Notes Towards Recovery
Page 9
“Bree-”
“I just needed confirmation of what I’ve known for a while.” Since an evening last winter, when she was late to her own dinner party. She couldn’t make it through the recipe she was trying to follow and had to dash out to the grocery store where she’d shopped every week for the previous three years. Getting confused on the way home, she had driven around her neighbourhood for the best part of an hour. That was when she’d known it was real. Not just exhaustion or stress or a heavy workload or a series of bad days.
Today’s appointment had given her an official name and a realistic prognosis. “He gave me a bunch of leaflets to read. There’s one for siblings who might want to consider being screened for the PS1 mutation. But it’s unlikely, very unlikely, he said, since you show no signs of early onset dementia.”
“Bree.”
“I just needed one day with Maddy. Just us. I’m sorry I’m so late and I’m sorry she got cold and tired, I-”
“It’s okay. She’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine.” The words fell, grey and flat, in the empty evening.
She wouldn’t be allowed to take Maddy out again by herself. Claire wouldn’t trust her.
Her brother put his arm over her shoulders. “Come inside. Come and have some supper, a cup of tea. Remember Grandmother and her endless cups of tea?”
“Fortnum and Mason’s.” That was where they’d had the knickerbocker glories. It wasn’t lost forever, that shop’s name, but had come back to her, rising as if through feet of thick, sludgy mud, finally reaching the surface. “They kept honeybees on the roof, didn’t they? I’m not making that up?”
She remembered too, surfacing from the Cayman Wall dive. Jackson had started yelling before she’d even clambered into the boat. “Fuck, Bridge! What the hell were you doing going so deep? You know about the risk of nitrogen narcosis.” He’d pulled her close, wetsuit, tank and all. “I was terrified I’d lose you. I couldn’t bear it if I lost you.”
Riffle
I’m half an hour late to the morning briefing. What this means is that all the best muffins have been taken from the plate, that the coffee is lukewarm, that a green slip detailing my misdemeanour will be placed in my in-tray this afternoon. The free muffin is the highlight of these jargon-heavy meetings, and I’m stuck with a choice of gluten-free raisin bran or sugar-free cranberry with flaxseeds.
While the manager talks about managing client expectations, specialist challenges, assistive technology, I pick out the raisins, seven of them, and sweep them, along with the crumbs, into a tidy pile by my mug.
“Shirley?”
I have no idea what I’ve just been asked, what topic we’ve reached.
“Yes,” says my supervisor. She looks at me.
I nod, with no idea what I’ve agreed to, sit up, pull my shoulders back and try to follow the rest of the discussion. It’s Mr. Campbell. He’s been ‘in God’s waiting room’ (my supervisor’s phrase) since mid-winter but survived the spring and summer and now the leaves are bright red, orange and yellow. I’m on night sitting duty with him, a misnomer as my shift starts as soon as the meeting is over.
So it’s going to be a good day after all. We aren’t supposed to have favourites, but we all do and Mr. Campbell’s mine. He arrived in his daughter’s car. Against all advice she drove him to the care home, and only asked for my help after it became apparent that, although she had managed to get him into the front seat, she couldn’t lift him out by herself.
I had leaned in, smiled at the elderly gentleman, told him I was going to pick him up and that I hoped no one from the health and safety committee was watching. Already that month I’d been sent three of the green warnings. They sat, unread, in my in-tray and occasionally I amused myself by guessing what infractions they cited. Not bending at the knees, not using a hoist as per regulations, not waiting for an aide when a male resident needed bathing, clocking out then continuing to work.
“A pretty young thing like you picking me up,” he’d said. I acknowledged the corny line with a chuckle. He was tall, Mr. Campbell, and must have been a commanding presence once, but in old age he’d become as meagre as a newborn calf, shivering, weak, with unsteady legs. It was easy for me to gather him into my arms and lift him into the wheelchair.
His daughter had thanked me, started to say she wasn’t as strong as she’d thought and-
I’d brushed away the end of her sentence, said there was a knack to it was all, and taken a step back, allowing her time to fuss with the foot rests and stroke his cheek.
Big boned, my mother still calls me; the town kids used to tease me with nicknames like Burly Shirley. Physically, I am my father’s daughter, a Renfrew County farm girl. From my mother I inherited the stubborn gene. You’re impossible, impossible, David had said, every time we argued. Sometimes I forget he wasn’t the one to leave our marriage; he hadn’t stormed out after one of those arguments.
Arguments involving shouting and slammed doors I knew, I understood. The silence between Mr. Campbell’s daughter and her brother was foreign to me. That first day her brother had pulled up in a big, expensive car. “All right,” he’d said and I hadn’t known if he was making a statement or asking a question. If he was talking to me, or his sister, or his father, or himself.
His sister had not answered or made eye contact with him. Instead she’d adjusted the pillow behind the wisps of her father’s grey hair one more time. “We don’t have to stay, Dad. If you’ve changed your mind we can turn around and go home right now.”
Her brother had said her name. “We’ve discussed this. We’re going to give it a chance.”
That would have been two and a half years ago. I’ve seen him - the brother - perhaps five times since then. The daughter came daily before she moved down south, now she makes the journey once a month. Today is Thanksgiving and they’ll both be here.
I’m sitting with Mr. Campbell at a window table, with a view over the river that runs along the bottom edge of the property, where squealing children are daring each other to wade in. When his daughter arrives she stands in the doorway, and I realize she can’t see through her tears, so I walk over and offer her a tissue. “Your Dad’s having a good day,” I tell her. “He’s looking forward to your visit.” Maybe I’ve embellished, but surely I should manage families’ expectations too. His eyes are open, that’s the sign of a good day for him now.
“It’s his loss of words… that’s the most difficult,” she says. “The physical challenges, I think I could bear. But for an editor.” When he could still speak he told me stories from his thirty-five years working at the country’s largest newspaper. “To have to search for basic words or point to a child-like drawing of the simplest items: tea, table, book. It breaks my heart.”
He’s not been able to point to pictures for weeks. I send a wish out to the universe that Mr. Campbell will say something today, anything, just a few words his daughter can understand.
“Please,” she asks me. “Will you stay with us, for lunch?”
I thank her, lead her to the table and pull out the chair next to his wheelchair.
Her brother arrives soon after, nods at us, and sits after awkwardly patting his father’s shoulder. He comments on the weather, fine for this time of year, and the delays in town caused by a row of movie trailers, then opens the menu as it’s handed to him.
His sister has pulled herself together and takes his lead. “Yes. They’ve transformed the main street into an American parade route. Red, white and blue bunting, the Stars and Stripes on every flag pole.” She continues making cheerful comments about a book she’s reading, something about fishing that her Dad would love, and how it sparked a memory of a childhood holiday. In an artificially bright voice she reads the daily specials from the menu’s insert: butternut squash soup, maple-braised turkey, pumpkin cheesecake, deep dish apple pie.
When the server comes back, Mr. Campbell’s eyes are shut and there’s a line of drool from the paralysed side of his mouth. But I translate
the shudder of his chin to mean no thank you to a full Thanksgiving dinner. Then he slowly cups his hands together, as if trying to hold water scooped from a stream.
“I know Chef,” I say. “He’ll cook you anything you like, Mr. Campbell, even if it isn’t on the menu. Can you describe what it is?”
Silence, then the hint of a whisper. I lean closer. “I missed that, sorry. Can you tell me again, please?”
“Fragile.”
Fragile. I try to think of delicate foods. Mille-feuille, with its layers of puff pastry? Meringues? Spun sugar? He doesn’t react to any of my suggestions then cups his hands together again.
I cup my own hands together. Fragile, I think. And of my own broken body and of my pilgrimage this morning, the reason I was late. “Eggs. Eggs?”
And he manages a nod.
“Well that’s easy.” I smile. “And how can I have Chef fix them for you? An omelet, Eggs Benedict, poached on spinach with cheese sauce?”
His tilted chin indicates no but this time I’m sure one side of his mouth looks content.
“Fried, over easy, sunny side up? Soft boiled with soldiers? Coddled? Kedgeree? Huevos rancheros?” I fill the silence with a grin. “I grew up on a farm with chickens and ate eggs every day of my childhood. I can keep going.”
“Mixed up,” he says. His whisper is clear and I beam at his daughter.
‘Mixed up. Scrambled! Scrambled eggs.”
“Scrambled. Yes. Like my words.”
Not only clear speech, full sentences, but a joke. I laugh, and his daughter leans over to hold his hands. “Dad!” Her voice is light and her brother looks up from the cell phone he’s been studying, tapping at.
Live in the present, the therapist tried to teach me. Let go of the past and the future and engage in the moment. I’d like to tell Mr. Campbell’s daughter to hold this moment. Hold fast to this moment.
I do know Chef, this much is true. I may have exaggerated his pleasure at cooking a la carte on one of his busiest days, but I stand at his turkey and stuffing covered pass making it clear I have no intention of leaving until he’s made me three plates of creamy, fluffy eggs. He shouts a bit and throws the pan into the sink when he’s finished, but I notice he’s added triangles of buttered toast with the crusts cut off and garnished the plates with a rosette of smoked salmon, grilled cherry tomatoes, finely chopped parsley.
I deliver the lunch and sit, feeding Mr. Campbell tiny mouthfuls with the spoon from his coffee cup, catching the dribbles with a soft paper napkin.
The brother eats quickly, then returns his attention to the phone next to his plate, as if whoever he’s texting is more worthy of his time than his father. And who am I to assume - I’ve seen people deal with grief in myriad ways. Or maybe he needs to nail a contract in order to pay the care home’s bill. When his sister struggles to find small talk enough for a one-sided conversation I contribute, guessing at the movie being filmed in town, suggesting we watch the fake parade the next day. “Shall we go along for a laugh, Mr. Campbell? We could be extras in the film. Some big shot Hollywood producer might spot you and offer you a contract.” I feed him another bite of eggs.
He chews slowly and swallows with difficulty, his eyes opening and closing. After a few more bites he reaches his right hand for his chest.
“That’s our code for enough, or thank you,” I explain to his daughter. My heart is full.
She tries to smile. “You look tired, Dad,’ she says. ‘Let’s get you settled down for an afternoon siesta and I’ll read to you for a bit.’ She stands. No eye contact with her brother.
I wheel Mr. Campbell to his room, hoist and settle him into bed, then say goodbye and turn to leave them, but his son follows me out into to the hall. “I admire your patience,” he says. “That meal would have been . . difficult . . without you.”
As close to ‘thank you’, I suspect, as he’s able to manage. “It’s easier for me,” I say. “I’m not family, don’t have that emotional connection.” I don’t add that I have the time. No children, no husband anymore, and my own parents both fit and well.
We hear her voice through the open door. “Okay Dad? Comfy?” Waiting, as though to catch an answer.
“She won’t know what to do,” he says. “Without him she’ll be lost.”
“Your parents raised an able woman,” I say. “And she’s got you.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t remember the childhood details, which story goes with which memory, all that stuff that’s so important to her.” Now we hear her tears. “Dad. I love you. I love you.”
Be there for her, I want to tell him. But I don’t. He must be able to hear that she’s saying goodbye, he must know they’re both saying goodbye. I leave before my own tears give me away. I’m not irreplaceable and one day I’ll lose this job as a result of my refusal to follow the rules I consider unnecessary. But maybe I’ll surprise everyone, David most of all, and hand in my notice before I’m fired.
An hour later she finds me at the front desk. “You’re my Dad’s favourite,” she says. “He told me he’d like you to have this.” She’s holding out a metal prong. “He ran the slot in the old days,” she explains. “Before computers, he cut stories with a pair of pinking sheers and this was for the ones that got spiked.”
When I come out from behind the desk and take the spike, heavier than I expected, she clutches at me, whispers urgently. “Please. No heroic measures.”
“No heroic measures.” I put down the spike, meet her gaze and make it clear I understand what she’s saying.
“I think he’s- I know I’m not making it easy for him. I have to let him go. I wish- I-”
I know. I know. I comfort her as I imagine a mother would comfort a child, with gentle sounds and the offer of a hug. We’re not allowed physical contact with patients’ guests but I pretend I’ve forgotten that, as I often do. As she starts to sob on my shoulder I pat her back, murmur, reach in my pocket for a tissue.
“Will you and your brother spend this afternoon together, so you won’t be alone?” I ask.
“We drove up separately.” She blows her nose. “He’s a good man. I know he can appear… . But he’s a good man. He used to read the newspaper out loud, when Dad’s eyesight first started going, all the articles he knew Dad would enjoy.”
“I’ll read to your father this afternoon,” I promise. “Sit with him as long as he likes.” And when she leaves I walk back to his room, where Mr. Campbell is lying exactly as I left him, facing the window that looks towards the river.
“Thank you so much,” I say, hefting the spike like a trophy. I’m not allowed to accept a gift from a patient, and certainly such a dangerous thing as this must be against the rules. “I love it. I’m going to impale all my health and safety warnings on it. I’m going to set it in the middle of my desk and just let those green forms pile up into Christmas tree.”
I put it down on the bedside table beside a military history book, and sit in the still-warm easy chair beside his bed. “Shall I read?” I pick up the book.
His breathing is more laboured than it was at lunch. I meet his gaze and he blinks twice. No.
“What would you like to hear?” I ask.
I have time to wait for the answer. After some time it comes. “Your words.”
My words. I close the book and put it down.
“I drove past my old house this morning,” I tell him. “The sugar maple we planted, my husband and I, is beautiful. Deep reds, bright oranges.”
His eyes flicker.
And I talk. I tell him what I’ve never told anyone else. That buried under that tree is a series of letters I wrote to my stillborn baby, the one I’d been promised I’d carry full term. I never heard her heartbeat, not even once, I say. I tell him that those secret letters were the real reason I’d fought against moving, even though it was necessary for my husband’s job. That I had waited until today, Thanksgiving, to drive past it, just the once. That once had been enough; now I could let go. Say goodbye.
“Thank you,” I say. “Mine too. My heart is full.” I put my other hand on top of his and feel his chest rise and fall, weak, weaker. We sit like this, a haze of wood smoke from a nearby bonfire drifting into the silence around us.
A sunbeam crosses the room and I think he notices. I look outside. “There’s a riffle in the river just below your window,” I tell him. “Sometimes this time of year we see the salmon running.” I ask him if he ever fished this river. It’s catch-and-release, and some weekends I see fishermen in the shallows. I imagine out loud what power it is that allows a salmon to navigate its way back to its natal spawning ground to lay eggs before death.
As I say that word, death, my voice catches and I look out the window again, imagining a salmon leaping, twisting, its scales catching the light.
“The beauty of the trees,” I quote. “The softness of the air.”
And there is a sudden softness under my hand. A quivering, and then a suggestion of space.
I finish reciting Chief Dan George’s poem. “The strength of the fire, the taste of the salmon, the trail of the sun, and the life that never goes away, they speak to me. And my heart soars.” Later, after I’ve spoken with my supervisor, and called Mr. Campbell’s children, I am going to call David. My heart is full with you and I, I’ll say. Please forgive me, I’ll ask.
I try it now.
“Please forgive me.”
It is a good and gentle sound.
Granny Squares
This weekend’s plan has been fixed for some time and I am pleased today has arrived. After a year and a half of pretending that my mother in law was able to live by herself, it is a relief to arrive at her house armed with boxes, rubber gloves and cleaning supplies. This, I can do. Cleaning out the fridge, scrubbing the oven I’ve been unplugging after every visit, retrieving the hidden kettle, knives, matches, things that could have been dangerous if left unattended. Washing down walls, sweeping, dusting, minor repairs. It’s not a weekend I’ve been looking forward to, but by tomorrow evening I’ll feel a sense of satisfaction at a job well done. The house will be clean, bare, odourless - I can imagine it already.