Notes Towards Recovery

by Louise Ells

  Valerie shook her head. “She’s strong. She’ll get better.” She pulled back her shoulders. “The spare room has always been ready for her and Michael’s happy for her to move in with us.”

  “Valerie. No.”

  When had they stopped using the nicknames Val and Dar? “No what?”

  “That’s never going to happen.”

  “You think I’m incapable of caring for her.” She winced at the accusation in her voice, then watched as her sister formed a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It was her gentle and patient look, one she’d often used when her children were young and one Valerie imagined she used to manage her staff at work. “If she is to recover, Mum won’t be able to cope with your house. She’ll need a stair-free home.”

  She was right. You’re right. But Valerie couldn’t say the words out loud. “What then? Her house has as many stairs as mine.”

  “I think we need to consider professional caregivers. In a setting that’s specifically geared towards the elderly.”

  “A nursing home?” Maybe if it hadn’t come out of nowhere, maybe if she wasn’t so tired, Valerie wouldn’t have been immediately opposed to the idea. But she shook her head. “I’m not dumping Mum in a nursing home.”

  “They’re called assisted living communities these days.”

  “I don’t care what they’re called. I don’t think-” She didn’t know what she thought or didn’t think. She looked down at the floor and wondered if anyone actually believed the oatmeal and blue speckled pattern matched the dull green walls, or if the rubber tiles only came in this colour. No doubt they were practical, safe, easy to clean and met all the necessary anti-bacteria, non-skid health and safety rules. But they were dingy, comfortless. “Were you going to consult me? Because it sounds like you’ve already decided.”

  “Why don’t you go home and have that rest?” Darlene said. “I’ll come round this afternoon and we can talk about it.” Her gaze didn’t meet Valerie’s and Valerie guessed that Darlene had already visited a number of homes and narrowed the options down to two. She might suggest Valerie go and look at them, but really, the choice had been made.

  Too tired to argue. “Whatever. I’ll see you later.”

  She turned to go but Darlene touched her shoulder. “Listen Valerie. I heard about you and Michael… I’m sorry.”

  It was the genuine compassion in her sister’s voice that made Valerie pause. She turned back. “Me and Michael?”

  “Your… the separation.” Darlene’s voice was soft.

  But Valerie shook her head. “We aren’t separating. Why would you think that?”

  “He- I-” Her sister looked genuinely confused. “He told me you’ve renovated. To sell, you know…”

  Valerie didn’t know. She could imagine some campus scuttlebutt, but she’d never imagined her sister paying any attention to gossip. “No. We have no plans to sell, nor to separate.” She shook her head again. “If there are rumours, there’s no truth to them. We’re fine. Great. Happy. I’ll - I’ll see you later.”

  She stopped at the nurses’ station and asked them to phone her if there was any change - any change at all - in her mother’s health. As she navigated her way to the elevator that would take her down to the parking garage, she took a deep breath. Darlene would call, she trusted Darlene to call. They had nothing in common, they weren’t friends, but Mum was their mother. As long as Mum was alive - Valerie didn’t even want to finish thinking that sentence so clicked hard on her key chain as soon as the elevator doors opened. But she wasn’t focusing - she pushed the wrong button and set off the car alarm; the shrill beeping ricocheted around the concrete space and she fumbled with the key chain for over a minute before she managed to stop the noise. Finally she opened the car door and sat.

  Tears threatened, so “We’re fine,” she said again, aloud. “We’re good,” as she turned the key in the ignition, looked over her shoulder, started to drive slowly and carefully out onto the street and through a city that no longer looked familiar. Not even her own neighbourhood; an old hospital at the end of the street which had been demolished in the fall was now the subject of a police investigation and their cul-de-sac had been cordoned off. She had to park three blocks away and trudge back along the slush-covered sidewalk, hunched against the wind.

  When she reached the tall, narrow house, she tried to remember the day she and Michael had moved in, full of plans to turn the dark, turn-of-the-century house into a light-filled family home. The big room at the top of the house was going to be a nursery, easy enough to add a dividing wall later so two children could each have a room of their own. But children hadn’t happened, so instead they had added skylights, a bathroom and a seating area with views over their garden. A flat for her mother, when she was ready, for now a shared study although her desk had become a dumping ground for unread books, and Michael worked on campus. Research. The internet couldn’t provide the first edition texts he needed, complete with authors’ notes in the margins.

  Why hadn’t that first renovation sparked any rumours of selling the house, separation… or had she missed them? She walked up the uneven steps to the porch, counting as she went, kicked off her winter boots in the entryway and went all the way to the top floor, still counting. Forty-three. Forty-three steps from driveway to door. Exhausting. And it was Darlene, who had visited only twice since that disastrous Thanksgiving Dinner two years ago, who had been the one to notice all the steps.

  Valerie ignored her desk, went back down a flight to the master room, considered curling up on the bed in her grandmother’s quilt and falling asleep. But. Shower first. It took her some time to actually summon the energy to get undressed and turn on the taps but she did feel better afterwards, and resolved to go to the grocery store. She’d cook Michael a proper dinner tonight, homemade, with dessert.

  She pulled on jeans and a shirt, left her hair loose to air dry, and went down to the kitchen in her sock feet. Finally completed last week, it still surprised her, thrilled her, every time she walked in. That she and Michael had such a gorgeous, modern room. Sleek stainless steel appliances, a built-in wine cooler, all set against cherry wood. She ran her hand along the polished stone countertop and onto the six burner gas stove then switched on the underfloor heating. A pile of take out menus in the middle of the island suggested that Michael hadn’t done much cooking himself this week and the fridge was almost empty. Not even any milk.

  Valerie found a one-sided flyer, turned it over and started writing a shopping list. Milk, supper - she opened the crisper drawer to see if there were any fruit or vegetables fit for more than the compost bin - and was greeted with the bitter scent of Seville oranges.

  The marmalade. She had just finished the first boil when Darlene rang with news of their mother’s stroke. There’d been no time to dig around the still un-organized cupboards for plastic containers, she’d just poured the contents of the jelly pan directly into the fridge before rushing to the hospital.

  Now she carefully pulled out the drawer and put it on to the counter. This smell, the promise of sweet that was never quite delivered on, would always take her back to her childhood. Her mother had made marmalade every January, just as her own mother had done. As far back as Valerie could remember, she and Darlene had sat on the kitchen stools in their matching aprons and helped pit the fruit, weigh the sugar, write the labels. Later they sliced the oranges, arguing over the merits of a thicker or thinner cut.

  Even though she and Michael rarely ate toast, rarely ate breakfast at all, every winter when she saw Sevilles in the store she bought them. There were jars of marmalade in the basement, rows of them, but Valerie gifted them and baked with them and kept up the annual three day ritual of canning the thick orange jelly.

  Letting go. Not one of her strong points. She hung on to grudges, much as she disliked that trait. She clung to unrealized dreams too, well after she knew it would be healthier to move on. But making marmalade, this was harmless.

  Her shopping
list abandoned, she found the jelly pan where Michael had hidden it in the dishwasher, put it into the oversized sink and filled it with hot soapy water. For years she’d struggled to wash dishes in the little sink of their old kitchen; she tried to concentrate on how easy it was to use this one and she looked out the window to appreciate the light and the view, even if it was only dirty grey snow not entirely covering the remnants of last summer’s unraked lawn. One of the magazines in the hospital waiting room had an article about living in the moment, suggesting just this - enjoy washing dishes, concentrate on the simple pleasures, seek out everyday moments of contentment. Valerie thought she could change. She would buy some of the fig cookies Darlene liked, or used to like, for when she came round later, and hear her out, agree to go and look at the assisted living communities with her sister. But first, this.

  She didn’t need the marmalade recipe but flipped through her box of three by five cards anyhow because the recipe was in her mother’s handwriting. Her mother, who hadn’t even seen the new kitchen yet. Valerie had invited her for Sunday dinner, planning a big reveal. But she’d had the first stroke on Friday afternoon and the weekend had been spent in hospital. And now- Valerie had to look at the calendar. Friday. It was Friday. Had been a week.

  Valerie’s stomach cramped at the idea that her mother might never see her new kitchen. As she poured in the water and peel she refused to let her mind complete that thought. She focused on squeezing the pits and pith from the muslin bag until it was dry, and the thick, clear pectin had oozed down into the pan. She wasn’t going to be influenced by Darlene’s pessimism. Lifting the pot on to the front burner, she positioned it with precision; transforming the orange peel and water into perfect jars of marmalade might be the single most important thing she could do to insure her mother’s recovery. She lit the flame and watched the blue ring beneath the pot for a moment before going down to the basement to find a box of empty jars.

  For the first time in years she forgot to duck as she went back up the stairs and her forehead caught the beam straight on. The pain was instant and she cried out, but managed to neither drop the box of glass nor lose her footing. Momentarily blinded, she blinked away the explosion of bright dots, swore once, and slowly walked, crouched, over the rest of the way. Getting rid of those damn beams had been high on her wish list, but one of the things she and Michael had just never got round to having changed. Bending had become instinctive. She’d thought.

  She dabbed at her forehead with a tea towel; there were spots of blood on the worn cotton so she threw the towel into the back hall towards the laundry pile and started washing the jars. She’d always been a bit clumsy - Michael’s first nickname for her was Flip, in reference to her tendency of tripping over uneven paving slabs, tree roots, curbs when they were out walking; those were days when they explored Toronto in an ever-widening circle from the campus grounds. They were professor and student then, and discussed CanLit, Northrop Frye, Callaghan and Ross and Laurence. Giddy with unspoken feelings, Valerie’s care not to act on the urge to flirt rendered her even clumsier than usual and at some point most evenings Professor Keyes reached out his arm to steady her.

  Later they strolled around this neighbourhood on summer evenings, holding hands and sharing detailed dreams for their future; then he called her Mrs Keyes. Over time the nicknames had changed to more generic terms of endearment and she supposed they exchanged them now without thinking. That same magazine in the hospital - she had read it cover to cover, twice, while awaiting news of her mother - had warned against allowing one’s marriage to grow too comfortable.

  They weren’t too comfortable. She bit down on the thought. She and Michael were the exception that proved the rule. The long-simmered attraction they’d masked until after she’d graduated resulted in a solid friendship, a strong foundation for a happily-ever-after for the confirmed bachelor and the much younger woman. The seventeen-year age gap, they promised each other, would never grow into an uncrossable chasm. Nor would the imbalance in their careers lead to an unmendable rift. They survived the inevitable whispers, her loss of the teaching job she’d hoped would lead to a tenure-track position at the University, their unexpected infertility.

  Maybe this was the year she’d return to serious research. Back on track. And while the cost of the new kitchen would preclude a winter getaway they didn’t need the excuse of a holiday to be together. Maybe, with this new kitchen, they’d even start entertaining again.

  The jars were clean and dry, she put them in the oven to sterilise and rooted through the drawers of utensils to find the jam funnel and the dry goods cupboard to find the sugar. She couldn’t remember how many oranges she’d used, she guessed ten. When the water came to a boil, sending the peel up to the surface in a series of eddies, she poured in ten pounds of sugar and glanced at her watch. An hour and a half. There would still be time to dash to the store for cookies, milk for Darlene and something simple, but home-made, for supper, maybe steak and baked potatoes.

  Darlene. Valerie suddenly wondered if her sister might have called when she was in the shower. Their relationship was so fragile - she didn’t want to ignore a call. Nothing on her cell. Leaving the marmalade on the stove she went into the living room to press play on the landline’s answering machine. The sound of her own voice startled her - she was calling Michael yesterday to tell him she’d stay over again in case her mother woke up.

  Then an unknown female. “Professor Keyes, it’s Lucinda. I’m sorry - I think I’ve called the wrong number. I’ll try your cell.” Lucinda? Student, faculty, staff?

  Then Michael’s voice. “Welcome home, I guess, when you get this. Your cell isn’t going to message so I’m assuming you’re still in the hospital. I hope your mother is . . better. You might have forgotten I’m in Ottawa for the Symposium this weekend. Back Monday, when I think we should-” then the machine cut out, as was its wont.

  Symposium. Mystery and menace: survival of the heroine in contemporary Canadian novels. He’d been invited to give a paper and sit on a panel. Yes, she had completely forgotten. So no need to cook dinner then; she could go back to the hospital. She wondered what he’d been about to say, what he thought they should do.

  She picked up the phone to call him. Stood for some time, trying to decide what it was she needed to say, but she wasn’t sure. She put the phone down and sat on the sofa, closed her eyes.

  It was a hissing noise that woke her. Disoriented, it took some time for her to remember where she was, why, and to get to the kitchen where the marmalade was boiling over the top of the pot and spitting as it hit the open flame.

  “No!” The brand new stove, covered. Already the heady citrus smell was overwhelmed by the stench of burning sugar. Valerie grabbed at the nearest handle, realizing how hot it was only as she touched it. She pulled back her hand, swearing, but she hadn’t let go soon enough. Her palm was burnt, and in her haste she’d pulled the pot askew.

  There was no time to reach for an oven glove or do anything more than back away and watch as the pot teetered on the edge of the stove, a wave of dark orange syrup swelling, then sloshing over the side. It seemed to hesitate; then, in slow motion, it fell. For an instant there was a waterfall of translucent liquid transformed into a stained glass window by the winter sun which caught each individual piece of amber peel in its spiralled dance.

  There had been a moment during their wedding when she’d faltered, closed her eyes and prayed for a sign that her sister, who had boycotted the city hall ceremony, was wrong. She remembered opening her eyes just as sunlight entered the room, throwing up bright patterns which masked the dull walls, reminding her that all things were possible.

  But it was only an instant - then the pot was bouncing once, twice, on the floor, spraying treacly liquid over the stove, the fridge, the walls and the cabinets, spreading across the floor, splattering her shirt and jeans, gumming into her hair. Boiling sugar - everywhere.

  Valerie grabbed the cloth from the sink, barely registering the
heat on her feet, knelt down and started trying to contain the flow to the kitchen floor. The cloth disintegrated and she pulled back her hand, her eyes smarting with the pain.

  There was nothing she could do; she had to wait until the boiling sugar cooled enough for her to start mopping it up. She backed away, turned off the underfloor heating, stripped off her clothes then watched the mess start to coagulate. The wrinkles rippled as the jam started to solidify; it would have been a lovely set. She dipped a finger into a nearby puddle on the floor, blew softly, then licked it. Her mother, especially, would have loved it, just the right balance of sweet to tart.

  She picked up the jelly pan, noticing only then that it had chipped the floor tile. Tears threatened. Her kitchen, already robbed of its new-ness. The stove would never again look pristine, and when it was moved out to be replaced in thirty years’ time, there would be pieces of dried peel so shrivelled as to be unidentifiable, stuck to the underside of the oven and in the corner, covered with inches of dust.

  She cleaned, hard. Soapy water, floor cleaner, powdered cleanser. The dark wood of the cabinets had blistered where the marmalade had hit. The chipped tile would always catch the dirt and the grout, stained already, would rot, eventually lifting the tile until it had to be replaced with a new one that would never quite match.

  She wondered if Michael would notice the damage, would comment if he did, or what a real estate agent might say. Or anyone watching her now, scrubbing the floor in her bra and panties, her palm raw from bleach on the burned skin.

  Valerie blinked. No tears. It was spilled marmalade, that was all. A mess, but messes could be cleaned up. She could make the floor be not sticky. She could fix things with Darlene; she’d tell her sister that she’d been right. That there were forty-three steps, she’d counted them. She found an old toothbrush and tried treating the grout with more bleach, inch by inch. The kitchen could look like it had this morning, if she just scoured it enough.