by Kate Kelly
There is silence for a moment before Phoebe answers. Her voice low and tired, she speaks into a darkness that contains them both. “He was the baby. He was only about four when Leland and Mom married. I suppose he just fell in love with Gary, and Gary with him. It’s hard to resist a baby—they open up a world in you that you never thought possible.”
Lisa, no longer able to hold onto her conscious self, mumbles into the darkness, “Thanks, Aunt Phoebe.”
“Good night, honey.”
THE LIGHT IN RUBY’S EYES is painful as she turns her head away from the window. Mostly she has been floating in a place without edges, without physicality and with only mild interruptions from the forms who move around her in hurried, frustrating ways. Things blur, energy merges, and images flow into one another like fluid, suspending her until she can hardly tell if she is asleep or awake. There are moments of staggering clarity during which she can grasp a thought, a word, an emotion, anchoring her to something outside her own moment of being—for she is aware of her being, aware of this moment, this floating beautiful moment, with no past and no future tethering her to continuity. She could stay here forever, but there is always something pulling at her, sounds that jar her reverie, sounds that are too loud, too confusing to attend to. Turning her face away, she avoids the intrusion until suddenly recognition dawns, and for an instant she knows there is something beyond where she finds herself. There it is again, a voice within a dream, an impression, forcing itself into her being.
“Mom. Mom, can you hear me? It’s Gary. I’m here with Francis and Phoebe. Mom?” His voice is gentle, a caress, and for a moment he sees clarity in Ruby’s eyes, a struggle for connection.
“Mom. What does ‘Mom’ mean?” Ruby tries to ask, but her voice is broken and laboured, her words indistinguishable, the effort ultimately too great.
“Your mother has suffered an Ischemic blood clot in the left hemisphere. Her ability to understand language has been affected.” A tall dark-haired young man enters the room. He addresses them all, but he looks specifically at Gary, who is still holding his mother’s hand in his own. Extending his hand, the young man continues, “I’m Dr. Phil Drummon, from the neurology department.”
“I’m Ruby Grace’s son, Gary.” He accepts the doctor’s handshake. “This is my brother Francis, my sister Phoebe, and my daughter Lisa.”
“Nice to meet you. It’s good that you are all here for support. I realize you have travelled from Canada.”
“Yes, we are Canadian,” Francis nods, “but I live and work in California at the university, and our mother is originally from Chicago.”
“Well, it’s unfortunate that she’s returned under such circumstances.”
“She was determined to make the trip. My sister was attending a conference here, and Mom insisted on visiting her, and the city of her birth—that’s how she always refers to Chicago.” Gary smiles weakly, catching Lisa’s eye.
“Well, hopefully that determination will help in her recovery.” The doctor moves toward Ruby and speaks directly to her. “I hear you were quite an accomplished singer and an actor, Ruby Grace.”
“Yes, she was,” Francis answers, moving to the head of the bed opposite the doctor. “I’ve just recently finished writing a book on her life as a singer. It’s just for the family, but she was a great talent in her time. She sang opera and jazz.”
“That’s quite the combination.” Smiling, the doctor turns to Francis. “You might want to bring in some music for her to listen to while she’s here.” Removing a small pen light from his pocket and moving it from Ruby’s left eye to her right, he continues, “Quiet stimulation is good. It’s hard to tell what information will be processed and how, but stimulation is always good.”
Light passes before her eyes, and for a moment Ruby realizes she is something separate from the energy around her. The pain has subsided, opening up a window to the present, unexpectedly pulling her back into consciousness with a crease of recognition. There is sound washing up onto the shore of understanding, a voice she knows…
“How long will she have to be here, Doctor?” Phoebe asks.
“I think she recognizes your voice, Phoebs.” Gary comments. “Speak to her again.”
Moving to take her mother’s hand, Phoebe speaks above a whisper. “Mom, it’s me Phoebe, your daughter. Can you hear me?”
What is ‘daughter’? Ruby wonders. The tangle of knowledge runs just beyond her grasp, her attention held by the sound of a voice she can recognize as familiar.
“This is good.” Dr. Drummon stands, smiling at Ruby and then looking around at the concerned faces in the room. “The first couple of days are the most critical. We have stopped the bleeding, and she is recognizing things around her. Good work, Mrs. Grace.” He pats her hand and pulls her attention to his face.
Turning, Ruby focuses on his mouth as it forms words, elusive as summer fire flies and just as mesmerizing. Then her lids, heavy with the need to obliterate the present, close over her eyes, and she sinks into the beauty of oblivion.
SOUNDS, FLOATING like dandelion seeds in the breeze, whirl around, some deep and distant, others lighter and clear, all of them beautifully suspended in and around her. There is meaning to this, a sound … music, Ruby thinks, as she is pulled into focus. Music is playing, the kind of music that she sings in the smoky night clubs of Toronto. Smiling, Ruby floats into the past, memories running through her mind with a clarity so sharp it is startling. The piano and the bass, are behind her on the stage, their notes blending and turning, and her voice is running just ahead, sometimes behind, in and around the notes like a fish in a stream. Leland is somewhere in the crowd, and she sings for him. But the crowd is noisy tonight, their conversations too loud to sing above, infringing on the music, on her concentration and her enjoyment. The light is too bright, breaking the atmosphere, ruining the verisimilitude. And there’s something else, an odour in the air making her feel physically sick, the cloying, heavy smell of flowers—roses. She squints into the light and turns her head from the smell, looking and listening for Leland. He must be out there; there’s his voice in the crowd—she can hear it. Yes, it is Leland.
“Lisa, who brought the flowers into the room?” Gary asks, walking into the room with Francis. “They’re agitating your nan. Let’s get them out of here.”
“A nurse brought them in while you and Uncle Frank were gone for coffee.” Lisa picks up the offensive flower arrangement and heads for the door.
“Sorry, Gary, I forgot about mom’s aversion to flowers,” Phoebe says, taking up her mother’s hand. “They were sent by some colleagues at the conference. They didn’t know, and I didn’t realize she was reacting to them.” Speaking to Ruby, Phoebe continues, “Is that better, Mom? We got rid of those offensive flowers.”
It’s really only the roses that I can’t abide, Ruby thinks, her eyes adjusting to the light in the room. She’s starting to recognize those around her; their energy swirls like light particles, but they are slowly becoming more familiar, more distinct. And there is something else she recognizes—voices, yes, that’s it, voices. The concentration it takes to focus on these things is tedious, the pull too oblivion too seductive. But there is a reason to hold on. There is something I must do, Ruby thinks as again she is lost in the pulse of light, of sound, of being.
“Funny how she’s never liked the smell of flowers,” Phoebe muses.
“I don’t think it’s flowers that bother her just roses,” Francis answers as he leans up against the large windowsill in their mother’s semi-private room Ruby has been moved to. “We could never have them in the house. Don’t you remember what she said about them?”
“Yes, she said they smelled liked blood.” Phoebe looks from Francis to Ruby. “I never got that. They can be overpowering, but I like the smell of roses.”
“Well, she’s always been pretty particular about things, too much of a perfectionist
if you ask me.” Francis stands in the window, a silhouette in the late afternoon light.
“Yes, she’s always been that.” Phoebe pauses. “They say that perfectionists are trying to make up for the lack of control they feel in their lives.”
“I don’t know about that.” Gary laughs “Then we’d all be perfectionists, since control is only an illusion.”
“Wow, Dad, when did you become an existentialist?” Lisa asks, coming back into the room.
“Maybe I’ve always been one,” Gary says, smiling at his daughter. “I just didn’t realize it.”
“I think Mom just always wanted to feel in control,” Francis says, his eyes drawn to his mother’s. “I think she had great potential, great talent, but life for a woman in those days dictated a certain amount of conformity. I don’t think she ever really felt in control of her own life.”
“And I think we have all suffered for that,” Phoebe says, looking at her brother, her eyes sharp with memory.
“Maybe,” Francis answers.
“No, not maybe, Francis. We have. You’re right when you say that Mom felt like she had to conform, felt like she was caught.” Phoebe looks from Francis to Gary and then back to Ruby. “It’s not that she didn’t love us, it’s just that at a different time, given the choice, she may never have wanted to have children.”
“Really, Phoebe? You think that?” Gary asks.
“Don’t you?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”
“Well, maybe you should think about it. It has affected all of us. I mean, look at me and look at Francis.” Phoebe smiles at her older brother. “No offence, Francis, but have you been able to stay in a stable relationship? And why have you never had children? And it’s not just you. I’m separated from a second husband; I have struggled in every relationship I have ever had. I have only one child; and Gary only has one child too. We aren’t exactly big on family.”
“Bernadette couldn’t have any more children after Lisa. We would have liked more.”
“Well, Gary, you’re a little different. You’re the baby of the family, and things were easier for you.” Phoebe smiles again, her voice level and devoid of judgment.
Gary shrugs, turning to Francis for confirmation.
“Yeah, it’s true,” Francis answers, nodding. “Things were easier for you. You had us.”
“I didn’t think it was that bad for you guys.” Gary looks from Francis to Phoebe.
“We’re not saying it was bad. It was just … different for us,” Phoebe says.
“Mom and Dad were off and on for years, and Phoebe and I were left alone a lot of the time because Mom was still trying to make it in the music business. Dad was always travelling. I don’t know for sure, but that could have been a big part of the problem.” Francis shrugs, an effort to push the past behind. “Anyway, it was years ago. And as they say, that which does not kill us makes us stronger. We are who we are because of who we were. Don’t you think so, Phoebe?”
Phoebe laughs at Francis. He looks a little like an old sage, sitting in the light and staring down at her, the look on his face daring her to defy him. “Yes, oh great one,” she answers, bowing to him. “We are who we are.”
Who we are, Ruby thinks. The words fall like stones in a pool, images and insight rippling from them in growing measure. Who we are, the words sounding in her head feel heavy and concrete, holding meaning that she can almost grasp. But the effort is too consuming, the thread too convoluted to understand.
“We are who we are,” Lisa says, watching her grandmother but aware of the others in the room. “And ultimately, we are who we want to be. We create our own lives, our own meaning.”
“Well,” Gary laughs, extending his hand to take Lisa’s, “who’s the existentialist now?”
They look at each other for a long moment, Lisa squeezing her father’s hand before letting it go.
“Speaking of who we are,” Francis stands, breaking the silence that shimmered in the light moments ago, a smile still playing at the corner of his mouth, “how have you been feeling, Gary? I heard you were going for some tests.”
“Well, nothing conclusive yet, just tests and more tests. I’ve been having pain in my stomach and back, and some enzyme is showing up in my blood. It’s all pretty vague. There’s nothing they can put their finger on yet.”
“So they’ve ruled out any problem with your heart? Did you tell them about Dad’s heart problems?” Phoebe asks, moving to take her mother’s hand, the fingers still long and shapely, the nails neatly trimmed and polished. “That’s something you don’t want to fool around with, Gary.”
“Yeah, they took a full history. I told them about Dad’s heart attack, so that was the first thing they checked. Everything seems pretty good there.” Gary shrugs.
“You can never be too careful.” Phoebe’s voice is heavy with concern as she looks over and catches Gary’s eye.
“How old was Dad when he died? Sixty? I can’t remember.” Francis shakes his head.
No! John was only fifty-eight when he died, Ruby thinks, present for a moment. The image of John Grace is sharp in her mind, and she holds onto it for a moment, remembering their relationship, a lifetime of emotions. And then the image is gone, leaving only a vague impression in its wake, like a wave retreating from the sand.
“I think so. That’s what I told my doctor—fifty-nine or sixty.”
“It seems too young,” Phoebe answers.
“Yeah it does seem young, now. But Dad always seemed older somehow.”
“That was just because we didn’t see very much of him. Sometimes weeks and months would go by before we saw him. Then when we did see him it was all a hurried blur.” Francis’s voice is heavy with regret.
“Well, at least we have longevity on Mom’s side of the family.” Phoebe jokingly breaks the silence in the room.
“Yes, that’s true; her parents both had a good run for their money. I always remember their summer house in Maine. Whatever happened to it?” Gary asks, watching Phoebe as she pushes Ruby’s hair from her forehead, her fingers lingering against the smooth, white skin.
“I’m not sure.” Francis shakes his head. “It never stayed in the family. Maybe Gran sold it after Grandpa died.”
“There are a lot of mysteries to that family, don’t you think?” Phoebe draws her eyes from Ruby to Francis. “I mean, why did Grandpa Kenny leave Chicago? Mom always says he left ‘suddenly in ’24.’” Phoebe’s impersonation of Ruby is excellent. Gary coughs out a laugh. “Who knows? We’ve been speculating about that for years though, haven’t we?”
“What about Leland’s family?” Lisa asks, her eyes steady on her father’s.
“He had a couple of brothers. They were around a bit when we were young. But his family was from out east, so I don’t know much about them.” Gary looks to Francis.
“Yeah, Leland’s brothers were good guys.” Francis smiles, remembering. “They were younger than Leland, funny and a bit wild. They stayed with us in Toronto for a while before they headed out west. I was fourteen at the time, and I used to swipe their cigarettes.” Laughing, Francis continues, “I think they knew and left them out for me. Mom would have killed them.”
“And you, if she knew.” Phoebe smiles. “She was ahead of her time on that one. At a time when everyone smoked and thought nothing of it, Mom never liked it.”
“I think it had something to do with all the night clubs she sang in. I remember the smell of smoke from her gowns mingling with the smell of her perfume.” Gary answers.
“Chanel No. 5,” they all say, laughing at the knowledge that connects them, the shared memories of their childhood.
“The world’s most legendary fragrance,” Phoebe says, affecting Ruby’s voice and attitude as she repeats their mother’s famous line. She used to say it every time she applied the perfume.
Lisa, laughing along with her aunt and uncle and father, is struck by their camaraderie. She looks from one to the other: Francis, his scalp showing through his thinning hair in the fading light; Phoebe, face drawn with stress and fatigue; and Gary, the lines around his eyes pronounced with the weight he has lost. As she looks, somehow all of this dissolves, and they become the children they once were.
“So, big brother, you were stealing cigarettes when you were a kid. I never knew.” Gary shakes his head with fake disapproval at Francis, who shrugs and smiles.
“Well, you can’t talk, Gary. When Francis was swiping their cigarettes, you were swiping their change,” Phoebe admonishes, laughing at the look of shock on her brother’s face.
“I didn’t do that!” Gary answers, a little louder than he had intended.
“Yeah, Gary, you did. You were only a little guy, but you used to steal the change they left on the dresser in the back bedroom.” Francis laughs.
“No, I didn’t steal their money! I was probably only playing with it.” Gary is only half serious. “If I did take anything—and I am saying if—I was probably going to give it back.”
“Well, little brother, that’s your story. We remember it differently.” Phoebe leans over and pats Gary on the side of the cheek, then turns to Lisa. “He was quite the going concern, your father.
“Oh, I have no doubt.”
“Don’t believe anything they say, Lisa. They were always ganging up on me.”
“You mean we were always left taking care of you!” Francis corrects.
“It’s like Francis said, Mom was always rushing off to something or other, and we had to take care of baby Gary.”
“What about Leland?” Lisa asks, feeling protective of her father even though the teasing is in fun. “Wasn’t he around to take care of Dad?”
“Leland was around,” Francis answers. “Mom married Leland when I was ten, Phoebe was six, and your dad was around four, but Leland and Mom were always together. If she was singing, he’d be there. They were inseparable.”