Natural Order (26 page)

“Nothing,” John said.

I was somewhat relieved to find out that Kyle and John worked together. Kyle was a waiter at the club. Perhaps I’d been too quick to draw conclusions.

“John’s been telling me about Balsden for weeks now,” Kyle said. “I just had to come and see it for myself.” His eyes roamed my kitchen.

“The new movie theatre just opened up,” I said.

John raised an eyebrow. “How exciting.”

“A lot has changed since you were last here.”

“I’m sure.”

I showed Kyle where I’d set up the cot and passed him a folded towel with a washcloth. I left them sitting in the living room watching television and listened to the faint muffle as I lay in bed. What had John told Kyle about Balsden, about Charlie and me? From the looks the two of them exchanged, I imagined it was nothing complimentary. No doubt they were making fun of me at that moment. I tossed and turned in bed, my resentment growing. Why couldn’t John have come alone? At least we would’ve had the chance to talk.

I woke when Charlie slipped into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt.

“Did you see John?” I whispered.

“His door was shut.”

“And his friend?” I sat up in bed. “Was he in the living room?”

There was a split second of a pause. “Of course,” Charlie said, pulling his shirt off his shoulders. “Where else would he be?”

The boys got up shortly after eight. I pulled out cereal boxes and put a bunch of bananas on the table.

“If you’d given me more notice, I could’ve cooked a proper breakfast,” I said to a bed-headed John before turning to an equally bed-headed Kyle. “John always liked porridge in the morning. Did you sleep all right last night? I hope the cot wasn’t too lumpy.”

“It was just fine,” Kyle said.

They decided they’d go to the mall that morning and then take a drive around to see the sights. While Kyle was in the shower, I took a piece of paper and started to write out the directions to the mall.

“Mom, I know how to get there,” John said. “I grew up here, after all.”

“Right,” I said, feeling foolish. “Just be back in time for dinner. Your father goes in at six tonight, so we’ll eat at five. I know he wants to spend some time with you.”

“We were planning to head out before dinner.”

“But you just got here.”

“Kyle has to work tomorrow.”

“Then Kyle can go home and you stay. Your father is off tomorrow. He’ll drive you back to Toronto.”

“I don’t want—I need to get back as well. I’ve got a pile of things I need to get through tomorrow.”

I banged the cereal bowls in the sink. “Why did you even bother coming, then? You haven’t been home for months.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal, John, is that it’s not fair to do this to me. I’m busy too, you know. Contrary to what you might think, I don’t sit around all day pining for you to visit us, let alone with some stranger.”

“He’s my friend.”

“Don’t think I don’t know about the two of you. Laughing about my wine. I don’t need you coming in here with your superior attitude. You think you’re too good for this place, for your father and me, with your private clubs and your members and your lobster beak.”

“Bisque.”

“Whatever. I don’t deserve this.” My voice was loud, much too loud, but I couldn’t stop the train barrelling down the tracks. “I’m your mother. Not the manager of a hotel. I deserve more than this.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t deserve anything.”

“Don’t you talk to me like that! You, of all people.”

Over John’s shoulder, two heads came into focus. One was Kyle dressed now, his hair wet and pressed against his forehead. The other was Charlie in his maroon-and-grey-striped pyjamas.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“The usual,” John said. “Good morning, Dad. Kyle, we’re leaving. This was a complete mistake.”

“John,” Charlie said, “there’s no reason to go. You can stay until tomorrow. We’ll go for breakfast when I get home from work.”

“Thanks, Dad, but no thanks,” John said, brushing past him.

Charlie looked over at Kyle. “You’re welcome to stay, too. Both of you.”

“It’s up to John,” Kyle mumbled apologetically.

That was the last time John slept in our house. I often wonder about that night. Sometimes, I imagine John sneaking out of his room and tiptoeing to the cot where Kyle slept. I imagine sheets pulled back and hushed laughter and the embrace of that redheaded stranger. The thought of this midnight tryst comforts me in a way I never expected. I’d feel better if what happened to John took place within our home, rather than in the bedroom of a stranger. This way, at least I was close to him.

It’s possible that nothing went on that night. The two of them might’ve been nothing more than friends. I have no way of knowing. I never heard of or saw Kyle again. He’s likely dead, too, leaving his mother behind with her own mountain of grief.

I wake to the sounds of strangers’ voices. I look up to see a gurney in the middle of the room. Panic takes hold. Has it come for me? I’m just about to pull the cord attached to my purse when one of the orderlies speaks.

“You’re home, Mrs. Schueller.”

I see fingers point towards the ceiling and the flash of a silver medic bracelet around a thin forearm. They lift Ruth onto her bed. After considerable fussing, they get her settled comfortably enough and then, just as suddenly as they appeared, the two orderlies leave. I reach for my bed control and raise the mattress to get a better look at her, but she’s lost in the darkness.

“Ruth,” I say. “Ruth.”

I think she hears me, but I can’t be certain. She lies motionless.

“It’s good that you’re back,” I say. “I sent that fellow to check in on you. Do you remember him? Timothy.”

Silence.

“They wouldn’t even tell me which hospital you were at. But Timothy and I worked together like a couple of spies. They weren’t any match for either of us. I’m glad you’re back,” I say again.

The reply is a snore and that’s good enough for me.

My relief doesn’t last long, though. This morning, when I wake up, I get a better look at her. She’s lost weight. It’s as though someone has let the air out of her face. Her jowls hang from her jaw. The bags under her eyes are smudges of melted lilac wax. Her eyelids flutter as though they’re keeping something at bay.

“You’re looking well,” I call out. “It was pneumonia you had. Did you know that? I’m not surprised. Not in this place. Germs everywhere.”

When breakfast time comes, the Filipina nurse wheels me to the dining room. Ruth, she tells me, is getting breakfast in bed.

“The rest of us should be so lucky,” I say as she deposits me at my usual table. I hurry through my scrambled eggs and bacon. I don’t like the idea of Ruth being in there by herself. When I return, she’s sound asleep, her breakfast untouched. The fire-headed woman comes in to take her tray away. She stops and looks sympathetically at Ruth. Then she looks over at me and shakes her head. What is that supposed to mean?

I’m relieved when Timothy drops by after dinner. He immediately goes over to Ruth’s bedside.

“Hello, Mrs. Schueller,” he says. “It’s nice to see you.”

She blinks back at him, a blank canvas.

“She’s not well,” I tell him. “Look how gaunt she is.”

“It will take a while to get her strength back,” he says. “She was very ill.”

He sits down next to me and opens his knapsack. “I brought something for you.”

He hands me an apple-shaped cookie in a Baggie. It has red icing and a sugared mint leaf at its stem. My initials are written on it in white icing. The cookie is almost the size of my hand.

“I’m something of an amateur baker,” he says with a shrug. “Probably nowhere near as good as your son.”

“You made this?”

“I saw a picture of them in a magazine and couldn’t resist. You don’t have to eat it. I know that people are on restricted diets around here. I don’t think I’m even supposed to be passing out homemade food. You’d mentioned the apple cake your son once made and I thought … well, I don’t know exactly what I thought. Only that you might enjoy something sweet. Hope you don’t mind.”

I don’t remember the last time I received such a simple gift. Tears form in my eyes. My finger traces the raised script of the
J
and
S
.

“Can I ask how your son died?”

I turn the cookie over in my hand. How many times have I been asked this over the years? The well-meaning faces. The sympathetic hands. The downturned mouths. Such concern and curiosity. Never once did anyone get the truth. But now, this moment, this cookie, this young man who has come to mean more to me than he’ll ever know.

“John died of …” Why can’t I say the word? Even after all this time. “My son died from what a lot of young men died from in the ’80s.”

Timothy looks at me, then looks down.

“I see.” He clears his throat. “I don’t want to make assumptions, but perhaps I should mention that I’m gay. I’m assuming you’d figured that out by now. About me. Most straight men don’t pass out apple-shaped cookies to senior women.”

“Why is that?” I ask, looking at him for what feels like the first time.

“I don’t know. Maybe they don’t see the value in it.”

“And you do?”

He shrugs. “I like old people.”

“Do your parents know? About you?”

“I told them when I was eighteen.”

My god. Just a child.

“You must’ve given your mother a heart attack.”

“She was fine. Said she knew all along.”

“Most mothers do.”

“She had a boyfriend in high school who turned out to be gay. They still keep in touch.”

“Imagine that,” I say.

After Timothy leaves, I gently set the cookie on my night table, next to the picture of John. I won’t eat it. It’s too precious. And if anyone asks me where I got it, I’ll play dumb and pretend I don’t hear the question. It’s no one’s business.

I pull my buzzer cord. I want to get out of this chair and lie down. My back is bothering me. I’ve got no cartilage left in my spine. Bone grinds against bone. It’s agony and the pills they give me don’t do any good at all. I don’t know how many times I’ve asked for something stronger, but the nurses stare back at me as though I’m speaking another language. The light outside our door begins to flash and beep. God knows when someone will arrive. I glance over at Ruth. She looks no better than she did this morning.

I wheel over to my window and wait. The wind kicks up outside. Fall is on the way. I watch as leaves scuttle across the pavement like crabs. Soon, the trees will be bare. Branches like stiff arteries. There’s a residence for college students across the way. A few days ago, I watched a procession of cars pull up in the circular driveway, depositing boys and girls who seemed far too young to be left on their own. I remembered John at that age, living in that apartment with Mark. I was so afraid to let him go. I thought I had good reason. Perhaps I did. I watched the awkward hugs, the cars heading home with the back seats empty. I was never happy for John. Not really. That, perhaps, was my biggest crime.

“What is it, Mrs. Sparks?”

A nurse appears at my door. She’s fairly new. An unfortunate rear end, but pleasant enough.

“I want to lie down,” I say.

“Are you sure? It’s only eight o’clock.”

“My back is on fire. I can’t take it anymore.”

She positions my chair next to the bed and hooks her arms under me. “On the count of three.”

When she lifts, the pain shoots up my spine. It’s so bad that I holler. “Watch what you’re doing. Oh! None of you know how to do anything.”

I feel the softness of the bed beneath me. She takes my ankles and swings me around. “There we go,” she says, but it’s barely above a whisper. I should apologize. It’s not her fault. But it’s too late now.

During the night, I dream. Two figures come into my room. They’re dressed in white, but they don’t have wings. I hear faint murmurings. The sounds are comforting, a gentle current in the room. How nice to have angels here, I think. Finally some qualified staff. I watch them out of the corner of my eye. They flutter about the room, taking care of the dusting and cleaning. They make hardly any noise at all. I doubt their feet are even touching the ground. I want to reach out to them, to thank them for coming, but my arms remain at my sides, stone-heavy. I hear a few clicks and then a wave of white covers the room, peaceful snow, and I fall back asleep.

In the morning, I discover it was no dream. Ruth is gone.

“Back to the hospital?” I ask one of the aides.

My answer is a slow shake of the head.

It’s been two weeks since Ruth has died and they still haven’t replaced her. I’ve heard rumours that it might be Rose Dunlop from down the hall. Her money is running out and her family can’t afford a private room anymore.

“Have you seen the amount of stuff she has packed into that room?” Mae asks me. “She’s a hoarder through and through. I saw a documentary on TV about it. They don’t throw anything away. It’s psychological.”

“Can you be an emotional hoarder?” I ask, but Mae has turned her attention elsewhere. She reaches for the arm of a nurse walking by and asks to be returned to her room.