I’m walking from the bus stop to the condo I rent when I stop and sniff. Kim’s right. There’s a cool bite in the air. Early snow this year. That means more to do at home. I start making a mental list of everything I’ll have to do to get Lhia and myself ready for winter. Wash the flannel sheets, air out the heavier duvets, remake the beds, get our coats, boots, scarves, gloves, and hats out of the storage locker in the basement. Make sure Lhia’s winter coat and boots still fit. At least I don’t have a car. I can’t afford one yet. No need to worry about winter tires and antifreeze.
My wrists are so sore from lifting and moving people I can barely turn the key in the big front door. I’m about to buzz our number on the intercom to see if Lhia will ring me in when the lock finally eases open. Our unit is on the first floor, just around the corner from the lobby, and I’m relieved to get inside. I slip my shoes off and pull an old sweatshirt on over my scrubs. Lhia isn’t home yet. It’s too quiet. Hopefully she’s still at school doing homework. I’m not really sure what’s happening with her right now. She wants me to butt out. I remember being sixteen. It’s an awful age. I wish I could give her a hug that she wouldn’t slither out of. I want to say the magical combination of words that will make her feel good inside. Lately everything I say comes out wrong.
I hover by the door of her messy room, remembering how I used to think I hated my parents. I want to open Lhia’s curtains, let some light into the murk, pick up the clothes strewn across the floor, take the dirty plates and water glasses to the kitchen. But the last time I did that she complained. She accused me of reading her diary, which I didn’t do. I saw a notebook under a bunched-up old sweater, picked it up, and set it on her cluttered desk. Well, that’s what I told her. I didn’t know what it was. I picked it up and flipped through it before I set it down, but only enough to see that it was something personal, not something for school. Before I shut the book closed I caught a glimpse of some incredibly detailed doodles and drawings in the margins of the pages. Swirls and lines of jet-black ink. I didn’t know Lhia was getting so good at sketching.
I run a load of laundry, tidy the kitchen, empty the dishwasher, and take out the garbage. I turn the TV on and let myself stand still for a couple of minutes to catch up on the news. Local politics, a serious accident on the Queensway. There are no updates on the body found in the canal this morning. I’m about to turn the TV off when the health segment comes on. It’s about sports injuries among young adults. The camera zooms in on a young woman not much older than Lhia doing physio exercises. She has the elegance and the straight back of a dancer, but with the miserable expression of a much older patient. She’s skinny — unhealthily so. I’ve seen that in the elderly, too. It’s not quite anorexia, but something close to it. The young woman’s hair is wavy, but stringy. There are dark shadows under her eyes. Could be anemia.
I flick the TV off and head to the kitchen. I grab a low-fat cheese-and-veggie pizza from the freezer and add cubes of leftover chicken for protein. I shove it into the oven on low to start defrosting. Not the healthiest choice, but I know Lhia will eat it. I put the kettle on to make a cup of tea. I’m startled when the phone rings. I don’t answer. I never do. Call display is too expensive. Lhia knows to call back twice. The phone rings three times and stops.
I balance my cup of tea on my case-studies binder. In the living room I have to move one of Lhia’s sweaters and a couple of her science textbooks off the couch so I can sit down. The cellphone I got her is lying face down on the coffee table. Again. I’ll have to remind her again to take it with her. I set it up in its charger, then open my textbook. I’m studying the new geriatric protocols early, before I take more upgrade courses in the spring. Then I can apply for a raise. Being a single mom was easier when Lhia was little. It didn’t matter what she wore, as long as it was purple, her favourite colour. Now she wants particular clothes, expensive shoes, and a very pricey cellphone with Internet on it. But I don’t want her to be that connected. Better for us to have one unlisted phone number that I can monitor and control, and one basic cell for emergency purposes. So I can know where she is. Better for her to go online at school where there’s some kind of secure computer server and teachers to keep her safe.
I sip tea, read case studies from the binder, and wait for Lhia to come home. My back aches no matter which way I sit. I have to read the dense paragraphs twice to make sense of them. I keep checking the time on my watch. At quarter to nine I hear a key in the lock. I set the binder down on the coffee table and push myself up to stand.
“Hi, hon.” I hobble into the hall but she’s already halfway into her room, coat still on. “I warmed up a pizza for you,” I call after her. “Are you hungry?”
Her door snaps closed. She turns on some loud, thudding, growly music I haven’t heard her play before. I’m not above shoving slices of pizza under her door if I have to. I miss having soup dinners with her, huddled over tables found at garage sales. I miss all our old apartments, as tiny and rundown as they were. We used to chat and laugh and I’d forget about the peeling paint or silverfish infestation under the sink. Lhia used to play with leaking faucets, wobbly cupboard doors. Children are so much more forgiving when they’re small. This condo is one of the nicest places we’ve ever rented and Lhia hates it. At least she still comes out of her room occasionally. At least she still comes home. I was much worse at her age.
I sleep poorly and wake up early. I sit in front of the TV with my morning coffee, watching video footage from a police press conference. The body found in the canal was identified. A man named Leo. It’s someone they say was “known to the police in Vancouver.” A fancy way of saying he was a criminal. They show his picture. It looks like a mug shot. An ugly, hulking man. Overweight, or perhaps his neck and shoulders are overbuilt from anabolic steroid use. I used to work at a downtown clinic and I’ve seen all the side effects. Heard too many sad stories told by big, mean men. Leo was bald, but not old. Premature baldness is consistent with steroid use. He would have had liver damage, high blood pressure. It could have been a sudden cardiac death. That’s something the police will find out when they do the autopsy.
The blonde newscaster looks into the camera in a direct way that pulls me out of my diagnosis. She says another man was seen running away from the scene and is now what they call a “person of interest.” That means he’s a suspect. There’s a sketch of him in a hoodie. He looks like any young man. He could be one of Lhia’s classmates. Maybe I’m wrong about the steroids. This kid could have been involved in a man’s death. And now he’s out there. On the Ottawa streets.
I grab Lhia’s cellphone from the charger and look around for her school bag. It must be in her room. Her door is still closed, but the pizza I left out for her is gone. I have to be at work before Lhia needs to get up for school. I don’t want to wake her — teenagers need their sleep. But I do want to make sure she brings that cell to school with her. I set out a couple of boxes of cereal for her to choose from and get ready for work.
I knock quietly on her door then open it. Her school bag is lying on the floor, open. There are textbooks scattered around it. Canadian Geography. French. I lean over and drop the cellphone into the bag. Lhia shifts and turns under her comforter then sits up. Her long, dark hair is so messy it might as well be dreadlocked.
“Morning, kid,” I say. “Just wanted to make sure you have your cell. I charged it for you. It’s in your bag.”
“Mom! It’s so stupid and old! It’s completely embarrassing.” Lhia glares at me with puffy, sleepy eyes. “When am I getting a real phone.” It’s not a question.
“We’ve talked about this before. We can’t afford another big bill right now.”
“M-awww-m.” Lhia throws her hands in the air. “You have no idea what it’s like.”
I frown and look at my watch.
“I know, I know, you’ve gotta get on the bus.” Lhia stares at the floor. “And you’re worried about me, blah, blah, blah.”
“Bring the pho
ne with you, okay, kiddo? For me? Just in case. You don’t have to take it out of your bag unless you need it. I want you to be safe.” I wait for a nod — any sign of listening or agreement. But Lhia just snuggles back down under the covers and closes her eyes. The body-language equivalent of “whatever.” I look at my watch, grab my jacket, shove feet into shoes, rush through the condo lobby. By the time I hit the sidewalk I’m sprinting. On Bank Street the bus is already pulling away from the stop, but I’m in luck. The light turns amber and the driver decides to wait. She opens the doors for me and I flash my pass. I find a seat and catch my breath. I have fifteen minutes to think while the bus chugs across downtown Ottawa, through the tony Glebe neighbourhood, and arrives at the nursing home stop. I can’t seem to tell Lhia why I worry so much. Parenting is like working on a jigsaw puzzle for years only to realize you’re missing all the important pieces.
This morning when I step onto the ward it’s not quiet. I hear yelling. A man’s voice booms through the hallway and I freeze. I tell myself to calm down. I make myself listen. It’s not him. It’s a middle-aged man, and he’s furious, but not swearing. I pump hand sanitizer from a dispenser and head toward the noise. The man in the hall is saying something about his father. As I get closer I hear Evelyn, the head nurse, muttering calming things. The man has almost sputtered out, his voice rasping now.
“This didn’t have to happen. Not like this!” The man reaches his hands up to his face. Even from behind I can tell he’s trying to staunch the tears. It’s a sad, shocked kind of anger, not a violent one.
“Mr. McCreally, we did everything we could to care for your father and keep him comfortable here. It was just his time.” Evelyn touches his arm gently but speaks with authority.
“His time.” McCreally’s son repeats the idea. Then he coughs and clears his throat. “But we were laughing and talking together one day and the next he’s all dopey and sleepy. He was always so active. And then all of a sudden he’s not even walking around.”
I catch Evelyn’s eye and she nods at me to let me know she’s got the situation under control. Sometimes people who are upset feel threatened when there are too many people crowding around. I soft-shoe around Evelyn and avoid the younger McCreally — he doesn’t need people staring at him right now. When I push on the door of the nurses’ lounge, Faye is sitting in my spot again. She’s still wearing the stained scrubs, but now there’s a ratty old polar fleece jacket on over top. I pour myself a cup of coffee and lean back against the cupboard.
“Don’t worry.” I want to show up Faye with my seniority and a seen-it-all air, but it comes out a little shakier than I expect. I gulp coffee and clear my throat. “You’ll get used to patients dying. Handling the families is the worst part. Everyone deals with it in a different way. Obviously this is a bit extreme, but he’s just having an outburst. Evelyn’s got him calmed down.”
I wait, but Faye doesn’t look up. I realize she’s not even listening to me. Next time I’ll just tell her she’s in my chair. I finish my coffee, brush past her, and hustle over to the nurses’ station where Kim’s already going over the morning’s charts.
I sit down beside her. “You’re here early.”
“Never left.” Kim hands a stack of folders to me and winks. “Just kidding. What would I need an extra shift for. Hah.”
Kim waggles the enormous diamond anniversary ring she’s not supposed to wear to work. Her husband has some kind of high-paying job in the tech industry. Kim talks all the time about how he’s kept his job through every round of layoffs. It’s more relief than bragging. They can still afford their house, vacations, and interior decorators. I’m happy just to have a job and a salary. I start looking over my charts. I glance at Kim and realize she’s not really looking at hers.
“McCreally’s son says he’s going to call a lawyer,” Kim whispers. “I was sitting behind the desk the whole time he was freaking out.”
“Poor guy.” I flip through page after page, checking over routine data. “Lawyer’s not going to bring his dad back.”
Kim stifles a giggle. “He’d need to hire God’s own attorney to do that.” She whisks her papers and files together briskly and stands. “See ya at coffee time,” she says, heading down the hall.
In the late afternoon I stop in the hall to twist from side to side, stretch my back. Hand sanitizer stings my chapped skin, but the gel is so light and cool I’m tempted to rub it into my forehead and temples. I hear brisk steps. Evelyn is charging down the hall like a tall, sturdy streamroller.
“Staff meeting! In five minutes.” She barks it, major-general style. I follow her and a clutch of nurses into the lounge, find a place at the back of the room, and lean against the cupboards by the sink. Everyone from day shift hustles in. Kim pushes her way through to stand beside me. Our staff meetings are usually happy or business-like occasions: celebrations of someone’s promotion, news from the nurses’ association on training, or funding updates from the provincial Ministry of Health. Evelyn is strict, although bit of a ham in front of a group. Today she’s sombre. She looks older when her face isn’t animated. Even her hair looks greyer.
“I think we’re all here.” Evelyn looks around the room. “I’m going to get started. Effective immediately, all evening ‘as needed’ sedative orders have been highlighted in the computer system and on all charts as a separate code. Every dose you administer to a resident will need to be thoroughly documented, each and every time.” Evelyn pauses to look around the room, locking eyes colleague by colleague. “There are absolutely no exceptions. Are there any questions?” Evelyn waits for a millisecond before she adds “thank you,” and leaves.
“Isn’t that what we always do?” I turn to Kim, confused. Kim nods at me and grabs a coffee mug.
“Evelyn’s on the warpath.” Kim drains the coffeepot into her cup and sets it back on the burner empty. “Probably not a good day to try and book my holiday time.”
“Nope,” I say. I grab a filter to make a fresh pot.
“We’ve got our first ski trip of the season all planned out,” Kim says, handing me the can of coffee beans.
“Oh, stop with the snow talk already,” I say. “It’s too soon!”
Kim follows everyone else out, but I stay to take my afternoon break. I pour myself a big glass of water from the filtered container in the fridge and sit down in the comfy chair. I put my feet up and lean back. The tension in my shoulders eases as my breathing slows. It’s been quite a day, with the shouting in the hall, the disciplinary mood. I think about Lhia and wonder what it’s like to be the daughter of someone who hides things. I didn’t agree with my parents’ rules when I was her age, but at least with them everything was out in the open. There were no mysteries. Maybe I could start by writing Lhia a letter. Might be easier than talking. I don’t want to scare her. But I do need her to be careful. I want her to know there are men who can never be trusted.
I take one more sip of water then head toward the nurses’ station. Evelyn’s trying to shake things up, because she’s already posted a note about shift changes. I log into the computer and print out my new schedule. I’ll be working nights on different days of the week. I’ll have to remember to tell Lhia.
After work I pop a veggie lasagna, Lhia’s favourite, in the oven. Then I toss a green salad she probably won’t eat. I can’t stop thinking about the young man in the hoodie. The suspect. It’s more than the fact he’s somewhere in Ottawa, on the streets. It’s who he reminds me of. While I’m waiting for my daughter to appear, I grab the notebook I use for my coursework and an old ballpoint pen.
Dear, Dearest, Lhia,
Your father is Your father was
Do you remember when you were little and we used to play the dad game? You would think of what kind of dad you wanted to have and name his profession. You said things like teacher, mailman, or fireman, although sometimes you’d get silly and say things like purple pocket puppet or bumbling bumblebee and we’d laugh.
I stop writing and think
. My life as Tina began in Ottawa when Lhia was born. Beyond that is an immobile wall I constructed to protect Lhia from her father. I worked hard to keep the wall fortified. Does Lhia need to know about the confused teenager I was? My name was Christina — Chris for short — and I ran away because I thought I loved Sam, the lead singer in a punk band. I left Winnipeg and went on tour with him. The band’s name was Paralyzer. We were loud, drunk, outrageous, and obnoxious.
There were no rules. It was exciting, then it was horrible. Did I sleep in a van, travel across the country on a six-month road trip? Did I stay at all-night parties, get drunk, and dive headfirst into audiences? Did Sam threaten me? Did he start losing his mind and mixing up all the lyrics? Did he tighten his grip around my neck? Did he chase me down a Toronto street and shove me into oncoming traffic when I told him I was pregnant? I’ve pushed the memory splinters so far back they don’t seem real. I barely remember the hospital, except that it felt safe. I only vaguely remember recovery. What I do remember is him saying he’d never leave us alone. And then hiding — moving to a strange city my brother suggested, changing my name, switching apartments every few months, keeping my phone number unlisted, keeping Lhia a secret from everyone in my old scene. Cutting myself off from friends. Doing everything I could to keep her safe.
Your father was a singer. I was so naive to believe everything he told me. We were young and in love. But he was a liar. We still have to be careful.
I set my pen down and rub my eyes. Writing is tiring. I’ve still got more to write. I need to wait until I feel ready to give Lhia the letter, but I’m certain I should do it soon. I’m not sure how she’s going to react, but know she deserves to know more about her father. It’s not only about explaining my side of the story, it’s about solving the mystery for her. Answering all the questions. I tuck the letter in a safe hiding place under my mattress and go to bed early. I doze fitfully until I hear Lhia come home. Then I fall asleep.
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