Whatever

by Ann Walsh

  “But . . .”

  “We’re leaving, Gran.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you Monday, Mrs. J.”

  “No, not until after Christmas. I’ve got lots of help right now; the house is going to be full of visitors wanting to look after me. Take some time off; you’ve earned it.”

  “Until after Christmas? Are you sure?”

  “What’s wrong with your ears? Go, scoot, skedaddle, leave.”

  I took a foil-wrapped Yule Log and a roll of church window cookies out of the fridge.

  “I hope you have a good Christmas, Mrs. J.”

  “You too. Come over here for a moment. There’s something for you in the basket of that walker.”

  “But I didn’t get you a present or even a card!”

  “No need to. They’ll just get thrown out when I move.”

  I picked up a thin package wrapped in shiny blue paper, no name on it. “This?”

  “Yes. Mind you don’t open it until Christmas day. Promise?”

  “I won’t. Thank you.”

  She held out her hand. It took me a minute, but then I realized what she wanted me to do. I tucked the blue package, the cookies and the cake under my left arm, and reached out my right hand. Mrs. J. took it, but instead of shaking it, she held it for a few seconds, then put her other hand on top of it. “Have a good Christmas, Darrah.”

  Robin and I spent a lot of time together the week before Christmas. We discovered Fong’s Chinese Market, just a street up from the big underground mall. That little store was packed full of things I’d never seen before: jars of pickled fishy stuff, all sorts of noodles, rice crackers of all shapes and sizes, shelves of sauces and spices and boxes of vegetables all piled together in such a small space you could hardly move. The owner, I guess she was Mrs. Fong, was very helpful when I told her I wanted to cook some Chinese dishes. She sold me a clump of something called baby bok choy. It had thick white stems on the bottom and a leafy green top, with one tiny yellow flower in the green part—it looked like a thicker-stemmed clump of celery topped with romaine lettuce. I also bought a bag of fortune cookies, a big bottle of soy sauce and a jar of something called hoisin sauce. Mrs. Fong explained how to use it. “First cook chicken in oven half hour, then put sauce on, cook another half hour, very good.”

  “I’ve had it in restaurants,” said Robin. “I love hoisin chicken.”

  Mrs. Fong nodded. “You also make fried rice, easy like pie. You fix stir-fry vegetables, too: carrots, bok choy, mushroom, broccoli, peppers, soy sauce. You come back another day and I tell you more Chinese food.”

  The internet had lots of Chinese recipes; it was easy to find one for every dish she mentioned. I found recipes that didn’t look too complicated, nothing that called for making a sauce from scratch or using something I had never tasted, and wrote them down on cards for my recipe collection.

  On Christmas Eve, I cooked Chinese food and it was better than any takeout we’d ever had. I bought a package of won tons in the frozen food section of the grocery store, made a chicken stock, added seasonings and the won tons. We started with soup, then we had stir-fried vegetables, hoisin chicken, fried rice and finished with ice cream and fortune cookies for dessert.

  There wasn’t a bit of anything (except some ice cream and six fortune cookies) left over when the meal was over. Robin had joined us for dinner. He and Dad pushed back their chairs at almost the same moment.

  “Excellent, Darrah,” said my father. “Well done.”

  “Not bad,” said Robin. “Although, a few more mushrooms in the stir fry would have improved it.” I threw a fortune cookie at him.

  “Food fight!” announced Andrew gleefully, grabbing for another fortune cookie.

  “Not in my dining room,” said Mom. “Why don’t you go outside and have a snowball fight instead? Maybe shovel the walk, while you’re out there. I’ll clean up.”

  “I’m coming, too,” said Dad.

  “Nice try,” Mom said, “but you’re on kitchen duty with me.”

  It had started snowing in the morning, and snow had kept coming down all day. There was a lot of the white stuff by now, clean and fluffy. Perfect for packing into snowballs.

  When we came back inside, one lopsided snowman, three snow angels and a lot of snowballs later, the kitchen was spotless. Mom and Dad sat on the couch in the living room, Mom’s head on Dad’s shoulder, mugs of eggnog on the coffee table in front of them.

  “Oh, yuck!” said Andrew. “Do you have to?”

  Mom smiled at him. “It’s Christmas. Come over here and we’ll give you a snuggle, too.”

  Andrew fled upstairs, muttering about parents who didn’t know how to behave in front of their children. Robin and I looked at each other, then retreated to the kitchen. “We’re going to have some hot chocolate, okay, Mom?” She didn’t answer, so I took that for a “yes.”

  “Big dinner at Gran’s tomorrow,” said Robin. “Cousins, uncles, aunts, even David and Karen.”

  “Mrs. J.’s cooking? Without me?”

  “No she’s not cooking. Everything’s being made somewhere else and brought to her house. All she has to do is supervise setting the table and the clean-up. Gran wanted everyone there because it’s the last time she’ll be in her house at Christmas.”

  “That’s hard on all of you, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t answer for a few seconds. “I love that old house. I have many memories of it. Christmas dinners, birthday dinners, camping out in her backyard, eating fresh carrots from her garden. I caught Dad going all mushy and damp-eyed when he was talking to her on the phone, making plans for moving day. He has even more memories of that place than I do. It’s hard on all of us.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say that would make him feel better, so I took his hand and squeezed it instead.

  He tried to smile. “Dad’s the only son who lives in town now, but his brothers are both coming home for Christmas this year. My two brothers will be here too, with their squealing kids.”

  “Where will everyone sit?” I was thinking of the tidy but small dining room.

  “That table stretches; it’s really quite big when all the bits are pulled out. But they’ll probably make me sit at the kid’s table in the kitchen with my nieces and nephew to keep the peace. I hate being the youngest uncle in the room; everyone thinks I’m a built-in babysitter.”

  “Can you escape?” I asked, although I knew the answer to that question even before I asked it.

  “I wish. Maybe after dinner; we’re eating early because of the three great-grandkids. I’ll call you if I can get away.”

  We stood on the front porch saying goodnight until Andrew stuck his head out his window and yelled “Yuck!” Robin and I both laughed.

  “I think that’s my signal to leave, Darrah. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Merry Christmas, Robin.”

  I smiled to myself as I watched his car slowly make its way down the slippery road, the tail lights haloed by falling snow. Once more I tempted the fates by thinking how perfect the day had been, how happy I was.

  But nothing happened; Andrew didn’t have a seizure on Christmas day, Mom loved the silk scarf I’d bought for her at a small store near Fong’s Market, Dad grew silent and almost teary over a picture of the two of us I’d found in one of the photo albums and had scanned, enlarged and framed. In the photo I was about four, wearing a sundress, sitting on a swing; Dad stood behind me, holding on to the ropes of the swing. I had my head tilted up toward him and was smiling; he was looking down at me as if I were the most adorable kid in the world. I don’t remember the swing, but it must have been suspended from a tree branch because we were both dappled with leaf shadows.

  Andrew was thrilled when he opened my gift and saw the boxed set of Star Trek Voyager, The Complete Series (Seasons 1–7.) My new and improved allowance meant that I could get more expensive gifts this year, and I’d enjoyed spending time shopping.

  I did well in the gift department, too: a new p
hone and gift certificates to my favourite stores. I’d begin shopping as soon as the Boxing Day sales started.

  Andrew had made me a gift—a shoebox he’d covered with left-over wallpaper from my room, with a package of small file cards inside.

  “It’s a recipe box,” he explained. “Mom helped me make it. It’s so you can organize all those recipes you’re writing down.”

  The last gift under the tree was a small flat package wrapped in shiny blue paper. “That’s mine,” I said, as Andrew picked it up.

  “How do you know? It doesn’t have your name on it. Maybe it’s mine.”

  “Pass it over. It’s from Mrs. J.”

  It was an old, red book, well used, the insides loosely attached to the cover with yellowing tape. Foods, Nutrition and Home Management, Revised 1955.

  I ran my fingers over it, almost reverently, as if it were a holy book of some sort.

  “That’s a crummy gift,” said Andrew. “It’s old and it’s falling apart.”

  “I think it’s wonderful. It’s the best present she could have given me.”

  “If you say so,” said Andrew, doubtfully. “Does it have a brownie recipe in it? You still haven’t made brownies like you promised you would.”

  “No, I don’t think brownies are in it.” I scanned the table of contents. “There’s fudge cake, but no brownies. Sorry. But it does have the gingerbread recipe. I’ll make some before we go to Aunt Sophie’s for Christmas dinner.”

  “But Darrah, your aunt will have tons of Christmas baking, she always makes too much. We don’t need to bring anything else for dessert,” Mom protested.

  “She won’t have gingerbread just like Grandma used to make.”

  Dad smiled. “No, she won’t. But I’d like some, and I’m sure everyone else will as soon they taste it. Go ahead and bake, Darrah, I’ll run to the store and pick up some whipping cream.”

  He gave me a hug on his way out.

  Chapter Eighteen

  IT WAS THE DAY AFTER Boxing Day, December 27, that I found out. I was in my room, typing up my recipe collection so I could print up cards for my new recipe box, when I thought I heard the doorbell. I didn’t pay attention; we’d had a lot of visitors lately—it was the holidays.

  “Darrah?” Mom knocked on my closed bedroom door.

  “Come in, Mom.”

  I swivelled my desk chair around, and saw her face. She was pale and had tears in her eyes. She knelt down beside me and looked at me for a long moment before she said anything.

  I think I knew what she was going to tell me before she got the words out, but I waited, hoping it wasn’t true.

  “I’m so sorry, Darrah. It’s Mrs. Johnson. She died in her sleep last night.”

  I bit my lower lip to keep the crying inside, but tears began to push from behind my eyelids anyway. “How . . .”

  “Robin’s downstairs. He wanted me to tell you first but he wants to see you. He’s very upset.”

  I nodded, still not trusting my voice, and moved past her, almost running down the stairs. Robin stood alone in the living room, his back to the door, looking at the Christmas tree.

  “Robin?” I put my hand on his shoulder. He didn’t turn around, but a long, shuddering sound came from somewhere deep in his chest.

  “Robin, I’m so sorry.”

  He turned to face me, making no attempt to hide the tears streaming down his face. “She said it was the best Christmas ever, and she was glad everyone was there to spend it with her.”

  “Robin, I’m . . .”

  “I had turkey sandwiches with her yesterday when I brought over the empty boxes she wanted me to get for packing. She . . .”

  “It will be okay.”

  “No, it won’t. My grandmother is dead. What’s ‘okay’ about that?”

  “Oh, Robin.” I held out my arms, and after a few seconds he came to me, pulled me to him. I felt a tear land on my forehead.

  We stayed like that for a while, both of us crying, and then I became aware of people behind us. My whole family stood in the living-room doorway. Andrew was crying, too. “I liked her. I’m sorry, Robin.”

  “Anything we can do,” said my dad, “let us know, okay?”

  “Anything,” echoed Mom.

  Robin cleared his throat and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “Thanks. Can Darrah and I go over to Gran’s? I don’t want to go alone, and Mr. Allen asked me to take out the garbage. He was supposed to take it when he left. He had dinner with her last night. But he forgot and he’s worried about it smelling.”

  “I’ll get my coat,” I said, over my parents’ responses.

  “Of course, stay as long as you need to, anything we can do, anything . . .”

  We held hands as we climbed the orange stairs. It had snowed during the night, but ours were not the first footprints on them. The path hadn’t been shovelled either. I saw wheel tracks on it, going to the house, then back to the curb. For a moment I visualized a stretcher with a still figure on it being pushed down the path, to the ambulance.

  They could at least have brought her out in a pine box, as she wanted, I thought, suddenly angry at the unknown people who had taken Mrs. J. away from her home.

  Robin tried to open the door, but it was locked. He climbed back down the stairs, reached underneath the third step, and pulled out a key.

  He unlocked the door, we shed our coats and boots and I pulled on the orange slippers. The house was silent. Mrs. J. had never had music or the radio going when I arrived, but somehow I always knew she was there. Now the house felt empty.

  “Mr. Allen told Dad she was tired last night. They had soup and toast for supper and she was already in bed when Mr. Allen left.”

  “I wonder if he knew that would be the last time he’d see her.”

  Robin stared at me for a long time, before answering. “I wonder. Sometimes people know when these things—when death is near.”

  I shuddered. “I hope he didn’t know. I hope they had a nice supper together, never thinking . . .”

  Robin took a deep breath. “The kitchen smells wrong,” he said. “But it’s not a garbage smell.”

  I sniffed. “It smells empty. No one is cooking anything.” Without thinking, I reached for the flour, the baking powder and a mixing bowl.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I need to make something for her, for the last time. Then the kitchen will smell as it should and . . .” I burst into tears.

  “Let’s just grab the garbage and go.” Robin took the mixing bowl out of my hands and put it on the counter. “You don’t need to cook for her anymore.”

  “I do, I want to. Baking powder biscuits, she always liked those.” I pushed him away and turned the oven on. (General Rules for Soft Doughs, Rule Number One: “See to oven.”)

  “The whole family, except the little kids, are coming over here this afternoon; Dad and my uncle are trying to decide what to do about a memorial service. Mr. Allen is coming, too. He said she’d left instructions with him, about what she wanted, but I don’t know what they are, not yet.”

  “She had everything organized because she was moving to her new place,” I said, remembering how she’d had me write that list. “She knew who she wanted to have her things and made sure it was written down, legally. Mr. Allen has all of that, too.”

  I found lard in the fridge on the same shelf as it was always kept. “I’ll make a double batch of biscuits. Your family will need to have tea and something to eat while they’re here.”

  Robin almost smiled. “Gran always fed us whenever we came to visit. She’d like it, you making biscuits for her family.”

  As I measured the dry ingredients into the bowl, tiny craters dimpled the flour. For a moment I didn’t know what they were, then I grabbed a Kleenex and wiped my eyes. I didn’t want to spoil these biscuits, they had to be perfect.

  Perfect for her, for Mrs. J.

  My voice quavered as I asked, “What did she . . . I mean, was it just old age?”

  Robi
n shook his head. “Cancer.”

  “Cancer? What do you mean? She was fine except for her broken leg.”

  Robin shook his head. “No, she wasn’t.”

  “Cancer? She had cancer?”

  “We didn’t know. She made the doctor promise not to tell us.”

  I said it again, “Cancer.” As if saying the word would make it not true.

  Almost without thinking, I had mixed, kneaded and cut out the biscuits. As I put them in the oven and set the timer, I said it again. “Cancer.”

  “Dad talked to her doctor this morning. The doctor said Gran’s cancer was inoperable, and she refused to have chemotherapy or radiation.”

  “Why?”

  “The doctor told Dad he tried to persuade Gran to go for treatment, but she wouldn’t.”

  “Why?” I asked again.

  “How am I supposed to know why? Gran was stubborn.”

  “You get sick with those treatments,” I said. One of Mom’s friends died of breast cancer. “You throw up all the time and your hair falls out.”

  He didn’t answer, but started crying again. I did, too. We stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms around each other.

  I thought of Mom’s friend. She went through months of treatment and then she died anyway. Apparently there was no guarantee that chemotherapy or radiation would work. You might get a little more time before you died—weeks, months—but if you felt terrible and were in pain all time, maybe those treatments weren’t worth it.

  “Did your father or uncles know?” I asked, my voice muffled in his shoulder.

  “No one knew about the cancer except for her doctor, and maybe Mr. Allen and Karen, we aren’t sure. The doctor also said that Gran had been in pain for a long time.”

  “So the pills she took weren’t for her leg?”

  “No, they were for her cancer pain. But I thought they were for her leg.”

  “I did, too. How long . . . I mean . . .”

  “The doctor said no more than a few months, maybe weeks, but he didn’t think it would be this soon. Gran . . .”

  I hugged him harder. We stayed like that, clutching each other, crying until the timer dinged.