A Certain Mr. Takahashi. Ann Ireland

      One day, the last summer the family was together at the cottage, Sam said, “Let’s go pick raspberries.”

      “Sure,” we said, thinking of pie and waffles.

      Then Father called, “You stay here, Colette, and help me bring in the dock.”

      When we got to the field, the farmer gave us each pails that fastened around the waist.

      As we picked, Sam did the talking.

      “Your father and I aren’t entirely happy about your plan to go to New York.”

      I started to pick too fast, squishing berries as I slid them off their stems.

      “Martin isn’t sure that you’ll like it there. The city is extremely competitive … ”

      “I know that!” I snapped.

      She sighed. “And apart from anything else, it’s expensive. If you really want to get away from home, how about Queen’s? That’s where I went. You could come home weekends.”

      I didn’t say anything. A bee tried to get up my sleeve.

      Finally she came out with it: “Your decision doesn’t have anything to do with Yoshi, does it?”

      He was living in New York, had been for months.

      I slammed the berry into the pail. I was making a terrible mess.

      “No!” I was furious. Did she think I would place my future on the line — my career, the next chapter of my life — for him? A childhood infatuation?

      “That’s not the reason at all!” I cried.

      Maybe he’d given the name “New York” a shimmer. Like Hemingway or Piaf in Paris. A certain aura. And sure it would be easier to keep up with his doings if I could check out the papers every day. But what was the chance of running into him in a big city like New York? Would our paths intersect? Pretty damn unlikely. And would I look him up on my own? I didn’t know yet.

      “For music, New York’s still the place,” I said.

      Sam sighed. “I want to be sure of your motives. And sure you’re sure.” Her pail was filling efficiently. “If I knew you weren’t on some wild goose chase after that man I’d feel a lot better. So would your father.” She gave me a hard look. “Even Colette is worried.”

      “I’m not chasing anyone,” I said. “I just want to play the cello.”

      I even believed it.

       Chapter Two

      I don’t know whether to fear Or love you, ghost.

      Does Colette have laugh and frown lines about her eyes now? From holding expressions too long? We’re old Kabuki actors posing a dramatic mie, crossing one eye over the other for the thousandth time.

      Jean steps off the ferry onto the Victoria dock. It was a rough crossing, and she sways for a minute, holding on to the suitcase. A gust of wind sweeps across the concrete and billows her blouse into a tent. She squints at the little crowd of welcomers.

      A horn bleats a sharp tattoo and, following the sound, Jean spies the old Volvo cruising to a stop by the waiting-room.

      “Jean-ie!” A figure waves. A familiar mound of dyed blonde hair — Sam.

      Jean skids over the pavement, suitcase castors veering every which way, her face pulled into a grin.

      Sam unrolls the window. “Hurry up, honey. I’m in a no-parking zone!”

      A car behind honks.

      Jean dashes around to the passenger side, opens the door, and tosses her suitcase into the back seat. She jumps in beside her mother, and they kiss hurriedly.

      Sam guns the motor and swings the car out of the ferry terminal in a cloud of dust and exhaust.

      As Jean catches her breath she watches her mother. Nothing has changed. A fast shot of relief.

      Sam turns and meets her stare. “You look terrific, old thing,” she says, and gives her daughter’s knee a quick squeeze.

      “Do I?”

      “You haven’t written in weeks. We were worried.”

      “I’ve been busy, but I’ve thought of you lots.”

      “Good!” Sam slaps the knee briskly. “The music must be going well for you.”

      Jean understands this to be a question. Instead of answering she crosses her legs and looks out the window. The car purrs along, nearly soundless on the shelf of freshly laid asphalt. A cool breeze streams into her face: airconditioning.

      They turn into a street parallel with the water. Big new houses set back from the road are surrounded by impossibly lush flowers in full bloom. Hibiscus, bougainvillea. Between buildings flash patches of glistening sea water.

      “It’s lovely,” breathes Jean.

      “Isn’t it?” Her mother is pleased, “We’re delighted to be out of Toronto. It was getting too big, too dirty.”

      Goodbye Bowery, the screech of sirens, the howl of drunks, the smell of spilled Thunderbird. That word again.

      “I read about you in Betty Dewart’s column,” Jean says.

      “You saw that?” Sam chuckles. “Where?”

      “Colette sent it to me. What’s this about a secret announcement?”

      Sam’s fingers slide up and down the wheel. The car responds with a tremor, and Jean keeps an eye on the broken line fast disappearing beneath them.

      “It wouldn’t be much of a secret if I told you.”

      Jean backs off. “All right, I’ll wait.”

      Funny how there are no people on the street and it’s not even dark yet. No one perching on his stoop with a beer can cheering on a ball game. No Puerto Rican kids hanging out on the corner with a ghetto blaster cranked to high decibel screech.

      “Colette arrived from Toronto,” says Sam.

      “What? She’s here already?” exclaims Jean. Her chest tightens. For some reason she assumed they’d arrive at the same moment.

      “She took the red-eye last night. Do you realize this is the first time the family’s been together for two and a half years?”

      “How is she?”

      The car cruises to a halt to let a small dog cross the street.

      “Same as usual,” says Sam. “Except she’s taken to wearing army fatigues.” The car rounds a corner. “Nelson’s influence, I gather.”

      They travel on for a while in silence.

      “And how’s Dad?”

      “Your father’s fine,” says Sam. “By the way, an old pal of yours is coming to Vancouver this weekend. A fellow New Yorker.”

      “Oh? Who?”

      Sam continues to look straight ahead.

      “A certain Mr. Takahashi.”

      “Yoshi?” Jean tries for a tone of normal interest. “That’s certainly a coincidence.” She swallows. “Does Colette know?”

      “She must. There’s a big ad in the morning paper. He has a new record.”

      “Ahhh.” Jean lets the news sink in. A bee of anxiety zaps crazily around in her stomach.

      “Here we are!” says Sam, rolling the tires over a long driveway of fresh gravel. “Our little pied-à-terre.”