The Company We Keep

by Frances Itani

  “But you miss your own country.” Gwen was feeling only relief. I can speak of ordinary things to this man, she told herself. Maybe we will be able to say anything to each other. Talk and listen. Listen and talk.

  Even so, she spoke softly, as if a third presence in the room was also listening.

  “Yes, I miss,” Allam told her. “I miss my mother, who is in Beirut; I miss my cousins, my aunts, my uncles who are still alive in Syria. I miss the pomegranate tree in a special garden near the place where I lived. I miss the souk, the barter and confusion and colour. I miss the spices, the coffee house where I met friends many days and played chess. I miss the stories of my friends. I miss the dry and dusty street, the broken cobblestone beside my door that my foot tripped over every day. What I must understand and admit is that much of my city, once beautiful and ancient and full of history, is now white stone, rubble, a tragedy in this world. Many things are gone from me, Gwendo-leen-ah, but I am finding ways to live this new life. Also, to live in a colder climate is not easy, but this can be done. Where I lived in Syria could be cold some of the time, but not like here. Not thirty-five degrees below zero, not forty below some days. But we come here and see Canadians living in winter, playing in winter. We say to each other, ‘We can do the same.’ Especially when we know so many Syrians are living in shelters with no heat at all.”

  Gwen considered what she was missing. Her twins. Her two granddaughters. She wanted to be part of their lives. She would definitely contact her sons and make arrangements to visit them in Texas. Maybe next summer their families would agree to come to Wilna Creek. They could stay at her house. She would find room for everyone. She had two spare rooms. She had a basement room that could be painted and furnished. She could introduce her sons to Allam. She wanted them all to meet.

  She closed her eyes, remembering. She realized that she had never been spoken to so tenderly. If she never saw Allam again, she would not forget the feelings that were now hers to keep. She would not forget the two of them naked in her bed. Allam above, the sound of spine, rising, falling. The weightlessness. The space beyond touch . . . yes.

  Desperate Measures

  At the next meeting—no planned agenda—the company began to talk of their experiences of taking on executor and trustee duties. Almost everyone had something to say. Allam listened with his usual curiosity. Addie sat back, trying to take in information. She still held power of attorney for Sybil, but she would not be executor when the time came. That duty remained within the jurisdiction of Sybil’s family.

  Allam and Gwen had arrived together in Gwen’s car and parked on Beamer Street in front of the café. This was witnessed by two members of the company and by Cass, who was standing at the cash register near the front window at the time. In the backroom, the two sat side by side at the round table, as always, and made no effort to explain the frequent exchange of glances. There was no ignoring the current between the two. There was no ignoring the solicitous attention he bestowed in her direction.

  Gwen wore a bit of colour—a silk scarf atop the usual browns. The scarf was printed with images of butterflies in a blend of colours against solid backgrounds of green and indigo. A sight to behold. Gwen fingered the silk as she sat, her thoughts elsewhere.

  Chiyo, taking in every detail, said to herself: Jack Goes Boating. Philip Seymour Hoffman as Jack, Amy Ryan as Connie. Awkward at first—shyness from one, then from the other, not always at the same time. They’re suited, maybe for the long run. Or as long as they can make the run last. Chiyo smiled to herself and then felt like weeping, not because of a possible Gwen–Allam alliance—that should be celebrated!—but because of the tragedy of Hoffman’s death. She and Spence would have to pull out some of the dozens of Hoffman DVDs and watch them again.

  Hazzley was laughing with an edge to her voice, telling the story of lineups she’d endured at Service Canada counters. A huddle outside the building before the door opened first thing in the morning. No sign of a queue. The crush to get inside to tear off a number-strip. So many people needing passports, child or disability benefits, Canada Pension Plan death benefits, job-search assistance, on and on and on. “Sadly, some officials behind the wickets—not all, thankfully—don’t have their first cup of coffee before they start the day.”

  “One of the people I encountered while dealing with my mom’s estate looked stunned, as if he’d been punched in the head,” said Chiyo. “For sure he hadn’t had his caffeine fix. To stand on the vulnerable side of a counter facing him, to be the object of disinterest, indifference, irritation—all of that was so seriously disheartening I can scarcely talk about it. Maybe some people in these jobs no longer connect with their clients because they’re forced to repeat mind-numbing tasks ad nauseam. Some people arrive without the required documents, some without a full grasp of the languages of the country and some without any idea how to proceed. Others have every document in hand, to the nth detail. But everyone is treated with the same grim glare of disdain. It’s downright demoralizing.”

  Gwen liked Chiyo’s descriptions because Chiyo wasn’t afraid to say anything in front of the company. Well, Gwen could talk comfortably to Rico, couldn’t she? But that was different. Rico was a private audience, his tiny bird earholes covered protectively by auricular feathers. Letting in human sounds, the ones he wanted to hear. Was he capable of selective hearing? Probably not. Someone might know the answer to that.

  “Too much tapping at keyboards,” said Hazzley. “Think of the steady diet of lacklustre communications, day in, day out. Multiply that by months, years. It’s unfortunate the way figures of authority get to utter decrees that alter people’s lives. Actually, not everyone behind a counter has been there for years. One day my number was called by a young woman in her twenties who had painted her lips so purple, I couldn’t take my eyes off her mouth the entire time she was speaking. I stared and stared, hardly heard what she was saying. She was used to drawing attention, and my staring didn’t bother her one bit.”

  Tom chipped in. “It’s a wonder, with all the paperwork we’re required to submit—death certificates, copies of wills, affidavits, proofs—it’s a wonder we don’t have to bring in photographs of our late relatives in their caskets.”

  “I remember something,” Hazzley said. “When I was a child in England, during the war and after, my mum used to rhyme off a little chant whenever a hearse or an ambulance passed us by in the street: ‘Hold your collar, touch your toes. Don’t want to be in one of those.’ And we did just that. We stood still and held our collars, or whatever was at our neckline. After the hearse went by, I don’t think we touched our toes, but I recall seeing others around us holding their collars, too. It’s queer, really. An old custom that goes back to the time of the plague, I expect. I don’t know what made me think of this.”

  The others instinctively reached for their collars, as if experimenting.

  “Anyway, Tom,” Hazzley continued, “you’re right about the paperwork. Unfortunately, it goes on for a couple of years. I had to keep supplying extra copies of the death certificate and the will. You might also be asked for notarized copies. Sometimes it seems there will be no end to demands for proof of death, joint ownership, inheritance. I am finally free of the paperwork to do with Lew’s death—I hope—but that was a long, difficult period.” She thought of Lew’s ashes in the ceramic urn behind the door in the now-empty dining room. Maybe her daughter would deal with them. She added, softly, “Not to mention the number of times I sat in the car and cried after one of those dispiriting encounters with an official.”

  “Exactly,” said Chiyo. “That’s what I mean. When we’re vulnerable, we can easily be undone.”

  “Tears can be close to the surface, for sure,” Gwen offered quietly. “The slightest word from someone else—even a stranger, even on an unrelated topic—can trigger a completely unexpected reaction.” Woe came upon the people, she said to herself. And remembered how hard she’d cried in the chair next to Rico’s cage.


  Chiyo remembered her mother’s tears—and her own. “And while we’re sorting through paperwork, we’re pulling out photos, aren’t we? Spreading them around at home. A natural thing to do. Someone dies and we begin to sift through envelopes and boxes. Or create an album as a tribute. A woman in one of my fitness classes told me she covered an entire wall in her den with photos of her late husband, ceiling to floor. I thought that was so sad, but maybe we all do the same in more controlled ways. We might move a framed photo from a bedroom dresser to a prominent living-room shelf, where it can be seen while we wander aimlessly around the house.” She was thinking of the photo she’d framed, now on her kitchen shelf. A head-and-shoulders shot of her mother, who’d been in her forties at the time, glistening black hair, eyes watchful, challenging the person behind the camera. Chiyo had no idea who had taken the picture.

  Others were nodding, but not Gwen. No framed photo in my house, she was thinking. Any photo of Brigg that had once lain around was disposed of after the boys left, the day I sat on the stoop and smoked two cigarettes. Gone. Every photo went into the trash. I hold enough of him in visual memory to last a lifetime. Maybe someday, I’ll be able to create one kind thought about him. Or even two. Maybe I have to start thinking of kindness. Of why I married him in the first place.

  Not now. Maybe not ever. All the reasons, all the reasoning, so tangled up.

  Had Brigg hated her? Had he hated himself? The only place she had been safe from his shouts, from the summoning clang of the bell, was on the toilet seat in the downstairs bathroom. She stifled a sob, thinking of this now. She hadn’t been able to get away from him, but she had learned how to get away from his voice and the bell. And somehow, he excused her when he demanded to know why she hadn’t come immediately and she told him she’d been in the bathroom. What he didn’t know was that she took a novel in there and sat on the toilet seat and read half an hour at a time. If the novel was well written, she was able to forget him during those thirty minutes.

  Allam caught her change of mood and looked at her quizzically. She looked away. Eventually, if he wanted to hear, she’d share that, too. But why bring up every detail? Maybe she really could move on. Step away.

  “What about groups?” Addie asked, quite suddenly. “Did anyone join groups? Besides this one, I mean.”

  “Not really,” said Hazzley. “But there are other groups out there, let me tell you. Two women I know belong to a widows’ group. When the Greenley Orchestra came to town a few years ago for their annual performance at the Belle, I sat alone, four rows behind the widows. I could hear them laughing, and I longed to be part of their group. But I wasn’t eligible because Lew was still alive. He was supposed to be with me, but he bowed out at the last minute. I ended up going alone because there was no time to contact anyone else. The situation was bizarre, now that I think of it. There I was, next to an empty seat, wanting to sit with the widows. I couldn’t because my husband was dying but not dead. I felt so guilty about thinking that. But they didn’t even know I was there. Most of them didn’t know me anyway. We’re so human, so damned vulnerable. That’s what I was at the time. Vulnerable.”

  No one was judging her, she could feel that in the room. What she didn’t tell the company was the real reason Lew didn’t go: he’d had so much to drink that day, he couldn’t be roused when it was time to leave for the theatre. She shouldn’t have purchased a ticket for him in the first place. She shouldn’t have had expectations. She thought of the enormous cache of bottles in the basement and shuddered. Out of sight under the tarp, pushed into an enclosed corner that once was the coal bin of the original house. She had no idea how many boxes there were.

  Addie was nodding her head, content with being present. Pretend you’re listening, she told herself. Listen or pretend to listen to anything that will take your mind off what Sybil has asked you to do.

  THREE DAYS EARLIER, late Saturday afternoon, Sybil had reached out to Addie with a startling request. She told Addie she had asked her brother to bring her iPad to the hospital. After he’d gone, she ordered a variety of herbs and teas and powders that would help cure her cancer. These were to be delivered directly to her room on the palliative ward, and she was to pay cash. Sybil did not want her brother, her mother and especially her doctors and the nursing staff to know about the order. Her purse was on the lower shelf of the bedside table. As she was too weak to reach for it, she asked Addie to remove her wallet and go downstairs to the entrance to intercept the package. Delivery had been timed to take place during Addie’s shift.

  Addie had no way of knowing who would be delivering, how large the package would be, whether the person—man or woman—would wear an identifying uniform. Sybil was adamant that Addie stay downstairs in the lobby until the package arrived. That way, no one would learn of her determination to treat herself with the new remedies.

  “Don’t judge me,” she told Addie in her weakened—horribly weakened—voice. “Conventional treatment hasn’t worked, has it?”

  Addie did not judge her friend’s behaviour, but she was overwhelmed with sympathy because she recognized this as the desperate measure it was. Reluctantly, she took Sybil’s wallet downstairs and stood in the lobby, watching every person who came through the front entrance. Every person who might have a package in hand.

  After waiting a full hour, Addie returned empty-handed to Sybil’s room. There, on the bedside table, was a flat opened box, which had been delivered shortly after Addie went downstairs in the elevator. The delivery person must have been in an elevator on the way up while she was in a different elevator on the way down. Addie returned the wallet to Sybil’s purse—luckily, there were bills in a zipped fold of the purse, and Sybil had been able to pay for the remedies herself.

  But Sybil was in a rage and blamed Addie. The staff had most certainly found out what was going on because the man who’d arrived with the package went directly to the nurses’ station to ask permission to access Sybil’s room. The staff did not confiscate the supplies, and why would they? Addie thought. The box probably contained completely harmless tea leaves or who knew what. Dozens of Cellophane packets of herbs and powders and leaves were tucked neatly inside the box, each one folded and stapled and labelled.

  Sybil, having exhausted herself in rage at Addie’s failure to intercept, fell asleep. She was pitifully thin, and Addie looked at her despairingly but held her tongue and did not respond to the anger. She stayed at the bedside until Sybil was awake again, hoping her friend had calmed down. Sybil, racked by weakness and discomfort, was still angry when Addie left, shortly after nine.

  SUNDAY NOON, when Addie returned, Sybil told her she had made another decision.

  “All these powders and herbs and leaves are bullshit.” Her voice was a harsh, accusing whisper. “You know that as well as I do. How could they possibly help me at this stage?”

  Addie had to agree, but she was not prepared for what Sybil said next.

  She wanted Addie to help her with a medically assisted death. Just the two of them present.

  Was Addie hearing correctly?

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “You can,” said Sybil, and this time her voice failed completely. She waited several moments before she tried again. She turned her face away and stared out the window. “I can’t bring my mother into this. She would never accept such a decision. It would break her heart. I want to die, and I want to die now. I can’t go on. I absolutely cannot. I have to do this while I’m competent to make the decision.”

  “What do you suppose I can do? You have to initiate the process. I can let the staff know; I can do that much. They can get the paperwork started. Two doctors have to be contacted. All this will take time. The laws are more relaxed now, but there will be paperwork, signatures, a ten-day waiting period.”

  “I can’t wait.” There was a long silence. “I can’t go that route because my mom must never know.”

  “But what on earth can I do? Think of what you’re asking.”
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  “Bring morphine,” Sybil said in a new hard-edged voice. “You work in a hospital. You can get some in Wilna Creek. You have access to drugs.”

  “I don’t have access to drugs. I work in administration, remember? And even if I did—”

  “You’re in contact with people who do. You’re resourceful. I’m already taking the drug. If I happen to take more, no one will even notice.”

  Addie had nothing further to say. She didn’t want to fight with her friend. But Sybil wasn’t giving up.

  “I’m asking because you are my closest friend. Closer than any family member. I’m asking you to respect my wishes. You know there’s no one else I can turn to. Please, Addie, please. Won’t you do this for me? If you asked the same of me, I would agree in a minute.”

  Addie recognized emotional blackmail when she heard it. She recognized utter and total despair when she heard it. The conversation required so much energy on both their parts, the two of them ended up in tears.

  And that was how Addie had left Sybil on Sunday.

  She’d had a slow drive back to Wilna Creek because the temperature had dropped and there were patches of black ice on the road. Along the way, she momentarily considered how she might put her hands on extra morphine to help her friend die. Then she banished the thought.

  In two days, Sybil had see-sawed from spending heaven knows how much money on a box filled with powders and leaves she hoped would keep her alive to begging for help to end her life. She had convinced herself that Addie would come up with a solution. Addie was supposed to be the problem-solver. Oh yes.

  Oh no. She could not and would not end her friend’s life. A life that was going to end soon without intervention.