Colleen put the cap back on the lotion. She resisted the urge to rush to the bathroom and wash her hands. Without Deirdre noticing, she wiped them off on a tissue. She put the lotion in the top drawer of the metal cabinet next to the bed.
“Cover that over. They steal things in here.”
Colleen covered the plastic bottle with a Kleenex. Her mother blinked and smiled. Her teeth were yellow and brown with bits of hospital food lodged near the gums. Her white and grey hair curled randomly around her ears and forehead, but was flat on the back of her head. It was sticky to the touch. Her once-fabulous high cheekbones jutted out like stones beneath her red-rimmed eyes. She smelled slightly yeasty, slightly sour.
There was a noise, a sort of snort, from the woman behind the curtain in the next bed, and then she resumed snoring.
Colleen’s mother pressed her lips together in an expression of suppressed anger Colleen knew well. “I hope I won’t have to stay with that one, that one there, the one—she’s, it’s like that with the grocers, no, not the cats, when you go, want …” She made fists of her hands and shook them by her head in frustration. “Oh shit,” she said.
“It’s okay, Mum. It’s all right.”
“They’re putting something in my food, you know. I don’t like that.”
“They’re not putting anything in your food.”
“Oh yes they are!”
“They’re giving you some pills.”
“That’s what I mean. I don’t want them.”
“You’re malnourished, Mum, and you need to take the pills to help you absorb the vitamins in your food so you can heal and get strong.” It was a lie, of course. The pills were to make her compliant, as the staff at Spring Lake Place termed it.
Deirdre never weighed more than a hundred pounds, but now she was less than ninety. In her condo Colleen had found the charred evidence of a burned plastic plate in the microwave. The fridge was half full of mouldering, liquefied vegetables, milk past its sell-by date, packets of almonds and apricots neatly wrapped but bought more than five years ago. The cupboards bulged with old cake mixes, enormous boxes of cereal, and thirty-five rolls of Saran Wrap. In the rag-and-bone “sewing room” where at the last her mother had spent her time no longer sewing but sitting in front of the television, Colleen found the waxed paper lining bag from a cereal box filled with what might once have been grapes, and leaves of some sort.
“Oh all right,” Deirdre said. “I’ll take the pills. For you.”
The woman in the bed behind the curtain had stopped snoring quite so loudly. Deirdre squeezed her hand and said, “I’m tired.”
“Do you want me to go and let you get some sleep?”
“That would be okay.”
Colleen hugged her bird-twig mother, whose hair smelled greasy, her skin unwashed. The skin on her mother’s ribs and shoulder blades slipped over the bones. Colleen’s throat closed over. Her eyes burned.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you too,” Deirdre said, and patted Colleen’s back. “My wee girl.”
Colleen was at the door when her mother called out. “Hey, don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.” She pointed a finger at her, trying to rise up on her elbow. Colleen pictured the scabs tearing and winced. “You’re nothing but a selfish bitch, a little … toast … you know, the rain barrel …” She made a sort of growling noise. “I never could have anything nice around you. Dressing like a … horse … a slut, that’s it. Sitting in bars. Don’t bother coming back.”
And there it was. How many times had she heard that in the past few months? And more than that. It had always been there. Her mother just said it out loud now. Good old frontal lobe. Good old impulse control.
“Good night, Mum. I’ll check in with you tomorrow.” Even as she said it, she doubted she would. Maybe she’d call, but she wouldn’t see her. It occurred to Colleen that she never had to see her mother again if she didn’t want to. Even now Colleen felt the festering infection of her mother’s vitriol spreading along her spine, up into her brain, where it would stay for days, and then, just when she thought she was finally getting over it, bam, she’d speak to her mother and it would start all over again.
Deliver me from bloodguiltiness, O God, thou God of my salvation.
Where had that arisen from? What angel had whispered these lines into her ear? Depression wrapped around her like a wet cloak, but still, surely that had been a moment of grace there with her mother. My own wee girl, she had said. Surely that was her mother’s soul speaking, not her bitter heart, her shadow-filled mind. It was a message, one that would release Colleen from the bloodguiltiness that grew like a fungus in the undergrowth of her apprehension, fearful as she was that her mother was right. She was a selfish slut.
In the taxi on the way home, entombed in the claustrophobic wretchedness that always followed an encounter with her mother, Colleen could taste the wine on her lips. It would be waiting for her, the French fairy. Or no, vodka, the Russian fairy, all fire and ice with a melancholy soul. She would read Dostoyevsky’s Memoirs from the House of the Dead or Diary of a Writer while sipping what the Great Russian called the elixir of suffering, ever-present and unquenchable, everywhere and in everything.
She snorted. She always became overly dramatic when she was tired. She had been neglecting herself. Colleen vowed to live her life, from this point forward, as one reborn, resurrected, and all the wickedness of her life would be washed away. As smoke is driven away, so drive them away: as wax melteth before the fire, so let the wicked perish at the presence of God. She would lead an elegant life now, freed, cleansed and purified by the fire.
Jake’s going to be a father. The thought came back to her like an arrow through the chest. She chewed her knuckle. No. She did not want Jake. She’d been the one who left him, after all, and it had been the right decision then, so why did she care now? She did not need Jake. She should have cut ties a long time ago. It was just laziness and habit, nothing more. She looked out the taxi window. They passed a store selling glassware. The window sparkled and gleamed, as though filled with jewels.
CLEVER SPARKLING FAKES
She hadn’t seen Jake in a while. (She lived with Frank then, a nice enough guy who fancied himself a filmmaker, although he worked at a video store to pay the rent. It lasted less than a year, but at the time she was trying to make it work, and Frank didn’t like Jake much.) They were in Le Select Bistro. The burgundy walls, the low lights, the pleasurable scents of garlic and fresh bread, and the soft voice of Edith Piaf combined to create a slightly erotic atmosphere of indulgence. All through dinner, which had consisted of Manhattans before, two bottles of wine with the delicious cassoulet they barely touched, and Grand Marnier after, Jake kept excusing himself and disappearing to the washroom. His nose was red and raw. He was thin. He talked a great deal. He suggested they run off together and start a life of crime. He drank more than she did, although she drank her more-than-fair-share, but even with whatever he was doing in the bathroom, she was more sober than he. She slid into the version of herself that sometimes appeared when she was just the right amount of “tipsy.” Her movements were languid. She ran her finger lightly around the rim of her wineglass. She took tiny bites of her duck, the fork held just so. She brushed her hair behind her ear. Her laughter trilled, while he guffawed. Her voice was gentle and melodious, while his was loud, the language coarse. She was the beauty to his beast. She allowed him to take her hand, but pulled away in a ladylike fashion when the fingers of his other hand crawled up her thigh. She played the game that he so loved like an expert. He leaned back in his chair, his thumbs in his belt, and leered at her in that way of his that made her feel as she had back in the first days of their romance—proud of who she was, and a little superior, she admitted that, a little like an uptown girl with a very bad downtown boy. She was lovelier in the light of his admiration of her.
And then he said, “You ever tell Frank I called you Moan-a?”
“Of c
ourse not.”
His wolfish grin shifted to something smug and a little nasty. She knew that look well and her stomach tightened as the light around her darkened.
“And why’s that? Maybe he doesn’t make you moan the way I used to.”
A woman at a nearby table glanced at them, a perfectly arched eyebrow raised in disapproval.
“He does just fine, thank you.” Colleen kept her voice low, her smile impassive.
Jake reached over and pinched her stomach. “Getting you all fat and happy, is that it?”
At the nip of his fingers, before she could stop herself, she flinched and he laughed. As invariably happened when she allowed herself to be seduced by Jake’s soft mouth and strong hands and beautiful—albeit mocking—hazel eyes, the snug little bubble of self-delight she’d basked in just a moment before burst open and let in a cold gust of shame. Oh, that’s right, this is how he is. This is why I left him. I remember now.
She must not let him see he’d hurt her. This was always the set-point for the game he played—she the mouse; he the cat with the cruel claws. What was wrong with her that she never remembered? She tried to think up some clever retort, something that would put him on the defensive for a change, but it wasn’t in her makeup; she simply didn’t have the mind for wicked repartee, especially not when it came to hurting the feelings of someone she … well … cared for.
“I am happy,” she said. “Happier than I’ve ever been.”
There might have been the tiniest of droops in his self-satisfied expression, but perhaps that was nothing more than wishful thinking on her part.
They got the bill shortly after that, and at least Jake paid. As they left the restaurant he leaned, rather heavily, on her and said, “C’mon, I’ll drive you home, Porkie.” He laughed. “I’m just yanking your chain, don’t be like that.”
She disentangled herself from his embrace. She was on the down-slide of tipsy now, feeling as though something had been ruined, like a child whose birthday party has been spoiled, whose favourite doll has been broken. It was important not to let him see how he hurt her. She put her arm through his. The night was cold and their breath hung in misty wreaths before them. He took a little misstep and she realized, even half in the bag as she was, that he was truly plonked. He draped his arm over her shoulder again.
“Car’s right over there.” He pointed eastward along Queen Street.
“I’m not getting in a car with you,” she said. “And you certainly shouldn’t drive.”
“I’m fine,” he said. “Fine.”
He took his arm off her shoulder and stood, wide-legged and balancing. Without the steadying effect of his big body, Colleen found her own balance was none too great. She wavered slightly and adjusted her stance. Jake looked past her at a shop window. He walked toward it and stood staring at the contents. Bracelets, watches, necklaces and rings dazzled. Colleen didn’t suppose they were real, just clever sparkling fakes, or else surely the shop owner would have taken them out of the window for the night. From the ceiling hung threads and on these hung crystal prisms, four or five to a thread, which caught the display light and scattered it in multicoloured shining confetti even out onto the street. Glitters of blue, green and pink light spangled their boots and the sidewalk.
Jake put his finger up to the glass, pointing at the engagement-style rings. “I can’t have one of those,” he slurred. “Nope. Can’t ever have one.”
“Of course you can,” Colleen said.
Jake simply kept staring into the glass, swaying on his feet and staring.
“I’m not getting in the car with you,” Colleen said. “I’ll get us both a taxi.”
“Do what you want,” said Jake. “I’m staying.”
“What do you mean you’re staying?”
“Just am. Get on home, little bird, get on home.”
She didn’t know what else to do. The cold air made her head spin and she realized she was quite a bit drunker than she’d thought. Not as bad as Jake, but still. He wasn’t her responsibility. He’d have to take care of himself. She reached up and gave him a peck on the cheek.
“Get a cab,” she said.
She walked to the curb and hailed a taxi. As it drove away she looked back. He stood there, still staring into the window. She wasn’t quite sure, but later, when she ran the scene over in her mind, she wondered if he hadn’t been crying. She called him the next day and asked if he was all right, but he just laughed and said, “Why wouldn’t I be? Whatsa matter? Still can’t tell when I’m yanking your chain?”
WE’LL JUST LEAVE IT AT THAT,
SHALL WE?
So, let him have his baby now, and his child bride. Good riddance. What had he ever done for her anyway, except break her heart and treat her like shit. She looked at the taxi driver’s name. Faisal Naseem. He was a youngish man with a shaved head and prominent ears. He smiled in the photo. He looked kind.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
He glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. He was speaking, but the radio was playing something that sounded like Indian hip hop, and he spoke softly, so she couldn’t understand him.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
His eyes flickered back to her and she realized he was talking on the phone, a little bud and wire coming out of his ear. He was speaking … what? Arabic?
“Sorry,” she muttered.
“You say something?” he asked, although clearly he knew she had spoken.
“No, nothing at all.”
He returned to his conversation. She wanted to tell him not to talk on the phone while he drove, and she would have done if she hadn’t already tried to start a conversation with him. Now it would only sound as though she were being vindictive. She hunched in the back seat, watching the street outside her window. Two young women, obviously prostitutes, loitered at the corner of Jarvis and Carlton. One wore a tiny red skirt and thigh-high black boots, the other a rabbit-skin jacket and skin-tight jeans. They looked young, under eighteen surely. They looked cold. The taxi driver stared at them while the light turned green. He said something into the phone and then laughed.
“It’s green,” Colleen said, and he started forward without acknowledging her.
She found her own phone in her purse and opened it. You never know. A text message. From Lori, bless her, half an hour ago. Saw u tried to call me. Hope ur ok. Will call tomorrow. L. Colleen dialled her number. Voice mail. Fucking voice mail.
They passed a church and in the parking lot a group of men and women congregated, many of them smoking. Several looked twitchy and agitated. Others seemed to share a joke, and one of those, a grey-haired woman in a big puffy coat, leaned over to a particularly jittery young woman and put her arm around her, drawing her into the group. Colleen knew who they were. Alcoholics, waiting to go into one of their fellowship meetings. She saw them now and again at the entrances to church basements, looking both furtive and resolved. Sometimes it looked like a party she wouldn’t mind joining; other times it looked like a penal colony. Tonight she felt the twinge of a yearning to be that young woman, to have someone put an arm around her. She could tell the driver to stop. She could get out. She could go into that meeting. She wondered if anyone would remember her.
Aside from the meeting she’d attended with Liam, which had been for him after all and not for her, Colleen had been to a meeting only once before, many years ago or so it seemed now, although it was only … well, yes, two years ago. After the Father Paul incident. She sat in the back of the chilly basement room, under the glare of fluorescent tubes, on a hard plastic chair, and listened to a rumpled, tattooed bear of a man talk about driving so drunk he had to stick his head out the window to keep himself from passing out. Sadly, it was a particularly cold winter night and he froze his eyeball and lost his sight in that eye. Colleen was speechless. How drunk did you have to be not to notice your eyeball was freezing? She had never been that drunk. He said when he was young it was so easy to get him drunk it was a
shame to keep him sober. Everyone laughed at that and she thought they were mad. They laughed, too, when he said he’d once fallen into the grave of a friend who’d died in a drunken car wreck. Hitting the bottle hard in his grief, he arrived at the funeral plastered. At the gravesite he stumbled and fell right in on top of the casket and lay there on his back looking up at the sky, thinking maybe he was the one who’d died after all. It took three men to drag him out.
A thin woman with broken blood vessels all over her face spoke about burning down her house with her two children inside. She wasn’t sure how she would live with the guilt. Colleen didn’t see how she could either. Another woman talked about how she hid bottles all over the house and then, in the dead of night, wearing only her nightgown, went up and down the street putting the empties in her neighbours’ recycling bins, since she was still a good environmentalist. How all those drunks laughed.
Colleen was glad they had a place to go if it helped, but she wasn’t anything like them.
No, that wasn’t for her.
The taxi raced up Mount Pleasant and soon they were at her building. The fare was $16.88. She gave the driver $17 and listened to him curse her in Arabic as she got out and walked away.
From the apartment three doors down from Colleen’s came laughter and music—bass-heavy and electronic sounding. A man lived there, coffee-skinned and quite handsome in a pudgy, doe-eyed sort of way. His lashes were so long Colleen suspected he used mascara. She saw him in the elevator in the morning sometimes, and always in the company of a different man.
All these lives going on behind doors, in rooms so close to hers, and yet so different, self-contained and isolated one from the other. She thought of the poem by Edward Booth Loughran, called “Isolation.”
Man lives alone; star-like, each soul
In its own orbit circles ever;
Myriads may by or round it roll—
The Empty Room Page 18