Edgy People

by Barb Nobel

  “Oh Rose, men don’t wear lace.”

  Both girls know this is true.

  “Well, maybe it was the girl that wore the lace,” Rose says. “I’m gonna’ have lace on my dress, and it’ll be in a sort of ‘V’ shape in the front and the back.”

  “You don’t want everyone to see your boosums, do you Rose?”

  “I haven’t got any boosums.”

  The girls giggle.

  “But you’ll have them when you grow up,” says Emma. “Who knows, maybe they’ll be as big as the minister’s wife’s boosums.”

  The girls turn their heads simultaneously towards each other, and grin. Emma’s grin is gap-toothed.

  Their conversation is interrupted by a boy about six years old. He wears cut-down coveralls with the legs rolled up unevenly. He has a plane made out of two pieces of wood nailed clumsily together. He runs around the girls and flies his plane closer and closer to their heads.

  “Stop that, Floydie,” complains Emma.

  Floyd ignores her, but as he zooms past, Rose calmly puts out a stick-thin leg and trips him. Floyd howls in indignation.

  “You tripped me. I’m gonna tell.”

  “If you do, I’ll get you back,” Rose threatens.

  Floyd thinks about this. Someday, he’ll be bigger than his sisters, and he’ll be able to beat up on them, but not yet. He makes a decision and zooms his plane down the lane-way.

  The girls gaze placidly at the clouds.

  “What will the ballroom look like, Rose?” asks Emma.

  “Oh, it’ll be huge. And it’ll have one of those candeliers, you know, those lights that got a lot of bulbs that look like candles on them, and dangly things hanging down. Like in your old Cinderella book. And the walls will all be painted in nice colours, pink and yellow. And it’ll be all decorated with balloons, hundreds of balloons. All colours. And with those paper streamers like Miss Phillips lets us put up for the Christmas Concert, all different colours twisted around each other. And some of the streamers will hang down. It will have a big, long staircase, and when me and you come down the stairs, the music and dancing will stop and everyone will look up at us ‘cause we’ll be so beautiful.”

  The girls smile happily at each other.

  “Rosie and Emmie, you two git in this house.” Their mom’s voice calls out of the kitchen window behind them. But the two girls think only of the beautiful ballroom.

  A little girl of about three, dressed in a soggy cloth diaper, comes and stands in front of them. Her thumb is stuck in her mouth. Her eyes are round and blue, her face placid, empty.

  “Come here, Flora,” says Rose. Flora sits down beside her. Rose crooks her arm around the child’s waist. Flora gives a little sigh, and sucks her thumb.

  “We’ll have lots of good things to eat,” says Emma. “We’ll have some of that cake that the minister’s wife makes and butter tarts like Mom makes for when Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Harvey comes over. Lots of chocolate.”

  “No turnips or beets,” says Rose.

  “Miss Phillips says that sometimes in the city they make deserts that look like other things, like maybe a cake that looks like a piano. We could have some of them. What would you want your cake to look like, Rose?”

  “If you don’t git in here and do these dishes, I’m gonna tell your dad,” their mom hollers out the kitchen window .

  Behind them, Floyd runs up and down the lane making zooming noises.

  But the girls are lost in a lovely anticipation of the food.

  “Maybe an animal. Maybe like one of them kittens that the Miller’s got in their barn. Yeah, a white kitten,” says Rose.

  “Mr. Miller drowned those kittens,” says Emma sadly. “He took them down to the creek in a bag and put a stone in the bag.”

  “I know. I think he likes to drown ’em.” says Rose. “Don’t you worry about it, Emma, ’cause you can’t stop him.”

  All is silent. The sky is still blue, the air is soft. The clouds glide by.

  A footstep sounds behind them. Emma springs suddenly to her feet, but Rose is too late. A large man dressed in coveralls and rubber boots grabs her by her upper arm and lifts her off the ground. Flora rolls out of her sister’s arm, and down the little hill. Her diaper collects dirt and grass as she tumbles. Rose’s short yellow dress hikes up, exposing a pair of greyish panties. Floyd, who has zoomed his plane back down the lane, sniggers.

  “You girls git in that kitchen and help your ma,” says the man.

  “Yes, Daddy,” both girls say.

  Emma stands Flora on her feet and brushes some of the dirt from around her mouth and off her hands. Flora doesn’t cry; she sticks her thumb back in her mouth.

  “You git in that house too.”

  Flora totters after her sisters.

  “Too much book readin’,” declares the man.

  “I don’t read any books, Daddy,” says Floyd.

  “Course you don’t, you’re a boy.”

  Floyd smirks. He knows this is what gives him an advantage over his sisters. He knows that someday he will tell them what to do, and they’ll have to do it because he’ll be a man, and he’ll be big. He zooms his plane back up the lane as his dad walks out to the pickup.

  The girls’ mother sits at the kitchen table drinking tea out of a chipped mug.

  “I told you I’d git your dad after you,” she says. “I hope he gave you a good clip across the head. Heat that kettle up again so you’ll have some hot water for the dishpan. I swear, you two better learn to do some work, or you aren’t ever going to get married and have a family. Who’d want to marry such lazy girls.”

  The two little girls keep their eyes down as they go about heating the dishwater and clearing the table. But underneath their lids they glance at each other in a silent communication. They know there are better things than marriage in their future.

  Nothing Else to Say

  “I’M GOING TO LIVE TO be a healthy ninety-nine, and then jump over a guard rail in front of an eighteen wheeler.”

  That’s what I used to say. But I’ve had to revise that a bit. For one thing, I can’t help worrying about the poor truck driver. His whole life will be affected if he hits a little old woman with his truck. It won’t matter that I’m old, or that I was the one who jumped off the overpass, it will still be terrible for him. And if he has a wife and kids it will be terrible for them too. So, lately, I’ve started to think about a more humane way to do this. Humane for others, I mean, not for myself. For myself, I intend to be fast and thorough.

  The other part I have to revise is the age. I’m 84 now, and I thought I was in excellent health for my age, but another aspect just presented itself. It started with balance. Or rather, the loss of balance. Well, I figured, I am getting older so I better do something about this. I put a post-it note with a stick figure on my bathroom mirror to remind myself to stand on one foot when brushing my teeth. It was supposed to be a painless way to practice my balance. It didn’t turn out to be painless, since I lost my balance and fell, my hand going into the toilet, wrenching my shoulder. It could have been worse. I’m very glad I kept up with my fitness routine; some massage and cold packs, and extra rest, put me right.

  But then I noticed that my hand was trembling and my thumb was rubbing my finger, seemingly without my control. That was strange. It was my shoulder I injured. I know everything is connected, like we sang in the old song when we were children, but this rubbing thing was odd. So, off I went to my doctor.

  Parkinson’s is a difficult disease to diagnose. There is no specific test, although some neurological tests certainly point the way. In the end, it is diagnosed through a series of symptoms and by eliminating other causes and/or diseases. That was how I was diagnosed.

  Of course, I got on- line and I didn’t like what I read at all. The part that really bothered me was what some articles referred to as Stage 3, officially called Bradykinesia and identified as a gradual degradation of movement
. But the part that terrified me is that one can be moving freely one minute and completely unable to move the next. If I couldn’t move at all, that truck driver has nothing to worry about.

  I didn’t intend to spend the rest of my life being spoon-fed, and, more horrifying, having the other end wiped. I needed to figure out a plan as soon as I could.

  Back on line, I googled for painless ways to commit suicide and got 1,430,000 results in under a second. I was flabbergasted. I clicked on to a site called “Lost All Hope”, and then on to a section titled “Your Stories”. And I was saddened. There were stories of young men and women who had lost their marriages, people who were going through extended bad times, people who had tried and failed to end their life. Worst of all were stories from young people, 11 years old, 14 years old, feeling worthless, feeling depressed.

  As a secondary school teacher for more than 40 years, I know how desperate young people can feel. They feel there is no hope left. I’m 84, and I will end my life somehow, but at least I have had a life. Fortunately many of the online stories were from those whose attempts had failed, who had decided to try to live again, and whose lives had become bearable, some even happy.

  Another part of the web site listed ways to off oneself, how lethal each method was, how long it would take, and the agony factor. For sure I won’t stab myself in the abdomen: it takes more than four hours to die and the agony factor is high. I looked up my old joke plan—jumping in front of a truck—70% lethal, 19 minutes to die, and an agony level of 63. My old joke didn’t seem much of a joke now.

  Many of those who failed in their attempt ended up seriously and/or permanently injured.

  I was exhausted, and all I had done was peck away on the computer. Time for a cup of tea, and time for bed.

  Today, I check out success statistics. In young people (aged 15 - 24), the odds are between 100 and 200 to 1 against success. The elderly seem a lot more successful at 4:1. I’m curious about this and so I read on. It seems that the elderly’s success rate is because they are more certain they want to go through with it.

  It isn’t even noon yet, and I’m bushed. I decide that this research is just too emotionally distressing, and that’s why I’m so tired. Or maybe it’s the Parkinsons. I resolve to get to the heart of the matter right away, and click on a link for euthanasia and assisted suicides, and I find hope. The Dignitas Clinic in Switzerland offers assisted suicide. Swiss laws are among the most liberal as far as assisted suicides go.

  Before I can research too much about the Swiss clinic, there’s a banging on the door, then my Ellie’s cheerful voice.

  “Open up, Gran,” she hollers.

  I hurry downstairs to let her in before she hollers any more. In she breezes, asking me in a loud voice if I’m hiding my lover, or two lovers, or hiding some pot, and declaring she will search the house until she weeds out any illegal substances.

  My Ellie is 23 now, but I remember her in grade five, furious and telling off her classmates for bullying a new kid in class, the son of an immigrant who didn’t have the right clothes. And Ellie, being popular, was successful in his defense.

  And I remember her in grade nine, cutting her beautiful dark hair short because she “couldn’t deal” with all the fuss of putting it up for gym and tennis lessons.

  Now, Ellie is trying to make her living as an actress and struggling to put food on her table while working at waitressing and temp work. When the next big break comes up, she will quit her day job and go off in pursuit of fame and fortune. Likely, it will be more fame than fortune, but she is good at thrift. Tall and boisterous, she is a light in my life, and confusion in her conservative mother’s life.

  She fills the kettle, chatting amiably, and asks if I have any muffins. I do, and also some of the lasagne I had for dinner last night, which she promptly sticks in the microwave. She makes her coffee, sits down, and shovels the food into her mouth.

  “Gran, what are you doing with your thumb?” she asks.

  I look at how my thumb is rubbing my finger and I put my right hand over my left hand, but to my alarm, that hand starts shaking.

  “What’s happening, Gran?” Ellie asks.

  I sigh. “Parkinson’s is happening, Ellie.”

  “Oh, Gran, no.” Ellie reaches across the table and takes my hands in hers.

  “I’m going to research online,” she says. Despite all evidence to the contrary, young people believe that old people don’t know how to use the internet.

  “No, I’ve done that already,” I say.

  I tell her about Bradykinesia and about how terrified I am.

  “Gran, I’ll help. It’s going to be okay,” she says. I smile, thinking of all the times I’ve said that to my precious granddaughter: when she skinned her knee, when her mom was angry with her, when she fought with her best friend, when her live-in boyfriend left.

  “It will be okay,” I reply.

  “I’m just going up to check my email,” Ellie tells me, and bounds up the stairs. Too late, I realize, I’ve left the information about ways to commit suicide and about the clinic in Switzerland on the screen.

  Ellie hollers down at me that I better not eat her muffin and then she is quiet. She is quiet for a long, long time. Normally, she would stomp back down the stairs, but this time she is so silent that I don’t realize she is there and I’m startled to see her when I turn from the garbage where I am scraping the empty lasagna container.

  “Gammy,” she says. It is what she called me when she was a toddler and had difficulty with the ‘r’ sound. She stopped calling me that when she got into grade one and was told by the other six-year olds that it was a baby thing to say.

  She puts her strong arms around me and hugs me.

  “Gammy,” she says again. “I’ve never been to Switzerland, and if you go, I want to go with you.”

  “Oh, Ellie, Ellie, thank you,” I say.

  Because, right at this moment, there is nothing else to say.

  I Was Warned

  THE OTHER KIDS DON’T PLAY with me much anymore. They used to. I used to be kind of popular. When I was little, the other parents would tell my mother that I was such a good looking boy with my curly blond hair and my blue, blue eyes.

  But then one day, when I was making faces, my face got stuck that way. Now my tongue sticks out of my mouth on one side and my nose is kind of pushed up like a pigs snout, and my eyes are kind of pulled down so you can see the red part underneath.

  “I told you so,” my mother said.

  Sometimes the littler kids are kind of scared of me.

  I used to be pretty good at baseball. I was the catcher, or sometimes they put me out behind second base. But I’m not so good at that anymore. Now I just kind of throw the ball up against the wall and catch it. I have to do it all with one hand. That’s why they don’t let me play baseball anymore. My left hand is still okay; I can catch with that hand, but my right hand was my good throwing hand. Now my right hand is sort of stuck to my face, ’cause my finger got stuck up my nose. The other kids don’t want to eat with me in the cafeteria anymore. They keep telling me I’m gross.

  “I told you so,” my mother said.

  I play by myself a lot now.

  Another reason why they won’t let me play baseball (or hockey either, for that matter,) is because I don’t see so good anymore. It’s my peripal vision, or at least that’s what the eye doctor called it. It happened when I was running, pretending I had a sword, and fell down. All this slimy white stuff came out of my eye and got on the end of the stick. It looked kind of like egg white. Now I just see out of my right eye, but it’s kind of difficult because I got to turn my head to the left anytime I want to look in that direction, and my right hand kind of gets in the way too, because that’s the hand where the finger is stuck up my nose.

  “I told you so,” my mother said.

  After I poked my eye out, I stopped running with sticks for a while. but then I thought What the heck,
my eye is already poked out, so I’ll just make sure I carry the stick in my left hand. I couldn’t hold anything in my right hand anyway. That worked for a while, but then, wouldn’t you know it, I poked out someone else’s eye.

  “I told you so,” my mother said.

  Everyone got really upset with me that time, and I heard some people refer to me as a freak and say I should be put in a home. I couldn’t figure that one out ’cause I already got a home, but a lot of the time it’s hard to tell what grown-ups are talking about anyway.

  The other thing that kind of affects my seeing, and why they don’t let me play baseball anymore, is that my neck is kind of twisted to the right. That makes it even more difficult for my peripal vision. I don’t remember too much of what happened that time, but I know that I spent a lot of time in the hospital after I fell out of that tree, and then for a long time I had to wear this big plastic thing around my neck. The doctor said it was a wonder I recovered, that I didn’t become something that I can’t remember the name of, but that means that I wouldn’t be able to use my arms or legs again.

  “I told you so,” my mother said.

  At least, that’s what I think she said. My hearing hasn’t been so good since that thing with the beans when I was just little. Anyway, that’s what she usually says, so she probably said it again.

  So, I been feeling real lonely lately.

  Just this afternoon when I was walking home from school I thought maybe I had made a new friend. I had just about reached the big bridge that goes over the river when I noticed that this big car was kind of following behind me. I couldn’t really see it, it was on my left side, my bad side, but I could hear it. I was feeling so bad I didn’t even look around, although I heard it following me for a while. Then I heard the window roll down. The cars today got electric windows so that the driver can roll down the window on the other side, or roll it up if he wants. Then I heard this man say to me “Hey kid, want some candy?”

  I didn’t even look at the man, I was so glad that someone wanted to be my friend, and was going to give me candy into the bargain. I just hopped right into his car. The man started to drive the car real fast over the bridge, and he wasn’t looking at me at first. Then he looked at me, and he said, “Hey kid, get your finger out of your nose, or I’m not gonna give you any candy.”