Our Grand Finale

by Laraine Denny Burrell

  “Dad decorated it for me. He did my whole flat, including putting a walk-in shower in the bathroom for me.”

  I follow Loretta another three steps along the hallway to the bathroom. Also in shades of blue tile, I see the practical nature of the setup, the floor-level shower and its metal handrails making access to the utilities easy for a disabled person. “Dad did a great job.”

  “Yes, he did, bless him.” An unspoken sadness at the reminder of Dad encircles us as we stand surrounded by our father’s handiwork. There is a moment’s pause as each of us fleetingly thinks of our father, before Loretta breaks the silence. “And here’s my bedroom.” She opens the door into a bright, cheerful room, the counterpart to the warm environment of the living room.

  Taking one step to the other side of the hallway, I enter the bedroom. It is an inviting room, the entire far wall consisting of windows draped with curtains in a willowy white fabric with little flowers, matching the comforter and pillow on the slim bed. A wooden wardrobe and matching bookshelf stand along the opposite wall. I can tell the wardrobe is full by the way pieces of fabric are caught in the gaps between the doors and wardrobe itself. The bookshelf is full, and then some, with novels—some of Maeve Binchy’s of course, an author we both enjoy—as well as history books and books on computers and other subjects from Loretta’s various employment-seeking courses.

  Along the wall facing the bed is a vanity—drawers, mirror, and a little stool. The vanity’s top is covered by assorted items of makeup and jewelry. I note the small wooden inlaid jewelry box placed in the middle of the vanity. I know it plays “Somewhere in Time.” I had given it to Loretta some years ago for Christmas. I am pleased to recognize something in the flat that I have given my sister.

  Next to the vanity in the corner of the room is Loretta’s wheelchair, for those times when Loretta is alone and doesn’t want to wear her prosthetic limb, and needs more than the wobbly support of a cane. Its oversized shape and significance detracts from the lightness of the room.

  “I even have a workout room!”

  Surprised, I turned to watch my sister open the door of a small built-in closet tucked behind the bedroom door, perhaps two feet in depth and four to five feet wide. I laugh. There, sitting on the floor under a high shelf stacked with board games, books, and cardboard boxes, is a stationary exercise bike.

  “I pull it around so it is facing out and I have a go on it,” Loretta explains. “At least one leg gets a good workout.” She laughs a deep, cheeky laugh.

  I also laugh, both at the joke of the exercise room and because my sister can find humor despite her disability. I lean forward, wrapping my arms around Loretta.

  “Oh, Loretta, you do make me laugh. Love you for it.”

  With the tour of the flat complete, and after giving my approval both to the lovely décor and our father’s handiwork, we prepare to leave the flat. The purpose of today’s visit is for a girls’ day out and for me to take Loretta to lunch.

  I offered to get us a taxi to the shopping precinct, but Loretta will have none of it.

  “No need, Laraine. I have my bus pass. Being disabled, I get free bus fare. I can go anywhere in town, and anywhere the buses go out of town. Mum, being old, has her bus pass, and sometimes the two of us go for rides in the country, all for free!”

  I chuckle at my sister finding the positive among the negative. My expression then turns to one of awe as I try to keep up with my sister as we walk to the bus stop. Loretta’s good leg, prosthetic, and walking stick make a faster job of the distance than my two good legs. At times I am almost running to keep up with my sister as Loretta negotiates the uneven slabs of the pavement, the pedestrian crossing, and various obstacles, including trash cans, dogs, and people in our path. Loretta moves with such speed and determination, and since she makes a straight line to wherever she is headed, other people in the street are forced to move out of the little woman’s way.

  Loretta has her movements and system down pat. The bus approaches. She has her bus pass at the ready, handbag over her arm, walking cane poised for support, waiting for the driver to lower the ramp for the disabled, and then Loretta is on the bus, a quick flash of her pass to the driver, and away to find a seat, leaving me to fiddle awkwardly in my purse for the bus fare, and then to find my own seat. I marvel at my sister’s independence.

  We have chosen a pleasant Wednesday for our day out. The rain holds off, the sun gently reminds people that it does still exist, and the temperature is in a temperate mood. We sisters walk the precinct in Palmerstone Road, a pleasant shopping area since the traffic had been banned decades earlier, and benches and trees had replaced the tarmac road. A quieter part of town during the weekdays, the modern fashion stores and eateries are observed by St. Jude’s, an old stone church completed around 1851, standing tall at the north end of the street. The area is typically English with older prewar buildings standing in line with their postwar contemporaries. I unwillingly acknowledge to myself that I am old enough to remember the days when a road used to run through the shopping area, and when I would get my dance supplies from The Stage Door just around the corner in Marmion Road. As I walk along the street, memories of the area from decades ago pass through my mind, making me feel like an ancient monument myself.

  Loretta and I wander from shop to shop. I offer to treat Loretta to something, I ask if I can buy Loretta something, but Loretta won’t have it. It is enough she has a day with her big sister, that we can spend this time together. I see outfits I would love to have tried on, business suits different from anything being sold in the States, which would be a plus not only because they are fashionable but because I know I will not meet a colleague wearing the same suit. But they are expensive; affordable for me, but I don’t feel right flaunting my money around in front of my state-supported sister. It doesn’t seem right. Instead, I ask Loretta to help me choose a present for our Mum, something to cheer her up. After much browsing and discussion, we choose a gold angel brooch for mum, which I purchase on behalf of us both, and Loretta buys some cream buns to take home for our tea.

  A bistro pub is chosen for lunch and we wander inside to find a place to rest our legs and grab a bite of British grub. We both have a glass of white wine to help relax our frame of mind. We sisters chat about our lives, each giving the other an apology about not emailing enough and not being a good communicative sister. I apologize to Loretta for letting my work schedule and deadlines take over my life so that visits to England and even telephone calls and emails are always set aside to do another time, that time never coming. My heart breaks when Loretta apologizes that she can’t email me because her computer is old and doesn’t work very well, sometimes not at all. And sometimes she can’t afford the Internet bill. “Whatever you need, Loretta, just let me know. I am working hard because I want to take care of you and Mum. I don’t want you going without something you need. You just let me know.”

  Loretta smiles her wide cheeky grin and sweetly says, “Thank you, Laraine. Thank you very much.”

  “Another thing”—I put down my wineglass and lean across the table toward my sister, engaging Loretta’s gaze, making sure she understands my seriousness—“I want to take you on a vacation, a holiday. Somewhere, anywhere you want to go. Just you and me. We will go off somewhere, give you a nice holiday, and give Mum some peace and quiet. All my treat. Possibly next year, we can plan ahead, and you can take time to think about what you would really love to do, somewhere you really want to go, to the country, or the seaside. And we will go first class. I want to give you a holiday to remember, for us both to always remember.”

  Loretta puts down her wineglass, her eyes tearful as she returns my gaze. “Oh, Laraine, that would be lovely.” Her voice is breathy, emoting her genuine longing to get away and do something special. “It would be so nice to go on a proper holiday, get away from my boring life, and my boring flat.”

  author’s sister Loretta, photo © Laraine Denny Burrell

  “Then that is
what we will do. I promise.” We grab hands and smile at each other, the pact made.

  For the rest of our lunch we talk about our sadness at losing Dad, but then the sadness turns to jokes as we agree that he is probably happy in Heaven, away from Mum and her nagging. The jokes then turn to our mum, and we share funny stories of Mum’s antics, bossiness, silliness, and wit. How she has a retort for everything. I share the story of being bullied by a girl in dance class. Mum had spoken to the girl’s mum and said, “Your daughter is such a lowlife even the pavement’s a step up in the world for her.” We laugh.

  Loretta says, “She was once at a party and so drunk she was talking to someone’s black sweater lying in a ball on a couch, thinking it was the cat.” That story makes me double over laughing, almost falling off my chair.

  I recall one telephone call from our mum and her telling me about Loretta having a problem with her new leg. I retell it again to Loretta.

  “Mum told me about the time you and her were walking down Copnor Road and she couldn’t stop laughing. She said you were both laughing and even had to lean on a wall in front of a house to stop yourselves from falling over. A woman came out of the house to find out why you were leaning on her wall and wondered if there was something wrong with you. Apparently you had a new leg on, and it was loose and jiggled around until it ended up facing backward.”

  Loretta’s hand came to her mouth. She laughed. “I remember that! I was walking down the road with one leg facing forward and one leg facing backward. It must have looked a funny sight!” Loretta fell backward in her seat laughing, nodding her head, agreeing with the memory. “It was really, really funny.”

  The image of Loretta walking along the road with one foot facing forward and one foot facing backward keeps Loretta and me laughing for the rest of the day. Despite her setbacks, Loretta faces adversity head-on. In fact, she kicks it in the groin with her artificial leg. I have nothing but admiration for my sister.

  The day is a success. Loretta has put her moodiness aside, and opened up to me. We have spent a wonderful day together. I will remember our pact; I am going to take my sister on the holiday of a lifetime.

  author and sister Loretta, photo © Ian Denny

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  Mark is writhing in my arms, kicking out with his legs, which are amazingly strong for a baby not quite two. He pushes against my chest with his hands, and his little face is scrunched up as he forces out a teeth-grating scream at the top of his lungs. I wrap my arms around him in a mix of hug and wrestling hold. “Hush, Mark. It’s okay.” My gentle words are futile against the might of a stubborn baby.

  Around us dozens of people are staring our way as we stand in line at Heathrow. They can stare and pull faces all they want. I cannot control this situation, and I cannot blame Mark for being thrust into this confusion. He has just left the arms of his loving grandfather, who is now making a quick exit away from us and leaving me, for the first time, to take care of my son alone.

  A woman security officer approaches me. “Miss. If you would like to come this way, we can get you through this gate over here.” She points to an area on my right where another officer raises her hand to wave at me. “Thought it might make things a bit easier for you.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.” And I do. The option of passing quickly through security is preferable to slowly winding along behind dozens of people who intermittently turn to scowl at me, showing annoyance at my son’s wailing. Like they have only known perfectly behaved children!

  I adjust Mark, making him straddle my hip, tighten my grip on him with my left arm, throw the straps of my two carry-on bags over my right shoulder, and grab the pushchair with my right hand, dragging the ensemble toward the waiting officer.

  “Thank you so much.”

  “No problem.” Her smile suggests she is glad it is me and not her dealing with Mark today. “Hi there,” she says to Mark. “Are you going on a plane today?”

  Mark stops wailing and cheekily gives the stranger a grin. Great. He is good for her but not for me, but at least he has stopped wriggling so I can get our passports out of my pocket and hand them to the officer.

  “Everything is in order.” The woman hands me back the passports. “Bye-bye.” She waves to Mark as we leave the security area. Still grinning, the cheeky monkey wiggles his fingers back at her.

  Heathrow is an enormous airport, in keeping with its status as a major European hub. I know from prior experience that I have miles to walk and I must keep up the pace to make it to the gate on time. Every muscle in my body is working as I walk briskly along the never-ending corridors, carrying child and bags and dragging the pushchair, which, stupidly, when I need it the most, is wrapped up in plastic security wrap courtesy of the check-in agent.

  Sweat forms on my forehead and starts dripping down my nose. It seeps into confined spaces beneath my clothes. I keep up the pace, walking in as straight a line as I can, making people step aside for us, not wanting to add the extra feet and maneuvers to accommodate them.

  Thankfully, Mark is not crying, his tantrum temporarily replaced by curiosity of the sights and sounds around him. “Hey, Mark, we are going on a plane.” He turns to me with a quizzical “Who are you?” look. I smile. “It’ll all be okay, son. I promise, it will all be okay.”

  Arriving at the gate, I see the area is mostly empty, with a few people at the podium giving their boarding passes to the agent, no doubt the last boarders. Good timing. We can get on the plane, get seated, and get on to whatever lies ahead for us both in Italy.

  I hand the agent my boarding pass.

  “Only one pass? This is for you. Do you have a pass for the baby?”

  “The baby?” I am confused. “No.”

  “You need a separate boarding pass for the baby. You each have to have your own.”

  “We have our own passports.”

  “The airline requires every passenger have their own boarding pass.”

  “But I called the airline a couple of days ago to see if I needed a ticket for him and the woman said no, and the agent at check-in didn’t say I needed a ticket or boarding pass for him.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’ll have to go back to the ticketing area and get a boarding pass. And the plane is due to leave.”

  “Jeez!”

  As I evaluated the long trek back though Heathrow’s corridors to the check-in area, simple logic took over. I hand Mark over to the agent, pushing him into her arms, dump the pushchair and bags at her feet, grab my handbag, making sure the passports are accessible, and before the agent can react, I turn and bolt. I run from the gate, run back along the corridors, causing a stir and a parting of the populace as my athleticism propels me at top speed back toward security, out to the check-in area, and directly to the front of the line to interrupt the ticketing agent.

  “I’m s . . . so sorry.” I take a deep breath, trying to find my voice, leaning on the counter to recover from the exertion. “My apologies, but this is an emergency.” I turn to the confused passenger in the middle of her check-in. “Sorry.”

  Turning back to the agent, I say, “My baby son is at the gate with the gate agent, the plane is about to leave, she says I need a boarding pass for my son. When I was checked in, I wasn’t told that.” I push the two passports across the counter. “I need a pass for him please.”

  The agent understands and immediately checks the passports and issues a pass for Mark. “Thank you so much.” I turn to the passenger again. “So sorry to interrupt.”

  Niceties over, I turn and reverse my run through the airport. At the security gate I see the officer who had let Mark and me through. I run to her. “Hi, do you remember me? I came through with my son? I had to come back and get another pass for him.” I showed her the pass.

  “Oh yes. Okay.” She allows me through, no fuss, no bother.

  “Thank you!”

  I continue on, familiar with the route. No time to be bothered with the madcap appear
ance I make. At last I reach the finishing line of my marathon, running up to the gate agent still holding Mark, almost exactly as I had left her, as if still in shock at being handed custody of my son.

  “Boarding . . . pass.” I push the words out. I am utterly exhausted. “Thank you . . . so . . . much.” I take Mark from her arms and see that her medium blue dress now has a darker patch around her stomach area where she had been holding Mark. He had wet himself all over her. Oh well! Nothing I can do about that.

  “Let me help you onboard.” She grabs a bag and the pushchair.

  “Thank you so much. I’m sorry, I didn’t know . . .”

  “It’s okay. Let’s get you onboard. Everyone is waiting.”

  Mark and I are settled in our seats. I feel his damp trousers and feel bad. I do not have a change of clothing for him. It is packed in the suitcase. He no longer wears nappies, my mum having potty-trained him as soon as he could sit up by himself. All I can do is make him as comfortable as possible. I wrap a blanket around him and around his trouser legs, hoping it will absorb the moisture. Mark’s eyes are closing. The adventure has tired him out. Good. We will both need our strength for whatever comes next.

  With Mark now asleep, I take a moment to look around. The plane is almost empty. Not many people going to Rome today, or at least not on this flight. Good. The last thing I need is a crowded four-hour flight. I tilt my seat back and close my eyes. Life is such a challenge.

  Mark had stayed with my parents for almost two years while I worked in the Middle East and Europe. My mother recently announced that she had had enough of looking after Mark and it is time for me to take on the responsibility of caring for Mark myself and to take him with me on my travels. She wrongly thinks I am away enjoying life, leaving her to take care of my son. It is not like that. I am working hard, earning and saving my money to pay my mum’s salary and to provide for my son. My mother simply doesn’t comprehend my life.