Circle of Stones (10 page)

The blonde newscaster looks into the camera in a direct way that pulls me out of my diagnosis. She says another man was seen running away from the scene and is now what they call a “person of interest.” That means he's a suspect. There's a sketch of him in a hoodie. He looks like any young man. He could be one of Lhia's classmates. Maybe I'm wrong about the steroids. This kid could have been involved in a man's death. And now he's out there. On the Ottawa streets.

I grab Lhia's cellphone from the charger and look around for her school bag. It must be in her room. Her door is still closed, but the pizza I left out for her is gone. I have to be at work before Lhia needs to get up for school. I don't want to wake her — teenagers need their sleep. But I do want to make sure she brings that cell to school with her. I set out a couple of boxes of cereal for her to choose from and get ready for work.

I knock quietly on her door then open it. Her school bag is lying on the floor, open. There are textbooks scattered around it. Canadian Geography. French. I lean over and drop the cellphone into the bag. Lhia shifts and turns under her comforter then sits up. Her long, dark hair is so messy it might as well be dreadlocked.

“Morning, kid,” I say. “Just wanted to make sure you have your cell. I charged it for you. It's in your bag.”

“Mom! It's so stupid and
old
! It's completely embarrassing.” Lhia glares at me with puffy, sleepy eyes. “When am I getting a real phone.” It's not a question.

“We've talked about this before. We can't afford another big bill right now.”

“M-
awww
-m.” Lhia throws her hands in the air. “You have no
idea
what it's like.”

I frown and look at my watch.

“I know, I know, you've gotta get on the bus.” Lhia stares at the floor. “And you're worried about me, blah, blah, blah.”

“Bring the phone with you, okay, kiddo? For me? Just in case. You don't have to take it out of your bag unless you need it. I want you to be safe.” I wait for a nod — any sign of listening or agreement. But Lhia just snuggles back down under the covers and closes her eyes. The body-language equivalent of “whatever.” I look at my watch, grab my jacket, shove feet into shoes, rush through the condo lobby. By the time I hit the sidewalk I'm sprinting. On Bank Street the bus is already pulling away from the stop, but I'm in luck. The light turns amber and the driver decides to wait. She opens the doors for me and I flash my pass. I find a seat and catch my breath. I have fifteen minutes to think while the bus chugs across downtown Ottawa, through the tony Glebe neighbourhood, and arrives at the nursing home stop. I can't seem to tell Lhia why I worry so much. Parenting is like working on a jigsaw puzzle for years only to realize you're missing all the important pieces.

This morning when I step onto the ward it's not quiet. I hear yelling. A man's voice booms through the hallway and I freeze. I tell myself to calm down. I make myself listen. It's not him. It's a middle-aged man, and he's furious, but not swearing. I pump hand sanitizer from a dispenser and head toward the noise. The man in the hall is saying something about his father. As I get closer I hear Evelyn, the head nurse, muttering calming things. The man has almost sputtered out, his voice rasping now.

“This didn't have to happen. Not like this!” The man reaches his hands up to his face. Even from behind I can tell he's trying to staunch the tears. It's a sad, shocked kind of anger, not a violent one.

“Mr. McCreally, we did everything we could to care for your father and keep him comfortable here. It was just his time.” Evelyn touches his arm gently but speaks with authority.

“His time.” McCreally's son repeats the idea. Then he coughs and clears his throat. “But we were laughing and talking together one day and the next he's all dopey and sleepy. He was always so active. And then all of a sudden he's not even walking around.”

I catch Evelyn's eye and she nods at me to let me know she's got the situation under control. Sometimes people who are upset feel threatened when there are too many people crowding around. I soft-shoe around Evelyn and avoid the younger McCreally — he doesn't need people staring at him right now. When I push on the door of the nurses' lounge, Faye is sitting in my spot again. She's still wearing the stained scrubs, but now there's a ratty old polar fleece jacket on over top. I pour myself a cup of coffee and lean back against the cupboard.

“Don't worry.” I want to show up Faye with my seniority and a seen-it-all air, but it comes out a little shakier than I expect. I gulp coffee and clear my throat. “You'll get used to patients dying. Handling the families is the worst part. Everyone deals with it in a different way. Obviously this is a bit extreme, but he's just having an outburst. Evelyn's got him calmed down.”

I wait, but Faye doesn't look up. I realize she's not even listening to me. Next time I'll just tell her she's in my chair. I finish my coffee, brush past her, and hustle over to the nurses' station where Kim's already going over the morning's charts.

I sit down beside her. “You're here early.”

“Never left.” Kim hands a stack of folders to me and winks. “Just kidding. What would
I
need an extra shift for. Hah.”

Kim waggles the enormous diamond anniversary ring she's not supposed to wear to work. Her husband has some kind of high-paying job in the tech industry. Kim talks all the time about how he's kept his job through every round of layoffs. It's more relief than bragging. They can still afford their house, vacations, and interior decorators. I'm happy just to have a job and a salary. I start looking over my charts. I glance at Kim and realize she's not really looking at hers.

“McCreally's son says he's going to call a lawyer,” Kim whispers. “I was sitting behind the desk the whole time he was freaking out.”

“Poor guy.” I flip through page after page, checking over routine data. “Lawyer's not going to bring his dad back.”

Kim stifles a giggle. “He'd need to hire God's own attorney to do that.” She whisks her papers and files together briskly and stands. “See ya at coffee time,” she says, heading down the hall.

In the late afternoon I stop in the hall to twist from side to side, stretch my back. Hand sanitizer stings my chapped skin, but the gel is so light and cool I'm tempted to rub it into my forehead and temples. I hear brisk steps. Evelyn is charging down the hall like a tall, sturdy streamroller.

“Staff meeting! In five minutes.” She barks it, major-general style. I follow her and a clutch of nurses into the lounge, find a place at the back of the room, and lean against the cupboards by the sink. Everyone from day shift hustles in. Kim pushes her way through to stand beside me. Our staff meetings are usually happy or business-like occasions: celebrations of someone's promotion, news from the nurses' association on training, or funding updates from the provincial Ministry of Health. Evelyn is strict, although bit of a ham in front of a group. Today she's sombre. She looks older when her face isn't animated. Even her hair looks greyer.

“I think we're all here.” Evelyn looks around the room. “I'm going to get started. Effective immediately, all evening ‘as needed' sedative orders have been highlighted in the computer system and on all charts as a separate code. Every dose you administer to a resident will need to be thoroughly documented, each and every time.” Evelyn pauses to look around the room, locking eyes colleague by colleague. “There are absolutely no exceptions. Are there any questions?” Evelyn waits for a millisecond before she adds “thank you,” and leaves.

“Isn't that what we always do?” I turn to Kim, confused. Kim nods at me and grabs a coffee mug.

“Evelyn's on the warpath.” Kim drains the coffeepot into her cup and sets it back on the burner empty. “Probably not a good day to try and book my holiday time.”

“Nope,” I say. I grab a filter to make a fresh pot.

“We've got our first ski trip of the season all planned out,” Kim says, handing me the can of coffee beans.

“Oh, stop with the snow talk already,” I say. “It's too soon!”

Kim follows everyone else out, but I stay to take my afternoon break. I pour myself a big glass of water from the filtered container in the fridge and sit down in the comfy chair. I put my feet up and lean back. The tension in my shoulders eases as my breathing slows. It's been quite a day, with the shouting in the hall, the disciplinary mood. I think about Lhia and wonder what it's like to be the daughter of someone who hides things. I didn't agree with my parents' rules when I was her age, but at least with them everything was out in the open. There were no mysteries. Maybe I could start by writing Lhia a letter. Might be easier than talking. I don't want to scare her. But I do need her to be careful. I want her to know there are men who can never be trusted.

I take one more sip of water then head toward the nurses' station. Evelyn's trying to shake things up, because she's already posted a note about shift changes. I log into the computer and print out my new schedule. I'll be working nights on different days of the week. I'll have to remember to tell Lhia.

After work I pop a veggie lasagna, Lhia's favourite, in the oven. Then I toss a green salad she probably won't eat. I can't stop thinking about the young man in the hoodie. The suspect. It's more than the fact he's somewhere in Ottawa, on the streets. It's who he reminds me of. While I'm waiting for my daughter to appear, I grab the notebook I use for my coursework and an old ballpoint pen.

Dear, Dearest,
Lhia,

Your father is Your father was

Do you remember when you were little and we used to play the dad game? You would think of what kind of dad you wanted to have and name his profession. You said things like teacher, mailman, or fireman, although sometimes you'd get silly and say things like purple pocket puppet or bumbling bumblebee and we'd laugh.

I stop writing and think. My life as Tina began in Ottawa when Lhia was born. Beyond that is an immobile wall I constructed to protect Lhia from her father. I worked hard to keep the wall fortified. Does Lhia need to know about the confused teenager I was? My name was Christina — Chris for short — and I ran away because I thought I loved Sam, the lead singer in a punk band. I left Winnipeg and went on tour with him. The band's name was Paralyzer. We were loud, drunk, outrageous, and obnoxious.

There were no rules. It was exciting, then it was horrible. Did I sleep in a van, travel across the country on a six-month road trip? Did I stay at all-night parties, get drunk, and dive headfirst into audiences? Did Sam threaten me? Did he start losing his mind and mixing up all the lyrics? Did he tighten his grip around my neck? Did he chase me down a Toronto street and shove me into oncoming traffic when I told him I was pregnant? I've pushed the memory splinters so far back they don't seem real. I barely remember the hospital, except that it felt safe. I only vaguely remember recovery. What I do remember is him saying he'd never leave us alone. And then hiding — moving to a strange city my brother suggested, changing my name, switching apartments every few months, keeping my phone number unlisted, keeping Lhia a secret from everyone in my old scene. Cutting myself off from friends. Doing everything I could to keep her safe.

Your father was a singer. I was so naive to believe everything he told me. We were young and in love. But he was a liar. We still have to be careful.

I set my pen down and rub my eyes. Writing is tiring. I've still got more to write. I need to wait until I feel ready to give Lhia the letter, but I'm certain I should do it soon. I'm not sure how she's going to react, but know she deserves to know more about her father. It's not only about explaining my side of the story, it's about solving the mystery for her. Answering all the questions. I tuck the letter in a safe hiding place under my mattress and go to bed early. I doze fitfully until I hear Lhia come home. Then I fall asleep.

The next morning I'm in Mrs. Wrightson's room adjusting her bed and pillows to make her more comfortable when I'm paged over the intercom. I run to the nurses' station. Kim is sitting behind the desk doing paperwork. She sets the phone receiver on the counter in front of me.

“Lhia's school.” For once Kim's not even trying to smile. “Line two.”

I pick up the phone. Kim tactfully disappears to the adjoining room to do some filing or photocopies.

“Hello?” The word emerges tentatively.

“Is that Tina Moffit?” a woman's voice says. “This is your daughter's school secretary calling.”

“Yes, this is Tina,” I say. “Is Lhia all right?”

“We think so,” the woman says, “but Lhia's been missing a lot of classes lately and she's not in school this afternoon. The school administration here wanted to let you know.”

“Oh.” I struggle to bury my disappointment, muster maturity, be the parent. “Thank you for telling me. I'll talk to her and make sure she's attending. Sorry about that.”

“It's a difficult age, dear,” the secretary says. “If you'd like to make an appointment for both of you to talk to the school guidance counsellor, give me a call.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I'd like to talk to her myself first.”

“Of course,” the secretary says.

I hang up the phone and stand still for a minute, eyes closed. I'm trying to figure out if I'm more angry or worried — as though I could treat it like a symptom and cure it with a prescription. Then I hear footsteps in the hallway. I turn around, open my eyes, and see two uniformed city police officers striding toward me. Kim peeks out from the next room and steps forward so she's standing behind the counter. I feel faint. I see Lhia's face on a milk carton under the word
MISSING
. I grip the counter with two hands.