By the time we flew into L.A., I felt like sending my body through one of those X-ray machines in security to make sure my brain was still intact. If a picnic in Stanley Park was all the disruption Malcolm could handle to his daily routine, why did I think for one moment—one second—that he could handle a journey halfway around the world?
“Where are we, Trevor?”
“In an airport.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re flying to New Zealand.”
“Oh.” He paused. “I’ve always wanted to go to New Zealand. Ever since I was a boy. My aunt moved there and sent us beautiful postcards.”
“I know. That’s why we’re going.” In our twenty-seven years together, Malcolm had been steadfast in his wish that, when we were both retired, we’d visit New Zealand. On the day he was unable to draw the face of a clock for the gerontologist, I went down to the travel agent and booked our flights—a decision I wondered if I’d regret forever.
Malcolm’s hands went clammy and started to shake when we got on the plane in Vancouver. He’d never felt comfortable in enclosed spaces and his disorientation only amplified the problem. After pushing his dinner off the tray table into the aisle because he hated the crap they were serving, he let loose a string of obscenities to the flight attendant who came to clean up his mess. I apologized to her, saying something like Flying does this to him but whispered the real reason for his behaviour. Thankfully, she was understanding and even gave Malcolm a second dinner which promptly met the same fate as the first.
I kept my sanity by reminding myself that I was only honouring what Malcolm had always wanted. After the flying food incident, he settled down and stared out the window for the remainder of the flight.
In L.A., with two hours until our flight to Christchurch, I decided to have a heart-to-heart. “Malcolm,” I said, huddling close to him on a bench in the departures lounge, “The next flight is going to be long—much longer than the last one. If you want, we could return to Vancouver.”
“Where are we going?”
“New Zealand.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to New Zealand. My aunt lived in New Zealand. I think she’s dead now.”
It amazed me how he could forget what was said thirty seconds ago but had vivid memories of his childhood and could still play a reasonable hand of bridge. If Malcolm was consistent about one thing, it was that he wanted to go to New Zealand. For all the joy he had brought into my life, the least I could do was to honour his request while we were still able to go. Thankfully, he slept most of the second leg.
◊ ◊ ◊
“What are those men carrying?” Malcolm asked.
“Probably their skis,” I said, grabbing my suitcase from the baggage carousel before it did a second go-round. “New Zealand is supposed to have excellent skiing.”
“In summer?”
“It’s winter here.”
“But the flowers are out.”
“That was back home. We’re in New Zealand now.”
“Oh.”
I spotted Malcolm’s black Samsonite case and stepped forward, hoisting it onto the trolley. “We’re in the southern hemisphere and the seasons are opposite.” I wasn’t sure he’d comprehended, but at least he deserved an explanation.
“I’ve always wanted to go to New Zealand.”
“Well, congratulations, you’ve finally made it.” I regretted my flippancy. Malcolm’s state of mind wasn’t his fault, I reminded myself for the millionth time.
I parked him on a bench in front of the Avis car rental counter while I signed forms and got the keys. I kept looking back to make sure he hadn’t wandered off. The person sitting there with the vacant stare was not the same person I’d loved and lived with most of my adult life. I couldn’t allow myself to think about what was happening to him or I’d probably break down or go into a fit of rage. For now, I had to stay calm and in control.
◊ ◊ ◊
The bed and breakfast, Rāhiritanga Inn, looked acceptable enough from the outside. I left Malcolm in the car and went to the front door. I rang the bell and shortly after, the front door opened, and a man in khaki pants and a denim shirt greeted me.
“Have you a vacancy for tonight?” I asked.
He nodded and beckoned me inside where I was assailed by a strong smell of potpourri in the reception area.
The man looked at his register. “Twin or double?”
Malcolm had become a fitful sleeper of late, often lashing out an arm or leg. “Twin, please.”
“No worries. Follow me.” He led the way down a hall and stopped at a door with a gold-plated 2 on the outside. “What part of America are you from?”
“I’m Canadian.”
“Apologies.”
“No offence taken. Arrived here from Vancouver a few days ago. We drove across the plains yesterday. Kept driving in and out of snow flurries.”
“Winter’s unpredictable on the South Island. One day it can be glorious—the next, you can’t see your hand in front of you.”
“So we’re finding out.”
He turned the knob and opened the door.
One glance inside was all I needed. “Perfect. We’ll take it. Everything looks so new.”
“It is. We’ve only had the place for two months. My wife and I were both stuck in dead-end jobs in Christchurch and decided to chuck it all in and buy a B&B. My name’s Marcus, by the way.”
“Trevor,” I replied then shook his hand. “Change of direction for me, too. I sold my antiques shop three months ago.” I couldn’t imagine he cared.
“Would you like some tea or coffee after settling in?”
“Yes, tea sounds wonderful.”
At the bed and breakfast we’d stopped at last night near Arthur’s Pass, I was undecided whether to tell the proprietors about Malcolm’s illness. If they had any sort of powers of observation, it would have become quickly apparent that all was not well. Since his diagnosis, everyone has been so understanding and forgiving of his behaviour. Thank God we don’t live fifty years ago when his behaviour would have been chalked up to old age, hardening of the arteries or just plain lunacy.
◊ ◊ ◊
When I went back to the car, Malcolm was fumbling to unlock his seatbelt.
“It’s fine,” I said.
“Where are we?”
“Hokitika.”
Malcolm furrowed his brow.
“On the South Island of New Zealand,” I said.
“Oh. When can we go home?”
Each time he’d asked this question, which was several times an hour, I became increasingly angry with myself. I should have put a halt to the trip in L.A. when I had the chance. Honour is one thing; stupidity overshadows all good intentions.
After depositing our bags in Room 2, we returned to the lounge for a much-needed cup of tea. Moments later, Marcus came through a swinging door marked Private. I poured from a ceramic yellow pot while Malcolm surveyed the books on the shelf. A plate of what looked like store-bought shortbread lay waiting on a pine table. I took a biscuit and washed the tasteless offering down with a sip of tea.
“This was my mother’s favourite book,” Malcolm said, holding aloft a copy of Anna Karenina.
His long-term memory was firing on all cylinders.
“I saw a sign as we were coming into town about glow worms,” I said to Marcus.
“It’s a must-see. The Glow Worm Dell is just across the road and to the left about a hundred metres. You can’t miss it. Don’t go until it gets dark though.”
“When’s that?” Malcolm sounded impatient.
“About six these days,” Marcus replied.
“Can we go see the glow worms now?” Malcolm asked.
“Not until dark,” I said.
“I want to go home,” Malcolm said, his eyes tired and sad.
“This is home, Mal. At least for tonight.” I put my cup down.
Malcolm approached the brown upright piano and lifted the lid covering the keys.
“Do you mind if he plays your piano?” I asked.
“No, feel free.”
Malcolm sat down on the padded bench, adjusted the height with knobs at either side, and rested his fingers on the keys. He took a deep breath, then slowly began to play Rhapsody in Blue.
Well into the piece Marcus whispered, “He’s very good.”
I nodded. “Used to be a teacher. Music’s been his life.”
I’m sure Malcolm could have been the conductor of a symphony orchestra. But, as head of the music department at Lynn Valley High School, he set aside whatever lofty ambitions he had had to nurture young musicians. Most years he conducted his senior orchestra to a winning performance in the Kiwanis Music Festival. Lynn Valley was renowned for its music program thanks to Malcolm Firthing’s thirty-three years of dedication.
Malcolm stumbled on a difficult run, stopped, studied the keys, tried again and still couldn’t get his fingers to cooperate. He slammed down the lid covering the keys so hard that a vase of carnations on top of the piano toppled over. Glass shattered and water dripped down the side of the piano onto the floor.
Marcus gasped.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, looking down at the mess. “Sometimes he’s not himself. I’ll pay for the damage.” I put my arm around Malcolm’s shoulder and steered him in the direction of the exit door leading to the rooms. I intended to return and clean it up after he’d settled down.
“Don’t speak about me as if I’m not here!” Malcolm shouted. “I’m not stupid, you know!”
He spun around and took a swing at me, grazing my shoulder. Malcolm’s second punch missed me, causing him to lose his balance and tumble onto the carpet. I crouched down and when he was composed, helped him to his feet.
“Can we go see the glow worms?” Malcolm said as if nothing had happened.
“I think we’d best leave it for now. Let’s go get something to eat, then we can have an early night.”
While Malcolm’s mental abilities were on the wane, his appetite certainly wasn’t, and his ever-expanding waistline proved it. At a nearby restaurant, he managed to devour an order of fried rice, sweet and sour pork, Szechwan duck, beef chow mein, and king prawns. Luckily, I wasn’t hungry. By the time we’d returned to the B&B, Malcolm had forgotten about the glow worms and just as well—I was exhausted.
When I awoke in the middle of the night, Malcolm was gone. I jumped out of bed, slipped on my shoes, and hurried down the hall leading to the communal washrooms and checked both the Men’s and Women’s. (The last time we’d gone to a movie, Malcolm had wandered into the Ladies’ washroom.) Then I tried the sitting room. Maybe Malcolm had woken with an urge to play the piano. I opened the door and stood, numb with fright, wondering what to do next. Wake Marcus and have him call the police? Check other parts of the building? I went back to our room on the off chance Malcolm had returned. I was horrified to see his shoes were gone. So far, Malcolm had left his late-night wandering to taking pots out of cupboards or rearranging the furniture.
I grabbed my coat and raced into the chilly night. Crossing the road, I headed in the direction of the Glow Worm Dell. My heavy breathing broke the quiet. An arrow pointed to a parking lot and down a gravel path illuminated by an avenue of electric lanterns. No more than twenty feet ahead, I saw thousands of tiny flashing green dots that looked like blinking lights on a Christmas tree. I inched my way into a screened-off, horseshoe-shaped display. In the middle, Malcolm stood in striped pyjamas, waving his arms about like a madman. But he was no madman. He was as he had always been—an orchestra conductor. The glow worms played from tree limbs, each knowing when it was their turn to shine. The violins bounced off the cellos, which yielded to a bold trumpet flurry and a clarinet trill.
I wanted so very much to get him back into the warmth, but something stopped me. I stood amid the lime green sparkles and watched as my soulmate revelled in the moment. Finally, when he put down his baton, I began to clap—first quietly, then crescendoing into rapturous applause and bravos.
Malcolm turned to face me and took my hand. “It’s time to go home,” he said.
Behind us, glow worms blinked knowing messages to each other, their chorus lost to the sound of feet shuffling on gravel, into the darkness.
J.E. Crossman was born in Toronto and worked in Thunder Bay for 35 years before moving to southwest England. She has published short stories in anthologies and literary magazines and won writing contests for her fiction and humorous nonfiction stories. She is a member of Exeter Writers, a Professor Emerita at Lakehead University and divides her time between England and Arizona.
