Circle of Stones

by Suzanne Alyssa Andrew

  The next morning I’m in Mrs. Wrightson’s room adjusting her bed and pillows to make her more comfortable when I’m paged over the intercom. I run to the nurses’ station. Kim is sitting behind the desk doing paperwork. She sets the phone receiver on the counter in front of me.

  “Lhia’s school.” For once Kim’s not even trying to smile. “Line two.”

  I pick up the phone. Kim tactfully disappears to the adjoining room to do some filing or photocopies.

  “Hello?” The word emerges tentatively.

  “Is that Tina Moffit?” a woman’s voice says. “This is your daughter’s school secretary calling.”

  “Yes, this is Tina,” I say. “Is Lhia all right?”

  “We think so,” the woman says, “but Lhia’s been missing a lot of classes lately and she’s not in school this afternoon. The school administration here wanted to let you know.”

  “Oh.” I struggle to bury my disappointment, muster maturity, be the parent. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll talk to her and make sure she’s attending. Sorry about that.”

  “It’s a difficult age, dear,” the secretary says. “If you’d like to make an appointment for both of you to talk to the school guidance counsellor, give me a call.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’d like to talk to her myself first.”

  “Of course,” the secretary says.

  I hang up the phone and stand still for a minute, eyes closed. I’m trying to figure out if I’m more angry or worried — as though I could treat it like a symptom and cure it with a prescription. Then I hear footsteps in the hallway. I turn around, open my eyes, and see two uniformed city police officers striding toward me. Kim peeks out from the next room and steps forward so she’s standing behind the counter. I feel faint. I see Lhia’s face on a milk carton under the word MISSING. I grip the counter with two hands.

  “We’re here to see Evelyn Sloane,” the taller of the two officers announces. “We have an appointment.”

  “Of course. I believe she’s in her office. Two doors down on your left.” Kim exudes calm. All I can manage to do is gawk. The officers make their way down the hall and Kim turns to me.

  “You feeling all right, Tina?” she asks. “You’re pale.”

  I fan my face with my hands. “God. Phoof. Let me catch my breath.” I lean heavily on the counter, nearly collapsing with relief. “Lhia’s school secretary just told me she’s not in school today and when I saw the police walk in here, I panicked.” I feel a funny rumble in my throat, but it’s not tears, it’s bizarre laughter. Nervous laughter.

  “Oh, you’ve got Momxiety.” Kim is laughing, too. “We’ve all been there, hon. Why don’t you call Lhia on her cell? You’ll feel better.”

  I stop laughing. Did Lhia keep the cell in her school bag? If she did, would she answer if I called?

  “Take a couple of deep breaths. Everything’s all right.” Kim pats me on the hand. “If you want to go ahead and take your coffee break now I’ll cover for you.”

  “That’s a good idea.” I straighten. I can already taste a cup of coffee, but I hesitate, wondering where Lhia is. “Normally I’d go ask Evelyn for a personal day, but —” I think about the police officers and Evelyn’s black mood. “Probably not the best time for that.”

  “Well, maybe she’ll be done soon?” Kim says, shrugging. “It’s probably just some kind of formality. Boring security talk.”

  I dial Lhia’s cell number from the phone in the lounge. It rings once then I hear a beep. She must have turned the damned thing off. I should have sprung for the voicemail package. Not that she would have checked it. I drop the receiver back into its cradle. The coffee urn is empty. I can’t wait for a fresh pot, I can’t sit still in the comfy chair, and I can’t stop fretting about Lhia. I need to finish the letter. I need to talk to her. She needs to know our full story. Mystery twists things horribly, unnecessarily. She needs things to make sense. She needs to be careful. I need her to be safe. I cut my break short to stop the circular thinking. Work is always a good cure for that. I push through the lounge door, walk past the nurses’ station, and peek around the corner at Evelyn’s office. Her door is still closed.

  “They’re still in there.” Kim is still shuffling papers around in the nurses’ station. She points at Evelyn’s office. “Now I want to know what’s going on.”

  “I need to get back to work.” The words emerge feebly.

  “Here, I’ve got some easy ones for you.” Kim hands me a couple of charts and pats me on the arm.

  I try to keep busy. As I’m making my final rounds I notice Evelyn’s office door is open. It’s empty. When I turn the corner I see the police officers. They’re standing and staring down the hall with stern, emotionless faces. I see them again later in the lobby, standing and waiting. Evelyn is pacing back and forth, making rapid gestures with one hand and clutching a cellphone to her ear with the other. A grey-haired man I recognize as the facility administrator and two women in suits appear. Evelyn ushers them down the hall without hanging up. I have no idea what’s happening. My shift is over. All I want to do is get home and hug my daughter. I head to my locker. I swallow an extra-strength acetaminophen and half a bottle of stale water. I see something white. Sparkling zigzag patterns. An aura. It’s the first symptom of a full-blown migraine. I grab my coat and head for the front door. Two white vans screech to a stop nearby. I search through my wallet and all of my pockets. Shapes and figures dash past. Red lights flash. I only have five bucks cash. Not enough for cab fare. I stare at the sidewalk and shade my eyes from the bright, painful lights. I don’t wonder what the lights are. All I want to do is get away from them. I walk to the bus stop with my head down, each step pounding in my ears and stabbing in the deep space behind my eyes.

  I arrive home to a messy apartment. Lhia has been doing laundry, and her things are hanging or lying everywhere in various stages of sorting. She’s left her dirty dishes from breakfast or lunch on the kitchen counter and the sofa is covered in yet more textbooks. But she’s not here. The acetaminophen has kicked in and the pain in my head has lessened to a dull, persistent throb. It slides down my neck and shoulders and pulsates in a series of tight knots tied up between my shoulder blades. I have to do something to keep myself busy, so I tidy the kitchen slowly, trying not to turn or move my head much. I clear off the sofa, fighting the urge to lie down, sleep off the headache.

  I check the phone for messages but there aren’t any. I think about who to call. My brother George, maybe. He lives nearby, but he’s probably busy with his chic boyfriend and stylish friends. He always made better choices than me. In my busy haze of shifts, medical charts, bills, and parenting, I only seem to think of calling him when I need something or there’s a problem — and he’s usually so accommodating and kind it makes me feel even worse. My head starts to ache again.

  What if she doesn’t come home? What if I need to call the police? What would I do if Lhia went missing? I have to stop thinking about it. I stack mail and papers on the kitchen table and wipe it with a sponge. I retrieve the unfinished letter for Lhia from its hiding place under the mattress and rewrite it in neater script. When I’m done I shred the rough version of the letter into eight pieces and stuff them down the kitchen sink’s garburator.

  I decide to finish the good version of the letter later. There’s more to say. I fold the piece of paper and set it between the pages of a hardcover coffee-table book on Ottawa and bring it to my room. Blurred vision again. I hold on to the wall for support and find my way to the bathroom where I run a washcloth under cold water. I barely have enough strength left in my hands to wring it out. Dizzy, I crawl back to my bed on my knees. I pull the covers over myself and put the damp, cool washcloth on my forehead. I close my eyes and watch splotches of red and green spin and shudder behind my eyelids.

  About an hour later I hear a key in the lock. I lie in bed, paralyzed with pain and nausea, unable to get up and go talk to Lhia. I listen to the two soft thuds her shoes make as she
discards them in the hall, the throb of the music she turns on in her room. I hear her wander through the apartment, take something out of the fridge in the kitchen, let a plate clatter onto the countertop. She spends a considerable amount of time in the bathroom. I hear the sound of the shower, her hairdryer, the clicking of her curling iron, the sound of cosmetic containers clanking against her metal makeup box. I try to force my limbs to move, my mouth to say something, but pain locks me firmly in place.

  Lhia returns to her room. Her music drowns out whatever she’s doing in there. Eventually I fall into a blank state of near sleep. I open my eyes at the sound of the front door banging shut. I look at the clock: the numbers are blurred but it has to be past eleven. I’m usually at work on Tuesday nights, but I didn’t find time to tell her about my schedule changes. Where is Lhia going?

  The throbbing in my head gradually begins to subside. The scrubs I’m still wearing feel sweaty and grubby. I get up, change into my pajamas, and wrap myself in my warm robe. The thought of food still turns my stomach, but I manage to fill the kettle and make myself a big mug of herbal tea. I take the tea and wander into Lhia’s room. She’s left the lamp on, and in the warm glow the stuffed animals from her childhood catch my eye. I sit down on her bed and hug each one of her old friends individually. There’s Mr. Turtle, whose green fur is matted and shabby, Doctor Dog, a white puppy with a pink plastic stethoscope and a missing eye, and Wally, a purple walrus who’s lost some stuffing through a hole in his side. Years ago I would have set up an operating room for these toys, mending each one as carefully as a surgeon.

  I lean back. Bob the monkey stares at me with dark, surprised eyes. Lhia’s favourite. I hug him and turn off the lamp. I lie on Lhia’s bed, hold Bob, and wait for her to return. I have no idea what I’m going to say to her when she does.

  I’m startled by a clunking sound outside. Lhia’s window slides open. I watch her shadowy shape crawl in as cold air blows through the room. I smell something damp, earthy, and vaguely sweaty. I turn on the lamp and stare at my daughter’s startled, black-lined eyes. I’ve never seen her with so much makeup on. Her hair is a strange, curly, matted snarl. I stifle the urge to grab her and brush it straight.

  “Where were you?” I blurt stupidly. I smell alcohol on her breath, see a hint of something sheer and slinky under her jacket. A roar of anger, fear, and exhaustion drowns out her answer. But I watch her mouth moving and love her mouth, love her nose, love her cold-reddened ears, love her ridiculously, completely, unconditionally. In my head I repeat “don’t grow up, don’t grow up, don’t grow up” as though I can slow down this train wreck with measly, useless words.

  Out loud I mutter something ineffectual about not wanting to lecture her. I stare at Lhia, and get up out of her bed, knowing I’m failing her, wanting to tuck her in, good and tight.

  “I went out,” Lhia says. She stares at the floor, and won’t look me in the eye. “Just for a bit, to see some friends? Um … sorry I’m late. I, like, never do this.”

  She looks up, eyes wide. “Don’t worry, Mom.”

  “I don’t know what to do with you anymore, Lhia.” The words emerge, as if by their own volition, as I’m about to leave the room. “I’m going to get your uncle to talk to you, and I want you to start focusing more on school.”

  “I will, Mom.” She says it in her little girl voice, the voice of the Lhia I know.

  “And no more wandering around the city at night. It’s not safe.” I hand Lhia her monkey.

  In my bedroom I try to relax, but I don’t even feel like lying down, never mind sleeping. My migraine has improved. It’s a mere dull ache now. It’s time to act. I see the Ottawa book and carefully remove the letter. It’s not finished yet. It doesn’t matter. I get up to go give it to Lhia, but she’s in the bathroom. I hope she’s washing off all that makeup. I pace in the kitchen then turn on the TV, changing the channel from the music station to the news. I sit on the couch holding the letter and watch. Perhaps they’ll announce the results of the autopsy on the man in the canal. I want to know if my diagnosis is right. Heart attack, not homicide.

  “In other news,” the confident woman broadcaster says, then, looking straight at the camera, “three arrests were made early this evening at the Glengarry Centre for Long Term Care. Both the head nurse and the administrator of this seniors’ facility have resigned. Here’s Safa Patel with more on the story.”

  I hear the bathroom door open. I stand up but can’t bring myself to look away from the screen. My workplace on television. There’s the front door, the hallway, the nurses’ station. There’s a press conference. Evelyn reading from a paper, saying she’s resigning. Microphones in the face of the grey-haired administrator as he reads an apology. My head begins to throb again. I listen to the reporter saying staff conspired together. That they gave certain patients more painkillers and sleeping medications than prescribed. That they falsified charts and documents to cover it up. All to earn overtime pay, and make longer hours easier. How could I not know this? I double-checked. I always double-checked everything. I hear the reporter say it was all discovered when a patient’s son started looking into his father’s death. I hear her saying that the health of several other ailing patients is being called into question.

  My skin crawls. The reporter names Faye as one of the nurses arrested. I fold Lhia’s letter anxiously in half, then again in quarters. I should have known. I should have figured it out. I should have said something. The reporter says Megan Thompson’s name, another nurse on the same shift as Faye. Then she says Kim Trellis.

  I sit down. Faye, Megan, and a third nurse are shown covering their faces as they’re handcuffed and taken away by police. It can’t be Kim, not my Kim. But there she is in the same scrubs she was wearing today. There must be a mistake. I thought she was like family. I thought she was getting to work early. I thought she was wealthy, that her husband still had his job. Why would she lie to me?

  I believe in liars. I believe lies.

  “Mom?” I hear Lhia say, and when I turn and look at her she’s in her flannel pajamas with her hair in a ponytail and her face scrubbed pink. My little girl. My beautiful girl.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  Lhia is looking at me with worry in her eyes.

  “A bit of bad news.” I stand up, turn the TV off with the remote control, then I crumple Lhia’s letter into a tight ball behind my back. Some things you don’t want to know. Some things you’re worse off for knowing. And fear is as self-indulgent as crying. Because you never see the worst traumas coming, even when they’re right in front of you.

  “We’ll be all right, though.” I put my arm around Lhia’s thin shoulder and squeeze her tight.

  Lhia

  I step through rubble, my boots sticking in shards of concrete and mangled metal. I climb as old bricks spill downwards like apples from a pyramid grocery display. Lyle is already on the stairwell. I look up and see his body framed in the silhouette of debris, backlit by dim demolition site lights. Exposed in an open shaft missing three walls. The stairs ascend three flights and then stop, midair. I want to climb to the top.

  The old building hums and groans as pieces of it clink under my feet then fall away. I scramble toward the level part of the concrete pile, then stare down a wide gap. I stick one leg out, toeing toward the stairs, but my black velvet skirt gets in the way. I hike it up above my knees. Lyle whistles. I nearly lose my balance. I grab at a metal pipe and lean my body forward until my boot hits the first step. I hoist myself across.

  I climb the stairs two at a time in the dark as wind blows dust in my eyes and whips my hair back. Lyle sits on the top step with his legs dangling over the edge. I sit down beside him and swing my legs back and forth. We’re facing the back of the heap, staring at the surrounding office buildings and their nighttime fluorescence. There’s an old ghost sign painted on the brick of the adjacent building. Lyle reads it out loud.

  “Dack’s shoe politics.”

  “Yeah,
this is Ottawa, but that says shoe polish,” I say.

  Lyle punches me in the arm and I punch him back.

  “So that building has been here, like, longer than this one.” He looks away and takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

  “Yeah, but they’re tearing this one down first. Must be from the seventies or something.” I watch as Lyle rips the plastic off the pack and throws the shiny inner wrapper over the edge.

  “It was ugly and not built to last.” Lyle grins and puts two cigarettes in his mouth. He cups his hand against the wind, flicks his lighter, and then both cigarettes flare red. He hands one to me. “For you, Lhia.”

  He remembers my name. I take the cigarette. Act casual.

  “Still, it’s a piece of history,” I say. I’ve never held a cigarette before. I push it between the fingers of my gloved hand. Then cross my legs and lean my elbow on my knee, my cigarette in the air, like in a 1940s movie. “It’s older than we are.”

  Lyle leans back and looks at me. He holds his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, taps ash over the edge, then takes a drag.

  I’m still waving the cigarette in my hand. “I don’t really smoke,” I say. I lift the cigarette toward my shoulder, starlet-style, with no intention of aiming it toward my mouth. “I’m just trying to look like Mildred Pierce.”

  Lyle takes another drag. “Who?”