Straight and Narrow



by


Sigrid Macdonald




This book is entirely fictional. All characters are figments of my vivid imagination.

© Copyright 2012, Sigrid Macdonald.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in 00080 a retrieval
system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or
otherwise, without written permission from the author.



ISBN: 978-1-105-83172-0
























DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to Los Desaparecidos.








ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am grateful to Detective Sergeant Bob Pulfer,
Detective John Savage, and Detective Mike Lamothe from the
Mental Health and Adult Missing Persons’ Department of the
Ottawa Police force, for giving generously of their time to
answer my many questions about police procedure. I would
also like to thank Marie Parent, a private investigator from
Quebec, currently living in Scotland, for providing me with a
wealth of information about a local case that she helped to
solve, and Tania Doucet, a mental health crisis counselor from
the Royal Ottawa Hospital, for offering critical information
about addictions and addiction services.
Emna Dhahak, Senior Bilingual Media Liaison Officer
from the Communications Branch of the Ministry of
Transportation, kindly replied to several inquiries about traffic
laws: Rick Lavigne of the Ottawa Police did the same.
My dear friend, Joyce Milgaard, directed my legal
questions to Joanne McLean, who promptly provided me with
important details about criminal law.
Tim Pattyson, Manager of Communications for the
Ottawa Senators, helped me to navigate the team's website in
order for me to get my hockey facts straight.
Reid’s Taekwon-Do explained the martial art to me.
My closest friend, Cathie Soubliere, acted as my French
translator and drove me to Quebec, so that I could record my
impressions of the towns of Hull and Alymer.
I sincerely appreciated all of the practical help that I
received from Gwen and Laura at Le Skratch billiard hall.
They taught me the basics of playing pool, which was no easy
task!
Two readers provided constructive criticism on my








manuscript. They include Blair Roger, who has been a friend
and confidant since we were teenagers, and Suzanne Pepin, a
newer but equally treasured addition to my life. Special thanks
to Suzanne for hours of meticulous editing.
I am grateful to my grammar consultants, starting with
my mother, Muriel, and my brother, Brooke; Tracy and Pierre
Gagnon also helped me with this onerous task on a number of
occasions. The Ottawa Toastmasters offered invaluable lessons
about organizing my thoughts verbally and manually. Brian
Sutton from Toastmasters was particularly encouraging.
As always, I would like to thank my family for putting
up with me and for supporting me throughout this project,
starting with my beloved mother, Muriel, my devoted sister,
Kristin, my wonderful brother, Brooke, his wife, Alicia, and
their boys, Oliver and Christopher. Although he passed away
more than sixteen years ago, the influence of, and my
adoration for, my precious father, Hugh, will never die.
Many people on the Internet assisted me with this
endeavor starting with my inspirational friend, actress Barbara
Niven, and the fantastic contributors to her message board.
Francine Silverman, author of Catskills Alive, and editor of the
excellent Book Promotion Newsletter, has been a constant
source of information and support over the last several years.
Last, but surely not least, I am forever indebted to
Steve O’Brien, Don Campbell, Tinhorn, and Gregory Banks
for sharing their expertise about formatting, writing, and
publishing in a timely, patient, and courteous manner.
Sigrid Macdonald
March 2012








CHAPTER ONE
April 2004

“Imagine discovering that your husband is a bigamist,"
I exclaimed, as Lisa and I donned our jackets to leave the
ByTowne Theater.
“I'd kill him," Lisa retorted, as she put on her headband
to brace the frigid wind.
“You'd have to stand in line!" I replied, as we forced
our way through the large crowd that was waiting for the
second feature.
The ByTowne was an old theater with a wide screen,
plush red velvet curtains, and hard uncomfortable seats, which
were so low that I felt that I was leaning back in a 1980s
Corvette, waiting for takeoff. But the movie house specialized
in foreign films. As a result, it attracted a faithful cult
audience.
We had just seen My Architect, a docudrama produced
by Nathaniel Kahn, son of the late Louis I. Kahn. The senior
Kahn was a well-renowned architect from Philadelphia. He
designed a number of impressive buildings including the town
center in Bangladesh, and the beautiful Salk Institute for
Biological Studies in La Jolla, California. The movie depicted
the son's search for the father that he had never known.
At his funeral, colleagues were shocked to learn that
Louis Kahn had not one but three wives simultaneously. He
had fathered three children with different women and only saw
young Nathaniel when he could sneak away from his official
family. Nathaniel’s longing for his father was captured
perfectly in one breathtaking scene where he rollerbladed
through the vast and empty courtyard of one of his father's
buildings overlooking the Pacific.



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An older woman with long unkempt hair was standing
in front of the movie house. She looked weathered and carried
a tin cup.
“And you call yourselves Canadians!" the woman
shouted when people passed by without giving her money. I
dropped a coin in her cup and she gave me a weary, toothless
grin.
Lisa stopped to light a cigarette in front of a store
called All Books. She leaned on a table. It was overflowing
with used books with campy titles like Soul Centered
Astrology and Killing Rage.
Lisa's match kept going out, thanks to the steady stream
of snow that was falling. It was early April. This was probably
the last snowfall of the season. Two men ahead of us were
discussing the film.
"I really liked the play on words," the younger man
said. "I mean, I. Kahn. Icon! Do you think that his fate was
sealed by his name?"
"Oh, absolutely," his friend replied. "Look at all the
children named Jesus in Venezuela. See the way they're
prospering?"
"Maybe they'll get their reward in the next life," the
first speaker declared.
Lisa and I laughed. "Want to go to Nate's?" I asked. We
invariably went to Nate's Deli for a snack after our monthly
excursions at the ByTowne. It was hard to say which we
enjoyed more, the food at Nate's or analyzing the movies.
Occasionally, we’d vary our routine and walk down to
Tucker’s Marketplace, a restaurant in the ByWard Market,
which had an immense buffet. But tonight, the roads were slick
with freezing rain and the wind was gusting at 30 kilometers
an hour, so I didn't feel much like hiking all the way down to



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Mother Tucker’s.
Lisa nodded in agreement. "Follow me," she instructed,
as she grabbed my arm and ran across the busy avenue.
"Lisa!" I screamed, to no avail. She was an incorrigible
jaywalker whereas I always dutifully crossed at the corner.
Rideau Street was dark except for the flashing lights
above the theater. About one kilometer west of the ByTowne,
Rideau became Wellington Street, which housed the Supreme
Court, the elegant Fairmont Château Laurier Hotel, and the
Parliament buildings.
The center block of the Houses of Parliament was
destroyed in a fire in 1916. All of the Houses had been rebuilt
using a Civil Gothic design except for the library. The
buildings were warm and ornate with gargoyles, stained-glass
windows, and an ornamental fence. Parliament Hill stood on
the south bank of the Ottawa River just below the swirling
waters that explorer Samuel de Champlain had called La
Chaudière, meaning "The Cauldron."
The Hill and Confederation Square were impressive,
and were often displayed on postcards for tourists. This end of
the road was old and run down in comparison.
Lisa and I opened the door to 316 Rideau Street and
walked up the short ramp. The smell of fresh bagels and
cheese blintzes was tantalizing.
Nate’s Deli was famous for its smoked meat
sandwiches. The atmosphere was homey and somewhat
schizophrenic. Clearly, the store had been an old-fashioned
delicatessen years ago, but a modern annex had been added to
convert the deli into a restaurant.
We passed mouthwatering displays of candy, juice,
gourmet salads, and cooked meat. A waitress with honey
colored hair, tied up in a bun, seated us at the back in a booth.



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One wall of the restaurant was covered in glass mirrors. Next
to it was a large poster that said, "You don't have to be
Jewish," which made me smile.
We took off our coats and I brushed the wet snow from
my forehead. Lisa's dark brown hair gleamed under the yellow
lights. She was wearing a tight pink sweater, which showed off
her cleavage, snug Guess jeans, and a delicate gold cross. I felt
dowdy in my sweatshirt and baggy jeans.
Although we had been best friends since our late teens,
I was always struck by Lisa’s stark and simple beauty. She was
everything that I was not: tall, angular, and shamefully thin
with a spontaneous, impulsive, and charismatic personality.
Her life was full of drama, even though she’d been sober for
five years, and worked full time as a drug and alcohol
counselor at a small agency downtown called "Straight and
Narrow."
I, on the other hand, was imminently predictable. I
worked as a nurse in the short-term rehabilitation unit of a
local hospital. I’d been married to Mark, a professor of cultural
anthropology, for fifteen years, which barely legitimized our
fourteen-year-old son Devon.
The words that were most often used to describe me
were dependable, loyal, and hard-working—polite
euphemisms for boring. In the past, I had taken pride in those
descriptions, but recently, I’d been feeling dull and
disenchanted with my life. I was approaching forty. Just
thinking those words sent a shiver down my spine.
Turning forty sounded as appealing as being a prisoner
in Abu Ghraib. Dead Woman Walking, I mused to myself. I
was already sprouting gray hairs and had been making frequent
trips to my hairdresser, Chan Juan, to have her color my hair
darker. My hair was an odd shade of henna at the moment, but



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I couldn't change it since I had colored it four times in the last
two months. It now had the texture of a Brillo pad and toxic
metals were probably seeping into my already imbalanced
system.
I had heard the argument that forty was the new thirty,
but I suspected that the phrase had been invented by someone
in her fifties. If I were lucky enough to live until eighty that
would mean I was already halfway through my life. What had
I done with it? Where was I headed? I could be hit by a bus or
develop breast cancer, like my mother, who died when I was
ten.
Every day at work, I saw people whose lives had been
derailed by accidents and illness. Maybe I only had ten or
twenty years left. What was I going to do with them? The
faster I approached the big 4-0, the more I envied Lisa her
relative freedom.
Lisa had never gotten married. She’d had a succession
of boyfriends. "Cereal" monogamy, she joked. "They stay for
breakfast. Then I kick them out in the morning." Her tone was
flippant but I knew that Lisa wanted stability in a relationship
as much as anyone else.
When she was doing cocaine that was impossible. She
was involved with one loser after another including men who
ended up in jail, disappeared for days at a time, and stole
money from her. One even slept with her cousin.
After she began her recovery, Lisa went through a long
period of voluntary celibacy to reflect on the qualities she
wanted in a mate.
Eighteen months ago, she met Ryan at a meeting of
Alcoholics Anonymous. He seemed like a bad bet to me. At
thirty-six, Ryan had been clean for three years and attended
meetings regularly.



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According to Lisa, some people go to AA but don't
actually work the steps, which involve taking one’s own
inventory and making amends to those one has wronged.
Consequently, the half-hearted members don’t have good
sobriety.
Ryan was different. He devoted himself to the program,
completing one step after another and volunteering to help
other tortured souls who were still drinking. However, he had a
history of physical abuse. Ryan's last girlfriend left him after
calling the police several times during their domestic disputes.
I had cautioned Lisa about Ryan's propensity for
violence but she believed in him. Her whole life revolved
around addiction and the program. To have doubted Ryan
would have been tantamount to questioning her entire career,
as well as her own recovery.
She was like a televangelist since she’d joined AA. Of
course, I’d never say that to her. Obviously, I preferred her
clean and sober to drinking and snorting white powder, but I
didn't understand her need for AA after all these years.
We were both partyers back in our university days but
for some inexplicable reason, Lisa crossed a line in her
drinking. Alcohol became something that she had to have and
it changed her personality. Her grades went down the drain and
she was often evicted from bars for being too boisterous, but
the next day she’d have no recollection of what she had done.
After Lisa realized that she had a problem, she went to
the Addiction Research Center in Toronto. She received out-
patient counseling at ARC and they encouraged her to go to
daily meetings.
One night, Lisa brought home a quiz and waved it in
my face. "Look!" she said. "Here's one test I passed with flying
colors. It says I'm in stage two alcoholism. Scary! Stage three



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means I'm ready for the asylum. People lose jobs, marriages,
and become institutionalized at that point."
I grabbed the quiz and studied it with interest. I decided
to take it myself. Lisa had no objections but she was surprised
when I scored high enough to qualify for stage one alcoholism.
"Oh my God, Tara. You need to get into the program!"
I had no intention of joining the Bible thumpers and no
real worries about my drinking either.
"We'll save a seat for you," Lisa had said at the time
but it never proved necessary. I got pregnant with Devon when
I was twenty-four. It was easy for me to quit drinking during
the pregnancy. Afterwards, my alcohol consumption dropped
drastically. Who can take care of an infant and continue
swinging from the chandelier at the same time?
On one hand, I knew that alcoholism was a disease but
I couldn't help wondering why Lisa couldn't cut back her
consumption by herself, the way I had, by using more
discipline and self-control. Sometimes, I wanted to scream
when she talked endlessly about her meetings and used those
little clichés: easy does it, one day at a time, live and let live.
Shut the hell up! I wanted to say. It seemed so self-
indulgent that Lisa spent twenty-four hours a day dealing with
addiction. It was bad enough when she had an ordinary job as
an assistant at Nortel and went to meetings every night. Now
that she was a bona fide alcohol and drug counselor, she was
addicted to addiction. A full-time naval gazer.
And I was a disloyal bitch of a friend to think those
things about her. I knew that. Tara—loyal, dependable, and
resentful as hell.
Lisa was aware of my disapproval. She sensed that I
wasn't thrilled with her job and she was disappointed that I
never gave the thumbs-up to Ryan, although I understood her



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attraction to him perfectly well.
Tall and lanky with dirty blonde hair and athletic good
looks, Ryan had always been a ladies man. He worked as a
landscaper in the summer and plowed driveways in the winter,
when he worked, which was not that often.
I suspected that he was a lazy bastard, who preferred to
live off Lisa. They’d been living together for about six months
and I wasn’t eager to hear the latest details about their
relationship.
We opened the menus, which said, "Nate’s—where
famous people come to eat." I’d never seen anyone famous in
the restaurant but I kept one eye open for Matthew Perry, Dan
Aykroyd, and Kiefer Sutherland to stroll in. Apparently, Kiefer
had gone to a Catholic boarding school in Ottawa as a
teenager.
I ordered roast beef on rye with coleslaw, fries, and a
dill pickle. Lisa religiously followed the Atkins diet. She
requested the "Quick Burger Platter," which consisted of a
cheeseburger with bacon. She wanted the coleslaw but asked
the waitress to hold the potatoes. We both ordered
decaffeinated coffee.
Decaf: a public announcement that we were too old to
drink caffeine after dinner. We may as well have requested
Maalox or Metamucil. Next, it would be the senior citizen
discount. I sighed.
"Still persecuting yourself with the American Heart
Association diet?" I asked Lisa, feeling the heavy weight of
my thighs as I shifted my legs under the table. No wonder she
was so fantastically thin but I could never give up
carbohydrates. Even if men stared at me open-mouthed, I
refused to part with my rocky road ice cream.
"Works for me," Lisa retorted.



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"I don't know how you can stand to live without bread
and your mother's pasta. That's not to mention what that diet is
doing to your arteries and kidneys," I said.
"It's great, the food plan. Who else would let you eat an
unlimited amount of cheese, steak, and bacon?" Lisa asked.
"Atkins used to have a dessert of macadamia nut butter that he
mixed together with whole cream."
"That probably killed him." I shook my head. "Eat up.
It's your funeral."
We had this conversation routinely and I could tell by
Lisa's expression that she was tired of my ongoing lectures.
Years of being a nurse and a mother had made me a nag,
constantly worrying about other people's health, and
righteously telling them what to do to improve it. I also had
fifteen pounds to lose. Obviously, my jealousy of Lisa's
appearance had reared its ugly head. I apologized hastily and
changed the topic.
"Getting back to the flick," I said, “wasn't that a great
line when one of Kahn's colleagues said that we all have some
sort of secret to hide? Mark and I just rented a movie called
Normal, which dealt with a different theme, but it was kind of
similar. A couple had been happily married for twenty-five
years. Then one day, the man announced that he’d been born in
the wrong body. He wanted a sex change operation but he
didn’t want to leave the marriage. It was really well-written
and starred Jessica Lange, but I can't remember who played the
guy."
I thought about how attractive Lange had looked in the
movie. She was old. I now defined "old" as anyone who was
older than me. Lange had to be at least fifty or fifty-five, and
she was still gorgeous. That buoyed my spirits until I
remembered that I didn't remotely resemble Jessica Lange,



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who had undoubtedly been a knockout in her thirties.
"Kind of like Boys Don't Cry, except with a happy
ending," I continued, "because eventually the family came to
accept his desire to be a woman. It was hard to imagine how
the couple could stay together—although, of course, he was
still the same person after he became a she—but it was better
than watching the protagonist being gunned down like Hilary
Swank."
"And what does that have to do with bigamy?" Lisa
asked, as she bit into her cheeseburger.
"Both men were hiding something. Kahn deliberately
deceived his wives and children���he wouldn't tell them about
each other—and Lange's husband couldn't tell her his real
feelings. They each had different motives but the end result
was the same. The partners in their lives never really knew
them.
"Are most of us like that? Does everyone have some
deep, dark secret?" I waved my arms, so Lisa would know that
I was including the other patrons in the restaurant.
"I've lived my whole life as an open book. What you
see is what you get or it used to be." Except for my deep-seated
resentments, I thought grimly. "But with my birthday looming
in the distance, suddenly, I don't know who I am anymore or
what I want. I don't even know who I want, but I can't see
myself growing old with Mark."
I bit a hangnail and glanced around the room. Two
guys in their twenties had just sat down at the table across
from us. The Asian woman with them was talking about Tibet,
the Dalai Lama's upcoming visit to Ottawa, and whether Prime
Minister Paul Martin would agree to meet with him. His
Holiness, the Dalai Lama, was as popular culturally as a rock
star. The trio was arguing over how the Dalai Lama could refer



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to himself as solely a spiritual leader, without any political
affiliations, when he had spent his entire life in exile, working
for the independence of Tibet.
"It’s an outrage. Almost 1.2 million Tibetans have died
from starvation, imprisonment, or murder since the Chinese
took over. Surely, that constitutes genocide but the United
States, the world's self-appointed policeman, does nothing to
stop the slaughter," the woman declared.
"The States turns the other cheek, so they can maintain
their billion-dollar trading relationship with China," her
companion replied. He was wearing a yellow baseball cap on
backwards, a dark blue, short-sleeved shirt, and large baggy
pants with balloon figures on them.
The background music by Alanis Morissette suddenly
stopped. Melanie Doane was now crooning, "You leave a lot to
be desired."
"Speaking of Mark, this song could have been written
for him," I said, returning my attention to Lisa.
"Could’ve been written for any man," Lisa said. "Don't
be crazy, Tara! You're still an open book. You're as transparent
as pantyhose: the same today that you were in university.
You're just having a midlife crisis. And what's this big secret
of yours? Your huge crush on the clerk at the grocery store?"
Lisa laughed. "My God, even Devon knows about that!
He says you're always weirding out before you go into the
grocery store, stopping to put on lipstick in the car or to comb
your hair."
"Devon said that?" I felt embarrassed. I thought I had
been discreet. How could I tell Lisa that it was so much more
than a crush? This boy had taken over my thoughts. My brain
had turned to mush. It was as though there was a hole in my
head that had always been there, just waiting to be filled with



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thoughts of Alain.
I fantasized about him day and night, wondering what
it would feel like to run my hands through his crisp black hair.
At least Alain had hair.
Mark’s favorite expression was "hair today, gone
tomorrow." His hairline had been receding for years and he
had started growing a beard to compensate. Mark had tried
Rogaine, acupuncture, and brewer’s yeast in a vain attempt to
restore his lost locks. He lived in baseball caps; fortunately, he
was not the type to shave his head.
Alain's hair was alive with little spikes. He had a brush
cut and I often pictured him applying gel to his hair in the
morning after his shower. My thoughts would immediately
degenerate to images of Alain naked and embracing me: on top
of me, inside me, all over me. Graphic images of devouring the
supermarket boy left me feeling giddy and young again, and
prevented me from concentrating on my work at the hospital.
When I was giving out medications, I was imagining
how much hair Alain had on his chest. Did he have hair on his
back, as well? That didn’t appeal to me. Or would he have a
smooth, muscular, and relatively hairless chest? Could he keep
it up for hours, the way young boys do? Was he a cuddler or
did he like to roll over and fall asleep after sex?
These were the pure and professional thoughts that
preoccupied me as I dispensed Cipro to my 101-year-old
patient, who was recovering from pneumonia. It was a miracle
that I hadn't poisoned him by giving him one of my female
patients’ hormone replacement pills.
The intensity of my desire for Alain shocked me. It had
been so long since I’d had any sexual interest in Mark. We’d
never had a passionate relationship. Our connection was based
more on affection and compatibility than lust. After years of



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marriage, our sex life was about as exciting as watching the
Weather Channel. I knew exactly when and where Mark would
touch me, and how many minutes he would allot to
lovemaking.
Moreover, Mark had a strange habit of talking
throughout sex. He would talk about everything from current
events to work to telling me jokes.
Mark and I had been so young when we got married. I
remembered watching Lisa suffer heartbreaks with her "bad
boys." She seemed fatally attracted to the wrong men. I swore
that I wouldn’t make that mistake. Mark was decent. He was
faithful, brilliant, and kind-hearted. I could count on him and
that was important to me.
We had much in common in our youth. Our parents had
been classic left liberals, who had ardently supported the now
nearly defunct New Democratic Party. Both Mark and I were
active members of the NDP, and we used to love the same
authors like Stephen King and John Grisham.
Now he likes Michael Ondaatje and you can't pay me
to read his works. Like Elaine on Seinfeld, I almost fell asleep
during the movie The English Patient. Nor can Mark tolerate
my favorites like Carol Shields, Amy Tan, or Philip Roth, who
he thinks is "too American.”
American. He says the word in the same disparaging
tone that one would use to refer to the kitty litter box in the
kitchen.
"What about King and Grisham? They’re American," I
protested.
"Yes, but I'm over them now. I'm only reading
Canadian fiction and listening to Canadian music."
“That should leave you lots of free time," I replied,
when Mark first made that idiotic announcement.



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Lisa was American. Mark often said to her, “I won't
hold that against you," but his joke fell flat with me since I
knew the depth of his antipathy toward the States.
Lisa grew up in New Jersey with her first-generation
Italian family. When she was eighteen, her father decided to
join his brother in the restaurant business in Ottawa. The
family moved here and set up a fabulous restaurant called
Enzo’s on Preston Street. Although she’s lived in Canada for
two decades, Lisa has retained her Jersey accent and still views
herself as American, whereas Mark prefers to see her as an
Italian immigrant, which is a step up in his mind.
It’s hard to pinpoint a particular time when my
relationship with Mark began to sour. It may have started when
he began to spend more time sitting on committees and
working on his research. His area of interest is comparative
religion, and he’s studied aboriginal people in Manitoba and
Quebec. His current fascination involves the role of religion in
organ transplantation. Mark hopes to publish a book on the
topic, thus, he’s been spending countless hours behind closed
doors working on his manuscript.
We had also begun to argue over the right way to raise
Devon, who has become an avid rapper, with an attitude that is
almost as big as the ring in his nose. Recently, Devon came
home with a tattoo on his arm that said, "Rot in Pieces." He
claimed that he was only copying Eminem.
What kind of a role model is Eminem? I’ve been a
feminist all my life. I’ve taught my only son to respect women,
yet he idolizes and emulates a punk with bleached hair, who
sings songs to his daughter about how nice it would be to cut
up her mother and put her in the trunk of the car. How am I
supposed to react to that?
Mark said, "Just relax, Tara. Dev's going through a



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phase and it’ll pass more quickly if we don't make a big deal
about it. If we get upset, he may become increasingly attached
to Eminem and Fifty Cents, or whatever the hell his name is."
I suggested taking Devon with me to a meeting of
WAR, Women Against Rape, a small group that I belong to
which has educational and political components. We give
lectures in high schools to raise awareness about sexual
assault. Although some of the members of WAR have become
a bit too radical for me, essentially, I'm proud of the work that
we do.
Mark thought the group was hostile. He didn't like the
name of the organization but I believed that we needed a
dramatic acronym to get people's attention. Mark was opposed
to me taking Devon to a meeting. He thought WAR was full of
man haters.
Women haters were okay. Devon spent hours every
day listening to records that referred to women as "bitches"
and "ho’s." I wanted to temper that with some reality. Let him
hear real girls talk about what it was like to be sexually or
physically assaulted.
TV Ontario has an excellent show on Sunday nights
called "Renegadepress.com." It’s all about issues that teens
deal with, from meeting strangers on the Internet to bullying to
racist attitudes toward Native American kids. I tried to get
Devon to watch with me but it was a losing battle.
"He's a kid, for God's sake. Why would he want to sit
at home and watch public television with his mum?" Mark
asked in an exasperated tone. He believes that Devon's
fascination with violence on TV and in music is normal for
young boys, and won't provoke him to act dangerously or
irresponsibly. I disagree and now I have two problems: one
with Devon and the other with Mark.



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Not only do Mark and I argue most of the time, but
he’s also constantly irritating me. For example, he has a habit
of repeating a story a dozen times, always prefacing it with, "I
don't know if I told you this..." And I want to die laughing at
his pronunciation of the name Zdeno Chara, defenseman for
the Ottawa Senators. Mark invariably places an emphasis on
the wrong syllable.
Worse, he acts as though he knows Chara and drops his
name in conversation regularly because he stood behind him
once in line at Home Depot, and got him to autograph a piece
of paper for Devon. Since that fateful day, Mark has acted as
though he and Zdeno Chara are best friends. He rambles
endlessly about how tall the hockey player is—six foot, nine
standing and seven feet even in skates—as though this
information is not common knowledge to any viewer who
doesn't need a magnifying glass to see the screen.
Mark also has an annoying habit of joking with bank
tellers and gas station attendants, then turning right back to me
and reverting to his serious self.
But it can't really be these trivial things that bother me
about my husband. I suppose my irritation stems from the fact
that our love for each other has died, but neither one of us is
ready to face that fact, rife as it is with unpleasant
consequences for our lives.
"Alain is not a grocery clerk," I said indignantly to
Lisa, defending my lust object. "He’s the assistant manager of
the meat department."
"Oh, excuse me," Lisa replied, grinning. "Now who's
the snob?" she asked, referring to my lack of enthusiasm about
Ryan's landscaping job. "At least Ryan is old enough to vote."
Alain was twenty-four. Lisa knew that perfectly well.
She was just goading me.



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"But I assume your fantasy man has his high school
degree," she added and winked. I looked blank, not catching
her reference.
"You remember the B&E kid? She was one of my
clients. Had a long procession of asshole boyfriends. Then one
day she met someone new. Kept bragging about him. Said this
one was a keeper because he had his high school diploma and
didn't have a criminal record."
Lisa had spoiled the mood, comparing Alain to the
paramours of the B&E kid. I had wanted to tell her that Alain
was rapidly becoming an obsession. I had increased my trips to
the grocery store and doubled our meat order, much to Mark's
chagrin, claiming that I was entertaining. Alain must think
that we have an inordinate number of barbecues.
I was conscious of my clothes now when I went to the
supermarket and tried not to go shopping after work when I
knew that he wasn't on duty.
Sometimes, I called his house just to hear the sound of
his voice on the machine. I was careful to call from a pay
phone or to use the *67 function in order to disable his call
display and block my call. I had become Stalker Mom and it
scared me.
Not only had I memorized Alain's work schedule, but
also I was forcing myself to listen to a double album by Pearl
Jam because Alain loved the band. Listening to Pearl Jam was
about as much fun as studying for a physics exam. I found
them bleak, maudlin even. Their CD was called Lost Dogs and
had one cheerful title after another like "Sad,” "Down,"
"Alone," and "Fatal." These boys made Pink Floyd look like
optimists. Then suddenly, almost at the end of their second
CD, the band let loose with their rocking hit of the cover song
by The Cavaliers, "Last Kiss."



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Sigrid Macdonald


Thank God for that song, so I had something positive to
say to Alain about his music. I couldn’t bear the idea of him
thinking I was ancient, matronly, or clueless. I barely knew the
boy but having him like me was so crucial to my self-esteem
that I was studiously analyzing his likes and dislikes, so that
we would have more in common. What was next for me?
Midriff tops, hip hugger jeans, and liposuction?
I had become Jack Nicholson. For years, I had admired
Nicholson's talent. From Five Easy Pieces to The Crossing
Guard, he was an amazing and versatile actor. But once I
heard him on a talk show and he sounded like a dirty old
man—a buffoon, really—going on about young girls and his
new wife, who was in her thirties. WAR had no respect for
middle-aged men who traded in their older wives for newer
models, although this was a time-honored tradition.
Women who went in search of men twenty years their
junior would look even more shallow and pathetic. The only
older women who took young lovers and didn't look ridiculous
were the rich and famous like Demi Moore. Dazzling Demi
could have anyone she wanted but that didn't prevent Jay Leno
from having a field day, mocking her relationship with Ashton
Kutcher.
I was a carnal being. My needs were not being satisfied
at home. I was just going through the motions with Mark when
we had sex and the only way I could get excited was to think
about Alain. Lisa was wrong in assuming that I might not act
on my fantasies, but she seemed uptight tonight and I had lost
interest in confiding in her.
"Come on, Mary Kay Letourneau. Give me the dirt
about the grocery boy," Lisa said.
"Mary Kay who?"
"Letourneau! You know, the teacher from Washington



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Straight and Narrow


State who had sex with her thirteen-year-old student. They had
two babies together and now they’re getting married. So there's
hope for you and the meat man."
"Goddamn it," I snapped. "You should think about
ordering fries next time round. You have all the sensitivity of
cement.”
"It's not the diet," Lisa sighed. "I'm a drag. I know. It's
just that, um, I don't know how to explain this." Her voice
trailed off. Lisa fumbled in her purse for her cigarettes.
"Shit," she lamented, remembering that she couldn’t
light up in the restaurant. She flagged down the waitress and
ordered another decaf. "This is just between us. I don't want
you telling Mark."
"Lisa Campana, you’re not listening to me! I can barely
talk to Mark about the movie we just saw let alone anything
intimate."
"Oh, Tara, I'm sorry. I'm spaced out tonight. My period
is late. I haven't had it for almost ten weeks. I took one of
those, you know, tests from the drugstore and it said that I'm
…"
Lisa couldn’t finish her sentence. She brushed away her
bangs. It was a nervous habit that she had adopted when she
was unable to smoke. "The doctor confirmed it yesterday."
"Lise!" I took her hand across the table. "I don't
understand. I thought you and Ryan were trying to get
pregnant."
"There's more," Lisa said, removing my hand from
hers, as she began playing with the silverware. "Remember my
slip?"
"Yeah," I said slowly.
Lisa was just about to celebrate her fifth anniversary of
sobriety when she fell off the wagon and got plastered in



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Sigrid Macdonald


January. She’d had a difficult time getting through the
Christmas holidays, which had involved extra parties and
temptations. One day, she was feeling down about Ryan's
unwillingness to get married. He claimed to be committed to
her and wanted to have children, but he had an aversion to the
institution of marriage.
Lisa had been listening to an old song by the Pet Shop
Boys, which reminded her of her party days. It was that
simple. The memory provoked a craving for cocaine and her
depression made her vulnerable to its calling.
"Well, I don't really know what I did that night. I
blacked out and was in the mood for Indian food. I do get tired
of Atkins! Especially, I miss food with sauce and rice. And I
was crashing big time from the coke, so I was ravenous.
Anyway, I was in some bar on Merivale but I must’ve left
there because the next thing I knew, I was in an Indian
restaurant stuffing myself with tandoori chicken. A guy at the
table next to me got to talking. Then it’s a blur. All I remember
is being in his apartment, putting my clothes back on, and him
asking if I was okay to drive." Lisa's voice was barely audible.
"You went home with a complete stranger?" I was
incredulous.
"You might want to say that a little louder," Lisa
replied coldly. "I think the guys at the back table missed it. Oh,
and you should have said black stranger.”
"Black? I thought he was Indian."
"He was, but he referred to himself as a black man.
And if this is his baby, it’ll be black, too! You think ‘Mr. I
Don't Want to Get Married’ will be happy about that?"
My head was spinning. Lisa hadn’t wanted children in
her twenties but when she’d hit thirty-five, her maternal drive
erupted like a volcano. She had often said that even if she



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Straight and Narrow


didn't have a partner, she wanted a baby. Now that she was
sober, the slip notwithstanding, she was capable of raising one
by herself. She would want this child but there was no telling
how Ryan would react to the news that it may not be his. What
if the baby was born white? If she told Ryan, would Lisa ruin
her relationship with him for nothing?
Worse. She had kept this from me. She hadn’t trusted
me enough ten weeks ago to have told me about the encounter
with the stranger when it occurred. Not that I could have done
anything about it but I assumed Lisa and I told each other
everything. I thought she viewed me as her closest confidant,
yet she had been worrying, and feeling alone all this time: all
because of my judgmental attitude.
"I don't know what to say. I feel so bad for you! You
have some tough decisions to make. Are you going to keep the
baby? Will you tell Ryan? What about the Indian guy?
Pregnancy should be a happy time, especially at our age. I
mean, it's not like we’re teenagers, desperately trying to avoid
an unwanted pregnancy." I paused.
"I also feel terrible that you hid this from me. We're
best friends. You can tell me anything. I didn't mean to be so
critical about Ryan or your relationship. I've been a real idiot
but it's only ‘cause I want the best for you."
"Stop apologizing, already! I lead a crazy life
compared to you. You're an old married lady. You don't
understand the singles' life, let alone the complications of the
life of an addict. We've always been different that way but it
hasn't affected our closeness. Yeah, I admit I didn't want to
hear your moralizing, which is why I never told you about the
guy—whose name I don't know, so I could never find
him—but also I didn't tell you because I didn't want to make it
real!



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"I didn't want to say it out loud. I didn't even tell my
sponsor. Pregnancy was the last thing on my mind! Ryan and
I’ve been trying for so long, with so little success, that I never
wear my diaphragm anymore. That leads me to believe this
isn’t Ryan's baby since the timing is just right for my slip."
Lisa took a large gulp of her coffee, which had become cold.
We stared at each other. Finally, she suggested that we
get the check. I’d wanted to order the cherry cheesecake with
coconut but I always felt like a glutton eating desserts in front
of Lisa. Moreover, I had lost my appetite listening to her story
and it was obvious that she was keen to leave.
I asked if she wanted to come back to my house to talk
in private. She shook her head. She wanted to go home. It was
after 10 p.m. and we both had to get up early in the morning.
We walked out of Nate's on a somber note. Our lighthearted
evening had turned serious.
Lisa had parked in the underground lot at Loblaws
whereas I’d been lucky enough to find street parking. We
hugged goodbye and I told her to call me the next night.
"You can always count on me, Lise. I may be a smug
married but I still love you. And I think you'll make a great
mother. Just send the kid out for adoption when it reaches
puberty." I smiled weakly. She returned my embrace, but her
green eyes were vacant when I looked up into them. Lisa lit a
smoke, opened her cell phone to check for messages, and
walked off in the opposite direction.










22








CHAPTER TWO

The road was slick. I was careful about walking on the
ice since I spent the better part of my days attending to people
with broken hips, knees, and ankles. Concentrating on the
slippery sidewalk helped to take my mind off Lisa's dilemma.
I located my car, which was sandwiched in between
two vehicles with Ottawa Senators flags. I had forgotten that
the playoffs were on and I was wearing my University of
Toronto sweatshirt.
I removed the thin layer of snow from my windshield
and got into the car, flipping on the radio automatically. Magic
100 was issuing a warning about several fender benders on the
Queensway, our local highway, which was the route that I had
taken downtown to the theater. I decided to take the back roads
home.
The trip to my house in Country Place seemed to take
forever, partly due to the weather, but mainly because of my
worries about Lisa's pregnancy. How beautiful that baby
would be, mixed with Lisa's olive skin and dark brown hair,
and how it would destroy her life.
As I approached my neighborhood, I was careful to
drive toward the center of the white line. Going southbound on
Merivale, there were deep ditches on the side of the road,
which were easy to miss.
One night when Lisa and I were teenagers, we drove
across the bridge to Quebec to a nightclub where my favorite
band, Powerhouse, was playing. I had the hots for the
drummer, who didn't know I was alive.
Lisa and I had fun dancing, drinking, and rocking to the
band but I wasn’t paying attention to how much she’d had to
drink. At that time, I didn't understand that she had a problem.



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Sigrid Macdonald


She drove me home and just before we reached Country Place,
her car went veering off onto the shoulder of the road. It was a
real shock to find ourselves lying sideways in a ditch. Luckily,
we weren't injured and managed to crawl out of the car.
We had to call my father to bail us out. We would
never have considered calling her parents since they were
much stricter than mine. Without complaint, my father got up
at 2 a.m. on a work night and called a friend, who came out to
tow Lisa's mother’s big, blue Chrysler out of the gully.
God, were we embarrassed. Now there were sidewalks
on the right-hand side of Merivale but the ditches were still
visible on the left-hand side of the road.
There was a small mall in front of our neighborhood
that wasn’t there when our home was erected. It housed Inuit
artists, a group of architects, an archival imaging technology
firm, and a communication systems division.
Finally, I arrived home. I pulled my Saab 9000 into the
driveway and brought the garbage can in from the curb. I
stopped briefly to admire our house and to worry about my
magnolia tree. The tree didn’t flower last year although it did
produce a number of buds. I’d read that magnolias preferred an
acid-rich soil, so I was planning to add something to lower the
pH balance, such as peat moss or aluminum sulfate from the
garden center.
Otherwise, our hedge was intact and I had lots of time
before I had to weed the garden beds, which I usually planted
with geraniums, dahlias, ginkgoes, and orchids, although they
were extremely delicate.
Our house had been custom built in the early 1970s and
we moved in when I was seven years old. My father was an
engineer. He had never recovered from the helplessness and
frustration of watching his wife die from cancer. Before my



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Straight and Narrow


mother got sick, our house had been a happy and festive place
with friends and relatives coming and going at all hours.
After we lost her, my father became a virtual recluse.
He went to work but forfeited all social activity. He stopped
golfing and playing tennis with his friends. My younger sister,
Denise, and I were the only things that kept him going.
A few years after my mother passed on, my dad met
and married Marie, a thirty-eight-year-old fashion designer.
Recently, they moved to Kingston. He’s retired now but takes
the occasional consulting job.
Denise is a high-powered business woman, who lives
with her boyfriend in Calgary. We keep in touch on e-mail but
we don't talk much on the phone.
Mark and I bought the house from Dad and Marie. It
was unnerving living in my childhood home at first, but
eventually, I got used to it. In many ways, it felt comforting
and nostalgic. The house was a virtual museum of memories.
I’d always felt that part of my mother lived on here, and Mark
and I loved the neighborhood.
The house was silent but soon I was greeted by our dog
Monday, an excitable Dalmatian puppy, and the only one who
ever seemed pleased to see me.
"Yes, baby, Mommy missed you, too," I said
soothingly, as I stroked her head. I went into the pantry,
grabbed a dog biscuit for Monday, and came face-to-face with
a package of Reese’s peanut butter cups. What the hell? I
thought, as I popped two of the tasty morsels into my mouth.
Who would have believed that chocolate and peanut butter
would have made such a heavenly combination?
Even though I hadn't worked today, I was happy to be
surrounded by bold colors in the house after the bleak
institutional walls at the hospital. Mark had never been



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Sigrid Macdonald


interested in decorating and had allowed me to redo the whole
house myself when my father and Marie moved out.
I chose a deep lilac background for the downstairs,
which offset our black leather furniture and prints: I and the
Village by Chagall, Degas's Ballerinas, and the Lovers by
Gustav Klimt. Mark insisted that I include one painting by the
Group of Seven; I wasn’t big on wilderness landscapes,
although I didn't mind Tom Thomson, who inspired them.
The walls were also lined with photos of Mark, Devon
and me, as well as Lisa, my dad and Marie, Denise and her
boyfriend, and three or four precious shots of my mom.
I made my way into our big spacious kitchen, which
had funky, yellow flowered wallpaper. There were a number of
large windows in the house that made it bright and sunny
during the daytime. An electric fireplace in the family room
kept us cozy and warm during the winter.
I made coffee for the morning and defrosted chicken
for dinner tomorrow night. With dread, I climbed the stairs,
hoping that both of my men were asleep by now.
Although Devon doesn’t actually have a "Do Not
Enter" sign on his bedroom door, he may as well have one. His
door was closed and I deliberated about whether to knock. It
was after 10:30 p.m. but Devon was a night owl, and I could
hear the sounds of television.
Sure enough, he was lying on his bed watching Finding
Nemo, probably for the nineteenth time. I didn't understand
how kids could watch programs over and over again. I rarely
watched movies twice but I did find it comforting that Devon,
who acted like such a tough guy, still took pleasure in Disney
movies.
Nemo was a heartwarming story but the plot was too
simple to hold my interest. However, I did enjoy the lush



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Straight and Narrow


background of the coral reefs, and Lisa had clapped during the
12-step meeting for sharks when the head shark repeated, "Fish
are our friends, not food!"
Devon was fascinated by animation, especially
Disney/Pixar productions. He loved everything technical from
computers to cars to math. Often, I found him watching
Discovery or the History Channel just for fun. He was his
father’s son in that respect, except that he hated English and
French, which both Mark and I adored.
Devon's room was surprisingly neat and orderly. He
had posters of rock stars and hockey players on the back wall,
and the trophies that he’d won in sports were lined up on his
bookcase. Devon played hockey and soccer, and was an ardent
fan of the martial arts. He’d been taking Taekwon-Do for years
and had his blue belt, which was just two steps away from a
black belt.
Mark and I encouraged him in his pursuit because we
both admired the principles of Taekwondo: "courtesy,
integrity, perseverance, self-control, and indomitable spirit."
Except for perseverance, these were all qualities my kid
seemed to lack at the moment. Devon had taken a break from
training this semester because it required him to practice three
times a week, and that conflicted with his hockey schedule.
My son was wearing a T-shirt that said, "Just Tie It,
Domi.” The head of Toronto Maple Leafs’ notorious Tie Domi
was superimposed on the body of a pit bull. I didn’t really
understand the meaning of the shirt. Was it a play on words
like, "Just Try It, Dummy?" Or was "tie it" the equivalent of
"stuff it?" Who knew? I was just glad it wasn't profane like
Devon's music collection.
"Hi, Dev," I said, hesitating. "How was school?"
"The usual," he remarked, looking bored to see me and



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Sigrid Macdonald


turning his attention back to the screen.
“It's getting pretty late."
"But Dory is just about to find Nemo!"
"Honey, you've seen that movie a dozen times. Why
don't you call it a night? Dory will find Nemo again in the
morning. He'll be fine in that fishbowl until then."
"In a minute, Mum," he said, sounding exasperated. I
noticed that the movie was about to end. I glanced at the poster
of fallen soccer god, Diego Maradona, on Dev’s wall,
conceded defeat, and walked down the hallway in search of my
other disinterested partner.
Mark was already in his pajamas. He was crouched
over the computer, reading glasses perched on his sharp nose
and typing furiously. The television was on. No doubt, he was
waiting for the 11 o'clock CTV news, which we both watched
before bed.
"How was your day?" I asked, feigning enthusiasm.
“Piled higher and deeper in paperwork,” he replied.
Mark often uttered this complaint but I knew that he
thoroughly enjoyed his job teaching undergrads about ritual,
religion, sorcery, and magic.
"Working on the book?"
"Nope. Just finishing up an ethno scenario. Won't take
long."
Ethnography was the study of symbols. Mark usually
used one or two ethno quizzes for his students. The first one
involved them pretending that they were accompanying
Gulliver, of Gulliver's Travels, to the flying island of Laputa.
No one there spoke English, so the students had to choose five
objects to bring with them that would tell the inhabitants of
Laputa something about them.
The other scenario that Mark employed involved space



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Straight and Narrow


travelers who had been sent to Earth to carefully study the
population. They’d landed in a McDonald's restaurant, and had
to carefully observe and analyze the furniture, the food, the
division of labor, and the structure of the family in order to
draw conclusions about Canada to send to the mother ship.
"Why not have them land in the middle of the Corel
Center at the beginning of the playoffs? Judging by the number
of players who smash into each other and the flags that say,
‘Go Sens Go,’ the aliens would probably conclude that the
Senators were a warrior race," I said.
Mark was not amused. He never appreciated my
sarcasm about hockey. The thrill of watching grown men
bashing into each other, dislocating their shoulders, losing
their teeth, and barely containing their civility was lost on me.
We didn't even have a homegrown hockey team
anymore. Most of the players had been imported: another sign
that the almighty dollar ruled over hometown spirit.
We made small talk as I got undressed. Mark inquired
about the movie and I told him that it was about polygamy.
"Bigamy," he said, "not polygamy." Mark took great
pleasure in correcting me.
"How do you know what it was about?"
"I read the review in the ByTowne Guide. Polygamy is
a marriage where a spouse has more than one partner at a time.
Bigamy is the act of entering into a marriage with one person
while still legally married to another. Polygamy dates back to
biblical days. In the book of Genesis…"
“Isn't polygamy legal in Utah?" I interjected.
"Not really. Bigamy is illegal in most countries.
However, some places still tolerate polygamy because it’s
largely practiced for religious reasons. Colorado and Utah have
the greatest number of polygamists, but the Mormon Church



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Sigrid Macdonald


no longer condones non-monogamous relationships. They’ll
excommunicate practitioners but that doesn't stop some of the
more radical sects.
“Understandably, the practice offends many people
because some polygamists marry underage girls. In fact, one
could argue that polygamy is nothing more than a sanctioned
form of statutory rape since many girls who’re taken as plural
wives are only fourteen- or fifteen years old."
Mark sounded as though he were preaching at the
podium and had a remarkable talent for turning the
conversation back to himself. Somehow the movie, My
Architect, got lost as he expounded on religious law. As usual,
Mark had missed the emotional component of the
problem—the betrayal felt by the "unofficial" wives, and the
feelings of shame and abandonment experienced by the
"illegitimate" children.
Shut the hell up! I thought to myself. Maybe I should
get a button that said STHU. I could wear it on my lapel and it
would send out paralyzing vibrations that forced people to stop
talking—sort of like a stun gun. When people asked what it
meant, I would say, "Support the Halifax Underground."
I was reluctant to disrupt Mark's monologue because I
didn't want him to ask about Lisa. I was so alarmed about her
predicament that I was afraid my fear would be evident in my
voice. And I was angry that she hadn’t confided in me. I
switched the topic to Devon.
"Oh, can you take Dev to the dentist after school
tomorrow? I'm working seven to seven."
Mark nodded.
The news came on. We saw pictures of dead American
soldiers being dragged through the streets of Iraq and
desecrated. I shuddered.



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Mark and I agreed that it had been wrong of the
Americans to have gone into Iraq unilaterally. But Mark
believed that they should stay there now to establish an interim
government, whereas I thought they had worn out their
welcome and Canada had been smart not to get involved.
I flicked the TV off right after a segment on a series of
fires in a neighborhood that was close to Devon's best friend’s
house and went into the bathroom to take off my makeup.
Frowning, I noticed the fine wrinkles under my eyes, along
with the pallor of my winter white skin.
Mark was already in bed when I returned. He was lying
on his back looking like a beached whale. Mark had gained at
least forty pounds in the last year, which didn’t make him
particularly attractive.
I crawled into bed and gave him a perfunctory peck on
the cheek. He turned toward me and gave me a big wet kiss,
which tasted like cauliflower. He pulled me closer to him.
I protested, claiming that I had to get up early for work.
It was the modern-day equivalent of saying, "Not tonight,
honey. I have a headache and am lusting for the meat man."
Usually, when I wasn���t in the mood, I would wear my
cold cream to bed. Mark called this my "anti-erection routine."
But I’d been too tired to remember my heavy moisturizer
tonight.
Mark seemed disappointed by my rebuttal but didn’t
press the issue. I rolled over on my side to check the clock,
turned off the light, and tried not to think about Lisa and her
mystery baby.







31








CHAPTER THREE

I was kissing Alain, his hungry wet tongue probing
mine, his rock hard body pressed up against me, his right hand
caressing my erect nipple when we were rudely interrupted by
the alarm clock. Yawning, I stretched my arms, rubbed the
sleep out of my eyes, and rolled out of bed. I am definitely not
a morning person. In fact, I stumble through the early hours in
a semi-coma until I’ve had at least two cups of coffee. A hot
shower helped to revive me. I skimmed the newspaper, and
inhaled a bowl of bran flakes and a banana. Then I was off to
the office.
The drive to the hospital was pleasant. Last night’s
snow had melted. I took Prince of Wales Drive, which had a
scenic view of the stunning Rideau Canal. One hundred and
twenty-three miles long, the canal formed the world's longest
skating rink. The waterway was built after the War of 1812
when Canada defeated the imperialistic Americans. The goal
was to provide a secure supply route from Montreal to
Kingston. Construction began in 1826, about the same time
that Ottawa was settled under the name "By Town." Lieutenant
Colonel John By supervised the daunting and dangerous
project.
Thousands of laborers trudged through the bush,
swamp, and rocky terrain. The bush was so hard to penetrate
that much of the work on the canal had to be done during the
winter when traveling on the frozen river was more
manageable. The men cleared the forest, excavated the rocks,
and designed the magnificent stonemasonry for the locks. It
was hard to believe that all of the work was done by hand.
Skilled labor was performed mainly by French Canadians, who
had experience on other lock projects, and British



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stonemasons.
Irish immigrants and French Canadians comprised the
unskilled labor. Most of the Irish workers were new
immigrants, who were desperately in search of wage work.
These brave men were accompanied by their families, who
lived under harsh conditions in small shanties infested with
disease.
About 2,000 men a year worked for seven years to
build the canal. Almost half died of malaria, starvation, and
worksite accidents. That didn't include the women and children
who emigrated with their Irish husbands and succumbed to the
fatal bite of the mosquito, dysentery, or smallpox. Memorials
to these unsung heroes, who lay in unmarked graves, had been
erected in Kingston and Ottawa.
Now, Ottawa embraced the Americans—our third-
largest industry is tourism—and encouraged them to take boat
rides down the Rideau River in the summer, or to enjoy
Winterlude, our wonderful winter festival. From downtown to
Dow’s Lake, about eight kilometers of the canal were
maintained as a skating rink.
Mark, Devon, and I had spent many happy Sunday
afternoons skating until our faces turned bright red and our
toes were frozen. We were always eager to view the ice and
snow sculptures, and to buy a Beaver Tail at one of the kiosks
on the ice. Beaver Tails were pastries in the shape of a beaver.
The cinnamon ones were the best.
Ottawa had become a thriving little city: one of
Canada's best-kept secrets. Lisa often joked about how
misinformed her American friends were about Canada. She
said that when she told people in New Jersey that she was
moving to Ottawa, even some of the well-educated responded
with bizarre comments like, "That's great. You'll love living in



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Sigrid Macdonald


the country!" Or "Ottawa, huh? That's in Alberta, isn't it?"
Lisa excused this appalling ignorance because she
suffered from it herself before she moved here. The last time
she studied Canada in school was in grade five when she
learned about the Hudson Bay Mining Company, and the fur
traders. Some of Lisa's friends still envisioned Canada as a
place where people traversed the land by kayak and skied in
July: a barren wasteland marked by one or two major cities
like Toronto or Vancouver. Others didn't think about Canada at
all. Their time was taken up with more important foreign
countries like Iran, Afghanistan, and the Middle East.
Musing about the development of the canal made the
drive pass quickly. Before I knew it, I had arrived at work.
Central Hospital was an old building made out of decaying red
brick. There was construction going on because we were
doubling the size of the emergency room. Some of the
corridors had nothing but plaster on the walls and the carpets
were torn.
Like most hospitals, it had a musty smell that was
somewhat disguised by disinfectants. There were bright green
tiles on the floor and several shops downstairs including a
pharmacy, a gift shop, and Timothy’s coffee shop.
Catching an unexpected glimpse of myself in the wall-
to-wall mirrors under the bright fluorescent light, I winced at
the sight of my pear shape. I decided to forgo the Chocolate
Lovers’ Latte since I would be seeing Alain in a few days.
Instead, I opted for a large, black Columbian.
It was a long walk through the main floor of the
hospital up to the rehab unit. I got off the elevator and washed
my hands with the Purell sanitizing liquid that was now placed
throughout the building since the SARS scare. The linoleum
floors were slippery and yellow cones on the floor indicated



34





Straight and Narrow


that caution was warranted. One of the cones didn’t have a top
and I spotted a small hole in the wall on the corridor outside of
the Day Surgery department.
Did this hospital ever need a facelift! There was even
paint chipping off the walls. Scenic waterways, first-class
musical acts, and busy outdoor cafes were clearly a priority in
this town; new hospitals were not.
In fact, several years ago, two of our hospitals were
closed down. The burden was such that the health care system
never recovered. Now, people frequently wait six to eight
hours in the emergency room, and months for a consultation
with a specialist.
Good luck if you need an out-patient psychiatrist. It can
take eight or