Bone and Bread

by Saleema Nawaz

  At Sadhana’s, the afternoon light has already begun to change, and I am struck by how much of the weekend I have already squandered avoiding the task at hand. I hurry up the stairs, then feel a sharp tug on my sleeve and almost stumble. Gripping the boxes, which tip forward but do not spill, I turn slightly to see a young man with a broad smile standing to the left of the staircase.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he says. He has a clipboard and a royal blue bowtie knotted around the collar of a crisp white shirt. “Just trying to get your attention.”

  I frown at the cuff of my sleeve with pointed concentration.

  “Could you spare a few minutes of your time?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” I continue up to the landing and close the door on him. I don’t want to give myself time for any more excuses.

  I decide to start with the clothes, promising myself to make a dent in the work I need to do before any search for a missing diary. Without allowing myself time to reflect, I throw on a CD of house music, numbingly loud, and toss a few large boxes into the bedroom. The oversized closet has dusty shutter doors that fold up like accordions, a high, cluttered shelf, and one light bulb on a switch. I drag in a chair from the kitchen and flip on the light in the closet. When I get up to shelf level, I count three boxes marked Photos, but I decide they can stay for now. I climb down from the chair and set it aside. I daren’t touch them anyhow.

  I pull down the clothes quickly; no more than one sharp tug per item. A swift look before sending them into a box. No folding. No remembering.

  The operation is a blur of colour: wool and linen in gem tones and greys and blacks. Deep dyes and Indian cotton. More handwash-only in the first five minutes than I’ve owned in my entire life. There are a lot of clothes, and more than a few things I’ve forgotten she had, things I haven’t seen in years. Before long, the box designated for clothes to give away is virtually empty, the other verging on full. A dozen more items I’ve flung on the bed to make up my mind about later. She liked to wear loose things. It’s possible some of them will even fit me.

  I start pulling down the hangers themselves, clothes clinging to their wooden shoulders. A span of dresses I deposit wholesale in the box of things to keep, the weight of the wooden hangers compressing the bulk of the pile below. Then a bunch of sweaters and the job is more or less finished. Twenty or thirty hangers still line the crossbar, but I can’t imagine a new tenant objecting.

  At least the shoes covering the closet floor won’t fit me. Two sizes too small. They can all be packed up for charity. Kneeling on the floor, I pull an empty box alongside me and pitch them all inside, until, leaning back on my heels, I feel the hot prickle of tears and force myself up. I don’t know what I was thinking, starting with the clothes. I feel unequal to the task, utterly unprepared. It feels like a violation, more than anything. It takes me back to when we were teenagers. Sadhana yelling at me for borrowing her things without asking. It usually goes the other way, from what I’ve heard — the older sister tends to do the yelling. But Sadhana never wanted anything of mine.

  The diary. Getting up, I check in Sadhana’s childhood spot, between the mattress and the box spring, but finding nothing, I sit back down with a sense of disappointment soon yielding either to exhaustion or relief.

  The things I used to hide under my bed. Items in heaps so extensive that one peek below the bedskirt and the piles would start shifting, slipping out. The only reason anything stayed hidden was that finding something specific would have been impossible. I used to keep notebooks under there, racy True Confessions magazines, the odd piece of clothing Sadhana might have fancied that I wasn’t keen to share. There were library books, too, anatomy textbooks I was sure would betray my fascination with sex. To my sister, anyway. The librarian hadn’t reacted when I’d checked them out.

  I had always assumed Sadhana kept the same sorts of things down there as I did, and one day I violated her bed’s implicit sanctity by getting down on my knees to rummage for a missing Beach Boys record. When I pulled up the ruffle of white eyelet lace, I found nothing more than a neat row of shoeboxes. Later, in therapy, Sadhana revealed that they had contained food in an elaborate configuration. Two boxes for uneaten food smuggled away from meals, rotting in a series of knotted plastic bags until she had a chance to sneak them into the garbage. Another two for chocolate and sweets, things she used to binge on until she gave up on eating altogether. I have no idea what I would have made of the contents of those boxes if I’d lifted the lids that day, but I have a feeling that Sadhana would have tried to explain them away, the horror and the strangeness of them, and I would have believed her. However improbable her story.

  There is nothing below Sadhana’s bed now besides a bit of fluff, though on the opposite side from where I’ve grasped the dust ruffle and thrust my head under, I see a metallic rectangle on the rug, joined to a cord snaking from the outlet behind the nightstand. My sister’s laptop.

  The contents, once I turn it on, are password-protected, and I feed the blinking cursor an array of talismanic possibilities. Our birthday. Papa’s name, VISHRAM SINGH. Mama’s name, KATIE BIRNAM. Our old address above the shop. Finally, one works. QUINN.

  The picture on the desktop background is the same photo as the one on the mantelpiece, of Sadhana and a woman I can now identify as Libby. With the photo enlarged, I can see that the mouths of the carousel horses are open, their squared-off teeth huge and askew. Opening the documents folder, I click through the files but find nothing resembling a diary. Everything is well organized, which doesn’t surprise me. Most of the documents are in a handful of folders marked “No Borders.” Backgrounders. Media. Strategies. Emails — Drafts to Send.

  In “Backgrounders” I open a file named “Bassam Essaid” and see the photo that flashed on the newscast. The same man that Ravi was denouncing as an illegal alien. It follows that, somewhere along the line, Sadhana would have caught wind of Ravi’s opposition to Bassam Essaid’s refugee claim, not to mention Ravi’s political candidacy. I wonder exactly how long my sister was aware of what Quinn’s father was up to, and how long she kept herself from mentioning him to me.

  The Algerian civil war began in 1991 and claimed at least 150,000 lives before an amnesty in 1999 led many of the rebels to lay down their arms. Some refugee claimants fleeing the war were granted asylum, and some were not, and a ban on deportations to Algeria permitted a number of these refugees to remain in Canada without legal status. But the abatement of violence in that country after the amnesty left a number of these non-status Algerians in limbo after Canada decided Algeria was no longer a danger to its inhabitants. The decision followed closely upon a newly forged political and economic alliance between the then-prime ministers of the two countries.

  There isn’t a trace of my sister’s voice in the document, nor is it the sort of thing that ought to showcase any personal style. It seems unlike her, to disappear into a cause. Yet the volume of work saved on her computer seems to give the lie to whatever prior notion of Sadhana I keep presuming is the real one.

  As a conscientious objector and outspoken atheist, Bassam Essaid claims he will face deadly reprisals should he be forced to return to his country of birth, but the Immigration Board of Canada disagrees.

  In his six years in Montreal, despite being unable to work or study, Bassam Essaid has fully integrated into Quebec society. He has also campaigned tirelessly to help other refugees seeking official status. He met and married his wife, herself a Somalian refugee, in Canada, though unlike her husband, her immigration status is secure. Together they have one child, born in Montreal, a baby boy now less than a year old.

  I spend a few minutes opening and closing other files, wading through a wealth of these specific functional documents and little that seems personal. But there are hundreds of folders and subfolders to dig through. Following the intricate architecture of my sister’s organizational scheme is like lowering myself through a
n ever-narrowing hole. It is tedious and tiring, and when I turn off the computer, I feel calmer.

  Moving the laptop aside, I pull back the covers and crawl in between the egg-blue sheets. The linens, that’s something else to deal with. The bed, too. All the furniture. God. I’ll need a truck, not to mention somewhere to put it all.

  I imagine Quinn in this place, the walls papered over with Radiohead posters and Linux charts, if he were able to move in. And, inevitable at the end of the summer, another packing job. All of Quinn’s books and clothes taped into boxes, too. And with the thought of this packing, or in what I tell myself is the terrifying thought of all the work ahead, my lips begin trembling in earnest, and I let my tears leak out onto Sadhana’s pillow in a long cry that I lead myself out of only once I start to hear the regular sounds of birds and cars outside. Against this reassuring soundtrack, I begin a mental enumeration of new necessities for Quinn when he leaves home, depending on what the residence hall provides. A proper desk instead of our old kitchen table, a bookcase instead of his planks-and-bricks setup along one wall. Maybe a toaster.

  Somewhere in the middle of this inventory, I fall asleep.

  I am woken by a distant knocking that I decide is some sort of home improvement project going on in the apartment below. Picture hanging, or maybe crate assembling, something pointless and endlessly loud. I roll over onto my other side, away from the window, pull one of the cushions down over my ear. Then I hear the soft beeping tone of my cellphone ringing inside my purse on the floor. I fumble for it, bringing it to my ear.

  “I’m downstairs,” says Quinn. He sounds impatient. “Let me in.”

  When I unlock the door, he gives me a hard look, the entitled frown of annoyance of a person who has been kept waiting.

  “Hey,” says Quinn. “What were you doing?” He shoves a pamphlet in my face. “New political party,” he says, and with a prescient fear I take it from him, my heartbeat loud in my ears. “It was jammed into the door.”

  And so I am barely surprised to see the three-fold glossy emblazoned with the words MOUVEMENT QUÉBEC/QUEBEC FIRST, Ravi’s affiliation that I saw on the evening news. Literature no doubt left behind by the man who’d yanked on my sleeve. The idea of Quebec independence not a recurring debate so much as a familiar refrain coming around after every new verse. A glance at the pamphlet shows me that it features only the party leader and key platform messages; Ravi’s name and those of the other candidates have not been included. And a quick check of Quinn’s face reveals no special interest or concern.

  “Hi,” I say. “You’re here.” I pull back the door to let him in, and the light from outside is dazzling. I can feel the heat coming off him as he squeezes by, taking the stairs two at a time. It isn’t like him to push past me. I follow slowly. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Okay,” I say, understanding, and my heart aches. But there is no way to take on this pain on his behalf. He is here now, of his own accord.

  He pauses for a moment on the landing. I am standing two steps below, and I see the outline of his wallet in his back pocket, the lighter rectangle of denim on the right side. It’s an image I associate with men I’ve known, their easy practicality. The way they move through time, happy to let it show in these little signs and markers. Shoes, jeans, wallets wearing out as a matter of pride.

  “Go ahead,” I say. “It’s okay.” And he steps into the apartment without looking back, as if not to acknowledge any hesitation. He looks to the left, where there is a brass umbrella stand with three umbrellas, a companionable number, and a straight-backed wooden chair, a favourite spot for shedding purses and coats. Then his head turns to the right, to the hallway that leads to the bedroom, then down to his sneakers.

  “Leave them on,” I say. “We’ll be dealing with boxes and stuff.” But he takes two squeaky steps inside before turning back, stepping on the heels of his sneakers to slip them off. He leaves them next to my own scuffed sandals, removed from force of habit.

  “She wouldn’t like it,” he says, and he’s probably right. It took Sadhana years of pleading to get her landlord to refinish the hardwood floors, and now they are shiny and perfect. So shiny I still half expect my bare feet to stick to the varnish, stopped in my tracks like a mouse caught in a glue trap.

  I head back into the bedroom, and behind me, Quinn says, “It feels the same here. I thought it would feel different.”

  “I know.” Though I’m not sure if he means because Sadhana is gone or because we know that she died here, that this is where she was found. My involuntary imagination has run through every possibility, but I don’t know where exactly, which room. There are reasons to be grateful for Uncle’s reticence.

  “Have you been sleeping?”

  The sheets have given me away, along with the scattered mess of clothing all over the bed, the things on the floor to either side. I pick up my bag and stuff the political pamphlet into it, together with Sadhana’s laptop and some of the strewn items.

  “A little,” I say, though I have no idea what time it is or how long I have been asleep. This time of year, it stays nearly as bright as noon until past eight. Quinn ties back the double drapes so the whole room is full of sun, revealing the barest hint of lilac in the light paint, the zest of yellow colour fields in two Rothko-inspired canvases on the wall behind the bed.

  “Where were you?” I ask, remembering how he left before I was up.

  “Went for a walk.” He is looking out the window. I can hear a family with small children walking by, high-pitched chattering over the lower murmurs of adult conversation. For the most part, it is a quiet block, just trees and walk-ups and on the corner a vegan café with two banks of washers and dryers.

  I finish sorting the clothes on the bed and begin tackling everything else in sight, whatever I can see that can be packed. Quinn takes some boxes into the living room, and we work in silence for a while. There is no sign of a diary. When I start to get hot, I search on Sadhana’s dresser for an elastic and pull my hair back in a ponytail. I can hear the plasticky shuffle of CDs as Quinn stacks them in a box.

  “Are we keeping all this stuff?” he calls out.

  “We can keep whatever we want.” Or rather, we’ll keep whatever we can’t bring ourselves to give away.

  When I check on Quinn later in the living room, I find he is more efficient than I am. The CD racks are stripped and disassembled, the books and magazines packed. He is working his way towards the kitchen.

  “I guess we’re taking just about everything then,” he says again.

  “I guess.” I wonder if unexpected loss always breeds materialism or if it is only in our family. Sadhana and I divvying up all of Mama’s clothes, and the accompanying screaming matches. There is one horrible scene I always think of, a yellow terrycloth robe torn seam from seam. And afterwards, both of us stalking off with our halves, tucking away the unwearable strips in our secret spots. Both of us reminding me of the bad mother before King Solomon, the one who had already lost everything that mattered. “Except the furniture,” I amend. “Though it’s a pity we can’t sell it.”

  “Sell it?” says Quinn. “Why would we?” And then, “Why can’t we?”

  “We don’t need it. Also, I wouldn’t know how to go about selling it all. Not a lot of time to advertise.”

  “The internet,” Quinn says with the merest shake of his head. “But I’m moving out. You don’t want to have to buy me all new stuff.”

  I pause, considering the logic of this. “Maybe. We’ll see. Maybe some stuff.”

  The light from outside is beginning to drop when I finally finish up most of the bedroom, leaving one of the larger boxes untaped in case we want some of the clothes to wrap around breakables. Quinn has packed up the towels and linens in the bathroom, and I see that he has filled a tote bag with half-used bottles of shampoo and wrapped guest soaps.

 
“You’re thorough,” I say. I hope he has thrown out the toothbrushes, the makeup.

  “I try.” He steps past me to the wide windows behind the sofa, where square pillar candles on shallow ceramic dishes are ranged along the ledge. He gives me an inquiring look. When I shrug, he begins placing them in a box one by one.

  “Someone must have been watering the plants,” he says. As he carries the box back to where he has begun stacking them in the middle of the room, he stops by the spreading jade plant set on a low bookcase. His fingers graze a leaf, waxy and smooth. There is not even a wrinkle. “This wouldn’t have made it. The cactus maybe, but only maybe.”

  “You’re right,” I say, though I’m unsure, wondering how my teenage son came to feel like an authority. We have the garden at home, but no houseplants. “Uncle, I guess.”

  Quinn puts on the radio in the kitchen and tunes it to the university station. Over the music, I can hear the muted bang and rattle of cupboards and drawers being opened and closed.

  I am rolling up one of the long carpets in the hallway when I notice a shadow under the bookcase. Under the chair by the door and slipped halfway beneath the bottom shelf, where it looks as though it might have fallen, is a zippered leather agenda, scuffed along the spine. Not a diary, but Sadhana’s planner. I drop to one knee to pick it up.

  It is a Filofax-style agenda, with dated calendar pages, an address book, plain lined pages with personal notes, and coloured tabs dividing each month and section. A pocket at the back stuffed with receipts and business cards, and a wad of other slips of paper tucked in among the pages. Normally it was always in her purse, the purse that Uncle already took away, concerned as he was — as somebody had to be — about cancelling her cellphone service and credit cards.