In the following days, I noticed a discernible change in her. The reserved awkwardness had evaporated; she was more forthcoming and trusting, more expressive and demonstrative, more willing – keen – to share anecdotes from her life with me. I hesitated in reciprocating, but her charm was infectious, and my defence crumbled. Our sporadic wine sessions turned into regular weekend meetings lasting several hours. There was a new candour, a refreshing openness. I never had a friend like Myrna, ever. On a particularly cold Saturday evening, she opened, and on her own, began talking about what was still a deeply traumatic experience.
“My mother came to know much later and both of us immediately moved to my aunt’s home in Toronto. I did the last two years of high school in Toronto and then went to university and then to work and a life on my own. My mother moved to a hospice when I was at the university. She didn’t ever return to live with my father. When she died, I was lost; I wasn’t sure I would ever tell anyone about it; and yet, I wanted it to be out of my system. But I couldn’t make myself talk about it.”
“Myrna, didn’t your father ever try to talk to you?”
“He did, only once, after my mother’s death. I told him if he ever tried to contact me again, I would kill him.”
She paused briefly, grimaced and continued, “I spoke about it first to Aaron after I saw his relationship with his daughter – a natural bond between a father and a daughter, a relationship based on blind trust and an implicit faith a child has in an elder, and how when that is reciprocated, it blossoms into something extraordinary.”
“What has triggered this change in you? You seem more open with me,” I said.
“I spoke to Deb about you, told her how I had come to rely upon you, trust you. But there was that thing about your stepdaughter. I wasn’t sure why your marriage broke down. From all that you have told me so far, I couldn’t find any reason,” she said.
“Yes, your distrust has disturbed me all along.”
“I still feel there is something you are concealing,” Myrna said.
“Well yes, but it is about Gunjan, not Arty. I forced myself on my ex; and that ended our marriage,” said, my voice quavering and rising in exasperation.
We sat in silence, sipping wine. Then, after a long time, Myrna looked at me.
“What did Arty say? Did she know?”
“Yes, Gunjan told Arty, but she didn’t ever misbehave with me. She has always been curt and sometimes obnoxious, even rude, but after I moved out, she has continued to text me, call me, send a card for my birthday, Diwali, the New Year’s…Gunjan doesn’t do that.”
“I hired a private detective to check your past,” Myrna said.
“You did what?” the wine almost sputtered out of my mouth and I quickly gulped it. I gaped at her, as my jaw dropped.
“I was letting you in my home; I had to take precautions. Nathan – the real estate agent – and Deb agreed.”
I had no idea what to say or to do. Finally, after sitting in a daze for a while, I put down the wine glass and got up to leave. She didn’t stop me. On my way down to the basement, I decided it was time for me to move out, to rent a new place.
Myrna knocked on the door the next morning. She walked in, carrying two mugs in one hand and a kettle in the other, the dog rushed inside, and sniffed at my legs.
“Good morning. Let us have tea together. You left abruptly last night.” She handed me the mug and poured hot tea in it. She seemed flustered, she sat on the only chair in the room, as I walked to the bed. I was groggy and feeling heavy in the head.
“Look, I am sorry.”
I looked at her and took a sip of tea. It instantly cleared my head. “I am curious to know, what did the detective find out?”
“Oh, nothing at all of any consequence.”
“You did find something recently because your attitude changed.”
“Yes, thanks to a huge coincidence. Deb met your stepdaughter’s partner Ruth. She gave you a glowing reference; told her something about how years back you saved their relationship by arguing with your ex not to force your stepdaughter to go to Kitchener.”
I was again gaping at her; speechless and clueless. I sipped tea without talking. Then, I told her that I would be moving out.
“I know you are upset, and I said I am sorry, and I mean it. I will make it up for you.”
I kept quiet. I had to move out. I wanted to ask her but didn’t whether she would have gone through such a vigorous process to ascertain the past of a renter, if that person was white.
