“Well, you’re so easy to please. Little bottle here, another there, and voilà you’re happy.” Annette peers around the living room “Where’s that son of mine? Still sleeping?” She pushes the spare room door open. “Oh, he’s not even here.”
“Nikky had to go back to Vancouver last night, dear.” I need to sit down.
“What? I didn’t even get to see him!” Annette stares past me. “That little stinker.”
“He’s six feet two inches now. We measured.” I sit and wait for an emotional outburst. Tears. Instead, my daughter-in-law opens and shuts the drawers in the sideboard until she finds the well-used corkscrew.
“Oh well, more for us, then.” Annette pulls the cork from the ice wine and pours two glasses. I wish she’d chosen the crystal, instead of the everyday ones from the kitchen. She’s always been efficient but informal. Her wedding gown was nothing more than a white cotton sundress with a neatly pressed, but cheap, blue ribbon tied in a bow around her waist. And Geoff wore jeans, claiming they were dressy because they were black. I would have given them the money for proper clothes — lovely ones — but Annette never asked. She sits down heavily now and picks dog hairs off her sweatshirt. Then she unpins her liquor store cashier’s nametag and shoves it into her pocket, fussing with change and keys.
“Guess I’m not important.” She finally looks up. “Doesn’t need Mom anymore. That’s no surprise. What was it? A painting? A stroke of creative lightning? Nik told me he was looking forward to this break.”
“His girlfriend called.”
“Oh, his girlfriend. That’s young love for ya.” Annette takes another sip. I wait for her to smile. She drums her fingers on the table. “Maybe she’s breaking up with him. I mean, things can’t be going well if he had to absolutely leave in such a hurry.”
“Oh dear, I certainly hope not. He adores her.” I beam, thinking about young love and my grandson deep in it. “You should have seen him when he talked about her. I want to meet her.”
Annette leans back in her chair and gazes out the window at the sea view. “Meh. Nik’s young, attractive, he’ll have lots of other girlfriends, bounce back. That’s what men do.” Annette gulps her ice wine then stares into her empty glass. “Better than disappointment and divorce. Then more disappointment.”
I pause to straighten the coaster, but my trembling hands nearly knock my glass over. “I would like to see some of Nikky’s newer art soon.” I place my hands on my lap.
When Nikky was in high school he painted a cityscape that reminded me of Montreal, even though he’d never been there. Annette raved about one Nikky did of the trees around her house, but I found that painting oppressive. The cluster of tall, stalwart evergreens looked like a small, green army, complete with cedar generals.
“Let me make you some lunch, Annette,” I say. In the kitchen, I fret about Nikky while chopping the ingredients for a small niçoise salad. I hear the door open, followed by heavy footsteps in the hall. I grab a towel to dry my hands, and turn, hoping to see my grandson.
Annette groans. Her hunched shoulders sink farther. Geoff clears his throat noisily and glares at Annette. My hands find their way toward my mouth. I stop myself in a half-gasp and straighten the collar of my blouse. Being in the same room as Annette makes Geoff irrationally angry.
“Hello, Geoff.” I try to make myself appear as tall as possible. Not that it gives me much authority. Not anymore.
“What’s she doing here?” Geoff looms like one of the stern, military evergreens in Nik’s disagreeable painting.
“I’m making lunch, dear.” I gesture at the dining table. The room seems smaller, darker, and stuffier with my son in it. “You can eat with us or you can wait in the living room.”
Annette’s chair hits the wall with a clunk and startles me. “Sorry, Hélène.” Annette rubs the mark on the wall with her finger. “It’s nothing. Not even a dent. Just a bit of dust. There. It’s gone. Sorry.”
Then, to my surprise, Annette steps in front of me. I wonder how many times Annette has placed herself protectively between Nikky and his father.
“Ma’s got a doc appointment.” Geoff’s voice booms in comparison to the ticking of the clock, the whir and hum of the condo heating. He leans past Annette to peer at me. “Ma, what are you doing? It’s appointment day. Let’s go.”
I drop the tea towel, flustered. I hadn’t forgotten Geoff was coming today, I forgot it was Wednesday. I have a medical appointment every second Wednesday afternoon, so the doctor can monitor my medications and change them, if necessary. I would have warned Annette that Geoff was coming, had I remembered.
I rest my hand on Annette’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, dear, there seems to have been a little mix-up. Will you please take the salad with you in a nice container? You should have a nice lunch.”
Annette doesn’t answer. Geoff picks up one of the bottles of ice wine. He studies the label then jabs his ex-wife in the arm with the stab point of his index finger. I grip Annette’s shoulder, attempting to soften the jolt.
“Are you serious?” Geoff waves his arm and slams the bottle back down with a clunk. “I told you to quit doing this, Annette. I told you a long time ago.”
I let go of Annette’s shoulder and step around her. “Annette brought me a lovely ice wine to try. It was kind of her.” Geoff stares at me. I’ve always disliked the bulge of Geoff’s eyes. He has the same eyes as his father. Geoff leans into me and positions his face so close to mine that I can feel the grease of his hair, smell his cheap aftershave. His chewing gum and nicotine mouth.
“Ma, you’re not supposed to be drinking.” He shakes my shoulder hard with his root-claw hand. I hold on to the sideboard for balance then swat his arm away.
“Shush.”
I glare at my son. He turns and rubs his nose with the back of his hand.
“I can drive her.” Annette’s voice wavers. It makes me wish she’d mind her own business.
“She’s my mother,” Geoff says.
“I should put the salad in a container.” I bustle past Annette to the kitchen and rummage through the cupboard for the appropriate-sized Tupperware.
Annette hovers in the doorway, uncertain. “You have that for your supper,” she says finally. “I’ve got to get back home to my dogs, take them for a walk.”
“Bye, dear.” I give up and shove the whole bowl of salad into the fridge. I unfold a fresh tea towel and hang it on the hook, listening to the sound of her heavy footsteps in the hall.
“Your son was here, by the way. We had such a wonderful visit, he and I,” I hear her fib to Geoff. “You should have seen him, all grown up and tall. Not that you care about anyone but yourself.”
I click my tongue and shake my head. I’ll explain the actual details of Nikky’s visit to Geoff — later when he’s in a better mood to listen. I duck around Geoff’s sprawling limbs. “I’ll be ready in a minute, dear.”
I close my bedroom door as I freshen up with a little face powder, lipstick, and a spritz of Coco Chanel. I look at the mountain-scenes calendar tacked to the wall and draw a checkmark beside “Doctor’s Appointment” in the square for Wednesday, although I probably deserve a star. I continue the appointment charade, even though I don’t trust the medicines, and I don’t always take them. I’m entitled to this secret. I’ve been a responsible follower of rules all of my life. I open the door.
“Let’s go,” Geoff insists. I rush to put my coat on, straighten my collar, and lock up. In the elevator Geoff’s finger is pressed on the door open button. He glances at me and releases it. I count the floor numbers backwards in French to myself and feel the lining of my coat. Trois, deux, un. I’m relieved to discover my coat has dried. I think about how my son left home too young. Tibor had kicked him out for smoking pot, a hasty, stupid thing, considering Geoff was only a teenager. I stopped talking to Tibor after that. Geoff left for the logging camp and I didn’t see him for several years. I had wanted to teach him more about gentlemanly behaviour. He was just like
his father, and the allure of their particular type of brawn, as Annette and I had both discovered, did not last. Geoff could have been a businessman. And kind to his family. Instead, he is a logger turned carpenter. A house builder who lives alone in a small, musty apartment.
The doctor’s office is in a squat, two-storey medical services building. Geoff drives straight for the front door. He keeps the engine running as he waits for me to manage the heavy passenger door and climb out. I sit and wait for him to open it for me. I hope it’s not so much thoughtlessness anymore as selective forgetting. A lazy remnant from when I was the strong, sure one, taking care of him. He’s going to have to turn and look at me. See me shaking now. I stare ahead. Geoff shifts in his seat, reaches over me and pops the door open with a swift push. I see him looking at me through the rear-view mirror as he drives away. I wave at him then stand on the curb for a moment before patting my hair back into place and striding into the office. The doctor sees me right away. I get my prescription refilled at the pharmacy next door, then wait an hour and a half for Geoff to return. I read magazines in the doctor’s waiting room, trying not to notice when Cindy, the receptionist, looks over and smiles. I hate sympathy.
She looks young enough to have been one of my students, years ago, I realize, remembering the days when children were afraid of me, and teachers and parents respected my authority. I stare at the low-pile carpet, trying to decide whether it’s pink flecked with brown or brown flecked with pink. When I get up to use the powder room I choose the one with the handicapped sign on the door, where there are cold metal bars to hang on to. I look into the bathroom mirror and think of Nikky. He has my eyes. Voluminous pools. He’s not at all like his father. I busy myself with washing my hands, waiting for the tepid water to turn hot.
Geoff speeds into the parking lot and honks his horn. The passenger door flings open before the truck even comes to a full stop. It’s raining again and I’ve forgotten my umbrella. I get into the truck and wish my son would ask questions about my appointment or Nikky’s visit, but he stares at the road and twiddles the windshield wiper controls.
“I can take a cab, dear, if driving me is a hassle.” I hold on to the passenger door as Geoff rounds a corner too quickly.
“Waste of good money.” Geoff shakes his head no.
“Nikky took a cab to the bus station,” I say, trying to pique a reaction. “He didn’t see Annette.” Geoff turns up the volume on the radio. I think I heard him mumble “Kid’s messed up,” but I’m not certain. I worry about Nikky, trying to take care of himself in Vancouver. Will he do his own laundry? Did I give him enough money? Should I send more? What is he eating? It starts to rain harder. Geoff twists the windshield wiper controls again, agitated. He adjusts the fan and vents then bangs his hand on the steering wheel.
“Can’t see a damned thing.” He leans forward and rubs condensation off the windshield with a swoop of his hand. “Quit breathing so hard, Ma.”
A small stream of water pours down from the roof of the truck, onto Geoff’s matted hair and the front of his dirty ski jacket. “Goddamn roof leaks. Goddamn rain.”
The bulky shape of my condo building appears ahead. I fret about what the rain will do to my set hair. It won’t do to arrive home looking as bedraggled as my son. Geoff screeches to a stop at the door, under the lobby overhang so I won’t get wet.
“I’ll bring the groceries on Friday.” Geoff reaches around me to open the passenger door. “I won’t forget.”
“That will be nice. Thank you.” I climb out, taking my time. Geoff watches, trying to be attentive. “Call your son,” I say and push the door closed. The lobby is toasty warm after the damp of the truck, and, as I shake the rain off my coat, I feel my silver curls still bouncing.
Back upstairs I decide to make a batch of blueberry scones. I’ll feed them to the seagulls if Charles declines a visit again after our walk. I pace in the living room while waiting for the oven timer to ring, thinking about Nikky. And Charles. The timer bleats its staccato beep and I place the scones on a trivet to cool, checking and rechecking to make sure I’ve turned the oven off. I flip the pages of a mystery novel, realizing I’m clever enough to have already figured out whodunit, but not enough to know whether Charles wants to see me. I pour myself a glass of ice wine. And then another.
I feel something prickling my face. Carpet. The colour of slate. The same shade as the dull morning light streaming through the windows. Wobbly, I push myself up to my feet using the chair for support. I step over to the windows and watch tufts of morning fog coming up from the water, rolling up like the spasms in my stomach. Near-invisible cars inch along the highway, headlights cutting through interminable grey. My TV is still on, broadcasting an exercise show. The arms of the clock splay vertical. Six a.m. I walk down the hall past Nicky’s still unmade bed. The flowered coverlet on my own bed is still smooth.
In the bathroom, I let the water warm up as I undress, shedding clothes into the white vinyl-covered hamper. I stand for a long time, wavering under the steady spew of hot water in the shower. I feel the cool white tile, then my forehead, receiving water on my head like a blessing. It reminds me of my last confession, so many years ago. I’d fallen in love. Jean-Marc. Montreal was such a romantic city. But I also remembered the teenage confusion, rejection. The priest had listened, but I felt as though he were laughing at me, grinning behind the curtain. I vowed to never let myself expose such naked feelings again. I let go of the tile. “Je m’excuse,” I whisper, feeling as ashamed as a child. “I am too old for a hangover.” I let the words hang in the steam, swirling to encircle me. I wobble out of the shower and wrap myself in a pale yellow towel, unable to dry my own back. Too old.
I find my robe and slippers, make coffee, and sit down at the dining table to watch the fog dissipate, along with my headache. The tide begins to change, the waves agitated like worries. Charles. Nikky. Geoff. Parkinson’s. Losing control. Losing authority. Losing. Drinking. Medications. Charles. Too old.
I shuffle to my bedroom to get dressed. I put my ear up against the wallpaper above my nightstand. I can hear a clock radio tuned to the CBC. Charles. If I knock on the wall, Charles will hear me. I sit on the bed and decide that I have nothing to wear. Geoff. I notice fine dust collecting on my old cedar trunk. Nikky. I get down on my hands and knees, push the trunk open. Wool. Knitting needles. I’d forgotten my idea. I finger the skeins, feeling their textures for the first time after so many years. The yarn is something tangible. Useful. I have what looks like enough charcoal grey yarn to make a sweater for Nikky. It will match his eyes. And I can cast off the final rows with black, his favourite colour, for contrast. I select a pair of size-eight needles from my orange plastic needle holder, nestle the wool in my arms, and return to the living room. I sit down in my big chair and begin to knit the first sleeve, counting the stitches aloud as I cast them on. Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq … Without a few steadying drinks in me, each stitch is a struggle. After a few rows my fingers began to ache. Progress will be slow, but I have time. I can keep busy, filling long afternoons with the rhythmic conflation of knit and purl, sips of tea, and a kaleidoscope of memories. I’m quite certain Nikky’s sweater will be ready for him by the time he returns.
I glance at the clock. Somehow it’s already five minutes to ten. I set my knitting down and head to the elevator. I’m shaking. My medicine isn’t working. But when the elevator doors open, I see Charles already waiting for me at the lobby door.
“Good morning, Charles.” He holds the door open for me and I step through it, popping my umbrella open.
“Good morning, Hélène,” he says, unfurling his.
We walk at our usual slow pace through the mist. I catch Charles looking at me and return his gaze, lobbing it back like a badminton shuttlecock. I was good at that game in my day.
“Feeling all right?” he inquires.
“Oh yes,” I say, thinking of my new knitting project. “Just fine. And yourself?”
“Well, thanks.
”
We step to the side to allow a jogger and his big brown dog to dash past. I feel Charles looking at me. He stands still. So do I. He reaches his hand toward my face and touches my cheek so softly the sensation gets caught in a gust of wind and twirls all around me. For a moment the weather holds me steady.
“Hélène,” he says.
I want to touch his hand, but he’ll feel me shaking.
“I don’t want to be like other old people,” I say.
Charles lets his hand fall to his side.
“We don’t complain, though,” he says. “Like other old people and their incessant blather about their aches and pains.”
I nod. We start walking again.
“You helped me, Hélène,” Charles says. “I can help you.”
There’s a soft authority in his voice. A calm confidence that reminds me of how I used to take small children’s hands in mine and lead their hesitant, trembling bodies to their classrooms.
At the park Charles takes a folded sheet of plastic out of his pocket and spreads it out to cover the wet bench. He sits down and bangs his cane on the carpet of grass at his feet. I walk over to look at the circles. The plastic flowers are fading. The wood of the picture frames weathering. The Mason message jar has already been knocked over and the Tonka trucks are covered in dirt, disturbed by a cat or a raccoon. I step back and count. Un, deux, trois. There will be more.
“Hélène,” Charles says when I perch on the bench beside him. “When my wife and I had a house we hired the neighbour kids to mow the lawn and trim the hedges. And after Meredith passed away I moved into the condo and hired someone to look after the cleaning.”
Charles takes his handkerchief out of his pocket and dabs the sea mist from his forehead.
“I’m not a nature person. I’m a numbers man, so I might not know how to do this, and you’re an elegant French lady, so I can’t expect you to dig in the dirt.”
Circle of Stones Page 3