Six Metres of Pavement

by Farzana Doctor

  She hadn’t harboured such thoughts when it was time to look after her own mother years ago. Facts were facts; she was elderly, and didn’t seem to be able to look after herself as well after Pai died, and Celia’s brother Manuel lived too far away. Anyway, it’s what daughters did. She moved her mother into Lydia’s old room, next to her own. She left her son’s bedroom mostly as it was, for the rare visits he made with his girlfriend. There was no question that her mother would join her household, no fanfare, no drama. But when her own husband died, Lydia and Filipe had hushed conversations, her children stage-whispering about “what to do with Mãe” when they thought she wasn’t listening.

  On her good days, she held her head high when Antonio mentioned finishing the basement to build a mother-in-law suite. He said she’d have more privacy. He loved that word: privacy. On good days, she wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on the fact that she didn’t want to live under the ground, in the half-dark, half-light rooms beside the washer and dryer. She wouldn’t complain that basements were for kitchens, not bedrooms, and especially not for the bedrooms of middle-aged women who had cooked and cleaned and taken care of everyone their whole lives. On good days, she would resign herself to the fact that where she lived was no longer her decision.

  That grey November day was not her best day. While she looked at the overcast sky, she was remembering José’s first heart attack more than a year earlier. She arrived home from her visit with Lydia and Marco to find him sprawled out on the couch, a pained expression marking his face. She recalled the wailing of the ambulance’s sirens, her frightening wait at the hospital. He was big and sturdy one day, a workhorse of a man, and the next, weak and embarrassed in a blue hospital gown, with rubber tubes sticking into him. She didn’t like to dwell on that. She blinked her eyes hard, and the memory gradually receded.

  Celia separated the curtains and once more trained her eyes on her neighbour’s stooped back. A new recollection stepped forward. She saw herself on a warm autumn day, out for a walk with Marco and Lydia. They’d met an annoying neighbour, the know-it-all with the sunburn. And him — they’d also met him, that man across the street. She couldn’t recall his name, but an image of his nervous smile flashed bright before her eyes.

  — * —

  It started to rain. Ismail was determined to finish his work, long overdue already. He checked his watch, saw that it was only two-fifteen — much too early to go to the Merry Pint. He picked up his pace, scooping up the last piles of moist leaves and dead plants into yard waste bags. He cinched the heavy paper bags closed, and lined them up on the grass, ready for the truck that would come for them in a few days. Ismail went inside, looking forward to warming up with a cup of hot tea. As he shut his door, he peered out its half-moon pane, focusing on the window from which he’d been watched earlier. The drapes were closed, and then suddenly, they opened again, and there she was, the older woman he’d seen around the neighbour’s house the last few months. This time she stayed in the window, not hiding, allowing herself to be visible. Ismail’s vigilance turned into a paranoid thread that wove itself through his addled brain.

  — * —

  Celia saw the first fat raindrops marking the sidewalk. She watched her neighbour work faster, hurrying to clear the leaves. As he turned toward her to collect his tools, she narrowed the curtain, not wanting to be seen. She wasn’t a nosy person and didn’t want him to think she was peeping at him. Once he was indoors, she pulled aside the curtains again. But he was still there, looking back, through the little window in his front door. This time, she was the one being spied on. She froze.

  After a shared moment of mutual gawking, he turned away first. Now that he was gone, she relaxed, and gazed at his house, the tidied garden, the small front porch. Does he live with anyone? A wife? Does he go to sleep alone like I do?

  She watched the drizzle become a downpour.

  —

  José was sent home to recover with a rainbow of pills that Celia arranged for him in a clear plastic box, each compartment marked with a day of the week. He was more anxious that usual, but Celia expected that; he was still too weak to work. They were waiting for a surgery date that would come and go without him.

  He was not the only one she worried about; Celia’s mother was also unwell. While José rested, she took her mother out for one of a series of specialists’ appointments, during which her mother was questioned about her mysterious lack of appetite. This time, it was a gastroenterologist named Dr. Chin who patiently waited for Celia to translate her mother’s perfunctory responses. He frowned and listened while her mother made vague complaints about this-and-that ache, provided ambiguous answers about bowel movements, and offered fuzzy reports of fatigue. Like the other doctors, Dr. Chin poked at her intestines, inspected her chart, and requisitioned a new round of blood tests.

  After the appointment, they stopped for coffee and cake at Nova Era: the sugar and icing a temptation for her fussy-eating mother. She ordered her a slice of lemon meringue pie, her mother’s eyes lighting up at the sight of a white sugar cloud floating over glossy yellow filling. Celia wasn’t going to have a dessert — it was only an hour until dinner — but the sweet smells of the bakery were intoxicating.

  She estimated that it happened the very moment she took her first bite of chocolate cream cake. As her tongue tasted velvety pudding, the first pains pierced José’s chest. While she scraped the last of the sweet icing from her plate he lost his balance and fell, his heavy body crashing down to the floor. His heart finally gave up as she gulped back strong, aromatic coffee.

  They found him lying on the kitchen floor, his right hand over his heart, like a man pledging allegiance to some great cause. Only, there was no pride in his expression, his mouth shaped into an unfinished sentence, his wide-open eyes forgetting to shut. While she bent down and mimicked the CPR she’d seen on television, her hands pushing down against his unwilling chest, her mother pressed her fingers against José’s eyelids, uttering a barely audible prayer.

  — * —

  Ismail entertained the paranoia for few minutes:

  Why’s she watching me?

  She must know about Zubi.

  Maybe the neighbours have been talking again. I was a fool to think they’d stopped.

  I am so stupid and naive.

  But maybe I’m just being paranoid? Why would she watch me, then?

  And on and on.

  Eventually, he resolved to put the old woman out of mind. He made a cup of Orange Pekoe, and placed three chocolate chip cookies on a plate. While he enjoyed the sensation of mushy cookies mingling with hot tea against the roof of his mouth, it came to him. He realized he had met the old woman before. She wasn’t Lydia’s grandmother, she was her mother! And then he recalled that day, over a year ago, when he was on his way to the pub and Rob Gallagher had been oddly and unexpectedly cordial with him.

  Only back then, the old lady had not looked so old. She hadn’t been wearing head-to-toe black; rather, she had seemed sophisticated, even attractive. He considered that the stylish woman he’d met over a year ago had likely lost her husband, and entered widowhood.

  He finished the three cookies and returned to the cupboard for more but they didn’t satisfy. He grabbed a light beer from the fridge, and after a few sips, felt a little better. He looked out his back window at the rainy, November day. The clouds were darker now, casting a grey pall over the kitchen.

  — 7 —

  Agonias

  Ismail was still contemplating the widow the next day, his mind troubling over the changes he’d seen in her. He wondered whether it really could be true that the woman sneaking looks out her window was the same one he’d met a year earlier. But then, he knew grief had a way of altering things, leaving indelible marks on people.

  Many people — Ismail’s brother, the therapist, Daphne — urged him to let go of the past, and move on with his li
fe, as though letting go was some sort of simple procedure that would yield a positive outcome, if only he’d just applied himself more.

  Just do A, B, and C thrice daily for result D. Hah!

  On his last morning with Zubi, almost nineteen years ago, Ismail had risen early. It was August, and the wind wafting in through the bedroom window was already humid. He gingerly untangled himself from the sheets, trying to avoid waking Rehana. My wife, he sometimes said aloud to himself, for he liked the domesticity of the word.

  He watched Rehana’s rhythmic breathing and hoped she wouldn’t stir; he didn’t want to interrupt her last fifteen minutes before the alarm clock buzzed her awake. Since Zubi’s birth, sleep deprivation had made her irritable, her frown lines deepening until she almost always looked cross.

  Being a father was something he was still getting used to, although Zubi was already eighteen months old by then. He figured it was like that for most fathers, their children constantly changing and growing novelties. He tried to keep up with it all.

  He looked in on Zubi before taking his shower. She was sleeping soundly on her stomach, her little face squished against the crib mattress, her blanket balled up around her right arm. He gushed inwardly at the beauty and serenity in her face. In moments like those, it was easy to for him to forget that she’d woken twice during the night, one of her crying spells lasting almost an hour. As Ismail gazed at her from the nursery’s door, he foresaw that his lovely Zubeida would grow into a pretty girl, an attractive woman. He envisioned her having a wonderful life, a life full of every privilege and happiness she deserved.

  He used the toilet, shaved, and while he was in the shower, Rehana awoke and stumbled, like a somnambulist, into the bathroom. She emptied her bladder and then brushed her teeth furiously with a firm-bristled toothbrush. While Ismail dried off, Rehana stepped past him, taking his place in the tub. She sang while she washed her hair, belting off a few off-key verses of Whitney Houston’s One Moment in Time.

  Ismail dressed, made tea for then both: strong and bitter with just a drop of milk and no sugar for Rehana and three sugars and a long pour of condensed milk for him. While Ismail sipped tea, Rehana dressed herself, then Zubi, then shoved a bottle and Zubi into his arms.

  He walked across the slanting living room floor, stepping carefully to balance Zubi, the warm bottle, and the municipal section of the Toronto Star. As he lowered himself to the couch, cradling Zubi in the crook of his arm, he tilted the bottle up for her to drink. He’d become quite expert at maneuvering her with his left arm so that he could hold up the newspaper with his right. Speed-reading as much of the paper as he could, he paid little attention to Zubi, who drank her milk with fervor. Like her mother in her youth, she had a strong appetite.

  Rehana made toast, ate hers quickly, and came to get Zubi. He followed her into the kitchen to spread butter and jam on his bread. Rehana fed Zubi a bowl of instant baby cereal, while scanning the front-page headlines her husband held up like a shield.

  Ismail finished his toast, gathered up his things for work, and impatiently called for Rehana to hurry up. Chalo, Rehana, we are going to be late! I’ll wait for you by the car! He carried Zubi outside, strapped her into her car seat and heard Rehana open her door and settle herself in the passenger seat. While he buckled himself in, she reminded him that they would be changing their routine that morning, dropping her off first so she would get into work on time for a special mandatory meeting that she seemed nervous about.

  He pulled in front of Rehana’s building on Bloor Street, and she leaned over to offer him a dry cheek peck. As usual, Zubi had dropped off to sleep as soon as they’d left the house, the car engine and moving wheels her lullaby. Rehana blew sleeping Zubi a kiss and whispered. Bye bye baby! See you later, Zubi! Ismail asked Rehana to grab his briefcase from the back and place it on the front passenger seat so that it would be easier for him to reach later. She didn’t question the request and complied. A car behind honked, protesting their pause in a no-stopping zone and Ismail grumbled another, Chalo, let’s go!

  Normally, they would have driven to the daycare first. Rehana would have unlatched Zubi’s seatbelt and carried her inside and by the time they reached the daycare room, Zubi would have been awake enough for goodbyes. But that morning, Rehana could only wave to Zubi from the sidewalk, with Zubi still asleep, snoring quietly in the back seat.

  Ismail regretted hurrying Rehana that morning.

  And then he drove to work. He circled the already full municipal parking garage, cursing the city’s lack of foresight that led to such insufficient staff parking. He found a free spot on a quiet side street two blocks south. At least this is free, he said to himself, looking on the bright side. He pulled up under a tree that would offer some afternoon shade, grabbed his briefcase, locked the car, and rushed into work.

  — * —

  Celia washed the breakfast dishes, wiped the counter, and then retreated to her room. While she made her bed, she suppressed the urge to crawl inside the sheets she’d just tucked in. Her efforts were half-hearted, though, and in the end, she permitted herself to settle atop the cover, telling herself she’d only rest a few minutes.

  She didn’t hear her daughter pass her door, yelling, “We’re going out now, Mãe. We’ll be back soon.” She didn’t notice when an hour later the front door opened again, and her family returned. But she wasn’t asleep — she was visiting another place, was caught in another time, back at her old house three weeks after José died.

  The extended family had left and the other visitors had finally stopped dropping in with condolences. Although they were a comfort at first, she was glad to not have to receive any more pitying glances, or accept another homemade cake or Pyrex casserole dish full of bean stew. She had six different cakes in her fridge: lemon, chocolate, caramel, vanilla, raisin, and marble — her friends loved bringing her useless cakes! She would have liked to throw them all into the compost except that her mother said she liked them. Not that she had eaten any that morning, or the evening before. Celia wanted to take her to the doctor again, but her mother refused and in the end, Celia acquiesced. Grief had stolen away her own appetite, so who was she to argue?

  Around six o’clock, Celia put leftover leitão assado in the oven and went to her mother’s bedroom. She drew near to her mother’s bed, softly calling to her, but still she didn’t awaken. She was about to switch off the bedside lamp and leave her mother to her rest, but something stopped her: a woman frugal to her core, her mother wouldn’t have left a light on, unnecessarily, while she napped. She shook her mother’s limp body, checked futilely for a pulse, and felt her own body go numb.

  The old woman succumbed to the infection that had been lurking, worming its way in and through her worn-out organs, stealing away her appetite, but greedily craving Nova Era’s lemon meringue, pastéis de nata, and funeral cakes, their sickly sweetness the only thing able to satisfy its lustful and hasty growth.

  Celia slumped down against the wall and stared listlessly at her mother’s body. She felt her eyes glaze over, and heard a whoosh of air pass through her skull. Where does the mind travel when there is nothing left to moor it? Celia’s hovered just above her, and then floated up to the ceiling and surveyed the scene: a dresser, a bed, a cross on the wall. Two women wearing matching black outfits, one stock-still, the other barely moving. One with no breath left inside her, the other not seeming to need air. Her mind floated higher, pressed itself against the ceiling. It stayed there, high above the room’s despair, thinking that soon, this house would need to be vacated and sold. From this angle, the idea of leaving was almost a comfort.

  The smell of the burning pork roast was not enough to rouse Celia. When the smoke detector began its screaming, she wanted nothing more than to ignore it, to stay put, to allow herself and her mother to be cremated within her home’s walls. She couldn’t say what force made her stand up, stumble down the stairs and toss
out the burned roast, Pyrex dish and all, into the backyard. She watched the black smoke billow up and into the sky, a distress signal. When the smoke dissipated, she went to the fridge and dumped each of the funeral cakes into the garbage bin, one at a time.

  — * —

  Ismail wished there were a secret recipe for moving on. After so many years, he knew that finding one’s way after a tragedy was like hiking an unmarked trail. He’d scramble down steep slopes, the path sometimes washed away by a recent storm. Familiar landmarks were often difficult to spot.

  He considered his neighbour-widow’s outward signs of mourning, her black sack-style dresses, which he guessed was very much in vogue with the widows of Little Portugal. He’d seen these dreary dresses on sidewalk racks outside local clothing stores. In a way, he admired the freedom widows had to be in the world without any pressure to look anything but miserable.

  Ismail’s remembering was relentless, his mind compelled to venture back, tragedy a kind of homing device for it. And remembering was rarely brief or casual; whenever Ismail travelled back to that terrible summer day when Zubi died, his mind was obsessive, grabbing on with rubber gloved fingers, poking and prodding at every memory fragment with vigour. His mind shone flood lights on these details, neurotically examining each and every minute of that day, searching for something to make sense of what happened.

  Why didn’t I look over my shoulder when I parked? Left my briefcase in the back seat? Why did Zubi have to be so quiet that morning? Why couldn’t just one worrisome, sentimental, fatherly thought about my baby have entered my thick skull at some point during that day? Why didn’t my wife call to inquire about the drop-off at daycare? She might have asked me if Zubi cried when I said goodbye. Rehana told me that Zubi often wailed when she walked out the daycare’s doors.