A History of Forgetting

by Adderson, Caroline

  She went to the back room where Malcolm sat with her book open in his lap. ‘Where did you find it?’ she asked. ‘I was looking for it earlier.’

  ‘It was tucked beside the dryer.’

  ‘The dryer? How did it get there?’

  Without replying, he turned a page. Then Thi came in and told Alison, ‘Pour me a coffee, too.’ She’d been in an erratically bad mood for a long time—either up and down throughout the day or fixing on one particular person, seemingly at random, to be angry with. Last week Donna had told Alison that Thi was trying to decide whether or not to quit. It was painful news to Alison, first because Thi had not confided in her and, second, because Alison did not think she could stay herself if they lost Thi, too.

  She handed Thi the mug, Thi immediately slamming it down on the counter, sloshing coffee. It must have been too hot, Alison thought. Then she saw Thi glaring at Malcolm. Thi rushing at him. Malcolm raised the book as a shield, but Thi took hold of it, wrenching it away. Cowering, Malcolm brought his hands up to stop the book from coming down on his head.

  Instead, Thi swung around to Alison and told her in a near-shriek, ‘Why do you keep bringing this here? We feel bad enough already without having to look at these awful pictures!’ She marched to the door, opened it and hurled the book. From where Alison was standing, she could see the pages flapping, the book a huge bird with nightmare plumage dropping from the sky then landing with a foreboding thud on the hood of Jamie’s car. She saw the licence plate beginning ADD. A vanity plate, Christian had called it. Attention Deficit Disorder 368.

  Thi slammed the door and jabbed a ringed finger at Alison. ‘Don’t you dare go and get it. Do you hear me? Don’t you bring it here any more.’

  She left the room in a flurry, Alison staring after her and hoping this incident wouldn’t be the one to finally incite Thi to quit. Strangely, Alison herself was momentarily relieved to have the oppressive book off the premises. Without that reminder, perhaps she, too, could start to get on with life. Of course, she didn’t really believe anything would be different, any more than she believed the book was to blame. Once again, she found herself in tears. ‘Why are we turning against each other?’ she asked. ‘When Christian was here, we were so happy.’

  A hand on her arm, Malcolm guided her over to the bench. She sat and he brought a box of tissues and placed it carefully in her lap.

  ‘Thank you.’ She sniffed, surprised he hadn’t fled.

  Instead, he stood there, mothball-scented and visibly distressed, clasping his hands. Very tentatively, he reached out to pat her head.

  In Malcolm’s apartment, the phone kept ringing. Every day, morning and evening, it shrilled at him, but he would not pick it up in case it was the police with some new horror to communicate. When it rang that afternoon, he only answered because he thought it was going to be the girl. She had seemed so upset earlier at work and he had comforted her.

  ‘Mr. Firth?’ It was a woman’s voice, middle-aged, so not the girl. ‘I’ve been trying to get a hold of you.’

  ‘Who is this?’ he asked, suspiciously.

  She said a name entirely unfamiliar to Malcolm. Just as he was about to hang up, she added, ‘from Denis’ ward.’ Nurse Health. Nurse Health was calling him. Immediately, he pictured her standing high on the ledge of the medical arts building, holding a telephone.

  Nurse Health was the kind and probably Sapphic one, the one always encouraging him to join their little support group. She wanted him to sit in a circle with family of the other patients and share his pain while everyone squirmed and looked away. Nonetheless, he appreciated her concern.

  ‘Were you away?’ she asked.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Away. You haven’t been in since Christmas and we’ve been trying to get in touch with you.’

  Oh, Christ. Malcolm closed his eyes. What now?

  ‘Mr. Firth? Are you there?’

  ‘Yes,’ he choked.

  ‘Is someone at your door?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I hear knocking.’

  He was thudding his head against the wall. He stopped. ‘No one’s knocking.’

  ‘Are you all right, Mr. Firth? You used to come every day. We haven’t seen you in such a long time.’

  ‘How is everyone?’ he asked in a faltering voice.

  ‘You mean Denis?’

  ‘How are Mrs. Mikaluk and Mrs. Paxton? How is Mrs. Ross?’

  ‘Mrs. Ross passed away.’

  Stunned at first, then he began silently to weep. He saw her standing there, accused, confused, while Denis screeched. Probably she was an Anglican, but no one screamed ‘Anglican!’ with such venom. Oh, Christ. Was that what had killed her?

  ‘Mr. Stavros, too. Denis—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear what he’s done!’

  ‘He hasn’t done anything, Mr. Firth. He’s ill with this flu that’s going around. It hits them hard when they’re old. Denis is in the hospital. Do you want to see him?’

  ‘I can’t.’ At last the dam had broken. He came unstuck.

  He was sobbing. ‘I can’t. I can’t. I must hang up.’

  ‘I’m going to call tomorrow, Mr. Firth,’ he heard as he lowered the receiver.

  He had to negotiate the maze of furniture to get over to the bed. Lying there, curled up, he wept—not like a baby, like a beast. Bellowing, he tore at the sheets, pounded his head against the headboard, roared. He heard himself and knew they could probably hear him, too, in the bookstore underneath. Paging through their bestsellers, they would be looking up in consternation at the ceiling.

  Mercifully, he fell asleep. The room was dark when he woke. He sensed first by the air, hot and offensive gusts of it, that he was not alone in the destroyed bedclothes. Grace had come to comfort him. For a second Malcolm stared at her tucked up in his arms, blinking back at him with sympathy and goo. He marvelled, considering all he had put her through.

  It was his habit now during walkies, when the ladies had gone home, to have a little sport with Grace and the doggie biscuit. He’d whistle and, seeing the bone-shaped treat in his hand, she’d scurry over and begin prancing at his feet, as if she could not remember what had happened yesterday or the day before, or was she that optimistic? He would pretend to throw it, but really slide it down his sleeve. Off she’d dash, searching, searching, and coming back just as eager. After three or four rounds of this, Malcolm would grow bored. He’d call her over and, to her delight, lift her and carry her over to the garbage can. Usually he wouldn’t deign to touch her except to fasten her leash or tie up her hairs, but under his arm she could better see him toss the biscuit into the garbage along with the plastic bag of shit.

  Now, in the dark room, he asked, ‘So you forgive me?’ His head ached and his tone was sarcastic. She got up with a lurch and backed to the end of the bed.

  ‘I don’t know how you do it, darling. You are a superior being.’

  Her little knees began to shake, if she had knees, that was.

  ‘Get down,’ he commanded.

  Suicide-like, she leapt off the bed.

  6

  The eye on the answering machine, red and domed, was winking. Alison rewound the tape.

  ‘Ali, it’s Mom. I’m just wondering how you’re feeling.’

  ‘Bad,’ Alison answered, before calling back.

  ‘How’s Jeffy?’ she asked when her mother answered.

  ‘He’s in his room blowing people away on the computer. How are you?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘When’s your day off this week?’

  ‘Thursday,’ said Alison.

  ‘I was planning to go over to North Van and tidy things up. Do you want to keep me company?’ She meant the cemetery where Alison’s grandparents were buried. Alison, who didn’t care what she did any more so long as she didn’t have to pretend t
o enjoy it, said, ‘Sure. Okay.’

  ‘Really?’ said her surprised mother. ‘Oh, thank you. No one else will go.’

  On the other side of the Second Narrows Bridge the mountains stood shoulder-deep in cloud. Below, Indian Arm reached crookedly up the inlet, the water, completely flat, the colour of aluminium. Again her mother asked how she was, and when Alison shrugged she simply nodded. What a relief not to have to explain herself, Alison thought. She looked fondly at her mother, saw her completely grey at the temples now, the skin around her eyes spoked with lines. Yet she wasn’t even fifty. Anyone looking at Alison’s mother would see a woman whom age had not been as kind to, as she herself had been kind.

  ‘Billy’s driving me crazy,’ she admitted. ‘He wants to go to Mexico.’

  ‘Mexico? When?’

  ‘At the end of the month. What he really wants is for me to cheer up.’

  Her mother said, ‘He wants you to be happy. Are you going to go?’

  ‘I think I have to,’ she said. ‘Every day he asks me if I got my passport pictures. If we’ve stocked up on Imodium.’

  Her mother laughed.

  ‘He booked the tickets, but I don’t feel like it, Ma. I just don’t.’

  ‘You’re going to have to tell him.’

  Alison sighed. ‘I hate fighting.’

  They exited the highway and looped onto an ascending, tree-lined road. This part of the city was built in deference to the rainforest; in every yard, on every street, shaggy giants towered. When they turned onto the drive that led to the cemetery, it was as if they were driving into a forest clearing. Past the office and the chapel, they parked. Out of the trunk, Alison’s mother took a tray of bedding plants.

  Alison followed carrying the cardboard box with the trowel and watering can. As they made their way along the path, her mother stopped now and then to point out a headstone. ‘Look. This old gal lived to be a hundred and three. But here. See? This one was a baby.’

  Her grandparents’ grave had a single headstone with both their names carved in it. It was a simple black granite rectangle surrounded by drooping blade-like leaves of something past flowering. ‘What do you want me to do?’ Alison asked, putting down the box.

  ‘How about filling the watering can? There’s a tap behind the office.’

  She took the can and started back along the path. Paved and meticulously edged, it was the main street through this necro-suburb, this North Vancouver for the dead. None of the graves were old. They were the same modest granite markers as her grandparents had, upright or laid flat—the cemetery equivalent of ranchers and bungalows. Everywhere, the sweet smell of cedar and the calls of unseen birds. She was not afraid. There was nothing remotely frightening here. It struck her then that the usual experience of death was actually quite banal. Her grandfather had died before Alison could know him. She remembered her grandmother’s dying as her father coming in her bedroom and saying he was going to get take-out for her and Jeffy. Their mother would not be eating. A very sad thing had happened. Ever after, if takeout was offered on a school night, Alison’s first thought was that someone had died.

  The path veered towards the A-framed chapel, a half-glass structure with a single-storey wing for the offices. The tap was under a window. As she stood filling the can, she could see inside to a small kitchen where a heavyset woman sat at a table reading Maclean’s and drinking coffee. A man in a dark suit came in and said something to the woman to make her laugh. These were the jolly, guiltless people who ministered to the dead.

  Her mother had cleared out the bed by the time Alison got back. Now a bright border of primulas replaced the lank overgrowth. From a bread bag, she was sifting dirt around the new plants.

  ‘What’s that?’ Alison asked.

  ‘Compost.’ She pressed the soil down with her gloved hand.

  ‘This grave looks the nicest,’ Alison commented. Very few were decorated with flowers. A faded plastic bouquet stood stiffly in a granite vase not far away, but mostly there was just the green blanket of grass.

  ‘I like to come here and have a chat. The plants are my excuse.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Alison. ‘Should I go away again?’

  ‘It’s all right. I’ve said what I came to say already.’

  ‘Are you and dad going to be buried here?’

  ‘We’re not going to be buried. We’re going to be cremated and scattered.’

  Alison, who had not previously given any thought to her parents’ eventual dying, suddenly felt hurt. Seeing her expression, her mother said, ‘It’s better for the environment, isn’t it?’ She straightened and took the watering can from Alison. ‘Just add me to the compost.’

  ‘What if I want to come and have a talk with you?’

  ‘It’s silly, really,’ said her mother.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what. When your father goes, you can have his La-Z-Boy. You can sit in it and commune with him.’

  ‘Ugh,’ said Alison, turning away. ‘It takes up half the living room.’

  Christian didn’t have a grave. Alison thought of this as they were driving back over the bridge. At the memorial service, there wasn’t even a casket. She wondered what had happened to his body. And what of all the others, the millions turned to ash in ovens or thrown into pits? Where to bring the gardens and gardens of their flowers?

  They had reached the crest of the bridge. Alison, looking down on the inlet’s opposite shore, saw along the metallic water the green spread of a park. Between it and the bridge was an enormous structure, like a prison or a factory, painted white. They were driving past it now, looking down on, but somehow not dwarfing it. ALBERTA WHEAT POOL, read the logo on the tower.

  The exit ramp brought them down next to a junction of railway tracks, rows and rows of boxcars standing. A moment later they passed the park she had just seen from the bridge. Almost blurred, the sign, she couldn’t really read it, but still it snagged her eye. New Brighton.

  Quickly, she swung around, then stayed like that, frozen backward in the seat, the hair on her arms, on the back of her neck, rising up.

  At first Billy didn’t want to go with her. ‘Call one of your buddies from work.’

  ‘No one will want to go.’

  ‘Why do you want to?’ he asked.

  ‘I want to see where he died.’

  ‘Right,’ said Billy. ‘But why?’

  She didn’t want to say that it was because he had no grave. Billy would have some smart-alec reply. Turning, she walked out of the bedroom. She would find her way on the bus. To her surprise, Billy followed.

  They drove in silence for nearly an hour, pulled into the parking lot, got out. A tunnel under the railway track led to the park, the walls layered with graffiti, both cryptic and sinister. In the bright arch at the other end a child in a pink peak-hooded jacket appeared. When someone called her back, she squealed, gleefully stamping rubber boots, turned and galloped off.

  Allison and Billy emerged from the tunnel. More children were playing on a jungle gym with three young mothers watching from a nearby bench, drinking from takeout cups. Beyond stood the massive Alberta Wheat Pool building she had seen a few days ago. On the tennis courts a man was lobbing against the practice board a cheerfully percussing ball.

  She started in the direction of the toilets, Billy in tow, and when they reached the building, she asked him to go in. Wordlessly, he complied, coming out a moment later.

  ‘What’s it like?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a can. It stinks.’

  ‘Is anybody in there?’

  ‘Just a couple of guys going at it. Ha ha.’

  ‘You keep watch,’ Alison said, stepping inside herself.

  Immediately, she began breathing through her mouth. It did stink—of new paint. Each of the shiny cubicle doors she pushed open. Nobody, nobody. The las
t, larger and wheelchair-accessible, she entered. This was where he had been waiting, here, she was sure. Behind these very metal partitions Christian had stood. For minutes, she concentrated, but in the end sensed no presence, felt nothing, no recoiling of her soul. Beneath her feet, the concrete trembled not at all.

  ‘Christian?’ she whispered. ‘Christian?’

  When she opened her eyes again, it was to a white toilet and chrome handrails.

  Outside, Billy was waiting with hands in his pockets. In silence again they began walking back, Alison slowly, keeping her eyes to the ground, tracking. She was searching for some mark, a sign of where the golf club had come down. But that was months ago. Weeks and weeks of rain had washed his blood into the grass. Past the jungle gym, where the children were tearing after one another, screeching. Alison stopped to watch the little girl in pink running for her life, then falling.

  Back at the car, Billy unlocked her door. Curls edged his cap and poked through the arch above the sizing band.

  ‘You need a haircut,’ she said.

  They stopped for groceries and beer on the way back. Billy made himself a sandwich, and after he had eaten Alison went to fetch the comb and scissors.

  ‘So?’ he said. ‘Did you see what you wanted?’

  She shrugged. All she had seen of any significance was spray-painted in the tunnel, but swastikas she saw everywhere now—on stop signs and garage doors, carved into trees, on newspaper boxes, in the dirt on parked cars, on bus seats.

  ‘Could it happen again?’ She asked him because, after all, Billy was the most intelligent person she knew.

  ‘Of course,’ said Billy. ‘Gays get it all the time.’

  That was not what she meant. Coldly, she said, ‘You say that so matter-of-factly.’

  ‘It is a fact,’ said Billy.

  ‘My friend died,’ she reminded him.

  ‘I know.’

  The towel in her hands, she stared at him.