No Fury Like That

by Lisa de Nikolits

  And I may have been a diva but I was one of the best and I cleaned up at award shows. I expected my team to know all the trends, who was fucking whom, who was wearing what, and where were the bodies buried? I didn’t expect anything from them that I didn’t demand of myself.

  When I got home, I’d work out for an hour to a killer Jillian Michaels video, followed by a ten-kilometre run on the treadmill, finishing up with a half an hour of stretching while I watched TV. Then I’d have a lengthy soak in the tub, followed by take-out, sushi mainly, and I’d watch TV again while I ate and chatted to Duchess who generally ignored me.

  I’d finish up my day with some pricey online shopping, hunting for couture treasures while I drank Scotch. I went to bed around one a.m. and such was my life, and it was a good one.

  I had no need for people and I knew that my demeanor was such that staff members preferred to take detours to the washroom simply so they wouldn’t have to pass my office. They thought I didn’t know that, but I knew everything.

  I couldn’t be bothered with niceties and I sent out a directive instructing people to cut the crap from their emails: no “dear” this or that, no fluff, no embellishments, just get to the point and tell me whatever the fuck it is you need to tell me.

  Of course, there were complaints to human resources but I was protected by—Actually who had I been protected by? I stopped short in my reminiscing, confused. Who protected me?

  “Purgatory to Julia,” Fat Tracey says and I blink. “Your 180 degree coffee is getting cold.”

  I shake my head as if I am trying to dislodge water from my ears. “I just had a weird experience,” I say. “A piece of my Earth life flashed before my eyes but it isn’t what I thought it was. I am missing my husband.”

  “Maybe I was having sex with him in a basement parking lot somewhere,” Isabelle jokes.

  Grace looks horrified. “I am sure she wasn’t, dear,” she says to me, but I brush off her comment.

  “Of course he wasn’t. But I can’t find him. I remember what he looks like, right down to his monogrammed cufflinks, but I can’t see him at home with me. My home was just me and Duchess before he died. Duchess was my cat,” I explain. “My best friend, really.”

  “Confusion is the norm,” Fat Tracey says. “Don’t overthink it. It’ll come to you. Anyway, today is Agnes’s big day, so let’s leave you and your past for the moment, and support Agnes.”

  I feel abashed. “I am sorry Agnes, I really am. How are you doing? How is everyone doing? I am sorry I was in such a fog when I arrived.”

  “S’okay,” Agnes waves a hand at me. “I’m freaked out to be honest. Now’s when I need a toke or a couple of beers, not this caffeinated excuse for a beverage.”

  Samia looks hurt and Agnes rushes to make amends. “You know what I mean. I’m not sure I am ready for this. Actually, maybe I just won’t do it.”

  “Can’t we use it to log on to Grace or Fat Tracey’s lives?” I ask, but the others shake their heads.

  “It’s non-transferable and non-refundable,” Fat Tracey says. “Trust me, I already tried to bribe my way on, and Beatrice found out and she tore a strip off me.”

  “Besides, if Beatrice gave it to you, it means you’re ready,” Grace argues. “She wouldn’t do it unless it was going to help move you on.”

  “Or set me back,” Agnes says. “I wouldn’t put anything past Beatrice.”

  We mull in silence for a bit.

  “Who are you going to look at?” I ask.

  “It will choose,” Fat Tracey says. “You can’t pick who or what you want to view. Apparently, it will show you what you need to see to move forward in your healing.” She snorts.

  “What I need to see is my Great-Auntie Miriam.” Agnes looks glum. “There isn’t anybody else. I wonder how much time has passed. I hope she’s okay.”

  She puts her cup down and stands up. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s do this thing before I lose my nerve.”

  She walks out and we scramble to our feet and follow her.

  We find the Viewing Room quickly enough and it is decorated much like the red Lounge Room that Agnes first took me to, although the setup is different. The room is divided into four sections and computers in each corner face a movie-sized screen attached to the wall. There are four curved retro-style, red banquette benches, with their backs butting neatly up against one another, and there are thick, red Perspex floor-to-ceiling panels separating the four segments of the room. I am reminded of a Larry Bell installation exhibit I saw in New York.

  “Soundproofing,” Isabelle says when she sees me looking.

  “Pick a booth,” Grace tells Agnes and she sounds nervous.

  Agnes points to the furthermost corner and we slide into the banquette, with her in the centre.

  “Have any of you ever done this before?” I ask, and, to my surprise, they shake their heads.

  Agnes sighs. “I hope I see Auntie Miriam,” she says, unfolding her piece of paper and touching a small computer screen on the bar countertop that runs the length of the banquette.

  The computer comes to life and Agnes taps in a code off the printout and we lean forward and stare at the movie screen on the wall facing us.

  At first, the screen remains black and then a greeting appears: WELCOME, AGNES! WE HOPE YOU WILL ENJOY YOUR VIEWING TODAY!

  The screen fades to back to black and we are in travelling in outer space, narrowing in on the Earth. We all comment that we feel a bit dizzy as the camera, or whatever it is, zooms in closer to the ground, and before we know it, we are gliding up the walkway of Benevolent Lives old-age home.

  The viewing experience is, of course, like nothing we’ve seen before. It’s 3D, yes, and it’s as if we are actually there, on the ground, eye level with the action. It should feel crowded, all of us on the walkway but it doesn’t. I guess ghosts don’t take up much space.

  “There’s Granny Jean,” Agnes whispers as we pass an old lady leaning on a walker, sucking hard on a cigarette.

  “God, how I miss Earth,” Grace says. “Look at those rose bushes.” We are so close to them that she reaches out to touch them but she’s grasping at air.

  “I don’t miss it one bit,” Isabelle gives a shudder. “Look at it. Life is just about growing old and dying alone. I’m glad I’m not there any more. It’s a relief to be done with it.”

  I don’t know what I feel. In a way, I feel unpleasantly locked out of my own life but on the other hand, it’s like watching a home movie of a time and place you are glad to have left behind.

  Fat Tracey and Samia are silent and I sneak a quick glance at them and wish I hadn’t when I see they are both crying quietly.

  The View moves us inside the old age home and we float down a corridor. We pass the dining room that is empty except for a janitor cleaning the floor. Something about this sets Agnes off and she begins to cry and she’s not quiet about it either. I sense that Agnes would like to stop in the dining room but the View relentlessly pushes us forward. Grace has come prepared and passes Agnes a handful of Kleenex.

  Agnes blows her nose and the View propels us down a dark, narrow hallway. We stop outside Room 216 and then we float through the door.

  We are completely unprepared for what we see and we jerk back in our seats, hands to our hearts, eyes wide open. The View has put us in a position of terrible danger, but then, as one, we remember that we’re not really there.

  We are inside that tiny room with three burly men who are systematically ripping the place apart. They crack open books and throw them on the floor. Shoeboxes of photographs are emptied, and vases are overturned and flung down to join other discarded knick knacks. The men leave nothing intact.

  A very tiny old lady is cowering on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest and clutching a large tapestry cushion.

  “The fuckers,” Agnes wails. “Leave Auntie Miriam
alone!” She wants to rush over to Auntie Miriam but she can’t move. None of us can move. All we can do is stand there, shoulder to shoulder with those thugs and watch as they open drawers, scatter letters, break mugs, and rip the cushions apart.

  “What are they looking for?” Grace asks, but Agnes can’t speak.

  It doesn’t take long before the room is destroyed. The men stand ankle-deep in the aftermath of their destruction and, as one, they turn and look at Auntie Miriam.

  She sees the look in their eyes and she shoots off the bed with surprising speed for a ninety-year-old woman and she rushes into the bathroom, still clutching her cushion, and we hear the door lock.

  “Call mother,” Agnes shouts at the closed door. “Call her! Call her now from the phone in the bathroom.”

  Meanwhile, the three men start attacking Auntie Miriam’s bed with knives, and stuffing, torn fabric, and ripped cotton swirls around the room like a snowstorm.

  Without warning, the door to the room flies opens and a woman stands there, open-mouthed, aghast. It is hard to say who is more shocked, the three thugs or the woman.

  “What on earth are you doing?” she asks, and one of the men reaches over, through us, and he grabs her and flings her to the far side of the tiny room. She hits her head on the sideboard and crumples into a heap.

  “Mom?” Agnes whispers, hardly able to speak. “Mom, are you dead?”

  We watch in horror and in silence as the woman lies unmoving, as boneless as a rag doll.

  “What the fuck?” One of the men says. “Let’s get out of here, now.” They scramble over the mess and make a dash for it, rushing through us and leaving us alone with Agnes’ unconscious mother.

  A man appears at the open doorway and he looks in, as if assessing the damage.

  “Mr. Healey,” Agnes hisses. “This is you! You did this.” At the sight of him, Agnes starts to shake and although she can’t take her eyes off him, she is as white as bleached linen and she’s making a strange sound, like a trapped and wounded animal.

  The man steps casually into the room, as if he’s there for an afternoon tea and his actions are unhurried until the washroom door opens and Auntie Miriam peers out hesitantly. She casts a glance at Mr. Healey, making it very clear what she thinks of him, and she looks around for her niece. “I heard her,” she says wildly. “I’m certain I heard her.”

  “She’s over there!” Mr. Healey bellows, and he makes it sound as if he’s the cavalry that arrived in the nick of time to rescue them. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and calls 911.

  “Ambulance and paramedics,” he says and he gives the address. “A woman has been attacked by burglars, how they got past security, I’ve got no idea. Come quickly, she’s unconscious and I hope she’s not dead.”

  “Dead,” Agnes says, but just then, her mother moves. She gives a groan and rolls over onto her back.

  “Cheryl, love, don’t move. Help is coming,” Auntie Miriam rushes over to her niece and kneels down. “Stay still, lovie, you’ll be fine, don’t move.”

  We watch in silence as the paramedics arrive and load Agnes’s mother onto a stretcher.

  “I’m going with her,” Auntie Miriam tells Mr. Healey as they strap Cheryl in. “And you will send the minibus to follow us so Andrew can drive me home.”

  Mr. Healey nods in agreement. “I’ll get someone to clean up in here,” he says.

  “Don’t you touch one single thread,” Auntie Miriam tells him. “You think I don’t know it was you who sent those men? Of course it was you. How else would they have got past security?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Mr. Healey says dismissively, but Agnes’s mother raises her head off the stretcher.

  “She’s right. And let me add this, you scumbag,” she says. “You’re done working here. I’m on the board of directors and I’m phoning my husband now to get you removed from the property.” Cheryl has a large welt on her forehead and a trickle of blood snakes down her face.

  Just then the police show up.

  “Who called them?” Isabelle asks but none of us knows.

  “Maybe someone heard the noise to or saw those men leaving,” Grace says.

  “It was all that man’s doing,” Agnes’ mother says to the cops and she points at Healey. “Auntie Miriam, please find my phone in my purse and give it to me.”

  “You should wait and get checked out before making any calls,” one of the paramedics says, but Cheryl ignores him.

  She takes the phone from Auntie Miriam and presses the speed dial. While she waits for it to ring, she turns to Auntie Miriam. “Auntie Miriam, I need you to stay here and explain everything to Daniel. Will you do that?”

  Auntie Miriam nods as Agnes’s stepfather answers the phone.

  “Daniel, you must come to Benevolent’s, it’s urgent, okay? Auntie Miriam will explain. The cops are here. Make sure Healey is booted off the premises and never allowed near the place again. Auntie Miriam will explain it all. I’ll talk to you later.” She listens for a moment and nods. “Yes,” is all she says, then she ends the call and lies back on the stretcher.

  “Don’t worry, Auntie Miriam,” she says closing her eyes, “Daniel’s on his way. I’ll be fine. I’ll come and see you tomorrow.” The paramedics cart her off and we remain in the destroyed room with Auntie Miriam but then the View starts to pull back.

  “No! Don’t go!” Agnes shouts at the screen. “I need to see that she’s okay.”

  But the View keeps pulling back until finally the screen is black. GOODBYE AGNES! WE HOPE YOU ENJOYED YOUR VIEWING TODAY!

  “We had better leave soon,” Grace’s voice jolts us into action. “If we don’t leave together, we’ll be bounced all over the building away from each other and we need to stick together. Come on.”

  She herds us out and Fat Tracey takes Agnes by the arm and holds on tightly. Agnes leans into her, looking glazed and shell-shocked.

  “Follow me,” Grace says and like obedient ducklings, we fall in behind her.

  13. AGNES’S STORY

  GRACE LEADS US TO THE CANTEEN. We sit Agnes down and Samia and Isabelle go and get tea. Agnes doesn’t say anything, her eyes fill with tears that gather and spill and roll down her cheeks and drip off her chin. She could also do with blowing her nose.

  We wait until the other two come back and we encourage Agnes to drink some tea but she just stares off into space and doesn’t say a word.

  “She’s in shock,” Fat Tracey says, dabbing at Agnes’s chin and mopping up tears and mucus.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Grace is worried. “Maybe we should go and get one of the Helpers or something.”

  I pat Agnes on the back and rub between her shoulders.

  “Look,” Fat Tracey says. “There’s that bitch, Beatrice. I bet she knew exactly what was going to happen.”

  We turn and stare at Beatrice who is lining up for the dessert special of the day. Peach cobbler with rum custard and whipped cream. We watch her punch in her order and she waits patiently for the machine to sound the wind chime. When it does, she loads the bowl onto a tray, pours herself a large coffee, adds a good few inches of milk and a couple of packets of sugar. Then she turns and heads straight for us.

  “Oh my god,” Samia says, and she sounds terrified. We are all terrified.

  Beatrice plunks her tray down in the centre of our table and pulls up a chair. “She’s fine,” she says without ceremony to Agnes. “Your Auntie Miriam is fine. So is your mother. Your mother had a nasty bruise, that’s all. And Mr. Healey was escorted off the premises with directives by the police to never return. But,” she says spooning cobbler and custard into her mouth, “that’s not the end of it, is it?”

  I wish Beatrice wouldn’t eat and talk at the same time. I look over at Agnes instead, wondering if she knows what Beatrice means and she clearly does because she nods, still silent.<
br />
  “What’s going on?” Samia asks, her voice small and her eyes enormous.

  “Spit it out, Agnes,” Beatrice says and she eats more dessert and a blob of custard drips onto her chin, but she doesn’t notice. “It will help you to get it out.”

  “I…” Agnes begins and we stare at her.

  “Carry on,” Beatrice says unmindful of the dessert on her face.

  “It’s all my fault,” Agnes manages. She pulls out a pack of cigarettes and I help myself to one. I wonder if we are allowed to smoke in the canteen, but if we aren’t, Beatrice isn’t stopping us.

  Agnes inhales so deeply that I think she is going to finish the cigarette off in two drags. She blows out a truckload of smoke and picks at a fingernail.

  “Okay. So, Auntie Miriam, who is my great aunt really, she lives in that old-age home and I visit her a lot. She’s amazing and she loves me and I love her. My mom’s an uptight bitch and my stepfather thinks I’m a loser because I put food colouring in my hair and I’ve got piercings and tattoos. I was never very good at school, unlike his kids, because I was always hanging out with the potheads, and I’m not saying I was right and he was wrong, but let’s just say we never got along.

  “Auntie Miriam doesn’t have any family left except us. Mom visits her maybe once a month, meanwhile I went twice a week at least. I’m not trying to sound like a goody-two-shoes, I did it for me, because she loved me and she thought I was interesting and funny and clever.

  “One day I met a guy there. He was working as a janitor and before you think ‘loser’, let me tell you, he was a musician and he was incredible. He was all set for the big time, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind. But he was only working at the home to make money until he could get off the ground with his band.”

  She pauses and Samia hands her a cup of now-tepid tea and she downs it in one go. “I fell in love with him. Josh. He was so cool.” She looks away and blows a piece of hair off her face. “He was so beautiful. I don’t know what he saw in me. But he liked me even though he had these amazing girls falling all over him.”