“Oh. I see.”
“I caught a bug while I was away.”
My stomach twists. A bug?
“I’ve been sick ever since.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Just a bad cold.” He sneezes.
I’m overreacting. Gay men still get colds, I remind myself.
“My friend was just getting over one, so I suppose it was inevitable. This always happens when I go somewhere. I shouldn’t leave home.”
“Get plenty of rest,” I say. “And drink ginger ale. That always seems to help me.”
“Needless to say, I won’t be coming in until this clears up.”
“Of course not.”
“I don’t want to contaminate everyone.”
“It’s a bad time of year.”
“When I’m feeling better, we’ll go.”
My fingers touch my lips. “Go?”
“To the cemetery. I’ve spoken to Hilda. We’re all set.”
He can’t be saying what I think he is. I’d given up all hope.
“It’s not necessary. I mean you don’t have—”
“It’ll be fine.”
“No. It’s too much trouble.”
“Joyce, let me take you to your son.”
I make a sound. Claire turns her head.
“All right.”
“What kind of flowers should I bring?”
“Anything,” I say, but I’m not sure he can hear me. “Anything at all.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
W
E SAT IN
the hospital room, our son between us. John’s mouth was open, a black hole. I pulled back the sheets and looked across his emaciated body, bones jutting from under his hospital pyjamas; the angle of his left foot; his lilac-tipped fingers. I knew this would be the last time I’d ever see him. I wanted to memorize every detail.
Charlie sat across from me, still holding John’s hand. But by then, the holding had turned to soft strokes. A methodical brushing. Back and forth. Back and forth. The expression on his face was so full of hurt, I couldn’t bear to look at him. A nurse came into the room and stopped when she saw us.
“I’ll get a doctor,” she said softly. “We need to officially pronounce him.”
Then she left.
I tucked the blanket back over my son’s chest. Charlie would not let go of his hand. I wanted to close John’s mouth, but was afraid to lift the oxygen mask. So long as it stayed cupped to his face, there was a chance he’d start breathing again. But his mouth. Grotesque. A circle of pain.
Charlie looked up at me. Then he spoke. “When you went to visit him, did you know?”
“I didn’t know anything, Charlie.”
“But you saw him. You were there.”
“He didn’t tell me,” I said, unable to take my eyes off John’s face.
“That doesn’t make sense.” He slowly rose out of his chair. “Charlie—”
“Did you keep it from me?”
“He said not to tell you. I was only doing what he asked. He didn’t want you to know.”
Charlie sank back down.
“He didn’t want
anyone
to know,” I said.
My husband began to moan and pressed his lips against John’s cold hand.
I took my purse and left him sobbing. I walked down the hall, past the white walls and the rooms that housed their own tragedies, past the nurse and the doctor who were on their way to pronounce my child dead. I reached a pay phone. I opened my purse and found the coins I needed to make that first call. My hands shook and I almost dropped the coins, but I didn’t. I picked up the receiver and heard its dull hum in my ear. I dialed Helen’s number. She answered on the second ring.
“It’s about John,” I managed. “Cancer,” I whispered before my scream escaped.
——
The evening of John’s visitation, I stood in our bedroom and watched Charlie fumble with his tie knot over and over again. He said the fabric was too slick. It kept slipping through his fingers.
“Pay attention to what you’re doing.” I looked around the room. Our dresser. Our bed. The night table lamps I hated. Everything in its place. Unchanged. I remembered sitting at John’s breakfast table, the dribble of milk caught in his beard. Had that only been a few weeks ago? Had all of that really happened?
We’d gone to pick out the cemetery plot a few days before. I don’t think either of us thought in a million years we’d be doing something like that. Not at our ages and certainly not for our son. The director talked us through some of the options for a headstone. Did we want one with a rounded top or a square top? Did we want granite? How many people did we want to accommodate in this particular plot?
“Three,” I said. I was already planning suicide. I wanted nothing more than to crawl into the ground next to John. Charlie said he wanted a wheat design engraved on the stone. I asked why on earth he wanted wheat and he looked at me blankly and said, “It’s home to me.”
I’d forgotten that. Perhaps not forgotten.
Not considered
is more accurate.
Helen and Dickie drove us to the funeral home. I couldn’t comprehend that the grey casket at the far end of the room held my son. It was …
obscene
. That’s the only word. This wasn’t the natural order. Children didn’t die before parents.
Flowers encircled the closed casket. Big sprays of lilies and carnations and baby’s breath. We said in the obituary we didn’t want flowers. We told people to make donations to the Cancer Society instead. I don’t even remember telling people what type of cancer it was. Maybe no one asked. I stood there, wanting to place my hand on the casket lid, but my arms were frozen at my sides. So long as I didn’t touch it, I could convince myself that none of it was real. We went for two hours straight that night, shaking hands and hugging and accepting condolences. I reached behind me for posts and ledges that didn’t exist, longing for some means of support. The entire night, I kept one eye on the door. Who would show up? What about the one from the hospital? Marty. If he came, people would notice him and put two and two together. The thought sickened me. My son was inside a coffin and still all I cared about was what other people thought.
I panicked when I saw John’s friend Angela waiting in line. There was a man by her side and from where I stood, I couldn’t get a clear look at his face. When they got closer, I saw it wasn’t Marty.
“Mrs. Sparks, this is my husband, Tom,” she said.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, taking my hand. His blue eyes comforted me. A good-looking young man. I remembered he was a lawyer. I suddenly felt light-headed. “Angela and I enjoyed John’s company very much. He made us some unforgettable meals.”
“John was always good in the kitchen,” I said. “He didn’t get that from me.” I made a sound intended as laughter, but it came out too shrill, too deliberate. A few heads turned.
“Tom was the one who told John about the club,” Angela said.
“That was very generous of you to get him the job,” I said.
A look of confusion passed over his face. I watched Angela’s grip on her purse tighten.
“John deserved that job,” she said tersely. “Among other things.”
“I’m so glad you were able to come.” I knew my manner was off, that I was acting more like the hostess of a cocktail party, but I couldn’t help it. It was easier to play this role than to deal with reality. I didn’t know who I was. Without my child, was I even a mother anymore?
“Joyce.”
I hear my name. A warm hand presses against my forehead.
“Joyce. Can you hear me?”
My eyes flicker open. Smudges of peach and grey and pink. A watercolour painting. Then the blurs come into focus. I make out the shape of my living room clock. The brass wall sconces on either side with their burgundy candles and virgin wicks. What’s the point of having candles if I never light them? What good is any of this if it’s all for show? My hollow, decorated world.
“Joyce,” I hear again, and my sister’s face hovers above me. Her jowls dangle. When did she get so old? “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I say, but my mouth is dry. The words get caught between my lips. I clear my throat. “What happened?”
“You scared the life out of me,” Helen exclaims. “Please don’t ever do that again.”
“Do what?”
“Faint!” Her breath brushes my face. I smell broccoli. Ground beef. “Don’t you remember?”
“You hit the ground like a ton of bricks,” Fern’s voice says from somewhere I can’t see. “Scared the shit out of us, pardon my language. Can you feel your legs? Can you wiggle your fingers?”
“I’m perfectly fine,” I say.
“We’ll let the doctor decide that.”
“I’m not going anywhere!” My voice is shrill. Cracked.
Fern’s face appears next to my sister’s, her sequins reflecting light onto the ceiling. “She wanted to call an ambulance. I told her to wait. We’re taking you to the emergency. Walter will take Mrs. Pender back to the home.”
“I
knew
this party wasn’t a good idea,” Helen says with a disapproving frown.
Fern nods. “Too much excitement.”
“Please tell me she’s all right.” A different voice. Mr. Sparrow’s.
Walter’s face appears just over Fern’s shoulder. “I feel just sick about this. Look at you, poor dear. You must feel like Dorothy waking up after her trip to Oz. Unfortunately, the Wicked Witch is still alive and eating meatballs on your back deck.”
They gently help me to a sitting position, Fern and Walter taking my arms and Helen steadying my back with her hand. Mr. Sparrow watches, concern etched in his face. I keep telling them I’m fine. I don’t need all this fussing. Please. But truthfully, I feel as though I’ve just stepped out of a clothes dryer. I try to remember what happened before I fainted. We were out on the deck, having lunch. Mrs. Pender was there. Mr. Sparrow, too. Walter. Fern. There was an argument. Helen and me. I said something about John. But what? Then it comes back.
My stomach churns. I can’t believe I admitted that, in front of all these people. I close my eyes and lie back down on the couch, wishing I could slip into unconsciousness again.
“We need to leave immediately,” Helen says. “Fern, get Joyce’s purse and a jacket for her.”
“I don’t need a jacket,” I say. “It’s boiling hot.”
“Walter, you get Mrs. Pender ready. Hurry up, everyone.”
“Have you ever seen a ninety-seven-year-old hurry?” Walter asks. “Look, let me drive you to the hospital. It’s the least I can do. I feel terrible about everything. Fern, Mr. Sparrow, do you mind staying behind with Mrs. Pender? I’ll come back for her as soon as I can. Promise.”
“I suppose.” Fern sounds a bit doubtful. “So long as Joyce doesn’t mind.”
“I doubt I’d be much good at the hospital anyway,” Mr. Sparrow says.
“The only thing I mind is being forced to go there,” I say. “For the last time, I’m fine. You’re all acting like I’ve had a massive coronary. I fainted. It happens to people all the time.”
An image comes of Mr. Sparrow lying on his bath mat, toothbrush in hand. I called the ambulance for him, in spite of his protestations. Now here I am, in the same circumstances. And I know I won’t win.
Walter says he’ll pull his car into the driveway. Fern goes to find my purse. Helen helps me sit up again.
“I don’t want to go anywhere with that man,” Helen says under her breath. “If it wasn’t for him trying to shove his relationship with Freddy down our throats, you wouldn’t be in this mess right now.”
“I invited him,” I say.
“Doesn’t matter. He shouldn’t have pressured you.”
I refuse to go anywhere until I’ve at least fixed my hair and put some lipstick on. Helen follows me to the bathroom.
“How did I get from the deck to the couch?” I ask.
“Fern and Walter,” she says. “It wasn’t easy manoeuvring you around the kitchen table. A couple of glasses got broken. Mr. Sparrow wanted to stick a lemon wedge in your mouth. He said that’s what they used to do in cadets when someone passed out. Needless to say, I managed to deter him.” Her mouth stretches to a thin line. “I’m sorry about what I said. About John.”
“Things got a little heated.”
“You know that I’m here for you. Please tell me you do.”
I nod as we pass the kitchen. I see the remains of our lunch on the table. Half-empty bowls, sauce-dampened paper plates, mangled meatballs. My simple cooking, my lack of finesse.
Lobster beak
.
Hot tears spill down my cheeks.
——
The year after John’s death, I was in the grocery store, setting things into my cart that I’d eat but wouldn’t taste. I was unable to build up interest in anything. I couldn’t tell if a blouse was nice or if a particular show was worth watching. I was frozen within myself, going through whatever motions were necessary to pass through the day. I’d become the Joyce Sparks “after.” That was how we came to define our lives, Charlie and me. Things either happened before John’s death or after. The world was cleaved in two.
I stood behind the back door screen that morning and watched Charlie take down the fence around our backyard. My husband, I’d come to learn (too late, always too late), never had the same issues with boundaries, with containment, that I had. He preferred open spaces. The sledgehammer became a blur. The air crackled with each swing. I’d pleaded with him to be careful.
“You’re fifty-three,” I reminded him.
But he didn’t listen. He never listened to me anymore.
The back of his shirt was wet. His pants fell low on his hips. Every now and then he’d stop to wipe his brow before picking up the sledgehammer again.
“People grieve in peculiar ways,” Helen said, as though she was some kind of expert. What did she know? Her children were still alive. “Men more so. This must be devastating for him. Especially when he never had a father of his own. Would he talk to a counsellor or a minister?”
“There’s no way. How can you convince someone to talk about something when he doesn’t think there’s anything to talk about?”
“He needs a vacation,” Helen had said. “Both of you do. Someplace tropical. Someplace
away.”
But there was no “away.” No place where my son was alive.
I was almost through my grocery list when I saw her, standing by the seafood counter. It took me a moment to put a name to her face. Angela Dawber. I hadn’t seen her since the visitation. My instinct was to turn around. But the possibility of talking to someone,
anyone
, who’d had a connection to John was too strong to resist. I needed reassurance from other people that my son was once in this world.