Extensions

by Myrna Dey

  We each gave her a careful hug, then pulled up chairs and sat at the side of her bed. Lawrence perched on the edge of the vacant bed in the room, cap in hand, feet barely grazing the floor.

  “How nice of you to come, Lew. And for you to take time from your busy job, Bella.”

  She recounted the story of her heart attack. How she finished the supper dishes, how she felt tired, how she pushed herself to water her posies because it had been so dry lately instead of sitting down to watch the news as she normally did. “She could have asked me, but oh no,” said Lawrence on cue. Then she described her indigestion, thinking it was because she had met a friend for lunch and ordered her first Thai salad, which was spicier than she liked. Then the heartburn got worse, so she went and sat in the kitchen. “He was putting the lawnmower away when the pain really started. I could barely get to the door to call him.”

  “Fortunately, the ambulance came right away or the damage could have been a lot worse.”

  The two of them had relived these details so many times they were now in slow motion and perfect unison. Ordinary events that would not bear repeating except for their consequences. Something like my dream where those underground tunnels were collapsing while everyday life went on above. I sat captivated by the story, mainly because Janetta became Sara in the telling. They had always looked alike, though Sara was considered pretty, feminine, and vivacious, and her daughter, neat and pleasant-looking. Today Janetta’s grey hair, not yet fastened into a roll, fell around her thin face and shoulders and transported me back to the Vancouver General and my final visits to Sara. Maybe it was because I had so recently lost my mother that I suddenly saw Janetta as a necessary member of my world. A woman I hardly knew became my mother and grandmother. “You have to get better,” I blurted out. At the same time my nose started dripping and it probably looked as if I were crying.

  “Thank you, dear,” she said, surprised. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. They want to do more tests and then I’ll be released.”

  Dad appeared oblivious to this blurring of identities going on in my head. He knew this was his sister and not his wife or mother and continued talking to her about Lenny and Doug and how he had been doing on his own for the last six months. “Don’t know how I would have managed without her,” I heard him say before realizing he was talking about me.

  “We’re both starting courses in the fall,” I said. “He’s taking cartoon drawing and I’m taking history.”

  “We’ll see,” said Dad, embarrassed. “She wants me to start a course so I don’t drive her crazy.”

  “That’s perfect, Lew. You know, Bella, I used to love it when we were kids and your dad had to look after me if Mother and Dad were out. He’d draw fantasy figures the whole time. Better than the funnies, by far. What did you name your comic strip again? The Ratchet Family, that’s it. They all looked like tools. Mrs. Ratchet had curlers in her hair, so her head looked like a ratchet wheel. Her husband was Hatchet Ratchet and he had a hatchet jaw. The son was Hammerhead and the daughter was Naillie, thin as a nail. The town they lived in was called Latchtown, and all the doors and windows of all the houses had huge latches. The province was Patchton, so everything anybody owned was covered with patches.”

  “How come you didn’t draw the Ratchets for me?” I demanded. “But I was pretty happy with Cedric the Cockroach and Thump the Butterfly.”

  Janetta began to shake with laughter, more relaxed and merry than I had ever seen her.

  Dad too laughed in spite of himself, then pointed out the absurdity of thinking he should attempt cartoons when there were so many young talented artists and animators in this digital age. He said he was going to work on a children’s book instead, using cartoon-type illustrations; he already had a rhyming text in mind. The courage to make this announcement to me when I had other plans for his grief therapy obviously came from having his sister and her husband in the room with us. Mob mentality — I saw it all the time on the streets. To make his point, he got up and started toward the door. “We’re tiring Janetta. We’ll go to the cafeteria and let her rest.”

  Janetta looked wistful as Lawrence, Dad, and I filed out, but when we returned later, she was asleep. Her eyes opened at our approach, her face drained of the liveliness it had held earlier. Lawrence rolled up her bed so she would not have to lift her head from the pillow.

  “We’d better go,” Dad said, reaching over to take his sister’s hand by way of goodbye.

  “You just got here,” she murmured.

  “We don’t want to undo all your treatment in one visit.”

  “I wish you lived closer. It’s so good to see you both.”

  “When you’re feeling better, we’ll come back again.”

  The resemblance to Sara continued to amaze me and I told her so. She smiled and said Lenny had said the same thing yesterday.

  “Do you have any pictures of Sara as a child?”

  “The only one I’ve seen is of the two sisters with bows in their hair. Don’t you have it?”

  “Somewhere. I have to search.” I decided not to bring up the look-alike photo.

  “She wanted it handed down through the girls in the family and I didn’t have daughters.”

  “I don’t suppose there are any photos of her mother.”

  “Not that I remember. I have some of Jane’s letters — Mother gave them to me before she died. They were written to Jane’s sisters in Wales, so I don’t know how Mother ended up with them.” Janetta put her hand to her mouth and shook her head the way Sara did. “Isn’t that the limit? They’re in a trunk downstairs and I haven’t even looked at them. There was so much to sort I forgot about them.”

  I could feel Dad pacing around the room behind me, a signal to get going. “I’d like to read them some day. I’d like to learn more about my great-grandmother.”

  “Jane Hughes had a short, sad, hard life, that’s all I know about her. Why don’t you come back and we can go through them together.”

  I kissed Janetta on the forehead and followed Dad into the corridor. Uncle Lawrence lingered a moment to inform his wife of the potato bug count and the Sears bill amount. He wanted us to stay for an early supper. He had steaks to barbecue and new carrots, peas, and the potatoes he had rescued. I was agreeable because I could see the empty house was torture for him. Dad, however, did not hesitate.

  “Next time,” he said as Lawrence pulled into his garage and he headed straight for my car. “Bella has to be up by five tomorrow. Morning shift, you know.”

  “I’d like to hear more about your job sometime,” Lawrence said.

  Instead of looking at my uncle’s disappointed face, I stared at my lying father. I had just come off my block and he knew that. I was to be the fall guy. When I saw him take a cigar from his shirt pocket for the ferry ride home, I remembered where those cigars were most enjoyed. Douglas Park. Dad was planning to watch a recreational baseball game this evening while sitting with his pocket radio tuned into the major leagues. I gave Uncle Lawrence an extra sympathetic hug because I did not want him to know his brother-in-law’s real motive in getting away so quickly. It brought no laugh this time.

  And as we pulled away, my mind too was on the mainland: wondering which box of photos in Dad’s closet would hold the two little girls.

  FOR THE NEXT FEW WEEKS I was too busy at work to go through the boxes. After hours there were barbecues. Our watch was pretty tight despite some squabbling that went on behind backs. Being non-confrontational myself, I had come to the conclusion that this method was as good as any to deal with a grievance. Eventually it disappears, and you haven’t left two parties with words in their heads they won’t forget.

  When I was free and not too tired, I’d meet Dad for a quick meal at Wendy’s. Keeping my distance from the kitchen where Mom ruled was becoming selfish and impractical. Sometimes I would go back to the house with him and watch Jeopardy! until the emptiness was too much to bear. How could Dad sit and watch TV in the basement room surrounded by Mom�
��s exercise equipment?

  “I’m going to put a sign up at work to sell this stuff,” I announced suddenly after we realized we were watching a rerun of a show we had seen with Mom when she guessed the final answer none of the contestants knew. “You’ll never use it.”

  “You don’t want it?”

  “It wouldn’t fit in my place.”

  “You could use it here.”

  “It’s too much Mom. As soon as it’s gone, I’ll probably buy myself a set.”

  “Do what you want.” Dad shrugged, rightly confused by my logic.

  By the weekend, I had sold Jake on the deal, and he swapped his precious Volvo for a friend’s truck for an hour to pick up the works — treadmill, trampoline, bicycle, Ab Master. After he left, I stayed to watch a baseball game with Dad, but now I couldn’t stand being there because the equipment was gone. What kind of daughter was that? I reminded myself Dad was faced with this empty house all the time; at least he was in it when I was there.

  For me, it was more than missing Mom. In fact, I was often so aware of unspoken standards in her presence that I couldn’t deny a certain freedom, much as I hated to admit it. What I had lost was a sense of what to do next. She always knew, even when I didn’t want to follow. She provided distractions for me when pieces of the future I had planned with Ray Kelsey kept coming back like demonic homing pigeons. A brisk walk — make that a brutal march — around Stanley Park, a movie, lunch in Kitsilano. She was always upbeat, and as annoying as that could be when I wanted to feel sorry for myself, her mood eventually dominated mine. She even died on Valentine’s Day to make sure I was surrounded by flowers when there would be no more from Ray. This house was hollow without her.

  To prolong my visit with Dad, I made up my mind to look for the picture of Sara and her sister. I got as far as the walk-in closet in Mom and Dad’s bedroom, where boxes of overflow photos, letters, and yearbooks had been stored since I was a kid. I opened one and saw two or three alternate poses — the best photos had gone in an album — of Mom looking radiant holding me as a big bald baby. I had to get out of there right away, so I deserted Dad again and went back to my apartment.

  The next time I saw him was registration night. After supper at Wendy’s, he decided to accompany me to the college, so he would have a new sidewalk to pace while he smoked his cigar. As I was experiencing a sudden case of jitters walking into the building, he remained cheery outside. I felt conspicuous in a skirt worn for the occasion, a long batik wraparound that brushed the top of my sandals. As if I were taking this too seriously, the other registrants, all ages and sizes, hurried in and out in shorts, accustomed to the procedure. I suspected they were all more studious than I was. Other than the RCMP depot, the last exams I had taken were Grade Twelve departmentals. But I had been accumulating black book time for these classes, so I was not about to throw my bonus hours away. My B.C. history prospectus covered three single-spaced pages of reference material and I suddenly wished I had signed up for English as a second language. When I came out, Dad was irritating. He was singing “Up a Lazy River” and held out his hand to see my book list.

  “I guess courses don’t change that much. You might have to buy one history book. I think we’ve got most of the others.”

  “Show-off. I know what you’re thinking.”

  “I don’t even know what I’m thinking.”

  “You’re thinking I should have taken a course like this a long time ago.”

  “Why would I think that?

  “Because it’s true.”

  He lit another cigar and we set off into the soft evening air. When he continued singing, I decided not to hold my own insecurities against him. He hadn’t sung like this for a long time.

  The following Wednesday I sped straight from work to my history class. The enrollment was small, composed mainly of visible minorities. At work we had to classify people according to race, and my mental pen noted them automatically. I ended up sitting next to a young guy probably in his early twenties, a mixture of Caucasian and Black, who smiled as if he knew me. I wondered if I had ever picked him up. No, he appeared too genuinely friendly to be a shit rat — you get to know their type.

  “This your first course?”

  That’s getting personal, I thought as I answered: “For a while, anyway.”

  “I mean with Barnwell. You ever had him before?”

  I shook my head just as Barnwell walked in and introduced himself. Early fifties, small and slight, with long curly hair like Howard Stern. As soon as he opened his mouth, all heads straightened to attention. For the next hour and a half his booming voice brought the Haidas, Captains Drake, Cook, and Vancouver to life. His lecture made me think of the Disney films I saw as a kid where a paintbrush creates an entire scene with a few brushstrokes. I noticed my neighbour taking detailed notes. At the end, he turned to me with a “So how did you like him?” grin and I spoke without thinking: “Will you be coming to all these classes?”

  “I never miss Barnwell.”

  “Would you mind doing me a favour? I work shifts and might have to miss a class. Would you share your notes with me if I do?”

  “You a nurse?”

  I nodded because I could see this guy putting up his hands and joking, “Anything you say, officer,” if I told the truth.

  “Sure, any time.” He stood up from the desk and towered a good four inches over me. I was not expecting that.

  I thanked him and walked ahead since he seemed to be waiting for me to go first. At the door I turned back to say: “You’re right. He really is good.”

  Next day I was off to a bad start at work. Walking from the locker room to the cars, I came face to face with Ray Kelsey. He was at the main desk getting some information about one of his clients in cells. I had not seen him since he showed up uninvited at Mom’s funeral.

  “Hello,” I said, rushing past him. I tried to keep the sound of my heart drumming against my bulletproof vest as background accompaniment instead of a solo.

  “Hi, Bella.” He gave me a big crocodile grin showing all his treacherous capped teeth. He was tanned, and handsome as ever in his lawyer’s suit. “How ya doin’?”

  Cut the street talk, I said to myself. “Very well.”

  “Your dad? He’s okay?”

  “Fine.” I was not about to share Dad’s welfare with Ray, so I left it at that.

  It was clear Ray wanted to chat, but his phone rang from his pocket, rescuing me. I fluttered my fingers at him and hurried on. His eyes followed me with a confused look. I heard him speaking sharply as I walked away — probably Blondie wanting him to pick up some nail polish on his way back to the office. I found my cruiser as fast as I could and exited the parking lot as if I’d been called out on a high-speed chase.

  In sight, in mind. Thanks a lot, Ray, thanks a lot, Retha. You’ve joined forces to ruin my life. For a second I saw my mother as the little blonde co-conspirator sitting in Ray’s office. I had counted on them cherishing me forever, and they both dumped me. I held back the tears until I was alone in the car writing up the file from my first B&E of the day. When I left, the female whose house had been burglarized was still wailing over her stolen jewels. Get a grip, woman, I felt like saying. You can get more of those gold bangles when your sister goes to India next month, just as your husband said. I had to get used to losing an engagement ring myself. Instead of the one Ray Kelsey almost bought me, I ended up with my mother’s.

  I put the plastic bag containing the woman’s cheap jewel case in the trunk. I had taken it simply to give the woman some hope, though I knew no clues would result from it. People felt better when you mentioned the word “fingerprints,” but they didn’t realize how difficult it is to get a good print from a crime scene; you must get the points to connect on six or seven circles of the print and the clearest surface is glass or metal. Besides, I wouldn’t be surprised if this case was a set-up. The suspect had left an upturned crate under the open window of the Hindu prayer room, where, for security
reasons, the woman had moved the jewels from the master bedroom just the night before. She had no insurance, so she probably did not stage it herself, but I didn’t rule out the husband. He seemed like the moocher type who might come up with the idea of fencing his wife’s jewellery. No proof, of course.

  As I wrote up the file in the car, tears plopped like summer raindrops. I blotted my eyes and the paper with a tissue. I don’t know how long I sat there with my chin bobbing uncontrollably, but I pulled myself together when I saw a P.C. approaching from the other direction. Dave drove up, rolled down his window and said “Denny’s?”

  I nodded and he cruised on. Usually I looked forward to breakfast with the guys. I enjoyed being the only female on our watch. Not that I wasn’t comfortable with female members, but I liked knowing what men thought when they were together — I didn’t always like what they thought, but I liked knowing. This morning I did not have much of an appetite when Dave, Jake, Sukhi, and Emile squeezed further into the booth to make room for me. Dave had hot chocolate, the other three ordered coffee, and as soon as I sat down, the waitress arrived with platters of eggs and pancakes. She looked to me for my order.

  “Toast and coffee, please.”

  “You okay?” Dave asked. “You seemed a bit shaky back there.” Dave was a big guy, a Mormon. We called him Rudder because he insisted on taking the steering wheel if anyone drove with him. He also believed he was ordained to steer everyone in the right direction, including his wife and four kids, and all the lawbreakers he picked up. I pitied anyone who had to listen to one of his sermons from the back seat.

  Emile was the brains of our group. We called him Mr. Know-It-All because he did. Ask him a simple question like the difference between condominiums and co-op housing, and he would go on for fifteen minutes. We learned to ask him things at the beginning of a meal and not when we were running out of time. He had an anthropology degree from Concordia and, as a native French speaker, he delighted in correcting our English. He was the one we consulted about the Criminal Code whenever doubts arose. At least I did. Dave and Jake believed they knew it all too.