“I’ll be there in a few minutes. And thank you. Thank you for the door stopper.”
Stupid! She rages at herself. How could she have been so stupid? Door stoppers weren’t invented a week ago. She had door stoppers in her house, for heaven’s sake. Why did she never think to go to the hardware store and buy one? What a comic figure she must have looked. How many other people laughed at her?
She tidies her hair and puts on a clean sweatshirt before walking down the hall. Maybe she can make a new friend after all.
She’s startled by his apartment. Place of honour is occupied by an easel, and swatches of fabric are pinned to the walls, interspersed with watercolour sketches.
He laughs as he follows her gaze.
“I’m designing a set.”
She has no idea what he’s talking about.
“For a stage play. That’s what I do, I design sets — the backgrounds — for plays.”
Their conversation is friendly, but the tea is good. She learns a little about him. He’s not married, but along with his set designs, he’s involved with weddings.
“I probably go to a couple of weddings every week,” he announces, then laughs. “I’m a freelance wedding photographer, as well — sort of an odd-job specialist. Actually, I was wondering if you do anything on Saturdays.”
Her eyes snap wide in shock. A date? It’s been forever since she dated anyone. Then he laughs.
“No, not what you’re thinking. I’ve got a wedding scheduled in a couple of weeks — on a Saturday, when most weddings seem to be — and I could use a little help, if you’re free.” He pauses. “Weddings today are a lot more interesting than they used to be.”
He regales her with stories about weddings on mountain tops. “Easy for the bride and groom. I’ll never forget the first one I did. They — and the rest of the wedding party except for the parents — were all members of a hiking club, so they just sprinted up the mountain. Mom and Dad staggered along after. The JP had a really hard go of it. He was pretty much out of shape and I thought we were going to have to prop him up to do the vows.”
“And you?”
“I had to carry all my camera gear up the mountain — reflectors, film bag, tripod, all that sort of stuff. Nearly killed me! That’s when I started to think about hiring an assistant for some of my shoots. I can’t afford to hire someone full time or even regular part time, because the jobs aren’t on any regular schedule. But if you’d like to come once in a while, I could pay you something for your time.
“But I don’t know anything about photography.”
“No problem. The helper doesn’t have anything to do with the cameras, and I probably wouldn’t need you for all the weddings. It could be convenient for us both, what with you living just down the hall. You wouldn’t even have to drive — I’d provide taxi service.”
He leaves the table and rummages on a desktop.
“Here — this is what I’m talking about.”
He plops an envelope on the table. “Go ahead. Open it.”
Carefully she extracts a wedding invitation.
“We’re taking the plunge,” it announces. Below that is a picture of two people wearing wetsuits, fins, masks, and snorkels. They could be a couple, two men, two women — or two Martians. The inside page invites family and friends to join the happy couple on the dock at Rocky Point where they’ll board a dive boat, head for a special spot, and the couple will be married.
Divers were invited to join in an underwater reception, to be followed by a dry land reception at the Paradigm Hall.
She looks at him blankly.
“I can’t dive.”
“No matter. You don’t have to. I’m certified. What I hoped you might do is help me on the boat, arranging shots, holding the remote flash — same sort of thing that you’d do on dry land at the reception. I can handle the underwater pictures by myself.”
She smiles weakly. She hates boats, doesn’t know anything about photography or diving, and doesn’t know anything about this person. She doesn’t want to go, but is unsure how to get out of it.
“Come on — give it a try. What have you got to lose?”
He takes her silence for consent.
“Good for you. I’ll make the arrangements and we can go in my car. It’s still a couple of weeks away, so there’s no panic. I can show you the equipment one evening before then, so you’ll know how to handle it.”
Numbly, she nods before rising to her feet.
“I guess I’d better be getting back now. Thank you for the tea.”
Cheerily, he picks up the tea cups and sees her to the door, then watches until she enters her own apartment.
Once inside, she vents her anger on a pillow, pounding it with her fists. “You ninny! You absolute spineless nit.”
As she rages around the apartment, she trips against one of the piled-up boxes, falling clumsily to the floor, twisting her ankle as she lands. A stab of pain jolts through her, taking the breath from her lungs. “Please,” she prays. “Please don’t let it be broken.”
In a few minutes the pain diminishes enough that she can struggle awkwardly to her feet. It might not be broken, but it certainly isn’t working very well. Maybe a sprain, or maybe she just twisted it. In any case, ice cubes will help. She hobbles to the fridge and pours ice into a plastic bag, packs it around her ankle, and wraps it in place with a towel.
So much for the independent lady who was going to California, the one who wasn’t going to let people impose on her ever again, the one who was going to be strong and forthright.
The next morning Ellen’s ankle is still tender but once again usable. She resists an impulse to kick the offending box and strips it open instead, digging out the contents and finding places to store them. When it’s empty, she attacks the next box. By midday, the long-ignored boxes have been opened, emptied, and stacked neatly by the door, ready to go to the recycling bin in the back alley.
Maybe there’s hope for her after all. And maybe California isn’t that impossible either. Still, there are practical things she has to do first. One is to get a good map, figure out where her stopping points will be, and make a list of motels along the way.
For the first time since the divorce, Ellen feels like a whole person. It’s more than independence, it’s being hugely non-
dependent. She doesn’t need to depend on anyone, and no one depends on her for anything. No husband, no child, not even a cat. That brings a light-headed sense of freedom. It’s like being a child again, only better. She doesn’t have to ask permission anymore. She’s surprised to find herself humming. She doesn’t even know the tune, but it’s a happy little song that matches her mood.
She glances at her left hand — the wedding ring is no longer bracketed by bulges. Have I really lost that much weight? she asks herself. Her fingers twist the ring over her knuckle. It slides off quickly and easily. Curiously, she examines it, looking inside. It would have been romantic to engrave their initials inside, or their wedding date, but Al hadn’t done either.
What now? she wonders. Surely nothing is more useless than a used wedding ring. She can’t wear it, she can’t give it away — no one wants a used wedding ring. She remembers a day long ago when she stood on the beach at English Bay watching the annual Polar Bear Swim on New Year’s Day. Hundreds of hardy, or hung-over swimmers turned out for the annual event, which was watched by hundreds more, dressed warmly against the cold winter wind. Lifeguards patrolled the water in rowboats.
On that particular day, a woman had detached herself from the onlookers and followed the swimmers in their lemming-like rush to the water.
“There you go, you bastard. She can have it — I don’t want it. Or you, either,” she yelled.
With that, she’d flung something gold and glittering into the water, then turned, tears coursing down her cheeks, as she ran back up the beach.
Ellen laughs at herself. It’s too late to offer sympathy, but at least she understands now what the woman was doing.
; Her mind reverts to her current goal.
There’s an automobile association office near the mall. They should have what she needs to figure out a route.
“No time like the present,” she tells herself, then laughs. It’s her mother’s voice she hears. Ellen heard those words a million times in her teens. Her mom believed there was no time like the present for getting things done. Unpleasant things, jobs she didn’t want to do, difficult chores, uncompleted homework, extra practise on the violin — whatever led her to procrastination would be over the sooner for getting at it right away. And the things she wanted to do … well, there was no time like the present for doing something enjoyable!
Ellen almost feels her mom standing just out of sight. If she turns her head quickly and looks hard, she’ll see her, just around the corner.
“We didn’t always see eye to eye,” Ellen tells her, “but as I get older, I understand you better.” Somehow, she’s sure her mom hears her. She wonders what her mother would have been like had she reached this age, had she not been killed in the crash. Had she gone on to develop her own life, her own thoughts, her own ideas, without being eternally squashed under her husband’s thumb. A feeling of kinship with her mother has replaced the anger and resentment she once felt.
She pops the panniers on her bike, buckles on her fanny pack, and wheels into the hall. Just as she reaches the lobby, the letter carrier enters, pulling a handful of mail from her canvas carry bag and swinging open the large door that covers the pigeonhole boxes. She sorts letters quickly and efficiently into the various slots that stand, blank and empty, like the gaping mouths of baby birds, waiting to be fed.
Ellen peeks over her shoulder as a fat envelope lands in her box.
“Oh! That’s mine!”
The carrier turns and smiles. “Got any ID?”
Ellen unzips her fanny pack and fishes out her wallet, flipping it open to show her driver’s licence. The carrier looks at it briefly, comparing Ellen to the picture on the card.
“Okay. Here you go.” She removes the envelope from Ellen’s box and passes it to her.
Ellen laughs at herself as she thanks the carrier and wriggles her way through the door. It could have waited until she came back, but there’s something irresistibly urgent about a freshly delivered letter.
She glances at the handwriting. It’s from her daughter Joanne. Quickly she nudges the kickstand in place and rips open the envelope. It begins with the usual stuff — there’s some artwork enclosed to replace older pictures on her fridge door. Then, near the bottom of the letter, comes the meat of the message. It’s typical of Joanne to edge into what she really wants to say.
Mom — I’ve tried phoning but I never seem to catch you in. I know you don’t like answering machines, but there are times when they are useful. I need to talk to you. Can you phone me as soon as you get this? Please. You should get this Tuesday afternoon, so please call me Tuesday evening or Wednesday morning. Thanks.
Love you.
A scrawled J drifts off into a series of loops that probably spelled out Joanne once upon a time, but now just carve a trail across the paper.
Ellen debates whether to go to the store and the library first or go back upstairs and phone right away. Logically, she should get her errands done, since she’s out already, but logic doesn’t swing much weight when it flies against maternal emotions.
She slides the letter back into its envelope and tucks it in her fanny pack, then fishes out her key. Minutes later, Joanne’s phone is ringing. She must have been close by. She answers on the third ring.
“It’s me, dear,” Ellen says. “I just got your letter. What’s wrong?”
There’s a micro-second pause before Joanne answers.
“I didn’t want to upset you.”
“But something is wrong,” Ellen persists. “Don’t dance around it — just go ahead and tell me.”
That was another of her mother’s sayings. Don’t dance around it. Spit it out.
“Okay, Mom. No dancing. Lissy has a problem. We didn’t know anything was wrong — I mean, she never complained or anything and everything seemed normal.”
Her voice starts to climb, rising to a question mark, just as it did when she was a little girl.
Ellen interrupts. “Joanne, just tell me.”
There’s a pause while Joanne takes a breath. Ellen pictures her rubbing her forehead with her fingers as she searches for words.
“Lissy has some kind of tumour and it’s bad. They did some tests yesterday and they operate this week.”
Her voice stops for a moment. Ellen can hear her breathing, very controlled, as though she’s trying hard not to cry. She’s always been that way. If Jennifer got stung by a bee, she’d holler bloody murder, but not Joanne. The more she hurt, the quieter she got. Ellen tries to think of something to say that isn’t soppy. Before she finds the words, Joanne continues.
“Mom, she’s too little for this. It shouldn’t be happening. Please, could you come for a while? Maybe spend some time with Jana while we’re at the hospital with Lissy?”
Ellen’s stomach turns cold. She has sudden queasy thoughts about what they might be dealing with.
“Joanne … what kind of tumour is it?”
The phone buzzes in her ear, sickening waves ride along the wires. She knows, even before Joanne replies.
“It’s the bad one, Mom. Cancer. It’s growing fast and it’s vicious in little kids. There’s a chance if they get it early, but they usually find it by accident because there aren’t many symptoms. The doctor gave us some stuff to read, but it’s just so much gibberish right now. All I know is she’s sick. Really sick.”
There’s a pause.
“Mom … can you come?”
“You know I’ll be there. Don’t even think about it.”
“Thanks, Mom. That helps a lot. Look, I don’t want to talk about this on the phone. Every time I think about it I get all upset and start crying and that doesn’t help anything. We don’t want to say too much in front of Jana. Stan and I have been playing it cool so she doesn’t get too upset.”
“When’s the surgery scheduled?”
“Thursday,” Joanne whispers. “I know it’s awfully short notice, but—”
Ellen interrupts. “It’s not a problem. Today’s Tuesday. Let me make a reservation. I’ll call you back as soon as I have something confirmed.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Ellen hears tears creeping into her voice.
“Now don’t you start crying. Not on long distance. Too expensive. Save your tears for when I get there. It’s much cheaper that way. And besides, I can give you a hug.”
Joanne starts to laugh. “Thanks, Mom.”
They go through quick goodbyes and hang up.
Ellen flips open the phone book and starts calling airlines, trying to find the impossible combination of an immediate opening and a low fare. She rummages in her purse for something to write on and pulls out her shopping list.
CALIFORNIA laughs back at her from the page. The golden honey has turned to grit. She listens carefully to one airline agent and writes down dates, times, flights, and fares. She’s shocked at the cost. She calls another airline. The prices are about the same.
“I didn’t realize it was going to be so expensive,” Ellen says. “I’m sure the prices in the travel ads were about half that much.”
“The low rates have to be paid at least two weeks in advance of the flight — and a month for the really low ones,” the agent replies.
“Two weeks or a month ago, I didn’t know I’d have to go.”
There is a moment of silence. “Is this an emergency? If it’s compassionate, there are special fares for that. I mean, if there’s a death in the family, we do give a discount.”
Ellen shakes her head, then realizes the agent can’t see her. It isn’t a death in the family. There isn’t going to be a death in the family. It’s a simple operation. Ellen’s afraid to tempt fate by telling her why she has to go
.
“It isn’t a death,” she blurts out. “My granddaughter is going in for surgery.”
“I’m sorry, but that doesn’t qualify,” the agent replies.
Ellen makes a reservation and calls Joanne back to tell her she’ll arrive Wednesday at noon.
“Thanks, Mom. Someone will be there to meet you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Ellen says quickly. “I’ll just take a cab to the house and see you there.”
She pulls out a suitcase and tries to order her thoughts. What to take? The weather is still pleasant so she won’t need a heavy coat. Sweats are fine for daytime — comfortable and easy. Slacks and a blouse in case she has to go anywhere dressier than sweats. A medium sweater. It might be cool in the evening. A pair of fleecy pyjamas. The PJs are heavy enough that she won’t need a dressing gown. As an afterthought she throws in a couple of T-shirts, a pair of shorts, and a bathing suit. She can’t take her bike, but maybe she can find an hour for herself at the rec centre near Joanne’s house. There’s an indoor running track and a pretty good pool. It might be a good place to take Jana, too. She’s going to need some special attention, no matter what happens.
Ellen finishes packing. Her cosmetic case, which doesn’t hold much in the line of cosmetics, but keeps her toothbrush, toothpaste, and vitamins together, tucks into the corner of her bag.
Restlessly, she tidies up the apartment. Clean sheets on the bed so it will be ready for her when she gets back. Empty the fridge of leftovers and bits and pieces of stuff that might not keep. There isn’t much. One person doesn’t generate many leftovers. All her plants are artificial — lovely, but not real. One of her neighbours used to laugh at her fondness for fake flowers.
“All I can smell in your house is silk,” she would tease. That’s true, but no one has to water silk. Silk flowers don’t droop and die if someone forgets about them, nor do they breed colonies of weird little bugs that scurry out of sight whenever a leaf is turned. And they don’t need re-potting. Ellen loves real flowers, but they belong outside in a real garden where she can enjoy working with them. She hates being cooped up indoors, and she’s sure flowers do, too.
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