“He’s all peaches and cream with you,” Charlie said. “I just don’t know how to be around him. Maybe it’s my own fault. What kind of experience can I draw on? I barely even remember my own dad.”
“You’re a good father,” I said. “I can see that.
John
can see that. He’s just at an awkward age.”
“Then why does his world revolve around you?”
I didn’t know how to answer this.
It was true that I couldn’t shake John off me. Everything was “Mommy this” and “Mommy that.” It was suffocating at times. I remember when we took John to see Santa at the mall. Something spooked him and he bolted off Santa’s lap and came barrelling down the red carpet. Charlie was with him at the time. I was across the way at a clothing store, trying to steal a few uninterrupted minutes. John ran straight past Charlie and over to me. He buried his face so forcefully in my jacket that I almost toppled over. I looked up to see Charlie, bewildered, surrounded by a landscape of cotton-batten snow and sparkle-dusted mechanical elves.
“John, you could’ve run to Daddy,” I whispered. “He was right there.”
“I wanted you,” he said through his tears, his hands clutching my coat. “I wanted my pretty mommy.”
He’d started calling me “pretty mommy” a few months prior. He was taking a bath and I was sitting on the toilet, chin in hands, preoccupied by my doubts about my marriage, my choices, my life.
“I don’t like it when you’re sad,” he said.
“I’m not sad. Don’t be silly.”
“When you’re sad, you’re not my pretty mommy.”
I looked down at my worn-out pants, the toenails that peeked out from the fuzzy border of my slippers. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d painted them.
“There’s nothing pretty about Mommy,” I said.
Then my son carefully placed a small mound of crackling bubbles on my knee. “Now there is,” he said, and I almost cried.
I suggested that Charlie needed to make more of an effort with John. “If you’re concerned about the way he acts around you, then do things with him.”
“But he doesn’t want to do anything with me.”
“You have to take the lead.”
So off they’d go to the movies. Or they’d sit in the workroom together while Charlie repaired or built things. But there was always a forced quality to it, a sense of formality, as though the two of them had been dropped into a scene without knowing the dialogue.
John gave up baseball, but excelled at choir, with songs about the birth of Jesus and doves and God’s ever-watchful presence. It wasn’t such a terrible exchange, I’d reason, pulling myself up higher in the pew to get a better view of my son. It was better that John do something
meaningful
. I didn’t see where God could be found in a baseball diamond.
I’m not sure Charlie felt the same way.
I decide to pop into the Golden Sunset on my way home. I haven’t been by to see Mrs. Pender in a few weeks. Excuses are easy to come by whenever she’s involved, but the library called the other day. The last book I signed out for her is now overdue. She claims to enjoy mysteries, but I know she never reads any of them. It’s all about appearances with her.
The Golden Sunset Home for the Aged isn’t terrible, all things considered. I’ve been in places that looked more like asylums than nursing homes. But there isn’t much to choose from in Balsden and I’ve heard about waiting lists a mile long. I don’t know how true that is, but it worries me to think that when my time comes, I might not end up where I want.
Two years ago, a group of us from St. Paul’s volunteered to serve Christmas dinner to the Sunset residents. It got me out of going to Helen’s and listening to my niece and nephew natter on about their dull lives.
While passing a turkey platter, I heard a voice behind me.
“That you, Joyce Conrad?”
It took me a second to realize the name was mine. I hadn’t heard my maiden name in years and I felt a sudden tug of melancholy, as if someone had mentioned a friend I hadn’t missed until that moment. I turned around to see a tiny, elderly woman sitting in a wheelchair, covered in a blue terry-cloth bib. She was no bigger than the ornaments hanging from the Christmas tree in the corner. I searched for a familiar face underneath the wrinkles and almost dropped the platter when I discovered it.
“Mrs. Pender?” I whispered. It wasn’t possible. Not after all these years.
“This turkey is terrible.”
My doubts disappeared.
Since that holiday dinner, I’ve made a point of visiting her every now and then. I don’t enjoy our time together and more often than not, I’ll leave with a blinding headache. But she has no other visitors and deep down—deep,
deep
down—I think she looks forward to seeing me. She’d never admit it, though. She may be ninety-seven, but her edge is still razor sharp. Maybe that’s what’s kept her alive all these years.
Our visits typically consist of me sitting on the edge of her bed, fiddling with the straps of my purse and trying to look engaged while she runs through the travesties of her life, tapping each one into the centre of her palm with a crooked finger.
The staff at the Sunset is terrible. “You get the bottom of the barrel in places like this. The decent ones go work in hospitals.”
The food in unpalatable. “Today they served that fish. For the second day
in a row.”
Mrs. Ogilvy is insane. “She came up behind me the other day holding her spoon like a dagger.”
“You can’t stab someone with a spoon,” I reminded her.
“You can stab with anything if you push hard enough,” she said.
This morning, a few of the residents are sitting outside their rooms. A sharp smell hits me as I pass the linen bin and my hand instinctively goes to my nose. I pull it away, conscious of the eyes on me. I wouldn’t be able to work with the elderly. Positioning straws into mouths and wiping rear ends and helping people into their backless clothing. I wouldn’t be able to clean off the decay at the end of the day.
“Nice morning,” I say loudly to a kind-looking woman in a wheelchair. She’s wearing a fuchsia jogging suit. I’ve seen her before.
“I wouldn’t know,” she replies.
I pass a whiteboard announcing activities in scrawling red marker. Kraft Korner with Kay! 10 a.m. Classical music hour! 1–2 p.m. Chaplain visit! 3 p.m. So many exclamation marks in one day.
Mrs. Pender’s room is on the second floor, at the end of the hall. She shares it with Mrs. Ogilvy, who suffered a stroke a few years ago and can communicate only by saying “Whuh-whuh-whuh” in various tones. The door to the room is partly closed. A brown paper acorn is stuck to it with a Scotch tape square. It’s too early for acorns, I think with a frown. We’ve got another month to go before warty gourds start showing up on magazine covers. It strikes me as bad taste, as though the staff is trying to hurry time.
I knock on the door, push it open and see Mrs. Ogilvy napping in her bed. On the other side of her, Mrs. Pender sits hunched over in her wheelchair, white hair hanging down, draping her face. She looks so fragile. Although I’d never openly admit to it, I feel we have something in common. I don’t think she knows about my John. She’s never asked me any questions and I’m more comfortable keeping my personal life to myself. But there have been a few quiet moments between us when the words bubbled inside my mouth.
I lost my son, too
.
But to bring it up would only open the door to questions. So I say nothing. She doesn’t talk about Freddy anyway. Instead, he stares silently at us from the framed black-and-white picture she keeps on top of her dresser. Our sons never get old behind their glass enclosures.
“Mrs. Pender?” I say softly. Her head slowly turns to the side. Eyeglasses and a nose poke through the curtain of hair. “How are you doing?”
“I lost a tooth this morning.”
“How did you lose it?” I sit down on the bed.
“The biscuits. Hard as rocks. I’d like to go have a word with that cook, I’ll tell you that much. I thought coloured people were good at biscuits.”
A barrette dangles from her hair. She’s a ghoulish little girl.
“I saw a sign in the hallway. There’s a garden party tomorrow. You should go.”
“I don’t care about a garden party.”
Sometimes I mention things to get a reaction. Garden parties. Kay and her kraft sessions. Christmas carol singalongs in the auditorium. All the social delicacies she can’t stand. It gives me perverse pleasure to watch her flare up in disgust and anger. Perhaps it’s my revenge for the headaches.
“Are you sure? It’s supposed to be a beautiful day.”
She clamps a hand over her wrist and stares straight ahead. So, she’s in fine form today. I glance at the clock next to her bed. Ten minutes tops. Then I’ll say something about having to pick up groceries.
“Whuh.”
“Hello, Mrs. Ogilvy. Nice to see you again.”
“Don’t bother with her,” Mrs. Pender says. “She’s as stupid as they come.”
“Whuh-whuh!” Mrs. Ogilvy shouts.
“The library called,” I say. “I need to return that book I signed out for you. It’s overdue.”
“But I’m not finished it.”
“I can sign it out again, if you like. But I’ll have to pay the fine first.”
“How much?”
“Fifty cents or so.”
“Hand me my purse.”
“I can afford the fifty cents, Mrs. Pender.”
“My purse.”
I sigh and pass it to her.
“I’m a woman of my word,” she says as she begins to dig through it. She pulls out a jar of Noxzema. A whirlwind of tissues. A magnifying glass. “I believe in settling accounts.”
She hands me a small black change purse and asks me to open it. “I’m all claws,” she says.
“Hello, Mrs. Pender!”
A short woman in yellow enters the room. She smiles absently at me. “It’s time for you to get weighed.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Oh yes, it is.” She steps behind Mrs. Pender’s wheelchair. “We have to make sure you maintain your girlish figure. The scale is just down the hall.” She tells me they’ll be back in a bit.
I see this as the perfect opportunity to cut the visit short. “I’ll see you next time, Mrs. Pender,” I say, setting the change purse on the bed.
“I’ll only be a minute,” Mrs. Pender says as she’s wheeled past.
I pretend not to hear.
It starts to rain again. Large, lazy drops hit the windshield, and I flick on the wipers. My stomach growls. Maybe it wasn’t the salmon salad that gave me loose stool. How am I to know? And what difference does it make? It’s time to go home.
When I turn the corner, I spot a familiar figure standing in front of the post office. I consider driving past, then think better of it. I pull over, give the horn two quick honks and roll down the passenger window.
It’s hard for me to believe my sister is seventy-five now, in spite of her lined face. She’s wearing a straw hat with a red ribbon. She’s taken to wearing hats lately and informed me she’s always had a hat-shaped head. She simply never realized it before.
“Joyce! What a surprise. I was out for my morning walk and needed to get stamps.”
“Get in and I’ll drive you home.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she says, opening the passenger door. “I was sending out cards and came up one stamp short. Isn’t that always the way? You did remember cousin Renée’s birthday, didn’t you?”
“Of course.” I’ve spent most of my life lying to Helen. It’s easier that way. For both of us. I’ll have to get a card this afternoon.
Helen’s seat belt clicks into place. “I hope it doesn’t get muggy after this. You know how it is after a rain. All those worms. That smell. Nauseating.” Her eyes narrow. “Your hair is so big. Are you coming back from the hairdresser?”
“I was there earlier. I’m just coming back from the Sunset.”
“I honestly don’t know why you keep in with that woman.”
“I don’t keep
in
with her.”
“Well, I suppose everyone has their good deeds.” She leans over to adjust one of the air vents. “How’s the old gal doing?”
“She lost a tooth.”
“Is she all right?”
“It’s just a tooth.”
“I suppose.”
We drive for a few minutes in silence, the rubber wipers pulling noisily across the windshield. A metronome, I think, remembering back to when I was young and took piano lessons. I didn’t last long. I had no patience and my fingers slipped off the keys as though they were greased. Helen kept up with it, though. She’ll still play the odd song, usually at Christmas, although she complains her fingers are too stiff now. She was always the more artistic of the two of us. John had that in him as well. He must’ve gotten it from Helen because neither Charlie nor I were artistically inclined in any—
“Damn it!” I say so loudly Helen yelps.
“What’s wrong?”
“I forgot the library book. That’s why I went to see Mrs. Pender in the first place.”
“Well, turn around and go get it. I’m in no rush to get home.”
“Of all the stupid things,” I say as I flick on my turn signal. I can’t seem to concentrate on things like I used to. I need to focus more. Pay attention.
“How’s Dickie doing?”
She lifts her hat from her head and places it delicately in her lap. “The same.”
“Have you considered getting some help? You can’t do it all on your own. It’s too much work.”
“It’s fine.
I’m
fine. I have the kids, too. If I ever need them.”
I don’t know what help Mark and Marianne would be. Neither of them lives in Balsden, although Mark is in Andover. My nephew works with computers. I’ve never known exactly what it is he does with them. I asked him once and he started to explain. My eyes must’ve glazed over because he seemed to get annoyed.
“I fix them,” he said and reached for the TV remote.
Helen says he spent too much time with his computers and not enough with his family. He got divorced about fifteen years ago. There are two children, girls in their early twenties by now, but I never see them. Helen says Mark is dating someone new now, another divorcee, but Helen doesn’t like her. She thinks the divorcee is after his money. I never knew he had much in the first place. You certainly can’t tell by the way he dresses. He’s worn the same white polo shirt for the past twenty years.