CANADIAN SIDE

4 of 5

The first change involved her hair. It had been mousy ever since she was a girl; it always did what it wanted to do, no matter what hairdresser worked on her. But now, on the evenings alone in her big room, she began staring at herself in the mirror trying to imagine something different.

Next morning after breakfast, rather than heading right for Nadia’s shop, she went searching for the beauty salon, which turned out to be off the atrium near the fitness center. Though it was early, every chair was taken, with women her age who looked like they had been partying all night and needed restoration. By Appointment Only read a card in the window, and she was just about to give up and go back to the lobby when a pink-smocked young woman waved her to come in.

“Julia? Hello, my name is Rosalie. I’ve been expecting you. I’m so happy you’ve come!”

She resembled Grace Kelly in that documentary about Monte Carlo, with strawberry-blond hair and fine-boned features that looked fragile and strong simultaneously. All her time staying at the casino Julia had been expecting to see women just like that, draped on the arms of men in tuxedos, and it gave her a little rush of satisfaction to encounter one at last.

“How did you know it was me?” Julia asked as Rosalie led her to the chair.

She reached into her apron for her phone, scrolled through some pictures—and there Julia was, a close-up head shot with the falls hazy in the background. Joseph never used a phone, so there was real mystery involved, but Rosalie was already fussing with her hair, folding it one way, smoothing it back again, pursing her lips in total concentration.

“Will you trust me?”

Her voice had a French accent—she tripped over the r’s.

“I feel we can do something interesting here, something unexpected and magical.”

What made it special was how quickly the two of them became friends, with real woman-to-woman confessions, the kind you usually exchanged only after you knew each other for months.

Rosalie’s mom’s dementia. Her brother’s dependence on opioids. Her own struggles with alcohol when she was younger. She talked frankly about these, but spent most of their hour together telling her about her two failed marriages back in Montreal.

“People look at me and think, well, she can’t be lonely, not that one. But there are times when I finish here I walk down to the falls and think…Well, I won’t tell you what I think. But I think it anyway.”

Her voice was low and confiding, but her hands were quick and light on Julia’s hair. Finally, after more time than she had ever spent at a hairdresser’s before, Rosalie spun her around so she could see herself in the mirror.

“Voila!”

A figure skater—that’s what she thought at first. Rosalie has turned me into a figure skater, the kind you see at the Olympics. Her hair was cut shorter than it had ever been, combed over to the side in a wave before dropping straight, and it made her look pixieish and younger and—thought she could hardly believe this—attractive, so for once she could stare into the mirror without wanting to turn away.

“Thank you! It’s perfect!”

Rosalie asked what her room number was—salon services went on the bill like everything else—then followed her out to the lobby

“Where are you off to next? Do you play the tables or the slots?”

Julia, who had twisted around to stare again at the mirror…This isn’t like me!…was slow to understand.

“What? No, I don’t gamble.”

Rosalie put her hands on her cheeks and laughed. “ You don’t? Well, we need to fix that. I have later this afternoon free, and I need something to take my mind off things. We’ll meet at the ATM. I’ll show you how to buy chips and we can go from there.”

She ended up enjoying it more than she could have guessed. Rosalie taught her blackjack and roulette, but she liked the slot machines better. They didn’t have levers to pull like the ones you saw in movies, but were all computerized, and since she knew computers from work it seemed more natural.

They sat at adjacent screens, went into giggling fits together when after a half hour of playing all the kings on Julia’s suddenly aligned all at once.

They had so much fun they promised to meet there tomorrow and do it again. She lost track of time—it made her late getting to the falls. Joseph was already there, the wheelchair angled so he could stare expectantly up the promenade. As on the first time she saw him, he was shivering, and that made her feel even more guilty than it did being late.

“No problem,” he mumbled—but of course it was a problem. They had their routine and she had let him down.

“Can I buy you dinner?” she asked. She felt so bad she didn’t have time to be bashful. “I know it’s early, but it’s too cold to stay out here. My treat.”

He looked mollified, at least partially. And, noticing her hair, he nodded in approval.

“There’s Massimo’s. Do you like Italian? They overdo the upholstery, but it’s pleasant enough otherwise. It’s at the Sheraton where I’m staying.”

It wasn’t far, and at that time of night they didn’t need a reservation. As with Rosalie in the casino, everyone in the restaurant seemed to know him, and they were immediately taken to one of the best tables, their waiter removing a chair so the wheelchair could fit snugly in.

He chose the wine, let her decide for both of them when it came time to order dinner. The restaurant quickly filled, and, with a good sight line toward the entrance, Joseph had fun imitating all the little mannerisms of each guest as they came in. He was good at this, mimicking. “You should be an actor,” she said. He made an exaggerated frown—Heaven forbid!—and gently tapped the medal on his lapel.

She made a blunder after that. With the wine, the coziness of the room, her pleasure at being with him, she relaxed far too much.

“Can I ask you something, Joseph?”

He was sharing a piece of calamari from his plate.

“When I helped you off with your overcoat the other day I noticed beneath your sports jacket…What I mean is, it flapped open just enough I saw a leather holster under your arm. Just a holster—I didn’t see a gun. I’ve been wondering about that ever since. Why you need to carry an empty holster.”

Men look solemn cutting calamari in half. When he answered he looked even more solemn.

“I don’t carry a holster, Julia. Nor a gun either. Why would I carry a weapon when I have this.”

Again he tapped his medal.

She apologized profusely. “I was seeing things. I watch too many movies. Silly me.”

And that was the end of it, her nearly ruining things—two seconds later it was like the exchange never happened. What they talked about instead was the weather, only that turned out to be depressing, with the implications of what he said.

“I’ll be leaving when it snows. No more waterfall staring this year. I always leave once it snows.”

That was hurtful, the casual way he said it.

“That could be tomorrow,” she said.

He sensed her dismay, seemed surprised by it, anxious not to hurt her.

“If someone else stays, I could stay on, too.”

“I’ll never leave.”

“Then here—I’ll modify my plans right now. I’ll stay until the falls freeze."

“When is that?”

“Variable. Some winters they don’t freeze at all.”

They ordered dessert—Lemon Budino for him, Trio Di Ciocolato for her—then said goodnight in the lobby near the elevators.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asked.

“If the falls don’t freeze—of course.”

He did something he’d never done before—reached his hand out and touched the back of her hand, letting it linger just long enough for her to feel the warmth.

“Goodnight, Joseph,” she said. She felt so much emotion the words could have been sung.

“Goodnight, Julia.” He seemed moved just as much.

***

The leaves had been raked off the path, which was too bad, because she would have kicked through them and laughed, she was so happy. Asim was working the front desk—did he ever take time off?—and even though he was busy checking in a late-arriving bus tour he managed a quick wave.

The minute she got to her room she undressed and started a bath, checking her hair in the mirror a dozen times, and smoothing her hands down it even more, it seemed so new, beautiful, and silky. The bath had a jacuzzi which until now she had been nervous about turning on, but the jets felt wonderful against her back and thighs. She closed her eyes, let the delicious warmth wash over her in waves.

The loneliness was still there—she felt she could smooth her hands down it just like her hair—but it had a sweet edge to it now, a deliciously sweet edge.

It always took her a long time to fall asleep even at home, though this wasn’t tossing and turning but a gradual descent she liked to prolong, since the thoughts and memories that came to her then were folded into a twilight in-between state that—compared to the drabness of her dreams—was often quite blissful.

What she half-remembered now was something that had happened when she was three or four. Was it possible to remember that far back? Yes, she was three or four, just old enough to be trusted outdoors by herself. Her father must have been off one one of his selling trips—she remembered a feeling of great safety, which only came when he was gone.

What captured her attention was a puddle left in the driveway after a rain—a puddle, but it could have been the ocean, so vast and absorbing did it seem, occupying everything in the world but herself. It was mirror-like—she stared down at her own absorbed frown—but it was also transparent, so by blinking her reflection away she could see down to the silvery mica of the pavement, flashing like minnows scooting belly-up across the bottom.

What struck her most wasn’t the transparency or the chill when she stuck in a finger, but the puddle having a lip of mud over which water trickled in a little whisper. The water was moving, that’s what struck her. The water was restless. Not content to sit in a perfect saucer, it was on its way to somewhere else.

Did anyone else know this about water? That it could move of its own volition? She wanted to rush inside and tell her mother, but she didn’t have words sufficient to explain, so maybe she was even younger than three, without words at all. She knelt and reached out a finger to press down the muddy lip—and the water gushed suddenly away, and she was left alone in her galoshes staring down bewildered at the damp spot on the pavement where the puddle had just been.

She woke up to silence, the hotel’s heating system having momentarily stopped its discreet hushing. Quite distinctly, as if the window was open, she heard the sound of the falls. It was a sound with a lot of consonants, deep and garbled, spoken in a language only water spoke, amplified by its dropping over a cliff into a gorge.

She got out of bed, pressed herself tight to the glass to listen. Face, breasts, thighs—they all touched the glass. She had no idea what the consonants meant, their steady two-beat thrum. She wondered if Joseph might be awake, too, listening with more acuity.

Joseph. Thinking of him made the sweetness come back, and she slipped back into bed again and never in her life slept better.

***

So these were the adjustments to her routine. Getting her hair touched up by Rosalie in the morning, joining her at the casino in the afternoon, meeting Joseph for dinner at Massimo’s, he treating one night, she the next.

It wasn’t until her third week that any worries started to intrude. She put everything on her credit car without knowing when she would reach her limit. This wasn’t just room, meals, gambling losses, but clothes she bought in Nadia’s shop, visits to the hair salon, charges at the day spa, all the little gifts she insisted on buying for her five new friends. The good news was that now that it was nearly December the hotel switched to off-season rates, which saved something. And sometimes she won at slots, not just lost.

She worried more about weather than she did the money she was spending or the work she was missing, since there was a noticeable deterioration now, with fog icing up the pavement in the morning so she had to be careful walking down the Street of Fun. There were fewer tourists around, fewer gamblers—even the bus tours stopped coming down from Toronto. Most afternoons she and Jospeh would be the only ones staring out at the falls.

She tried explaining this to Rosalie at the casino, the two of them sipping Margaritas at the bar.

“Maybe you should leave,” Rosalie said, keeping her voice low, twisting to see whether anyone could overhear them.

“Leave? I never want to leave.”

“You told me about your sister Annie. Won’t she be worried about you? Even frightened?”

“But I’m nothing to her.” She thought about it for a second. “Less than nothing.”

Rosalie acted like she regretted saying anything. She forced a giggle, stuck the swizzle stick between her lips like a cigarette.

“Vas-y, cherie! You go for it girl!”

Thanksgiving was on Thursday, though Asim liked telling her the Canadian Thanksgiving had already happened back in October. Still, she woke up that morning with an added sense of expectancy. Pulling open the drapes, she saw it was snowing hard, so she could barely make out the promenade, let alone the falls.

The first surprise came right away. She had gone down to the dining room, stood waiting for Alejandro to greet her and take her to her table, when another server, a much younger man, came over instead.

“One ma’am?”

“Where’s Alejandro?”

“Ally who?”

“He’s a waiter here.”

“Don’t know,” he grunted.

“Alejandro. I’m not sure of his last name. He’s who I want.”

The young man shrugged—What am I supposed to do about it lady? his expression said—then led her to a table much further from the window than her usual one. He didn’t smuggle her a tray of treats like Alejandro did. By the time he brought her eggs they were cold, and she felt conspicuous and awkward, eating alone with no one taking an interest in her.

At least Asim would be there, rushing around from the front desk to ask if everything was satisfactory—only he wasn’t there, and the woman who stood in his place was vague about his absence.

“Personal day? Flu maybe?” She peeked under the counter like he must be hiding. “You’re right. It’s odd not to see him. Is there anything I can help you with?”

Visiting with Nadia always came next—the shop opened early. And it was open, but where Nadia should have been near the register was a bored teenager folding sweatshirts.

“Nadia? You mean the mean lady? I got called in at the last minute which sucks.”

Surely Rosalie would be working—she could always count on Rosalie. She hurried back through the snow to the hotel, her anxiety growing, her sense of unease.

And there she was, working the fourth chair down, trying once again to bring a party lady back to life. Julia tapped on the window. Rosalie saw her, spread her fingers apart in a “Five minutes!” gesture, then resumed working on the woman’s hair.

Julia went to the ATM to get money for the slot machines, returning to the salon after not more than six minutes, but there was no Rosalie, only a mound of unswept blond curls on the floor around her chair, and her manager looking pissed.

“Family emergency,” he said, none too sweetly. “Phone went off and out she bolted. She’s left me one girl short.”

Julia, thoroughly mystified now, not knowing what to do about it, continued on with her routine, which meant losing money all afternoon in the casino. At least when Rosalie was with her they could giggle over all the funny people you saw at the machines, but now they only irritated her, especially one woman who had smuggled in her spaniel, pressing its paws to the screen to make bets.

But that wasn’t the worst part of the afternoon. The worst part was worrying that the last remaining pillar of her day would collapse—that Joseph wouldn’t be there at Massimo’s to meet her at 5:00. Once it came time she all but ran up the icy path to the Sheraton, then almost sobbed in relief when she saw his wheelchair parked by the lobby’s fountain where they always met.

Her anxiety at having her routine disturbed. Worry over Rosalie. The possibility that the falls would freeze and Joseph would disappear. All this dropped away the moment she took hold of the wheelchair’s arms.

The maitre’d led them to their usual table, pulled back a chair to make room. The window was steamed, but she rubbed with a napkin so they could see out to the falls, or at least the graphite smudge it made in the snow. Joseph, perhaps because of the weather, seemed tense and uncomfortable. There was a stiffness, a misalignment, in the way he sat in the wheelchair which. usually fit him like a glove.

“It looks more like Christmas than Thanksgiving,” she said when the waiter brought their wine.

Joseph smiled, let his shoulders relax some. “It’s not Thanksgiving.”

“On the other side it is.”

“Yes, those Pilgrim terrorists of yours. Invited the Indians to share dinner, then slaughtered them—isn’t that the story?”

“Well, no. Maybe. Not Miss Norian’s anyway.” She took a big sip of wine. “My father once screamed at my mother because the turkey was overcooked. He yanked at the drumstick and said if it swiveled it meant it was overcooked. I was nine.”

“That must have terrified you, Julia.”

She nodded. “Pretty much ruined it for me as far as Thanksgiving goes. Then another Thanksgiving my boyfriend broke up with me. He was my first boyfriend. Well, my only boyfriend. I don’t remember what he gave as the reason and I’ve been thinking about it ever since and I still can’t remember. Charlie Teachout was his name. I loved him with all my heart.”

She couldn’t believe she had told him that; the moment she did, she entered a state of disbelief that lasted through dinner. But Joseph couldn’t have been more sympathetic. With his usual sensitivity, he turned the conversation back to safe little things, while at the same time, by the earnest way he met her eyes, managing to suggest he was there for her if she wanted to confess any more.

They finished their bottle of Malbec and ordered another. Four glasses of wine? Five? She knew she was way past her limit, but she didn’t care.

“Shall we try that lemon dessert again?” she asked.

He put his hand up, looked a question mark at her, or maybe the window, or maybe the falls. “I have a better idea,” he said, then, softly, sweetly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, “Why don’t we go up to my room and finish our wine there?”

As if it were the most natural thing in the world, she nodded, though her heart started beating so fast she was sure he could hear it. “Where is that damn waiter?” Joseph said impatiently—and it excited her, that he was impatient.

It was his turn to pay. One he got the receipt, he pushed himself abruptly back from the table, and she hurried over to help. At the elevator, instead of saying goodnight as on all the other times, they waited together for the car to climb to the top floor and slowly descend.

She’d had too much wine, which was a good thing, making her feel like she did when Rosalie cut her hair—like an ice skater, a woman waltzing on ice. The wheelchair felt warm to her touch, steadying—as long as she held it she wouldn’t fall. Julia’s tipsy, she said to herself. Good for Julia.

“When we reach my room,” Joseph said very softly, “I am going to ask for your help. It will require courage on your part, to do what I’m asking. It will be unlike anything you’ve ever done before, and at first it will all feel very strange, like it’s happening to another person. But I know you can do it for me, and I’m placing in you my entire trust.”

He reached back over his shoulder, groped until he found her hand, squeezed hard.