Bones in the Backyard

Bones in  the Backyard is the one book I have wanted to write for most of my life but until ten years ago didn't feel ready. So  I am thrilled now to have completed the novel at last.

  Here's how it came about.

  When I was a little girl, shortly after WWII, I often heard my mother and her friends discuss the war that began the year they graduated from high school. Most of the boys they grew up with sailed off to war. Many never returned.

  But here on the west coast of Canada war seemed far away and there was excitement in the air. Sailors arrived on leave  and joined the girls for  dances at the Crystal Gardens with big bands playing.

  And yet, there was something deeper, something more sinister that the women talked about in hushed voices believing little ears couldn't hear. 

  Young women had a freedom their mothers never dreamed of and didn't understand. The numbers of unwed mothers rose sharply. Pregnant girls were shipped off to "visit an aunt" which usually meant a home for unwed mothers where the nuns treated them like criminals.

  My research led me to Nova Scotia and stories of Butterbox Babies whose little bodies were discovered years later buried on the grounds of the Ideal Home for unwed mothers run by a Seventh Day Adventist couple.

  My novel begins in Victoria and takes Laura on a quest to find the sister she never knew existed and bring her home before her elderly  and terminally ill mother dies.,

Matthew is back. He sits across from me, laughing his infectious laugh, joking like he always has, as if he never left. I accept his presence with an equal mix of relief and disbelief.

  I want to reach out, touch my fingertips to his face, wrap his bone-thin body in my arms. I want to protect him as I could when he was a little boy, but my arms are lead weights on the table. I want to comfort him with my words, but my voice seizes in my throat. 

  Matthew’s hair hangs limp and greasy over his forehead, his scruffy beard can’t hide the pallor of his face. His cheeks, always so full and round and glowing with robust health are hollow, his cheekbones above the sparse beard are sharp like a skull. His eyes lie sunken in that skull-like face. 

  He turns to me, and I see my son’s eyes peering from behind that gaunt face as if through a Halloween mask. Aquamarine, my mother calls them. Matthew’s eyes are so like his grandmother’s the sight of them now makes me cringe. But their deep blue draws me in, forces me to see the hurt that replaced youthful laughter. In that brief second when his gaze meets mine, I see a haunted look that sends a shock of fear through my body.

  His laughter shifts, becomes a different sound. Loud and jarring, it does not fit. I try to push it away. I need to hold onto my son, but the sound repeats and my precious boy fades into nothingness. My arms reach out. My eyes blink open. 

  Our bedroom is bright with early sun. 

  Reality dawns. Matthew has not returned, has not forgiven me. His presence is no more than a dream, sliding away, vanishing in the light. The sound comes again, an incongruous, cheerful tune. I glance at the alarm clock on my bedside table. 

Five forty-three. No one phones at this hour with good news. 

  My hand trembles reaching for my phone. Beside me Kevin pushes himself up on one elbow, his breath catches in his throat. I feel the tension in his body matching mine. I squint at the too-bright screen. “Unknown Caller.” My heart pounds, it takes three tries to swipe up and accept the call. I try to speak but have no breath.

  “Laura Danson?”

  “Yes.” But it is more of a grunt than a word. Kevin lays a gentle hand on my shoulder. 

  But I missed something, the disembodied voice gave a name, a place. All I hear is, “Your mother is ill, she’s asking for you.” A woman’s voice, she sounds young.

I exhale. Not Matthew. I turn to Kevin, offer a reassuring smile. He flops back on his pillow, locks his hands behind his head, stares at the ceiling.

  But wait. My mother. Asking for me? I slap my hand against a fierce pain that slashes across my forehead like lightning. “No. No, I don’t think so, you must have the wrong number.”

  The caller hesitates for the space of a breath. “Laura Danson?” she repeats, louder than before, her voice tinged with annoyance.

  I sit up, fingers massaging my temples, heart pounding into my lungs. Breathless. I try to think. This has to be a con, a new twist to the old, your grandson is in trouble with the law scam. Your elderly mother is in trouble. Driving without a license. Send money to get her out of jail.

  I swing my feet to the floor, pull air into my lungs. “My mother never needed me in her life. What is it you want?”

  “Listen, I have to go, I’m late for work. Your mother fell when she stepped outside for her morning paper. I saw her lying on the front porch and helped her inside, but she won’t let me call an ambulance or her doctor. She only wants you.”

  I am on my feet, heading for the bathroom. My head hurts. I don’t want this to be happening right now. “Where are you calling from?” My voice rises, my question hangs like an accusation. I guess it is. 

  The woman sighs. “Your mother’s house, Cambridge Street, Victoria. I live nearby. I’m heading down her front stairs now. She says nothing hurts and I left her resting in the den. I made her some coffee and toast. I hope you have a key?”

  A key. My mother never trusted me with a key to her house and I haven’t been home since the day she slammed her front door in my face. Why do the people I love most in my life always shun me? When did I become a monster? I push aside the voice inside me, the voice that says I have always been one. 

“Of course.” 

“Good then. Sorry, I’m at my car. I’m hanging up.”