After Uncle Charles died, a deep chasm opened up in the family that threatened to swallow us whole. My mother, whose resolute cheerfulness had sustained us like a weight-bearing wall, was now oddly preoccupied, even glum. And my father, whose thirst for lively conversation once seemed insatiable, had become withdrawn, impatient, and short-tempered. But it was Aunt Bella who changed the most—to the point that I barely recognized her anymore. Bella had always been slightly moody and prone to emotional flare-ups. But when her husband Charles died, she retreated into a world of her own. As if she had entered a room with no exit.

Uncle Charles was only thirty-nine when he died. But as long as I can remember, I thought of him as old. Perhaps it was the way he pulled back his shoulders too far like he was standing at attention. Or maybe it was his European attire—polished onyx cufflinks, embroidered handkerchiefs, and cravats bound so tightly around his neck that they made his head look as though it were detached from his body. His death occurred in the middle of the summer, while my sisters and I were away at overnight camp in Quebec: I was working as a counsellor and they were there as campers. My parents didn’t mention Charles’ death in any of their letters to us. Perhaps they thought it would spoil our summer. Yet how could they not tell us? After all, Charles and Bella lived next door and were almost like second parents to me and my two younger sisters, Julia and Jan. I was particularly steamed about it. At seventeen, I was the oldest child in the family and surely should have been told.

When we returned to Toronto in late August, Father gathered us together around the dining room table that evening to make the announcement. Uncle Charles, he said, had suffered a massive heart attack and died shortly thereafter. It had been too late to save him. There was nothing anyone could have done.

Aunt Bella, who was visiting at the time, suddenly cut in. “It’s all my fault,” she cried as she paced around the room, weeping into her sleeve. Though Bella was my father’s sister, it was Mother who rushed to console her.

“Don’t be foolish, Bella. You can’t blame yourself. You know that Charles had been ill for some time.”

“You don’t understand. It’s still my doing.”

“Bella. That’s enough. There are children here. Let’s leave this for another time.” My jaw tightened. Why was Mother scolding Bella? Couldn’t she see that she was still in shock? Bella was only thirty-eight, far too young to be a widow. I rushed to my aunt’s side and put my arm around her hunched shoulders, rubbing my cheek against her damp brown hair. If Mother refused to comfort her, then I would.

Besides, I was still incensed that by not telling me about Charles’ death until the end of the summer, my parents had excluded me from both the funeral and the shiva. Didn’t anyone realize that losing Uncle Charles was a blow to me as well?

After her sobbing subsided, I helped Bella gather her belongings and escorted her next door. I offered to come in, but she murmured something about being able to take care of herself. Closing the wood-framed screen door, I crossed the lawn and returned to our house, which was almost a carbon copy of Bella’s: a mock-Tudor built of russet-brown bricks with a steep dormer roof and a lone red maple set onto a narrow plot of patchy grass. Since it was a mild night, I sat down on the porch step and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of my pocket. My parents disapproved of my smoking so I knew not to go inside. I didn’t care. I was in no mood to talk to them anyway. I lit up and exhaled into the cool night air. The combination of the tobacco and the late August breeze helped soothe my blazing head.