What We All Want

by Michelle Berry

  WHAT WE ALL WANT

  MICHELLE BERRY

  What We All Want

  copyright © Michelle Berry 2001

  Turnstone Press Edition, 2013

  Turnstone Press

  Artspace Building

  206-100 Arthur Street

  Winnipeg, MB

  R3B 1H3 Canada

  www.TurnstonePress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or ­transmitted in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or ­mechanical—without the prior ­written permission of the ­publisher. Any request to photocopy any part of this book shall be directed in writing to Access Copyright, Toronto.

  Published in Canada by Turnstone Press in 2013. First published in hard cover in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. First published in soft cover in Canada by Vintage Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited in 2002.

  Turnstone Press gratefully acknowledges the assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Manitoba Arts Council, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund, and the Province of Manitoba through the Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Book Publisher Marketing Assistance Program.

  Printed and bound in Canada by Friesens for Turnstone Press.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Berry, Michelle, 1968–, author

  What we all want / Michelle Berry.

  Originally published: Toronto : Random House Canada, ©2001.

  ISBN 978-0-88801-433-7 (pbk.)

  I. Title.

  PS8553.E7723W42 2013 C813’.54 C2013-904226-1

  For S.B.

  Prologue

  The grey van arrives on the quiet suburban street, rolling over a stray Coke can, crunching it flat. The windows of the van are tinted black. The van pulls up in front of the two-storey brick house and the driver throws his cigarette out of the window and wipes the crumbs from a chocolate donut off his shirt.

  “This is the house,” the man in the passenger seat says. He sighs and finishes off his donut in one bite. The dough sticks in his throat and he coughs to clear it.

  The house is on a cul-de-sac and the neighbourhood is varied. Some houses look clean and peaceful, they have short front driveways and basketball nets propped on large plastic poles. Some have empty flower boxes stacked neatly beside driveways and rose bushes wrapped in burlap for the winter. The front walks of these houses have been swept clean of leaves and dirt. Other houses have lawns grown over with weeds. Two bent bicycle tires are propped against a tree and candy wrappers litter the grass. The front screen door of one house hangs off its hinges and squeaks in the wind and an old soup can used as an ashtray sits beside a rusted-out car used for parts. The van stops in front of a house with a small front porch and a lawn spotted yellow and brown. Spatterings of green paint are all that is left on the stairs, chipped and worn from years of neglect. There is a broken wicker chair lying in a heap at the bottom of the stairs next to a snow shovel, a rusty broom and rake, and an old baby stroller missing a wheel. A dog barks.

  Hilary is standing out front on the sidewalk. With one hand she is clutching an oversized cardigan around her thin body. With the other hand she is rubbing her face, as if trying to wipe something off. She is staring up into the sky.

  “I thought I saw a hawk,” she says to the men when they get out of the van. “Are there hawks around here?”

  “I don’t know.” The men look up into the sky.

  “Seems like it would be the wrong season for hawks.”

  “Is there a season for hawks?”

  All three stand for a minute staring up at the sky. It is a chilly, blue fall day. Everything glows. The wind has picked up and the litter from the lawn beside them blows towards them.

  “Hawks, I think, migrate,” one of the men says. “Surely they’d be gone by now”

  “No, they don’t. They aren’t geese,” the other man says. “Yes they do.”

  “Where do they go? Florida?”

  “Why not?”

  “Hang out in the parks with those pink birds?”

  “Flamingos,” Hilary says. “I’ve never seen a flamingo.”

  “That’s all right,” one of the men says. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  Hilary pulls her cardigan closer. Her eyes are large and soft. Her brown hair falls to her waist and is thick and tangled.

  “You should come in,” Hilary says. “She’s inside.”

  The flat Coke can clatters across the street loudly in a gush of cool wind. The men nod. Hilary points towards the front door of her house and the men busy themselves in the van. One man carries a folded stretcher up the creaking stairs and the other carries a body bag.

  “Are you interested in birds, then?”

  “Not really,” Hilary says. “I just thought I saw a hawk. I wasn’t sure.”

  The men enter the house. The front hallway is cluttered with yellowing newspaper piled high, all sizes of coats and boots, broken umbrellas. Several rolls of pink-patterned wallpaper, mildewed, lean up against the staircase. In the living room the curtains are drawn and the lights are off. An overstuffed old couch, a large boxed television set, and a glass coffee table crouch in the dim shadows. The table is covered with dirty glasses and several bowls of popcorn kernels. Around the room are bookshelves full of dolls. Hundreds of them. Some porcelain, some plastic, eyes open wide and closed shut, hair in ribbons and bows, held down with hats, dresses of every colour. So many dolls in one place. It looks like a museum.

  “So you collect dolls?” one of the men asks.

  “Yes,” Hilary says. She turns the light on in the living room. “My mother collected them first. And then she stopped going out. Now I collect them.”

  “That’s a lot of dolls.”

  Hilary nods.

  “There’s that store in the mall,” one man says. “The one with all the dolls in the window. You have more dolls in here than they do in that store.” He steps into the room to take a closer look at the dolls. His ankle gives way a bit and he stumbles.

  “I used to stand before that store and stare in the window when I was a child,” Hilary says. “I used to just stand there and stare.”

  The man looks down at the floor. The entire floor of the living room is covered with pebbles. Stones. Rocks. Gravel-size pieces, smooth and worn. Like a driveway. “I thought this was carpet,” the man says. He tries to laugh. “It looked like grey carpet.”

  “No,” Hilary says. “Not carpet.”

  The men look at each other. They move carefully back out into the hall.

  The dolls stare out at the men from above the pebbled floor. A dump-truck worth of stones, stopping up against the furniture. Glass eyes glowing. Soft hair, pink lips, delicate hands, and feet in leather shoes. The men are careful where they step.

  Hilary watches them. “Don’t you think it’s like a beach?” she says. “I think it’s like walking beside a lake.”

  “Yeah, that’s all right,” one man says. “That’s fine with us.You don’t have to tell us. We’ve seen lots of things.”

  “I never get to travel. I’ve never been anywhere really.” Every evening Hilary pads lightly over the rocks and settles on the couch to watch TV. She likes to feel their smoothness on her bare feet. They remind her of her childhood, of summertime, of the fact that the earth is solid and hard.

  “I’m cooped up inside this house,” she says.

  One man clears his throat.

  “Upstairs,” Hilary says. “She’s up there. The door at the end of the hall.”

  The man with the stretcher walks up the stairs. The man carrying the body bag follows. They walk behind the woman who steps lightly down a dirty, worn trail in the carpet. The s
mall bit of sun coming through the bathroom window patterns the air with dust particles. The hallway is dark and narrow. There are more dolls resting on the floor here and there, but no more stones. One of the men hums nervously under his breath. Hilary flicks on the lights as they move closer to the final door.

  “These are antiques,” she says, pointing to the dolls on the floor. “They are porcelain. Their hair is real human hair.” Hilary stops and touches her long hair. Pulls it before her and stares at it. “Imagine,” she says. “Where do you think they get real human hair from?”

  “Which room again?” one man asks.

  “Down here. At the end of the hall.” Hilary points but doesn’t move. “My mother started her doll collection when she was eight. She would get a different doll for Christmas every year and one for her birthday. Sometimes an extra one for Easter or Valentine’s Day. When she was fourteen years old she had over twenty dolls. I had thirty-eight dolls when I was fourteen.” Hilary starts walking again. The men follow. “I’ve named them all,” she says. “They each have their own names. They have their own personalities. My mother gave me my first doll the day I was born.”

  “I feel like they’re looking at me,” one of the men says and Hilary stops again and stares down at the dolls on the hallway floor.

  She says, “Sometimes it’s as if their eyes follow you.”

  The men walk quickly around Hilary towards the room at the end of the hall. “This room?”

  Hilary nods.

  The air feels muted and thick. The furnace blows stifling heat around the house.

  “Collections,” Hilary suddenly says. “I suppose I collect preserves too. I have so many of them. Remind me to give you some on your way out. I have a wonderful pepper jelly.You can never have enough preserves. Mother and I made them. Pickles, relishes, jams, jellies, chutneys. I like to be prepared.”

  The air in the hallway smells like sweat and mildew. One of the men coughs “We’ll just go in now,” he says.

  “I also stock up on things that are on sale “ Hilary begins again. She clears her throat. They are standing in front of the door at the end of the hall. The men look down at their feet. “Toilet paper. Paper towels. Kleenexes.You never know when you’ll need something and the stores will be out of stock.”

  “My mother does that,” one of the men says. “There’s nothing wrong with buying a couple of extra things each time you shop.”

  “Mother always says that we don’t want to be caught without.” Hilary moves to the men, reaches around them, and puts her hand on the doorknob. “Here we are. This is her room.”

  Hilary slowly opens the door. Her breathing quickens. Bright sunlight dazzles them as they enter. The room is spotless and dust-free. In the air there is the pleasant scent of lime or lemon or lilac. On the bed, tucked tightly under white sheets, is what they have come for. The dead woman is bald and if it weren’t for the high lace nightgown collar, she could be a man. For a brief instant the men think the dead woman could be another doll. She’s so still.

  “Liver cancer?”

  Hilary nods. She turns from the image on the bed.

  “Sorry,” the men say.

  The dead woman is bright yellow. Her mouth and eyes are closed tight. Her face is turned up to the ceiling and her neck is bent back slightly.

  Beside the bed an old desk is laden with bottles of medicine, jars of pills, hypodermic needles, Kleenex boxes.

  “God,” one of the men says as he moves to lift the old woman. “She’s all bones.”

  Hilary leans in the doorway, twisting her hair around her fingers. She tries not to look at her mother. There is a dull, thudding pain in her head, just over the bridge of her nose, that won’t go away. She can’t help herself. She watches the two men carefully lift her mother onto the stretcher, stick-like arms and legs, head thrown back. They place her on top of the body bag and then tuck her limbs into the bag and carefully zip it shut. The noise from the zipper travels down Hilary’s spine. The men roll the full stretcher through the hallway and lift it down the carpeted stairs and out the front doorway to the waiting van. They roll it quickly away from the dolls and the rocks on the living room floor. Away from the claustrophobic feeling, away from Hilary. The cold air outside is fresh and alive.

  “We’re taking her to Mortimer’s Funeral Home on Oakwood and Landley,” one of the men says. He is panting from the exertion, from the race to get out of the house. “Sometime today you should go down there. Bring some of her clothes and a picture of her when she wasn’t . . . you know, yellow.” He wipes the sweat collecting above his eyebrows.

  “Mortimer’s,” Hilary says. “You’re from Mortimer’s?” Her hands flutter up to her neck. The wind whips her hair around her face. “She can’t go to Mortimer’s.”

  “Mortimer’s. That’s right.You called us.”

  “Mortimer’s,” she says again. “The doctor called. Not me. I didn’t know. She can’t go there.” Her hair hides her face from the men. “I haven’t seen Dick in years.”

  “Oh, you know him?”

  “Yes. We knew each other once.” Hilary looks up at the sky. “When we were younger.” She watches the clouds float slowly past. She is still and silent. “Does she have to go there?”

  “Yes, we’re from there.You’ll have to talk to the director if you want her to be moved later.”

  Hilary nods. She stands silently for a while. “Do you think the hawks will come back?” she asks finally.

  “You should get some rest,” one man says. “You’ve had a trying experience.”

  “Yes,” Hilary says. “You are probably right. Thank you.”

  The men climb into the front of the van and shut their doors. Hilary taps on the window.

  “Excuse me,” she says.

  The man rolls down his window. “Yes?”

  “You’ll take care of her, won’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Because she’s all I have left. I have nothing any more.”

  The men watch Hilary walk back up her stairs, onto her porch, and then shut the front door behind her. There is a sudden silence in the van.

  “Hey, back there.” One of the men turns to the body in the back of the van. “You wouldn’t mind if we stopped for coffee, would you? We’re just a bit cold.”

  “You know,” the man driving the car says, “I see those kids standing in front of that store window in the mall, with all the dolls staring out at them, and I think that’s cute I think, they want a doll for Christmas. Just one doll. Maybe two. I think it’s cute. Do you know what I mean?”

  He speeds the van around the corner.

  In the house Hilary stands on her pebbles in the living room and watches the grey van drive quickly down the quiet street. She takes a deep breath. Her eyes tear up. She swallows loudly. She looks around at the still neighbourhood, over at the deserted park at the end of the street, at the houses around her full of people she doesn’t know. Over the houses she sees the city lit up in the afternoon sunshine, the high-rise office towers glowing gold and silver. She searches the air for birds. More hawks.

  “Mother,” she whispers.

  It is a Thursday afternoon in late November.

  She turns from the window and walks into her kitchen where the dishes are piled high in the sink. There are dolls on the counters, on the windowsill. The table is caked with spilt food: blood-red spaghetti sauce, toast crumbs, mayonnaise. Hilary moves some of the dishes from the sink, piles them on the counter, and begins to wash her face. Then she dries her face, puts the dishes back in the sink, and looks around the room, unsure of what to do first, what to do next. She walks back into the living room, tiptoes across the rocks, and sits on the couch. She looks at the dolls settled beside her, the dolls all around her.

  “Everything will be just fine,” she tells a doll in an emerald green dress. She pulls the doll onto her lap and holds it facing her. “Everything is fine.”

  Her eyes light upon the telephone beside her and she p
icks it up softly, as if afraid to make a noise. She dials. As she waits for the person on the other end to answer, Hilary tidies the doll’s hair and places it back on the couch, plastic hands clasped in front, resting on its green velvet dress. The doll smiles brightly, red lips and dimpled cheeks. Then one eye closes. The hinge that holds the eye open when the doll is sitting and closed when the doll is lying down is broken. Hilary leans over and pries open the eyelid. She pushes hard and the lid stays open. Its eyes shine

  “Hello?” she whispers into the phone.”Hello? It’s Hilary. Mother died … this morning.. . .We have to bury her soon.…You’ll have to come home now”

  Rebecca Mount lies naked under a sheet in the preparation room at Mortimer’s Funeral Home. Scalpels, scissors, forceps, clamps, needles, pumps, tubes, bowls, basins. A surgical room. Her body is yellow, chalky, cold. The jaundice from her faulty liver has not faded. Her hands have been crossed in front of her. Her body is splotched with darker patches of colour: green, white, grey. Her left big toe has been tagged for identification purposes. The tag reads: “Rebecca Hilary Mount. Age sixty years. Liver cancer. Death: Thursday, 10 a.m.—burial unspecified. “The nails on her toes are long and yellow, crooked, ingrown. There is a bit of black lint from her socks in the corners of her big toes.

  Rebecca Mount’s stretched skin hangs off of her like baggy clothing. Her scalp is bald and smooth. Her face is wrinkled. Eyes closed. Her nose seems hooked now, seems bent a little towards her cheek as if it has fallen. Her neck is bruised. Her breasts sag to the sides, resting lightly on her upper arms, the nipples pale and flat. Her hips poke, the bones so sharp they look as if they might cut out through the paper-like skin. Her pelvic region collapses upon itself; hollows out, a valley centred by a belly button. The once-expanded, cancerous liver has flattened in death. Slightly bloated legs stretch out, skin loose, gradually dehydrating, knees bony and thick, ankles swollen and veiny.

  Soon there will be a cut on the right side of her clavicle where the mortician will pull up her vein to drain her blood and then pull up her artery to fill with embalming solution. There will be another cut above the belly button where the mortician will insert a long, hollow needle attached to a tube. He will poke around the entrails and chest cavity. He will pump out the contents and replace them with cavity fluid. Both cuts will be sewn with skill. Then the mortician will sew Rebecca Mount’s mouth shut with a needle directed upward between her lip and gum and brought out through her left nostril. He will raise the corners slightly for a more pleasant expression. Her eyes will be sealed shut with flesh-tinted eye caps and eye cement.