Myother knocks on the door and opens it. “Good morning, ladies,” she says. “It seems you have company this morning outside your windows.”
I look at the windows, as do the three ladies. Seven crows perch on a wire. They are watching the windows, turning their heads from side to side. The sun bounces blue-black off their wings.
“Edith threw her leftover popcorn from last night’s movie out the window,” Meg says.
“I like crows,” says Nora. “They look after their old ones.”
“They are sneaky thieves as well,” says Meg, “for anything bright and shining.”
The ladies look as if they are from the same litter. Each has short silver hair on round heads with round faces. Each wears glasses set on a small nose. Each has red cheeks and a small tight mouth. Their bodies are soft and plump like my toy chick. They enjoy seeing me, not excited like Grace, but quiet in appreciation. I am a gift unwrapped new with each visit.
Nora holds a metal stick with a hook on the end. A strand of yarn leads from her hands and the hook to a basket on the floor. “Do you know where the phone is? I need to call Halifax,” she says.
Myother says she is sorry, she does not know.
Edith opens and closes her hands in front of her. She wants me to come. Myother leads me to her chair and Edith pats my head.
“Doggie, doggie, doggie.” She looks at Myother and her glasses flash. “What is your name?”
“Mary.”
“M-A-R-Y — Mary,” Edith says. “What is the dog’s name?”
“Phoebe.”
“I had two dogs.”
She moves her hand to my chest and rubs the white patch of hair. “Cocker spaniels, Goldie and Blackie. We lived at Moose Cove.”
She rubs her memories into my coat. A flash of yellow and a flash of black running on the beach, long ears flop like wings. Bark, bark at gulls that take off with slow irritation.
Across the room Meg begins to sing and Myother turns to listen. I am torn between the image of dogs jumping in the waves and Meg’s song. The song sounds as old as the waves.
‘S truagh nach robh mis’ ann an Eilean Mo Chrìdh’,
Eilean mo ghràidh far an dh’àraicheadh mi
‘S truagh nach robh mis’ ann an Eilean mo Chridh’.
Myother tilts her head and we walk to Meg.
“Lovely, Meg,” Myother says. “What do the words mean?”
Meg wraps her hand around my neck. She stares out the window and hums, stroking my throat. I see mountains covered in pine rising up sharp from the shore. Fog hangs over the trees and I smell salt and wood smoke. Meg opens her small mouth and sings:
O, would that I were in the Isle of my Heart,
My dear island where I grew up;
O, would that I were in the Isle of my Heart.
The longing in her voice is crushing. I nuzzle her hand until she looks at me. I lift my chin and try to sing.
“That’s her home: Paradise, Cape Breton,” Nora says.
“C-A-P-E – B-R-E-T-O-N — Cape Breton,” Edith says.
“Paradise,” Meg says.
Myother touches Meg’s arm as she tells her she’s been to Cape Breton Island many times.
“Have I played my fiddle for you?” Meg asks.
Myother shakes her head. Meg says she will play for her at home. She says we must visit her at her Cape Breton home.
“You should go home, Meg,” Nora says. She turns to Myother, her cheeks bouncing as she says, “Meg should not be here.”
“H-O-M-E — home. No, thank you.”
Nora’s hook stops moving. She places a square of woven thread in her lap. “Never tell me you don’t want to go home, Edith.”
“N-O — no I don’t.” Edith crosses her arms over her chest. “I like living here. People are not mean to me. I don’t need to look for food. They wash my hair.” Edith pats her round head three times.
Nora picks up her woven threads and pulls on the strand. “Meg is going home as soon as she saves enough for a taxi ride.” The ball in the basket falls to the floor and rolls.
“I’m going with her,” Nora says. “She promised me I would be with her in Paradise.”
“Bring the ball, Phoebe,” Myother says.
She drops the leash and I walk to the ball. I pick up the ball and return it to the basket. I smell Simone’s scarf and a metal clip with Archie’s scent.
“Good girl, Phoebe,” Myother says.
I take a corner of Simone’s scarf in my teeth and lift my head. Myother kneels on the floor beside the basket. She removes six balls. Inside the basket are pens and a bracelet. There is a glass pumpkin, a box of wrapped-up candy. There is a carved wood bowl with a lid on top. There are many earrings and many coins.
“Do you think there’s enough, Mary?” Nora asks. “Enough to take us to Paradise?”
“P-A-R-A-D-I-S-E.”
DEATH
SEPTEMBER
We move as one, Myother and me, fifteen steps from car to door, cross the threshold with five steps more, right to the west wing, left to the east. This morning we turn right into the smell of death. My nose moves my brain moves my legs fast. Myother’s feet move quick to keep up.
Inside room five, the Angel of the Sea is dying. I place my nose on his tattoo in greeting, sniff deep, and the scent of pain closes my eyes. Louie’s hand grips my neck, runs along my back, and I shiver.
“Phoebe, my lovely girl,” he says. The angel tattoo holds pungent memories: ink, needles, blood when he was a young man, then salt and dulse, ropes and nets, fish scales and oil. Louie’s memories are vivid and fragrant, and today they are jagged. I like being close to Louie more than any other here. If he were a dog, we would hunt together.
Myother does not see the boy.
Last time he sat on the windowsill. Today he sits in a chair beside Louie’s bed. He has no scent. I fix my eyes on him and growl low. The boy touches my head — I am encircled with warmth. I yelp, thrashing my tail against a bedpost. From the other bed George shouts, “Keep that damn dog away from me.” He strikes his stick on the floor and gets out of the bed.
I turn my eyes to watch him. As he passes, his brain tells his leg to kick me, but his connections are worn thin. His stick raps away down the hall.
Myother kneels beside me. “Quiet Phoebe, quiet,” she says.
Louie rolls onto his side, moves his hand to Myother’s arm. “The pain is horrible, my cross to bear. Mary, pray for me.”
Myother tells me to sit and stay and she leaves the room.
Eight years ago, when I met Louie, the pain scent was confined to his knees, shoulders, and a spot in his hip. The scent grew stronger, settling in his bones, his organs, and his blood. Five years ago the scent lived in the mattress, the bed frame, the floor tiles, the walls, and the two pictures hanging on the wall.
I hear Nurse Barbara whisper from the hall. “I gave him a needle half an hour ago. I know he’s hurting, has been for so long.” I hear her hand cross her forehead. “He just won’t let go.”
Don’t let go, Louie’s words, not spoken but present always in the back of his throat. He wants someone close to him. I have pain in my hips; I no longer jump onto beds. I place my front paws and chest on his bed, pull my hindquarters up and stretch my body along the length of his spine. I curl about him and the pain softens. His words grow insistent.
Don’t let go of the railing, Pearl, those steps are steep. Why does she still skitter away like a crab? Thought I’d never catch that pretty girl …
Louie thrusts his hands forward in his bed. He cannot catch her. She is already rolling down the stairs. She does not cry out when she lands hard at the bottom.
“Pearl, Pearl,” Louie moans loud.
Nurse Barbara hurries into the room followed by Myother. Nurse wraps the black cloth around his arm and squeezes a ball.
“Let her stay,” Nurse says.
I snuggle closer to Louie and see him sit on the floor beside Pearl. He lifts her head onto his lap and she opens her eyes. I’m sorry Louie, that I never gave you a child.
Don’t let go, Pearl, don’t you let go o’ life, please don’t leave me.
Nurse Barbara unwraps the cloth, pinches Louie’s arm skin and pulls upward. The skin stays pinched after Nurse removes her fingers. “I’m going to phone the on-call doctor.”
Louie is about to cry. I feel his mind turn inward. His heartbeat increases, fluid swells inside his nose, behind his eyes. The boy rises from the chair and sits at the end of Louie’s bed.
Don’t let go, Louie boy, you may be alone out here, but you can pull it in. You get this son of a whore in the boat and you can buy Pearl that easy chair she sat in at the senior’s fair … the one that heats up and jiggles and raises your feet. This here halibut must weigh two hundred pounds. If you get this one, it’ll be your last. You can leave off fishing for Pearl.
Louie is sweating the scent of fish and salt. He raises his head and looks at Myother. “Broke my body bringing in that fish, had to let go of fishing … for Pearl.”
Myother sits in the chair the boy was in.
“You got a boy?” Louie asks.
Myother says, “Two, grown up and far away.”
“If I had a son wanting to fish for a living, I’d tell him to get a job at Michelin or the pulp mill. Don’t ever start fishing, you can’t let go, and you can’t hold on to what nothing is left. Draggers been killing the fishing around here. Them big seiners, they take everything, and draggers the same. How much is sacrificed? Lord, I am tired.” Louie closes his eyes.
“If they stayed with vessel fishing like it was, fish with a hook and line, I don’t believe there’d be a shortage of fish.”
Don’t let go of the rhythm, still the high-line champ. Hook the line, bait the hooks, run out the line, jig the line, pull in the line, grab the fish and drop ’em in the box, re-bait the hooks, run out the line. Don’t let go of the rhythm, don’t stop to eat, go aboard and drink your chowder and back at ’er. We got nineteen hundred quintals of fish, that’s a lot of fish. One hundred and twelve pounds to the quintal dried and salted. Figure I’ll clear one hundred and fifty dollars. Three months of breaking your back, hands broke open and blood running right out of them.
Louie raises his left hand above his head and I see blood. I think the boy sees it too, even though Myother does not. The boy moves up from the bottom of the bed. He lies on the other side of Louie, head on the pillow next to Louie’s head, face to face. I stay still. The boy’s hand reaches out and grabs Louie’s hand.
Dad’s out ice fishing. Race ya to the lake, Shrimp.
Louie is running through feathery snow. He sees the bigger boy far ahead. It is the boy who now lies on the bed. Louie runs faster and his brother hits the ice, slides past the father. The father holds a line in one hand and he waves with the other.
Louie nears the edge of the lake, leaps, and slides across the ice. His eyes are on his brother’s back when he hears a crack. He sees the crack widen. He sees his brother swallowed by water. Ice shards rise from the lake. Louie dives to his belly and slides to the jagged edge of the hole.
Don’t let go, Louie, by Jesus hang on to your brother! The father stands as close as he can. His hands are cupped around his mouth.
Louie is breathing fast and shallow. His hand seems small in the grip of Jimmy’s larger hand, the hand pulling Louie on his belly closer to the water. Jimmy’s eyes are wild until Louie’s shoulder dips into the icy lake. Eye to eye their breath clouds mingle until Jimmy releases Louie’s hand and sinks below the ice.
The boy in the bed with Louie and me whispers in Louie’s ear. I’ll race you, Shrimp.
The room grows dark. I look out the window and see black clouds moving fast. Thunder cracks and splits the bellies of clouds. Rain throws itself against the window.
I throw up my chin and begin my mourning song.
Nurse Barbara rushes in. She looks at Louie’s shell, she looks at me, and her eyes grow wet.
“Oh, my soul, Phoebe,” she says. “Mary, take her outside, please.”
Myother pulls me off the bed, tugs my leash, but I am not finished mourning. This once she must understand why I won’t heel. I sit and I howl.
Myother slips the bandana up from my neck to cover my eyes and leads me from the room. Five are gathered outside the door. I can’t see them, but I smell them and the hands stretched to comfort me, to comfort them.
Myother takes her jacket from the closet and pulls me outside. She uncovers my eyes and I sing with all my lungs. Rain soaks my coat and Myother’s hair. The wind screams and I tremble with cold. Myother unzips her jacket. She kneels beside me and hugs me to her body.
I finish mourning with one last long farewell to the Angel of the Sea as two boys race in the snow. And then they are gone, leaving laughter singing in my ears.
ENTOMBMENT
OCTOBER
We move as one, Myother and me, fifteen steps from car to door, cross the threshold with six steps more, right to the west wing, left to the east. Today we turn left and walk around Nurse Donna. She stands on a ladder; she holds a white sheet with a balloon inside it, eyes and mouth drawn in black. She waggles it at us. “Boo,” she says.
Myother stops before the closed door with the wooden apple. She breathes in long and releases air with a whoosh. She knocks on the door and does not wait for an answer that will not come.
She opens the door and Mrs. Frailic releases her hands from the metal hook and yarn. She says, “Ooh, ooh,” arms reaching for us. She is old and tiny on the outside but inside she is huge. Her body curls to one side. Myother goes close to the wheelchair and kisses her cheek.
Mrs. Frailic and Father MacLeod are the only people here Myother calls by two names. Mrs. Frailic has lived here three years. I have known her longer, from when she visited here, going from room to room bringing books and reading stories.
Today the curtains are open; they are usually closed. Rain mists the window so even the bright leaves are quiet. Mrs. Frailic is comfortable with grey. Beyond the small circle of clear vision before her eyes, smoky walls enclose her. Sunlight from outside sharpens those walls. She cannot see the many pictures of young faces on the real walls. Myother’s young face is among them.
“Fayab,” she says and I hear Phoebe. She cups my face and puts her lips on the top of my head. I see the place on her brain that is like one of my footpads. Her words get caught there on the way to her mouth.
I whine and wiggle until she moves her chair close to the chest. The chest is old with drawers made of wood, not like the metal furniture in the other rooms. Mrs. Frailic draws comfort from opening the drawers, putting things in and taking things out. She keeps gumdrops in the top-most drawer. She picks one from a bag and holds it before my nose. I take it gentle. Her dark eyes hold my eyes, and her eyes spark with clear smart words. I curve my body, lean into her legs so her hand can run from my head to my hips. She knows it helps her to pet me. I hear her blood slow. She admires me because I don’t talk with words.
Mrs. Frailic did not know how to live in a world without words at first. They were the finest things she could offer. When the grown children she taught words to came to visit her, she tried to speak the memories in her head. The sounds she made turned warm faces cold with fear and pink with shame. The children stopped visiting, except Myother.
Myother sits on Mrs. Frailic’s bed and lifts the yarn from her lap. “What are you crocheting now?” she asks.
“Roud,” Mrs. Frailic says. Shroud.
Myother says, “I swear, every newborn in this county has worn one of your caps. I was at the hospital to see Linda MacDonald’s new grandson, and the nursery was like a garden of your ca
ps — babies blooming in a row, pink, blue, yellow, and mint.”
Myother does not ask questions of Mrs. Frailic, and if she does by mistake, she shrinks inside. She tells her words she believes Mrs. Frailic wants to hear. There is talk of the mill closing again. The sea roses are blooming late this year. A café has opened in the old furniture store. The causeway was flooded for a week. I read an excellent novel about …
The grey grows thicker. Mrs. Frailic struggles to find an opening.
Only when Myother speaks her memories does Mrs. Frailic warm and lighten. Every Saturday Myother brings a different memory for Mrs. Frailic. Today’s memory is about a boy.
“Mrs. Frailic, Davey Fellows has moved back to Safe Harbour and brought his wife. He retired from teaching high school. Can you imagine?”
The face of a boy, his tongue stuck out, is rubbed into my back.
“I’ll never forget the trouble he caused in our grade five class. Or how many times you put him in the corner.” Myother smiles. “Oh, remember when he lay on the ground beneath the swing — to look up my dress!”
Mrs. Frailic is walking fast in the sun. She feels the wind off the Mersey River in her hair, her eye on the boy on the ground. She bites her lip to keep the laughter inside. The boy’s ear feels like a dried apricot between her finger and thumb as she marches him inside the school. She hears the chalk clatter when he drops it on the floor, sniffles, picks it up, and writes on a board the words she gives him.
“He asked about you. He said you turned his life around. He said, ‘If not for Mrs. Frailic, I would have wound up in jail or dead, I was that wild.’
“And when we sang ‘O Canada,’ he always sang, ‘True patriot love in all thy stunts command,’ instead of sons command. I’ve wondered if you knew that.”
Mrs. Frailic nods. “Sing, Mary.”
She is ready for the Saturday song. Her memories stretch far beyond the grey walls to classroom floors, to worn piano keys. Pages of books flutter, apples crunch between her teeth. She has woven threads with bright colours. Life is rich with meaning and death holds no fear.
Phoebe's Way Page 4