“I need you to have it for the same reason I needed to deposit those few dollars week after week.”
“Okay, fine. I accept. Thanks. Argument now over.”
“Is that how you talk to your mother?”
“You are not my mother.”
“I am your mother, like it or not.”
“Blood is not everything.”
“Blood is plenty. Didn’t you say just now that having family around you today made a big difference?”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Same thing or not, you can take my word about the blood business. Some African cultures have a concept of spiritual blood, something that’s passed down through generations and contains the memory, history, and wisdom of the tribe.”
“Nobody use the word ‘tribe’ anymore.”
“What kind of work you say you studying to do?”
“Development planning, something of that order.”
“Perhaps you should think some more about it. Those jobs need empathy, imagination. But we can speak about that another time. Good night.”
Grace was fixing up a cut-eye but she stopped herself, said a muted “Night,” put the cheque on the hall table and went to join Steph in the study.
That afternoon after the convocation ceremony they’d opened a bottle of champagne outside the hall, toasted Grace and Steph, and then headed back to Warsaw for the real celebrations. She and Phyllis were dozy and didn’t say much on the drive down with Albert. When they got to the farmhouse, they cooked a St. Chris dinner: codfish balls with hot sauce, pumpkin soup, roast pork, rice and peas, roast plantain, boiled breadfruit, and a salad of avocado pear and greens. Andrew made coconut ice cream for dessert.
It had been a happy day till Phyllis produced the cheque!
The whole incident confuses her, not least because of her vehement reaction. She can’t understand why Phyllis would give her money: a card, yes, or a present, but money? And her response was so bizarre! Phyllis hadn’t done anything to her, after all. But she is exhausted and sleeps like a bear, despite the kerfuffle. The summer sun wakes her early. Grace dresses, pulling on a sweater, for in Warsaw it’s still cool in the mornings, and runs downstairs just in time to see Phyllis, one arm bandaged wrist to elbow, getting into Albert’s BMW. She pelts out onto the porch, halting beside Alicia who is waving goodbye. She lifts a hand to wave, but the car has gone.
Alicia turns inside to the business of the day just as Stephanie tumbles out onto the steps and begins dragging Grace down into the yard.
“What’s wrong with you, Steph? Where you hauling me to?”
They are on a path leading downhill into a grove of young birches, funny, spindly white creatures with tiers of notched knees on shifting, slender legs.
“You had a fight with your mother last night?” Steph is whispering.
“What?” Grace is dazed in the morning’s blue chill. “Why are you whispering?”
“Me aksin you if you fight with your Mumma las night? And don’t bother tell me is not mi business, like how her hand bandage up and all!”
“You think we had a fight, and I hurt my mother’s hand? Are you nuts? If nothing else, I’m too well brought up to fight in someone else’s house!”
“Me just love how you talk posh when you vex!”
“I do not love your fumbling attempts at Creole.”
“You get up really mean this morning. The bed was so uncomfortable?”
“I apologize, Steph. Yes, we had a fuss, my Mum and me. And your Creole is excellent.”
“You hear yourself, Grace?”
“What? What did I say?”
“You call Phyllis ‘Mum’!”
“If you say so. But how did she hurt her hand? It looked bad!”
“If you promise to stop being nasty.” Steph affects hurt.
“Okay. No more nasty.”
“Three o’clock this morning, there’s a crash in the kitchen and a little scream. My mother, who sleeps like a puss, runs down the stairs to find Phyllis standing in a steaming puddle of cocoa, crying, one hand under the tap.”
“Lord have mercy! Just because I didn’t want to take the cheque?”
“She never say anything about a cheque, but she spill her guts to Alicia.”
“Phyllis spilled her guts?”
“You talk as if Phyllis is some kind of ice queen. She’s in bad shape. That’s why she dropped the cocoa and burned herself. The burn wasn’t too serious, though.”
“Well, praise God for that. But I can’t see Phyllis falling apart, especially if it wasn’t about the cheque.”
“Like Mumma, like pikni. You’re a pretty tough cookie, yourself. People always spill to my mother. I have to be careful around her, or she’ll have me confessing every last thing. Anyway, seems your Granny Vads is so ill that looking after her has become a big trial. Her sickness makes her mean, and Phyllis is having a tough time. Plus, something she said led Alicia to believe you two had a disagreement yesterday.”
“But Phyllis never said a word to me about Granny Vads.”
“Apparently, your grandma who is looking after your great-grandma while Phyllis is away — Grandma Daphne, right? — is willing to stay longer, but Daphne’s husband is raising a ruckus about her leaving his children.”
“Hang on a minute.” The only way Steph can know this is if Alicia repeated it to her. That doesn’t seem like Alicia. “Your mother told you this?”
“Did I say that ...”
“How else could you know?”
“My mother’s not the only person that sleeps like a puss.”
“You listened?”
“Thought you might like to be up to date.”
Christ! A mother she doesn’t need causing trouble the second time they meet by proffering an extravagant and uncalled-for gift of money she certainly can use herself. So she’s to feel bad about her mean response, and about her parent disrupting the household, keeping people awake, injuring herself — and God Almighty knows what else?
It isn’t fair. Papa God is on her back again, like Old Higue.
29
A Letter of Apology
Scotts’ Farmhouse
Warsaw
2 June 1980
Dear Phyllis,
Thanks, belatedly, for your card and for the cheque. I’m so very ashamed. If I were you, I’d not have had anything to say to a bad-minded child whom I’d kept faith with for twenty years, tried to get to know when the time came, and presented with a gift I’d been planning for ages, whose response was as callous as mine.
Steph keeps harping on how much I look like you. I love the Carpenters dearly. They’re the only family I’ve ever known, but one had only to look at them, good strong black folks, and look at fine-featured, puss-eye, wispy-hair, red me, to know I wasn’t a Carpenter by blood. And here you were, obviously my kin, and someone who cared about me. I can’t think of one other soul who would have kept writing letters for eighteen years to a person she’d known for two months and hadn’t seen even a photograph of. It’s a sour child, I fear. And who am I to blame for the acid that repeats into my soul, spoiling the taste of everything? Not Gramps, the best grandfather anyone could hope for, nor Ma and Pa, who are perfect parents, nor Edgar, Stewie, and Conrad, nor Sam and Princess — not even Pansy, who’s been horrid sometimes, but who I know loves me.
I can’t bleat about white racism either. It’s not like there wasn’t any in St. Chris. I went to St. Chad’s after all — as good a preparation for living in the North as any. And I’ve made good friends here: Steph, the Scotts, Maisie, who popped up out of nowhere. God I can blame, maybe. I can’t go on. It seems as usual to be all about me. I know you burned your hand because you were upset. I hope it’s better now and that you’ll call. I won’t bother you by phoning first, what with all you must be dealing with, sake of Granny Vads illness. I hope she’s improving. Please take care. Look forward to talking soon.
Grace
Steph feels like gettin
g out of the house so they drive to Lakefield to post the letter.
30
Death and Disappearance
The staging area is stuffed with boxes and parcels, everything labelled “Ann Arbor.” Steph says she will mail them. God bless Steph!
The fuss with Phyllis still has her knotted up. Did insolence arrive from nowhere and just take charge of her mouth? Or was it a spontaneous blossoming of deep resentment at abandonment as a baby? In a way she feels like a hypocrite for telling Phyllis that if she’s sour, she has only herself to blame. Given the circumstances, which respectable psychology book would buy that? Didn’t Gramps have a part, Miss Evadne, all the bad-minded Wentley people? Not to mention the professional tormentors at St. Chad and vile Fillmore Buxton!
She looks up from addressing another box, sees her BA “cerfiticate” in pride of place on the chipped mantelpiece, and permits herself to feel proud, just for a moment. Over the weeks, she’s done plenty considering, finally deciding there’s nothing wrong with being satisfied that she’s done a good job of studying her books. She’s also decided it’s okay to enjoy telling people who ask that she’s going to Rackham, a great grad school, on a fellowship. She’s mostly silent on the many other offers, though.
Now and then a rude little demon with a Christophian voice encourages bad behaviour. “Why you never just tell Phyllis where to take the cheque and stuff it? If you was vex with her, why you never say, ‘You leave me as a baby. Don’t come now with your big-money present and your “Please may I be your mummy?” Far too little, lady, and much too late!’ That would at least be honest.”
Steph says she is a pretty tough cookie. Since when? Had her brothers and baby sister loved a tough cookie all this time? Gramps? Pa? Ma? So she fooled them, all but Pansy? Above all, she fooled herself?
She finds a letter from New York that night in her mailbox. It’s forwarded from Warsaw, only thing is the return address is not the apartment at Riverside.
Religious Sisters of the Heart of Jesus
Our Lady of Good Hope Convent
New York, NY 45678
9 June 1980
Dear Grace,
Thanks for your letter, which came quite quickly. Please forgive this brief response, but you’ll understand shortly. I won’t pretend I wasn’t distressed at your reaction when I gave you the cheque, but we’re still getting to know each other, and there will be misunderstandings. Apologizing must have been hard, and I appreciate the effort. So we’ll just put it behind us. I’m writing from work. I didn’t have a chance to fill you in properly, but Granny Vads has been quite ill and took a turn for the worse the day after I came back. I’m glad she waited till then because Daphne had a hard enough time while I was away. Yesterday, she was so bad I had to call 911. They took her to St. Clare’s, where she is now. I’m staying here at the convent, since it’s close by. Say a prayer for her please. I don’t think she has long for this world. I’m sorry you didn’t have a chance to meet, but heaven waits. I know you weren’t going back to your old apartment, and we were all so topsy-turvy when I left that I didn’t have a chance to get the address in Toronto where you are now. I’m hoping this will reach you at the Scotts before you leave. If not, I know Alicia or Stephanie will forward it.
With love,
Phyllis
On 15 June, Grace scribbles a reply to say she’s leaving early the next morning, Monday, and that she will stay in the dorms at the University of Michigan to start with, but she will call Phyllis as soon as she knows her permanent address and phone number. She contemplates it, but decides she’s not going to sign “Your daughter.”
Next day, the plane does the boogie from the time it climbs up over Toronto until the moment it lands in Detroit. It’s rainy in Michigan in June, so she makes sure she has pills — migraine headaches don’t love rain. When the aircraft slides into Detroit Metropolitan Airport on a beam of brilliant sunlight and she sees green and more green below, she loves the place.
On Tuesday morning as she threads her way from Couzens Hall across East Huron to the office at Rackham, she walks past groups of students talking, laughing, romping, flinging Frisbees in Felch Park. She is struck by their energy, a kind of effervescence that she doesn’t recall at U of T. While she is getting things straight in the office, acquainting herself with the social contours, as Gramps had a way to say, a young woman waves a letter at her from across the room. “I think this is for you. Grace Patterson, don’t it?” Grace smiles at the “don’t it?” A countrywoman! Try as it may, American overlay can’t hide St. Chris underpinning.
Odd. The letter is from a Sister Mary Agnes at the convent where Phyllis works. She pockets it, as she now almost always does, for later perusal. Sitting on her bed in the dorm after lunch, she reads.
Religious Sisters of the Heart of Jesus
Our Lady of Good Hope Convent
New York, NY 45678
21 June 1980
Dear Grace,
Please accept our congratulations on your wonderful achievements at university, which Phyllis told us about so proudly when she came back from your graduation! Bravo!
My name is Sister Mary Agnes and I am in charge of the institution to which your mother came twenty years ago, just after you were born. We’ve never met you, but one advantage of trying to live in eternity, is that you don’t have to meet people in the flesh to know and love them. The community here prays for the babies that we have had the privilege to nurture, and for all our mothers and all their babies, so we remember you each day, as Phyllis’s daughter.
I’m writing on behalf of Phyllis, whom we all love very much. She is as formidable and blessed a spirit as ever God made, which is one reason we asked her to stay and work with us. She is gifted in many ways and generous to a fault, gentle in her manner and yet tough as nails in her determination. In all, she has been a wonderful example to the young women who come here. Nor is this anything we have taught her; she was ever so.
On Monday last, your Grandma Vads died. As you know, she had been seriously ill for a while. Caring for her was taxing for Phyllis, who has always been her primary caregiver, the biggest difficulty being that in the course of her illness, Miss Evadne not only became mean, ill tempered and given to rages, but she directed her hostility at Phyllis. We know from nursing our old sisters that this can happen with some illnesses, rheumatoid arthritis being one.
The service for Mrs. Patterson was held this morning at Riverside Methodist Church, but Phyllis agreed to have the wake here since, among other things, many of those going to the funeral would be coming from the convent. Given what she had been through, it is perhaps not surprising that your mother collapsed at the wake. Luckily, Sister Mary Immaculate, our resident doctor, was here. Sister confirmed that Phyllis had had a stroke and she was taken immediately to hospital. Regrettably, the stroke has left her paralyzed on her right side. Her speech, thought processes, and memory are also impaired — exactly how severely, we are not quite sure.
Once out of hospital, Phyllis will need to go to a facility able to provide the necessary care, support, and expertise to help her regain as much of her normal functioning as possible. There is no predicting rate or extent of recovery from a stroke, but complete or almost complete recuperation is possible. Our sisters run a wonderful place called Mary’s Haven in Cohasset. It provides services such as these. We have consulted your Grandma Daphne, and she agreed that Phyllis should go there.
Please join us in praying for her full recovery. We continue to ask God to be gracious to you, and guide you in your decisions. Feel free to call me at the number above. The sisters join me in sending our love, and our condolences on the passing of your great-grandmother.
Yours in the Heart of Jesus,
Sister Mary Agnes, R.S.H.J.
Mercifully she is in her room when she reads all this, so she alone hears herself muttering and mewling. Not a doubt that it is her fault that Phyllis is now in the grip of a crippling stroke, for never mind Granny Vads bad treatme
nt, Phyllis was fine at the Scotts. So clever, Papa God! So creative! Your Almighty Big Brain would know messing with Phyllis is the best way to punish me. As if the whole graduation ruckus wasn’t still rankling, wrecking the excitement of a new place to live and study, and new people to get to know. Why had she never asked Gramps to hook her up with his Zeke-It’s-Okay-to-Grow-a-Likl-Ganja-God before he died? That God existed. He and Gramps were good friends.
“Good tings come from bad, Gracie. Have a likl faith and look for the good tings.” Not Gramps this time but Pa, wiggling the stumps of his fingers. She admits to missing Ma, Pa, her siblings. She longs to talk to Gramps, ask his advice. After all, he helped make the trouble! He could help remedy it! Most incongruous of all is that she should feel so concerned about this woman whom she doesn’t know especially well, only two weeks after the horrid exchange in Warsaw. But it’s her fault! She must feel concerned!
Steph used to say people invoking Oscar Wilde’s witticism, “All women become like their mothers” forget the last part: “That is their tragedy.” This time, it’s the other way around, with her mother becoming like her. And the case is tragic, if she, Grace, is the daughter Phyllis is turning into! Papa God is clearly amusing himself with this ludicrous reversal of situations: now she’ll be writing Phyllis letters that Phyllis won’t read! Farcical as well that in Mary’s Haven in Cohasset, Phyllis could as well be a baby, if she is to believe the nun’s letter. Still, she is plenty better off than Phyllis had been, painfully inscribing teenage thoughts on blue air letter forms and sending them off to a child who would not read them until she was beyond the age when they might have sweetened her nature.
At least Granny Vads, mean-tempered, ill, and in pain is, hopefully, in a better place, though she might have chosen another day to die. Truly, jackass is right when he says “the world not level”! She considers, decides that she’ll think of it in a positive way: both she and Granny Vads embarked on a new adventure on Monday!
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