by Jo Owens
Shouldn’t we have put the weak side in first?
Yeah, that’s right, good catch, except in this case, the clothes I’ve chosen have enough room so it doesn’t matter.
Meaning I’m wearing a shapeless bag.
Molly is already reaching under my legs, bringing the sling through so that I can hang in the air like a springtime planter basket full of limbs. Molly leaves me on the bed.
There’s no room to store her chair in here; we keep it in the sunroom…
And she’s gone, then she’s back with my wheelchair. Molly kicks the brakes on, seizes the controller for the overhead lift from the charger on the wall, and brings the lift down from the ceiling while she crosses the room.
Okay, here’s a little trick. If you spread a blanket over the chair, and put the chair pad over the blanket, you can wrap that right around her and one, she’s warm, and two, no skin ever shows. So let’s hook her up, and away she goes. Now keep your eye on that tube.
And I’m flying through the air, a block on a crane, my gastrotube still connected to the pump. Molly has a grip on the back of the sling and she manoeuvres me into the chair with my bottom smack in the back and my hips square. Ah, thank God. There’s nothing worse than being cockeyed in the chair and not being able to do a damn thing about it. Molly’s already brushing my hair briskly while Gayla slips a necklace over my head.
As we go by the nursing station, I’m gonna tell the nurse to disconnect her. Then she can come down to the dining room.
She doesn’t eat.
No, she doesn’t, but she likes to watch the people. Get out of here for a change, right, Frannie?
Molly winks, then rolls her eyes for me, making out that it’s just the two of us against the world. Then she’s out of here and I’m sitting with my back to the room, looking directly out of the window, hooked up to my silent feeding machine.
* * *
Yes, that’s right. I am now wearing a polyester dress. And furthermore, it’s a floral print, dark purple and fuchsia on a black background. My God, I can imagine the expression of disbelief on your face almost as clearly as I can see the quilt on my bed. It makes me laugh.
You know, I cannot think of a time in my life when I didn’t believe that the clothes maketh the man. I was brought up that way. I would stop at Papa’s dry goods store on the way home from school, and Papa would be in the display window, his dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, wrestling the mannequins into their clothes. “Give me a hand, ’Cesca,” he’d say, and while we worked, he’d talk about the fabrics and what made the ensemble come together as a whole. Mama was always a natty dresser too, of course. Even in the kitchen, she looked ready to step out, with her clip-back earrings and her bouffant hair—all she had to do was whip off her apron with one hand and reapply her lipstick with the other, and she was magazine-ad ready. Poor Mama. Always prepared for something to happen, as if Cary Grant might knock on the door, flowers behind his back, and stretch out his hand so she could stretch out hers, kick up her heels and run away into the sunset. Papa and I were such a disappointment to her. I am sure Mama chose Papa thinking he’d take her far, far away from her own strict Mama and convoluted Italian family back in Toronto, which he did, but in Mama’s critical eye, he never managed to take her far enough; surburbia was no sunset beach by any stretch.
As far as I was concerned, the store was the finest place in the world, and a great blessing to me because I was always well dressed. At school, what you wore was the first indicator of where you belonged in the pecking order; children are cruel and I was no exception.
You learn how much those childish taunts hurt when they are directed at you, or worse, at your child. Chris was bullied when he was in grade six. My business was doing well at the time, but I had just bought the house. There was no money to spare for kids’ clothes that fall and of course Chris was growing fast. He came home from school one day covered in dust, with his jacket torn, and went straight to his room without saying a word.
Angelina was right behind him, slamming the front door open and hurling her book bag across the kitchen floor. “Mawwm!”
“I’m right here, Angie, don’t yell.”
“Mom, you have to buy Christian some new jeans. The kids are calling him ‘storm boy’ because of his flood pants.”
She stood there, defiant, in her faded jeans and boy’s T-shirt, looking even more like a hurricane than she usually did. My heart raced. How dare they criticize my son? How dare they cause him pain?
Angelina registered the rising colour in my face—stirring me up always calmed her down. She sauntered over to the sink and began to wash the blood off her knuckles.
“I picked the biggest one and smashed his nose,” she said.
“Good for you,” I said hotly, before I had the chance to think better of it. To my surprise, my prickly daughter turned and folded into my arms, and we hugged each other fiercely.
* * *
When Chris was in middle school, normally he would stop for Angelina at the end of his day and walk her home, but since I was driving them both to dentist appointments across town, I parked the minivan outside of Ang’s elementary school to wait for them. We’d had snow, but it was melting fast in the sun, heavy and waterlogged on the ground. I scanned the playground for my children. Partially hidden from view, I watched my daughter.
She was coatless, in a sleeveless terry cloth jumpsuit that stretched to accommodate something large, almost like a camel’s hump, on her back. The thing was heavy; Angelina was supporting the weight with both hands behind her, the way a small girl will piggy-back a baby whose short legs won’t reach around her hips. A pack of kids were following her; my Miss Smarty Pants daughter was playing to the crowd, enjoying the attention.
I got out of the van and locked it.
As I walked towards Angelina, I could see Chris approaching from the other side of the playground. He was almost jogging, oblivious to the squelching slush his sneakers were kicking up. Ang saw him too; she stopped in her tracks. The parade dispersed, and a tiny girl, much smaller than the other nine-year-olds, began fussing with Angelina’s jumpsuit. Even though the neckline and the arm holes had stretched to gaping maws, the thing on her back was still far too big to remove—how did she get it in there? The little girl heaved at the lump from the bottom while Angelina wriggled frantically until her big brother stood sternly before her.
Angelina looked up at him, tears welling. He tore his jacket off and gave it to the little girl who held it in front of Angelina like a curtain while Chris unzipped the jumpsuit and peeled back the ruined fabric.
A cannonball of dirty snow fell to the ground, shattering on the cement.
I grabbed Ang’s backpack and coat from where she’d dropped them beside the swings. The jumpsuit was soaking. I left it dangling from her waist, roughly pulled her coat over her arms and zipped it up. She sobbed as Chris led her towards the car.
“My back is so cold!”
“Well, of course it is, stupid! What in the name of Saint Mary Mother of Jesus did you do that for?” I asked.
“I just did it.”
“You were showing off. It serves you right.”
“Leave her be, Mom,” said Chris. “You’ve forgotten what it’s like.”
“I’ve forgotten what?”
“School. It’s a war zone.”
“Don’t talk back to me!”
I couldn’t understand it. I still don’t. Why would anyone injure themselves to entertain a bunch of bratty nine-year-olds?
In the back seat, Angelina rested her little head on Chris’s shoulder and he reached across his body with his opposite hand to hold it there.
* * *
Molly takes me down to the dining room early, because my place is in the corner, close to the electrical outlet that powers my tube-feed. Once full, the dining room becomes a Tetris grid of wheelchairs strate
gically organized for maximum occupancy and efficient meal assistance. I can’t get out until lunch is over.
But I like my panoramic view of the whole room.
One of the casual aides is bending down to adjust Paul’s foot on the pedal of his wheelchair, and Blaire calls her out.
Watch you keep your ponytail out of reach! Blaire’s voice is unfriendly.
I haven’t had a problem with him, says the casual.
Blaire shrugs. It’s your scalp, she flings over her shoulder on her way out the door with her hands full of trays.
He bruised Blaire’s arm pretty good, offers Michiko.
The casual is dubious. Could it have been approach? Blaire’s kind of…um…rough.
Nah. He just has his moods and you can’t tell when they’re coming. He’s unpredictable. You know Bettina? No one could be more gentle than her, right? He took a real good swing at her. I was there. She was lucky, he missed her by a hair.
The girls jump in so fast I can’t tell who’s saying what.
I heard family said, “No meds.”
Yup. No meds. Period. No matter how agitated he gets.
That’s not fair.
True that.
They don’t care if we get hurt.
It sure doesn’t give me that lovin’ feeling.
They should take him home, if they think it’s so easy to look after him!
Issue football helmets for us!
Suddenly Michiko’s voice dominates.
You know what really bites me? He’s got dementia and a bad heart, and his quality of life is poor. But the injury I could get if he nails me, that’ll last me long after he’s dead and gone. I mean, thanks, dude. Thanks for the memories.
Molly gives Nana the last bite of her mush.
Just keep your ponytail well out of reach. For some reason, the guy loves long hair.
* * *
After lunch, the girls clear the dining room so that the housekeeper can wash the floor. One by one they wheel us out.
“Do you want to go back to your room, Frannie, or do you want to go to the sunroom?”
In my room, the aides are putting Nana back to bed; she’s too old and frail to be up for more than a couple of hours. They’ll be taking Alice to the toilet and putting Janet on the commode. They probably won’t change Mary, now that she can’t pull herself up at the bar. She’s wearing disposable briefs, which are supposed to last for a shift—they’ll keep her up, let evenings put her back.
I have watched all these things before. From the sunroom, semi-private, I can see my tree, the whole tree, not just a piece of it, and I can see the last of the summer roses. It’s a gorgeous autumn day.
I make the “onward troops!” sign with my good hand, and Molly, the driver of my chariot, guesses, “Sunroom?” I nod, and away we go.
I hear our little community purring in the background: the aides putting away personal laundry and passing out nourishments. The housekeeper making her way from room to room. Someone is laughing in one of the residents’ rooms—probably Hilda’s, she loves to make jokes. Outside, someone is running a leaf blower. Otherwise it’s a quiet day. No activities organized to amuse us, no music in the dining room, no games intended to stimulate our brains. I drift, half-asleep in the sun.
Half-asleep, I am still thinking about Angelina in those troubled days.
* * *
By the time Ang was in middle school, she mimicked the stereotypes of older, wilder, more rebellious teenage girls in every possible way.
We were sitting in a restaurant, eating Chinese food, Chris, Angelina and I.
(It was an occasion, I think. Or was I simply too tired to cook? No—I remember. It was Chris’s first day of high school and I wanted to celebrate.)
“Angelina, please don’t slouch.”
“You’ve got something in your teeth.”
I excused myself and went to the ladies’ to check. In the mirror, the lines on my face jumped out at me but my teeth were fine and my lipstick was perfect.
“It’s still there, you’d better look again!” Ang said maliciously, and I realized she had been manipulating me all along.
All the shrimp had disappeared while I was gone and I smiled at Chris, partly to acknowledge his starving adolescent status and partly to show off my teeth. But then I went to take a sip of my wine, and there was only a half an inch left in the bottom of my glass.
Angelina had a satisfied smirk on her face. Chris studied his plate.
Celebrate.
By the time she started high school, Ang had stopped talking to me altogether, or she yelled. There was no in-between. Her peers were all-important to her, nothing I said had any value to her. She got a part-time job at a fast-food joint. I thought it would make her responsible, and maybe it did help her learn to control her temper, but her financial independence was another blow to my authority. No threats were powerful enough to make her tell me where she was going or when she’d be coming back, and fear moved into my belly like a snarling, chained beast. More than anything, I worried about Angelina getting into drugs, but when I tried to talk to her she just rolled her eyes. There was no way to connect to my daughter and I thought with longing of the days when we clapped hands together until I thought my eyeballs would fall out from boredom.
I knocked on her door one Friday night with an armful of clean laundry.
“These are yours,” I said.
She didn’t answer, so I sat down on the end of her bed.
She still had the pink painted child-size dressing table with its valentine-shaped mirror that I’d bought for her at a garage sale when she was the age to swoon for that kind of cotton-candy kitsch. She had to lean down to look in the mirror. She was painting her eyelids with shiny, tropical fish colours.
I searched for a neutral topic.
“Are those jeans new?” I’d been giving the kids a clothing allowance and a free rein in using it for a long time.
“Don’t you like them?”
“I was only thinking they look nice on you.”
Ang looked at herself critically. “I’m too fat.”
I snorted. “Who says so? If you were any thinner, you’d blow away.”
She gave herself another once-over in the mirror. I stood up.
“You are beautiful, Angelina. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”
I shut the door gently on my way out, feeling triumphant. It’s true that we didn’t talk about anything important, but it was the most peaceful conversation we’d had in months.
Ang went out with her friends and didn’t come back until Saturday afternoon. I was up to my elbows in flour, a full-body apron tied securely around my waist. The sun came through the window low. Angelina slammed through the door in her fancy new jeans, her off-the-shoulder shirt stretched further than it was meant to be, smelling of vomit. She had a new eyebrow piercing. She stood in the doorway, wobbly, but with her chin up.
Our conversation was short but to the point.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“I hate you.”
She stalked away, as dignified as a teenager can be with a slight stagger, and I was left with my mouth open; there were motes suspended in the clear sunshine and the taste of raw flour on my tongue.
* * *
I went to see a therapist just after that incident; Ang was fifteen. She was still living at home, still pretending to go to school, and the guidance counsellor called me in to talk about her ongoing absences. I remember feeling on the spot: How are things at home? Is there a father figure in Angelina’s life? Is there anything we should know about, anything at all? So humiliating. In the end I agreed to “get help.” We were supposed to go to the therapist as a family. But although initially Angelina seemed to like the woman, she refused to be in the same room as me and she simply didn’t show up for her indi
vidual appointments. After two weeks of that, I walked her to her appointment, where she asked for the key to the bathroom and disappeared from there, taking the key with her. I found it in the hydrangea bush about twenty steps down the sidewalk.
Chris just said no, and I was too worn out to fight him, reasoning he wasn’t the one I was worried about anyway. I ended up going to see the therapist alone, the captain of my leaky boat, talking to a granola pseudo-hippy in a wrap-around skirt with beaded earrings and crystals hanging in her windows. How was I supposed to take anyone who hangs crystals in her windows seriously? Really, now.
It wasn’t so bad. She wasn’t so bad. If I hadn’t been so hostile, it could have been better, I guess, but of course I didn’t know that then. Fear and anger. My left and right crutches. That’s how I was coming to the table, and I couldn’t even imagine peace and power, standing tall on my own. Poor Angelina. She was a hellion, but I didn’t make things any easier.
We’d pretty much given up smoking, you and I, by that time. At most we’d share a cigarette after closing if I came by the restaurant late. Sometimes I would still have cravings, and the therapist said that wanting a cigarette was a message from my brain telling me to check my body for tension: my gut muscles tightening, my breathing becoming shorter and faster, my shoulders crowding up to my ears, my neck knotting. “You can’t release tension if you don’t know it’s there,” she said.
I don’t need those messages now. The stroke has left me “emotionally labile,” and the feelings that I’ve struggled so hard to contain (or at least disguise in shrouds of anger) are naked for all the world to see. I literally lack the muscular strength to suppress them.