Karen's Best Friend

Chapter One

 Karen stood at the bus-stop, holding a huge, black umbrella over her head. Teeming rain hit the sidewalk, splashing up on people's legs. Across the way, water streaked down plate-glass storefronts. It was just after five o'clock, but the sky was already dark. She was brooding about a remark she had overheard that morning. When she went downstairs to check her mail, she had noticed a middle-aged woman, with her back turned, speaking to the janitor. This parcel's not for me. It's for 306. You know—the widow and her little girl?

The widow. Was that how people saw her now? It was true, of course. She had lost her husband. Still, she was only thirty-one. When you imagined a widow, didn't you usually picture someone old? A lonely, white-haired lady. Someone whose life was over . . .

Stop it, Karen told herself, realizing that the weather was getting her down. Things weren’t perfect, but she had no reason to be depressed.  She had done a good day's work and earned money to pay the bills. And she was on time to pick up Cindi from nursery school. Soon they would be at home, having a nice dinner. Later, they would curl up on the couch, reading a storybook or watching TV. The evening would be quiet, but pleasant.

The thought of her daughter brought a smile to Karen's lips. She was a bright-eyed four-year-old with fine blonde curls, framing a rosy-cheeked face. Filled with curiosity, she was always asking questions, always eager to see what would happen next. People said that young children didn't feel losses as much as adults, but Karen knew that wasn't true. After Richard's death, Cindi had often lain awake at night, crying. I can't help it, Mommy. I miss Daddy. Stroking her soft hair, Karen had murmured words of comfort. But it seemed so unfair: this child, a baby almost, having to face life without a father. As time went by, Cindi seemed to mention Richard less and less. Karen had mixed feelings, not wanting her to grieve, yet not wanting her ever to forget her dad.

Cindi would be a happy girl; Karen would make sure of that. No matter how hard she had to struggle, she was determined to provide her daughter with everything she needed. If only it weren't so difficult to make ends meet. A year ago, Karen had gone back to college, but after Richard’s death, she had had to abandon her studies. To support herself and Cindi, she had turned to temporary work. An agency sent her out to do word-processing, editing, and sometimes a little translation. The pay was fairly low. If she wanted to earn more, she would have to finish her degree. At the moment, unfortunately, she didn’t have the time or the money.

That's my life now, she thought, as she peered down the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of the bus. I have responsibilities. I'm a widow. Yes, that's the word. I'm a widow with a small child. I can't think of myself. Things could be worse. Some widows are left with mountains of unpaid bills. Luckily Richard had had an insurance policy which took care of his business debts and paid out a small lump sum to his family. He had wanted to buy more coverage, but she had persuaded him not to.

I can manage, she told herself bravely, gripping the umbrella. She gave it a twirl. I'm a modern woman. I can look after myself. It's not as if I'm destitute. Just a little strapped for cash.

Despite her efforts to be strong, a voice deep within her asked: how did things turn out this way? Less than a year ago, life had seemed perfect. She and Richard were deeply in love and had a little girl they adored. Karen had been excited about getting back to her studies; Richard had been passionate about his work. He had recently quit the office job he hated and set up his own business with a friend. They sold skis and snowboards and other sporting equipment. After eight months in business, they hadn't made a profit—nobody did, in their first year, Richard assured her—but they had built up a solid client base. Every morning he went to his shop, looking forward to the day ahead. The long hours didn't bother him. He was doing what he loved.

Not that he was the kind of man who only thought about business. He always made time for his family. After dinner, he and Cindi would romp in the living room. Spin me, again, Daddy, Cindi would call out excitedly, as he whirled her in his arms.

Yes, he had been a great father, and a wonderful husband as well. When he was in the mood, he could be very romantic. He always made a big fuss about birthdays and anniversaries. Karen remembered being showered with roses on the day she turned thirty. He had brought her breakfast in bed; in the evening, they had gone out to an elegant restaurant. Physically, of course, they had been perfectly matched. No man could have been a better lover than Richard.

Before and after, Karen thought sadly. She still couldn't quite believe it, even after all these months. She remembered that midnight knock on the door. She had leapt out of bed. Staring through the peephole, she had seen two officers in uniform. Mrs Allaire? one of the policeman had said. I'm afraid we have bad news.

Richard had been working late. Driving home, he had been rammed by another car as he turned onto the expressway. The force of the collision caused his car to flip. He died instantly, the policeman said. Richard wasn't responsible for the accident, she found out later. The other driver, a seventeen-year-old, was the sole person at fault. He had been drinking at a party with other teenagers. His blood-alcohol level was far above the legal limit.

Ten months ago, Karen was thinking, as the bus pulled into the stop. Water sprayed out from under the heavy black wheels, leaving dark streaks on the bottom of her trenchcoat. Taking a seat, she gazed out the steamy window. The traffic was moving smoothly, considering it was rush-hour. With a start she noticed a green sportscar in the stream of vehicles. Richard's car, our car—yes, it was the same.

Stop doing this. Why did she keep tormenting herself, always searching for him in the crowd? It was as if some part of her mind refused to admit the reality of what had happened.

Distracting herself, she watched pedestrians, hurrying along in the rain. At last, the bus reached her stop. The nursery school was only a short walk up the street. Patricia, an assistant teacher, greeted her warmly. Hi, Karen, how are you?

Fine. Kind of tired. I had a busy day at the office.

Cindi's got something to show you.

A little blonde head poked out from behind a door. Mommy, come and see what we made! Patricia taught us how to make snowflakes.

Karen and Patricia went into the playroom. A group of four-year-olds were kneeling on the floor, putting some last touches on their artwork. Feathery, white snowflakes were drawn on silvery blue paper. Wow! said Karen. That's so pretty.

Cindi smiled, looking pleased with herself. Picking up a drawing, she handed it to Karen. Here, Mommy. I made this one for you.

Oh, thanks, sweetheart. What had she been thinking a few moments ago in the bus? Just to be with her little daughter filled her with joy.

Karen helped Cindi gather up her things. Then they went to put on her yellow slicker and black boots.  Hi, everybody, a familiar voice called out. Tom, the father of one of the other little girls, was coming through the door.

Karen and Patricia smiled. Hi.

Dark-haired Meghan came running out into the hall. Daddy, come and see what I made.

It's nice that fathers are so involved with their kids nowadays, Karen was thinking, as she and Cindi set off down the street. When she was Cindi's age, fathers didn't have much time for their children. Sure, they loved them, and provided for them, but they were busy with work. A guy like Tom, though, was just as likely as his wife to pick his child up from school. Richard had also been a hands-on dad, changing Cindi’s diapers, when she was a baby, or giving her a bath.  Later, when she was older, he would take her for rides on the back of his bike.

Did your French teacher come today? Karen asked, glancing down at Cindi. Holding her mother's hand, she bounced along cheerfully.

Yeah. Want to hear the song she taught us? Cindi began singing Frère Jacques: once in French, then all over again in English. Her voice was high-pitched and sweet, full of self-confidence.

Terrific. You sing with such pizzazz.

* * *

After dinner, Karen read Cindi her favorite book: the Cat in the Hat. Munching on a cookie, Cindi pointed at the cover. That's a C, she said. And that's an H.

Soon you'll know how to read. You'll be able to read all these books by yourself.

I don't want to. I like it when you read to me, Mommy.

I'll still do that, whenever you want.

As usual, Cindi put up a fuss, when it was time to go to bed. By seven-thirty, though, Karen had her safely tucked in. I was right, she thought: we had a pleasant evening.

The phone rang. It was Karen’s mother, who lived in Vancouver. Hello, dear. How are you?

Pretty good. I've just put Cindi to bed.

Oh, too bad I missed her.

Karen's mother mentioned that she had joined Aqua-fit at the local Y. It’s a fantastic workout. And lots of fun. Some of my friends are in the class. Afterwards, we go for coffee.

Great. It's nice to get out and see people. She thought her mother was someone who handled widowhood well. Ten years ago, when Karen was still a student at the University of Ottawa, her father had had a stroke. Completely paralysed, he had needed round-the-clock care. Dropping all her courses, she had hurried to Vancouver to help her mother. Despite their devoted care, he had died after six months.

That reminds me, her mother said. Have you been getting out much yourself?

Not often. I'm so busy with work.

You have to find time for a social life, Karen.

And I do. Occasionally I meet a friend for dinner. People drop by.

It's not enough. You need to get out and enjoy yourself. You're too serious, Karen. Far too serious.

Hmmmmm . . .

Do you have any men friends? Someone who could take you out to a movie or dinner once in a while.

"Mother . . . it’s only been ten months."

I said dinner or a movie. I didn't say get married.

Well, anyway, Karen said, changing the subject. The two women began talking about preparations for Christmas. After the call, Karen went into the living room and sat down. She couldn't help reflecting on her mother's advice. The part about getting out more was pretty sensible. Yes, she had been working too hard; she hadn't been having much fun. The idea of going out with a man, though, was . . . unthinkable. Her mother must have been throwing out suggestions, without stopping to reflect.

Settling back against the cushions, Karen daydreamed about Richard. She remembered their honeymoon in the Scottish Highlands. They had stayed at an ancient inn, built of craggy gray stone, halfway up a mountainside. Every day she and Richard would go out, meandering along dusty paths or through fields of purplish heather. Often the sky was overcast; and the mountaintops, shrouded in mist. When the sun came out, a golden light would pierce the valleys and sparkle on the surface of clear, blue lakes. As lunchtime neared, they would stop on a flat rock to eat their sandwiches. Gazing at fields of bracken, dotted with fluffy sheep, they would feel like Scottish chieftains, lords of all they surveyed.

One day, after lunch, Richard stood up and raced down the hill. Laughing, Karen chased after him. Kicking off his shoes and removing his shirt, he plunged head-first into an ice-cold lake. Surfacing, he called out, Dare you! Glancing round to make sure no one was watching, Karen stripped down to her bra and underpants.  Jumping in, she swam over to him. Gotya, they shrieked, splashing each other with chilly water. That evening, at the hotel, they had the sense of well-being that only a day outdoors can bring. After dinner and wine, they climbed into their four-poster bed. Tired at first, they had a reburst of energy, losing themselves in passionate lovemaking. Karen remembered Richard's warm kisses on her skin . . .

The phone rang again. It was Manon, her best friend. She wanted to drop by for a few minutes. Exhausted, Karen tried to put her off, but Manon was insistent.

I've been worried about you, Karen, she said, half an hour later. She was sitting on the couch, drinking a cup of tea. "Lately, you've been looking tired. I know you have to work hard to pay the bills. Still . . . you need to make time for yourself. You need to relax."

You sound exactly like my mother.

Manon frowned. It's good advice, Karen.

Oh, I know. All I seem to do is work. If only I had the time and money to do what I want. She glanced round the living room and through an open doorway to the spacious dining room beyond. This apartment is too expensive. If I was paying less rent, I could probably afford to work a little less. Maybe I should move.