A Funny Kind of Paradise

by Jo Owens

  Okay, okay, I’m on it.

  “Oh, sweetie! Such tragedy!”

  Molly pries the quilt from my fist, peels it from my face.

  Personally, I don’t think it’s very funny.

  “C’mon. I’ll help you. Are you ready to let me help you?”

  Molly starts picking up papers.

  “Okay. You’re not going to be switching internet providers, so…I’m going to take everything that’s obviously useless and chuck it, alright?”

  I nod.

  “You put the photos in a pile, Frannie, cuz I don’t know which of those is valuable, and I’ll make a pile of anything that looks important and we’ll get Chris to go through it later. We’ll be done in five minutes, honey. It’s really not so bad.”

  For her, maybe.

  I stack the photos in a pile without looking at them. And Molly organizes my stuff like I’m a kindergartener with a hot temper and a bruised heart.

  * * *

  Just when I get used to the rhythm of Janet’s palliative care, she dies.

  Heather and Julie, the night aides who prefer to work together, are methodically making their way around our room, starting in Mary’s corner and ending in Janet’s. They’ve been a team such a long time that they have their job down to a science. Heather flicks on the dim nightlights while Julie presses the buttons that raise Mary’s bed to working level. While Heather folds down the blankets, Julie is already pulling out the pillows from behind Mary’s back and between her knees. Heather is the right hand and Julie is the left, and they are fast and quiet. It’s an aberration when they move out of sync, and when that happens, they laugh about it and complain about being all thumbs.

  The privacy curtains give the room a claustrophobic, stuffy feeling and the noise of pulling them wakes us all up, so the girls don’t use them at night, but Janet’s curtains have been closed ever since she started dying. Julie is bringing my blanket back up around my neck when Heather disappears behind Janet’s curtain.

  Oh. I think she’s gone. Call the nurse, will you?

  Okay. Shall we wash her up now?

  No, you go on your break.

  Okay, but wait for me. We’ll do it together.

  I am truly awake now, all drowsiness faded. A few moments later, Leann, the night RN comes in to confirm that Janet is dead.

  Are you going to phone the daughter? Heather asks.

  Already did. She’s on her way.

  Too bad she couldn’t have been here.

  Pretty hard when you work full-time.

  This has been going on, what, five days now?

  About that.

  So did you call the funeral home?

  No. I’ll wait to see how much time the daughter needs.

  Well, give us some time to wash her up, okay? I don’t want to be doing it on last round. Joyce is going to start ringing about five…

  I know. Can you do it before the daughter gets here?

  Yeah, I guess.

  Where’s Julie?

  She went on her break.

  At this point that Julie walks in with the palliative kit.

  Hey!

  I’ll take my break later. Let’s get this done.

  Heather smiles and I feel that current of energy pass between her and Julie, the connection between members of a good team.

  It makes no sense to me that they’re washing Janet. Evenings just washed her a few hours ago. But I guess that’s just what you do. Now I know.

  I can hear Heather and Julie murmuring to each other and, of all things, to Janet.

  Goodbye, sweetie.

  Safe journey, Janet. You be good now.

  Oh, she’ll be good. She’s in the land of all good now.

  Mmm.

  Should we put the ID tape on her now?

  It looks so institutional.

  But I might not remember to do it before the funeral home comes.

  We’ll remember. One of us will.

  Heather empties the basin of water in the sink with a splash.

  Frannie’s wide awake.

  You okay, Frannie?

  I nod.

  She’s alright.

  I don’t know whether Julie is talking about me or about Janet, but either works.

  Take your full break, Julie. I don’t want to see you.

  You call me if you need me.

  Someone’s coming.

  Yeah, good timing.

  It’s odd to think this is the last time I’ll hear the click clack of Janet’s daughter’s heels coming down the hallway. They echo especially in the stillness of the night. Janet’s daughter always has great shoes.

  I don’t know why I’m here. I can’t do anything.

  Lots of people need to come. Some don’t. It’s whatever you need to do. Take as much time as you want. Can I get you a cup of tea or something?

  No. I’m okay.

  The daughter bursts into tears.

  She’s fully dressed in day clothes, and her makeup is perfect. But she falls into Heather’s ample arms and cries like a baby just the same. Heather holds her, humming condolences softly, making a duet with Janet’s daughter’s sobs.

  The problem with crying is that you have to stop sometime.

  Sorry about that.

  Your mama just died. I think you’re entitled. I’m going to get that cup of tea now.

  Yeah. Thanks.

  Janet’s daughter slips behind the curtain and the room is suddenly so still that I can hear Alice’s snoring, delicate as a southern lady’s summer fan. Mary the Energy Giver is smiling slightly even in her sleep. Nana doesn’t move.

  Well, Angelina. Here is a scene you will never have to go through.

  My pillow is wet with tears.

  * * *

  It’s Monday morning. A new week. Janet’s bed is empty, neatly made and starkly institutional with the hospital bedspread and two plain pillows.

  I slept beside her, but I hardly knew her. What did I know about her? She had a daughter with fabulous shoes. Brilliant. Well, it’s not like she could see me, and it’s not like I could make polite conversation, was it, now?

  No. I really didn’t care.

  I listen to Bettina, washing Nana in her plodding way, without enthusiasm, behind the curtains. Bettina is not my favourite. She’s very vanilla pudding. She does her work quietly, the minimum, without much enthusiasm. Yet I can hear her behind the curtains, murmuring to Nana, who cannot answer or respond at all.

  Lily says Nana isn’t easy. She is hard to turn, dead weight, stiff and contracted. And yet the girls treat her like a favourite pet, caring for her with a warmth and gentleness that defies my logic. It seems to me the purest form of love, to look after someone so totally passive, from whom you can expect no benefit, praise or gain. I would never do it.

  On the other hand, Nana will never bite you back. She will never report you, or fight you, or gossip about you, or make snide comments that make you feel small. I heard Michiko tell Molly that she finds it restful looking after her, an oasis in the war zone, and then I imagine it is a cowardly kind of love, caring for someone who does not have the power to hurt you.

  Anna, why did you love me? Why did you open your heart to me and to my family? Yes, I did your books for you, but you gave your heart. Secretly, inside, I considered myself the superior one, and you knew that I thought that. You saw me for what I was: a grown woman with the mentality of a grade two girl who thinks she’s smarter because she gets a hundred percent on her spelling quiz, who thinks she’s better because her clothes are nicer. And all the while, you were wiser, kinder, more generous, more giving—in every meaningful way a better person. And yet you loved me.

  In my mind I hear your voice answering me. “Oh, stop whinnying like a horse. You are making a self-pity party out of nothing. How
can I get along without you? I will have to pay someone to do my taxes! I won’t like that.” You knew how to stand up to me; you knew how to laugh at me, how to make me laugh at myself.

  Oh, my dear friend. I miss you so much.

  My God. It’s only Monday morning. There is still so much of this damned day to get through. When will I feel better?

  * * *

  Interestingly (and I can’t think why this is so) it turns out that the general mood has shifted since Janet’s death, and, susceptible, I float in the current.

  Michiko is singing old Cole Porter songs while she dresses Mary.

  “I’ve got you…under my skin!” Actually, what I really want is a clean undershirt to put over your skin. God, where are all your undershirts? Okay, we’re just going to put this one on again cuz it’s not really dirty, and even if it was, it wouldn’t kill you.

  No.

  No, we don’t worry too much about these things, do we? But suppose it did kill you, Mary! Just think of the headlines: “Resident Killed by Dirty Undershirt.” “We don’t know what happened,” says the director of care. “It is certainly not our policy to dress people in dirty undershirts. A full investigation is underway.” The obituary: “In lieu of flowers, donations of laundry detergent will be accepted!”

  Mary the Energy Giver is smiling, because Michiko is smiling, and that’s what Mary does, but I am laughing myself sick over here.

  Michiko keeps playing it up, and I know it’s for me.

  The next headline: “Care Aide Gets Two Years for Laundry Abuse.” “I don’t know what made me do it,” sobs the repentant aide.“May God forgive me for my sins!”

  In fact, snot is pouring down my nose, and I am now snorting. It’s disgusting, but I don’t care. Molly walks into the room, just as Michi says, Oh my God, who put this away?

  She holds out the cardigan that she took from Mary’s closet, her nose wrinkled in disgust.

  Is that…gravy?

  Don’t ask! Just wash it!

  I shouldn’t laugh, but I do. It’s better than wine…all my sorrows are floating away.

  Look at you, Mary, you are just so sweet! You are just so nice! How come you’re so nice?

  My mama taught me.

  It has become unusual for Mary to make full sentences; Molly and Michiko are thrilled. They lean in, attentive and fully present.

  Oh my God. She taught you? How did she teach you? What did she say?

  She said, “Mary, be nice.”

  Oh my God. If only it was that easy! Imagine. “Mr. President, be nice.” “Ayatollah, be nice.” Oh my God! I effin wish!

  I howl. Molly laughs too.

  * * *

  Be nice. Don’t lie. Change your socks. It should be so easy.

  I was seeing a client, and Angelina went home with a school friend, so I told Chris to go to the diner after swimming practice. It wasn’t uncommon, was it, Anna? Really Chris spent more time with you than he did with me. More quality time, certainly. The diner was almost empty. Through the window, I saw you sitting across from Chris in our booth—he looked like an angel, with his blond hair just starting to darken and his serious blue eyes. I noticed the delicacy of his fingers holding the pencil over his math notebook, and the way his used napkin was neatly folded, not crumpled, on his empty plate. My heart skipped with love, crunched in on itself, a painful hiccup.

  You were relaxed, half smiling, leaning forward with your chin propped up on the palm of your hand.

  The doorbell startled you both; Chris began gathering up his belongings and you rose to greet me. I hadn’t eaten, and I was distracted by the smell of ketchup and fresh french fries and malt vinegar; my mouth watered. As I held the door open, Chris turned to you with open arms and you enveloped him in a wide embrace. Your cheek rested on his golden head. My son.

  As he buckled himself into the front seat of the Toyota, I asked, “What were you and Auntie Anna talking about, Chris?”

  “Nothing.”

  But then a moment later: “Mom, is it always right to tell the truth?”

  “Tell the truth? Have you done something wrong?”

  Sighs. “No Mom, it’s an ethical question. Are there times when it’s right to tell a lie?”

  “Don’t lie, son. You tell the truth or I’ll smack you!” I reached across the gearshift stick to punch him in the thigh.

  When he looked at me, I had the feeling that he wasn’t listening to what I said, but assessing who I was, like taking a reading on a temporal thermometer.

  I focused on the road.

  “What are we going to have for supper?” I said.

  * * *

  It’s a beautiful evening. Quiet.

  I think I’ve finally got the energy to sort my pictures. There aren’t many. Just a few snapshots that Chris must have chosen for me.

  Here are my parents, on their wedding day. Henry Smith and Enrica Lagudi. My goodness, Mama looks like Angelina! She looks fierce, even in her bridal whites. We certainly didn’t specialize in soft, yielding princess-types in our family; no wonder, looking at Mama.

  I don’t know this person. Who the hell is this? She looks familiar but I can’t place her. Should I know her? It’s upsetting not to remember.

  Here are the kids, when they were little, looking like a pair of angels. I can’t remember why I had them all dressed up, but I do recall Angelina throwing a fistful of muck at Chris and then wiping her filthy hands on her dress. It’s a miracle they stayed clean long enough to take a picture.

  Lord, I was mad. I came close to killing them both then and there.

  There you are, Anna, in the diner. Chris took this picture. Even if I didn’t remember him buying the camera and bringing it proudly to the diner, I’d know he took this picture because I recognize the expression on your face, that look of pure love you reserved exclusively for him. Look at you, Anna. You are the very picture of pride.

  Chris was the picture-taker in the family. I wish I had more pictures of him, but he was always the one behind the camera. Here is a fuzzy picture of our backyard. Why did Chris give me this? I try to slip this picture to the bottom of the pile, but it feels thick. Oh, there’s a second picture, accidentally stuck to the back. It takes me a moment, one-handed, to detach it. It’s a photo of someone’s thumb and the hind quarters of a cat. Now I remember yelling at Angelina from the patio, “Leave your brother’s camera alone!” while Chris, halfway across the yard, advanced softly, slowly, like a fireman talking a jumper off a ledge, hands outstretched. In the end she threw the camera, but Chris was quick enough to catch it.

  The cat was long gone.

  Here is my favourite set of pictures. In the first, Angelina, about eight years old, is nestled against me, her cheek on the front of my shoulder, my chin against her glossy hair. Chris snuck in and took it while we were absorbed in the movie we were watching on TV. He took a second shot quickly; it’s a little out of focus. The instant Angelina caught sight of her brother, she made a goofy face. There I am, reacting slower, looking stunned. “Look at me, Mom, I look cool! I look like a monkey,” crowed Angelina when she saw the picture. “And you look like I just stole all your bananas!”

  * * *

  Here is a picture of Theresa and Chris.

  I can’t stand her face.

  I’m struck with a wonderful idea. I set the picture aside; there is no point in ringing the bell and risking the wrath of that little witch Fabby for something like this. I wait patiently until I see her, and then I ask for scissors. Scissors are easy to mime.

  Fabby comes back quickly, but when I hold out my hand for the scissors, she hesitates.

  “Are you sure you can handle these?”

  I want to smack the table, but there’s no point getting snotty when she’s just done me a favour. I motion give, give but when the scissors are in my hand, I see what she means. I can’t hold t
he picture and cut too. I set the scissors down, trace a line between Theresa and Chris with my finger and pick up the scissors again.

  “How about you hold the picture and I’ll cut?”

  So I plant my thumb and finger right on Theresa’s face, and hold up the picture, and Fabby cuts for me.

  “Look at this, Stella.”

  Stella peers over Fabby’s shoulder.

  I take the picture of Chris and put it carefully away.

  “What do you want me to do with this half?”

  I take great pleasure in crumpling Theresa’s face. I press it into Fabby’s palm.

  “Huh. Wouldn’t want to get on your bad side, Francesca!”

  I guess it is kind of funny. So we all laugh.

  * * *

  There is a picture of Angelina’s goodbye supper somewhere.

  I tried to talk Mike and Ang into putting their trip off until the spring, but having decided to go, they were eager to be off. They wanted to stop in Banff and ski for a couple of weeks on their way across the country. When I inquired, Ang assured me they had the budget for that. I watched with surprise how practical and responsible she was preparing for her trip. She gave notice at work and on her apartment, and donated most of her things. What she decided to keep, she boxed, labelled and stored in the basement at my house. Mike had been living out of a backpack with friends until he began spending all this time with Angelina, so he didn’t have a lot of stuff. The plan was for them to spend the night at my place after Ang handed in her keys and collected her damage deposit. They would catch the first ferry the following day.

  I wanted to make an event of it, so I invited Chris and Theresa to come for supper too.

  Mike and Ang had been cleaning her apartment and packing the car all day. They were both dirty and tired, and also a little glassy-eyed.

  “Are you high?” Theresa said in disgust.

  “Are you high?” Angelina countered, making eye contact with Mike, who immediately said, “Are you high?” and then he and Angelina giggled.