My mother agreed to drive me to Our Lady of Perpetual Help every Sunday. She would only allow me to go if she accompanied me. I didn’t know the source of her reluctance—I assumed that it was based on her old paranoia, but she later admitted that she was trying to protect her impressionable daughter from such a dogmatic faith. Regardless, the routine didn’t last more than five or six weeks. The services were long and tedious, and I was disappointed to discover that, despite the name of the parish I had chosen for myself, there was never any exploration of Marian visitations or miraculous visions during Mass.
I met Beverly Nauffsinger on my last “trial” Sunday at Our Lady of Perpetual Help. I remember Beverly as an older woman, but now I wonder if she was even forty. She wore several thin gold chains and petite crucifixes in a tangle around her neck. As she spoke, she fiddled with the complicated knots, her fingers moving over the gold crosses and miniature Christ figures consistently and ineffectually, as though she were fingering a rosary. Beverly had travelled to the United States to hear the Virgin Mary speak through a woman named Mrs. Francis Butler (this is the same Francis Butler you wrote about in your essay Solar Apparitions and Marian Visitations in the Southern United States). Beverly went to the Butlers’ 150-acre hunting farm in Quality, Kentucky, and she said the scent of roses filled the air and the sun pulsated before her eyes and divided into multiple lights. She said she could look straight at the sun and that the Lord protected her eyes, and that since then, she was able to see colours that she was not able to see before. Beverly showed me a rosary that she purchased in Quality. The beads were little coloured bits of carved wood—blue, green, yellow and red—connected with twists of gold wire. When I bought this rosary, Beverly whispered to me, these wires were one hundred percent pure silver. She pointed to a piece of wire with one purple-painted fingernail. Now they’re pure gold. She crossed herself. That’s a miracle, right there, she said. Later, my mother told me that it was widely known in our community that, while she was inarguably a kind-hearted person, Beverly Nauffsinger was delusional.
Years passed, and so did my religious phase. My mother battled with anxiety and occasional bouts of depression, but nothing took her completely out of this reality. Occasionally, my father would tug at my earlobe in a teasing way, saying, Any holy water in there today? I was an awkward teenager, and my relationship with my father had devolved into nothing more than self-conscious attempts at light conversation—the earlobe joke one of our only reliable physical interactions. (Perhaps it is different when raising sons. Does a mother remain close to her son, without awkwardness, even through puberty?) I did not experience the watery ear phenomenon again, even though I had spent long nights tugging and pressing my left ear as I tried to fall asleep, while reading or watching television, and, of course, those Sundays while attending Mass. The water, quite simply, had vanished.
That is, until I met your son. After graduating high school, I accepted an offer from the London School of Economics and began my studies in cultural anthropology. I rarely visited home, using my holidays for travel and research. I met Gabe in Spain, as you know; I was in San Sebastián presenting a paper at a conference on Philosophy, Democracy and Medicine. There were more than two hundred people in that amphitheatre, but when I saw Gabe sitting in the third row, the room contracted, and I knew that I had already known him for the rest of my life. On the night of our first kiss, when he slipped his palm against my cheek and the nape of my neck, it happened. A bewildered look passed over his face. I could feel the water trickling down, but before I could say, Don’t worry, it’s not what you think (what exactly I meant by that, I wonder now), he kissed me anyway, and the water pooled into my clavicle, furtive and sleek.
Gabe never had a chance to meet my father. My parents had gone on a cruise through the Spanish Virgin Islands for their fortieth wedding anniversary. On his second night on the ship, my father suffered a massive stroke. He did not live through the night; my mother and my father’s body were flown home on a direct flight from Puerto Rico. My mother had an acute anxiety attack and a subsequent nervous breakdown that had her hospitalized for several weeks. Soon after presenting my paper, I took a leave from my graduate work and returned to Canada to be with her.
How did Gabe explain all of this to you? Did he ever tell you that he left France because of me? Or did he tell you that the University of British Columbia presented a counter-offer that he couldn’t refuse? Would you have blamed me, if you had known the truth?
In the years that we dated, as he worked his way through medical school, Gabe was fascinated by my condition. He investigated it tirelessly. I do not, in fact, have a malfunctioning tear duct, though there are those who do; my symptoms match theirs, which is why I adopted that explanation so readily. The truth is that there is, so far, no answer to my little mystery.
Mrs. B——, I wish you could have met my mother before my father’s death. She used to be a vibrant woman, full of sharp witticisms. I know she would have had many thoughts on your research and critical work. My mother is my only family—I have no siblings (neither does she) and I have never really known my father’s family (they live in Missouri). After a year of careful therapeutic care, my mother was again stable, present and lucid. On my thirtieth birthday, during an extended visit from my mother (she made herself at home on our island that summer, sleeping on a foam mattress on our back deck, navigating her way through the woods with a compass, learning to cultivate wild mushrooms and make jam from salal berries—there is such a contrast between her experience of this place and your own), we found ourselves sitting on the back deck, sipping our signature drinks, cranberry and grapefruit. She asked me, mentioning the apple for the first time in nineteen years, Do you believe that I saw her that day?—and my ear instantly began to drip in response. Yes, I said, of course I believe you saw her. She closed her eyes and smiled, and at that moment I felt closer to my mother than ever before. We both cried with relief. The water from my ear dripped along with my tears; I had to excuse myself to pat myself dry.
The reason I write you this now is that it has been fifteen years since then, and only once has the water from my ear returned. Last week, Gabe came in from the car, walking with a peculiar quietness, his footfalls soft and deliberate in the hallway. His eyes were red, and I guessed that he’d been crying. Then Gabe told me that he had just talked to you on the phone. He told me, finally, that he’d been communicating with you all of these years—behind my back, at your insistence, writing letters and mailing them secretly, accepting phone calls from a private cell number and emailing you from his personal address. I felt the edges of our marriage disintegrating. The volatile cliffs of secrecy and regret hanging over us, immense, lifelong, volcanic. His breath was like a rash against my skin. But he also told me your prognosis, Mrs. B——. And it was then that I felt the trickle along my neck.
We tried to speak to each other honestly. We tried to discuss the details of his flight, and how long he would be away, and what the absence would mean for the projects we are working on together. We talked a little about what would happen if I wasn’t here when he came home. And the water continued to leak. It dribbled down my throat and my T-shirt caught the liquid, a circle of wet cotton. It continued to flow even when Gabe pressed his hand to the crease behind my ear, the softest place on my skull, to find its origin. His hand filled with water. There was nothing that we could do to stop it. It was two hours before it ceased. And in those two hours, we finally heard each other.
I am telling you all of this now, perhaps selfishly, almost certainly too late, but in an attempt to give you the most significant thing about myself that I can gather: this mystery. I hope that this will make more sense to you than it ever did to me.
Respectfully,
Magda
Paul Farenbacher’s
Yard Sale
Paul Farenbacher always told me, Never call yourself a salesperson. What you do isn’t sales, he’d say. You aren’t in sales. What you are doing is provi
ding people with an opportunity. This is what you do. Sometimes. It’s not even what you do. It’s not who you are. You are Meredith; you are a lovely woman. And Meredith reads and enjoys the theatre and spending time outdoors. Meredith also sometimes provides an opportunity for an individual to purchase excellent cleaning products. See? This is not sales. Never say you are a salesperson.
Paul Farenbacher provided opportunities for individuals to purchase products for twenty-five years before he retired, before he got sick. He started out selling detergents and disinfectants—not too different from what I do now, in fact—but after that, he sold cookware: heavy, enamel-coated cast iron. He also had a brief stint selling vitamins and nutritional supplements made from Blu-Green algae. I still have a questionable canister of this powdered seaweed at home. He claimed it strengthened his immune system. I have used it exactly once. I blended it into a Blu-Green Banana Smoothie, as suggested on the side panel. The powder turned the liquefied fruit such a disturbing shade of turquoise that I was moved to pour the lumpy miracle cure down the toilet. I snapped the plastic lid onto the tin and tucked it into the back of my cupboard. I should throw it away, but I can’t.
I would really like a cup of coffee. It’s nine o’clock on Saturday morning and I’m standing on the Farenbachers’ front lawn with their son, Trevor. I’m trying to make eye contact with the early birds as they swarm the rack of Paul Farenbacher’s suits, looking for bargains. A money belt loaded with coins hugs my waist and I am grateful for the anchor. It’s beautiful today—drifts of petals from the cherry trees have sifted into small piles on both sides of the curb. A light breeze and the petals stir like confetti in a snow globe. Trevor is having a hard time with this sale. He’s going around behind his mother’s back with a black Sharpie, marking the prices up when she’s not looking. He came back from Costa Rica this winter, when his father got sick. He said he wanted to restructure his business and get certified to teach kitesurfing here in Victoria. I wonder what he wants to do now.
Paul Farenbacher used to live in Costa Rica. One of the ten windiest places in the world, he told me. That’s why Trevor was there. But in the sixties, Paul Farenbacher was involved in something called the Instinctive Nutrition Movement, a group who smelled their food and then decided to eat it based on their intuitive reaction to the odour. They used to eat live shellfish, he told me. Right out of the ocean. Something about the briny tang was intuitively comforting to the ancient reptilian mind—it triggered memories, perhaps, of an amoebic past spent suspended in saline—so they would gnaw at live prawns and crabs still blue from the waves, bite into the salty bodies before boiling water could taint them.
I’ve never been to Costa Rica. I’ve never been east of Osoyoos, British Columbia.
Trevor’s mother, Margaret, stands in the middle of the lawn, next to Paul Farenbacher’s reclining chair. One of the early birds approaches her. The woman is wearing a pale blue trench coat. She has very curly hair. It’s scraped off her face and cinched in a tight puff at the base of her head. The woman looks at Margaret, she looks at the chair, and she bites her lip, thinking.
Can I sit in it? she asks.
Of course, says Margaret. Use the lever, get a feel for it.
Just pretend you’re in your living room, Bruce says. Try to ignore us.
If only it were that easy, says Trevor.
Bruce is Margaret’s new boyfriend. Today is only the second time I’ve seen them together. The first time was the wet and uncomfortable Thursday evening at Welsh & Bloom Funeral Home, only two months ago, when the whole neighbourhood came out on the rainiest night of the winter to see Paul Farenbacher arranged in a box in a jaunty pinstripe suit I’d never seen him wear before (such wide, bold stripes: he looked as though he were dressed for a performance in Vegas). A collection of Paul’s old cronies was there, from all his years of work—the cookware men, the detergent and spray disinfectant men, the Blu-Green algae men (who were actually mostly women)—huddled under the dripping canvas awning out front, a cluster of khaki overcoats under a cloud of smoke that condensed into fog. The sixty-year-old’s version of extreme sport: smoking at a funeral sponsored by lung cancer. The risk! The bravado! And Margaret Farenbacher in the front row, tucked into a pearl-grey suit like an altocumulus formation, managing to look parched in the rainstorm, her face powdered, her lipstick bleeding into cracks, her hair shellacked into feathers. Beside her, the tall man in black we all now know as Bruce, or Margaret’s new boyfriend, looking like he could use a cigarette himself.
Margaret has sold the Farenbacher bungalow and is moving in with Bruce, which is the reason for this yard sale. Perhaps that’s why Margaret chose to dress her husband in pinstripes on the day he was buried; in a muted way, she was also celebrating her engagement to Bruce. I don’t mean to sound unkind. I’ve lived next door to the Farenbachers for thirty years. I grew up with Trevor. I learned how to ride a bicycle in their driveway. Paul and Margaret used to babysit me. Margaret can be a very lovely woman.
I still live with my parents, in the house where I grew up. I run a small business called Scrub Goddess, a line of all-natural household cleansers. I started by mixing baking soda, a mild abrasive, with clove oil. I made batches of the stuff in the kitchen sink. I called it Artemis Powder and stuck a pink label on the jar—the same kind of jar you’d find filled with Parmesan cheese at the grocery store— and started selling it door to door. Business has grown, and I’ve converted our unfinished basement into a workable industrial unit. My mother helps me run my booth at the trade shows. Ten years ago, if someone had told me this would be my life, I would never have believed it.
It’s comfortable, the woman says, after she’s sat in the chair, pressed her lower back against the lumbar pillow, experimented with the lever, and hauled herself out again. It looks very new.
Oh, it is, says Margaret. It’s hardly been used.
You’re unbelievable, says Trevor.
She just means that it’s in excellent condition, I say to Trevor.
The woman asks Margaret, Why are you selling it?
Bruce nestles Margaret’s shoulders under his big arm. Well, he says, I already have a leather club chair, and there’s just not enough room for the sectional, the loveseat and two big chairs in my living room.
Margaret pats the back of the La-Z-Boy like it’s a dog. It’s been very good to us, she says, but it’s time to let it go to a new home now.
I’ll need a hand if I get it, the woman says. Let me think. She starts to walk away.
Don’t think about it too long! calls Bruce.
Margaret is wearing a pungent perfume. The thick scent hangs around her like a sticky brown cloud. She has styled her grey hair so that it wafts up off her head like layers of meringue. She wears caramel-coloured loafers that sink into the grass. They’re dark around the toes, stained from the dew.
She’ll come back, says Bruce. Don’t worry.
Do I look worried? Trevor says.
Trev, says Margaret.
Trevor turns away from her, walks over to the boxes set in the shady grass in the front of the yard. I follow him. Do you want to take a break? I ask. He ignores me.
He crouches by the milk crate, his back arched in a C-curve, and silently flips through his father’s old record albums. He looks like his father—smaller than average, even a bit shorter than I am. Stocky, with the kind of muscles that I’ve always thought were good for rock climbing or skateboarding. We kissed once. In the kitchen at the Murphys’ annual holiday block party. Trevor came in looking to refill his glass with something, and there I was, refilling my own. We were both drunk. He pressed me up against the refrigerator when we kissed, and my back slid over a button on the fridge door that made a pile of ice cubes fall out. They spilled all over the floor like a cold, glittering win at a private slot machine.
When I found out that Paul Farenbacher was sick, I started to come over to visit during the day, when Margaret was at the office. Trevor was still in Costa Rica. I made miso broth
with thin slices of green onion and I served it to him in a deep red and white soup bowl I found in Chinatown. We listened to the radio together. I offered to make him a Blu-Green Banana Smoothie once, and he made a face and smacked the air with his hand. Those people don’t know shit from putty, he said. Throw that stuff away. The smell of Windex made him feel sick, so I spritzed their windows and countertops with my spearmint-scented Demeter Spray.
He bought the La-Z-Boy as a gift for himself soon after his diagnosis. He said he’d spent his whole life fighting it, but that it was finally time to recognize the desires of his inner lazy man. He showed me a catalogue of chairs for lazy people: slots for the remote controls, coolers in the armrests, space for a whole six-pack of beer. Paul ordered the basic model in solid blue. After the chemotherapy, this was the only place he could still feel comfortable. He often spent the night there, in the reclined position, a blanket tucked up around his chin. He’d lost all of his thick white hair—he’d gone silver in his twenties, and as long as I’d known him, his hair was a source of pride—but he refused to wear a toque over his bald head, even on cool nights. My head is not a teapot, he’d say.
Trevor finally says something to me. Should I keep this? he asks. He’s holding an Arlo Guthrie album.
You keep whatever you think, I say. Keep it, if you want it.
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