“Hi, Dad,” Lucy said from the doorway.
He looked up from his desk. “Hi, pumpkin. Did I forget the kettle again?”
Lucy grinned and passed him his mug. “Like you do every day.”
He set it on a stack of file folders. “How was babysitting?”
“Good. Well, Sadie’s fish died, so not so good for her. Or Bert, the fish, for that matter.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“For Sadie or the fish?”
“Both, I guess.”
Out of habit, Lucy began straightening up her dad’s desk. The two of them had fallen into a kind of routine, and so far it had been…okay. The flow of casseroles and baked goods had ended a long time ago. Luckily, Lucy had started the cooking part of Home Ec this term and was managing to recreate the recipes at home. And they usually turned out…okay. They hadn’t starved yet. Her dad was a better cook, but even though he was often home, he worked late hours and just forgot a lot of the time. As far as Lucy’s laundry and housekeeping skills, they too were…okay. This was her life now. Okay. Dad kept saying things would get better in time, but she wasn’t sure she believed him.
She gathered up some crumpled napkins and swept random crumbs off his desk onto a piece of paper. “Did you remember to eat lunch?”
“Toast.” He gestured to the paper. “Hence the crumbs.”
As she shook the crumbs into the garbage can, she glanced over at him. He looked tired. The corners of his mouth drooped downwards, like he hadn’t smiled, really smiled, in a long time.
“Dad. Why don’t you take a break for a while? Go lie down or watch golf or something, and I’ll start supper.”
“No, no. I’m fine. It’s just been a long day.” He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Listen, pumpkin. I should let you know, I had a call this morning. A bit of bad news.”
Oddly, Lucy felt no alarm. How bad could the news be? She’d already had the worst news possible. She didn’t say anything.
“Gran Irene passed away.”
Lucy digested this for a moment. “Oh. That’s too bad.” She said it because she figured she should. She hadn’t known her mom’s mom very well and wasn’t sure how she should feel about it, or express herself.
“I know it was expected any day, so no great shock, but still.” It was like her dad wasn’t sure how he should feel about it either.
Right after her mom’s death, Lucy’s grandmother had suffered another stroke. She’d already had a few over the years, but this one was bad. Lucy and her dad had gone to visit her numerous times in the nursing home. She was pretty sure her grandmother hadn’t even been aware they were there, but they’d done it for Mom—it seemed like something she might have wanted them to do.
“The visitation is the day after tomorrow,” he said, then a pained look crossed his face. “But it’s at the same place we had your mom’s, so you don’t have to go if you don’t want to. It might be a little too soon.”
“I’ll go.” She shrugged. “She was my grandmother, after all.”
He frowned. “Are you sure it won’t be too much for you?”
Lucy thought about his question. That room. That stuffy room with the blue velvet wingback chairs, the sickening smell from all the flower arrangements, the sad, sympathetic looks from all those people she didn’t know…but she’d survived it. And the months since. Go ahead, world; do your worst. I can take it. So yeah, she could handle walking back into that room where her mom’s casket had been on display. It had been closed, but Lucy had still spent the entire time avoiding it. That was also the room where she had said goodbye for the last time before they took the body away to burn it up in a furnace, leaving only a pile of ashes in a marble box.
“Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be fine.”
Chapter 2
“Miss Tapper?”
Lucy looked up from her math worksheet.
“It’s two-thirty,” Mrs. Kelly announced. “You’re free to go.”
Quietly, Lucy cleared off her desk and left the classroom.
Today was her grandmother’s visitation at the funeral home.
Halfway down the hall, she stopped at the bathroom and pushed open the door with her shoulder. There was a musty, gross odour mixed with the smell of bleach. Water dripped from some unknown source, echoing loudly in the empty space. She edged along the length of the counter, searching for a part of the mirror that wasn’t smeared in foamy pink soap from the dispenser. Why do people have to write their name on everything? “Cathy was here.” I know you were here, Cathy. You’re in my class. The last sink offered the clearest view. She’d had gym right after lunch, which explained the tinge of red still on her cheeks and the escaped strands of hair from her ponytail. Her eyes fell on a forgotten yellow pocket comb with sparkles on the handle lying on top of the paper towel holder. She debated for a moment, then pulled out her elastic and redid her ponytail, leaving the comb and everything else in the bathroom undisturbed. She took a final look in the mirror. Her fingers lightly touched the butterfly resting at her throat, the necklace her mom had given her on her last birthday. She sniffed and blinked a few times. Maybe going back to that funeral home wasn’t going to be as easy as she thought.
But she was determined to go. Her mom was gone. Lucy had to go in her place. Her mom would have expected her to.
Two teachers were standing in the hallway by the front office. “Such a shame,” one whispered to the other as Lucy walked past. “That family’s been through so much.”
Lucy looked at them briefly as she pressed her back against the crossbar of the front door. They tilted their heads and smiled at her sympathetically. Lucy didn’t smile back.
The wind was out of the north. Bone-chilling. In Nova Scotia, spring was just a cold, damp shiver between winter and summer. A fresh gust of wind made her eyes water. She pulled her coat up tighter around her ears and picked up her pace.
Lucy’s father was going to be busy in court most of the day and had wanted her to go to the evening visitation with him after work.
“But Dad, I have a Social Studies project due tomorrow,” Lucy had said. “Can’t I just go to the afternoon one?”
“No. I don’t want you to go alone.”
Lucy had tugged on her lip, thinking. “Why can’t we just skip the visitation and go to the funeral instead?” That was something Lucy had noticed when her mom died. Acquaintances, people they didn’t know that well, had attended one or the other, not both. So it must be an okay thing to do.
“There’s no funeral,” Dad had said.
“Oh?” Lucy didn’t know much about her grandmother, but she did know that she had been super religious.
Dad had nodded. “Do you remember Josie? You may have seen her at your mom’s funeral.”
“Yeah. I met her when I was little. Gran Irene’s sister. Deaf. Kinda wacky. Mom always talked about her.”
“That’s Josie. Anyhow, it was her idea. Your grandmother’s being cremated and Josie wanted the urn for her mantle. Assuming no one objected.”
Lucy had raised her eyebrows.
“No one did,” Dad had added.
So after Lucy had assured her dad over and over again that she would be perfectly okay to go alone, he had reluctantly agreed to let her attend the afternoon session. Missing French class doesn’t have anything to do with it at all, Lucy thought slyly to herself as she waited at the crosswalk, but then immediately felt guilty. Guilty because she didn’t really feel that sad about her grandmother dying. She did a little, sort of. It was always sad when someone died. But after her mom, Lucy couldn’t imagine feeling anything close to that kind of sadness again.
The whine of a siren startled her as an ambulance sped through the intersection. She’d forgotten she had to pass by the hospital to get to the funeral home. I wonder if they’re close together on purpose?
Her ste
ps slowed as she neared the hospital. She came to a full stop when she was directly across the street. Staring up at the looming brick building, she quickly counted eight windows across the bottom, then six up. The window was empty. When it had been her mom’s room, it had been filled with yellow butterflies suspended from a mobile. Lucy had been able to see it from outside every time she came and went. It had made her feel better. She wasn’t really sure why.
She couldn’t seem to drag her eyes away from that empty window. Who was in there now? Did their kids decorate the room for them? Were they going to die too? Lucy felt that familiar burning, the tears collecting in the rims of her eyes. She had been so good lately, hadn’t cried in almost a month. Now she’d have to start keeping track all over again.
As if the sky knew what Lucy was feeling, it started to rain. Hurrying down the street, she was almost relieved to see the funeral home on the next block.
A blast of warm air hit her in the face as she swung open the heavy wooden door. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. She hung up her coat and made her way to the reception room. It looked different than she remembered. Did the carpet always have that dot pattern? Weren’t those wingback chairs blue? She frowned, looking around. Shouldn’t every detail of that day be tattooed onto her brain? Now that she thought about it, maybe she didn’t remember much about that day…or the funeral…or the weeks that followed.
Brushing the damp hair off her forehead, Lucy moved deeper into the room. The suffocating heat and stuffiness was definitely still the same. A sea of grey heads attached to elderly, hunched bodies stretched out before her. She’d only been there for a minute and she’d already counted three walkers and five canes. She guessed the average age to be about a hundred.
She paused in front of a framed picture of her grandmother. It was propped up on an easel surrounded by a wreath of flowers. Lucy studied it, trying to find a family resemblance. There was none that she could see. The ribbon banner read, “Irene Marion Mosher, 1896–1977.” Marion. That was her mom’s middle name too.
Some kind of ruckus broke out on the other side of the room and caught her attention. It looked like a few old ladies fighting.
Nope. Not fighting. Their walkers just got hooked together.
She found a spot against the wall and let her eyes sweep the room. Not surprisingly, there was no one she recognized. She checked her watch.
When she looked up she saw two old ladies engaged in a conversation. Slowly her eyes widened. One of them had triggered a memory, and Lucy recognized her right away. There was no mistaking that hair, deep reddish-purple. That eyeshadow, robin’s-egg blue.
It was Josie, keeper of the urn.
She watched them as they spoke to each other. You really can’t tell she’s deaf.
Her mom had told her Josie had been hit in the head with a baseball bat when she was just a teenager. Lucy still recalled the shudder that travelled through her whole body when she’d heard the story, even though Mom had assured her it had been an accident.
Lucy continued to watch the exchange. She was fascinated by the idea of lip-reading and wondered if Josie was picking up everything the other lady was saying. She remembered her mom telling her how Josie often didn’t like to admit when she didn’t understand or catch something, so she’d just fake it and never let on. Throw in the fact that she already knew how to speak before she lost her hearing, her speech was pretty much like everyone else’s. You’d have to be a detective to ever figure it out.
At that moment, Josie’s eyes met Lucy’s over the other lady’s shoulder. Her face broke into a huge smile as she made her way over to Lucy’s spot against the wall.
She stopped short, arms open. Faced with no other option, Lucy leaned forward and gave her a hug. There was a strong smell of menthol, like Vicks VapoRub, that stung Lucy’s nose as she was crushed against Josie’s woolly cardigan.
At last Josie released her. She stepped back and held her by the shoulders. “I swear you’ve grown a foot. You look so mature and grown up.”
“Thank you,” Lucy said, hoping she said it carefully enough for Josie to read her lips.
“Here, come with me and I’ll introduce you to everyone. They’d all love to meet Irene’s grandbaby.”
Lucy shook her head and pressed her back flatly against the wall. “No, thank you.” She couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do less.
Josie looked at her for a moment. “That’s fine, honey.” She pulled Lucy snugly against her and began pointing out people around the room—some cousins, some of her grandmother’s friends and neighbours. Some names sounded familiar, but most didn’t. Lucy just bobbed her head after each name. It was easier than speaking and worrying whether or not Josie could understand her. Plus, she was finding it hard to stay focused. She was paying more attention to Josie’s brilliant red lipstick and how it bled into the million tiny wrinkles around her mouth than who Josie was pointing to. That was until Josie said, “Now, there’s Ellen over there.”
Instantly Lucy snapped to attention. Ellen was her mom’s older sister. A long time ago, something big had happened between them and they had never spoken again. Ever. Lucy always wondered what could have been so bad. Whatever it was, it must have been Ellen’s fault; Lucy couldn’t imagine her mom ever doing anything awful enough to make someone that mad. But her mom wouldn’t talk about it. The odd time it was brought up, she’d change the subject. After a while, no one brought it up anymore.
“Such nasty business,” Josie continued, shaking her head. “Never saw two girls more stubborn. What they both needed was a good kick in the arse.”
Lucy’s eyebrows shot up.
“Sorry,” Josie said. “I should probably watch my language, being in the house of the Lord and everything.” She frowned and looked around. “Well, I don’t know. Is this considered a house of the Lord?”
“I’m not sure,” Lucy admitted. She wanted to steer Josie back on track. Though she wasn’t keen on meeting Ellen, she definitely wanted at good look at her. “So where did you say Ellen was?”
Craning her neck, she tried to see where Josie had pointed. Josie would know what had happened, know the whole story. Maybe this was her chance to get an answer.
“Say it again, honey.”
“Oh, sorry.” Lucy made sure she looked directly at Josie. “Where is Ellen?” She tried to follow Josie’s finger again but suddenly they were engulfed in what could only be described as a gang of grannies. They turned out to be Josie’s bridge club.
Slapping her arms to her sides to make herself as small as possible, Lucy squeezed her way out of the huddle. So much for that plan. She moved back to her spot against the wall and waited. But how long should she wait? She still had to stop at the library on the way home. She needed one more book for her Social Studies project. Mrs. Moore was a real stickler for having at least three sources.
All the old ladies were still grouped around Josie. It didn’t look like she would be untangled anytime soon. Lucy sighed and made her way out to the front foyer. She pulled on her coat, signed the guestbook, and slipped quietly out the front doors.
The rain turned to drizzle as she walked towards the library. The church clock began to sound. It was four. She stood there for a moment, staring at the massive hands, listening to the booming chimes. It was the same melody as their doorbell at home.
The day her mom died, the doorbell had rung at 6:13 in the morning. Lucy knew right away what had happened. Why else would someone be at the door that early? The voices were muffled, but she was still able to tell it was Mrs. Gardiner. All the ladies in the neighbourhood had set up shifts at the hospital so that Lucy’s mom was never alone, day or night.
“She just drifted off, Mike. No pain or anything.” Mrs. Gardiner paused and blew her nose. “It was around five o’clock. I figured there was no point waking you. It wasn’t like there was anything you could do.
”
After Lucy had heard the door close, a slow, airy breath leaked out through her mouth. Relief. She couldn’t help it. Her heart would no longer skid to a stop every time the phone or doorbell rang, or when she walked into her mom’s hospital room. But then that feeling quickly disappeared, replaced with panic. Instead of stopping, her heart had begun to beat so fast there was a moment when she thought it might explode right out of her chest.
Cold and wet, she jammed her hands into her pockets and ran the rest of the way to the library.
Her dad’s car was already in the driveway by the time she got home. Good. She was starving. Thursday night was hot-dog pizza night. She hoped he had already made up the dough. That was the deal. Whoever got home first made up the dough.
The Kraft Pizza box sat unopened on the counter.
Darn!
As usual, the kettle was simmering away on the stove. Lucy plopped in a teabag, waited, poured a mug of steaming tea, and headed down the hall to her dad’s study.
His door was slightly ajar. She heard his voice; he was talking to someone. The mug was burning her hand, but when she tried to switch it to the other hand, some tea dribbled onto the floor. As she was mopping up the spill with her sock, bits of conversation drifted out through the opening. And then her own name oozed around the edge of the door. She inched closer to listen.
“I told you, Scotty, I don’t know. Part of me wants to forget the whole thing.” Her dad sounded kind of angry.
The Big Dig Page 2
