A Funny Kind of Paradise Read online

  Lily plopped Sierra down again and introduced her to the ladies. Sierra shook hands with Mary and Alice while I waited my turn. I never was that interested in children, except my own. I greeted Sierra with perfunctory interest, then brushed my hand neck to thigh and back and pointed at Lily.

  “The dress? You like it?”

  I nodded. Lily beamed.

  “It’s one of my own designs.”

  I gave her the thumbs up. Sierra was tugging at her mother’s hand…the “Let’s go” code of polite children everywhere. Chris did that. Angelina, on the other hand, would simply pick up something she wasn’t supposed to have and drop it.

  Being a single mother isn’t easy; I have a flash of empathy for Lily and all she has to juggle.

  * * *

  I brought up the dress the next time I saw Lily, repeating the motion I’d made on that day, the sweep of my good hand from neck to thigh and back. I knew she’d remember.

  “The dress? You really liked it, then?”

  I nodded.

  “When I was in high school, I wanted to be a fashion designer,” she said. “I dreamed that I would be one of those famous artist creators. The amazing thing is, one of my classmates did go on to fulfill that dream. But her family had money and they backed her. My mother moved up island with some guy. So I moved in with River and had a baby.”

  Lily had hooked me up in the sling and brought me up over the bed.

  “Thank God I took this course right out of high school, or I’d really have been in a jam, moneywise. Mom pushed me to do it. She wanted her freedom so badly, you know; she wanted me financially independent and out of the way.”

  As she removed the sling, I tapped her with two fingers, asking a question.

  “River? He’s not a bad person. We stay in touch. He’s still got the band…Yes, I fell for a bass player. Not my smartest decision, was it? He does kayak tours in the summer. He doesn’t make a lot of money, so there isn’t a lot of financial support.”

  I shook my finger at her.

  “No. I wouldn’t go to court. It’s not the worth the hard feelings, Francesca. We were both too young and what’s done is done. He helps with the babysitting when he’s around.”

  Lily supported my head with one hand and deftly flipped my pillow with the other.

  “Would you like to see some of my other creations?” Lily pulled out her phone with a sly look over her shoulder. “We’re not supposed to carry these at work,” she said, placing one finger to my lips with a conspiratorial smile. Then she started flipping through pictures of the outfits she’d designed. They were beautiful, functional and creative. I pointed and Lily explained.

  “That one? I wanted something that would fill the gap between dressy and casual, something that would be easy maintenance but also look really good. I was thinking of mothers, obviously, because you don’t have a lot of time to look after fussy fabrics, but you especially need to look good when you’re feeling overwhelmed by motherhood.”

  I mimed vomiting and Lily smiled. “That’s right. Just like extended care! Everything needs to be a hundred percent washable. But when you have a chance to get out, you want to feel like yourself, not ‘the woman with the baby,’ even when the baby is sitting on your hip. The last thing you want is frumpy. That’s what I had in mind when I designed this. But you know what the flaw is?”

  I shook my head.

  “Solid colours. Solid colours show grease stains.”

  I nodded solemnly. How true it is.

  “Why do children have such greasy fingers?”

  I really don’t know. Neither does Lily.

  * * *

  That was Lily in the flush of new love, Anna—bubbling and light, warm, understanding and helpful. A crackling fire on a cold day, drawing everyone closer.

  Two weeks later, the guy dumped her and the fog rolled in. Lily grew big dark circles under her eyes, her hands shook, and one day she burst into tears in the hallway. Molly grabbed a fistful of my tissues before hustling her into an empty room. “Thanks for the Kleenex,” she said to me later. “Lily the Lovelorn needs to learn to leave her home life at home.”

  It was at least another two weeks before the sun came out, and Lovely Lily smiled again. Most of the fall was calm and clear. Just before Christmas, Lily met another guy and rode the whole roller coaster from infatuation to despair to equilibrium as though she’d never been on that ride before. And in the spring, she did it all again.

  * * *

  But why is it always about the man, Anna? For the first time in a long time, in almost forever, I remember Karl as he was when we first got together. My God, what a good-looking man, all Nordic beauty, blond hair, high cheekbones, aquamarine eyes, long muscles, sensual lips. Every part of my body yearned for him. How proud I was of how we looked together, like sunlight and moonlight, yin and yang. I thought we were perfect for each other.

  If we’d just had Chris, Karl might have stayed—at least until I grew the backbone to kick him out. One child is a bump, a blip, a piece of baggage you can wheel along beside you, especially a quiet son like Christian. You could put that boy down and tell him to stay, and as long as he had his matchbox truck in one hand and his magic rock in his pocket, he would wait for hours, like the youngest brother in a fairy tale, following directions as though the wicked witch was waiting to turn him into stone. It was in his nature to be good, and Karl trained him early to sit quietly, taking him to poker games when I thought they’d gone to the park, poor lad.

  But two kids, well, that’s a family. Unbridled domesticity, responsibility, trikes in the driveway, breakfast cereal. Karl wanted none of that.

  We both married such stinkers, Anna.

  Your dad was a stinker too.

  “Papa thought no one as ugly as I am could be smart,” you said, touching your lip. “He thought a damaged animal should be put down.”

  “What damage?”

  “My harelip. He said I am ugly, like a hare.”

  Did you believe him? Did you marry a brutal man like Anton because you believed him?

  Damn it. There are tears on my face again.

  * * *

  “Frannie’s crying.” Michiko has been doing Mary’s care without taking the time to close the curtains. “Do they have her on antidepressants?”

  Molly strides across the room. “Aw, Frannie! What’s up?”

  I shake my head. Nothing. It’s nothing.

  “She just gets sad sometimes, don’t you, Frannie? We all get sad sometimes.”

  “She cries a lot.”

  “She smiles a lot too. It’s the stroke…you’re alright, aren’t you, Fran?”

  I nod vigorously.

  “God, she doesn’t need more drugs. She’s on a bucketful. Let her be sad. She’s got a right to be sad. Besides, it’s Saturday. That’ll take away the tears! Right, Frannie?”

  A big grin spreads across my face; Saturday’s the day Chris comes in.

  “There you go!” smiles Molly. “Want to go to the sunroom, so you can visit in private?”

  That’s exactly what I want. I have no desire to share Chris.

  In the wake of Karl’s departure I used to preach to the kids: “Never try to be with someone who doesn’t want to be with you. It’s no fun.” It was the barn door I swung on with the horse long gone, my Cassandra’s cry.

  But once again I was wrong.

  I’m pretty sure this is the last place Chris wants to be, and it’s not fun, no, not fun, but it’s achingly wonderful just to be with Chris when he visits. Simply to have him near.

  * * *

  I drift off again, and when I wake up, Michiko and Molly are laughing in the hallway, their voices faint but still audible.

  So I had him standing at the bathroom bar, you know, getting his pants down, and he said, “Your hair’s standing right up, just like my pecker
!”

  Oh, I bet he was a bad boy!

  One time he said to me, all sad-like, “I used to be sooo sexy.”

  What did you say?

  I said, “Dude, you still are!”

  Aw, you’re good! But y’know, his wife told me he used to say, “If I lose my marbles, let me die. I don’t want to live like that.”

  So I ask him, “Is life still sweet?” and he says, “Life is stiiill sweet!”

  Did you tell his wife that?

  Well yeah, I did. I mean, it’s a comfort to her, right? Like, this isn’t easy for her—he’s not the guy she married, eh.

  True.

  * * *

  “I’d rather be dead.” That’s what I said to Chris about extended care. I remember it well.

  It was Christmastime. Chris’s school was paired with an extended care facility as part of an initiative intended to integrate children with the elderly, and his class was giving a concert in mid-December. The kids had practised for weeks. “Bring a Torch, Jeannette, Isabella.” “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” Chris had a cameo performance as Santa: “Rudolph with your nose so bright, won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?” He took the responsibility very seriously.

  I went to a lot of trouble to make sure I could watch the concert. Angelina was in after-school care after kindergarten that day, but I had to see a difficult client who objected to being rescheduled and I had trouble getting away. In the end I was late. I could hear the children’s voices as I pushed through the door, conscious of a wall of sensation. The air was overheated, redolent with the smells of urine and boiled vegetables. I could feel the odorants clinging to me, adhering to my nylons, infusing my pores. I became hyperaware of the sound of my shoes, the length of my legs, the sweat on my upper lip as I strode past a gauntlet of hags tied into their chairs; I hurried past. “Won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?” Chris’s voice rang out clear and pure and all the sweeter in contrast with the putrid air.

  I leaned against the wall, faint, as Miss Devon led the class through their final song. The room spun. It took me a moment to regain my equilibrium.

  After the music, the children were encouraged to shake hands with the residents before claiming their sugary reward, holly-shaped cookies and Dixie cups of juice. Some of the boys were already horsing around, wadding pieces of their napkins and blowing them across the room with their straws. But Chris had been claimed by a vigorous witch clearly eager to eat him up, so tight was her grip; I walked across the room towards him.

  “Christian,” I said, and he looked up at me, alert to the usage of his full name, relaxing when I added, “good job.”

  I pried the bony fingers away, one by one, releasing my son’s hand. She was surprisingly strong, and she let out a wail like a wounded cat. Chris rubbed his bloodless fingers on his jeans. “Goodbye now,” he said to her, and we turned away.

  Outside, free again, the fresh, cold air was sobering as a slap and we gulped deep breaths. “I’d rather be dead,” I said. “I’d rather be dead than have to live in a place like that.”

  And I meant it. At the time.

  * * *

  No one wants their mother to have a stroke. Chris was not only sad during his visits but distant in a way that made me sad too. It was Lily, working Molly’s holidays last spring, who helped shift our stagnation.

  I wanted to stay up so Chris could wheel me into the garden, but it was raining and the sky was grey and my bottom felt like someone took the citrus zester to it, so when Lily offered, I was grateful to go back to bed. She was just pulling the curtains open when Chris arrived.

  It’s pretty hard not to stare at Lily, she’s just that beautiful, so I was not surprised that Chris wasn’t looking at me.

  Oh hello, Chris! How are you?

  Good, good.

  But his back was rounded, and his shoulders drooped.

  How are you, Lily?

  Oh fine. Francesca will be glad to see you!

  I guess.

  Lily’s attention crackled, like bed sheets snapping when you fold them fast and taut.

  You guess? What are you talking about. It’s the high point of her week!

  Maybe.

  Maybe?

  Well. I just kind of sit here.

  Uh-huh.

  Like a lump.

  Chris. Your visits are what Francesca is living for. Surely you must know that.

  There was an awkward silence while Chris examined the lint in his pockets.

  Mom has always been…pretty prickly. She was a single parent with a career. My sister was…Throwing my mom into parenting my sister alone was like expecting someone with a learner’s permit to drive an eighteen-wheeler for the first time on the 401 into Toronto. Or maybe the Autobahn—I’ve heard that’s pretty crazy.

  Lily laughed.

  Parenting is never easy—that’s a given. But Chris, Francesca is fully invested in you. There’s absolutely no doubt about that.

  Chris shrugged. Lily laid her elegant hand on his arm, and her voice was very low.

  Maybe she wasn’t able to show how much she cared about you, or maybe she never had the time. I don’t know, I didn’t grow up at your house. But you can take this to the bank—Francesca loves you. Right now, she’s got nothing but time. Take a chance, Chris. She’s changed, even in the time since she came here. Anyone who’s not dead has got a right to change. You can give her that.

  But…is she…all there? D’you think?

  Oh, I’m sure of it. She understands every word we say, Chris. Her cognition is excellent.

  Chris looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time in I don’t know how long. And his expression was speculative.

  I could hardly breathe from the weight of hope.

  She’s all there, Chris, and she’s waiting for you.

  Lily put her right hand over her left breast and mimed the opening and closing of a window shutter.

  Time is ticking, Chris, she said, turning to go. Open your heart.

  * * *

  Turning the wheel on the kaleidoscope—that is one of Lily’s special gifts. After that day, Chris’s visits were completely different.

  The very next week, he strode in with his head up and his shoulders back. I was in my bed. The tube-feed had made me queasy and I’d vomited. I couldn’t get rid of the taste in my mouth. The smell on my breath reminded me of babies and sleepless nights and utter, flattening fatigue.

  “Mom. How was your week?”

  I tipped my hand—comme ci, comme ça.

  “So, Mom,” Chris said in a low voice, staring into my eyes. “Tell me. Are you glad to be alive? Because I need to know.”

  To tell the truth, it was kind of creepy. I said nothing, did nothing. I held my breath. Chris took a gulp of air and went on.

  “Anna warned me that she was going to kill herself, Mom, when the cancer got so bad. She told me the only time it is permissible to kill yourself is when you won’t be able to do it tomorrow. She said she was no big fan of pain. You know all that, don’t you, Mom.”

  I nodded, flooded with feelings. A tear welled up in my eye.

  But Chris was on a mission. He had a point and he was getting to it.

  “You’re stuck, Mom. You missed your chance. Even if you wanted to die, you have to live now.”

  I shook my head and mimed pulling out my feeding tube. Chris looked skeptical—not much of a choice.

  Yes. I know.

  “The point is…Mom…are you glad to be alive?”

  This time I was ready. I stabbed my finger at my son, willing him to understand. But he didn’t.

  “Not me, Mom. Not me. I’m just holding on.” And he gritted his teeth. His voice lowered to a whisper. “It’s the best I can do right now.”

  I was so sad for my boy, I almost forgot what it was I was trying to say. I grabbed
his wrist with my good hand, and held him with all my strength.

  It’s not a question of glad or sad, or will or won’t. My son needs me. Whether he knows it or not. I’m not going anywhere.

  * * *

  So then I knew that you’d talked to Chris, and I was glad. I wondered, Anna, when I called to tell him you were gone and he wasn’t surprised. But then, you’d been sick for so long.

  You were ill for two years before we pressured you into moving in with me when you got so bad that we didn’t want you living alone; we bought an electrical bed with a head and foot raise feature and put it in the living room so that you didn’t have to do the stairs. You were with me for almost another year and it was a long haul for you. I don’t like to think about your suffering.

  There were two years between your death and my stroke. Tidying up your estate took time. I tidied mine too, while I was at it, thinking “just in case.” You had eased Chris into the running of the diner shortly after your diagnosis. He had been working with the same company long enough to negotiate for more job flexibility to accommodate his responsibilities, but as a programmer analyst, there were times when he worked gruelling long hours. “Damage control,” he said. Somehow he seemed to cope. I tried to bury myself in work too, like I’d always done, but somehow that drug had lost its power.

  About six months after you died, Chris dropped by unexpectedly.

  “Mom,” he said, “you’ve got to move Anna’s hospital bed out of the living room.”

  “It’s my house!”

  Chris crossed the room and put an arm around me, not looking in my face. He whispered in my ear.

  “It’s morbid, Mom. She’s dead.”

  Facing the bed together, I went still as Chris held my shoulders tight, a restraint, and I stared straight ahead, imagining your body propped up, your face catching the afternoon sun that streamed in from the bay windows.