by Claire Tacon
In the bed upstairs, I pass out waiting for Richard. I wake up when he comes in, feeling the same weird exhaustion that I used to feel at high-school field parties when I stayed up to watch the sunrise. Richard undresses at the far side of the bed, drops down to his boxers and socks. He tosses his T-shirt across for me to sleep in. My bra unhooks mechanically and I drop it on the floor, balled up in my shirt.
“Considering what happened today, I think we can give Stephen a free pass.”
Agreed.
This is the first moment that we’ve had to ourselves since the car ride. It feels like weeks have passed since then. Richard holds me, cradling me into him. Nothing that came before seems important now. Everything is steady, my back against his belly, feeling the rise and fall of his breath as his body slows to sleep. He is still, still, still.
“What if they hadn’t gotten out?” I gasp, smothering the noise with my pillow.
“Don’t,” he says, gripping me tight. “Don’t.”
7
SEVEN - THIRTY in the morning and I’m on an Easter egg hunt of the damned, stumbling around the backyard, picking up stray cans and bottles. Every time I stoop then stand, my brains shift to the other side of my skull. Richard’s still horizontal, only a thread less hungover.
The beer cases have gone soggy overnight and disintegrate when I grab their handles. The grass is wet and my canvas joggers and pant legs are soaked before I’ve covered half the yard. A lot of the cans are filled with cigarette butts, which I empty into a separate bag, trying not to get a whiff of the beer-soaked tobacco.
After about fifteen minutes, Linda comes out cradling a cup of coffee. Bernie’s already taken the kids into town. “Your husband’s up. I don’t have anything in the fridge for breakfast.”
“Is that place still open next to the Irving?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll take them there.”
Linda’s relieved but still somewhat hostile. On a whim I ask if she wants to come too, my treat.
“Really?”
I wonder if it’s a mistake, but Linda’s already taken off back inside.
We’re out of the house by quarter to nine, which leaves plenty of time to swing by the mall to get my mother some clothes. The restaurant is packed, but they know Linda, so they make up a table for us. As we take our seats, Linda waves to two other couples.
Richard asks if she’s ever considered running for mayor.
“I’ve been working cash so long at the grocery store, you get to know people pretty quick.”
“That was my first job too.”
I’ve never heard this before. Stephen looks up at his dad, waiting for the story. Luke’s busy colouring on the kids’ placemat.
“After school at No Frills. First I was just the checkout boy. Then I got put on cash. Most people in the area knew my dad, so they were pretty friendly to me. It’s where I met my first girlfriend.”
“That’s how Bernie and I met,” Linda says.
The waitress comes back with juice cups for the boys, coffee for the rest of us. I catch a glimpse of myself reflected in the napkin dispenser. We should have had showers at Bernie’s since there won’t be water at the house.
It doesn’t take long before the waitress brings our food over, laying an immense stack of pancakes in front of my husband.
“You ever think of moving out here?” Linda asks.
“I like the city too much,” Richard says. “Being able to walk to work or to the boys’ school.”
“I’d like to live in Halifax one day but Bernie—” Linda sighs. “How much longer are you staying?” Stephen and Luke look at us, wanting to know the answer too.
“Not sure,” Richard says.
“It’s going to depend on a lot of things.”
“We’re not leaving before the soccer tournament, are we?” Stephen asks.
“I’m not sure,” Richard repeats. “I’ve got a few things coming up at work.”
“It’s only three weeks.” Stephen’s smile drops.
“Christ, that reminds me,” Linda says. “I’ve got to get the schedule from the coach for that weekend. I want to ask for some time off work.”
“It’ll depend on my mother too. How long it takes to fix the place up.”
“Your mom’s a nice lady.” Something in the way Linda says it makes it sound like a comparison in which I come out lacking. When we leave the restaurant, she makes us wait while she runs across the road to the gas station convenience store. She returns with a box of Ferrero Rocher. “I was hoping they’d have a plant, but I know your mom likes these.”
Any lingering hangover is iced by the walk through the hospital’s double doors. Richard and the boys wait in the car. I follow the receptionist’s directions down the hall to the ward room my mother’s sharing. Around every corner, there’s the waft of hand sanitizer.
In 309, there’s an elderly lady asleep in the far corner with several IV bags draining into her arm. The bed next to her is empty. On the other side of the room, the curtains are drawn and I peek through the gape. Both areas are filled with families visiting their relatives. I speed to the nursing station, worried my mother’s already been discharged and is waiting out by the entrance.
There are two RNs at the desk, one of them absorbed in filing medical charts and the other typing absently at the computer.
“I’m Ellie Bascom,” I explain. The chart-filer looks up. “My mother, Lynne Lucan, was brought in last night. Has she already been discharged?”
The nurse at the computer stiffens. She starts to speak but the other nurse silences her with a hand on her shoulder. “Lorraine, page Dr. Bellingham.” She leads me into a small consulting room to the left of the nursing station. I try not to panic as she opens my mother’s chart.
“I’m afraid your mother’s had a stroke.” The nurse keeps her voice very low and even, and I wonder if it’s a technique she learned in nursing school. “We’ve been trying to get in touch with you, but the only emergency contact on your mother’s file is a Toronto number.”
“Is she. . . ?”
“She’s in stable condition. We don’t know about the extent of the damage. Dr. Bellingham will be able to give you a clearer picture.”
“When did it happen?”
“During the night. She was sedated for shock, so the effects took more time to be noticed.” She reaches out and touches my knee. “I’m sorry. If there’s anyone you need to phone, you can use the one in here.”
“Can I see her?”
“You’ll want to chat with Dr. Bellingham first.” She stands and hovers a moment, negotiating between her apparent sympathy and the need to get back to the station. “Can I get you a coffee?”
I shake my head.
“I’ll bring you a juice.” The door clicks closed.
I feel an overwhelming need to see my mother right away, to have physical confirmation that whatever’s happened, she’s still here. I’m still clutching the plastic bags with the two sizes of jeans and three T-shirts. I slowly hoist them onto the couch, beside a couple of kids’ books—their pasteboard covers curled up at the edges. I wonder if patients’ children did that, worrying the pages while their parents received grim diagnoses, or if they were donated that way, used and comfortless.
There’s no Kleenex left in the box on the side table. I wipe my nose like a kid against the inside of my shirt, realizing too late that we won’t have laundry for a while. Dr. Bellingham catches me like that, my shirt exposing my belly. “Oh,” she says and pops out again. She’s back a moment later with another box of tissues. “That’s better.” It’s cheap institutional stuff that’s coarse against my skin. I blow too hard and it breaks through onto my hand.
Dr. Bellingham waits for me to compose myself. She’s an older woman, not much younger than my mother with salt and pepper hair combed back in a ponytail. “Have you noticed anything different about your mother’s behaviour lately?”
“We took her to the doctor but all that cam
e back was high blood pressure.”
The doctor nods. “We’ve done some scans and it looks like your mother was having some blood flow blockage to the brain. We call it transient ischemic attack, TIA.” She pulls out a brochure from one of her folders and hands it over. “Unfortunately, TIAs are often a warning that a full-on stroke is coming. The acute stress of the fire likely triggered it.”
“Is she okay?” It’s such a childish question.
“It wasn’t a severe stroke, but it was significant,” Dr. Bellingham says. “We’re putting her on medication that should prevent more stroking. She’s lost some motor control on her left side, but still has feeling in the limbs. Once she starts rehab, we’ll be able to see how she progresses.” She hands me another pamphlet. The front has an illustration of an elderly couple exercising. It still smells like printing ink.
“How long will she be in hospital?”
“It could be a few weeks or longer, depending on how quickly she responds.” She pauses. “It’s sudden, but you’re going to want to think about long-term options.”
“We’re going over to the house today to clean. Once we get in touch with the insurance broker, we’ll hire the reconstruction company.”
The doctor lays her hand on the chart. “It’s not just that. Some stroke patients aren’t ever able to live unassisted. Do you live in the area?”
“We’re visiting for the summer.”
“We’ll book you an appointment with a social worker right away.” She makes a note of this and then turns back to me. “If you want my advice, I’d call the Health Board line today. Unless your mother has extensive health coverage, you’ll want the Single Entry Access program.”
My mother has lived uneventfully on her own for twenty-five years. What the doctor is suggesting sounds impossible.
“Hopefully, she’ll have a fast and complete recovery.” She prints the phone number on the back of the brochure. “But if she needs to move to a home, then you’ll want to be on the list right away.”
The first nurse comes back to let me know they’re moving my mother into a semi-private down the hall. I wait for her there, flipping through the pamphlet, my anger towards Dr. Archibald flaring.
When the nurses wheel my mother in, her skin is waxy and washed out by the pale blue of the hospital gown. As the nurse adjusts the bed, my mother doesn’t meet my eye, just stares at her limp hands. I bring a chair over so I can sit holding her arm, careful to avoid her bandaged hands.
“I’m here now,” I say and stroke her face.
She’s dazed and unresponsive to my touch. After a few minutes, I realize I’m holding her left arm, the wrong arm. I switch to her right, hoping she’ll be able to register my presence better this way.
My mother winces and shakes my hand away. My eyes dart to the door to see if the nurse is around, unsure if she needs immediate aid. She’s covering her brow, the cotton gauze a mitt around her hand. She’s crying. Her voice is hoarse and speaking sends her into a coughing fit.
“It’s fine,” I say, pressing my nails into my palm to keep from tearing up. “The boys are fine. Everyone’s fine.” It’s the only word that comes.
She shakes her head. She says something but it’s hard to make out what it is. Her hair is askew from the pillow and I root around in the nightstand for a brush. There isn’t one. I do my best combing through her hair with my fingers, smoothing her fringe to the side. I’m not sure what else to say or how to act. She drifts in and out of sleep.
I decide she might like some water. I wander back to the nursing station to find out where I can get a Styrofoam cup and an ice cube but am told they still don’t know if she’s capable of swallowing. The best I can do is dampen her lips with wet paper towel. In the bathroom, I notice there are bars along all the walls—by the toilet, by the sink—the whole room is a mobility aid. My mother’s always been so adamant about not needing assistance. I can’t see her living in the kind of nursing home with grips over the fixtures.
My mother nods in thanks as I pat her mouth with the towel. It’s one-thirty. I’ve been here almost two hours and should check in with Richard. I tell her I’ll be right back. She lets the wet paper fall on her gown and a water ring blooms around it.
The day passes quickly attending to the hospital administrative business—setting up the room phone, ordering TV service, letting them know the name of my mother’s health carrier, a rainbow of Xeroxed forms. My mother isn’t awake for most of the day, but I stay by her side as much as I can. The nurses make the rounds every few hours, diligently checking her vitals and assessing her response. They assure me that she just needs to rest.
Richard picks me up at eight. The first thing he does is hand me a new pay-as-you-go cellphone because my charger melted, along with the cordless landline. My mother’s broker is closed for the long weekend but Bernie was able to recommend a restoration crew and they’re already at the house.
“It’s quite the production,” Richard says. “They’ve got the commercial dehumidifiers going—apparently mould’s the biggest concern right now.” The power’s still shut off. They’re also running a HEPA filter to start the odour removal.
He and the boys have eaten but we swing by the drive-through to get some takeout for me. We’re all exhausted and I ask if they managed to find a place to stay. I’m shovelling the fast food in, biting into the chicken fingers before they’ve properly cooled. All I can taste is the bland tang of plum sauce.
“Bad news and good news,” Richard says.
The boys are giggling in the back and I take this as a good sign—the situation needs all the levity it can get.
“Bad first.”
“Even Windsor’s booked up now.”
“And the good?”
“There was a sale on camping equipment.”
The tent’s already pitched at the far end of the property, near the hedge. It’s a six-person dome tent—bright purple with a grey fly and there are four sleeping bags laid out inside, visible through the mosquito-net door. “All this for only one-fifty.” The neighbours have offered the use of their toilet.
“Can I grab some clothes from inside?”
Richard shakes his head. “We’re not supposed to go in until they’ve done more work. Right now the whole place is toxic.” He’s bought a change of clothes for me from the mall, as well as sleepwear for all of us. We are all sporting different sizes and patterns of old man pajamas. Lined up outside the tent, we look like a demented barbershop quartet.
George stops by at ten-past-nine, when we’re already rigged out in this new uniform. He scratches his stubble to hide his smile.
“It’s okay,” I say. “You can laugh.”
“I’m just coming off shift and thought I’d stop by to see how you’re making out.” He’s seen the copy of the fire report and walks us through how the fire spread. We pace the opposite edge of the lot as he explains what happened, so that the boys don’t have to hear the details.
They say that in a plane crash, there needs to be a convergence of bad luck. Pilots are trained for error—electrical system failure, tire blowouts on landing, loss of cabin pressure. Catastrophe only strikes when there’s a string of smaller crises. Swiss Air was lost in Peggy’s Cove when the arcing of wires on the in-flight entertainment system didn’t trip the circuit breakers. A fire spread in the insulation with no instrument warning so by the time it was discovered, it was already too late—the displays had failed and the smoke quickly overcame the pilots.
George keeps telling us how unlucky we were—my mother’s misdiagnosis, the accident coming over the scanner, the fire that could have been put out so easily with a pot lid, the stroke. With each profession of sympathy, however, I start adding up a separate tally. The oil didn’t spill on her. She didn’t throw water on the flames, which would have sprayed the fuel across the room. The fire stayed smouldering for a long time—the progress slowed by Dad’s tile backsplash, an old asbestos panel and the stove’s location in the room. George sa
ys the men down at the station are still talking about Stephen’s presence of mind. Not many kids, he says, would call EMS right away, let alone get everyone out, close the doors and start pouring water on his grandmother’s burns. If any of those things had gone the other way, we’d have lost the whole structure. Or worse.
George is sombre when I tell him about the hospital visit. “She taking visitors?” he asks.
“Not for a few days.”
He nods. “I’ll spread the word.” I’m not sure who there is to tell, considering how small my mother’s circle has become.
After George leaves, Richard and I sit on the tree stump that marks the end of the driveway. It’s gotten cooler out and the pajamas are a thin cotton. He wraps his arms around me and the heat of his body is a comfort.
“Did you go in today?” I ask.
“They fitted me up with a mask and walked me through. I think they have to for insurance.”
“What’s it like inside?”
“Because it smouldered for so long, there’s more residue. Less structural damage, but more soot.”
“Can any of it be saved?”
“The kitchen’s gone,” he says, softly. “The living-room furniture’s pretty badly stained from smoke. The dining room will be fine.”
I start to make mental lists of things that will need to be dealt with in the morning. I wonder who I need to call—what family my mother’s still keeping in touch with.
“Everything in the kitchen’s really gone?”
“Anything plastic melted. The cabinets that didn’t burn outright are scorched.”
My mother kept her address book stacked with the phone directories in the cabinet next to the stove. I think about her meticulous list of Christmas card replies—all of her careful notations gone.