by Ali Bryan
“Good.”
I notice the ringer is turned off my cellphone and find I’ve missed a call with a 416 area code. It has to be her. No one else calls me from Toronto except Capital One. I keep the phone plugged in and call Glen.
“Can’t talk,” he says right away. “I’m getting ready for a showing.”
“What kind of showing?”
“I was offered an opportunity to show a few of my paintings at a gallery tonight.”
“But what about the kids? You said you could watch them.”
“This is a huge opportunity.”
“Yeah, I get that, but who’s going to watch them?”
“Relax. Cathy is coming over at six. I’ll take them to McDonald’s first.”
“Well I want to talk to them so call me before you leave.”
I hang up irritated. Cathy is mine. It’s time to call Mallory Pepper. I dial the number unsure of what to say.
She answers on the third ring. “Hello?”
I slide down the wall until I’m close to the outlet my phone is plugged into. “Mallory?”
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Claudia.”
“Does this have something to do with flowers?”
“No.” I wrap the cord of my iPhone charger around my finger.
“Are you with the adoption agency then? Because I already spoke with Brenda and I’m keeping him.”
“Him?”
“Arthur.”
“You had a boy?”
“Who are you?” she says in an agitated voice.
I pull out the birthing journal from my purse and messily write Arthur’s name on a blank page.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “I … I … I accidentally ended up with your suitcase. When you went into labour. On the plane.”
“Ahh …” she sighs. “Is that why you were trying to send me flowers?”
“Never mind the flowers. I just want to see that you get your luggage back.”
She makes a noise that implies she couldn’t care less about her luggage. “You can keep it,” she says, confirming my suspicion. “The airline thinks they lost it. They have to compensate.”
This is not the reaction I was expecting. “But I don’t want to keep your suitcase.”
“I can’t breastfeed,” she blurts. “I keep trying and he just won’t take it and I’m so frigging tired I peed the bed last night and I washed my face with shampoo and they won’t let me leave. Why won’t he breastfeed?”
“Hold it like a cheeseburger,” I encourage.
“The baby?”
“Your breast. Hold your breast the way you’d hold a Big Mac and shove it in his mouth.”
“But I have no milk.”
“It will come. It just takes a few days. Just keep trying. It will happen.”
“But how should I hold him? I never paid attention to that part in class. I was going to give him up. Now I don’t know how to feed him or burp him or swaddle him, or …”
“Hold him however is comfortable. And take off his sleeper. Is he wearing a sleeper?”
“Yes.”
“Well take it off so he’s just in a diaper.”
“Just a second,” she says. “I’m going to put you on speaker phone.”
I hear the baby crying that familiar newborn wail like he’s starving, which in this case he probably is.
“Okay, so I took off his sleeper.”
“All right, now hold him right up to your breast so you’re skin to skin and he’s level with your nipple. You don’t want him to have to strain to reach it.
“Like this?” she asks.
“Yes, like that,” I respond, hopeful. “Now hold your breast like a cheeseburger and rub your nipple gently across his mouth. When he opens, shove it inside.”
I hear her breath. Arthur whimpers. The afternoon session of Operational Excellence is scheduled to resume in five minutes. The baby is silent.
“Is he sucking?” I ask.
“I think so.”
“He’s on your breast?”
“Yeah, he’s on.”
“Okay, if he’s on properly it shouldn’t hurt.”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“Now look below the jawline underneath the ear. Watch it. If he’s swallowing you’ll be able to tell.”
“He fell off.”
“Okay, don’t panic; just go back to the cheeseburger.”
“Go back to the cheeseburger,” Mallory repeats. Then she hollers with jubilation, “He’s doing it! He’s swallowing!”
Mallory begins to sob. I join her, but quietly. A silent partner.
“No one else has been able to show me how to do it and I was about to give up and now I’m feeding my son,” she blubbers. “I’m so tired.” She continues to cry. “And I’m constipated and I haven’t washed my hair in three days and they keep serving me broth and two percent milk for breakfast and lunch and all I want is an Egg McMuffin and some roast beef or something and they won’t let me go home because he’s lost too much weight and I look fatter now than before I gave birth.”
“Mallory, just feed your baby. When he’s finished put his sleeper back on, wrap him back up in his blanket, and put him in his bed. He should sleep well after a good feeding and then go to sleep. Take all the medication you can and then sleep for as long you can. Understand?”
“Okay,” she says, blowing her nose.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did Arthur arrive early?”
“Thirty-seven weeks. I fibbed a bit at check-in. I just wanted to make it home. I didn’t want to give birth alone.”
I nod, understanding. “About your suitcase then. What should I do with it?”
“Keep it,” she insists. “There is really nothing of value in there. I mean, maternity clothes — what am I going to do with those now?”
“But what about your hair dryer and makeup and stuff?”
“Like I said, I already put in a claim. They’re going to give me money for all of that.”
“Okay.” I stare at Mallory’s open suitcase. The mass of maternity wear. The hair dryer I will keep since I buried mine in the yard. “Now that he’s latching your milk will come in and when your milk comes in he will start gaining weight and you’ll be able to go home.”
She takes a deep breath and exhales into the phone. “Are you pregnant?”
The question catches me off guard. “No,” I reply. “Not at all. Why would you think that?”
“Your sister said you wore my pants.”
“I …”
“It doesn’t matter,” she interjects. “You taught me how to feed my son. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply, overwhelmed. “And thank you too.”
“For the pants?”
“The pants, yes.
“Goodbye, Mallory.”
“Goodbye, Claudia.”
I press the off button and hold the phone to my heart. I’m a tiny pink tulip of hope.
41
I head back down to the conference room and attend the remainder of Operational Excellence. I make a cup of Red Rose tea with a handful of creamers. Like Mallory, the hotel has no milk. I wonder about Arthur. His birth weight. His middle name. Does he have a grandma?
When the conference finishes, I go back to my room and kneel between my suitcase and Mallory’s, deciding what to keep. I leave behind her personal items, like her makeup and underwear. I fold the pants into a neat stack and place them on the floor. They too will stay in Calgary. I repack the hair dryer, some of the socks, a shirt, and her birthing journal, which I intend to complete with what little information I’ve gained.
It’s just after six and I’m hungry. I wait anxiously for Carl. At ten after he knocks on the door. I feel giddy.
“Hope you like Vietnamese,” he says, supporting a well-packed plastic bag.
“Love it,” I reply.
He walks past me and sets the bag on the table. “S
orry I’m a few minutes late. I had to go back and get knives and forks.”
“No worries.”
Carl serves up a spread of vermicelli, pho, shredded chicken, pork. It smells of lemongrass and chillis. It is excellent. He pours mineral water into two paper cups. I twist noodles around my fork. Carl’s eyes are magnified behind his glasses. My phone rings.
“That’s probably my kids,” I say, answering the phone with an enthusiastic mom voice. The kind of hello that if edible would be dipped in chocolate and dusted with powdered sugar.
“Holy fuck, Claudia. You’ve got to get the hell home.”
“Dan?” His voice is loud enough for Carl to hear. I turn my back so the volume might be minimized and then move to the bathroom. “What are you talking about? I’m coming home tomorrow. You’re picking me up.”
“I’m at Dad’s.”
“Why are you at Dad’s? Is something wrong? Is he dying?”
“Worse than that.”
“What do you mean worse than that? Worse than dying?”
“Claudia, I talked to the exterminator and he’s refusing to do anything. So I came over here tonight to see for myself.”
“Why? Where’s Dad? Allison-Jean said the exterminator was coming tomorrow.”
“Dad’s curling. The exterminator had a cancellation today!”
“What is going on, Dan?”
“There is stuff everywhere.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“I have to go.”
I hang up stunned and uncertain. Uncertain why the exterminator won’t do his job and why it’s my problem and whether Dan will still be picking me up from the airport tomorrow.
I return to the table not a tulip. Carl has eaten the pho. The vermicelli and the magic are gone. Dan swallowed it. I stare at my pair of suitcases wanting to go home but not back to my life. Carl pushes the last spring roll in my direction. There is a noodle on his eyebrow. How did it get there? I take the spring roll, dip it in the accompanying sauce, and realize this is the last of Carl. For me, that is. The last of Carl and me, or, rather, there will be no Carl and me. He wipes his enormous food-slicked face vigorously with a napkin, and I’ve had a one-night stand with a manatee.
42
I arrive back in Halifax after a long flight, feeling weary and disoriented. I make my way off the plane unable to remember anything about Operational Excellence other than dripping icicles. My brother paces at the gate.
“What took you so long?” he accuses. “The board said you landed twenty minutes ago.”
Around me people embrace.
“Nice to see you too,” I reply.
“Let’s go,” he demands, turning in the direction of the parking lot.
“I don’t have my bags!” I holler after him.
“You took a suitcase?” he argues. “You were only gone for two days.”
I ignore him and find the right carousel. Dan opens his mouth to say something, but I tell him not to talk to me. He acts disgusted when I pull two bags off the belt and load them onto a luggage cart. We walk to the car in silence. He opens the trunk.
“I’ll do it,” he says, wrangling one of my bags.
I drop my suitcase and wait in the front seat. We exit the airport and drive down the highway. We continue not to talk until we reach the suburbs.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Dad’s.”
“I’m not going to Dad’s. I want to go home!”
“It will only take a minute.”
“I just want to see my kids.”
He drives with intent, eyes fixed on the road in front of him until we pull into the driveway of our parents’ home.
“He’s not even home,” I comment, noting Dad’s car is not in the driveway.
Dan puts the car in park and motions for me to follow him up the front steps. I do so with trepidation. There’s a Canada Post slip on the door. He ignores it. “Plug your nose,” he warns.
I am confused. “What for?” I start to panic.
Dan unlocks the door.
“Holy fuck!” I say, grabbing my nose.
Dan looks at me, crazed. His voice cracks when he says, “See?”
I survey the front hall and what I can see of the living room. “What the fuck!”
“I know!” Dan says.
I gag loudly. Stand in shock at the entrance to the house. “Oh my God.”
Dan turns around, towards the street. “There’s Dad!” He points to our parents’ green Taurus, but Dad stops before coming up the driveway. We make eye contact. But before either Dan or I can react he speeds away, tires squealing.
“Close the door,” I say, crying.
Dan obliges and covers his face. We stand on the front step. “That is why the exterminator refused to do anything.”
I cover my mouth with disbelief. “We’ll have to call those junk people.”
“Junk people? We need an arsonist.”
“Did you go into the bedroom?”
“No, I didn’t make it past the living room.”
I text Glen and tell him I’m delayed. I look at Dan. “We should see what we’re dealing with.”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Yes, Dan, it’s a little bit fucking obvious, but maybe, just maybe, it’s contained to the front of the house.”
I gather my shirt up around my nose. “You go first,” I order.
“I’m not going first.”
“Geez, Dan, just open the friggin’ door.”
Dan turns the knob and I push by him and step inside. It’s like walking into a dumpster with curtains. Trails, hip-width and head-high, tunnel from the front entry, their walls constructed of boxes, flyers, and unmarked bags. They are graffitied with pieces of my mom’s good china, plastic cutlery, clothing, unopened packages of paper towel, mouse droppings. An inflatable swan pool toy is on top of the piano. And it smells like a garbage strike. Of rotting papaya, chicken wings, and hair products. A warren for Vaudeville spirits, heroin addicts, my father. It is devastating.
Something moves. A mouse or a cat. A Gruffalo. I can’t see it, nor can Dan, but we know we are not alone.
“How did this happen?” I ask. “Don’t you visit him?”
“Don’t you visit him?” Dan spits back.
“I see him, but he always comes over.”
“Why do you think that is? Maybe because our father decided he would collect garbage.”
“It’s not all garbage,” I attempt to rationalize. “See over here? Brand new Doggy Steps. Still in the package. Check this out.” I read the side of the box, “Doggy Steps is essential for pets with hip dysplasia, arthritis, or simply old age, giving your pet freedom from the floor — and more COMPANIONSHIP than ever before!”
“He doesn’t have a dog.”
“Are you sure about that? I mean there easily could be one hiding in here.”
“He does not have a dog.”
“Maybe he bought it for the mice.”
“Claudia!”
We kick our way through the living room into the kitchen. It is also sick. Festering with rotting food, dishes food-stained in shades of grey, empty cans of Coke Zero, beans, and tuna, an unopened package of Bumpits.
“We have to get rid of everything,” Dan proclaims. “Call one of those junk places and get them to clear it out.” He swings his arms wildly. “Like what the fuck is that?” He points to a basket of fur on the kitchen table.
“Beats me. Looks like they were strawberries at one point.”
“Why would he do this?” Dan drops his head.
“He probably has dementia.”
“Dementia is forgetting whether he sent out a birthday card or not knowing how to get to the garage. It is not leaving lasagna under the piano and buying a giant emery board for a cat that doesn’t exist.”
I look around for the giant emery board.
“I’m leaving,” he says. “I will call the junk people. You can meet them here when they come.”
“Whoa, why do I have to meet them here?”
“Bedbugs you said were my gig. Garbage is yours.”
“Yeah, but there are bugs here too,” I argue.
Dan furls his eyebrows. “I’ll call you when they’re coming.”
“Well, what about now? What about Dad?”
“What about him?” Dan hollers. “He can stay here. Apparently he likes it this way.”
“He’s obviously sick.”
“He’s disgusting.”
“Yes, Dan. It is disgusting, but he’s sick. Hoarders are sick.”
“Hoarders should be shot.”
“How can you say that?”
“Look at this place! This was our home. How could he do this to us? To Mom?”
“This isn’t about us! It’s about him. He’s obviously fucked up.”
“Then you stay and sort it out with him. You get him some help.”
Dan storms out, slipping on a stack of flyers. He kicks at them and barrels out the door. I follow and watch from the front window. He goes to pull out of the driveway then slams on the brakes. The trunk pops open and he heaves my bags out and dumps them by the edge of the lawn. He slams the trunk back down, but before returning to the driver’s seat, he runs up on the lawn, picks up one end of the broken swing, and launches it in the air. It swings back at him and hits him hard in the hip. He says something I can’t make out and starts wildly kicking the seat before finally getting back in his car and speeding away.
I look back at the living room. Try to recall moments created here. Those spent lip-syncing to INXS or spying on Dan when he had friends over. Opening Christmas presents. They are buried now. Contaminated.
I go back outside into the fresh air, sit in the dark on the step, and wait for Dad to return, but he does not.
Glen calls. “Where are you?”
“I’m at my dad’s.”
“You said you’d be quick. I have to work in the morning.”
“I’m coming.”
I arrive home in a cab. The driver carries my bags to the door. He is polite and I give him a large tip. Inside Glen has his jacket on.
“Your flight landed almost three hours ago. What took you so long?”
“I told you I had to stop at my dad’s.”
I notice the Welcome Ho sign my kids made for Grandma on the table, but now it’s Welcome Home: the “m” and the “e” have been added in blue sparkle gel.