CHAPTER TWO
The following Sunday, Toronto
SIMON LOOKED in his rear-view mirror. The unmistakable sound of tires rolling over gravel was soon replaced by an engine being turned off directly behind. Three car doors opened, two on Simon’s, one on the other. The dispatch of umbrellas followed. Richard Taylor, Simon’s father, stepped out of his car and was soon joined by sons Simon and Lionel. Sharing the protection of a single dome with his brother, Simon found the tap-tap of raindrops a solemn narrative to a familiar landmark; Toronto’s, St. James Cemetery.
“Father,” Simon offered, respectfully.
Richard nodded and then glanced to the skies as if wondering how long the rain would last. He looked at each son in turn. “You’re having a pleasant visit?”
“We are,” Simon stated. He looked at his younger brother with caring eyes, seeing an appearance still overshadowed by the effects of a previous life. Simon’s attire was always crisp and well fitting. Lionel’s grasped for a similar mark, though his shirt’s top buttons hung loose and unfastened.
“Thank you both for coming,” Richard said, before making his way toward the cemetery’s markers. While Simon’s stature was slender, like his mother’s, Lionel’s was more like his father’s. Richard appeared muscular and fit, but not as tall. His face was more rounded, his eyes a portal to something more serious behind.
Simon and Lionel respectfully navigated several rows of monuments before joining their father. The three men stood silently, each uniquely indebted to the one to whom they had come to pay their respects. All eyes rested on the marker. On one side of the stone it read: Richard Francis Taylor, 1952 - , and on the other, Catherine Judith Taylor, 1957 - 2003. Simon’s mother lay peacefully beneath.
When the two boys emigrated from Britain with their parents in 1996, Catherine continued her established career, accepting a nursing position at Toronto’s Scarborough Grace Hospital. Simon was nineteen when he arrived in Canada and with little time to adapt to his new surroundings, he gave his mother a heartfelt embrace, his father a handshake and nod, before leaving for school. His pursuit of knowledge would begin at the University of Waterloo, in southern Ontario. It took only three years for Simon to achieve his honours B. Math, his thesis advancing the value of using statistical models in gene sequencing.
Like most young men, Simon often looked to his father for more than the financial support required to achieve his goals. Richard, however, was better at living up to career expectations. To their credit, both of Simon’s parents emulated a strong work ethic. While his mother found solace in her need to care for others, his father found greater meaning in columns of the written word.
When Richard’s national newspaper chain launched its news and opinion television channel his presence was felt more by an emerging audience than his wife and sons at home. Simon remembered his father often saying, It’s all hands on deck, boys. Notwithstanding the fact that he doubted the nautical reference would ever be connected to a distant ancestral seafarer, he hoped his own path would better invest such an allocation of time and energy.
Simon did, however, benefit from his father’s hard work. California’s Stanford University took a bite out of Richard’s salary as a favoured political pundit/commentator. He achieved his Masters in Computer Science in the spring in 2003, however, in the summer of the same year, his mother tragically died. Her devotion to work was nothing, if not all consuming. It was during the Toronto SARS crisis that Simon felt the true power of loss and the sorrow it leaves in its wake.
Richard was the first to end the silence. “Hard to imagine it’ll soon be 25 years.” After a short pause, he added: “Do either of you remember the words Justice Campbell used to conclude the inquiry?”
Simon cleared his throat. “Only the heroic efforts …” he began, before his voiced cracked. Struggling to find the strength, he managed to continue. “Only the heroic effort of front-line health workers prevented the virus from causing further damage.”
At the time, Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome was a viral disease found to originate in southern China. It eventually afflicted thirty-seven countries. In Canada its flu-like symptoms were felt primarily in Toronto. The province of Ontario’s health care system was drawn into the crisis even before the World Health Organization issued an unprecedented global alert. Canada’s most populated province struggled to keep pace with the outbreak, only finding relief after the virus eventually ran its course.
So elusive was a cure, one doctor reflected that modern treatment methods were as ineffective as those used to control the Typhus Epidemic of 1847, when warm wine and cold compresses were used to ease the suffering of Irish immigrants who lay dying in the fever sheds of Toronto’s waterfront. Like the Typhus outbreak, patient isolation proved the most effective defense modern medicine could apply. It would remain so for years to come. Subsequent SARS outbreaks would kill half of those infected. The city, which the Taylors called home, saw forty-four lives cut short.
“Your mother was a saint, but you should know she loved you both above all others,” Richard stated.
Lionel had a tendency to say what was on his mind. “I hope she felt loved enough in return.”
Simon turned his head upward and rolled his eyes.
“I’ll assume you’re speaking for yourself,” Richard retorted. “You know your mother never forgave me for endorsing your enlistment in the forces. The secrecy of your deployments, never knowing whether you were alive or dead. It kept her up at night.”
Lionel said nothing.
Simon felt the desire to intervene and the compulsion to do so drew a modest smile. He couldn’t help reflecting on how subtly his mother could change the subject of a conversation, especially when she felt compelled to deflect attention from herself. As if nudged by her living spirit, Simon’s thoughts were redirected to something more positive. “Did I tell you we’re heading to the cottage tomorrow?”
Simon used the term cottage because he knew it would bring back fond memories of summer vacations spent on the eastern tip of Lake Ontario. Richard managed a meagre smile, knowing the word cottage didn’t truly encompass Simon’s summer retreat. His getaway could more aptly be described as a summer home or even estate. With his and Sophia’s efforts well rewarded, the family hideaway was now located in the beautiful Thousand Islands district of the St. Lawrence Seaway.
“You should come for a couple of days,” Simon said to his father.
Richard’s attire was always casual, yet impeccably assembled at the same time. His grey tweed coat covered an unbuttoned navy blue shirt, his dark slacks descending to polished black shoes. The three of them were now drifting back toward the two cars.
“I would like that,” Richard agreed. He paused just long enough for Simon to know what was coming next. “Some other time perhaps,” he added.
Simon and his father stopped several paces away from the gravel road. Realizing that Lionel might not want to engage in lingering small talk, Simon passed the umbrella to his brother. A simple nod confirmed his preference to seek shelter in the car.
Richard’s eyes followed his second son for a moment. Lionel could feel their weight. He knew his father longed for the man in the photo framed next to those of his late wife and his more successful son. They were displayed on the now silent piano back home. The respect for a soldier’s uniform seemed mutual to every smile; a father’s pride having been crowned by his son’s selection to Canada’s elite Joint Task Force. Lionel had been discharged from the military over a year ago, but the legacy of his rotations would not so easily be jettisoned.
Richard turned back to Simon. “Have you heard from Jennifer lately?”
Jennifer was Simon’s daughter, a precious gift from a relationship many years back. Jennifer Grace Taylor was born eighteen years ago. At the time, Simon was pursuing his Masters at Stanford.
“Not from Jenny, herself,” Simon replied, “but I received an email from one of her professors the other day.” Jennifer was in second
year at the University of California at Berkeley. She lived in residence, while her mother remained the sole occupant of their Stanford home.
“Is everything alright?” Richard asked.
“Everything’s fine. Her prof would like me to grant the university some time with Sophia. In his own words, he wants to ‘disprove the existence of God, once and for all.’”
Richard and Simon exchanged smiles. “A disciple of Hawking, no doubt.”
Richard was referring to Stephen Hawking, the renowned theoretical physicist who claimed nothing existed before the big bang; that prior to that event, time itself did not exist. And if time could not escape the crushing gravity within the black hole that created our universe, neither could God.
“Your computer is becoming more popular than the CERN particle accelerator,” Richard stated. He then gave his son a familiar look, as if it were time to be on his way. “Give my love to my granddaughter when you see her, will you?” Arriving at his black Audi’s door, Richard took a moment to close up his umbrella.
“When you have time, Father, there’s something I’d like you to see.”
“Yes?” Richard replied, shaking the rain from his collapsed covering.
Simon’s tone became more reverent. “Sophia has perfected Mother’s legacy essence.”
His father looked puzzled. “Her legacy …?”
“Her legacy essence,” Simon repeated. “Sophia has created a very realistic soft profile of her. She has compiled everything from emails to old home movies.”
Richard listened, but appeared skeptical. Simon knew he would be.
“I can have a conversation with her whenever I want,” Simon added. “It’s like … she’s not gone.”
For a moment Richard appeared reflective. “I’ll think about it, if you don’t mind.” He opened the car door.
“Of course,” Simon replied. A familiar feeling enveloped him, as if another encounter would soon feel incomplete.
Simon slid into his driver’s seat then looked to his right. His father was pulling alongside. Richard’s driver’s side window descended. Simon did the same for his brother. The pair knew their father disliked physical embraces, a privileged English upbringing being the source of the involuntary symptom. Simon felt a familiar awkwardness during times such as these. His father and brother now appeared equally bereft of the skills a touching moment invited.
“Goodbye, Son.”
Lionel didn’t look at his father. His sunglasses offered a sign of thoughts sequestered. He tilted his head to the right. “Goodbye, Father,” he said, flatly.
Simon and his father exchanged one last glance before offering each other a departing nod.