A few minutes later she opens the door, and the scent of air freshener and cigarette smoke escapes into the room. She leaves the fan on, shuts the bathroom door, and sits on the bed.
“I can smell the cigarette, Anna.”
She shrugs. “What are they gonna do to me? Send me home?”
I take mental snapshots of her. Not remembering her every gesture would mean I was letting go of her. Or is it the other way around? Why am I doting on her every move, every word? Jane said Anna is going to make it. Anna is a survivor.
Anna rubs her face with her palms and, when she removes her hands, she is suddenly cheerful as if she has wiped off some ancient worry. Then she says: “End of the Long Day.” A mischievous smile dances on her face. She waggles her head from side to side, challenging me. We both know the game — we have been playing it most of our lives. The title, “End of the Long Day,” is familiar. I just have to place it, link it to the appropriate piece of art. Then the images surface: the setting sun glinting through the branches as if igniting the forest on fire, burning bush in the foreground, contrasted by the deep blue reflections of the water.
I play along. “We saw it together . . . A few years back. Opening night, Gallery 1313, right here in Toronto.” I pause. She knows I guessed. I can tell by the pleased look on her face, pleased with herself for infusing me with a love of art.
“Shinya Kumazawa,” I say, taking on the voice of an art critic. “His unassuming, bashful demeanour a disguise for such an outburst of primordial images in his art. His paintings encompassing the turbulence of van Gogh, the ruggedness of Tom Thomson. His stomping ground that of young James MacDonald.”
She nods. “I regretted not purchasing it. Remember? I took time to decide and it was sold.”
“I never forgot that painting either, Anna.”
“And why am I telling you this, Bloss?”
Now she catches me off guard, and I see a lecture coming.
“Carpe diem,” Anna says. “Carpe diem, amore mia.”
She loves Latin phrases and often combines them with a few words she knows in Italian or other languages she has learned from tourist guide books and classes she has been taking for as long as I can recall. She is radiating wisdom, loving every moment of spreading her sermon, thickly and generously, especially for me. I raise my eyebrows, prop my chin with my elbow, and give her the look. I used to give Liza that same look when she lectured.
My role in the game of guessing I inherited from Liza. Except, Anna and Liza used to play these games with the enthusiasm of an inventor — guessing the titles of paintings, moments they shared from art exhibits, characters in movies or books or plays. I never could fully take Liza’s place. And when it came to lectures, I could only play the part I have always played. The lectures have always been given for my benefit. They still are, although I am middle age. My only defense now is a look of dismay.
“Don’t let life pass you by, Bloss,” Anna says.
I roll my eyes and sigh. I’ve heard this same advice from Anna ever since my mother died.
“You need to live a little, my girl.”
Looking exasperated is all I can do under the circumstances.
“Don’t get trapped into that superstitious fable about the lovers in your family. Dying. Everybody dies. We get to be born. And we get to die. Simple as that. Liza lived life to the fullest. And so have I. Some things are beyond our control.”
I wish she were not trying to console me, when I should be the one comforting her. But I am at a loss for words. Everything I do is somehow measured against Liza’s death. The events are timed as before and after. The lessons I should draw from them. As every other time, I’m speechless. Even now, the evening before Anna’s surgery, I seem unable to offer solace.
I am about to say, “This is not a fair game, Anna.” But I can’t say it. Instead, I plaster on one of those smiles that can absorb just about anything.
“You were a happy child, Bloss. But after your friend died, the young boy, you changed.”
“He wasn’t a boy. He was sixteen.”
“Liza and I tried everything. Including counselling. But you lost your happiness. Your innocence. You’ve got to find it again, my girl.”
“And he didn’t just die. He committed suicide.”
“And you think it had something to do with you?”
“I should’ve been there for him. Should’ve seen it coming.”
“Are you being fair, Bloss? Do you really believe that?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. All I know is that I can never look at a bleeding heart without thinking of him.”
“You were just being children, Bloss. Funny — I never realized the bleeding heart had that effect on you. Maybe you should take it out of your garden and give it to someone if you can’t throw it out. Put it behind you. And this whole thing about being unlucky in love makes no sense. He was a friend, not a boyfriend. Sweet kid. But troubled. Got into drugs. That is such a difficult age.”
“I can’t do that, Anna. I can’t give the bleeding heart away.”
“Ok, ok,” she says. “But you’ve got to take things in stride. Some things are out of your control. Promise me you’ll do that.”
I know she is right. I feel trapped in some gloom and I can’t figure out why. I wish I could free myself. “I promise,” I say.
“And that young man of yours, Chester. Why not give the relationship a chance?”
“He’s an artist. I said I’d never date an artist.” The words slip out before I can stop myself.
“Here we go again. I thought we just dealt with that. Your friend wanted to become an artist. His death was not your fault. You need to accept that. Besides, I thought Chester was a colleague at the university.”
“He is.”
“I don’t recall you saying you’d never date an artist.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Let go of the past, Bloss.” She gives me that motherly look.
I get up from my chair and move to her bedside. I am still the child in this family, what is left of it. Anna is all that is left. And Jane.
Anna says: “What kind of artist? You never told me Chester’s an artist.”
“A painter. He paints reptiles. Mostly turtles and crocodiles.”
“Oh!” is all she says. Triumph flashes across her face. Her eyes twinkle and I know she is glad. Glad he is a painter of reptiles? But I am not surprised.
“You remember my favourite song?” she says.
“Who could forget it? Superstition.”
She nods. “Stevie Wonder. The one and only. If you won’t listen to me, listen to Stevie.”
It’s my turn to ask questions.
“What is your favourite tree?” I say.
Anna perks up, smoothes her hair and straightens out her housecoat, and I know she’s up for the game.
“Ginkgo biloba, of course,” she says.
We both knew what the answer would be. Over the years we have observed the ginkgo biloba saplings in High Park grow into majestic specimens. We have a mental map of all the ginkgos in the park and are thrilled they have become widely used for city landscaping in the past few decades. Not that we do not appreciate other species. We love the oaks and the maples that endow the city with a cooling shade, and are saddened to see them replaced with dwarf specimens which do not contribute to the tree canopy Toronto is so fortunate to have.
But this is a game, and when I ask why ginkgo is her favourite, she rhymes off the reasons. “Because it’s a living fossil, dating back two hundred and seventy million years, and, of course, predating the Jurassic age, the era of the dinosaurs, but then you know that.”
I nod, smugly — she loves the ritual.
Then I come down with the punch line. “Did you know six ginkgo trees survived the atomic bomb in Hiroshima? They were in the e
picentre, and still returned to budding shortly after the blast. They’re alive today.”
Her eyes widen. “You got me. You really got me, Bloss. That is what I call a golden nugget of knowledge.”
I spread out the photos of the surviving trees. I printed them in colour. She traces her fingers over each crown and smiles. Her cheeks are flushed. She is happy. And I am thrilled I could make her happy at least for a moment.
“I’ll leave them here next to you. And tomorrow morning before the surgery, we’ll look at them again, together.”
I pull a handful of ginkgo leaves out of a zip lock bag in my purse, lay them in her hand, and press my palm to hers. The leaves are cool and supple and seem alive between our palms. “Hold them in your hands tonight.” She smiles with wonderment.
“You’re a ginkgo biloba, Anna. Tomorrow, when you’re in the epicentre, I want you to remember that. You’re a ginkgo biloba.”
She studies my features and says, quietly: “Non quo sed quomodo. Not what we do but how.”
I know this phrase well. Mother Teresa used it as a reminder of what matters in life — everything you do, you do it with love. It has been a motto Anna and Liza had lived by. It is also a guiding principle of this hospital, engraved in the plaque of the tall white marble sculpture Femina, gracing the lobby.
We hug tightly and the room is silent, and only the ticking of the wall clock is a reminder for me to leave and for Anna to embrace sleep before her big day.
I exit through the front entrance so I can pass by Femina. Her serenity always puts me at ease. I wave an inconspicuous goodbye to her and will her to take care of Anna.
CHAPTER 37
I TURN THE lights off in my bedroom and saunter down to the living room. There is no point in going to bed. It’s the evening before Anna’s surgery and I will not sleep. I lie on the sofa and find myself watching an old black and white movie on television. To my surprise, one of the characters is named Blossom. She is a teenage girl in a frilly dress and curls, all prim and proper, talking wisely with, oh my and such, as if she were a matron already. It is boring, but there is nothing else on. I need to sort out my thoughts about Anna.
I hear my name being called. “I’m here,” I answer. My voice is slurred, still asleep, as my mind begins to stir. I jump up and the screen is all snowy, making a shushing noise. I press the “off” button on the remote control. It’s five in the morning. I got some sleep and have plenty of time for breakfast before getting to the hospital. The surgery is scheduled for eight.
I am light-hearted. The dread that’s been weighing me down has lifted as if the sun has burned through the fog. And then I remember the dream.
Drifting below the ocean surface, I peer through a transparent vastness filled with dead whitish coral floating about — ripped out of the seabed by fishing nets bottom trawling. I am weightless, breathing freely and coasting down to the ocean floor. My bare foot touches rock and I spring up as if I were made of rubber, and as I bounce among the hills and valleys of the seabed carpeted by colonies of swaying, living coral, my vision is sharp, far reaching as if I am looking through binoculars. I wish to remain here, among the living coral, far below the graveyard of dead ones hovering above me. Behind a tall clump of coralline, a woman, white as if made of stone, appears. She is gliding from one mound to another, like me, propelled by the buoyancy of the sea. In my dream, I know this woman.
A clump of dead coral is descending, until it lands on the rocky bottom. Another follows. And another. They are now settling all around us, like mini parachutes. The stone woman reaches out with her white hand and catches one. She sets the clump back into the ocean floor and the coral turns a brilliant pink. She grasps another piece of dead coral and plants it, then catches another one, and yet another, her flips, dives, and leaps a graceful dance. She pushes each stem back into the sea bed, and each piece changes into shades of crimson, blue and purple, radiating under the water. It’s spectacular. And each time the coral glows I know it has taken root. I try to see her face, but she does not turn toward me. She does not see me. I try to call, but my voice is silent — a subdued gurgling of the bubbles displaces speech.
As I stand over the stove looking into the boiling water in a stainless steel pot, I drop a handful of organic oatmeal and some chunks of apples and the mush bubbles just like my silenced words in the ocean. The dream replays in my thoughts, scenes as vivid as if segments of a movie.
I realize it’s six fifteen. I gulp down my oatmeal and rush to the subway, hoping to arrive at the hospital by seven the latest. The June air is fragrant with spring bloom and my short walk along Gothic Avenue is invigorating.
Scenes from my dream play on, the colours of transplanted corals unseen by anyone but me. They must be a good omen.
Life is meant to be lived in colours, Liza’s voice surfaces in my thoughts. I pick up my pace, inhale the morning air. Anna will make it. Anna will be fine.
CHAPTER 38
IN ONE HAND, Chester is holding a cardboard tray with three cups, and in the other, a paper bag of baked goods with a cranberry muffin perched at the top. His back is turned to the Starbucks counter, tucked in the south corner of the University Avenue entrance to Women’s Centenary Hospital. Our eyes lock, and we stare at each other in silence.
He nods. “Blossom.”
His voice is croaky and his eyes are solemn. He is frozen in the concourse between the two sets of doors, one leading to the street and the other to the hospital. The doors open and close as passers-by hold them for each other and people glide in and out as if seven in the morning is happy hour at the hospital.
With his back, he pushes open the door to the hospital and holds it for me. “Here, Bloss,” he murmurs and clears his throat and his second, “Here, Bloss,” is just as hoarse.
I take the paper bag out of his hand, and as we enter, he motions to the muffins. “The cranberry one’s for you. And I have cranberry tea for you here.”
A string of questions — what is he doing here, and how did he know I would be here — gel in my head but I cannot bring myself to ask him. We walk side by side, quietly, and I realize he knows the way to Anna’s room.
Jane is leaning against the wall, next to Anna’s closed door. She rushes towards me and enfolds me in an embrace. Jane is not a ‘huggy’ type. I give her a puzzled look and head for the door.
She steps in front of me. “No, Bloss.”
“Is she being prepped already? I thought they’d start at eight.”
Jane takes my hand in hers and I think it strange. She is usually not a touchy-feely person either. She’s a talker, a cheerful one, an optimist. Seeing her looking sombre makes me queasy.
Chester sets the cardboard tray with cups on a chair. He and Jane exchange knowing looks. What are they hiding from me?
Chester shuffles his feet. “I think you should tell her, Jane.”
“Where have you been?” Jane asks me. “Your phone’s off the hook. We called the operator when we couldn’t reach you. I was about to come over.”
“Pardon?” I say. “Worried about me? I was asleep on the sofa.” Did I leave the phone off the hook? Then I realize — I most likely didn’t put the receiver back on properly last night. I was about to call Anna, and then decided
not to, thinking she must be asleep. Then I was going to call Jane and decided not to for the same reason.
“So you don’t know? The hospital didn’t reach you?”
“Know what?”
“They tried. They’ve been trying to call you all morning. I tried your cell phone. No answer. Chester came here for you. He asked me and I agreed.”
Chester places his arm around me. “Hope it’s okay.”
“She passed away, Bloss. In her sleep. They found her just after five this morning. Minutes after it happened.” Jane’s voice is serene.
My head is swimming and all sounds seem muffled as if
I were deep down in the ocean.
Chester says: “Peacefully. She passed away peacefully.”
“No surgery?” I hear myself say. The words seem illogical, but they slip out. They sound far away as if somebody else is speaking.
Jane smiles. “They found ginkgo leaves in her hand. She was a grand lady, wasn’t she, Bloss?”
CHAPTER 39
WOODY ALLEN’S “I don’t mind dying, I just don’t want to be there when it happens,” was one of Anna’s favourite lines, and all who come to pay their last respects agree that she would have liked to be at her own funeral.
Before the coffin is closed, I place a ginkgo leaf on her chest.
Jane sets a marigold next to the leaf.
She does not need to tell me why. Although I was only in grade one and Jane in grade five, our trip to Mexico with Anna, Liza, and Helena, to take part in the Days of the Dead Festival as a way of remembering David, is etched in my memory. The festival which first was linked with David’s death, which occurred only a few days before, became linked to everyone’s death. When Anna said that somebody went to Mexico for the marigold festival, we knew it meant that the person died.
Anna had not been the sentimental type. Witty and warm-hearted, the only tears she let loose, as she put it, were those of happiness. And Jane and I make sure that Grand Lady Anna, as many of her friends call her, is sent on her journey in a manner as gracious as her life had been.
Helena, who has joined the Baptist church since she moved to Florida, several years after David’s death, suggests a Baptist service. Not that Anna was a Baptist. Anna had her own view on spirituality — a mixture of Christianity and paganism sprinkled with the collected wisdom of everyday life. During Helena’s visits to Toronto, we got to know the minister at the Baptist church in our neighbourhood. The minister is a friend of the local jazz trio, regular performers at the bar Anna frequented, and we thought him most appropriate for the service. So a traditional Baptist funeral with the church choir and the jazz trio seems fitting.
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