Natural Order (35 page)

“That’s Jean,” the girl says. “The owner. She died last spring.”

All my hopes escape like a released balloon. What did I expect to accomplish? I look down at the table. “Did you know Jean? I didn’t,” I say.

“She was a nice lady.” The girl says she’ll be back in a minute.

From this vantage point, I can see the comings and goings of the nursery. The employees and the customers. The skids of packaged dirt within brightly coloured plastic bags. The hanging ferns and the racks of mums. Nature contained.

Always a good business this time of year
.

She’s sitting next to me. Blue kerchief. Silver eyebrows. Tanned skin. The same mouth as Marty.

Going on fifty years now I’ve run this place. Hard to believe. Marty would’ve taken it over. Had things turned out differently
.

I know.

Shame. They always leave us behind, don’t they? Men
.

I thought things would go a different way, Jean. I had an idea in my head at the start of everything.

We all do
.

I couldn’t get the idea to fit.

Nothing ever goes according to plan
.

I’ve been thinking that you can only ever deal with something with whatever means you have at that particular moment. I suppose one advantage in getting older is that you do have a better frame of reference. But you’re also left with the memories of all those moments when you didn’t know any better. Lately, I’ve wondered if I
did
know better, only I chose not to see it. I closed my eyes and barrelled through. And it was only when I reached a clearing that I had the gall to turn around and see the mess I’d left behind.

What’s done is done, Joyce
.

He asked me not to tell my husband. We stood in the entrance of his apartment and I was leaving to catch the train and John specifically asked me not to tell Charlie. If I had known for one second, if I knew how quickly things would turn … 
Best to let that all go now
.

The girl had come back to the table, startling me. She sets the quiche and my coffee in front of me. I won’t be able to eat any of it. I look at the chair next to me. Empty, except for the bag of Chelsea loaf.

“Is there anything else you need?” the girl asks.

“No,” I say.

Nothing.

Claire is sitting by the window, her magnifying glass and crossword puzzle book in her lap. She wants to know where I’m going.

“What’s happening? I’ve never seen you in a dress before. Are you moving out?”

“Dare to dream,” I say and excuse myself to the bathroom. I want to apply a little lipstick before Timothy gets here. He called me the other night to say he was feeling better.

“I can take you to the cemetery Sunday afternoon. It’s supposed to be a nice day. I’ll come by after lunch.”

“You’re sure about this?” I asked.

“I’m sure,” he said. “You?”

“Yes.”

The past couple of days, I’ve been practising standing, holding on to something for support, trying to build up the strength in my legs.

My fingers can’t grasp the tube of lipstick properly and it keeps falling into the sink with a clatter, leaving red gashes on the white ceramic. I’m about to give up when the fire-headed nurse knocks on the door and offers to help me.

“I don’t need any help,” I say.

Her hands go to her hips and she looks at me sympathetically. “You’re sure?”

Why do I refuse people at every step? “Maybe a little.”

“I hear you’ve got a day trip in the works,” she says, slowly running the lipstick along my lips.

“Don’t make me look whorish,” I say.

“I wish I had a young man coming to take me away. What’s your secret?”

“Luck.” How strange to think in those terms. I’ve never considered myself a lucky person. And yet it’s the only word that springs to mind.

Timothy arrives just after one and wheels me down to the elevator. Mae MacKenzie does a double take when we pass her, but I keep my eyes straight ahead. I don’t want any questions. Once the elevator doors close, I feel my body sink into my chair, and I watch the lit circles slowly move from 4 to 3 to 2 to G.

“I asked one of the orderlies to meet us out front,” Timothy says as he wheels me out into the foyer. “I feel better having some help at the start.”

“Of course,” I say.

The day is beautiful. Early fall with a souvenir of summer. Tiny yellow leaves are piled along the gutter and wedged between the sidewalk gaps. They look like fingernails, the artificial kind.

The orderly is waiting for us next to Timothy’s car. I recognize him. An Italian fellow. Bald. He’s wearing a gold chain around his neck, thick as rope. He shows Timothy how to lift me up and lower me into the passenger seat. Then he takes my ankles and gently pivots me around so that I’m facing the windshield. I hear them discussing my wheelchair and feel the thump of the trunk closing. The inside of Timothy’s car is very clean. I smell peppermint and something else. I inhale deeply, trying to place it.

Flowers.

He wants to know what John was like. “That is, if you don’t mind talking about him.”

“I don’t mind,” I say. “I haven’t talked about him enough. I’m never sure what to say. Or how much to say. I always assume people will react negatively. But it’s different now … with you.”

We stop at a red light. My back is hurting me, but I ignore it. Instead, I focus on the houses and cars we pass. Life carries on. I feel the energy of a younger world. There are sales, groceries to buy, buses to catch. There are teenage boys, getting ready for their first band trips.

“John was kind. And thoughtful. When he was young, he gave me a necklace for my birthday. It was all sparkle and shine. Fit for a movie star. I suppose all boys go through that stage. Idolizing their mothers.”

“Sometimes it’s more a matter of seeing Mom how she should be,” Timothy says.

My old heart throbs at these words.

The light turns green. “He was angry, too. It wasn’t something I saw every day, but it was always there. When he was born, I thought he’d fix everything in my life. But that’s not the way it worked out. How unfair to expect that of him.”

I look at Timothy. “Do you think I could’ve made my son happy? If I’d accepted him, I mean?”

His shoulders rise. “I don’t know, Joyce. There could have been other things he was angry about. It doesn’t always have to do with being gay.”

He’s right. There were more things to my son than his homosexuality. So why did I always stop at that?

My breath catches when we turn into Lakeside Cemetery. I’m not sure I remember the way. It’s been so long. I tell Timothy to turn left. Then make a right. “Just a little farther. See that oak tree? Pull over next to it. Here. Right here.”

He gets out of the car and tells me to wait while he looks for the stone. I squeeze my hands together. My back burns. The passenger door opens.

“I found it,” Timothy says. “The ground doesn’t look too bumpy. We should be fine with your chair.”

He undoes my seat belt and slowly gets me into position. His hands slip under my arms and it feels wonderful to be this close to a man so young. It’s almost like we’re dancing.

“Easy now. We’re in no rush.” He guides me to my chair and wipes his brow when I’m finally positioned. “It’s just over here.”

He starts to push me, but then I remember the flowers and Timothy turns back to the car to get them. I can see the stone from here. I feel something between desire and dread. Timothy sets a bouquet in my lap. Tiger lilies. A dozen of them. Licks of bright orange.

“They’re beautiful,” I say. There’s no sense, no point, in trying to hold back my tears. He wheels me over the gravel and then the quieting grass.

Even after all these years, I’m shocked by the names etched in granite. The letters and numbers, so matter-of-fact, so impersonal.

Charles William Sparks

Jonathan Charles Sparks

“My two men. What I wouldn’t give for five minutes with each of you.” It takes me a moment to realize I’ve said the words out loud.

The vase atop the stone is empty, as I knew it would be.

“My husband wanted the wheat border,” I say. “He was from the Prairies.” I feel Timothy’s hand on my shoulder and close my eyes. “I remember the first time it rained after John died. I couldn’t stand the thought of him being out here, alone, in the ground. So I came and sat over his grave with an umbrella. But I was too late to protect him, you see. Always too late.”

“You loved him, Joyce. He knew that.”

“I loved him on my terms. Never on his.” I clear my throat. “Timothy. I want you to meet my son. His name was John Charles Sparks. He died when he was thirty-one …”

A breeze passes me and I inhale, holding it in my lungs.

“From
AIDS.”

I’ve never said it before. Strange how such a small word can carry so much weight.

“There are some important things you need to know about John. He used to sing in the church choir. He also played the baritone for his high school band. He ran away once and left my world at a standstill. He graduated from college and became a chef at a private club for wealthy people.” I pause here, uncertain if I can go on. But somehow I do. I
have
to. “He was in love with someone when he died. A man named Marty, although I never got to know him, something I regret to this day. The most important thing you should know about my son, though, was that he was loved. Desperately. By both his father and me. I hope you understand that, in spite of the mess I made.”

I reach my hand up and place it over John’s.

“I know,” he says.

Air like gauze. Fog. My feet slide between the smooth sheets. I’m halfway between the sleeping world and the waking one. My favourite place to be. I’ve learned how to control my dreams in this state. I can conjure up all kinds of worlds and all seems possible. Nothing is out of reach. Right now, I’m thinking of a table in a small dining room. The tablecloth is blue-and-white check with a fringe border like eyelashes. I imagine beads dangling from the fringe. Crystals that shine in the morning light. From where I sit, I can see trees, older than me. A breeze exposes the pale green underbellies of their leaves. The sky is ocean blue. It’s going to be a hot one today. But not yet. There are bowls arranged on the table, spoons, white napkins, small juice glasses. Everything neatly laid out. All in its order.

My son sits across from me, his face suspended in the transition from boy to man. I put him in his favourite green jacket, knowing it won’t fit. But no matter. This is my creation. I can do what I want. There’s someone behind us, in the kitchen. I hear the sound of water swallowing things up, the soft echoes of dishes hitting the bottom of the sink. Charlie, of course. Always there. Around the corner.

There are so many things I want to say to John. But I don’t know where to start.

I reach across the table, wipe a drop of milk from his beard.

“Come home,” I say.

I thought I’d be dead by now. If someone had told me when I was seventy that I’d last as long as I have, I would’ve laughed. Then screamed. All these lonely years on my own. People wish for a long life, but they don’t consider the casualties along the way. Now, it’s only me and this black purse and a bucket of memories. Things could be worse, I tell myself. I could be out of my head, knee-deep in dementia. And yet, I’m not convinced that would be worse. It might actually be a blessing of sorts.

The trees out front have changed colour. From where I lie in bed, I can see the leaves fly past, waving in the wind like little hands. Sometimes, I wave back. I’m told it’s Thanksgiving weekend.

“Gobble-gobble,” the Filipina nurse says when she comes to get me out of bed. She’s later than usual. I’ve been awake for an hour, waiting for Timothy. He’s going home for the holiday but said he’d drop by.

“I have something for you,” he’d said.

I have no idea what it could be.

Claire is still sleeping. She doesn’t usually get up before eight.

“Have you seen a turkey running around here?” the Filipina nurse asks as she raises my bed. I feel like Dracula emerging from his coffin. “It escaped from the kitchen. It’s not under your bed, is it?”

She winks. Someone is feeling playful today.

“I see a lot of turkeys around here, my dear,” I say. “But none with feathers.”

She laughs and there’s a glimpse of authenticity between us. It’s rare, but it does happen every now and then. She gets me sitting up and then wheels in the large contraption that will carry me to the washroom. Arms through straps. The whir of the motor.

“When was your last bowel movement, Mrs. Sparks?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Do you think you can go this morning?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

I sit on the toilet while the nurse wakes Claire and gets her ready for the day. I hear them exchanging words but can’t make out the conversation. I know that the nurses like Claire more than me. She’s friendly. Doesn’t hold her situation against them. It’s not their fault. They’re only doing the best they can.

“I can’t imagine we’re much fun to be around,” Claire has said. “It’s hardly like we’re guests at a party.”