Читать книгу Circle of Stones - Suzanne Alyssa Andrew - Страница 8

Brisk, cool sea air blows through the open window. The scent of salt mingled with seaweed and cedar. But the wind shifts. My condominium doesn’t need to smell like the nearby salmon smokehouse. I get up, shut the window, and sit back down in my comfortable easy chair. My teacup rattles in its saucer. Sometimes my hands shake enough to spill it. They’re becoming as independent as teenagers. Nothing seems to work, but I keep trying. Doctor’s scripts and pills, self-prescribed shots of brandy. Some days all I can do is apply the force of what I thought was considerable will. Today I lean back in my chair, close my eyes, and daydream. I think of my grandson, Nikky. I would like to knit him a sweater, but I’m not sure I still can. The steady twisting of yarn over needles and counting of rows and stitches could ease my worries. It would be like having a conversation. I still have so much I’d like to teach him.

My thoughts drift and I remember the day I saw the first circle of stones. It was one of those sharp, cool mid-winter days, when even in the rain, you can tell the light is changing. I rock in my chair and watch my memories like cinema. That was the day Geoff had forgotten to bring my groceries. Again. I was furious, but instead of stewing alone at home, I ventured out for a stroll through the coastal mist. I walked slowly, methodically. Carefully. As I rounded the corner of the sea walk where the path widens into Rotary Beach Park, I looked up to see the view: rolling green-blue water, the dancing-arm boughs of the tall trees. My eye caught something white. I stepped through wet grass to look. There were a dozen freshly painted white stones at the foot of a sturdy evergreen. A toy truck decorated with glitter glue nestled on a tidy patch of bark mulch inside the circle, along with three gaudy orange plastic flowers and a Mason jar stuffed with cards and handwritten letters. “Mike the Trucker” was scrawled on the toy rig.

I shook my head and made a tsk-tsk sound in dismay. I’d read about the unfortunate fellow in the newspaper. The story stuck with me: Mike was on the side of the road trying to fix a blown tire when a young man speeding to make the Vancouver ferry hit him, dragging him under his sports car for hundreds of metres. The young man kept driving. Mike’s crumpled body rolled into a ditch, and still he kept driving. It made me wonder how many kids grow up without learning the right kinds of things in life. It made me think of Geoff. Because somehow, even though I guided hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of children during my decades-long tenure as an elementary school vice-principal, I failed my own son.

It began to get dark, and I walked home in winter twilight, taking one slow step at a time. The bright lights of my ocean-view condominium shone like a beacon. Coming home, I took a deep breath of fresh laundry smell in the crisp and immaculate lobby. I picked up the weekly flyers from the stack on the oak newspaper table, then frowned at my mist-melted silver curls in the antique mirror. On the way to the elevator I glanced up the curve of the grand, milk-coloured stairway and saw a pair of brown Florsheims. That’s when I began to shake.

My neighbour Charles was lying on the carpeted steps in his suit, his briefcase upturned, files scattered. Papers and forms cascaded around his immobile legs. I stumbled down the hall. I stood in front of the superintendent’s door, barely able to lift my hands and make fists to bang for help. I knocked and knocked again until the door swung open. Somehow I squeaked out the words “call nine one one.” Then I returned to Charles to wait with him for the ambulance. Even when I realized he was still breathing I shook and quivered, my Parkinson’s triggering tremors independent of my anxieties. If it weren’t for my solid, ugly orthopedic shoes, I would have lost my balance entirely.

The blaring ambulance sirens were followed by hushed hallway whispers and stares. I overheard Louise De Costa and Doris Lu speculating about it on my way to fetch the newspaper the next morning. When I passed them again they were still talking — debating whether it had been an aneurysm or a massive heart attack. I discounted both theories. Charles returned after a two-night stay in hospital and avoided eye contact with me, and everyone else in the building. He kept to himself, even after his office, Coast Tyee Insurance, published his retirement notice in the Courier-Islander. I understood it was a forced retirement, as a result of his illness. Not an event to be celebrated. I watched and waited for days, then finally cornered him in the mailroom. I wanted to find out if he was all right — from him, not the neighbours.

I clutched three envelopes. All bills. I watched as Charles stuck his hand searchingly into his empty mailbox then locked it back up, turning the key with a sigh.

“Congratulations on your retirement, Charles.” I enunciated each syllable. When nervous, I still have a tendency to speak as though I’m making an announcement over my school’s P.A. system. “We’ll be seeing more of you around here, I expect.” A rare patch of sun shone through the lobby windows and glinted off mailbox steel. I surveyed the carpet pattern. Charles fussed with his new cane. Then he cleared his throat.

“I had a diabetic attack last week, Hélène,” he said, in his slow, steady business voice. He stared past me, making his admission to the mailboxes. Then his voice softened. “Thank you for helping me.”

“You’re welcome. I was glad to.” I hesitated, not sure what else to say, and took two small steps towards the hall.

“I’ve had to make some changes, and now the doctor says I have to start walking every day to control this condition,” Charles continued. “But no hills and no stairs.” I looked back just as Charles lowered his chin and cast his eyes to meet mine, his white eyebrows pinched. The way this facial expression revealed exactly what he was thinking reminded me of my grandson.

“Sounds boring,” he said.

“I’ll walk with you,” I volunteered. “I start to fidget when I stay inside too much.”

I did not add that my son Geoff had taken my driver’s licence away. It was humiliating. Geoff said my hands shook too much on the wheel, even though I could still turn it — quite capably, I thought.

I began meeting Charles in the lobby downstairs at ten every morning. We chose the sea walk as our route, a long path following the Georgia Strait from one end of town to the other. The narrow old island highway stretched beside the paved path, but the sound of the tide somehow drowned out the buzzing traffic. We rarely talked anyway. There was no need to comment on the view of the Pacific, the mainland mountains, the bobbing fishing boats, and the occasional sleek cruise ship. At times, our silences felt weighted. With history, memories, things we did not wish to talk about. But over the days, weeks, then months that followed, the marine ephemera — even the odd seal or heron — became routine. At first I slowed and stopped with Charles when he needed to rest. But, in time, as Charles grew stronger, he set the pace, until finally I realized he was slowing and pausing for me. I was startled the first time Charles reached for my arm to help guide me around a puddle. After that, I took note whenever Charles accidentally brushed his shoulder against me, or put his hand on my back to signal it was time to cross the street. It was simultaneously comforting and comfortable.

I remember now, with embarrassment, how I kept telling Charles that my grandson would be visiting on spring reading break from his studies at the Emily Carr University of Art and Design in Vancouver. I must have mentioned it when we were walking one day, then repeated it the next. I know I blurted it out again one especially rainy Friday. I didn’t realize I’d mentioned it more than once until Charles said, “Yes, you must really be looking forward to it, Hélène.” He gave me a patient look, but I made a note for myself on my mountain scenes calendar: Nikky’s visit. Charles informed. For a few days I even stopped adding as much Baileys to my morning coffee, even though I relied on it for steadiness. I sacrificed a measure of control for a clearer mind. I don’t want Charles to think I’m muddled.

Nikky is going to arrive in town today. I add a little brandy to my tea, rock gently, and wait. I expect the phone call in the evening. The visit tomorrow morning. But the phone rings at three in the afternoon, startling me. Nikky is at the bus station.

“Mom’s got a dog show tonight and when Dad saw me with metal in my face, he turned around and got back into his truck,” Nikky says. “Can I stay with you?”

“Of course, dear.” I feel a quivery thrill to hear Nikky’s young voice. I put on a warm cardigan, grab my keys and wallet, and make my way downstairs to the lobby so I can pay the cab driver when Nikky arrives. I wait and wait. I finally take a seat on the hard, decorative wooden bench by the stairs. Maybe Nikky couldn’t find a cab. Maybe I’d misheard and he’s not coming right away. I stand and gaze out the glass lobby doors. In the distance I see a tall, dark figure walking in the shallow ditch beside the highway, a couple of large transport trucks, no bright orange and green cab. I adjust my glasses. Watch the shadows grow. It begins to rain. The figure turns towards the condo. Nikky? No. Yes. He’s walking.

I stand up and push the door open. Nikky drops his overstuffed, dirty duffel bag to give me a hug. I let him envelop me with too-thin arms, cold cheeks and chin, the sharp smell of unwashed clothes. When I look into his face I see the smoothness of youth before noticing the little spike he’s added to his eyebrow and the ring in his nose. It seems impossible my son could think Nikky’s two pieces of silver are so offensive. I don’t think it’s any worse than the snake tattoo Geoff came home with at Nikky’s age, back in the early eighties. And Geoff had been returning from a logging camp, not school. I squeeze Nikky’s hand and remember being upset at my son. My ex-husband Tibor had been furious. It’s a circular moment. A kind of loop only grandparents can see.

“Let’s get you something to eat.” I reach up and tug at Nikky’s ear. “You’re too skinny.” Nikky shoulders his bag and follows me. When I look back he smiles, but there’s a raw look in his eyes. I choose to interpret it as hunger.

“Let’s stop in at my storage unit first,” I say, rattling my keys. “You can help me get some things from the deep freeze. I’ve been saving them for you.”

Upstairs Nikky falls asleep on the sofa as I cook. A proper roast beef dinner with horseradish, baked potatoes, and dill pickles. A big bottle of red wine, the fine silverware, real china, and proper white linen napkins. Nikky eats two helpings of beef and three Yorkshire puddings, even though the meat is dry and the puff peaks of the Yorkshires fall. I sip wine, nibble a Yorkshire and a small potato. It’s more satisfying to watch Nikky eat. I wish I could still cook for him the way I used to. It’s been a long time since I’ve managed a soufflé or a tourtière. After dinner is done and the dishes are all washed I bring out a couple of bottles of my finest bourbon, setting them down on the coffee table with two crystal glasses. Nikky lounges on the sofa, I sit in my chair and we watch television. He changes the channels so quickly I don’t know what we’re watching. It doesn’t matter.

I feel warm and hazy. My eyelids are heavy. I awake, hoping I’ve only nodded off for a few minutes. I smile at Nikky and push myself out of my chair. I trace my finger along the smooth hallway wall, but I don’t wobble. I’m as steady as bourbon. I open the linen closet door and rummage for the spare pillows. Nikky begins talking softly on the phone. I set the vinyl storage bags down and try to hear, but Nikky’s voice is too quiet, almost monosyllabic. Not a friend or a parent. Perhaps a girl. I pick up the bedding and head for the guest room. Nikky’s other room. I made up the sofa bed for my grandson many times when Nikky was small and his parents were fighting. Or tired. Or away. I used to read to him to help him fall asleep. After he drifted off I would watch over him, trying to protect him from bad dreams. He slept on his side, curled like a snail, blankets bunched up over his back like a little shell home.

I wrestle with the sofa bed mattress. I don’t remember it being so heavy. I sit down on the edge of mattress to rest and smell something damp and pungent. Nikky’s bag festers in the corner by the closet. It’s a smell that lingers in my nose, even after I retire to my room. I tuck a French lavender sachet under my pillow and made a mental note to run a load of laundry the next day.

I wake up thirsty. I peer at my clock radio, but I can’t decipher the numbers. I guess it’s long after midnight. On my way to the kitchen for a glass of water, I pause at the guest room door, expecting it to be open so I can peek in at my grandson, watch him sleep in his blanket shell. The hallway nightlight glows green. I stand in ghastly pea soup shadows and press on Nikky’s door with shaky hands. For the first time, the door is shut tight.

In the morning I make a big breakfast of toast, scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and beer. Nikky is quiet, and every time I think of a question I want to ask, I hesitate. I want to know whether his apartment is decent and if he has a girlfriend. Instead, I offer him more blueberry jam, another egg, the last slice of bacon. When his plate is finally empty, I stand.

“Now dear,” I say, looking at him over the rims of my glasses. “Would you like to go for a walk with my neighbour Charles and me?” I don’t wait for his muffled reply before walking to the front door. I reach into the metal umbrella stand and hand him my spare. I know the beer will soften him up. Once downstairs, I start out by popping my umbrella open. The mist still gets in everywhere, but it’s my ritual.

Charles eyes Nikky’s black military-style steel-toes. “Those are some sturdy-looking boots,” he says. I’m surprised when he doesn’t comment on the metal spikes sticking out of Nikky’s leather jacket.

“Thanks.” Nikky flips up his collar over shrugged shoulders. Charles walks on one side of me, Nikky on the other, both silent. I imagine how the neighbours see us meandering down the path together: an elderly man in a ball cap, a shaky old lady in a proper cashmere twin set and matching silver overcoat, and tall Nikky, clad in black from head to toe, like a cartoon villain.

I stop at the beach park and point a gloved hand at a new circle. Clean round rocks surround a miniature organ, a framed photo, and a small, freshly planted tree. A dozen small stones clustered in the middle are each painted with a black musical note. A card-sized plaque reads: IN MEMORY OF MRS. MARILYN MANSON, WIFE, MOTHER, GRANDMOTHER, ORGANIST.

“It should be the other way around,” I say. “Organist first, then grandmother, mother, and wife. That’s how they’d write it for a man.” But when I look up, Nikky is smirking. I’m indignant. It’s unlike my grandson to be so rude. Charles chuckles to himself and translates for me.

“Marilyn Manson is also the name of a horrific-looking Goth rock musician.” He places his hand on my shoulder for a moment, a reassuring tap. “I saw him on MuchMusic the other day. Quite the sight.”

Nikky snaps a photo of the plaque with his cellphone. “I can’t believe this old dude gets it.” He looks approvingly at Charles.

Charles whistles a little tune into the wind on the walk back to the condominium. Emboldened in the presence of my grandson, I invite Charles in for coffee. I keep the invitation casual, as though it’s something that happens all the time. If Nikky notices the chuffed look Charles gives me, or my own coy expression, he keeps it to himself.

I like how Charles looks seated at my dining room table. He sits up straight in his chair and places his linen serviette properly on his lap. Nikky lounges in his chair, but doesn’t dare lean back like his father would. I taught him not to. I bustle in the kitchen as the coffee perks. I serve Charles black coffee, on account of his diabetes, then, instead of cream, I slip a shot of Baileys into the china cups for Nikky and myself. I whisk up a double batch of dough, and then re-emerge a dozen minutes later with fresh blueberry scones piled high on my special Limoges platter. When I finally sit down I find myself unable to think of a single thing to say. Charles strikes up a conversation with Nikky about music videos and horror movies, which they both seem to know a lot about. I try to follow along. Even though I watch a great deal of TV, I’m partial to BBC mysteries and Coronation Street reruns. I know about the English countryside and British pub slang. What is this emocore business about? A kind of seafood? Like abalone? No. Of course not. I fight the urge to get up and do the dishes, tidy the kitchen. I am mindful of the fact Nikky will only be in town for a week. I think of Geoff, then sit and listen, hoping neither Nikky nor Charles will mind the clatter of my cup against its saucer as I sip coffee with tremoring hands.

“I have to get that.” Nikky stands up suddenly, reaching for something in his pocket. “It’s important.” I hear an electronic blip as Nikky grabs his cellphone. It’s hardly a ring. The device is not at all like a real phone. Charles and I watch as Nikky strides through the living room and out onto the balcony I almost never use. The sliding glass door snicks shut behind him. He paces, head down, staring at beige vinyl deck flooring instead of the sea. Charles looks at me. I shrug, wishing I knew what the call was all about. Charles stands.

“I ought to go.” He bows lightly and pats my hand. “Thank you kindly for the coffee, my dear.”

I try to stand.

“Oh, don’t get up, I’ll let myself out.” Charles turns, then pauses to look back at me. “We should do this again.” He gestures at the table. “After our walks.”

“Have a beverage and a biscuit?” I smile to myself.

“B&B, I suppose we could call it. Like the classic cocktail.” Charles disappears into the hall. I listen to him whistle as he puts his shoes back on. I recognize the old jazz standard as a CBC radio favourite: “Oh, Lady Be Good.” I feel the wings of a very old moth flutter in my stomach.

The door clicks shut. My cup rattles in its saucer and tips. I shake my head, annoyed by my infuriating tremors. I check to make sure the cup hasn’t chipped. I begin clearing the dishes. By the time Nikky re-emerges from the balcony twenty minutes later, there’s a fresh linen cloth on the table and four bottles of fine liqueur lined up along the sideboard: Crème de Cacao, Grand Marnier, Chambord, and Crème de Menthe. Nikky shivers. Sea mist glistens in his hair. He smells damp. I hand him a delicate blue liqueur glass.

“This will warm you up.” I lift trembling hands and struggle to pour Chambord into the glass without spilling. “We’ll try each one of these and you can tell me which one is your favourite.” Nikky sits down and takes a sip.

“That’s really different. Never tasted anything like that.” Nikky tips his glass back again then sets it on the table. He picks up the bottle of Crème de Menthe. “What’s this one like?”

“Mouthwash,” I say, taking a sip of Chambord. “Good if you need a stiff drink before you kiss someone.”

“Grandma.” Nikky makes a face.

“I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. It’s quite clear you were talking to a young lady just now.”

Nikky doesn’t reply. He reaches for the Grand Marnier.

“You don’t have to tell me all the details.” I pat the back of Nikky’s hand. “Just nod your head or shake it.”

He knocks back a near full liqueur glass, then nods his head. Yes.

“Here, try the Crème de Cacao.” I lift the angular bottle in both hands and pour a little into each of our glasses. We drink in silence.

“Gecccchhhh.” Nikky wrinkles his nose and squints.

“Not that good, is it?” I stand behind my grandson and rest my hand on his shoulder.

“No. Too sweet.”

“It reminds me of some good old days, though. There used to be a lot more of those.”

“Then I like it.” Nikky reaches a long arm out to the sidebar and pours each of us some more. I set my glass down on the table and study my grandson. I can still see the boy in him. His facial expressions, the way he moves his body. I look him up and down, trying to record this memory of Nikky as a boy. Perhaps the last one. I notice his long-sleeved black T-shirt hangs short.

“Those long arms.” I tug on Nikky’s left shirt cuff. “I think it’s time we measured you again for the scrapbook. I’m sure you’ve grown again.” Nikky tips his glass, about to chug. I tap him on the shoulder, like I used to do, when he was a smaller boy.

“This drink is for sipping.”

Nikky takes a sip, puts his glass down, and follows me into the spare room. He watches as I retrieve the big, old Growing Up scrapbook from behind the sewing machine table and set it on his unmade bed. He looks at the familiar bright yellow cover and begins flipping through the pages: old birthday cards, ribbons from elementary school sports days, class photos. Neither of his parents kept anything like this.

“Aw, Grandma. You’ve still got some of my old artwork from high school. These sketches are terrible.”

“I like them.” I unfurl the measuring tape. “Stand up.” Nikky stands against the wall and straightens his shoulders. I reach up, place an old sewing manual on top of his head to flatten his hair, and mark the wall with a pencil.

“You should see the stuff I’m doing now at art school. It’s so much better,” Nikky says as I measure a second time for accuracy.

“Goodness, you’re much taller.” I turn to the page in the scrapbook where long ago I’d drawn a growth chart with an old wooden ruler. I hand my grandson a ballpoint pen. “Write down six feet, two inches.”

“Whoah. Two more inches.” Nikky writes in the book, his numbers large and blocky alongside my own elegant cursive. “I think I’m done growing now, though.”

“Maybe.” I sit down on the bed beside him. “But we grow in other ways, yes?”

Nikky reaches abruptly into his pocket and pulls out his cellphone. The electronic blip.

“It’s her again. Jennifer. Should I get it?”

“Of course.” I stand. I close the door behind me to give Nikky his privacy.

I drop into my chair, suddenly exhausted. I roll up the measuring tape, place it on the table beside me, lean back, and close my eyes.

“Grandma.” Something is push-pulling at my shoulder. I feel submerged as though underwater and want to stay in the murky depths, but the shaking is insistent.

“Grandma.” I open my eyes and look at Nikky. His face is out of focus.

“What is it, dear?” I blink, shiver, and straighten my glasses. Nikky rests his young, strong hand on my shoulder. I touch it with my shaking one, feeling heat radiate from his body.

“I have to go.” Nikky straightens up. I look down and see his bag at his feet.

“Where, dear?”

“Back to Vancouver. My gir — Jennifer needs me.”

I struggle up from the chair. “Is she a nice girl, this Jennifer?”

“She’s amazing. Super talented.” Nikky hoists his bag onto his shoulder. “Everything.”

“No time for laundry? Dinner?” I clutch at his arm, already knowing the answers. Nikky sighs. I look into his eyes and let go.

My whole body shakes. I walk over to the sideboard and rest my hands on it. I need something to hold on to. I need more time to teach Nikky the things he needs to know. “Now you take care of your Jennifer.” When I say it out loud, the words sound more urgent than I expect.

Nikky looks startled. This is the right reaction, because I know he’s paying attention.

“When you’re young you can feel like you can do anything, and go in any direction,” I continue. “Your career is important, yes, but life is a much grander thing when we’re responsible for each other. I want you to be a gentleman. Promise me you’ll look after her.”

Nikky nods, solemn and thoughtful. We both know we’re talking about his father. How Nikky can be different.

“I promise, Grandma.”

“And next visit stay longer.”

“Yes.” Nikky nods, blinks rapidly, then turns to look out the window. I compose myself, too, though my words still linger in the air, exposed — old sentiments finally said. I open the wooden silverware box, retrieve a small, fat envelope, then pick up the bottle of Crème de Cacao. “Here,” I hand him both. “Take a cab to the bus station. I’ll call one now. There should be enough in there for the bus, ferry, and a little extra, too. And put this in your bag. For sipping.”

“And good days.” Nikky leans down and kisses me gently on the cheek.

“And good days,” I repeat.

I wait with Nikky at the lobby door. The cab arrives too quickly. I try to stop the shaking. And the tears. There’s still so much I need to teach him.

“Oh, Grandma, I’ll be back soon.” Nikky hugs me, shoulders his bag, and opens the door.

“Leaving already?” Charles appears on the sidewalk outside the condo, carrying a small bag of groceries. I watch as Charles and Nikky shake hands. I think I see him slip a twenty-dollar bill into Nikky’s palm like a proper grandfather. My ex-husband Tibor wasn’t much for goodbyes. Or hellos, either. Charles steps back as Nikky climbs into the cab. I wave as the cab speeds away. Tremors rattle my limbs. I turn down the hall before Charles can see my teary face, but I glance back as I round the corner. Charles is standing by the door, alone.

Back in my condo unit, I pause at the door of the spare room. I should tidy it up and get the bedding washed. But it still smells of Nikky. He left the scrapbook open to a page of small boat drawings. I miss him already. I close the spare room door, fish around in the liquor cabinet for some brandy, and sit down in my chair. Coronation Street is on TV, but I can’t concentrate. I reach for my glass of brandy and shuffle down the hall, holding on to the wall for support. I set my glass on the nightstand, crawl into bed with my clothes still on, and dab at my eyes with a tissue.

The morning light is suffused through thick layers of cloud. The charcoal grey matches my mood. My head aches. I don’t feel like walking, but I know Charles will be waiting. I put on my coat and go downstairs. Charles offers me his arm, but I shrug it away. He starts whistling, then stops, the tune lost to the wind. I clutch my umbrella. As we round the corner to the beach park I look up and sigh.

The third circle of stones is a vision of colour in the rain-darkened dirt. Charles and I walk towards it, gazing with curiosity at beach rocks painted primary-school blue. The rocks encircle a Tupperware spaghetti container full of crayon drawings, two Tonka trucks, and a tiny ceramic handprint labeled NOAH, AGE 5. I recognize the perfect rounded letters of a grade-one teacher. I think of what it was like to be a young parent and realize the boy’s mother and father wouldn’t have been able to lift stone after stone, place the memory of their son in the middle, leave it behind. Charles studies the child’s cheaply laminated photo, which will eventually fade in the sun and melt in the rain. Noah had big ears, messy, overlong hair, and a missing incisor. His skin looked orange in the way that school portraits make all children look like carrots.

I clear the catch in my throat with a gentle cough and sit down on the park bench. Dampness seeps through my coat and to my skin, chilling all the way to my bones. Charles seems nonplussed. Undignified with toys and bright, sloppy splotches of glitter glue, the circle appears as though made by NOAH, AGE 5. I think of the drawings and paintings that lined the halls of James Cook Elementary School from September to June. How their removal for cleaning at the end of the school year always felt like an incomprehensible loss.

“I give the Tonka trucks two months before someone steals them.” Charles bangs his cane on the cedar-chip path. He yanks on the brim of his cap, zips and re-zips his navy windbreaker. He has lost weight from our walks and his overlarge navy-blue slacks ride so low now they hang over the laces of his black leather running shoes. I watch an odd expression cross Charles’s face. For a fleeting moment I think he looks like an old, stubborn kid in school uniform. With white, thinning hair.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe they’ll leave them,” I say.

Charles turns away and dabs his nose vigorously with a handkerchief. He stares at the beach. I shiver and wait. He surveys the blue circle again, frowning. We walk back to the condo in silence. In the elevator, Charles stares up at the LCD light, waiting for it to reach the third floor. His expression is serious and businesslike. After years of negotiating insurance claims, whatever he’s thinking is impenetrable.

“What would you like to drink today, Charles?” I open my door with a jangle of keys. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Thank you, but I have some business to attend to, Hélène. Charles takes his own keys from his pocket. I search for a kind, sad apology in his eyes, but I can’t see it. Or maybe I refuse to. I regret the fact Charles has something of importance to do that doesn’t involve me. Worse than anything, Charles is shifting the new routine back to what it was before.

I unlock my door and try to will my hands to stop shaking. When I finally wriggle out of my coat, I gasp. The wet spot from sitting on the bench is still visible. Soiled like a small child’s jacket. Like one of my students. Charles must have seen it. I struggle to hang my coat on the hook then stand alone in the dim entryway, hanging my head, too. I fumble toward the kitchen, my legs cold and lurching. The closed spare room door emphasizes the distance. I think of how I used to walk down long school hallways with children, counting their steps in French. The words were always exotic enough to take their minds off upsetting things. Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept. I count my own steps to the kitchen. I look at the plate of freshly baked, Saran-wrapped cheese biscuits, but I can’t eat them by myself. They’re for sharing. I throw them in the trash. I pour myself a full crystal glass of sherry. I shuffle to the living room and turn on the television, but can’t settle, even nestled in the warm pocket of my big chair with a crocheted afghan over my knees. Yesterday’s conversations feel like spent luxuries. I miss my grandson. The emboldening effect of his company has already evaporated. “Charles is my neighbour,” I whisper into my empty sherry glass. “Only a neighbour.”

I sigh and struggle out of my chair. I don’t like anything unpredictable. I’ve had enough of that for several lifetimes. I look around. At least dust is a constant. I begin cleaning the stove. That always uses up a great deal of time. Then I wave the yellow feather duster around the living room. I water the three houseplants crowding the windowsill. I organize my liquor cabinets, lining the bottles up and turning the labels out. My guest bar is the lower shelf of a large antique china cabinet, but I keep very special bottles in a former safe in the master bedroom, behind a large, gaudy macramé frog I bought at a craft bazaar years ago. I’ve always admired his gaping, hungry mouth. It makes more sense to me than hanging a dream catcher.

There’s a soft knock at the door. I return the frog to its place on the wall and step out into the hall to see Annette striding in, holding up two bottles of ice wine. When my son and Annette divorced, a week after Nikky graduated from high school, I insisted Annette keep her condo key.

“Hiya.” Annette smiles as she hands me the bottles. “Thought I’d bring you something new to try. Hope you like it.”

“I always do enjoy it, dear.” I carry the bottles carefully to the dining room. “You’re so good to me.” Though Annette visits infrequently and often arrives unannounced, her generosity with gifts reminds me of old friends from Montreal.

“Well, you’re so easy to please. Little bottle here, another there, and voilà you’re happy.” Annette peers around the living room “Where’s that son of mine? Still sleeping?” She pushes the spare room door open. “Oh, he’s not even here.”

“Nikky had to go back to Vancouver last night, dear.” I need to sit down.

“What? I didn’t even get to see him!” Annette stares past me. “That little stinker.”

“He’s six feet two inches now. We measured.” I sit and wait for an emotional outburst. Tears. Instead, my daughter-in-law opens and shuts the drawers in the sideboard until she finds the well-used corkscrew.

“Oh well, more for us, then.” Annette pulls the cork from the ice wine and pours two glasses. I wish she’d chosen the crystal, instead of the everyday ones from the kitchen. She’s always been efficient but informal. Her wedding gown was nothing more than a white cotton sundress with a neatly pressed, but cheap, blue ribbon tied in a bow around her waist. And Geoff wore jeans, claiming they were dressy because they were black. I would have given them the money for proper clothes — lovely ones — but Annette never asked. She sits down heavily now and picks dog hairs off her sweatshirt. Then she unpins her liquor store cashier’s nametag and shoves it into her pocket, fussing with change and keys.

“Guess I’m not important.” She finally looks up. “Doesn’t need Mom anymore. That’s no surprise. What was it? A painting? A stroke of creative lightning? Nik told me he was looking forward to this break.”

“His girlfriend called.”

“Oh, his girlfriend. That’s young love for ya.” Annette takes another sip. I wait for her to smile. She drums her fingers on the table. “Maybe she’s breaking up with him. I mean, things can’t be going well if he had to absolutely leave in such a hurry.”

“Oh dear, I certainly hope not. He adores her.” I beam, thinking about young love and my grandson deep in it. “You should have seen him when he talked about her. I want to meet her.”

Annette leans back in her chair and gazes out the window at the sea view. “Meh. Nik’s young, attractive, he’ll have lots of other girlfriends, bounce back. That’s what men do.” Annette gulps her ice wine then stares into her empty glass. “Better than disappointment and divorce. Then more disappointment.”

I pause to straighten the coaster, but my trembling hands nearly knock my glass over. “I would like to see some of Nikky’s newer art soon.” I place my hands on my lap.

When Nikky was in high school he painted a cityscape that reminded me of Montreal, even though he’d never been there. Annette raved about one Nikky did of the trees around her house, but I found that painting oppressive. The cluster of tall, stalwart evergreens looked like a small, green army, complete with cedar generals.

“Let me make you some lunch, Annette,” I say. In the kitchen, I fret about Nikky while chopping the ingredients for a small niçoise salad. I hear the door open, followed by heavy footsteps in the hall. I grab a towel to dry my hands, and turn, hoping to see my grandson.

Annette groans. Her hunched shoulders sink farther. Geoff clears his throat noisily and glares at Annette. My hands find their way toward my mouth. I stop myself in a half-gasp and straighten the collar of my blouse. Being in the same room as Annette makes Geoff irrationally angry.

“Hello, Geoff.” I try to make myself appear as tall as possible. Not that it gives me much authority. Not anymore.

“What’s she doing here?” Geoff looms like one of the stern, military evergreens in Nik’s disagreeable painting.

“I’m making lunch, dear.” I gesture at the dining table. The room seems smaller, darker, and stuffier with my son in it. “You can eat with us or you can wait in the living room.”

Annette’s chair hits the wall with a clunk and startles me. “Sorry, Hélène.” Annette rubs the mark on the wall with her finger. “It’s nothing. Not even a dent. Just a bit of dust. There. It’s gone. Sorry.”

Then, to my surprise, Annette steps in front of me. I wonder how many times Annette has placed herself protectively between Nikky and his father.

“Ma’s got a doc appointment.” Geoff’s voice booms in comparison to the ticking of the clock, the whir and hum of the condo heating. He leans past Annette to peer at me. “Ma, what are you doing? It’s appointment day. Let’s go.”

I drop the tea towel, flustered. I hadn’t forgotten Geoff was coming today, I forgot it was Wednesday. I have a medical appointment every second Wednesday afternoon, so the doctor can monitor my medications and change them, if necessary. I would have warned Annette that Geoff was coming, had I remembered.

I rest my hand on Annette’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, dear, there seems to have been a little mix-up. Will you please take the salad with you in a nice container? You should have a nice lunch.”

Annette doesn’t answer. Geoff picks up one of the bottles of ice wine. He studies the label then jabs his ex-wife in the arm with the stab point of his index finger. I grip Annette’s shoulder, attempting to soften the jolt.

“Are you serious?” Geoff waves his arm and slams the bottle back down with a clunk. “I told you to quit doing this, Annette. I told you a long time ago.”

I let go of Annette’s shoulder and step around her. “Annette brought me a lovely ice wine to try. It was kind of her.” Geoff stares at me. I’ve always disliked the bulge of Geoff’s eyes. He has the same eyes as his father. Geoff leans into me and positions his face so close to mine that I can feel the grease of his hair, smell his cheap aftershave. His chewing gum and nicotine mouth.

“Ma, you’re not supposed to be drinking.” He shakes my shoulder hard with his root-claw hand. I hold on to the sideboard for balance then swat his arm away.

“Shush.”

I glare at my son. He turns and rubs his nose with the back of his hand.

“I can drive her.” Annette’s voice wavers. It makes me wish she’d mind her own business.

“She’s my mother,” Geoff says.

“I should put the salad in a container.” I bustle past Annette to the kitchen and rummage through the cupboard for the appropriate-sized Tupperware.

Annette hovers in the doorway, uncertain. “You have that for your supper,” she says finally. “I’ve got to get back home to my dogs, take them for a walk.”

“Bye, dear.” I give up and shove the whole bowl of salad into the fridge. I unfold a fresh tea towel and hang it on the hook, listening to the sound of her heavy footsteps in the hall.

“Your son was here, by the way. We had such a wonderful visit, he and I,” I hear her fib to Geoff. “You should have seen him, all grown up and tall. Not that you care about anyone but yourself.”

I click my tongue and shake my head. I’ll explain the actual details of Nikky’s visit to Geoff — later when he’s in a better mood to listen. I duck around Geoff’s sprawling limbs. “I’ll be ready in a minute, dear.”

I close my bedroom door as I freshen up with a little face powder, lipstick, and a spritz of Coco Chanel. I look at the mountain-scenes calendar tacked to the wall and draw a checkmark beside “Doctor’s Appointment” in the square for Wednesday, although I probably deserve a star. I continue the appointment charade, even though I don’t trust the medicines, and I don’t always take them. I’m entitled to this secret. I’ve been a responsible follower of rules all of my life. I open the door.

“Let’s go,” Geoff insists. I rush to put my coat on, straighten my collar, and lock up. In the elevator Geoff’s finger is pressed on the door open button. He glances at me and releases it. I count the floor numbers backwards in French to myself and feel the lining of my coat. Trois, deux, un. I’m relieved to discover my coat has dried. I think about how my son left home too young. Tibor had kicked him out for smoking pot, a hasty, stupid thing, considering Geoff was only a teenager. I stopped talking to Tibor after that. Geoff left for the logging camp and I didn’t see him for several years. I had wanted to teach him more about gentlemanly behaviour. He was just like his father, and the allure of their particular type of brawn, as Annette and I had both discovered, did not last. Geoff could have been a businessman. And kind to his family. Instead, he is a logger turned carpenter. A house builder who lives alone in a small, musty apartment.

The doctor’s office is in a squat, two-storey medical services building. Geoff drives straight for the front door. He keeps the engine running as he waits for me to manage the heavy passenger door and climb out. I sit and wait for him to open it for me. I hope it’s not so much thoughtlessness anymore as selective forgetting. A lazy remnant from when I was the strong, sure one, taking care of him. He’s going to have to turn and look at me. See me shaking now. I stare ahead. Geoff shifts in his seat, reaches over me and pops the door open with a swift push. I see him looking at me through the rear-view mirror as he drives away. I wave at him then stand on the curb for a moment before patting my hair back into place and striding into the office. The doctor sees me right away. I get my prescription refilled at the pharmacy next door, then wait an hour and a half for Geoff to return. I read magazines in the doctor’s waiting room, trying not to notice when Cindy, the receptionist, looks over and smiles. I hate sympathy.

She looks young enough to have been one of my students, years ago, I realize, remembering the days when children were afraid of me, and teachers and parents respected my authority. I stare at the low-pile carpet, trying to decide whether it’s pink flecked with brown or brown flecked with pink. When I get up to use the powder room I choose the one with the handicapped sign on the door, where there are cold metal bars to hang on to. I look into the bathroom mirror and think of Nikky. He has my eyes. Voluminous pools. He’s not at all like his father. I busy myself with washing my hands, waiting for the tepid water to turn hot.

Geoff speeds into the parking lot and honks his horn. The passenger door flings open before the truck even comes to a full stop. It’s raining again and I’ve forgotten my umbrella. I get into the truck and wish my son would ask questions about my appointment or Nikky’s visit, but he stares at the road and twiddles the windshield wiper controls.

“I can take a cab, dear, if driving me is a hassle.” I hold on to the passenger door as Geoff rounds a corner too quickly.

“Waste of good money.” Geoff shakes his head no.

“Nikky took a cab to the bus station,” I say, trying to pique a reaction. “He didn’t see Annette.” Geoff turns up the volume on the radio. I think I heard him mumble “Kid’s messed up,” but I’m not certain. I worry about Nikky, trying to take care of himself in Vancouver. Will he do his own laundry? Did I give him enough money? Should I send more? What is he eating? It starts to rain harder. Geoff twists the windshield wiper controls again, agitated. He adjusts the fan and vents then bangs his hand on the steering wheel.

“Can’t see a damned thing.” He leans forward and rubs condensation off the windshield with a swoop of his hand. “Quit breathing so hard, Ma.”

A small stream of water pours down from the roof of the truck, onto Geoff’s matted hair and the front of his dirty ski jacket. “Goddamn roof leaks. Goddamn rain.”

The bulky shape of my condo building appears ahead. I fret about what the rain will do to my set hair. It won’t do to arrive home looking as bedraggled as my son. Geoff screeches to a stop at the door, under the lobby overhang so I won’t get wet.

“I’ll bring the groceries on Friday.” Geoff reaches around me to open the passenger door. “I won’t forget.”

“That will be nice. Thank you.” I climb out, taking my time. Geoff watches, trying to be attentive. “Call your son,” I say and push the door closed. The lobby is toasty warm after the damp of the truck, and, as I shake the rain off my coat, I feel my silver curls still bouncing.

Back upstairs I decide to make a batch of blueberry scones. I’ll feed them to the seagulls if Charles declines a visit again after our walk. I pace in the living room while waiting for the oven timer to ring, thinking about Nikky. And Charles. The timer bleats its staccato beep and I place the scones on a trivet to cool, checking and rechecking to make sure I’ve turned the oven off. I flip the pages of a mystery novel, realizing I’m clever enough to have already figured out whodunit, but not enough to know whether Charles wants to see me. I pour myself a glass of ice wine. And then another.

I feel something prickling my face. Carpet. The colour of slate. The same shade as the dull morning light streaming through the windows. Wobbly, I push myself up to my feet using the chair for support. I step over to the windows and watch tufts of morning fog coming up from the water, rolling up like the spasms in my stomach. Near-invisible cars inch along the highway, headlights cutting through interminable grey. My TV is still on, broadcasting an exercise show. The arms of the clock splay vertical. Six a.m. I walk down the hall past Nicky’s still unmade bed. The flowered coverlet on my own bed is still smooth.

In the bathroom, I let the water warm up as I undress, shedding clothes into the white vinyl-covered hamper. I stand for a long time, wavering under the steady spew of hot water in the shower. I feel the cool white tile, then my forehead, receiving water on my head like a blessing. It reminds me of my last confession, so many years ago. I’d fallen in love. Jean-Marc. Montreal was such a romantic city. But I also remembered the teenage confusion, rejection. The priest had listened, but I felt as though he were laughing at me, grinning behind the curtain. I vowed to never let myself expose such naked feelings again. I let go of the tile. “Je m’excuse,” I whisper, feeling as ashamed as a child. “I am too old for a hangover.” I let the words hang in the steam, swirling to encircle me. I wobble out of the shower and wrap myself in a pale yellow towel, unable to dry my own back. Too old.

I find my robe and slippers, make coffee, and sit down at the dining table to watch the fog dissipate, along with my headache. The tide begins to change, the waves agitated like worries. Charles. Nikky. Geoff. Parkinson’s. Losing control. Losing authority. Losing. Drinking. Medications. Charles. Too old.

I shuffle to my bedroom to get dressed. I put my ear up against the wallpaper above my nightstand. I can hear a clock radio tuned to the CBC. Charles. If I knock on the wall, Charles will hear me. I sit on the bed and decide that I have nothing to wear. Geoff. I notice fine dust collecting on my old cedar trunk. Nikky. I get down on my hands and knees, push the trunk open. Wool. Knitting needles. I’d forgotten my idea. I finger the skeins, feeling their textures for the first time after so many years. The yarn is something tangible. Useful. I have what looks like enough charcoal grey yarn to make a sweater for Nikky. It will match his eyes. And I can cast off the final rows with black, his favourite colour, for contrast. I select a pair of size-eight needles from my orange plastic needle holder, nestle the wool in my arms, and return to the living room. I sit down in my big chair and begin to knit the first sleeve, counting the stitches aloud as I cast them on. Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq … Without a few steadying drinks in me, each stitch is a struggle. After a few rows my fingers began to ache. Progress will be slow, but I have time. I can keep busy, filling long afternoons with the rhythmic conflation of knit and purl, sips of tea, and a kaleidoscope of memories. I’m quite certain Nikky’s sweater will be ready for him by the time he returns.

I glance at the clock. Somehow it’s already five minutes to ten. I set my knitting down and head to the elevator. I’m shaking. My medicine isn’t working. But when the elevator doors open, I see Charles already waiting for me at the lobby door.

“Good morning, Charles.” He holds the door open for me and I step through it, popping my umbrella open.

“Good morning, Hélène,” he says, unfurling his.

We walk at our usual slow pace through the mist. I catch Charles looking at me and return his gaze, lobbing it back like a badminton shuttlecock. I was good at that game in my day.

“Feeling all right?” he inquires.

“Oh yes,” I say, thinking of my new knitting project. “Just fine. And yourself?”

“Well, thanks.”

We step to the side to allow a jogger and his big brown dog to dash past. I feel Charles looking at me. He stands still. So do I. He reaches his hand toward my face and touches my cheek so softly the sensation gets caught in a gust of wind and twirls all around me. For a moment the weather holds me steady.

“Hélène,” he says.

I want to touch his hand, but he’ll feel me shaking.

“I don’t want to be like other old people,” I say.

Charles lets his hand fall to his side.

“We don’t complain, though,” he says. “Like other old people and their incessant blather about their aches and pains.”

I nod. We start walking again.

“You helped me, Hélène,” Charles says. “I can help you.”

There’s a soft authority in his voice. A calm confidence that reminds me of how I used to take small children’s hands in mine and lead their hesitant, trembling bodies to their classrooms.

At the park Charles takes a folded sheet of plastic out of his pocket and spreads it out to cover the wet bench. He sits down and bangs his cane on the carpet of grass at his feet. I walk over to look at the circles. The plastic flowers are fading. The wood of the picture frames weathering. The Mason message jar has already been knocked over and the Tonka trucks are covered in dirt, disturbed by a cat or a raccoon. I step back and count. Un, deux, trois. There will be more.

“Hélène,” Charles says when I perch on the bench beside him. “When my wife and I had a house we hired the neighbour kids to mow the lawn and trim the hedges. And after Meredith passed away I moved into the condo and hired someone to look after the cleaning.”

Charles takes his handkerchief out of his pocket and dabs the sea mist from his forehead.

“I’m not a nature person. I’m a numbers man, so I might not know how to do this, and you’re an elegant French lady, so I can’t expect you to dig in the dirt.”

“Certainly not,” I concur.

“But I believe somebody has to start looking after these memorials.” He rests a warm hand on the top of my thigh. “I think we should do it.”

I look at Charles. His glasses are covered in mist.

“Everything is deteriorating, Hélène,” he says with a thud of his cane.

“It’s inevitable.” I remember how dashing Charles used to look in his suit. He was a man you’d notice walking into a bank or restaurant. It must have been difficult for him to retire, become invisible. I know. When an elementary school vice-principal walks into a room, people look up in attention. When they see a silver-haired woman with shaky hands, they think, “I hope she doesn’t fall down our stairs.”

“Let’s make it anonymous,” I say.

“Our secret?”

“Of course.”

The only thing I wish right now is that Nikky could be by my side, too. I think of him as we walk back. Nikky and Charles. My two good men.

In the elevator I dig around in my pocket for keys.

“Would you like to come to my place for B&B today, Hélène?” Charles asks, taking my arm and guiding me onto our floor and toward his door. “For a change of scenery?”

It’s my first time in Charles’s place. I admire his large bookcases stacked full of hardcovers. His antique globe. Three wooden ship models. The floor plan is identical to mine.

“Now,” says Charles, fumbling in the kitchen, “I don’t have anything fancy. I drained my liquor cabinet of its sugary temptations. But I can make you a cup of tea with honey and lemon.”

“That sounds lovely.” I try not to notice the long row of medications on the counter behind him. I sit down at his fine oak dining table and place my hands under my knees to prevent them from shaking.