Cardinal Divide

by Nina Newington

  Val waits.

  Breathe. “Yes, I’ve done everything I know how to do.”

  “Then how about turning the rest over to the Creator. God. The doorknob, for all I care. If you don’t let go of this, Meg, you’ll drink. You just proved that. How many meetings have you been getting to?”

  “Hardly any. I go for work but ...”

  “Picking up the drink, that’s the end of the slip.”

  She’s seen it; I’ve seen it. Starts with skipping meetings. More important things to do. Then you get edgy. People don’t do what you want them to and it pisses you off. Before long you’re back pretending you’re in control of your own life. So you can drink. So you do.

  I take a deep breath, let it out. Feel my shoulders drop. I’m powerless over alcohol. Drugs. My father. My mother. My job. My past. Remembering my past. My life feels completely fucking unmanageable. I think it’s a disaster that I’m not in control. But it isn’t. It’s okay. Even if I don’t believe there’s a God who is in control, it’s okay. For today.

  Val smiles at me. Sadness creases the skin around her eyes.

  “Ah, Val,” I say.

  She shakes her head. There are tears in her eyes. “Life on life’s terms,” she says. “You coming to the Mustard Seed tomorrow?”

  “The correct answer to that would be yes,” I say.

  “Two chicken shawarmas,” the guy at the counter calls out.

  Chapter Seventy Six

  HEATHER PULLS OFF her fleecy boots and looks around. She’s wearing the jeans with sequins sewn on the back pocket and a grey angora turtleneck.

  “Thanks for coming earlier. Sorry about lunch.”

  “No problem. Nice place.” Heather smiles at me. Her eyes are almost violet in the morning light, catching the hint of mauve in her sweater. The wire rims of her glasses have a faint lavender iridescence. I’ve never seen her earlier than four in the afternoon.

  “Want some tea? Coffee? I’ve got some good coffee.”

  “You’ve been hanging out with Doug.”

  “He’s a nice guy, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t trust charming men but yes, I think he is. And he’s good with the girls. Not like one of those absentee fathers buying their love. My ex-husband played that game.”

  The phone rings. “Hello?”

  “That you, Meg? This is Doug. I just spoke to Tanya. Brenda called her half an hour ago. Offered her condolences then told her that her services were no longer required. An official termination letter awaits her at Dreamcatcher. She can pick up her personal effects before 4 pm today. After that she will not be welcome on the premises.”

  “Jesus.”

  Heather’s watching me. Now she draws a finger across her throat. I nod.

  “Well, I wanted to let you know. You’re meeting with Heather?”

  “She’s here now. I guess this simplifies the letter. Did you talk to Jay?”

  “Not yet. Talk to you later.”

  “They really did it, the day after her mother’s funeral?” Heather says.

  “Yup.”

  “Well, I’m done.”

  “What about tonight?”

  “Shite.”

  “Maybe we just stick to our plan. Work this evening. Leave the letter for Brenda so she gets it tomorrow morning. I’d like a chance to say goodbye to the place. Some of the clients. Even if they don’t know.”

  “It’s going to be hard on them. Not too much stability in most of their lives, eh?”

  “You think we should tell them ourselves?”

  “No, I don’t. Do you?”

  “No. But ...”

  “You having second thoughts?”

  “Not really, just sad.”

  Heather nods. “Crazy as it is, I’ll miss the place.”

  “I don’t deal with change all that well, myself.”

  “I’ll miss our little gang. Maybe we can get together.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I know,” Heather says. “I thought I’d go on seeing a couple of the women I worked with after I retired but we really don’t have anything in common.”

  I wave goodbye from the stoop. Sunlight find its way down between the bare branches of the elms. I tip my face up. It’s warm for the end of November.

  Dad took apart an old apple barrel once, worked the bottom band all the way down, worked the top one up then pulled it off. The staves all fell outward. Lay in a ring on the ground. I stared at them. Couldn’t see where the barrel had gone. How the pieces had ever made a barrel at all. Something stout you could fill and roll.

  Ego strength. Lip-tooth speaking. Something I lack, according to her. I was trying to explain it, that feeling that you can just fall apart. There’s no middle. You disappear.

  You’re afraid you will disappear.

  Yes, but also you want it. It would be a relief. To disappear. Stop trying to hold yourself together.

  Are you having suicidal thoughts?

  Sober fifteen years, it wasn’t gone. That call of the dark. Of dissolution. Annihilation.

  ‘The beast,’ Val calls it. ‘Don’t feed the beast.’

  Chapter Seventy Seven

  GUY FROM P.E.I. is telling his story. He only moved here a year ago. Sober ten years. No work back home.

  I sit back in my chair. I’m in the right place at the right time doing the right thing. Whatever else happens in the day.

  “Never got into the meetings here,” he’s saying. “I was used to knowing everybody. Three months after I got here, I walked into a bar, ordered a beer. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Which it is for an alcoholic. Got away with it for a couple of weeks. Two, three beers a day. This is great, I thought, then fucked if I wasn’t on my arse drunk. ‘Scuse my language. Stayed drunk. Lost the job I moved here for. Got a D.U.I. so now I’m not going to be getting another job.” He looks around. Pale stubbly face, receding brown hair. “I’m a truck driver, right? I was mad, picked a fight in a bar, got the crap beat out of me. So if any of you are thinking it’s gotten better out there, look at me.” He holds up his left arm. “I got enough frigging hardware in my wrist now, I set off the metal detectors. But hey, that’s what it took to smarten me up. I’m back. I’m sober. I pray I’ll never take that for granted again. One day at a time. So thank you. Thank you for being here today. Without you, I’m dead meat.”

  “Good speaker, eh?” Val’s at my elbow.

  I nod.

  “How you doing?”

  “Better. Thanks for yesterday.”

  “Keeps me sober,” Val says.

  “Hey Meg, is that you?”

  I turn. Theresa’s standing there, long black hair shining. Her skin is glowing. She’s glowing. “Wow, Theresa, you look great.”

  “Meg, is it true they fired Tanya?”

  “That was fast,” I say.

  “Teepee telegraph,” Val says.

  “Well, that’s fucked.”

  “Theresa, do you know Val?”

  They smile at each other. “Val’s been helping me. Book-keeping, all that stuff. I’m doing it, Meg. The concrete business. Did Warren tell you him and Shannon are going to live with me until they can get on their feet? I could use some muscle in the business. He’s really strong, you know.”

  I nod. “It’s great to see you doing so well.”

  “Good to see you. Say hi to the gang. See you, Val.”

  Val’s eyes follow her. She’s smiling. Proud.

  “So she’s been coming to the Mustard Seed?”

  “Says it keeps it green, what it was like.”

  “It’s gotten worse, the neighbourhood, hasn’t it?”

  “First crack, now crystal meth. So they fired Tanya?”

  “We’re all quitting in protest, the evening shift.”

  “That’s what you meant about losing your job.” Val shakes her head. “I never could stand bad management. That’s why I work for myself.”

  “You own the boutique?”

  “I bought Madeleine out ov
er six years. Half of every pay cheque. So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m not working in an office again, but that’s all I know.”

  “Why don’t you go into business for yourself?”

  “Doing what? When I quit my job I read a couple of those books. Stalled out on the first question. ‘What is your passion?’ I felt like such a loser.”

  Val waves a long-fingered hand as if clearing away smoke. “Your mother had just died. You weren’t ready. Pray on it. You’ll get an answer.”

  Val knows I’m not big on praying. Except when I’m about to pick up a drink.

  “Keep an open mind, hon. I gotta go.”

  Chapter Seventy Eight

  “MEG, YOU’RE THERE. I tried calling earlier. Can I stop by?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Just around the corner.”

  I see his shadow through the cloudy glass of the front door a moment before I hear his soft rap. “Come on in. The kettle’s on.”

  “You’re okay?”

  “Yes. I just got back from a meeting.”

  “I was worried I dropped the ‘you’re not Theresa’ bombshell on you and then I had to go. I debated delaying telling you but that seemed ...”

  “Condescending? Good call. How was the funeral?”

  “Beautiful. Real.”

  “And the girls?”

  “They’re fine. They’re in good hands, between Tanya and Millie.”

  “And Tanya?”

  “Pissed off but not surprised, about Dreamcatcher. Sad and relieved about her mother. It was a peaceful death, her children around her.”

  “What would you like? Coffee?”

  “Just water, please.”

  When I come back into the living room, he’s leaning back, legs stretched out in front of him. A different pair of darned socks. His face looks more creased than usual.

  “So we’re all going to be out of work tomorrow,” I say, handing him the glass.

  “Will you stay here or are you thinking about moving to the ranch?”

  “I’m not sure Dad would have me right now.” His eyes are on my face but he doesn’t say anything. “I pushed him to tell me stuff he really didn’t want to talk about. He told me to leave.” I take a deep breath. “I came as close to drinking as I’ve come in almost twenty years.”

  Doug sits up. “Because of that or because you found out you’re not Theresa?”

  “Because I haven’t been getting to enough meetings. Because too many things came together. But yes, finding out I’m back to square one as far as knowing where I came from was part of it. My sponsor thinks I’m going to drink if I can’t accept not knowing.”

  “What do you think?”

  “She’s probably right. But it’s crazy. It’s in there. In here”—I point to my head—“the information I need. I just can’t make it come out.”

  “And you really do want to?”

  “Yes.”

  “So tell me a story.” Doug leans back again.

  “What kind of story?”

  “Whatever comes to your mind. Make something up.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything.”

  “Okay. There was a girl who had a friend. Which was good because she needed a friend. Her mother was high. Her father was worse. She had a dog. Who died.”

  I stop. “Sorry. I can’t help it.”

  “Hey, it’s your story. Take it wherever you want.”

  “But I don’t want.” I stop. “Maybe I do. Okay. The dog died. The mother died. Or something. The father. The father was a nice father. Except when he wasn’t. When he was drunk he was happy. Except when he wasn’t. He had friends. They came and played cards and they drank beer and sometimes they argued and got into fights. After the men were gone her father would come upstairs. He would stand in the door of her bedroom. She would screw her eyes tight shut. She wouldn’t move a muscle.”

  I stop, stomach curled so tight on itself I could throw up. I say, “This isn’t my story. This is my mother’s story.” My voice sounds far away. Everything is far away.

  “Her mother had a stroke. Her sisters left home. They told her it was her turn now. They laughed.”

  “Your mother told you that?”

  “She told me what the sisters said. But I didn’t understand what it meant. So it’s her story.”

  I stop. Doug has that sorry-for-you look that made me want to rip the heads off assorted therapists. I open my mouth but then I shut it because he’s nodding and there’s something else in his eyes.

  “Everywhere you look.” He says it softly. “My girls. Lorraine. A man Tanya was dating. Girls and I talked on the phone Sundays I was up north. Lorraine didn’t sound herself. She told me.” He shakes his head. “I paid my whole month’s wage to get on a chopper that night. Called up Tanya when I landed. Told her he’d better be gone. I’d have killed him.” Doug’s voice is quiet, matter of fact.

  “Is she ... your daughter okay?”

  He nods. “Bastard suggested something. Told her it would be their secret. She’d be his ‘little princess.’”

  “Tanya didn’t know?”

  He shakes his head.

  I feel tired and sad and wound up. I open my mouth, say, “I have scars on the backs of my legs.”

  He looks at me, face serious, waiting.

  “Sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”

  He looks puzzled.

  “I mean it’s true. It’s just ... I don’t know why I told you that.”

  Only I do. I want him to fly in on a helicopter, chase away the bad guys. Take me somewhere safe. I want it so much my chest is caving in with the wanting. And I’m completely embarrassed. I’m forty-two years old, talking to a co-worker.

  But it’s real and clear and true, that wanting.

  “I wanted to be rescued,” I say.

  I wrap it into myself. I wanted to be rescued. I know this. This is something I know.

  Chapter Seventy Nine

  MY FINGERS SINK into rough fur. I breathe in sage and sweet-grass and aftershave. My eyes travel up the courses of stone to the opening at the top.

  “Creator, Spirit, Whatever, please help me accept my life as it is, right now. Even if I never know anything more than that I wanted to be rescued. Please help Danielle and Edward and Geoffrey and Gordon and Don and Deborah; Warren and Shannon and Joey; Mona and Janice. Help Ash and James and Wendy and all the others come back and try again. Help Dreamcatcher and Cathy and ... yes, Brenda too. And Theresa and Val and Judy; Tanya and Millie and the girls. Help Doug and Jay and Heather. Laura too and Harold. And Bill. Help Manfred and Victor and Dad and Mum, wherever you are if there is a life after this.”

  I’m sitting in the dome, eyes closed, fingers buried in the coat of a long dead bear. It spreads out like ripples in a pond, the prayer.

  “Amen,” say the people in the circle. “Hai hai.”

  The blanket is drawn back and we stand, blinking, Jay and Heather and I spread out among the female clients.

  Laura’s pushing a pad and pencil across the counter. “Write down the number,” she says, “and your name.”

  “That’s not ...” Don says.

  “It’s how I do it,” Laura says with a swing of honey blonde hair.

  She dials the number from the pad, hands him the receiver and writes down the time beside his name.

  He turns his back on the desk, stretching the cord.

  She taps him on the shoulder. His head snaps around but whatever he was going to say goes unsaid. He rolls his eyes then turns so he’s facing the counter.

  “Who’s next?” Laura asks, holding out the pad.

  “The list is born again,” Jay murmurs to Heather who is folding sarongs. “I’m going out on the floor.” She catches my eye.

  “And I’ll do a room check.” I reach for the logbook but Laura beats me to it.

  22:27 Meg doing room check, Jay on floor, Laura on desk, Heather in office.

  I trail my fingers a
long the belly curve of rock. Jay’s waiting for me on the far side. She glances around. Most of the clients are in their rooms already, tired from their Sunday pass.

  “Doug called earlier. We’re all invited to his place on Thursday. A farewell to Dreamcatcher barbecue. Partners invited. Not that Annie will come. She’s had her fill of Dreamcatcher stories. She’s not going to miss me working here.”

  “And you?”

  “Fuuuck,” Jay says. “I should be glad but ...”

  I nod. “I have the letter for you to sign. What do we do about Laura? I assume Doug didn’t tell her. It feels weird, skulking around behind her back.”

  “Then let’s tell her.”

  “Should we ask Heather?”

  “She doesn’t care. Brenda’s not going to back down from firing Tanya.”

  “So, Laura,” Jay says. We’re all in the office. I’m counting cash, Heather’s at the computer.

  “Yes?”

  “You heard that Tanya was fired yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, the three of us and Doug are quitting as of tonight. In protest at that and at the lack of aftercare.”

  Laura nods. “I warned Brenda,” she says.

  “Oh?” Heather turns in her chair.

  “What did you say?” Jay asks.

  “That the evening staff were tight. They were unlikely to accept the dismissal.”

  “And what did she say?” Heather asks.

  Laura looks around at us. “She said, ‘Evening staff are a dime a dozen.’”

  “And what did you say?” Jay asks, her voice perfectly neutral.

  “I said, ‘You get what you pay for.’”

  Heather’s eyebrows go up. “And what did Brenda say to that?”

  Laura shrugs. “She knows the board is discussing making the positions full time. With benefits.”

  “Well,” Heather says, glancing at the clock, “I expect we should do the overview. Let’s see. Mona?”

  “Good but anxious,” Jay says.

  “Jeanette?”

  “Struggling.”

  “Danielle?”