Shushan Portal: Behind the Hollyhock Hedge

By Gloria Pearson-Vasey

After her sister dies, Meara Deleaney invites her bereaved nephew, Jackson, to accompany her on a book tour to Canada's Atlantic provinces. Fearful of leaving the security of her apartment, Meara bolsters her courage by recalling the imaginary dragons she and her sister slew as children behind the hollyhock hedge.
As they travel in a motorhome from park to park and bookstore to bookstore, Meara and Jackson are unaware of the manipulating forces intent on preventing their return home. They do, however, realize they are being stalked and therefore welcome the company of another touring author, criminology professor Bartholomew Wolfe.
A long-standing professional relationship between the authors builds to romance and a persuasive invitation to seek shelter at the professor's lodge. However, to reach the lodge, Meara—now accompanied by her nephew, niece and mother—unsuspectingly travels through a portal which exits in a future dimension near a fortress.
From there, the family is escorted under guard through dangerous territory to a lodge where metaphorical dragons lie in wait, and security comes at a price.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Apr 30, 2024
• ISBN: 9781779417886

Gloria Pearson-Vasey

GLORIA PEARSON-VASEY is a storyteller who weaves suspense and contemporary issues into her books. A member of The Writers Union of Canada and Crime Writers of Canada, Pearson-Vasey's background includes nursing, psychology, music, journalism and theology. Inspired by her autistic son's unique sensory experiences, her writing reflects the hidden nature of things. She lives in a picturesque Ontario town, enjoying nature, country drives, reading, and time with family.

Book preview

One

PROVIDENCE CROSSING

Sometimes the lines blur between choice and destiny. That’s how it was the summer of the book tour, the summer when Meara Deleaney again ventured behind the hollyhock hedge. It all began with a telephone call from her mother. Meara had known for some time that her sister was ill, but Kate had experienced so many remissions that the family had been lulled into complacency.

Thus, when Agnes Deleaney called that bright spring morning, the author was totally unprepared for the bleak message.

Meara, it’s bad, dear, said Agnes over the phone, her voice cracking in misery.

What’s bad, Mother?

Kate is dying.

Is it certain this time?

It’s certain. She and I visited the doctor today and he told her it was a matter of weeks.

But they’ve been wrong before.

Not this time.

Meara could feel anxiety swelling within. Deep, slow breaths. Deep, slow breaths, she reminded herself as she had so often instructed patients overwhelmed by their fears. You are in control. Focus on someone other than yourself.

Meara, are you there?

Yes, Mother, said Meara, having regained manageable control of her inner turmoil. How are you doing?

It’s the children I’m most worried about, said Agnes. Kate is breaking the news to them when they come home from school. Shortly after that, the palliative care coordinator will arrive, by which time, I’ll also be there.

I’ll come as soon as I can, said Meara.

The coordinator will make arrangements for Kate’s care, but seeing to the children will be up to us, said Agnes.

Not only were the children about to lose their mother, but they were still grieving the loss of their father, Andrew, who had died of COVID-19 the previous spring. At the time he succumbed to the virus, its seriousness was not yet realized, and Andrew had been attending a dental conference in Toronto. On the final day of the conference, he was hospitalized in acute respiratory distress. He did not survive, one of the earliest casualties of a pandemic that would relentlessly sweep the planet.

My book tour starts in July, and the venues have been booked from here to the east coast, said Meara, knowing how selfish it sounded even as she blurted out the words.

We’re in the middle of a pandemic. Your sister is dying and the children are already fatherless, said her mother. How can you be thinking book tour?

There is no question about me being there for them, Mother, said Meara hastily. I’ll start packing immediately.

I know your book tour is very important and that your publisher and professor friend have put a lot of planning into it, said Agnes. But your tour isn’t until July, and we’re still in May, said her mother.

In the subsequent silence drifting across the line, Meara could picture the firm set of her mother’s jaw, the disapproving pucker of her lips, the disappointed glint in her blue eyes.

I’ll stay with Kate and the children if I can avoid being seen in public, said Meara. You know a long-term stay away from my place could be dangerous.

So you keep saying, said Agnes. But you’ll never have to leave Kate’s house. We’ll come up with an excuse … I know! You’ll have a torn MCL.

Of course, replied Meara ironically, awaiting the forthcoming explanation.

Medial collateral ligament, said her mother. All you have to do is wear a knee brace and limp a bit.

And how will I accomplish grocery shopping and running the kids to all their activities, limp or not?

You can have groceries delivered and the kids will have to pitch in with yard work. I’ll help out wherever I can.

I’ll see you soon then, Mother, said Meara resignedly.

Don’t leave until I phone you back. We’ll have a better idea what’s going on after the coordinator leaves.

They said goodbye, making parting kiss-smacks as was their tradition. In slow motion Meara replaced the handset and stared unseeing through the window, her cheeks damp with tears. It was unbearable to think of her precious younger sister leaving the children she loved. Life was so unfair. And then there was the book tour that Emily Molson had arranged.

A knock on the apartment door reminded Meara she had arranged to go walking with Daniela Crispo. She considered begging off, then decided a spell of fresh air might clear her head. Plus Daniela would provide a sympathetic ear.

In the time Meara had lived at Briarfeldy Manor, she and Daniela had become close friends. Meara’s apartment was on the upper floor across from Daniela’s. In times past, while the town was still known as Prosper Station, this lofty level had been servants’ quarters connected by a narrow stairway to the floors below.

Meara’s apartment, although small, was her sanctuary. Besides the den, it had a living room, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom and a balcony. Hanging from the balcony railing, wind chimes tinkled in a gentle breeze. From up there, she could look down upon a stone walkway meandering through flower beds, shrubs and a tidy vegetable garden. Trees, birdbaths, benches and an ivy-covered gazebo contributed to a serene atmosphere.

The owners of Briarfeldy Manor, newly-retired landscaper Julian Delamarre and his wife, Paula, retired from teaching, lived below Meara and Daniela in a large unit on the second floor. Quinn Crawford, widower and retired teacher, occupied a studio apartment on that same level. Detective Owen Whelan and his young son, Colin, lived off the foyer across from the manor’s library.

When the Delamarres undertook the renovation process, they creatively maintained the spacious foyer with its elegant staircase curving upward to the second floor. They installed an elevator at the back of the building adjacent to the servant stairs which had been retained as a fire escape.

You’re awfully quiet, said Daniela as they set out on the streets of town. Something on your mind?

I’m leaving shortly for London to care for my niece and nephew, said Meara. My sister’s dying.

Oh, Meara, I’m so sorry, said Daniela.

The worst part is I’m fretting as much about my book tour as over poor Kate’s well-being.

Practicalities have to be dealt with even during times of sorrow, said Daniela.

They continued walking, Meara grateful for words that eased her guilt ever so slightly.

Perhaps after Kate is gone, I won’t be able to handle a book tour, she said.

Because of the children? asked Daniela.

Partly, said Meara, but Mother thinks she can look after the children when I’m touring.

Then it’s also your fear of leaving the security of Providence Crossing, said Daniela.

Meara nodded. But I have to do this, she said. Otherwise, I’d be letting too many people down.

"You can do it, Meara. Just the other day, you were telling me how you and Kate used to slay dragons behind the hollyhock hedge."

We were children playing make-believe, and besides, Kate was with me, said Meara.

Would you like me to accompany you on the tour? asked Daniela.

Thanks, but I should be okay. Besides, I’ll be meeting up with the other author, Bartholomew Wolfe, for much of the tour.

Then promise me a weekly text or e-mail. If there’s ever a gap in our correspondence, I’ll know there’s a problem.

And then what?

Our friendly police officer Owen and I will come and save you.

Meara couldn’t help but smile thinking of Owen, Daniela and the other residents of Briarfeldy Manor, the quirky mansion they all called home.

Seriously, Meara, if you’re threatened by anything or anyone along the way, message me you’ve been ‘Detained behind the hedge.’

Detained behind the hedge, repeated Meara thoughtfully.

Two

LONDON, ONTARIO

On that same day in late May, nothing seemed out of the ordinary for Jackson Clery. Beneath a clear blue sky, the tree-lined streets and boulevards of the neighbourhood were cheerfully dappled by sun and shadow. And so, as the boy daydreamed his way home from school, he felt no foreboding of things to come.

Once inside the house, he tossed his backpack on a kitchen chair, scarcely glancing at his sister who sat at the table eating a peanut butter and jam sandwich. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but notice the congealed yuck she’d managed to leave on countertop and table.

Mommy wants to see you, said the seven-year-old. She’s in the guest room.

I need the table for homework, so clean up that mess you’ve made, grumbled Jackson, making his way from the kitchen to see what his mother wanted.

Penny stuck out her tongue when he glanced her way. She can be so immature, he thought.

In the guest bedroom, his mother was lying quietly on the bed, her face toward the window. She seemed to be sleeping, but her eyelids fluttered open and she turned to look at him when he entered the room.

Are you alright, Mom? he asked.

Come over here, dear, she said. I need to discuss some things with you.

What sort of things? Jackson walked hesitantly toward her, dreading what she might say.

Calmly she told him she had visited the doctor that day and received disappointing news. She was no longer in remission from the cancer she had beaten twice before.

But you’re going to get better, right?

Not this time, she said.

No! The doctor’s wrong! Jackson fought back rising panic.

"Shh. I’m counting on you to be calm for Penny."

But you’ve been fine for ages, he protested.

Lately I’ve been very tired. She smiled at him and took his hand in both of hers. Grandma accompanied me to the doctor today and arranged for the palliative care coordinator to talk to all of us. She should be here soon. Grandma too.

His grandmother, a retired nurse, lived in a retirement villa on the other side of the city and visited weekly for Sunday brunch. Although she usually stayed no longer than an hour or two, Agnes Deleaney had a knack for needling out everything that had transpired in the household since her last visit.

Once when she had been grilling Jackson about his study habits, he asked her if she had researched the techniques of the Spanish Inquisition. She retorted that no, her skills were modelled on those of Sister Scholastica, principal of a school she’d attended as a girl.

Before Jackson and his mother could continue with their heart-wrenching conversation, there was a knock at the front door. Kate rose from the bed and ran her fingers through her hair before admitting a middle-aged woman into the front hall. Moments later, Agnes arrived, and wearing medical masks required by the virus in these pre-vaccination days, everyone moved to the living room.

Curious about the visitor, Penny snuggled up between her mother and grandmother on the sofa. Jackson plunked himself down into an armchair facing them while the coordinator, who introduced herself as Maebeth Brown, seated herself nearby. Jackson bristled when Maebeth asked Kate if she should talk to the young people separately.

No, they’ve already witnessed my previous treatments and are familiar with what I’ve been through, said Kate. And with time so limited now, I need to be certain they’re prepared for the coming weeks.

Have you had a chance to talk amongst yourselves? asked Maebeth, embracing them all with a glance.

Only with Jackson, and that’s been brief, said Kate.

The coordinator turned to Penny, explaining that her mother was very sick and that this meeting was to discuss whether she should stay at home or go to the hospice.

What about the hospital? asked Jackson. That’s where she got better before.

The hospital is not an option this time, said his mother.

If Mom goes to the hospice, you can visit her there whenever you wish, said the coordinator. If she stays at home, she’ll be here all the time with nurses coming in and out to look after her.

I don’t want to visit any hospice, said Jackson. I want Mom at home with us.

Don’t go away again, Mommy! cried Penny, burying her face in her mother’s arm. I hate it when you’re in the hospital.

The hospice is very different from a hospital, said Agnes. It’s more like a friendly hotel with comfortable chairs and nice furniture in each room.

Actually, I’d prefer to stay at home so I can be involved with the children as long as possible, said Kate.

Do you have friends who can help out? asked Maebeth. Nurses and other caregivers will only come to your home as scheduled.

I’ll help, said Jackson quickly. Mom’s a nurse. She can tell me what to do.

You have to go to school, Jackson, said Agnes. But don’t worry. I’ve already talked to Meara and she’ll be coming soon.

Thank heavens, said Kate.

That’s my older daughter, explained Agnes to the coordinator. Meara is a clinical psychologist.

But now she’s an author, said Penny. She writes scary books!

She still does some counselling, said Agnes, pointedly correcting what she felt was an error in her daughter’s change of profession.

Is she free to come soon?

Yes. She’s waiting for me to call back.

Do you have other relatives nearby? asked Maebeth.

We’re a small family, said Kate. Just my mother, sister and the children.

The coordinator jotted an entry into her notebook before continuing. She then explained that she’d arranged for a nurse to visit morning and evening and, as Kate’s condition deteriorated, the hours of nursing care would increase.

When will Mommy get better? asked Penny.

The coordinator looked questioningly at Kate who gave Penny a squeeze and told her the doctor said she would not be getting better this time. The little girl ran crying from the room. Hearing the harsh reality in his mother’s gentle voice was almost more than Jackson could bear. He blinked back tears and stared at the carpet.

We’ll manage with the help of personal care for Kate, said Agnes to the coordinator.

You seem to be pulling things together quite well, said Maebeth approvingly. I’ll have a nurse drop by around seven this evening to set things up and help you get comfortable for the night, Kate. Is there anything else you’d like to know before I leave?

Not that I can think of, said Kate.

Will Mom be okay? asked Jackson.

The coordinator sensed what he was really asking. We’ll see that your mom receives excellent pain management and comfort care, she said. As well, the team will help all of you to manage changes in her condition.

What changes? he asked fearfully.

Over the next while, your mother will spend more and more time in bed and sleep much of the time. But even when she’s not talking, she will always hear your voice and want you near.

We’ll have some good time together, Jackson, said Kate, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. That’s why I want to be at home.

Jackson bit his lip to keep from breaking down.

The palliative team provides counselling and I can have a social worker visit, said Maebeth. You may also wish to have some spiritual support.

We’ll have our Meara here, said Agnes. And we have a pastoral team at our church.

After the coordinator departed, Kate said she was exhausted and would be returning to bed. Before she did so, she sought out Penny and found the weeping child on the back deck of the house.

Grandma and Aunt Meara will be here to help us, said Kate, holding her daughter close.

A few minutes later, Jackson stood in the sitting room doorway, listening attentively while his grandmother spoke to his mother’s only sibling. After several minutes, she hung up and sighed.

Did Aunt Meara not want to come? asked Jackson anxiously.

Of course she wants to come. What would make you think otherwise?

She seemed to have a lot to say, he noted.

She had questions about your mother and she was trying to decide how much to pack.

Jackson hated placating behaviour. Does she really want to stay with us? he asked.

Oh, Jackson, of course she does! You know Meara loves you and your sister dearly.

When will she get here? he asked.

Tomorrow before noon. I’ll stay over tonight and wait until she arrives.

Later, when Kate joined her children and mother at the table, the four attempted light conversation as they picked at their food. Kate talked about her childhood growing up in Meara’s shadow.

You were never in her shadow, said Agnes. Meara was big sister and you were the adored baby. She was the solemn one and you were mischievous like Penny is now.

Am I solemn? asked Jackson. It was possibly better than being geeky.

In some ways, but you can also be riotously funny, said Kate.

The boy couldn’t imagine being funny ever again.

Early in the evening, a nurse arrived and set up medical supplies in the main floor guest room. She asked Kate if she needed help getting ready for bed.

Not tonight, said Kate.

You made a good decision moving downstairs to the hub of activity, especially with a bathroom right next door, she told her patient. A different nurse will drop by in the morning at eight and I’ll see you again tomorrow evening.

Before she left, the nurse asked Kate if she needed anything for pain or sleep. Kate assured her she was fine with the prescription she’d picked up from the pharmacy earlier that day. With the nurse gone, Agnes, Jackson and Kate played Scrabble while Penny served imaginary tea to her dolls.

When Kate said she was going to bed, the others climbed the stairs to their own bedrooms where, once in bed, each lay awake in solitary sadness.

Mentally willing the older woman to answer the phone, Raven impatiently twisted a strand of hair around her finger as she paced.

Pick up, pick up!

Hello, said Auntie breathlessly.

Where were you?

Out in the garden. I came running as soon as I heard the phone ringing.

I have news, said Raven. Our lady has gone to London to be with her sister.

For what reason?

The sister has taken a turn for the worse and the children need supervision.

I can’t believe this! How will it affect the book tour?

That remains to be seen.

Is there anything I can do?

Thank you, but your meddling is the last thing we need at this point, said Raven.

Three

LONDON, ONTARIO

Jackson and his two closest friends made a sombre trio as they trudged along under the weight of their book-laden backpacks. Around them the freshness of late May leafage and twittering of nesting birds seemed at odds with their downcast faces and slow, shuffling feet.

Though it was Jackson alone consumed by grief and uncertainty, he appreciated the concern and compassion of his companions.

So why exactly are we doing our homework at your house? asked Liam.

Aunt Meara thinks I’m slacking off, he said.

And are you? asked Jared.

Well, it’s pretty hard to think about homework when your mother’s dying, he said morosely. I guess my aunt expects you guys to motivate me.

My parents like the idea. They say it will keep us all on track, said Jared.

Mine said the same, added Liam. They said it’s important to start high school with decent marks.

Jackson’s companions asked about his aunt. They wanted to know how old she was and what it was like having an author for an aunt. He told them she was less than two years older than his mother and she was just like anyone’s aunt. She’d already had a career before she became an author, he added, and years ago, she had a fiancé who drowned in a boating accident along with his uncle, Noah.

That’s awful, said Liam. I didn’t know you had an uncle who died.

Jackson explained that it was before he was born.

What kind of books does your aunt write? asked Jared.

Psychological thrillers, said Jackson. She understands murderers because she used to do counselling with weirdos.

Only weirdos? asked Jared, intrigued.

Probably not, admitted Jackson, but it was a psychopath who made her give up her clinical practice.

She told you this?

No, but I hear Grandma and Mom talk about family stuff when they think I’m not paying attention.

What did he do to her?

He followed her everywhere because he wanted her to marry him, and when she rejected him, he started making threats.

Wow!

Tragic!

Yeah. She’s been pretty much lying low since then. She even writes under a pseudonym.

She doesn’t put her own name on her books? What name does she use?

I think she uses a few fake names, said Jackson, quickly trying to back-pedal from his slip. His grandmother and mother had both warned him that Aunt Meara went to great lengths to avoid being associated with her pseudonym. He wasn’t to let anyone but his teacher and school friends know she was even staying with them, and they were absolutely not to be told her pen name. Not ever! It all seemed a little over the top.

They walked along in silence, delaying their arrival for the supervised homework stint.

Will your aunt be moving here to be with you and Penny? asked Jared.

I hope so, said Jackson.

They had now reached the house that had been his home his entire life. A stone walkway wound its way through a yard appealingly landscaped with plants, shrubs and mature trees. At the front steps a second path led to a side entrance.

He really didn’t want their company in his house now, but his aunt had decided that routine was essential in this time of sadness and uncertainty.

Meara was waiting for them in the kitchen. Leaning on a cane in keeping with the fabricated ligament injury, she welcomed them and told them they’d be doing their homework at the kitchen table.

Are you going to introduce me to your friends? she asked her nephew.

"This