While her teenage days were filled with the wonder of medicine and caring for the sick and injured, her midlife days are filled with the silent wonder of the botanical kingdom. One day her drawings, the detail of individual structures, might stimulate someone’s interest in the real value of a healthy ecosystem.
Tonight, stroke by tiny stroke her pencils create the yellow throat of her blue-eyed grass illustration. There are many hours still to be spent bringing all the parts, the veined sepals and petals, to an exact and true picture of this native perennial that’s found across Canada. Clotilde enjoyed the watercolours she’d painted in the past, but once her passion moved to botanical illustrations, she got a little frustrated, partly because of constant interruptions caused by her father’s and then her mother’s illnesses. This reawakened her interest in the world of the colour pencil, which she could pick up and put down at any time. The wax-based pencils and their rich pigments allow her to build a depth of unique colour for the flower and its parts. Layer upon layer, shade upon shade, dark to light—and a true, larger-than-life image emerges. One day, perhaps her talent for colour and detail will result in something more than an absorbing pastime.
Anil is waiting for her. His sad little face lights up as she walks into his room, her smile and her hands saying good morning. He sits up, gives her a salute, palms his two hands and put his fists and two index fingers up. With an even bigger smile, he moves his open hands upward and over, lightly touching his chest. “Hello, nice to meet you. Happy,” she translates.
She is a nurse again, assisting in the care of a little boy, changing his dressings, checking his fluids and helping him with snacks and lunch. She leaves him to sleep in the afternoon and enjoys the familiar sights, smells and bustle of the wards. She helps him with his supper and chats in sign about his family, telling the police later that his parents, a brother and his two sisters live in British Columbia; he lives in Calgary with his aunt, who is best able to help him with his deafness. Darkness settles on the room, and Clotilde tucks in Anil. She looks into his quiet dark eyes, strokes his brow, and signs, bringing her right hand to her mouth and then palm down to the back of her left hand. “Goodnight,” she murmurs. She smooths his bed and promises to be back in the morning.
These hospital days encourage the lonely Clotilde. She’s still not over having to live alone now that her mother has been gone these past months. She loves being back at the hospital and caring for a small boy, and all the while fascinating a growing group of youngsters with stories of Winnie the Pooh. She sees the smiles on the faces as she both reads and signs the adventures of the bear and his pals in the Hundred Acre Wood. Occasionally she has to stop and check with a volunteer about what the kids are saying. These are wonderful, interactive times. On her way home, she stops to visit with the boy’s aunt, who is recovering well from her severe injuries, and updates her on Anil’s progress.
#
“Where’s Anil?” she says a few days later to the charge nurse. “Is he off playing somewhere?”
“He’s gone—left early this morning. His aunt was discharged yesterday, and she came by with her relatives from BC and picked up Anil.”
“What? No.” Clotilde asks her to repeat to make sure she’s read her lips correctly.
“He was a happy little fella,” the charge nurse says. “I guess the doctor cleared him after you went home last night. I was here when they left. The family appreciated everything we’ve done, especially you. They were so sorry and very apologetic to have missed you.”
Clotilde is stunned. She knew this day would come; it always did. “What’s it been?” she asks. “Three weeks?” She heads past the day room and looks inside. A small girl comes to her and pulls her dress. She sees the girl’s lips move but does not read her.
“She wants a story,” says the hospital volunteer who is new in the day room. She speaks while looking at the girl and away from Clotilde. When she does not get a response, the volunteer looks up. “She wants a story. She says you are the story nurse.”
Panic for Clotilde. Her unmodulated voice squeaks. “Can’t,” she says. “Can’t. Not today.”
She hurries off down the corridor.
Chapter Eight
Clotilde’s throat tightens in panic and frustration. “Please look at me,” she says to the check-in agent. “I’m deaf. Je suis sourde. I can’t hear what you say. I read lips.”
The woman looks up from her computer, smiles and looks back at the screen. Clotilde sees her mouth move.
“Please!” Her voice is rising and loud. “I need to see your lips when you speak.”
“Ms. Chiasson, I’ve told you several times already this is not your flight gate. An announcement was made on the PA almost an hour ago that there’d been a gate change.” The woman smiles and hands the boarding pass back.
All Clotilde can read of what she’s being told is “gate change.”
“What am I to do?” Clotilde’s voice is uncontrollably loud. “I’ve been sitting in that seat right in front of you for more than an hour, waiting. I showed the person before you my boarding pass and was told to wait. No one told me about a gate change.”
The agent looks up and then back at the computer screen. She’s talking, but Clotilde cannot see a word she’s saying. Clotilde rests her handbag on the counter. “I’m deaf—look at your screen.” She knows she’s shouting now. “It tells you I cannot hear. Look at me, please.” She feels her voice rise out of control. “Je suis sourde, regardez votre écran, il vous dit que je ne peux pas entendre. Je suis sourde. Regardez-moi, s’il vous plaît.”
Waiting passengers nervously watch what’s going on.
“I told you, this is not your gate,” the agent says. “I don’t have your flight information. Please be calm.”
Two uniformed people quietly step up beside her. Security. Clotilde shouts and waves her arms, in a total panic that she’s missed her flight. “Just help me,” she says. “Please!”
The security man grabs her bag from the counter and begins to open it. She lunges at him, wanting to retrieve her bag. “What are you doing? That’s mine,” she says in a high-pitched voice. The other, a woman, quickly moves to her, and before she knows what’s happening, Clotilde is in handcuffs, her arms behind her back. She sees a man trying to move toward the check-in agent. He’s saying something, but he’s pushed away by the dark-bearded, turbaned security guard. Clotilde is pulled away and led, shouting and wildly resisting, to a joyless, glassed-in room on the concourse. Her bag is in the hands of the security man.
“What is this?” she says. Through her tears she asks if she is under arrest. “Why, why, why? I just want my plane so I can go home.”
The security woman waves at her to sit down. The man stands guard at the door. The woman is talking at her, but Clotilde cannot follow her lips. The woman has an accent—not Canadian, not French.
A police officer enters. “Please help me,” she says. “I’m profoundly deaf, je suis sourde. All I want to know is how to get home to Calgary. Where’s my bag? Where’s my boarding pass? I’m not a criminal. Am I in custody? Why am I here?” She’s uncomfortable and in tears.
The police officer holds her handbag and talks with security. He does not look at Clotilde. She cannot see what they are saying.
A tall, dark-haired woman in a smart navy blue business suit walks into the room. She ignores the security and police and goes straight to Clotilde, turns abruptly to the security woman and tells her to go get a bottle of water and a glass.
“My name is Alison,” she says, speaking slowly and quietly and looking directly at Clotilde. Her glistening brown eyes and warm smile are calming. “I’m with the airport authority, and I’m here to clear all this up and see what I can do to help.” She turns to the young fellow coming through the door. “Were you able to talk with the passenger?”
“Yes, and all he could say—he was very angry actual
ly—was that he wanted to tell us that the woman is deaf and to stay calm, face her and listen. He says a deaf person who speaks has trouble controlling their voice levels when they get excited or frustrated. This is always seen as violence and anger. He’s very, very mad at us though for treating the woman and him so roughly and uncaringly. He catches this same flight each week out to Calgary.”
Alison turns to Clotilde and quietly asks how she is feeling.
Clotilde looks at her closely, watching the words form on her lips. She’s terrified. Is this woman here to help me? She breathes softly to calm down and to speak in an even voice. “T-tissue,” she says. “I n-need a tissue. My bag.”
Alison heads to the door, says something to the security guards and speaks with the policewoman who’d remained outside. Clotilde rubs her wrists as the handcuffs are removed. Through the frosted windows, she sees the shadows of her captors leaving. She sips her water and has no idea what is happening to her.
Alison returns, and Clotilde knows she is talking, but the woman is not directly facing her. She sees the lips moving but cannot see the words.
“Please,” she says, “let me see your face, and then I can see what you are saying.”
Alison faces her, apologizes at length and asks if she is feeling okay.
“What’s happening?” Clotilde asks, her eyes watering. “Am I in trouble? Am I going to be charged with something? I don’t know anyone in Toronto, and now I don’t have a ticket to Calgary. They took my boarding pass. Where’s my baggage? It’s on that plane.”
“No, no. Don’t worry, Ms. Chiasson. Everything’s going to be okay. A few people just got things wrong and overreacted. When you’re ready, we’ll go over to the airline folks and see what we can arrange. It’s been one huge, embarrassing mistake, which I will personally deal with later after you are all set. There’s no need to worry further.”
She pulls a small silver case from her jacket pocket, takes out a business card and prints a phone number and email address on it. “That’s my private line and email, if you are ever in need of me at this airport again.” She smiles. “Let’s go find someone with the airline.”
Clotilde takes out her iPhone and taps a note to her travel agent explaining what has taken place. Two hours later, after coffee and a snack with Alison and an airline supervisor, Clotilde finds herself at another gate waiting for a new flight. In her hand is a business-class boarding pass, and in her handbag an open business-class ticket to fly anywhere in North America.
She’d apologized profusely for causing the ruckus. The airline official assured her she was in no way to blame. “We’ve learned a great deal through this experience and will be briefing all staff on the challenges faced by the deaf and the hard-of-hearing. Most of all, agents must take notice of personal comments in the customer file. This should not have happened to you, and we are extremely embarrassed by this morning’s events.”
On board, she sinks into the wide, soft leather seats at the front of the plane. This is a first. She tries to relax but is all the more aware that she’s alone in life. Her parents are no longer around, and few people bother to call on her now. She lives without people and wonders what the future holds.
She smiles at the attention she’s given. Every now and then, a cabin attendant sits beside her and faces her squarely, and they chat and even laugh about the incident.
“It went round the terminal quicker than a grassfire,” the attendant says. “A lot of people thought you were some kind of terrorist being marched away by security. Some wondered about that man who came over and was yelling at the desk as well. They thought he was part of it and that you had a weapon or something in your handbag.”
This puzzles Clotilde. She’d forgotten about the man. She’d only been concerned with why they were going through her carry-on and her handbag. And then she was handcuffed when she tried to get her bag.
The whole experience leaves her extremely troubled, and even though she has an open ticket in her bag, she doubts she’ll ever fly again.
Back in the secure, comfortable surroundings of her home, she writes an email about her experience to her relatives in Cape Breton. The journey to Nova Scotia had been taken at the insistence of her mother, who made her promise she’d go visit her relatives. She’d put off the visit for months, never wanting to get on a plane on her own. Aunts, uncles and cousins on both sides of the family have been badgering her to return and embrace her heritage, where relatives can be the best company for her now that her mother has passed.
Clotilde does not see the sense in this argument, though she appreciates their concern for her well-being. All things being equal, she is happy in her familiar surroundings, near the hospital, near the park and closer to her son. She’s determined to make it on her own.
#
A month has passed since the airport debacle, and Clotilde is surprised one day to open her email and find a message from Alison, a name she’d all but forgotten.
Hello Clotilde,
I do hope this message finds you well, happily back in your Calgary lifestyle. I took control of your case and encouraged the airline to implement procedures and specific training similar to ours for all front-line staff. This sensitivity training has since extended to other airlines operating through here, and I fully expect it has been implemented at all airports across Canada.
Anyway, enough of that. Now for the surprise and the real reason I’m writing to you.
The agent you had difficulty with at the gate came up with a suggestion that we adopted. The agent was extremely upset with herself for her complete lack of understanding, believing that if you could speak, then you could hear. She shared this with her colleagues, and they approached us, the airline management and the security company with the idea that we give you a new companion, a hearing service dog.
We have been in touch with the organization to find out the procedures and requirements. You fully qualify. We went ahead and ordered a dog on the basis that even if the idea is not to your liking, we will donate our dog to another person. This idea and our actions have made a big difference here in understanding the challenges some people have.
Do let me know what you think, and if this is something you would like to do. Our understanding is that a fully trained dog will be available in about a month. There is a white poodle that has not yet been placed, and we have a reserve on him. The airline will fly you here for a two-week training period at our cost.
This project has brought a ton of meaning to our organization and is a tangible reminder that all who work in our industry must be aware of the specific needs of all travellers. Once you and the little fellow are comfortable, we’d like to introduce you both to the staff as a follow-up to what we’ve been saying.
Please let me know your thoughts about having a dog in your life.
And one last thing, the dog’s name is Bibeau. French, I think.
Warm regards,
Alison
Clotilde bursts into tears.
Chapter Nine
“Sushi night,” Brewster calls from the doorway, and Hannah appears at the top of the stairs.
“Sushi?” she says. “I didn’t think you were into that, but I’m definitely a starter. Now? It’s only about five o’clock.”
“Yep, I’m hungry. Skipped lunch.”
He allows Hannah to order, and when the food comes, he admires her chopstick dexterity. They talk about her day, the wedding and the flower arrangements at the church, and his afternoon at the park: being almost bowled over by a cyclist and then bumping into the woman with the red backpack slung over her shoulder.
“I apologized to her, but she didn’t say anything. Smart-looking woman. She was slowly walking along and staring into the grass and clutter beside the path. Bit like your mother used to do when we were looking for flowers. The park helps me think about things,” he says, breaking the soft tension. “Y
our mother’s things. We can do this. I’ll try to be a little more positive. Big question for me is the how?”
Hannah smiles. “I know, Dad. But I’m sure Mom would want us to forge ahead. The chaplain said something like, ‘Yesterday is history, and tomorrow’s a mystery.’ Today we have the present, and that is the gift.”
“Sounds like you’re the wise one here,” Brewster says. “What have you got in mind?”
Over green tea ice cream, Hannah gives a shrug and says she’ll look after things. Providing he was okay with it, Jo would call up a couple of helpers from her church.
“You mean have some outsiders come in and clean out your mom’s things?” he says. “Not sure I like that. It’s private.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Dad. They’ve done this sort of thing before, in their own lives and while helping others.”
Truce.
Later, they meander through the house, opening and closing closets, cupboards and drawers while quietly assessing what needs to be done. It’s sobering for Brewster, who wants to pull away. He joins his daughter as she chats on FaceTime with Harris, knowing deep down that his children are right.
“Okay, enough of this,” she says suddenly. “Scrabble. Let me beat you again.”
He yields the whole matter to Hannah after she beats him twice on the Scrabble board. She’s always been the family wordsmith, quick and witty.
#
Two women with a pile of boxes and bags arrive at the front door as he leaves the house for the coffee shop and then his lawyer’s office. It’s better if he’s out of the way, leaving Hannah and her church mice to the task. He knew he’d miss seeing his son again. Hannah arranged to FaceTime Harris on her iPad as she sorted through Melanie’s jewellery, personal memorabilia and papers. “I think there are too many memories, and it’s making a mess of Dad,” Harris had said to Hannah. “Call me anytime, and you can show me and talk about things.” In spite of the time difference between Alberta and Australia, he’d be on standby because he very much wanted to be able to contribute to this very necessary business that had been left far too long.
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