wanted too much from her and she felt the strain.

This time she didn't answer; she didn't know what more to say.

The wife fussed a bit: kissed the husband's temple, smoothed his forehead, lifted the covers to look at his feet.

“Bye, feet,” she said.

Mrs. Mortimer put the lens cap on her camera and fit it into its leather case.

“Will he forgive me for running away?” asked the wife.

“Of course he will.”

She reached out and touched the woman's hand.

“I'm sure he didn't know and even if he did, he has already forgiven you. He is goodness itself now.”

She didn't know where those words had come from but they sounded apt to her. She felt right inside, not wrong as she so often did. It was time to leave this woman alone with her man so she could kiss his face and speak to his feet without an audience.

The sun was up when Mrs. Mortimer walked through the soaked streets. The winter squall had moved off and she faced a warm wind as she walked down Taché toward home.

She felt like a brand new train car firmly fastened to a shiny set of rails, heading out on a clear fresh morning. Heading out to find…

What she was searching for she didn't know. She hadn't even known that she was searching for something, but she was aware that today was the nearest she had come to finding it. Would she ever get any closer? She had no way of knowing, and at the moment she didn't care.

A memory came to her as she turned into the crooked lane that led to Monck Avenue. It was of something that had happened on the first day of her second year in grade one. A boy called Philip was sitting at the desk next to hers; she'd heard the teacher say his name. She stared at him. Philip was shivering. For a few more moments she continued to stare. Then she leaned over close to him so that no one else would hear her words.

“Don't be scared,” she said. “I was here last year. It's easy.”

The boy had managed a small smile for her and it was that smile she remembered now. It fit in with this new experience somehow.

She wondered what Philip was doing today. She didn't even remember if he had survived grade one. Most people did, she supposed.