Blasted (24 page)

“I didn't mean to scare you, Grandpa,” I said. He stood over me for a while longer, then sat heavily on the bench next to me. I put my head on his shoulder and cried. He put his arm around me, rigid as a stick of wood.

“Why do I cry so much?” I choked. “I just cry all the time.”

Sometimes it seems to me that the spring wells up out of grief, and only grief. My tears could flow without end. Other emotions are surface – glitter, distraction and colour – while underneath, all the time, sorrow wells up and runs over, deep. And sometimes it seems to me that we've got it all wrong, the way we think about emotions. A man dies of a heart attack and people say, well, it's because he bottled up his emotion, he never let it out. As if “letting it out” would somehow put an end to it, as if rage and grief are poisons in our bodies. As if feeling is something you could run out of, like money or time.

CHAPTER 17

My last evening home passed in an agitated haze. Everything Grandpa said or did irritated me; recognizing that this was because I was upset to be leaving only made it worse. My nerves popped and thrummed – my stomach churned – I could hardly swallow a bite of food. After dinner, as I cleared away the dishes, panic crystallized into terror, a terror of going to sleep:
I'll walk again, I'll rise in the night and walk again, maybe this time I won't come back.

I put a hand on my throat where a little toad jumped inside, just there over my sternum. Grandpa was watching the end of the news in the living room. “I'm going up to pack,” I said. Grandpa nodded, not looking at me.

“Packing” consisted of rolling up the two filthy shirts I wouldn't be wearing on the plane and stuffing them unceremoniously into my backpack. I rounded up a pair of unwashed socks from under the bed, rolled up in crusty little balls; ignoring my shiver of fear, I reached into the shadows to grab them, and shoved them into my pack. I stood stiff, skin hurting where it had been scratched. It was ridiculous to be afraid – Grandpa was just downstairs – I could hear the TV, I was an adult. Gramma's peach-coloured gown hung lonely in the closet, crooked on its hanger; I stroked it, sequins glimmering dimly like old silver. Drafts from the unsealed window behind me ran up my spine. Yes, I'd take it, take it back to Toronto. Turning toward the bed I caught sight of my reflection in the dark window pane and froze: tree branches grew out of my head, waving in a non-existent wind; something flowed over my body, water maybe, a stream; I had no legs. My eyes were dark pools. Around me, all about my head, small others hovering in the air. And behind me, myself. The double came closer, her face twisted as she smiled.

No. No. Trees outside on the Hill surrounded my reflection in the wavery glass, throwing bits of light up around my head. Gramma's dress hung over my arm and flowed down my body. The second figure was just a trick of the glass, doubling me. It was night, and I was packing for my plane, which left the next morning. I went to the window and closed the curtains across the pale reflection of my face.

I folded the dress lengthwise, carefully, then rolled it up and put it on top of the other clothes. The mattress was still bare of sheets; the blankets, I folded at the foot of the bed. For the next time I come home, I thought.

I'd stay awake tonight, and see the dawn.

There were footsteps on the stairs, coming up, coming closer, toward me. “Grandpa?” My voice quavered.

He looked in through the doorway. “Who'd you think it was, the Queen of Sheba?”

“Ha, ha, no, hi.”

“Packed?”

“Yes.” I paused, then added, “I'm taking that dress of Gramma's.”

He looked pleased. “Don't suppose you'll wear it.”

“I'll find occasion,” I lied.

He went on down the hall to the bathroom. I zipped my pack and stood uselessly in the middle of the room, hands shoved into my pockets.

“What's all this, dead leaves and such in the tub?” Grandpa called.

Oh-oh. “In the tub?” I hollered back.

“Yes. Come and look.”

“I… mustn't have cleaned it out after my shower,” I said, hurrying down the hall. “I went for a walk in the morning and must have gotten leaves in my hair.”

He stooped over the muck in the tub like a cranky, avenging angel. “
I
didn't see you go out.”

“I went out my window.” I pushed past him. “Just like old times. Here, let me clean it.”

“What do you mean, ‘just like old times'?”

“I used to sneak out my window as a teenager. Go out galing. You know.”

“No, I don't know!”

“It's all ancient history now.” I had successfully changed the subject.

“You used to sneak – !”

Retrieving cleanser and an old sponge from the cabinet, I sank to my knees and wiped traces of muck from the tub. Leaves and bits of grass tangled in the drain; I scooped them out with my finger. I looked up over my shoulder at my grandfather. “I survived anyway. Didn't I?”

Later, I phoned Juanita.

“You're leaving
already
?”

“It's been three weeks, I have to get back.” You know, to my glamourous life – that
job
, and all those
wild times
I told you about.

“Oh.” Disappointment was palpable in her voice; I felt simultaneously touched and irritable. “It's just that… I hardly got to see you.”

“I know, I know.”

“And there were all these things I wanted to tell you, and you hardly got to see Dennis.”

“I'll get over it.”

“Bitch.”

“I love you too.”

“How's your Grandpa?”

I sighed. “As far as I can determine, he's doing better than I am.”

“Good.” She cleared her throat. “So, Ruby…” her voice got all coy, “…so, guess who I went out with the other night.”

As teenagers, Juanita and I had competed over boys. We took it as seriously as an Olympic sport. We'd spot one – oh, my, look at that one – bet I can bag him – no,
mine
! Juanita almost always won. But that's how we'd always announced our conquests:
So, guess who I went out with the other night.

“Who?”

“Well,” she managed to make that a three-syllable word, “well, remember that guy at your grandmother's funeral?”

“What guy?” I snapped.

“The funeral director guy.”

It took me a moment. “Oh, for God's sake, Funeral Boy?”

“That's the one.” I heard the click and intake of breath, her lighting a cigarette. I tried to remember him – he'd been sort of cute, I thought.

“Did you get it on, or what?”

“No, we did not get it on, as you so delicately put it.”

“Why not?” Loneliness engulfed me, making me peevish. “You losing your touch?”

“Fuck off,” she said breezily. “We went for coffee, nothing special.”

“Great.”

“Well, he's a charming fella. Very attentive, very sweet, really.”

“Ah. Well, he won't be charming me, because I'll be in Toronto.”

Something must have crept through my voice, because she said quickly, “Hey, don't… I didn't mean to upset you.”

“Well, don't worry. You haven't.”

One of those silences descended.

“Look, Ruby, I love you, okay?” My ill humour evaporated and my throat got all lumpy.

“I wish I'd seen more of you,” I said.

“Call me any time, I don't care if it's three in the morning. You need to talk, I'm here, okay?”

“Thanks. I… thanks.”

“Okay. Safe trip, girl.”

I leaned my back against the wall and slid down until I was huddled on the floor, the cool plaster chill against my spine. I missed Juanita – and yet I never knew what to do with myself around her. I wouldn't call her from Toronto. I was a lousy friend.

Grandpa stuck his head around the door frame. “Still on the phone?”

“No, I am indulging in an interval of self-scourging.”

“Well, get off the floor and sit with me.”

Touched, I slumped next to Grandpa on the couch. He took one sideways look at me but said nothing, and the long minutes ticked on; it was after nine. It was going to be a long night; I'd parcel out little treats to myself. Beer now, tea later.

I fetched beers for my grandfather and myself. Around eleven I jolted awake; I'd been nodding off. Some re-run of a ‘seventies detective show was on and Grandpa still watched, beer in hand, his bright eyes dimming.

“I'm going to make some tea,” I mumbled, and he looked at me, a bit delayed.

“Suit yourself.”

I drank an entire pot of tea out in the kitchen, reading the same article over and over from that morning's paper – about the arts in St. John's, like it was the next Florence or something – every Newfoundlander practically falling out their front doors with talent. Grandpa came in and said he was going to bed. He asked what time the plane left.

“Eight.” I made a face.

“Might as well not go to bed,” he joked.

“Might not.”

He cleared his throat. “How are you getting to the airport?”

“Taxi.”

“H'm.”

He looked gangly, almost adolescent standing there, and for the second time that night I wondered why I never knew how to talk to the ones I most loved. “Are you sure you're going to be… You'll call me if you need me, right?” I said.

He gave me a strange look. “Yes. I'll call if I need you. You'll be – ” he cut himself off.

“I'll be what?”

“Better, out there. It's safer.”

This was the first time I'd ever heard anyone describe Toronto as
safer
than St. John's, but I let it go. “Don't worry about getting up to see me off.”

He made an impatient gesture. “Of course I'll see you off. Don't be so foolish.” I stood and we hugged awkwardly for a moment.

“I love you,” I said into his armpit.

He patted my back. “Yes, yes.” Then he went heavily upstairs.

I sat and tried reading the paper again, wondering if I was the only Newfoundlander who couldn't play a musical instrument.

The house became quiet in that night-time way, little creaks as it settled. I kept my lonely vigil in the kitchen, drinking endless pots of tea, boiling kettles like an automaton, half-thoughts and feelings ebbing and flowing in insubstantial tides. I took Mug-O-Tea Number 37 out on the back steps and shivered there, hands wrapped around its warmth, wishing there was something to wrap my heart around. The scene would've been more picturesque had there been stars, but it was overcast.

Time stretched and compressed like an accordion. The wind picked up, and I could smell the oily stench of the harbour and above it, like a pure silvery sound, the salt smell of the Atlantic. At last the clouds rent open and stars peered through, battling the highway lights but clear. I'd breathe in as much of this air as I could, to see me through Toronto. I glanced at my cell to see what time it was – four a.m. My head felt full of sand. Another hour. My eyes were heavy, my head drooped.

A cooing noise jerked me awake. Two pigeons perched on the stone wall, eyeing me. It was still dark; I could see them in the light from the kitchen door. When I lifted my head, they unsettled themselves and began to march up and down the wall, cooing softly as if conferring, and something about it – seeing those birds at night – grated on me. One walked with a limp. A blood-red foot twisted under it, making it lurch slightly with every step. Go away, I willed silently, go away. As if they could hear me, they stopped. The limping one half-raised its wings, flapping. Then they took off from the wall and disappeared into the night.

I didn't move. The sky over the Hill began to lighten. Gradually the streetlamps paled against the sky until they became barely perceptible points of watery light, drowned in dawning. The Hill curved black and massive above me. The land, the sky and air, could show me something, if only I knew how to read them – a whole other world lying just behind this one, or within it, nestled dangerously like a tiny snake curled in someone's palm. But I didn't know how to see it, or was afraid to. I stayed on the surface of things, with the rocks and the stars and the slowly rising sun.

I went indoors to make breakfast for Grandpa and me.

My fingers were clumsy. Frying pan and eggs slipped merrily; I dropped the kettle with a thunderous clatter, spilling gallons of water, and as soon as I finished mopping that up, I broke a mug. I was on my knees, picking up the pieces, when Grandpa appeared.

“Well, at least you'll have some peace and quiet when I'm gone,” I said bitterly.

He joined me, gathering the china shards into his large, lined palm. I got the broom. The kitchen was free of the usual whine and noise of traffic, early as it was; the calls of seabirds reigned. In the silence, the sound of a pigeon flying close by was clearly audible: a dry, snapping sound.