A Funny Kind of Paradise Read online

  “I feel like she’s there. I can talk to her. From the kitchen. From the bedroom if I raise my voice.”

  “You can still talk to her.”

  Chris let go, started walking to the door.

  “Bought you something, Mom. C’mere.”

  He’d borrowed a truck and there was a chaise longue in the back.

  “Anna’s favourite colour,” I said. A deep ocean blue. You would have loved it.

  “Yup. Help me. We’re going to switch these out.”

  Getting the chaise in was hard enough, but hospital beds are heavy and there was no way Chris and I could lift it. I ended up donating it and hiring men to take it away, but for a while the chaise and bed lay next to each other, crowding my living room. I imagined you getting up from the bed, crossing over to the lounger and reclining there. I brought your quilt out, flung it across the back of the chaise. Something to make you cozy.

  Chris was right. I could still talk to you.

  It doesn’t feel like you’ve gone, even now, three years later, as I lie here in my own hospital bed. You’re still here for me and I still need you.

  * * *

  The family said, “We don’t want her to get addicted.” Jesus Christ, she’s ninety-eight years old and she’s in agony. Get her some morphine, for God’s sake. She’s not going to get hooked and run out and starting doing B & Es to support her habit. Give the poor woman some peace!

  * * *

  I’m beginning to think that Chris isn’t coming today, and to wish that I had let Fabby put me to bed after all, but in the late afternoon, well after shift change, he finally arrives. Sitting with his jaw on his fists and his elbows on his knees in the deep chair in the sunroom, Chris addresses my ankles.

  “I’m pretty sure Theresa is going to leave me.”

  I sit like the statue of Queen Victoria on her throne, afraid to wriggle in spite of a terrible pressure spot on the fragile skin over my tailbone. More—tell me more!

  Chris lifts his head from his hands and sprawls backwards in his chair.

  “You know, we’ve been together a long time. Seventeen years. I know when she’s got something cooking. I mean, the big stuff. She wants a new couch, she’s planning a trip, she talks about it for weeks. Months even. But the big stuff—nothing. She just gets quieter and quieter and one day, out of the blue—bam. ‘I’m going to change careers.’ ‘I want to buy a house.’ ‘I want a baby.’ ”

  Deep sigh.

  (More! Tell me more! I hold my breath, staring still and unresponsive as a fried egg on a plate.)

  “And there’s no baby. There’s not gonna be a baby. After everything we’ve been through trying to make that happen this past five years, no wonder she’s not happy. I’ve accepted it, but you know Theresa. This might be the first time in her life she isn’t going to get what she wants. Or maybe the second.

  “I guess I should try to talk to her about it. But you know, what’s the point? Until she’s got it all worked out for herself in her head, she won’t talk, and once she’s made up her mind, it’s a statement of fact, no room for discussion.”

  Another sigh.

  “Whatever I say, she stomps all over it. She’s got all the answers.”

  I have to touch Chris to get him to notice me—he’s talking to himself.

  You—I point, desperately willing him to understand—What do you want?

  “Me? You mean me? What about me?”

  The words come out without thinking but when Chris hears himself speak, I can see the connections happening in his brain. He makes a bitter, ironic face.

  “Yeah. Indeed. What about me? What does this have to do with me? That’s the whole problem in a nutshell. The whole damn thing’s got nothing to do with me. I’m just a freight car on her train.”

  It’s not exactly what I meant, but it’s pretty close, so I nod.

  * * *

  Do you remember Chris in love, Anna? One doesn’t say much when one’s college-age son comes home late or even at eleven in the morning, looking well rested and humming to himself. But this was different. He had been walking around for a week like a man with his own personal source of sunshine, bathed in an aura of giddy happiness so obvious even I couldn’t fail to notice it. I was pondering on the cause when I ran into him leaving your diner. With Theresa. Hand in hand.

  From the very first I didn’t like her.

  When I found out that you didn’t either, I felt a little better.

  * * *

  By the time Chris brought Theresa over for a proper introduction and a home-cooked meal, I’m pretty sure some of the zing had already worn off. Or maybe it was just that we were all such a bundle of nerves.

  I’d gone all out. Roast beef, potatoes, carrot pennies, and salad. Ice cream for dessert. You brought Dutch speculaas and I made amaretti.

  Chris had chosen the day of our supper specifically so that Ang could come. She was still cashiering, so her schedule was erratic, but she’d stuck with the same job for two years. She was doing okay, as Chris had predicted. She seemed to thrive on making her own choices. Jordan was long gone, but Angelina had enough work that she was able to manage her rent without a roommate. I theorized that being constantly borderline broke might keep a lid on her party fund, so I didn’t subsidize her, except with the groceries Chris still lifted from our pantry.

  Ang came over to the house early, looking beautiful with her shiny black hair pulled back and her long legs in clean, fitted jeans. She’d given herself a manicure; her nails had been shaped and varnished with something clear that had glitter in it.

  Angelina had opened the wine and was sipping on her second glass by the dining room window when she caught sight of Theresa fussing with Chris’s hair on the doorstep.

  “Oh, look!” she called to us in the kitchen. “Christian’s got a new mummy!”

  You kept washing the countertops, but I joined Angelina. Her eyes were sparkling with interest.

  “I’d have thought he’d have had enough already between you and Anna, but apparently not!” she whispered in my ear.

  As we peered out of the window, Angelina linked arms with me, indicating that we were on the same side.

  United, for once, we turned to face Chris and Theresa as they entered the house.

  Theresa had taken especial care with her appearance too. Her shoulder-length brown hair was perfectly layered and highlighted. She had a generous figure and she knew how to dress to make the most of it. She wore a tailored denim jacket over a stylish stretchy shirt that came down over her hips. A gold chain of medium weight drew the eye to her breasts. She didn’t make the mistake of wearing her jeans too tight, and her makeup was discreetly tasteful. She looked completely poised, but there was nothing relaxed or warm about her.

  When I saw Angelina sizing Theresa up and realized we were on the same page, I was meanly glad. Ang and I had spent too much time on opposite sides of an armed battle for me to resist the fierce attraction of a truce against a common enemy. I saw disapproval on your face, Anna, but I ignored it.

  All evening I fed Ang lines and she twisted them into barbs.

  “Where are your people from, Theresa?” I asked.

  “I grew up in Ladysmith.”

  “So, did you find coming to the city a bit of culture shock, after growing up in such a small town?” asked Ang.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Well, not everyone from a small town is a hick.”

  “You got your degree in nursing?” I asked.

  “Yes, and now—”

  “You must have a sweet, caretaking personality.” Ang again.

  “Well, I…”

  “Nursing is an honourable profession,” I said.

  “Theresa just completed her master’s in health administration,” Chris said proudly.

  “Oh wow, an administrator! You’r
e going to need balls of steel for that job.”

  Theresa pursed her lips. Ang’s vocabulary was a little crude for her taste.

  “The Terminator,” said Ang softly, without elaborating. There was an awkward pause in the conversation.

  “Well,” said Ang, “if you’ve finished your master’s, you must be quite a bit older than our Chris here!”

  “Only four years, Ang. That’s nothing,” said Chris.

  “Well, you’re hardly matronly,” I said. “Would you like a piece of cake? It isn’t as fattening as it looks.”

  “Not that you need to worry about that just yet,” said Angelina in a tone of voice that conveyed it was already too late. “I’ve heard big-boned women put on weight after thirty no matter what they do.”

  Angelina nailed me too, right after the party.

  “Naturally you wouldn’t like Theresa, Mom. You’re too much alike. A nineteen-fifties colour-coordinated cashmere twin set of the Bossy Controlling Woman.”

  She laughed. “You deserve each other.”

  * * *

  Chris pounded down the stairs while I poured myself coffee the next morning. He stood in the entrance to the kitchen, filling it, with hands on either side of the door frame. Although as a rule he avoided conflict, he appeared to feel chivalry-bound to protect his lady.

  “You should be ashamed of how you treated Theresa last night,” he said, getting right to the point.

  “What?”

  “Oh come on. You know what you did, don’t pretend.”

  I was embarrassed. At the time I thought we’d been fairly subtle, Angelina and I.

  “Angelina is jealous, I expected that, and when she feels bad, she’s mean; I warned Theresa that might happen. If Ang finds a needle, she can’t resist sticking it in and that’s just the way it is, but Mom, you should have known better. Theresa is a sweet girl. She doesn’t play those games.”

  Of course I apologized profusely. But Chris was wrong, as it turned out: Theresa not only “played those games,” she turned out to be a master. We got her that once, Angelina and I, by joining forces and sneaking up from behind, but she bested us soundly every time since. She knew where to put the finger to make a body squirm.

  “Chris and I will make good parents,” she would say sweetly. “Children from two-parent homes are so much more stable, don’t you think?”

  I wanted to tread on her toe and grind it slowly under my heel.

  * * *

  Within six months Theresa and Chris got an apartment and moved in together, and Theresa and I settled into a practical relationship of cold civility. Everything about Theresa was annoying, from her perfect eyebrows to the way she wiped her shoes with a soft cloth when it rained, but it’s stupid to fight with your son’s girlfriend. I gritted my teeth when she was around, though. She picked at Chris. I didn’t expect her to iron his shirts and make his lunches, but I wish she had been more kind.

  We were clearing up after a supper, some birthday or another. Chris had gone to look for something in his old room.

  “Don’t bring any of your old junk back to our house,” Theresa told him.

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” he replied evenly as he went upstairs.

  “I really think we should remodel the den, but Chris won’t give me any input. He is so passive, don’t you agree?” Theresa complained in disgust. Although I’d been thinking the very same thing only moments before, I lunged to defend him.

  “I’m sure whatever you want will be fine with him. I know he wants to keep you happy.” There could be no mistaking the dislike in my voice.

  Theresa tossed her head.

  “Voicing an opinion and having an adult discussion once in a blue moon would make me happy!”

  I felt my neck stiffen and my stomach knot.

  “As I recall, you weren’t that happy when he refused to buy that house in Oak Bay!”

  “That wasn’t a discussion. That was just Chris being pigheaded for no reason. It was a perfectly lovely house.”

  She managed to sound both petulant and self-righteous.

  “Didn’t the building inspection kibosh that deal?”

  “Those problems could have been overcome. Chris was just being stubborn.”

  Thank God Chris chose that moment to reappear.

  “Stubborn about what?”

  “The Oak Bay cottage.”

  Chris’s jaw tightened. “That again? By the time we fixed the roof and the foundation, we would have been well over our approved mortgage. We couldn’t afford it. It’s over. Let it go.”

  Guiltily I held up the wine bottle.

  “Anyone for another glass?”

  “No thank you. We needn’t all be lushes.”

  “Well, then.”

  * * *

  So what do we think about this, Anna, if Theresa really is planning to leave Chris?

  What difference does it make what we think? We don’t get a choice.

  I just want him to be okay. Whatever that means.

  * * *

  I think the night nurse who does Heather’s days off may be slightly crazy. She whispers as she bends over me.

  “Every second is so important,” she says. “You never know. Sometimes something happens and it stays with me for days, just a little thing, and I think ‘When will I ever stop feeling this way? When will I stop thinking about this?’ Julie said I’d be good at home support. That wasn’t a compliment, you know. That’s what those girls say when they mean someone is slow and disorganized. They mean I’m not fast enough to work here. But that’s just an example. A homeless woman was trying to get money from the people lined up outside of the walk-in clinic this morning. She said her baby needed formula and a skinny street-guy followed her, yelling, ‘You old bitch, you got no baby, stop bothering these people,’ and they went away together, screaming at each other. I can’t stop thinking about it. Even when I’m moving and doing my job. I take things too seriously. Words stick in my brain. That’s why I do nights. It’s quieter. There’s less to go wrong. There are fewer thoughts, fewer barnacles on the whale. Did you know that whales carry thousands of pounds of barnacles? That’s bound to weigh you down.”

  I don’t want to listen, but how can I help it. I keep tracking her with my eyes as she moves from bed to bed, whispering intently to each of us in turn. Before she leaves the room, she catches me, and to my discomfort, we’re locked in a stare.

  She comes over to my bed, and she’s whispering again.

  “I know what you’re thinking.”

  I am mesmerized. I can’t blink. I can’t nod. I can’t even shake my head.

  Finally she sighs and walks away.

  I can’t say I’m surprised when I hear the aides saying she’s got a medical leave.

  DISCONTENT

  Discontent spreads through the hospital like the smell of hot new asphalt being laid in summer. It is an offensive odour, pervasive and clinging, affecting everyone.

  It was a decent wage when I started ten years ago. But prices go up and our wages don’t. It’s really not a living wage anymore.

  Yeah. Across the board, wages haven’t really gone up.

  I keep running out of grocery money before payday.

  There’s never enough moolah.

  True that.

  Contract negotiations. How unpleasant. I used to be so annoyed when the teachers went on strike. What to do with those kids all day, how to get my work done. I never cared how the teachers were paid, but then I never knew them the way I know the aides here.

  Even this shall pass.

  In the meantime, the aides grumble to the housekeepers, and they grumble back, and the bad mood spreads like a virus until everyone is miserable.

  * * *

  Nana’s family came in today, a group of them. Now I know why they never come!

  Be
ttina had Nana up because she planned to take her to listen to the piano player in the dining room. Molly was working on Mary. As soon as Bettina saw who was coming, she slid out of the room.

  The daughter barely made it through the door before the tears started flowing.

  Mama? Are you there, Mama?

  Naturally Nana didn’t make a sound nor a motion.

  I know you’re in there, Mama, can’t you give me a sign?

  Anna, it was something to see Molly working like a bouncer controlling a crowd. It was art. She doesn’t get paid enough.

  Honey, your mama would know you if she could, but she’s past that stage. She’s moving on to another world. This is just her body, left behind.

  Molly had her arm around Nana’s daughter, turning her away.

  The husband was explaining.

  She feels so guilty because she doesn’t visit, but she just can’t bear coming.

  You don’t have to come, honey. Your mama is past knowing now. We love her…We’ve got her. It doesn’t hurt us that she’s not the person that she used to be, not the way it hurts you. It’s okay for you to let her go.

  Molly murmured all this in her most soothing voice as she ushered the family from the room, and I had a vision of Molly in her scrubs, running a relay, receiving that baton with an outstretched hand, and racing to the finish line triumphant. Molly wins again! Inappropriately, I giggled.

  Anna, I sat looking at Nana, still and motionless in her chair. Suddenly, I just didn’t want to be there anymore. If I could have hopped out of my wheelchair, I’d have dragged myself across the floor, one-armed and desperate, just to get away.

  Of course I can’t do that. So I banged my box of tissues against my armrest like a baby in a high chair. It wasn’t much noise but it worked. Bettina swooped into the room. “Francesca! What’s this!”