A woman’s voice, maybe forties, vaguely familiar.
“My name is Christine Nadeau. Your wife’s student? We met the other morning.”
“Oh, yes, sure. I remember.” Cardinal kept his voice even, but his heart was sinking. After more than twenty-five years of marriage to Catherine, he had lost count of how many phone calls like this there had been. The first chemicals of fear entered his bloodstream. From somewhere in his lapsed-Catholic heart, the old prayer started up: Please, God, let her be all right.
“Well, um, I really don’t know how to put this. And I hope you won’t think badly of me for calling. I want to assure you it’s only out of concern for Catherine. I mean, she’s a wonderful photographer and a great teacher. This is the third course I’ve taken with her.”
“Okay. Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?” Please, God, don’t let it be too awful. “Is she all right?”
“Well, no. Not exactly. I mean, I don’t think so. I talked to two of the other students and one of them thought I shouldn’t call and the other one thought I should, so anyway …
“She’s been acting a little strange the last day and a half or so. The way it’s set up, we all meet at a particular place in the morning, spend a couple of hours shooting, then get together for lunch. Well, the other day we met at an old cement factory, and usually Catherine’s just all nuts-and-bolts, you know: What are the challenges the setting presents, what are the opportunities, and how should we go about it?
“But yesterday morning she started getting really worked up about provincial politics and energy policy and nuclear power and all this stuff, and it was like she was running for office or something—she just went off on this tirade. I’m sorry if that sounds mean …”
“Did anyone try to get her back on topic?” Cardinal said. “To focus?”
“Well, I did. The sun was still very low behind the factory towers and I asked her a question about backlighting and silhouettes. She just skipped right over it and started going on and on about Queen’s Park and how reality had to be spelled out to them. I realize this doesn’t sound so drastic—I mean, people do have passionate opinions.”
“But it was inappropriate, you’re saying.”
“Completely. And totally out of character. I’m sure Catherine has her politics, but it’s never come up before in the classes I’ve done with her. I’ve spent time in the darkroom with her, and it’s always about the work. That’s one of the reasons she’s great. She’s absolutely committed to the work. And so dependable.”
That’s Catherine, Cardinal thought. When she’s well.
“Is she eating?”
“I was getting to that. The day after we got here, she seemed to start living on milkshakes. I mean, literally. She’s calling them breakfast of champions. I don’t think she’s eating anything except those and some vitamin pills.”
“Has she had any alcohol, do you know?”
“Not much. Not that I’ve seen. A couple of glasses of wine the other night, and boy, did that get her going. Not like she was drunk. Quite the reverse. She got very serious and very high energy. I mean, I was dead on my feet, but not Catherine. She wanted to go out and shoot more pictures, and I believe she did. I don’t think she’s sleeping very much, if at all. I have to tell you, some of the students are going to complain to Northern. I wouldn’t dream of doing that, but they are paying for this trip, and she’s supposed to be teaching, not—”
“Do you know where she is right now?”
“I don’t, I’m afraid. That’s why I’m calling. She was supposed to have dinner with us—a quiet dinner with just a couple of us—but she didn’t show and she didn’t answer in her hotel room.”
“All right. Let me give you my cellphone number. Do you have a pen?” He gave her the number, and also his home number. “If you see her, please ask her to call me right away. I’m going to come down there.”
“Really? To Toronto? You think it’s that serious? I didn’t mean to cause a major upset, I just—”
“No, no. I’m very grateful you called. If you see her, please try to keep her in one place. Or if she takes off again, if you could stay with her and let me know where you are. I should be there in less than four hours. Can you stay up till midnight?”
“Yes, of course. I’m in room 1016 at the Chelsea. It’s right next to hers, so I should hear when she comes in.”
How many times, he asked himself, how many times will I be doing this before we die? Rain hammered at the windshield with such force that, even flapping at full speed, the wipers couldn’t keep it clear. How many times have I done this? The call out of nowhere, the sudden rush into the night and the panic—the sheer panic of not knowing where Catherine is or what she’s doing.
Cardinal had grabbed some takeout at a Burger King and now the car stank of hamburger. The heat of the food had fogged up the windshield. He turned the blower up, and switched on the radio. The choice of rock songs, country music or an interview with a Gaelic poet (courtesy of the CBC) was worse than the sounds of wind and rain, and he switched it off again.
The first forty miles down to South River were torment. The highway was only a single lane and the weather made passing too dangerous. Once he got to Bracebridge, the road was better and he kept the speedometer pegged at thirty over the limit. He didn’t figure the OPP were going to be out in force on a night like this.
He put in a call to the Clarke Institute. Catherine had been treated there many times during their ten years in Toronto. Cardinal prayed that Dr. Jonas was still there. The emergency room told him that Dr. Jonas was indeed still on staff, but was not expected in until the next afternoon. Cardinal explained the situation and that with any luck he would be bringing Catherine in. The woman on the other end said she would call Dr. Jonas and let him know. She sounded the right notes, both professional and sympathetic, but she also sounded terribly young.
Cardinal tried to control his thoughts, tried not to worry too much. But when she was manic, Catherine was capable of terrifying things. One time, back when they were still living in Toronto and Kelly was a little girl, Catherine had set out to hitchhike to an international economic conference at Lake Couchiching. Luckily, a truck driver who had picked her up outside of Barrie realized the state she was in and had had the kindness and good sense to call the local police, who had managed to track Cardinal down in Toronto.
Another time, she had been working for nearly two years on a photographic study of homeless people. At first, she only visited them during the day, and they allowed her to photograph themselves and their makeshift homes. She had won a provincial prize for that series, and was even a finalist in a national competition. But she could not let the subject go, and embarked on a second series of photographs. That time she had disguised herself as a homeless person, and one day left home to go live with them. Other journalists had done the same at different times, but Catherine had been at the peak of a manic phase just then, only to crash when she was living under a bridge near Casa Loma. Cardinal would never forget what the sight of her did to him when he came to find her in Toronto Western’s emergency ward. His Catherine—normally fastidious and glowing—hair stiff with grime, fingernails filthy and an ugly abrasion on her forehead.
In the years since, Catherine had been doing better. Sometimes she went as long as two years without having to be hospitalized. Her manic phases were much shorter, and so were her depressive phases. But they were also deeper—black, suffocating weeks during which she would hardly speak or even move. Those were the times that frightened Cardinal the most. If she ever killed herself, it wouldn’t be during mania—unless by misadventure—it would be as her final release from an airless hell.