Tears in the Grass

by Lynda A. Archer

  “I am not doing to die, Louise, certainly not today. There are things to be done.”

  “Yes, I suppose there are, but when you’re better, Mother.” Louise cleared her throat, straightened the sheets on the bed. She said she and Alice had been thinking about where Elinor would live after she left the hospital.

  “Why would you be talking about that?” Elinor said. “I’m going home.”

  “You’re too weak. And if Alice hadn’t come out to your house that afternoon …”

  “I’d be dead,” Elinor said. “But at least I’d have died in my own home, looking out to the valley, smelling some good tobacco, maybe a deer or a gopher stopping by. Sounds pretty good to me, better than this place with its sheets, stiff as cardboard, reeking of starch. Where did that idea come from? Starched clothes. Why?”

  Louise sighed. “Don’t be difficult, Mom. We want you to be safe.”

  “Don’t you remember your father? What did they do for him?”

  “I do remember. If you’d called the ambulance …”

  “They wouldn’t have come all the way out there. Do they go even now?”

  Alice brought a tray with a pot of tea, a bowl of sugar cubes, and a plate of cookies.

  Elinor wolfed down two cookies, dropped three sugar cubes in her cup of tea. Licking her lips, she told herself that was all she needed, a good shot of sugar and tea. She poked at the tubing that carried the clear liquid into her body. When she tugged at the tape holding the intravenous needle in place, Alice pulled her hand away.

  “The nurse will take that out after you’ve eaten,” Alice said, “or maybe tomorrow.”

  “I’ve eaten.”

  “Only cookies.”

  “And tea,” Elinor said. She wanted rid of all the paraphernalia. A plan for her escape was beginning to form in her mind.

  Louise said John would come by after school; he had some new poems Elinor might like, poems about stones by a Chilean poet. Elinor thought she’d hate to miss the poems, but she hoped she’d be gone by then. Although better that she wait until John left; she’d have a bigger chunk of time before anyone noticed she was gone. She knew how to get out of difficult situations; she’d been doing it all her life.

  “Any news of Bright Eyes?” she asked. She didn’t want to ask, but she needed to know. If they were on the verge of a discovery, she’d hold off.

  Alice said the day she found Elinor she was planning to tell her what they’d done, what they were thinking of doing next.

  “So …” Elinor asked, “have you found her?”

  Even though she had only one eye working at the moment, she could tell from her granddaughter’s face that things were not going well. She covered her face with her hands. She would have to do this on her own. She wanted to shake her daughter and granddaughter. They did not understand. If you wanted deer or duck or rabbit on your dinner table, you went out and tracked it down, you didn’t hang a sign on your fence post and hope the animal would stop by, jump onto your table, into your soup pot. You went after it, for as long as was necessary, until you got close enough to shoot it and drag it home. Alice said maybe they’d run ads in some newspapers. That wasn’t good enough, Elinor said, they needed to talk to people. Lots of people. They needed to stop everything else they were doing.

  “Put more ads in more newspapers. Get out to all the reserves,” Elinor said. “This is an emergency. Don’t you see that?”

  A nurse brought a tray with tomato soup, potatoes, green beans, meat loaf, a bun, and a bowl of purple Jell-O. Elinor said that was a lot of food for lunch. Louise told her it was dinner. Elinor wasn’t going to tell them she’d lost track of the time and the day.

  There was little feeling in the left side of her mouth. Her lips didn’t grip the spoon very well. Soup dribbled onto her chest. She pushed the bowl to the back of the tray. The vegetables and meat loaf were bland, but she could manage them. Alice wet a towel with hot water and wiped up the soup.

  Louise said Elinor was looking better than she did a few days ago. She gathered up her coat. Elinor wondered how long she’d been in hospital. Louise squeezed Elinor’s shoulder, kissed her on the cheek, told her she’d be back at lunchtime the next day.

  “You scared me,” Alice said after Louise left.

  “Well, good. Sometimes it helps to be scared. I’m scared, too. That I’ll never get out of here. Let me say that again. Of course I’ll get out of here, but I’d like to be vertical when I depart. Find me some cigarettes; they will speed my recovery.”

  “Or hasten your departure,” Alice said. “No can do.”

  Elinor swatted at Alice and flopped back on her pillow.

  “Don’t want your Jell-O?” Alice asked.

  “It’s purple. Not one of my favourite colours.”

  “Want to come and live with me for a while, Gran?”

  “I want to go home.”

  “It’s winter. You could have frozen to death if I hadn’t found you. Your place looked deserted.”

  “I like it like that. Get that nurse to take this damned thing out of my arm. I’m strong enough. And I need to go to the bathroom.”

  While Alice went to look for the nurse, Elinor tugged at the tape on her hand. It was difficult; she couldn’t get the fingers on her left hand to come together; she supposed that was the stroke. She rubbed at the edges of the tape, gradually curling it away from her skin. It hurt like hell. It would be even harder to get the needle out with her fingers acting the way they were. All the needles they’d shoved into Joseph when they finally got to the hospital. None of them did any good. He died on the operating table. He’d lost too much blood.

  She’d wanted to be strong for Louise and Charlie, but she could not stop her tears. At least Louise had John, and Charlie his woods and his buddies along the trapline. Le Roy had no one. He disappeared for days. When he came back his eyes were bloodshot, he couldn’t stop shaking; he’d go to Joseph’s grave and talk and talk to it as if he expected Joseph to answer. He didn’t eat; he didn’t sleep.

  She tried wiggling the needle. It was thick and long. Pain shot up her arm. She thought she might pass out. She had to get out of this place. It had been too long. The wild roses were blooming the day she’d told Alice of Bright Eyes. Now they were rosehips covered in snow. She’d let herself get too hopeful about what Rosie might remember. It was up to her. She’d not die in this white man’s tomb before Bright Eyes had known her mother.

  “Hey, hey. What are you doing there?” the nurse said. “You shouldn’t be touching that. It will get infected.” The nurse swabbed the area with rubbing alcohol, pushed down with a swab of gauze on the needle that lay beneath the skin, and yanked.

  “Hell,” Elinor shouted. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Just what you asked for,” the nurse said. “The pain will stop in a minute. It’s worse if I take it out slowly.” She pressed a ball of cotton over the needle hole and taped it down. Elinor’s arm and hand were covered in bruises.

  Elinor caught a glimpse of the snow on the window ledges and rooftops, glistening in the last light of the day. It was winter. She might have to rethink her plan. Or put it off for a few months. She didn’t like that idea. She’d find a coat and boots even if she had to steal them. She could withstand cold; nothing had been as cold as that damned school the first few months she was there.

  “Did you bring my coat?” Elinor asked.

  “When I found you, I was only concerned about getting you to hospital. The ambulance had blankets; it was heated. I’ll bring it when you’re ready to come out.”

  Elinor swung the covers away. She waved at her clothes and said she wanted to get dressed. Alice said she’d be more comfortable in her nightgown and that the doctor had not checked her out.

  “I don’t need a doctor to check me out,” Elinor said. “This isn’t a prison. Or that school. I can walk out on my own.”

  “You’re too weak,” Alice said.

  “I’m not. It’s from lying around in
here. Take me for a walk. I want to be dressed for that. Don’t want everybody staring at my bum.” She shifted her legs over the side of the bed, hitched her bottom to the edge, then feet on the floor. Her left leg was the same as her left arm and fingers: weak. All the more reason she needed to get moving. Keep moving. She told Alice to bring her clothes. Alice shook her head but knew her gran would not take no for an answer.

  Elinor loved the smell of the smoke on her clothing — the long navy blue skirt, the turtleneck T-shirt, and the red sweater that Alice had given her one Christmas. She hoped Alice didn’t see the hole at the front, a cigarette burn. There were no shoes. She’d insist that Alice bring them tomorrow. Maybe it was a good idea to rest up a few nights. But too much time in bed and she’d only get weaker.

  Alice pulled Elinor’s hair back from her face and tucked it under her sweater.

  “Are you sure you can do this?” Alice asked. She stood a good foot taller than her gran.

  “Of course. All this lying about would make anyone sick or soft as pudding.” She tried to take a step, but her left leg wouldn’t move so she moved the right one first and dragged the left behind.

  Over the next eight days, Elinor gathered her supplies. She walked farther and farther around the hospital, building her strength, preparing herself for what only she could do. Maybe coming so close to death was a sign that she must make haste and that only she, the mother, could find her child. She told herself she could withstand the cold. Hadn’t she already done that the day Alice found her? Louise and Alice would say she had almost died; Elinor told herself she had survived.

  21

  While the nurses were busy gathering up breakfast trays, distracted with dispensing pills and little paper cups of white liquid that tasted like chalk, Elinor, her belly full with porridge, toast and jam, boiled egg and bacon, left. She’d eaten every bit of it. For the past week she’d saved food from each meal, even hanging about the food trolley, taking food off trays that others had left. It was amazing all the food that went uneaten. It wasn’t great stuff, but it was good enough. Didn’t people want to get out of here? Alice had brought her coat, scarf and mitts, boots, socks and sweaters, cane and smokes. Poor Alice. Elinor had even convinced her to give her money. Elinor said she needed it so she could buy candy in the gift shop, maybe a newspaper to keep up with what was going on in the world.

  As far as she could tell, there were only terrible things happening in the world. Mostly, she read the birth notices. Bundles of joy and delight, occasionally a photograph of a wrinkled newborn. She should have had Alice bring her the Dickens book. She missed reading about Pip. He was an inspiration to her. The ways he managed to get himself out of tight spots.

  The cold air enveloped her body, pressed onto her mouth and lips, chilled her lungs with each breath. Her eyes watered. For a few seconds everything was blurry until she blinked and swiped away the wetness with her mitt. It was colder than she expected. She pulled her scarf tighter over her head, checked to see that all the buttons on her coat were done up. She walked faster to warm herself, but couldn’t persist beyond ten or twenty steps. Even so, she was happy for the freshness of the air. Outside air. Clean air. Not stuffy, dusty, dry air that smelled of pee and poop, soap and starch, medicines, tomato sauce and coffee.

  A few blocks from the old university, at the corner of College and Albert, she came upon a square, white stone building with a long, straight sidewalk that led to the entrance. It seemed familiar. What was it? She stared at the bold structure. Had she been in there? A half-block past the building she remembered. How could she forget? That was Big Brown’s home. Not much of a home. Pretty pitiful. It had been so long since she had gone there. She yearned to chat with Big Brown about her plan. Just to be near him would give her strength to carry on. But she couldn’t risk it. She needed to get to the highway.

  She headed south on Albert Street. This trek was taking longer than she thought it would. She was stopping every few minutes to rest and get her breath. Her father would tell her not to think so far ahead. Approaching the bridge with the buff stone pillars and replicas of brown bison heads every few feet, she recalled how much she liked the bridge. Then she remembered that Louise and John lived nearby. They mustn’t see her. She must watch for their car, bend over, turn away. Now was not the time to meet her daughter.

  She started across the bridge. It wasn’t a high bridge, and it had been constructed to accommodate both walkers and cars. The limestone pillars were about eight inches in diameter. The limestone balustrade came to Elinor’s chest. Looking to the east, one saw Wascana Lake, frozen and snow-covered. A man-made lake, it had been a make-work project during the Depression years. In the opposite direction was Wascana Creek, a meandering stream that began in the prairie.

  Halfway across the bridge Elinor stopped at one of the bison heads, of which there were many, twenty or more. She drew her mittened fingers over the bumpiness of the burly brown head, along the snout, down the throat. Perhaps some would be pleased at this recognition of the great animal, but she wasn’t one of them. Better to have honoured the creatures when they roamed freely.

  Once she was off the bridge, there were houses on her right and a line of pine trees on her left. The trees afforded some protection to the grounds of the provincial legislature. She strained to see to the end of Albert Street, but it was too far for that. In truth, she had no idea how far it was. Louise would inform her later, and not in a kind manner, that it was a good three miles, if not more.

  Elinor was tiring. She spotted a bus stop a half-block ahead with a bench. She’d take a break. It was early in the day.

  While it was good to rest her legs and feet, she knew she mustn’t stay long. She feared if she gave in to her tiredness she’d not be able to continue. She told herself this would be the worst part of the trek. She placed a mitt over her nose, blew into it for warmth. She tugged her hat lower over her ears. She rummaged in her bag and pulled out the sandwich she’d saved from yesterday’s lunch: bologna and mustard. The meat was cold and crunchy in her mouth. It tasted awful but she resisted the urge to spit it out. It was food; her body would make use of it as best it could. She took another bite and pretended she was eating rabbit stew like her mother’s, made with carrot, turnip, sage, and onion. Already she felt stronger and more nourished. She took another bite. Pemmican this time. Chewy, a little tough, but food that lasted through the winter and kept her strong.

  A siren blared. She shrank into her coat, tightened her scarf around her head. She tensed as a police car approached. Not yet. Surely Louise had not called the police already. The car, almost in front of her, was slowing down. Damn, Louise. She turned around, bent over, and searched in her bag. She heard a car door slam shut. She thought she might panic. Steps behind her.

  “Excuse me,” a man’s voice said. “Ma’am?”

  She pretended she didn’t hear him and continued to search in her bag. A touch on her shoulder. The ma’am word again. Then he was standing in front of her.

  “Did you see a young fellow in a yellow jacket, red hat, running this way?”

  She wanted to laugh. She croaked out a no. He apologized for bothering her and suggested she get inside, a blizzard was on the way. She nodded, listened for the car to pull away. She’d planned to have a smoke but decided she must hurry.

  She wondered if she was going in the right direction. Where was the bloody highway? South and east. She looked up to locate the sun. There it was. She was going the right way.

  She counted houses. One, two, three, eight, twelve. She counted houses with cars in the driveways, then houses without cars. She counted black cars and silver cars, red cars. She counted fire hydrants. There were too few of them to keep her mind occupied, so she switched to telephone poles. The sun was climbing higher in the sky; there were more cars on the road. She wondered if she should get off this main street, weave her way through the side streets in case Louise was already looking for her. She rejected that idea; she might get lost and it
would waste too much energy.

  Elinor stopped to rest at another bus stop. She was warm enough with the two sweaters, two pairs of socks, and newspapers wrapped around her legs. She stared into the distance, hoping to get a sense of how much farther she had to go, but it was impossible to tell. She didn’t know the landmarks in the city. Her weaker leg was so tired. She had to push the doubting thoughts from her mind. She wasn’t walking as fast as she had been when she started out.

  The sun, now directly overhead, was too bright, making her squint. For a time, until her arm started to ache, she held her hand above her eyes to shield them.

  Eventually, the homes and evergreens and huge brick government buildings ceased, replaced by expanses of asphalt, motels, grocery stores and gas stations, restaurants and bookstores. She smiled and quickened her pace. She sensed she was getting closer.

  As the sun moved past its zenith she reached the highway, the Trans-Canada, Highway One. It wasn’t a busy highway and she crossed over the four lanes to the two heading east.

  She thought she might cry, standing beneath the expanse of sky. Endless sky. She gave thanks to the Creator for giving her strength to stay vertical, to move her body out of that hospital and back onto the earth. When she looked away from the city, due south, the prairie ran forever. Here and there a small building, a round, grey metal storage unit. Far to the west a couple of grain elevators. She was grateful for the calm. So rare was it that the prairie wind wasn’t blowing.

  She brought her hand to her forehead and turned to the west. Nothing in sight, but her vision being what it was, that didn’t mean there wasn’t anything coming. She’d keep moving to stay warm. Eventually, something would come. She needed to get a ride soon. Any time now, Louise was going to arrive at the hospital and find her gone. Elinor chuckled. She wished she could be there to see that. She felt sorry for the nurses. They’d be the ones to get her daughter’s fury, tirade of questions, threats of a lawsuit. Her daughter had always had a way with words. Even as a child she’d chatter at Charlie until he was so confused he’d run to Elinor, crawl under her skirt. But she never tried anything with her father. With Joseph she listened, sucked up his stories about bison, owls, and coyotes.