A Funny Kind of Paradise Read online

  But here is the gift. I don’t care. I don’t care! My right hand is useless, I can’t speak and more people have seen my bare ass in the last year than if I was a streaker at the opera, because I need my diaper changed, for God’s sake. Do you think I care if you see me cry?

  I wipe my face with the back of my left hand and smear my fist on my gown. Oh yuck. Polyester and tears. There I go again.

  * * *

  The RN was after her to cut out the salt. Her feet are swollen up like pontoons.

  She says the food here is so bland, and I don’t blame her.

  Well, she’s downtown in her power wheelchair right now buying chips.

  She’s got a right to live at risk, I guess.

  Okay then, but don’t accuse us of not doing anything to help her with those sore feet, that’s all I’m saying. There’s a direct connection between your sodium intake and that effin edema, so quit yer bitchin’!

  I love salt.

  Yeah, me too.

  * * *

  The nursing staff changes shift at three o’clock. Fabby, my evening aide, is a fresh-faced young woman. Her partner, Stella, is much older, but the two of them get along fine. Fabby looks up to Stella, and Stella respects Fabby because she’s a good worker.

  It’s funny how the energy changes in the evening. All the administration and housekeeping staff go home and the hospital hums along quietly, with a completely different rhythm from days. It can be very busy, though, depending on who is sundowning. People with dementia get a little bit wackier in the evenings. Did you know that, Anna? I didn’t, until I came here.

  After shift change, Fabby wakes me up, bouncing into the sunroom to ask if I’d like to go to bed. My bottom is killing me, so I nod yes.

  Stella is already doing Nana’s evening care behind the curtains.

  Why don’t you wash her in the chair? she asks, as Fabby hooks me up to the sling and I begin my slow ascent.

  I like to do her on the bed, says Fabby, shortly, then laughs. That doesn’t sound good, does it.

  True, but I know what you mean.

  Fabby can’t resist venting.

  Gosh, Stella, Ivy is breaking my heart!

  Calling out?

  “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me!” But what can I do?

  Shut the door. You’re too tender-hearted.

  Well, if it was me…so sad. Would she do better in a double room?

  Actually she was in the five-bed when she admitted, but she drove the other ladies crazy.

  So it’s not company she needs…

  No. She wants one on one, one hundred percent of the time.

  So pitiful.

  Some people will never be satisfied, even when they get dementia.

  Well, thank God for group change.

  Amen. Are you going to put Mary in?

  I think so. Everyone else wants to go down right after supper; I’ve only got two hands. And I’m sure she’s wet, she’s been up quite a while.

  You can feed her and Nana together. I need to stay in the dining room.

  Yeah, okay, that works.

  Fabby finishes quickly, reversing the morning routine. Flip—she folds the sling under me, passes a damp cloth over my back, slides in a clean disposable and rolls me back to face her. The sling comes out and Fabby attaches the disposable diaper tabs. She flips my pillow, smoothes back my hair and brings my table tray within reach. She remembers to leave my gastrotube accessible so the nurse doesn’t have to dig for it, and she checks to make sure I’ve got my call bell. She’s an efficient worker. I feel safe.

  And then the room goes quiet again.

  * * *

  The sun is coming through my window now, setting the dust motes dancing in the air. Alice trip-traps over to my bed, the smallest Billy Goat Gruff looking for greener pastures. It’s the click-clack of her shoes that makes me think of that fairy tale, or maybe the fact that she’s far too thin for any troll to eat. She picks at my quilt with her bony fingers. The touching used to bother me, but I’ve adjusted, and as long as she keeps her paws off the things on my over-the-bed table (and I am able to reach far enough with my good hand to defend that), I no longer care how much she harmlessly admires the fabric in my quilt.

  Yes, Anna, the quilt you bought for me.

  We were sitting in your diner, late, with the lights down and the doors locked, sharing a single cigarette (such a guilty pleasure, smoking inside) and a glass of wine. It was, ahh, that fabulous wind-down at the end of another gruelling day. Once again I was in the middle of some work marathon, but working myself to death certainly felt better than worrying myself to death; at least hard work brought me a sense of accomplishment and a paycheque. Angelina was at the peak of her rebellious maelstrom. If she was out, I fretted myself sick wondering where she was, and if she was home, her stony silence made me feel even worse. It wasn’t that I’d stopped worrying—I never stopped worrying—but I’d reached a plateau of novocaine numbness. I knew she was making unhealthy choices…God, that sounds so prim! She was drinking and sleeping around with her pack of friends, and I’m pretty sure she was smoking dope. She came home when she needed laundry or makeup or a shower.

  “Back home, there was a trades option in high school. I took cooking.”

  Even that harmless comment was enough to put me on the defensive.

  “I talked to the guidance counsellor about that. Angelina didn’t even begin to listen, she has no interest!” I cried.

  You spread your hands out between us: peace. I took a deep breath.

  “You know I named that girl for you, Anna,” I said. “I had no one, and you helped me when I needed it the most, like an angel. So I named her for you. But she’s not the least bit like you, more’s the pity. I swear she’s half devil.”

  “It is an honour, to have someone named for me. Angelina isn’t finished yet. You must have faith.”

  “I don’t believe in God. You know that.”

  “Have faith in Angelina. Leave God out of it.”

  “Well.” Absent-mindedly, I tore the napkin into shreds.

  “You’ve been a sister to me,” you said.

  I had to think about that. I wasn’t sure why you were changing the topic.

  “We neither of us have a real sister. So we have made one,” you continued.

  You took a drag on the cigarette and passed it to me, slid out of the booth and went into the back, while I sat there watching the smoke curl in the half-light. The nicotine and alcohol hitting my nervous system was such a profound relief.

  You came back with the quilt. “It’s not your style, normally. But I think it is right for you at this time. I found it at the farmer’s market,” you said, as you smoothed the fabric—a crazy quilt made with the most beautiful velvets, soft and rich as custard. My hands reached out of their own accord, drawn to the colours, the texture of the thing.

  “Take it,” you said. “Every piece is a prayer.”

  * * *

  When the supper trays come down, Fabby does her best to encourage Janet to feed herself, while walking between Nana’s and Mary’s beds, helping them both—bite for you, bite for you.

  Never eat when you’re not hungry. It’s one of my life rules.

  But your blood sugar is low. You need to eat.

  And if I don’t?

  You will lose consciousness.

  And die?

  Eventually, yeah.

  Did it ever occur to you that there might be a good time to die?

  Janet, you’re only sixty-seven. You could still have a good life here if you try.

  Stella comes in with Alice in tow.

  Did she eat?

  Not really. The dining room is too distracting for her. I’ll give her an Ensure later. Come, Alice.

  Stella holds Alice by the hand, and takes Janet’s spoon.
Open up, Janet.

  Janet opens. Stella is the law.

  Melissa is gaining weight, Fabby says.

  Naturally. You see the way she eats.

  They put her on a special diet…

  And she just goes right downtown in her power wheelchair and gets whatever she wants.

  Family are always bringing in treats too. It’s all she’s got left, I guess.

  Nonsense. She has more than a lot of people here.

  She eats for comfort.

  If she gains much more, she will not be able to turn herself. But we’re not going to change her. She’s been living this way for years. That’s how she got here in the first place.

  Stella gives Janet a severe look, as if to say, “Same goes for you!” But fortunately Janet can’t see.

  Open, Janet.

  Janet opens her mouth.

  Your daughter found work yet? Fabby asks.

  No such luck, says Stella in disgust.

  I’m sure she’s trying.

  And I’m sure you’d find something nice to say about the devil himself, my girl.

  Another supper is over. Fabby dims the lights on the way out. It may be six fifteen, but for us, another day is almost done.

  * * *

  I got home very late from seeing a client and the house was dark and uninviting. I didn’t expect a welcoming committee, but Chris was usually home by seven thirty—was home or had been home, leaving the lights on and crumbs on the kitchen counter.

  That night the house was oppressively still, and instead of immediately changing from my good slacks into blue jeans, I poured myself a glass of white wine and lingered in the shadows by the kitchen window, looking out over the backyard. Mired in loneliness, I waited without realizing I was waiting.

  It was much later still when Chris finally came home, late enough that supper had been made, grown cold and scraped uneaten into a container to languish in the fridge.

  “Where were you? You didn’t call.”

  “Out.”

  “What kind of an answer is that?” The kid was in grade twelve—he was almost a man. But he still lived under my roof.

  Chris opened the fridge and pulled out the milk.

  I was about to say, “Get a glass, this isn’t a barn,” when he spoke into the cold of the refrigerator. “I was following Angelina.”

  Suddenly I could barely breathe.

  “What made you do that?”

  Chris turned around to face me.

  “I just want to know what she’s up to. Make sure she’s not getting too crazy with those friends of hers out there. Make sure she’s safe. Y’know?”

  I could see the worry on his face.

  “And was she? Is she?”

  “I don’t know, Mom. I really don’t know. She’s partying pretty hard.”

  “Did you try to talk to her?”

  “I can’t talk to her when she’s drinking like that.”

  “Where are they getting their booze?”

  Chris shrugged. “You can always get booze if you want to badly enough. Don’t tell me you didn’t do the same when you were a kid, because I’d know you were lying.”

  “Why didn’t you make her come home?”

  “I can’t make her come home, Mom. I can’t make her do anything. I can’t watch her all the time either.”

  “That girl makes me crazy. She makes me crazy, I tell you!” And I threw the mug in my hands against the wall as hard as I could.

  * * *

  Stella comes in at about ten to put Alice to bed. They keep her up late in the hope that when she does lie down, she’ll stay. Stella washes her quickly in the bathroom and leads her past my bed, a little old ghost in a long-sleeved white nightgown. The pill nurse walks in just in time with Alice’s evening meds and a warm blanket. We’ve all been checked and changed. Everyone will try to be extra quiet now, hoping Alice will have a good night. When the night staff come on at eleven, they will slide into the room like shadows, placing the night linens on our side tables, ready for the mid-shift wet round, when everyone who needs a disposable change gets one. There are only two aides for fifty patients on nights. They don’t want Alice up and wandering, going from room to room, disturbing the other residents.

  Stella puts Janet on her side; Janet grumbles. Why did you wake me? I was dreaming of snow.

  Stella sighs, murmurs, Go back to sleep.

  Stillness falls, thick like a narcotic haze.

  ARE YOU GLAD TO BE ALIVE?

  Molly looks much more relaxed without her newbie in tow.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t put proper clothes on you yesterday, Miss Francesca,” she says. “I had a hell of a day. I’m gonna make it up to you. What would you like to wear?”

  She opens up my locker and starts pulling out clothes…my grey pants and the soft black sweater with pearl beading around the neckline, the navy pants with the tailored shirt in a rich geometric pattern of purple and sky-blue on black. I choose a bright red knit tunic with sleeves that end just below the elbow. Cleverly positioned stitching gives it shape. It’s a lovely piece.

  I bought it at Carlotta’s Boutique on a rainy afternoon in February years ago; it’s worn well. I remember because Carlotta had decked out the windows for Valentine’s and there were reds and pinks of every shade in the store. Quality consignment clothes. I was there so often that Carlotta got to know me better than my doctor did. She knew my taste and saved things out for me. Once I discovered Carlotta’s, I never looked back, not even when my business became successful enough that I could have shopped wherever I wanted.

  It wasn’t just loyalty, though God knows because of Carlotta, for years I dressed myself in the kind of clothes I otherwise would never have been able to afford…not if I wanted to feed the kids. At first I approached second-hand clothing like a shame-faced suburban housewife looking for a hit from a downtown pusher—gracious, what would my father have thought! However, I got so that I appreciated the pleasure of the lucky find (that single piece, in just my size) and the satisfaction was intensified by the price: designer labels at a fraction of the original cost. Carlotta was meticulous in her acquisitions. No one could tell they weren’t new, and I certainly would never have revealed that fact.

  God, how I loved good clothes. I told myself it was all part of the plan: Dress for Success and Act the Part. The dress code at Jackson Douglas was decidedly rigid back in the days when they employed me, so I’d acquired an excellent selection of business-appropriate clothing during my four years there. And certainly I relied on my wardrobe to create an image of authority I didn’t necessarily feel during the early days when I was trying to grow my business. I told myself I would never choose an accountant or a financial planner who had dirty fingernails. How could one infer meticulous attention to detail in a person with a wrinkled shirt? These were my excuses for what felt like extravagance when grocery money was so tight. But I needed the confidence that came from knowing that I was well turned out from the tips of my black leather pumps to my pearl earrings. Perfectly pressed business suits with buttoned up silk shirts were my armour. They were my superhero cape, they made me invincible. And as I became more financially secure, my clothes reflected not only the promise of prosperity but the confirmation of it.

  But kids and nice clothes don’t mix. That’s a fact. I used to shed my client clothes the instant I walked in my front door, before I even flicked on the lights. I kept a kimono hanging in the entranceway so I wouldn’t get caught in my bra and panties. Yet between daycare pickup and the time I got home, something always seemed to happen. Baby puke on my silk blouse, Christian’s snotty face pressed into my linen dress pants—it was enough to make me wild. Chris learned to wash his hands before running to embrace me, but I swear Angelina dirtied hers on purpose, wicked imp that she was, thinking she was being funny. How I laughed one time when I swept her into my arms
, holding her wrist to show her the grubbiness of her little brown paws. “I don’t have time to wash my hands,” she said, mimicking me. “I’m a very busy woman!” Even Chris smiled, turning his face away, as though to keep his amusement private.

  I squeeze my eyes shut as Molly manoeuvres me into my pullover.

  * * *

  Shortly after I came here, my aide was a square-faced young woman with hands smelling of soap and lotion, whom I’ve never seen since. She was earnest but plodding, and she must have been fairly new or perhaps a little dull because when she tried to put my teal green dress shirt on me, she put my good arm in first, and then of course she couldn’t get my bad arm in, and I couldn’t help her at all. We wrestled like washerwomen struggling to wring out double sheets by hand, my body wayward and bulky, my aide’s homely face glistening with perspiration. Two other aides wandered into the room and, offering to help, they wrestled too. Once the shirt was on, they rolled me back and forth, shimmying my pants up inch by inch one side at a time. In the end, I sat in the chair, queasy and humiliated but decently dressed, centre seams only slightly askew. The girls panted in a semicircle before me.

  We have got to get her clothes geried!

  Yes, that was a challenge.

  Does she have family we could ask?

  Just take the scissors and split them!

  No, you can get in big trouble like that. We’ve got to ask the family for permission.

  We could phone her son.

  Ask her. She knows what she wants.

  No for Chrissake, don’t do that. If she says no, management will take her side and we’ll be screwed. It’s got to be done. We’ll break our backs here. Call her son and make him say yes.

  One of the girls had hurt my rigid arm quite badly, and I could tell that my hair was sticking up in a most undignified way. Watching their faces like a cornered cat, I didn’t know what to think. A girl with soft blond hair in a ponytail reached out to place a slender hand on my arm.