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Chapter One: Marion

— May 1967 —

Marion Hart glanced up from the thick old textbook, distracted by voices beyond the window of the Sigmund Samuel Library. An hour before, she’d noticed four or five students hanging around out there, wrapped in a rainbow of ponchos and patched jean jackets, accessorized by sunglasses, cigarettes, and signs. Now there were about a dozen of them, and their volume had risen with their numbers.

She rubbed her burning eyes, worn out by tiny print, then set her pen aside. Leaning back in her chair, she scanned the familiar placards outside. Dotted by peace signs, hearts, and flowers, their slogans demanded, END THE WAR! GET OUT OF VIETNAM! CANADA WANTS PEACE! She spotted a large LOVE sign painted in luminous orange, outlined in red, and framed by a scattering of cheery daisies. A young man, his crown of brown curls only partially restrained by a bright yellow headband, had taken control with a bullhorn. He was bellowing something Marion couldn’t make out, but the crowd evidently heard. They raised their arms and cheered joyfully in response.

The 1960s were all about change, and that was even more noticeable this year. For someone like Marion, quietly studying within the walls of the university, there was so much to observe. All over the world, eager young fists grasped at fresh ideas and opportunities while shaking with disapproval at The Man. All will be solved, those young people swore, through peace, harmony, and free love. If only they didn’t have to make a living.

Marion was quietly envious of the kids outside her window and their enthusiastic approach to the world. Throughout her youth, including the past few years she’d studied at the University of Toronto Medical School, she had not once stood up to the status quo, though her presence there had challenged it. She had accepted early in her education that, as a woman, her questions and arguments would rarely be addressed by her male professors or fellow students. As a result, she had spent most of her time with her head in books, shutting out the rest of the class. What mattered was attaining her degree and becoming a practicing physician, not drawing attention to herself, and certainly not pointing out the shortcomings of her colleagues.

It wasn’t until fourth year, when Dr. Reginald Perkins came to teach medical ethics and economics, that she dared to lift her gaze from the page. Marion had been awestruck by Dr. Perkins’s eye-opening approach to medicine. He taught the practical topics, like medical economics and the pitfalls of running a practice, but he also led them beyond the textbooks, discussing the bond of a physician to his patients, other doctors, and society as a whole. One of her favourite lectures addressed how doctors should communicate with patients during difficult times, such as discussing a terminal diagnosis. At present, a woman received news of her own condition and prognosis secondhand, after her husband had been told. Dr. Perkins had startled the class by suggesting that approach should change. Either the woman should learn about her own illness first, he said, or the couple should be told at the same time. That had roused quite a discussion. They also deliberated over contentious issues like organ transplants, birth control, abortion, and euthanasia. The lessons were vital, she believed, because society was undergoing massive shifts and the health-care system had to as well. She was disappointed that Dr. Perkins’s four one-hour sessions were “recommended” but not mandatory, and that they weren’t graded. They deserved more weight than that.

Marion graduated with a degree in medicine in 1965, one of a handful of female doctors in a class that was 90 per cent men. After graduation, she earned a position at the Ontario Hospital, formerly the Hospital for the Insane, becoming the only woman doctor in the building. She was proud of that accomplishment, but without female classmates, she got a little lonely sometimes.

Then again, Marion was used to solitude. She and her sister had always been disconnected, with Pat preferring a social life to the classroom. Their father carried mental scars from his time in the war, and though he was perfectly able to speak of other things, any mention of his service made him close up like a clam. Their mother was also private. Though she was a loving woman, she rarely expressed her feelings in words. Marion was used to her parents’ companionable silences, and she was comfortable with that volume most of the time. Once in a while, though, it would be nice to have someone to talk with outside of lecture halls and hospital corridors.

Beyond the library window, a young woman in the little group shook a tambourine over her head like a gypsy dancing, bringing a jangly cheer to the afternoon. She was tiny, a little slip of a thing with long blond hair like Marion’s, but hers was twisted into two loose braids interlaced with red ribbons then folded back on top of themselves like puppy ears. It was such a carefree, feminine touch. Marion couldn’t imagine herself having the nerve to wear her own hair like that. Fun, but not her style.

Except sometimes she wished it was.

Who was the girl? she wondered, feeling a familiar twinge of envy. How had she met the others in the group? How had they introduced themselves in the beginning? She understood how it worked with group therapy. In those situations, she sat with patients and carefully drew out their thoughts, helping them get to know each other. Real life was different. And so much more muddled. What did these kids do when they weren’t wandering around with signs and placards? Who were they as individuals, and how had they achieved such natural confidence in themselves, the women painting their faces with peace signs, the men growing their hair past their shoulders? This generation had leapt into the surging waters of revolution and protest, while Marion stood on the shoreline in her sensible shoes, studying them as they sailed past. What gave some people that kind of courage but left others, like her, without?

She guessed she was about ten years older than the kids in the group. She’d grown up just ahead of the colourful activists, one ear listening to their protests and the other hearing the criticism of the older generation. “Hippies,” they called them, or “scum.” To the establishment, this generation was no longer a troublesome group of rabble-rousing children; they were adults who refused to grow up. They made a lot of noise but no money. And their numbers were swelling now that they included tens of thousands of American draft dodgers, hiding anonymously within Canada.

The older generation called them “parasites,” but Marion disagreed with that term. The flower children might make life a little more challenging for those who did not like or want change, but she didn’t agree with the name-calling. She peered out the window and read their handwritten signs again. There was nothing parasitic about love and peace.

The May sun blazed invitingly through the library window, and she reminded herself that today was a holiday. She had planned to do something unrelated to work, but she hadn’t figured out what yet. With a sigh, she closed her books and slid them into her black briefcase, resigned to the fact that she wasn’t going to get any more work done today.

It was cooler outside than it looked, but it was such a nice day, she decided to walk home instead of taking the bus. She wrapped her grey wool cardigan tight around her body as she crossed the campus, hearing the clatter of the tambourine up ahead. She spotted the happy little parade strolling toward Queen’s Park. That was Marion’s direction as well, so she caught up and followed in its wake.

The row of cars parked at the side of the busy street was an unusual sight. Some passengers had even gotten out and were leaning against their vehicles, their attention drawn by something in the park.

“What is it?” she asked the first man she came upon.

“Those long-haired freaks. Dancing and singing. Do they call that music? Look.” He pointed. “Does that one there even have a shirt on?”

Marion squeezed past him and lifted onto her toes so she could see. The girl in question was in the middle of a small gathering a few feet away, whirling to music Marion couldn’t hear.

“She’s wearing a dress,” she told him. “It’s beige, so it appears as if she’s naked, see?”

“She’s on LSD or something,” he grumbled. “Spinning like a lunatic.”

Marion pursed her lips in disapproval, stopping short of correcting the old-fashioned term. It was her personal mission to remove the words insane and lunacy from the public’s vocabulary, but this man had already turned to talk with someone else.

“Maybe she’s just having a good time,” she said anyway.

To Marion’s left, the brightly coloured troop from the university continued into Queen’s Park. The curly-headed youth with the bullhorn cheered the group on, past the gawking audience by the cars.

“Bunch of reprobates!” someone shouted.

“Go home!”

“Get a job!”

“I love you!” the tambourine girl sang back, blowing a kiss to the crowd.

Curious about their destination, Marion tagged onto the end of the procession, but when they reached the huge stretch of grass in front of the Ontario Legislative Building, she forgot all about them. The park was teeming with people like the group she’d followed, sitting, standing, and dancing, using placards for shade. There had to be thousands of them. She had suspected something was going on due to the skunky odour hovering over the grounds, but she’d never imagined anything this big.

Feedback squawked from a microphone, briefly overwhelming the throng, and she noted a large stage set up at the end of the park. A man introduced someone, but his mouth was so close to the microphone Marion couldn’t understand what he said. Then he stepped back, and a woman took his place, her long black hair spilling over the guitar in her arms. The crowd rose as one, applauding and cheering, then growing quiet with anticipation.

“Thank you,” the performer purred, gentle as a breeze. “Thank you, everyone. My name is Buffy Sainte-Marie, and I’d like to sing you something I wrote called ‘Universal Soldier.’”

A cheer exploded from the crowd, and Marion set down her bag to listen to the words. She didn’t know the song, but Miss Sainte-Marie’s voice was clear, and Marion liked hearing the probing questions and the message of personal responsibility. She’d heard a lot of angry lyrics lately, and there were plenty in this song. Every generation wanted to be heard, and this one was especially demanding. She wished Miss Sainte-Marie would play something more cheerful or contemplative, like “Blowin’ in the Wind.” That’s the kind of melody Marion preferred. One could always find a reason to be angry, but it was important to be grateful and hopeful as well.

Marion scanned the crowd, thinking her sister would fit in well. Marion didn’t think Pat smoked pot, but she did enjoy the music, the fashion, and the rebellious momentum behind the protests. It made sense that this was her world, since Pat had always been the hip sister, the younger and more beautiful of the two, and the life of every party. A cheerleader who, straight out of high school ten years ago, had married the quarterback of the football team and become the envy of every girl in her graduating class. When he inherited a small fortune, Pat had become—in her own words—“the expensive candy” on her wealthy husband’s arm. The kind of woman who sunbathed on the front lawn of her large brick house without a care in the world. She’d recently cut her golden hair into the latest style: a bob with heavy bangs that tickled her false eyelashes. She tucked it behind her ears so everyone could see her diamond earrings glitter in the sunlight.

All of that was fine, Marion thought. Good for her. But she didn’t like how Pat continued to preach to her, and to anyone who would listen, about the importance of women’s independence. Marion wasn’t sure if her sister saw the irony.

“Everything a man can do, a woman can do better,” Pat liked to say. “Think about it. We don’t even need men anymore, now that artificial insemination is available.”

“Well, artificial semen is not,” Marion replied flatly. “Women cannot live without men. We might want to sometimes, but men take care of a lot of things we can’t do.”

“That’s silly, Marion. We can do anything a man can do. Name one job I can’t do.”

“You’ve never had a job in your life.”

Pat rolled her eyes. “We’re not talking about that. Name one job I couldn’t do that a man can.”

“Just one?” Marion started counting on her fingers: “Build a bridge, dig tunnels for the subway, install plumbing, fix a car, carry a piano... Want me to go on?”

“Those don’t count.”

“Why not? Are those jobs not vital? Maybe not the piano carrying, but the rest are.”

Pat thought it through. “Well, if we were trained, we could do those things, but they wouldn’t pay as us much. And women should be paid equally for doing them.”

“I agree,” Marion said, “as long as the women are accomplishing the same.”

Pat scowled. “How would we know if that’s possible? Women aren’t even given the opportunity to accomplish things. Male chauvinism exists, Marion. Men don’t want to work with us, so they put up barricades. They think the workplace is their territory alone, and we belong barefoot in the kitchen.”

“I’ll give you that,” Marion said reluctantly. “But chauvinism and bigotry are manageable. It all depends on if you let it get to you or not.”

“Manageable? We shouldn’t have to deal with it at all!”

“Of course not. But look at all the progress women have made over the past fifty years.”

“We don’t beat our laundry against rocks in the river anymore, if that’s what you mean. And sure, we can vote, but this is still a man’s world. I mean, look at you. How many women were even admitted to that medical school? If we can’t get the degrees, we can’t get hired, and we can’t do the work.”

Marion knew that all too well, but she wasn’t ready to concede the argument to Pat, since she had never had a job or gone to college. Her sister was right, of course. All her life, Marion had encountered chauvinism at every turn. Throughout medical school, most of her professors had dismissed or discouraged her, and male students either kept their distance or suggested doing a different kind of “homework” with her. The prejudice against Marion and every other woman in those classrooms, then in the Ontario Hospital itself, was exhausting. It didn’t seem to matter how well she did something; it wasn’t enough. So many mornings she’d gone to work, done everything she was supposed to do and more, then had her pride squashed by a random catcall in the hallway or a discouraging, narrow-minded remark from her prehistoric boss, Dr. Bernstein. Their message was the same: she did not belong in their hallowed halls. What was a woman doing, they scoffed, working elbow-deep in blood and bone, when she should be cleaning her house or preparing dinner for her husband?

The truth was, Marion could probably bake a soufflé better than any of their mothers or wives, and her apartment was spotless. She assumed a husband and family would come eventually, but that had never been her priority.

“Like you said,” she replied, “look at me. I am where I am because I wanted it too much to give up. The only way to achieve acceptance in the workplace, and therefore equal pay, is to work harder than the men.”

Pat turned her face to the sky and made a sound of frustration. “News flash, Marion. Working harder than men for equal pay is not equality. And not everyone has the kind of determination you had. You’ve always wanted to be a doctor. Most women aren’t like you. A lot of them just want to work without being treated harshly. Why should we have to fight every step of the way?”

“Because that’s what it takes. Things are changing, though.”

“Way too slowly.”

“One step at a time. It will get better. In the meantime, women have to toughen up. We need to be better than the men, like I said. Every day, I remind myself of that.”

Pat’s nostrils flared with disdain. “Well, aren’t you special?”

“I do what I have to do in order to get what I want. Not such a difficult concept.”

“You are too intense, Marion. Lighten up. You know what else? You work hard so you barely know what’s going on in the rest of the world. Being a doctor is all you know now.”

Marion blinked. “That’s rude.”

“No, it’s true. Sorry, but you have blinders on. Look up from your textbooks and take a look around. Life is to be lived.”

Pat and her perfect family were in Montreal now, celebrating Canada’s centennial at Expo 67. The postcards she sent were fascinating, and a part of Marion was sorry she’d turned down Pat’s invitation to go. She’d put on those blinders again, choosing responsibility over adventure.

But what Marion did was important, too. People needed their doctors to be focused and effective. Other people were Marion’s priority. She picked up her bag and turned toward home.

“Maybe you can live that way,” she murmured to her absent sister, “but I can’t.”

She envied the hippies their freedom, and she envied her sister her comfortable life, but not enough to change her own. Marion had been a healer since childhood, supplying Band-Aids, pulling splinters from her friends’ fingers, and providing a shoulder to lean on whenever required. All Marion had ever wanted was to be a doctor. She’d never really thought about what that might entail until she was starting high school and she overheard one of the boys talking about his brother, who was one year away from enrolling at the University of Toronto in medicine.

“Four thousand dollars?” she gasped. There was no way her parents could afford that kind of tuition. Her father was a busy plumber, but there wasn’t nearly enough money coming in to pay for that.

“What’s it to you?” one of the boys asked. “It’s not like you gotta pay for it. You won’t be going to med school.”

“It just seems like a lot. What about scholarships? Government grants?”

He lifted a lip in a sneer. “Not that it’s any of your business, but my parents are looking into it.”

After school that day, Marion marched to the local grocer’s and asked for a job. They started her in the back room, but it wasn’t long before her intelligence and organizational skills became obvious to the owner and she was moved up to cashier, where she was paid $1.50 per hour. Every payday, she dropped her money into a coffee tin that she placed under her bed.

On the last day of school, she carried almost $300 into the kitchen and set it on the table for her parents to see. Their eyebrows had shot up at the sight, then she told them she wanted it all to go toward university so that she could be a real doctor one day. Her parents exchanged a look.

“You should be very proud of yourself, Marion,” her mother said.

“Oh, I am,” she replied. “And I will do this every year.”

“My dear girl,” her father said, beaming. “We’ll put this in your bank account, where it’ll make a little interest.”

“But Marion,” her mother continued, “keep your options open. You just completed grade nine, which means you have four years ahead of you. While you learn, consider other options for a career. Becoming a doctor is a great deal of work, and because of all its demands, it might be difficult to have a family of your own one day.”

“I don’t want a family of my own,” Marion told her. “I want to be a doctor.”

“Think about nursing.”

Marion crossed her arms, annoyed by her mother’s apparent lack of faith.

Her father observed the conversation with a gentle smile. “Your mother’s right. Becoming a doctor is very difficult. But if, at the end of high school, you still want to go to medical school, we will support your decision.”

When Marion presented her final coffee jar at the end of grade thirteen, her parents congratulated her on her hard work, as well as the scholarship she had won. Then they told her that they had been planning for her tuition for years.

“We’ve always known you would want to go to university. It has already been paid for,” her mother said, pleased.

At first, Marion had been upset. “All that work, and you never needed any of the money? Why didn’t you stop me?”

Her father grinned. “How many of the other girls at school already have more than fifteen hundred dollars in their bank accounts?”

She didn’t touch the bank account until the fall, when she was to start at the University of Toronto. She realized early on that the daily bus ride to and from school would be exhausting, so she decided to spend her money on renting an apartment. When they realized she was determined, her father told her he had a friend who owned an apartment building downtown. She never met the man in person, but he gave her an amazing deal on the rent, which meant she was able to spend all her time studying, not working at another grocery store.

Marion’s favourite place to be was in the hospital emergency room on a busy day, which she supposed was a little ironic. She wasn’t generally comfortable in hectic situations; however, she was very good at what she did, and being in almost total control in the middle of a storm—as she always was at the operating table—was the opposite of chaos. It was power.

It turned out that life had different plans for her. When it was time for Marion to choose her specialty—emergency surgery —she had fallen ill with double pneumonia that evolved into septicemia, which kept her in hospital for two months. As a result of missing so much practical training, she had not qualified for a position in emergency medicine.

Once she moved past that setback, it dawned on Marion that she wasn’t entirely locked out of the medical field. With this disappoinment another door had opened. For a long time, she’d been considering another specialty. One that was a bit closer to home.

But her focus shifted from the body to the brain. More specifically, to psychiatry and the spectrum of mental, emotional, and behavioural disorders.

Marion’s father had seen action overseas in the last war. Once, as a child, she had asked him for stories about his experiences, but he firmly refused to talk about that time. Later that afternoon, she’d discovered him curled up on the floor behind the furnace, violently shaking and not making sense when he spoke. He hadn’t remembered where he was until she called her mother for help. After that, Marion observed her father retreating to the basement more and more, withdrawing to a place so remote even his wife couldn’t find him sometimes.

As a child, she’d been frustrated by his strange behaviour. And embarrassed for him.

As Marion got older, she noticed other veterans around the city, many of whom were on crutches or in wheelchairs. But there were others, more difficult to discern, like her father, who either stood like statues or wandered aimlessly, shouting at shadows. Even now, more than twenty years later, her father sometimes went days without speaking to anyone. It was obvious to Marion that the war might be over, but her father still fought the enemy.

As a daughter, Marion was concerned but reluctantly accepting of his strange ways.

As a psychiatrist, she was intrigued. She wanted to know more. Her body might have failed her when it came to working in the emergency room, but her brain never gave up. As soon as her fever broke in her hospital bed and she was able to think clearly, she dove into her psychiatry textbooks and graduated at the top of her class.

In the end, she’d surprised herself by how much she enjoyed studying psychiatry. The field had undergone so much change over the past twenty years, moving from drastic, often violent “treatments” to very interesting talk- and medicine-based care. There were many new, effective therapies and drugs available now, and she was fascinated by it all.

Marion spent whatever spare time she could find studying surgical procedures and attending classes as an auditor, keeping on top of everything she would need to know if the opportunity to get her hand on a scalpel ever arose again. Near the corner of Jarvis and Isabella, Marion arrived at the white-brick apartment building she called home, its lawn brightened by two forsythia bushes in full bloom. Blossoms of all kinds had awakened throughout the city, like the daffodils and crocuses popping up in greening yards. She stepped past a cheerful cluster of candy-apple-red tulips along the front walkway then reached for the door. The hinges groaned as she pulled it open, a sound so familiar it had almost come to feel like a greeting. Inside the entry on her right was the mail room, but she walked past without looking. It was Victoria Day—Queen Victoria’s birthday—so no delivery today. At the bank of three elevators, she pressed the button. When the one on the left arrived with a rattle and a clunk, she pressed 5 then leaned against the back wall, riding the familiar rocking motion of the box as it climbed.

Marion had never been entirely comfortable with the elevator, or with heights themselves. Originally, she had asked the building manager if he had any apartments available on a lower floor. He didn’t, but at least she wasn’t up top, on the eleventh storey. Over time she adjusted to the altitude, even come to enjoy the decadent solitude the balcony provided. From her apartment halfway up 105 Isabella Street, she could hear the honking of cars and the occasional shout bouncing off walls, but they were distant. Especially at night.

At the fifth floor the elevator lurched to a stop, and Marion felt the oddly pleasant sensation of her stomach rolling with it. She stepped into the hallway and turned toward her apartment.

The door to her left clicked open then closed.

“Good afternoon,” she said to 509’s door. As usual, there was no response. Marion had never met the mysterious man within, but she had put together a mental image of him: older, solitary, and tight with nerves. Almost every time the elevator arrived, his door opened a couple of inches, then shut. Mr. Snoop—a nickname Marion had given him—either considered himself to be the watchdog of the floor, or he was just plain nosy.

She followed the hallway’s burgundy-coloured carpet and ivory striped wallpaper, somewhat yellowed by the effects of time and cigarette smoke. As she dug her key from her purse, she passed two apartments on either side. At 512, she turned right and unlocked the door, still humming.

“Hi, Chester.” She crouched to greet the black and white cat winding around her ankles. “Did you miss me?”

His response rumbled through his chest, warming her inside.

“You won’t believe what I saw in the park,” she told him, passing the coat closet on her right. “I’ve never seen so many people. They were having a great time.”

Chester gazed up at her, the tip of his tail flicking with interest.

She tossed her purse and briefcase onto the olive-coloured living room couch then walked barefoot across the parquet floor toward the galley kitchen. The apartment was awash in late-day sunlight, bringing to life the tiny dust motes and cat hair disturbed by her arrival. She considered closing the floor-to-ceiling drapes, which matched the couch perfectly, but she decided against it. The sun felt good.

She filled Chester’s bowl with cat food then placed it on the floor and stepped back so he could enjoy his meal, and she could pour herself a little wine. She carried the glass to her balcony and sat in one of the two chairs she had bought specifically for out there, admiring the lovely day. Across from her was the neighbouring apartment building. It was similar to this one, but a good distance away, so it didn’t affect her limited view of the city. Between the buildings stretched a park area carpeted by spring grass, edged here and there by bursts of tulips and patches of wilting daffodils. Best of all were the two magnificent cherry trees growing almost directly beneath her, a cloud of white-pink blossoms, offering Marion and her neighbours a soft perfume of lilac with a pinch of vanilla.

Her balcony faced northwest, and the air was warm. She knew the heat would be practically unbearable in the summer, but for now it was perfect. She glanced to her left, admiring the big potted geranium in the far corner, with its mounds of red petals. A gift from her neighbour, Mr. Levin, two weeks before. He’d informed her very seriously that her balcony would be perfect for it. Mr. Levin was very serious about plants in general. He and his wife were lovely people, but she was aware her quiet lifestyle was a topic of conversation between them. On his way out the last time, he muttered something about “If a woman has to live alone, she should at least have plants to talk to.”

Now she took a sip of wine then closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun. She didn’t usually indulge on weekdays, but today was a holiday, and she felt a little inspired by the party in the park.

“Besides, I’m not really alone, am I?” she asked Chester as he strolled outside to join her. He seemed inclined to jump on her lap, but then he spotted an unsuspecting fluff discarded by a poplar tree nearby and chose to pounce on it instead.

She might come out here again tonight around ten, hoping to see fireworks. The Queen’s Park party would probably have moved on before then. She pictured the attendees huddling together in blankets, sound asleep after the excitement of the day. Or maybe they were sitting outside the Yorkville coffeehouses, enjoying cigarettes and conversation. It had been a beautiful day. It would be a lovely evening.

In a few hours, her sister would be tucking Marion’s nieces into their beds in the hotel in Montreal, then she and her husband would probably sneak to the bar for a drink.

“Life is to be lived,” Pat had said.

Marion took another sip and gazed over the quiet grounds below. A dog barked in the distance, but she didn’t see any movement. For a heartbeat, she felt like the only person in the city. The only person anywhere, even, and her pulse sped up at the thought. She took a moment to consider her brief reaction, then she asked herself what she asked her patients most days.

How does that feel?

Was she lonely? Was that what she was feeling? Should she be somewhere else with a crowd, having a different sort of fun? Was she missing out?

Or was she just fine on her own?

Chester made a little sound, and she met his hypnotic green stare. The seriousness of his expression made her smile, and he took that as an invitation to spring onto her lap.

“I’m not alone, am I?” she asked him, stroking his velvety back. “I have you.”