I hired Bill many years ago. He’s the Alfred to my Batman. Bill makes sure I don’t have to deal with the public. He drives me places in my black, nondescript Impala that has darkened windows, but I so rarely leave the house. Bill uses it to take care of errands for me, and I eventually gave it to him to use as his own vehicle. I sold it to him for a dollar and the registry was changed to his name: Bill Thorne. Bill takes care of me. Or, maybe we take care of each other.
We are long-time close friends, ever since I hired him many, many years ago. He knows me intimately, and I, him, and he’s not scared to point out any of my bullshit. I am just as ready to call him out when he pisses me off.
I hired him originally because I spend so much time writing that I need someone to run the household. But, the rapport we have with each other supersedes our roles as boss and worker. Our relationship makes my life doable. Bill is absolutely indispensable. I’m a recluse.
The room I write in is a library. It has many books on many shelves built into the walls, and they surround the whole space of a very large room. Each book has been carefully picked out and digitised. The collection runs from my own journals to a plethora of other subjects. I read them. I use them. They aren’t for show, they all have purpose, and there are always piles around that I’m in the middle of studying. And, I am always reading at least six novels at any one time.
There is an antique book stand in one corner by a beautiful fern and a large window. It has the Bible open on it. It is a splendid feature, and is just that. I have read the Bible twice, though I’m not a Christian, and it is full of fascinating stories. Once in a while I take it off and leaf through it while having a coffee and sitting on my deep red velvet couch.
That couch in particular is my favourite for reading. I have a golden coloured pillow at the end, and I sit beside it, cuddle in, and read or write. The library is full of furniture, other couches also, but this is my favourite one.
I have a fire going in the hearth in the winter months, and two grand oak chairs covered in padded red satin in front of it. Only one chair is ever used by me. Bill sits in the other, or else there is a cat there, lounging before the hot fire, or splayed out in the sunshine that comes in one of the large windows.
I write at a large oak antique desk, painted black, that is well oiled and well-used. There are details in the woodwork that make me smile. My desk is covered with mystery piles of papers, files, books, and the like. But, whatever I’m writing at the time is always right in front of my desk chair, with a large space for paper, a glass or cup, and a fountain pen. There is no room for a plant or vase of flowers at the desk, so Bill fills the room around me with small tables of both. The large windows ensure very good lighting for both my plants and for me. Even though the yard is hidden from prying eyes, my windows are not. They look upon the beautiful outdoors.
As my footprint grows, there are more and more chores to be done: tending to the greenhouse, the cats, the yards, cooking; I had to hire more people to help out. Bill vetted potential workers for me. He knows how I think. When it was time for me to meet the newest employees, I had to have Bill right beside me. I needed to hire people that were discreet and would not talk to anyone about where they worked or who I was.
Bill hired a professional French chef, Jean-Pierre, who is always determined that I need to eat more food, and especially more nourriture reconfortante. Anic and Jesus clean the house impeccably and take care of my precious kitties. Two gardeners, Marc and Thi, created and upkeep my bountiful gardens and oasis-like pool. I have a large swimming pool, the shape willy-nilly, in the back amongst wildflowers. I swim in that one every day for exercise. It is not heated. The cold helps my arthritis. It keeps the inflation in my joints down and under control. Of course, it is closed in the winter, so then I take a cold shower every morning and then every night before bed. I lead a life without a time table.
I have a greenhouse that I work in diligently with Thi and Marc. I grow herbs aplenty which are essential to my Pagan lifestyle. The smell of compost calms me down immediately when I’m in a bad state. I grow vegetables and when they ripen, Bill takes what we don’t need to the Food Banks. Flowers are brought to hospitals, old-age homes, womens’ shelters and humane societies, along with sums of charity money for each.
I like to think of myself as being like Earnest Hemingway, as I keep about a dozen cats at any one time that have grown too old for adoption at the S.P.C.A. They roam the house and yards and leave copious amounts of fur that Anic and Jesus have to deal with. Everyone should have cats. When I’m in a mood, they always send my heart soaring. Sitting on my lap, caught napping in pots in the greenhouse, and playing with each other as if they were still kittens. One I have, named Merry, plays solo on the main staircase while she mews to herself. I always know when she enters a room because she wheezes. Cats have amazing personalities, even the crotchety ones that prefer to be left alone. It’s no wonder they have taken over the internet these days. Jesus swears as he cleans the litter boxes, but can be found cradling a cat and whispering to it when he thinks no one is looking.
There is a smaller home on the property behind my house where Bill lives. I want him to have his own space, but I need to have him close to me at all times. Bill’s house is a generous size. Even when he leaves the grounds, I grow uncomfortable and look eagerly and painfully forward to his return. All the other employees live at their own homes with their families and work here during the day.
I work hard for all the finery I have. I am also lucky. I was born with the ability to tell a story, and the fact that the world found out about it was luck. No one is a self-made person. Life is full of luck. No one is an island.
I just turned 90 years-old and haven’t always wanted to be my own island as I am now. I had an active social life that started to wane as I became older. I had boyfriends in highschool and university, and was even engaged-to-be-engaged once. They were all fine men, but I got tired of them after a few months and went out on my own again, solo. I used to make friends easily, and even had some very intimate relationships that left significant memories for me. But, I didn’t remember peoples’ names the further apart we got and the longer time went on. I wasn’t any good at upkeeping my relationships. I don’t recall any tensions, except for a spat or two, but for me, relationships ran their course easily and just flamed out. I had extended family but had not spoken to my cousins or their parents since Mother and Father died. There were a few Christmas cards, but I let those relationships die also. There was never animosity. My extended family used to be very close to one another. But, as people aged, got married, had kids, buried their parents, the glue between us all became tired and stretched too thin. I often wonder now what became of them.
I was already leading a quiet, single, solitary life off the grid by the time I was middle-aged. I had a shit job for the shit government and I was able to work from home, using an old fax machine to keep connected. I had a big black rotary telephone, but no answering machine. If someone needed to get a hold of me, it was my decision if I wanted to answer the phone or not, return a call or not. No one not essential had my address. And a closed door is a happy door.
I slowly stopped socialising. I receded into myself so much that going out to the store was something I did when I was so desperate that it had to be done. I wore baggy clothes and a hood, warm weather or not. I had an old backpack from my university days that I put my groceries in. I always either went to the store at the opening on a Tuesday, when I learned they’re most empty or to a depanneur in the middle of the night.
I didn’t have a TV or radio, but I had a record player, one you can put a record on and another up higher waiting to be dropped when the first one was done. I had a good record collection. Record stores were hard for me to go to, but it was easier than getting groceries. I went to a lot of different ones. I didn’t want anyone working there to recognize me as a common customer.
I played music all the time. I loved all types of music. A song is just like a book. Okay, some are just a bunch of noise to cry to, but the songs I liked told stories, evoked emotions, had a beginning, middle and end. I even started writing poetry in my journals, which I guess could be seen as lyrics, but there was never a tune to them. In the end, I was definitely just a writer. The first book I wrote and mailed out to several publishing companies was accepted by the first publisher. I used the pen name Cynthia McDonald for the first time. If the book failed, I didn’t want anyone to know I was the one who wrote it. It didn’t fail. In fact, it ran the gauntlet up the New York Times Best-Seller List, right to the top. My award-winning book was an historical fiction novel about ancient Rome. I was fascinated by the subject and I happily researched what I needed for the book at my local library for six months before I wrote it. I was thorough. And, I enjoyed it.
The public found it outrageous, and Cynthia became famous. I became a prolific writer and I made a lot of money. I kept writing books, one after another, and I kept getting paid well for them. I quit my government job and moved out of my hell-hole apartment. All I took were my records, journals and books. They were the only things of value I owned.
That’s when I wound up in my big house, the big gardens, a long, hidden driveway, and tall front gates. I moved into the Gatineau forest near Chelsea, Quebec from where my apartment was in downtown Ottawa. I loved finally being able to go outside because the park about the house hides me completely. I write outside in the warm months, and in the huge sunroom when it is cold, but always with the sun, moon or stars shining over me.
I am ninety-years-old. I don’t feel ninety, I feel as if I’m about thirty-five. I walk more slowly, maybe take a little longer to find my glasses, but I’m in good shape mentally and physically. Life is easy in my little part of the world. I still never watch the news. I don’t read newspapers or talk to Bill about current events. I don’t want to know what is happening outside my bubble. I was happily hidden until one horrifyingly realistic day slapped me hard in the face and my life was never the same again.
Six months ago, I started to slow down a bit. I attributed it to the normal ageing process. But, I found I had to nap several times during the day between writing. My appetite started fading, and I thought perhaps I was having trouble with my anaemia that crept up once in a while. After two weeks of these latest symptoms, though, I thought I should get a prescription for iron pills. I always had Helene come to the house to see me. She was an excellent general practitioner. She had been my doctor for a long time. She knew I wasn’t socially inclined, and though she was very thorough, she kept the relationship neat and tidy. I appreciated that. Bill called her to ask if she would come over to assess my exhaustion.
She arrived in the early morning. I always wake up at dawn and like to get my day started right away. I get a lot of things done in a day. Helene saw me in my bedroom, for privacy, and I told her I thought my anaemia had returned. She took my vitals and then my blood.
She left soon after and called in to my pharmacy to give a prescription of iron pills for me, and promised to call as soon as the blood tests came in. It never takes long.
The next day, she telephoned me. Helene wanted to make another appointment because my white blood cell count was very high. She was worried. I don’t remember what I thought when I heard that. I know that I didn’t panic or wonder what could be wrong. Now, I wonder why I didn’t take it as seriously as she did.
Helene came the same day as she called and took more blood. She also gave me a physical, something I normally only get once a year. She seemed concerned about something. I guessed she had her own personal reasons. But, when the next blood specimen came back, she called and told me in a pained voice that I needed to have an oncologist come to my house. It was then that I took notice of my reality. I was old, but I didn’t feel too terrible. I was very surprised.
Robert Michaud drove to my house the day after the phone call. This visit began to set worried thoughts into my head. What made Helene consider a chance I had cancer? He was a nice man, not much younger than me. He had not retired at sixty-five. I didn’t ask about it. Robert had an x-ray machine that he could carry, the size of a large laptop. He put it up against the front of my front chest and stomach, and then the back. He visited me many times over the next few days, doing this test and that, this check-up and that. On the fourth day, he came and was very sombre. My breath caught in my throat when I saw the pained expression on his face. My heart started beating so hard I could hear it in my ears, and I had a feeling I had never had before. It was alien.
I have cancer. I don’t have much time to live, and I decided not to have any therapy to increase the time before the inevitable.
I don’t remember much about the few days following that appointment, but I can attest to the fact that besides sleeping a couple times a day and not eating as much as in the past, my life hasn’t seemed to have changed that much. I was given about a year to live, but I don’t feel very sick. I know that will be coming, just not yet.
In my will, Bill is getting everything I own. I have no family besides him, and, in my heart, he is my best friend. He will miss me terribly, I know, and that saddens me. No amount of money or property will fix it. But, all life ends, whether we are shocked by this truth or not.
Bill started suggesting it is time to reveal myself to the world. After so long living incognito, he tells me it’s time to let it go. This advice upsets and scares me. The thing about being a recluse is it becomes more and more easy to live without dealing with the outside world as the years pass.
But, as my days become fewer and fewer I’ve begun to think about what he’s been telling me. The thought frightens me as each day goes by. It becomes more and more unbearable at the same time as the idea seems to make sense and become strangely important that Cynthia McDonald will finally die, and Suzanne Sears would emerge just in time before the latter no longer exists.
I don’t believe in God or any existence after death. I do know, however, that energy cannot be created nor destroyed, and that the death of something becomes the birth of something else. I have lived a life of solitude. I have entertained the world with my novels for almost seventy years now.
My name is Suzanne Sears, and I was known as Cynthia McDonald up to the time you read these words. I have my story to tell you all before I die.