“Twenty,” I answer.
“And a university student. If I were your father, I would advise you to set up a trust for Carl with any monies he’s earned so far, and any future monies as a result of contractual obligations by his team, and hand him over to professional caregivers. And then get on with your life.”
“You can’t be certain. You said that every concussion is different.”
I am choking and I feel a mixture of alarm and anger. Dr. Folkes’s heft, which previously gave solace, now oppresses me. I feel foolish. He is a renowned specialist and he is being frank, thinking I am mature and intelligent enough to weigh my future options with detachment. I cannot do it because I am not the same person he spoke to last February.
“I can’t write Carl off. We come from a small town in Ontario where his parents are well connected. He might get a job assembling machinery in the town’s main plant, or even coach house league or high school hockey. We have a house and funds, and we’ll be receiving money for a year according to his contract in spite of his disability. I cannot consign him to the garbage pile.”
My voice is harsh and grating.
“You’re shooting the messenger, Sonja.”
“I deserve better than to receive glib clichés from you,” I tell him.
Dr. Folkes is flushed. He is upset with me and with Carl. Carl has ignored his advice, both direct and filtered through me. Now I appear to be blaming him when Carl, with his own bravado, has caused what Dr. Folkes appears to believe is his own daunting future.
“We’ll keep him as long as we can Sonja, then he’s all yours.”
THE NEXT DAY I telephone the university and cancel my courses for the first term. The registrar is sympathetic and agrees to defer my subjects until January, although some of my courses may not be available at that time. My scholarship was already gone, but that is not the problem. Money is not the problem. The problem is Carl.
His head pulsates—“pounds,” he moans—and they have increased the OxyContin, but within an hour of taking it the pounding starts again. But now he knows me, at least that is something. I’ve cancelled The Four Seasons, and I’m now at the Holiday Inn Express, so I can come early in the morning and remain for the day. He likes me there. The nurses say he becomes restless without me. He still cannot walk to the toilet. He becomes dizzy when standing, but he hates the bedpan so now they are giving him laxatives. The OxyContin constipates him and I have suggested morphine, but they fear he will be addicted to the OxyContin and morphine may be worse. I no longer stay in the room. It is such an invasion of privacy to have anyone, even a wife, witness these forced bowel movements and enemas. And the old Carl would find it humiliating, although the new Carl appears indifferent.
“We’ve got to get him up,” Donnelly says at the start of the second week.
Now we are friends. I bring her doughnuts and coffee from Starbucks and she calls me “Sony.” Now that she has stamped me with her approval, the others have followed suit and they are sympathetic, patting me on the shoulder, and even bringing me an extra lunch and dinner tray.
It’s Monday morning, and I have fed him his breakfast. We get him up, but he sways and getting him to the toilet is difficult. He finally shuffles in, supported on each side by Donnelly and me. And then he vomits in the sink. All the scrambled eggs and toast I so carefully fed him for breakfast down the drain.
“Feel nauseated, Carl?” asks Donnelly.
It’s so self-evident that he merely says, “Fuck.”
During the third week we walk the corridor together. His head still aches periodically and he becomes dizzy, but he is for the most part semi-functional—that is, he walks to the bathroom, feeds himself, and we talk . . . but not as we once did.
“I cancelled my courses until January.”
“What for?”
“Because I want to be with you until you feel better.”
“You shouldna done that. I never wanted you to do that.”
“Don’t you want me with you?”
He merely scowls. I know he does. It’s a silly question.
“What did he say—about me playin’ again?”
“Out of the question. There are other things, coaching, all sorts of things.”
“You don’t unnerstan’—not at all. I wanted to give you stuff. That was the idea. What else did I have to offer you? Now there’s nothin.’ You wanna be married to some guy who coaches kids an’ can’t read a book . . . who ain’t smart . . . someone like you?” His voice is slurred, flat.
“This is silly talk, really silly, and you’re getting yourself all upset. We’re going home soon and everyone will want to see you: Jerry, Candace, Mutti, your dad, all your buddies, and I have to see my poor mother.”
He just keeps shaking his head and telling me I don’t understand.
But I do.
17
HOMECOMING
PLACES BECOME IMPORTANT BECAUSE OF the memories attached to them. For this reason I am glad to leave Boston. Although parts of it are beautiful, Boston will always be where Carl received his final concussion. And I shall always think of Paris as glorious, not only because it is but also because we walked its streets, boulevards, and riverbanks and fought and made love there.
Donnelly has given me a St. Christopher medal and we have exchanged email addresses. At times I envy the Catholics. They always believe God knows what he’s doing and they have this little army of saints supporting them. I don’t seem to have the inner track with God at all.
POST-9/11 AIR TRAVEL is so irritating, especially for those with disabilities. Carl is now considered disabled, a word I hate, but I still hope his problems are temporary. I try not to think of Dr. Folkes and his prognosis and advice.
“Do I look like a fuckin’ terrorist?” Carl snarls at the security guard.
He has bent over to remove his shoes and I know he is dizzy. I smile brightly, too brightly, at everyone around. I am carrying Carl’s medication from the hospital dispensary, his OxyContin, Vicodin, and sleeping pills. We are asked to step aside, our age and drug arsenal no doubt causing suspicion.
“Where’d you get these drugs?”
It’s a ridiculous question when the name of the dispensary and Dr. Folkes are clearly written on the label. The temptation to answer “from a pusher on the Boston Common” is strong.
“My husband plays for the Boston Bruins and he had a concussion three weeks ago. These are for headaches and insomnia.”
The security agent is a hockey fan and he saw the game. He hates the Penguins and most especially Veronikov. He is all over Carl.
“Veronikov blindsided you with his elbow. He should be suspended for twenty games, even the rest of the season. It’s a real honour to have you here. If it didn’t look strange, I’d get your autograph for my son. He’ll be real excited when I tell him I saw you today.”
I feel like I could kiss the man. Carl brightens up and actually smiles for a few minutes before we board our flight for Toronto. We sit in executive class. I hold his large, warm hand and kiss its pale back with its little mauve knots—small butterfly kisses to coax a smile.
“See how lovely this is,” I say, “I wouldn’t be in first class or even flying but for you. We’ve even got three choices on the menu, and we’re going back to our lovely new home.” A home, I think to myself, that concussions built.
Carl must be convinced he has done things for me, it’s essential to his self-esteem. He squeezes my hand hard and says, “You’re the greatest, Sony.” He’s now taken to calling me “Sony” just like Donnelly did. But I’m much more than a computer to Carl.
No one meets us at the airport, as I told Mutti she should not even think of it. We wheel our bags over to the cold parking garage, one of them containing Carl’s hockey gear—not that he’ll ever play again, but he believes he’ll go back. Even the plane makes his head throb and I give in and give him an OxyContin, which I know I shouldn’t. It won’t mix with the several glasses of red wine he insisted on
having with dinner.
It’s the third week of November and freezing. When we leave the airport and walk to the parking garage we can see our breath, and the air slaps our faces. It’s after six and already dark. Small hard spikes of stars pierce the sooty sky, and even the shrunken moon, surrounded by a lavender haze, seems cold. I was only to have been away for three days and I’m now convinced the frozen engine of the car won’t start.
“I’ll drive.”
“You’ve been drinking and taking OxyContin. If we’re stopped, you’ll be charged.”
He can’t drive for reasons much more serious than mixing alcohol and a painkiller, but why bring up things that will cause upset? Forced diplomacy was never my thing, but I am learning.
The car starts. We wind our way from the icy parking garage and turn east onto the 401 heading toward the 400. The heater kicks in and we drive through the night. I glance sideways and he is sleeping, mouth open, head hanging forward, a teardrop of saliva clinging to his lower lip. I want to adjust his seat as he looks so uncomfortable, and to turn on the news channel, even easy jazz, but it would disturb him. His face lacks any buoyancy. He looks almost . . . old.
Intrusive dark thoughts push into my mind: dyslexia was one thing, dementia another. Surely things will improve.
The Davenport turnoff appears before I expect it. I take it and drive past the trees knit with frost, others with black spruce boughs heavy with snow. Davenport’s Main Street appears deserted, although it is only five weeks until Christmas; perhaps any shoppers are at the New Davenport Mall. We pass Mutti’s bungalow and there are no lights on.
“We’re almost home,” I say, my voice full of false but firm cheer.
We turn onto our street and I see that every light in our house is on. As we get out of the car the door of the house opens, and people come tumbling out, accompanied by the background music of Pink’s “Get the Party Started.” I hear a muttered “Christ” from Carl before Jerry Henley embraces him. They are all there, all of The Choir members who are still in Davenport, many working at Dare’s Machinery. And there is Candace Stewart, home from her social worker’s course, strange in November, and a beaming Mutti and Carl Sr. Only Ma is absent, asleep at Mutti’s perhaps.
Did Mutti not take in any of the information I had been giving her for weeks? Carl cannot tolerate noise and bright lights. Although The Choir means well, I am placed in the position of having to be the dampener of this spontaneous party, all to “Hanging by a Moment.”
“Jerry, get the guys to bring in the bags.”
Carl can’t do it and I don’t want to, but something practical has to be done before I force them out. Someone has made a pot of chili and there is a platter of Uncle Ben’s Instant Rice heaped beside a salad bowl. Mutti obviously didn’t cater this party; she only provided the access and information.
Carl is surrounded and he is scowling. I see the thin white line of his scar, then the bright pink patch on the other side. I think irrationally that his hair is growing out again. It is all irrelevant.
“Sony,” he calls. He is drowning in a sea of human voices.
“You shouldn’t have allowed this,” I spit at Mutti. “Do you ever listen to anything I tell you?”
She looks shocked, but I feel no remorse.
“Sony,” he calls again and pulls me into the downstairs bathroom. I know before he speaks his head is pounding, and that the music, the group’s voices, and the room’s lights are making it worse.
“Get rid of them.”
“They love you . . . they mean so well.”
“Get rid of them.” His voice has a hoarse, jagged quality.
We come out and the room is hushed, the music silent. They may have heard us.
“We really appreciate you being here,” I lie. “Carl’s just out of hospital and really isn’t up to any activity. He’s exhausted from the trip home and he has to lie down. Please help yourselves to the food and I’ll join you as soon as I settle him down.”
We walk slowly upstairs and I help him undress after giving him another OxyContin. He settles himself in like a child, and I kiss his cheek and pat his shoulder.
Downstairs, the group is quiet.
“Sorry about all this,” I explain when I join them. “The last concussion was very severe: he can’t take noise and lights and the plane trip was difficult. You all mean so well and he loves you all. I’m sorry, perhaps in time things will improve.”
They prepare to leave in silence.
Before leaving, some of them fill their plates and others pour themselves fingers of rye from the available bottles.
Mutti looks at me, her face frozen with concern. I have hurt her feelings, but now, finally, she worries for Carl’s future.
Jerry comes over. “Bad, huh?”
I nod. I am no longer detached. They are my friends now and I appreciate their concern.
I do normal.
18
THE WORST OF TIMES
I’M NOT FEELING WELL. PERHAPS it is stress, stress related to Carl’s problems and Ma’s cancer. I’m tired and in the mornings feel nauseated. Each morning I prepare Carl’s breakfast, his fresh-squeezed orange juice, whole wheat toast, boiled eggs, and bacon, fried crisp. He eats mindlessly, looking out the kitchen window at the heavy snow-laden spruce branches and bare black maples, but he does not see them. His eyes are fixed on space, as if the air somehow has meaning.
Ma paddles in, a little wraith, so fragile a breath would blow her away. It saddens me. The chemo and the cancer are devouring her.
“Eat,” I command. “It will make you feel better. See, I’ve poured some maple syrup on your toast.”
She nods, eager and emaciated and anxious to please. She still smokes out on the icy patio. I ignore it, too late for all that.
Every morning I walk with Carl to Mutti’s and back again. It is only half a mile, but it exhausts him, and after he wants to lie down in our darkened bedroom. On the occasional sunny day, waves of snow lick the sides of our house, casting a blanket of glitter. On one occasion we drive to the lake. It is so silent there, everything hushed and frozen, with grey ice stretching out toward the far-off hills.
“Do you remember what happened here?” I whisper.
He shakes his head, his eyes fixed on the iced lake.
A WEEK BEFORE Christmas, Candace Stewart telephones and invites me to lunch. We end up at the Sinclair Hotel, the only choice for lunch in Davenport.
“How are you managing?” Her voice has a social worker ring, a mixture of sympathy and condescension, which I suppose will be further cultivated upon graduating with a BSW. I picture her with a series of abusive mothers and doddering seniors, asking the same question over and over, and barely listening to the reply. Still, it would be a relief to vent to someone, even if it were Candace.
“It’s up and down. Carl was warned by a top neurologist not to return to hockey, and I begged him not to go back. Mutti was no help. We could have managed. Now, on most days, he’s living on painkillers and in another world.”
I hate my own voice, hate my disloyalty, hate my feelings of self pity. But it is cathartic.
“Ridiculous,” spits Candace. “You didn’t sign up for this. We all thought your marriage to Carl was the mismatch of the century, and that frankly there was a dollar motivation, but now we all feel sorry for you, we really do. You’re showing him such devotion, and no one would blame you, or be surprised, if you just split and let Mutti take over. It would look good on her, it really would. I’m glad I escaped all this. When I look at the old crowd now and see their limitations, it makes me cringe. See my new guy? He’s in third-year engineering. Engineers are in great demand; he’s already getting job offers.”
I look politely at the smiling face in the photo Candace shares.
“Nice,” I say.
“You gaining weight?”
“Hope not.”
“Stress eating,” concludes Candace. “It’ll do it every time. Just remember, if you want to ven
t by phone or email, I’m there for you. I do have social worker training.”
I stand up. If I don’t leave I’ll strangle her for dessert.
“You’re very kind.”
I scoop up the bill.
CHRISTMAS COMES AND goes. Invitations to Christmas parties are politely refused and we don’t decorate. I let Mutti do the Christmas dinner preparation. I buy us both laptops so we can always be in touch and assure Carl his spelling is not important. He grasps email, which is encouraging. Ma and Carl depress me, and I’m always at the point of tears, which I must hide from them. I had hoped Ma would help with Carl when I returned to university, but she is helpless and hopeless, and Carl hates her cooking, which has not improved. I’ll take her with me when I leave.
IT’S THE SATURDAY after Christmas. It’s only eleven, but Carl has gone back to bed. We fight about his drug intake, and I suspect he’s found the phials I had hidden behind my books and added some of the capsules and pills to his hidden stash. He shows marked ingenuity when it comes to discovering and hiding drugs that I wish he would show in other parts of his life. Ma has gone with Mutti to her doctor, who has given her a special appointment at Mutti’s insistence.
“A waste of time,” she whispers to me, and turns down my offer to go with them.
I feel depressed, a heaviness and darkness that won’t leave. I had made no friends at U of T, save for Janet Murdock, who, although very kind, was more a fellow diner and class colleague than friend and confidante. I had tried striking up conversations in the women’s bathrooms and once, but only once, had approached a group of girls outside class. They greeted me with fixed smiles but did not involve me in the conversation so I casually walked away. I did not try again.
Gwen Andrews and Sophie Gallo were different. They had been at Mutti’s Christmas party, which I always thought of as my boob unveiling, and at the welcoming party that had ended so badly upon Carl’s return from Boston. They were Choir members, and they’d always been pleasant. They were fellow students I’d ignored at Davenport High but whom I’d nod to if I met them at the New Davenport Mall. Both of them had sent invitations to us to attend their respective Christmas parties, invitations that had been politely declined. I will, I decide, invite them both to lunch at the Sinclair. They can always say no. Anything would be an improvement after the recent Candace Stewart lunch disaster.
Sonja & Carl Page 19