Our dinner conversation is about Helena’s morning flight from Miami and how quickly she made it to Toronto. And the miraculous discovery David is Jane’s father as well. Her enthusiasm about having two nieces is thrilling! But she scolds Jane and me for hiding my illness from her. I remind her that Jane is not to blame, that I am the culprit. Jane is the one who called Helena. She waited for the test results, hoping she was the right match. This way, she could give Helena some good news as well. After finding out she could not be my donor, she thought we had to let Helena know. We could not keep her in the dark. She also hopes Helena might have some ideas on how to widen the search.
“We won’t let that happen again,” Helena declares. “It’s been over a year since we last saw each other. Way too long.”
After dinner, Chester puts the kettle on and clears the dishes. He insists on taking care of it all, himself. The kettle trips off and he pours the boiling water into the tea pot. He sets the cups on the coffee table and soon we’re settled into the comfort of the sofa cushions and tea and almond graham cookies Helena brought with her.
Helena asks Chester to update her on everything, to keep nothing hidden. I dread the thought of putting him through it. But who could refuse Helena? So I offer to tell the story. I tell her about friends and colleagues who had been tested as possible donors, and how crushed Jane was when she found out she was not the right match. She thought it inevitable she would be. In her mind, the cosmos itself had lined up the events in such a way that we’d find out about being half-sisters, and that Jane was the right donor. And like in the movies, there would be a happy ending.
I talk about feeling better since taking the experimental drug, and about my hopes to return to teaching in the winter semester. Chester is tense. I can hear his thoughts. Each time I take on the all-will-be-well outlook, as if I’ve come down with a stubborn flu that is about to run its course, he sees it as denial. He believes that I have lost hope. That I am overcompensating — all this optimism and cheerfulness, a put-on. That I’ve given up.
Have I?
Jane used to tell me that I am afraid of commitment. She was right. Only when I became ill did I realize how unfounded my fears have been. Does it take death to feel free to live? The irony of such a notion is hard for me to bear.
Jane takes the bus from Ottawa and comes to visit while Helena is still in Toronto, and I am grateful. Jane’s discovery that David is her biological father gives new meaning to her relationship with Helena, and they have much catching up to do. But I am also grateful for Jane’s visit for another reason — I need her to take Helena’s mind off my illness.
* * *
A Toronto clinic refuses to test Helena for a suitable donor — she is past the acceptable age. Covering the cost for testing is not an option as the clinics are forbidden from charging for services. Helena’s fury is like a hurricane. She is reminded of her long-ago efforts to have David admitted to the hospital after he was beaten, and instead of receiving medical care, was dumped into a prison cell, only to be subjected to other beatings that quickly led to his death.
Helena rejects being trapped in yet another bureaucratic web. The right match has not been found and something must be done — perhaps relaxing the age restriction could be considered?
Although she enjoys spending time with me, finding a suitable donor is the overriding concern and she is frazzled from fear the right match would not be found. The constant unrest she discerns in Chester amplifies her worries, and any hope based on the all-will-be-well mantra is to her delusional. She fears that my immune system could weaken to the point where my body would not be able to withstand the stress of the transplant. She is disheartened by the discovery that Jane’s sixteen-year-old daughter has been turned down for testing as she is under age. Teenagers are issued driver’s licenses at sixteen but disqualified from saving a life, although the threat to their own health would be minimal? She finds it difficult to accept family members are not able to help in certain circumstances — one is either too old or too young. On Sunday, after Jane returns to Ottawa, Helena takes the last flight of the day back to Miami. She will be visiting her own doctor to explore other options. In her words, there must be an alternative. She cannot fail David once again. She believes she is failing me — the daughter she’s never had. As much as I love seeing Helena, I am relieved she’s gone back home. I could now stop pretending to be cheerful. I could go back to being myself.
* * *
Helena calls me from Miami. She has undergone the testing. She is the right match.
She is exhilarated and disheartened at the same time — she is the right match, but her age still prevents her from being a donor. We talk about the risks and we all agree waiting any longer may not be the best tactic. Am I willing to take the chance with Helena as donor? I know I am. Helena suggests we approach American clinics. Perhaps a private clinic would agree to the procedure. She begins the search.
CHAPTER 44
February, 2010
I SIT UP IN my hospital bed and open Margaret Atwood’s hand-bound booklet, Double Persephone. It’s signed to Liza, 1967, Bohemian Embassy. I came across it recently while cleaning out a bookshelf. I remember this poetry book well. I Googled it and discovered two hundred copies had been sewn into a booklet by the poetess herself. She distributed them to local bookstores in 1961, and they sold at fifty cents a copy. Although I adore the author, I gain new admiration for her. My mother used to recite the stanzas from it by heart, instead of a bedtime story.
Now, as I read “Formal Garden,” I recall how at once excited and frightened it made me feel. In my childhood imagination, I fantasized about marble sculptures with rose garlands turning into white ghosts. “Pastoral” was my favourite. I recall making up scenes from the stanzas, also not knowing what the poem meant, but I liked the way they rhymed and flowed and I envisioned the fields during the hay rides we took in the fall when apple picking at a farm in the countryside. And it always lulled me to sleep, an uplifting and calming sleep.
How the memory of my mother always comforts me.
I place the book on my night table, and a white envelope slips out of it. I have been searching for it for almost two years, since Anna died.
Don’t open it now. Wait a while, Anna’s voice echoes in my thoughts. I realize the time to open it is right.
The envelope reveals two faded photographs and two letters. Going by the washed-out quality of the photos, the images only ghostly shadows of the original, they must have been taken by a Polaroid camera. The man in the photo is tall and burly. He has an unruly head of shoulder-length hair, and a bushy beard. His hair obscures much of his face; the photo must have been taken on a gusty day, with the wind at his back; his loose jacket is puffed up. Although the picture is pale, the redness of his hair and beard stand out.
The second photo is of my mother and the same man taking a ride on Mark di Suvero’s No Shoes.
They are swinging on a log suspended from the I-beams of the sculpture, high in the air. It is just like the picture of those people I do not recognize my mother had cut out of the newspaper and pasted in her scrapbook. He sits behind her, holding her around the waist, her long dark hair draped over his shoulder. She is wearing beige shorts and a white T-shirt. He is in blue jeans and a bluish T-shirt. It strikes me that his hair is almost as red as the I-beam — red like mine — and his build is a bit more slender than in the first photo. A closer look assures me it is the same man. The lush tree crowns drenched in sunshine tell me this photo must have been taken on a summer day. My mother looks carefree with this man who must be David.
I have seen very few photos of David — a passport shot and a few black-and-white ones. Perhaps he didn’t like being photographed. This is the only picture I have seen of my mother and David. I cannot think of him as my father. He is simply David. My mother looks happier than I have ever seen her. And this makes me very sad. She always seemed content, but nev
er really happy. At least I don’t remember her that way.
I try to recall her looking like this, young and playful with her hair flowing in the wind, as if she has no cares in the world, as if all things are just the way they should be. But I cannot.
This photo would always remind me of the side of her I never got to know — my mother caught up in laughter. It would be my favourite photo.
I move on to the letters.
Toronto, June, 1989.
My darling Blossom,
There are different kinds of love each person experiences in a lifetime — the love of a child, a friend, a parent, a sibling. Then there is romantic love for a man or a woman in one’s life.
You, my fragrant flower, have always been the love of my life. You gave meaning to my existence, purpose to everything I did and did not do. For that — for having you in my life — I am the luckiest person in the world.
I’ve been blessed in many ways. I’ve had two other loves in my life — the love of a man and the love of a woman. And what a happy life it’s been.
I won’t apologize for being sentimental. Sentimentality is a feeling, and apologizing for one’s emotions has no place in human relations. To love, to mourn, to fear, to hope, is to be alive.
I am not sure I’ll have the heart to give you these letters, but I believe they will come to you when you most need them.
All things happen for a reason; all is transient, ever evolving, and nothing ever stays the same. And if today or tomorrow, or whatever time I have left does not give me the courage to tell you what must be told, I know all will be known to you when the time is right, because the universe is alive and all powerful, and the closer I come to that other state of being, the more convinced I am it is real, just as real as you are to me and I am to you today and every day we are gifted to be together.
I wish you’d had the chance to know David. Although he died far too soon — I mean physical death — the one that leaves sorrow and emptiness in the hearts of those who love him, his spirit is alive, and will remain with me until I join him in that other existence.
The night before you were born he came to me — in a dream of course — the type of dream that is a vision. We sat inside di Suvero’s Flower Power as we often used to, and he said our daughter is the blossom of our life and our love, and as the bloom is the magic of every flower, you are that magic.
You see, I was not completely truthful when I said I named you after the sculpture. We chose your name, my sweet Blossom, together, and I know his love for you is eternal.
And here’s something rather neat. Just before you were born, when my labour pains became unbearable, I closed my eyes and in my mind’s eye, there he was, David, next to me. He placed his palm on my forehead and all pain vanished, and in its place an orgasmic joy spread through me. The doctor and the nurses were urging me to push, then telling me to hold, not push, and then again to push . . . I kept my eyes closed as that was the sure way to keep David next to me. The exuberant voices of the doctor and the nurses announced, “It’s a girl,” but I already knew it had to be a girl. It had to be Blossom. I heard your cry — the most beautiful sound in the world — and a new life was born not only for you my darling, but for me as well. I was reborn, and it was the most sublime feeling of all.
When I opened my eyes, Anna was next to me, her palm on my forehead, where all along I thought David had been. And this was another awakening. But that’s another story, my love.
I’ll go to sleep now. David is calling to me — sleep my love, sleep, and I’ll be with you as always, in your dreams.
I fold the letter carefully and slide it back into the envelope. There is also a poem in gilded letters. I love Liza’s poems. They allow me a glimpse into her most intimate thoughts. It reads:
William Koochin’s The Hippy
by Liza Grant
Suited colossus.
Sentinel to rebellion.
Dark shades.
Hands in pockets.
Peace branded in lapel.
With an air of indifference
blankly surveying remnants of your realm.
A guru?
A mentor?
An anarchist?
The answer
masked by a bearded stare
in stony silence.
The rest of the page is about the inspiration for The Hippy and now I understand why my mother wished she could bring it to life. I realize how wrong I’ve been. My mother had lived a happy life. And with this knowledge, the pieces of a puzzle that represent who I am are brought together into one meaningful whole.
I wrap my housecoat around my shoulders and take a walk along the corridors. Soon I am sitting on a bench in the main lobby, near the sculpture, Femina. Outside, the last glow of sunset envelopes the city and soft twilight flows into the foyer, unusually empty for the main entrance of a busy downtown hospital. A sense of tranquility envelops me as if Femina can hear my thoughts — I am part of this infinite, living universe, where order reigns, and there is a reason for everything.
CHAPTER 45
BLOSSOM, MY GIRL, what good would it be to find the right match at some point in the future, if it’s too late for you, and your chances of recovery are minimized or lost altogether? Helena’s voice whispers in my head.
I am in and out of the hospital — home for a few weeks at a time when I feel better. I replenish the toiletries in my overnight bag to have it ready. My oncologist is strongly opposed to Helena as donor as the risk of failure is too great. The stem cells obtained from a younger donor, preferably between the age of eighteen and thirty-five, have a much better chance of survival once transplanted. And although potential donors are able to register up to the age of fifty in Canada, some countries, such as Britain, accept only those below forty.
Helena is sixty-two, and although she is healthy
and energetic, her stem cells would have a much lower chance of developing into oxygen-carrying red blood cells, infection-fighting white blood cells, or clot-forming platelets, after being transplanted. My doctor also hopes the increase in young moms’ donations of their newborn infants’ umbilical cords would soon lead to a suitable match. The cord blood stem cells do not need to be as closely matched as bone marrow or peripheral blood stem cells.
The waiting game continues. Days turn into weeks and weeks into months. It is now mid-winter and still no news of a potential donor. I had not returned to teaching in winter. I am feverish and tire at the slightest effort and Helena’s daily phone calls are a constant reminder that proceeding with her as donor may be worth the risk. This morning Helena calls with some good news. A highly regarded oncologist at a private clinic in Miami has agreed to perform the procedure, and although he has warned of the potential risks, he is optimistic.
* * *
I walk into The Bay store on Queen Street, head to the fifth floor where the designer labels reside, and stroll between the display boutiques. The mannequins have changed since I last paid attention to their wardrobe, some years back. They’ve grown taller and slimmer and more expressive, more opinionated. The blond model, hand over mouth, examines her brunette companion’s face, as if whispering secrets. One figure has the look of discontent, another of envy, yet another of dismay, pride. I stroll through the aisles and study each one, as if they were living beings. I admire the flowery silk dress on one, the casually draped linen blazer on another, the chunky bracelet of tarnished silver on yet another. In the change room, I slide on the chosen items and the transformation takes place. The effigy in the mirror smirks ironically and removes the items slowly, one at a time, as if she were a dispossessed crow that has ornamented herself with found trinkets, only to realize she has no use for them. I am not likely to return to work. In a hospital, I have no use for fancy clothes.
I proceed to the casual clothing section and pick a T-shirt in every colour on the rack. My collection is a rai
nbow I cart home. I lay them out on my bed and the assortment reminds me of Liza’s turbans. Her voice whispers in my thoughts — life is meant to be lived in colours.
* * *
I call my oncologist at the Women’s Centenary Hospital as if expecting a miracle. I wish she would agree to the surgery with Helena as a donor here in Toronto. I would be more at ease with my own specialist and the hospital staff I’ve gotten to know during my treatment.
To my surprise, my doctor tells me she is wrapping up the final details which would make the surgery possible. She has brought my case before the hospital ethics committee and the surgery has just been approved.
Helena is so elated she would fly from Miami on her own wings if a flight is not available in the next few days. She plans it all out in no time. She’ll stay in Toronto at David’s apartment while I wait for the surgery, and for at least a few months after to help with my recovery. And before I have the chance to tell her I might be waiting for quite a while, she’s already set herself up as my personal chef and nurse, after being my donor. Her excitement is catching and I feel it stirring in me like the late winter breeze that in its earthy scent hints of spring.
Over the years, David’s apartment has been the place of refuge where Liza and I spent many afternoons while she told stories about David. Having Helena stay for a while is reassuring. In her company, I often feel as if Liza and Anna were still with me.
The oncologist informs me she has found an opening for the surgery only weeks away. Excitement tempts me, but I remain reserved. After months of uncertainty, suddenly the arrangements become immediate — decisions made, dates set, pre-surgery treatments scheduled. Helena’s arrival makes the preparations that much more real. She is so hopeful she is buoyant, and I find myself worrying. If anything goes wrong, she will be inconsolable. I cannot share my concerns with Chester. I have a similar fear for him as well.
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