A Funny Kind of Paradise

by Jo Owens

  Michiko comes in to do Mary’s care while Molly is making Tiny’s bed.

  Ugh. She’s so wet.

  Yeah, I expect they’re all wet. Heather told me they did their last round at three, because they didn’t want to risk coming in here and waking everyone up. Apparently they had a hell of a time getting this one settled.

  Which one, dear?

  You, Tiny. You had a hard time getting to sleep last night.

  Nonsense! I slept right through the night. I always do.

  We’re going to have to be careful what we say in this room now. Hearing issues, my ass.

  What did you say, dear?

  We were commenting on how good your hearing is.

  Yes, I’m very lucky that way. I should have a headband…

  Is this it?

  No, a blue one…could it be in the drawer?

  This one?

  Oh. Well. Maybe that will do. Could you put Teddy at the head of the bed? In the middle? That’s right, he looks quite nice there.

  Okay, Tiny, is there anything else?

  Could I have a glass of water? It’s very dry…

  There you go.

  May I have my notebook and pen?

  Okay, Tiny. Are you set? I’m going to start my next person…

  Ohh. Yes, dear. What should I do now?

  Well, Tiny, you can write in your book, or you can wheel yourself down to the sunroom and watch the squirrels in the trees, or there’s a TV in the dining room, if you like TV.

  Will you come with me?

  No, honey, I have work to do here.

  I could help you.

  I’m sorry, lovey, this is something I need to do by myself.

  I used to be a nurse, you know.

  I did know that. Now, lovey, I’m going to push you down to the sunroom and you can sit there for a bit.

  Molly is back in a minute.

  Her care is easy, I guess we can be grateful for that.

  But she’s going to be a huge energy suck. I bet she sundowns big time.

  Oh Lord. I can just imagine.

  Well, you must be glad it’s almost group change.

  Do you think that group shuffle we did helped?

  It’s hard to say…no matter how you cut it, 105 is a piece of work.

  Harrumph. As if I didn’t know who that is!

  You said it yourself: mentally, you just have to put on your protective all-weather gear when you go in that room.

  I said it and I meant it. She’s hard on me. I don’t think I’ve ever worked with a more vindictive, manipulative woman.

  But you know, thank God she refuses to leave that room of hers…she’d infect the whole floor.

  There is that. You know, I do better with dementia. Those cognizant types, I find they can be very demanding.

  Frannie’s pretty with it. If she could talk, we’d have to be just as careful what we say in front of her as we are with 105.

  Yup, that’s true.

  Molly smiles at me.

  But Frannie would never be like that. She’s kinder.

  “Aren’t you Frannie? You’ve got a loving heart, don’t you?”

  Do I? Is that what she sees in me? No one has ever suggested such a thing to me before. All I can do is stare. Shoot, my eyes are filling with tears.

  “Aw, Frannie! Did I make you sad? Haven’t you ever had a compliment before? You’re my darling…you’re my chocolate chip cookie!”

  Now, that’s a bit much; I bang the side rail with my fist.

  Not a chocolate chip cookie. That’s way too plebian for our Francesca. More like a nice fat slice of that German Bundt cake you make. Loaded with almonds and apricots and brandy. Mmm.

  Are you hungry, Michiko? You sound hungry.

  I’m starving to death. I forgot my smoothie.

  I’ve got a granola bar in my bag if you want it.

  Ooo…is it vegan?

  Now, really, would I offer it to you if it wasn’t vegan, darling?

  Once again you save my life.

  No worries, take it.

  Dear? What should I do now?

  It’s Tiny, wheeling herself back into the room.

  Take her too. Let’s see if she can fold face cloths or something.

  Yeah, or maybe she can sort the button box. C’mon, Tiny. I’m going to try to find a job for you.

  Well, that would be lovely. I used to be a nurse, you know!

  * * *

  A loving heart?

  Is that what they think of me? That would be a first!

  What I remember is yelling.

  Standing, fists clenched, mirroring my mother, both of us shrieking. Papa, hat in one hand, the other on the doorknob, slinking away.

  In my office clothes at the kitchen sink, dumping coffee dregs while yelling at Karl stumbling in from God knows where, his face emptied and boarded up like a failed business.

  Yelling at teachers, specialists, the checkout counter girl, the gas jockey.

  Yelling at Angelina, and her yelling back, just as I had done with my own mother, both of us hoarse. Caustic bile in our throats.

  And yelling at Christian for leaving crumbs on the table. He was fourteen.

  “Mom, you’re tired,” he said. “When you’re tired, you yell. Go rest.”

  He had a natural ability to step outside of himself, to think of someone else. Who taught him that—was it you, Anna? Because it sure the heck wasn’t me.

  I reached for him, choking on shame and fatigue and anger and pride, but he ducked under my arm, eluding my embrace, and disappeared into his own space.

  A loving heart? I don’t think so.

  Good thing I have lots of tissues. All my yelling has dissolved into tears.

  * * *

  It is afternoon, the lull just before coffee break, and the girls are hanging out in the sunroom while Bettina, a fervent Christian, tells Molly and Blaire an involved story about her congregation. Molly is clipping and filing my nails. Bettina is very gentle, but she makes me uneasy. She has an unnerving habit of praying under her breath while she works.

  When Chris walks in, I notice that Molly is quick to turn the conversation.

  Chris! It’s nice to see you back!

  Yeah, it’s been a while. Sorry.

  Hey, no “sorry” required. It’s your life. We knew you were going through some stress.

  Chris raises his eyebrows. Molly reaches over for the half photograph that was once Chris and Theresa and holds it up.

  “Mom! You did that?”

  His tone is accusatory but also amused, and a half-witted grin spreads over my face.

  Chris turns to Molly.

  She never did like my wife. My ex-wife.

  Oh well. It happens.

  I’m embarrassed but it’s wonderful to see Chris smile.

  Your mother doesn’t have many visitors.

  No. Her best friend passed away just a couple of years before the stroke, and she has no extended family.

  That must have been hard as a single mom. She was a single mom, right?

  Yeah. She worked like a dog, all the time.

  Your Mom’s social history in her chart says that you had a sister?

  Yeah. She’s…uh…she’s dead.

  Chris and I exchange a look. We are conspirators. Angelina may or may not be dead, but we’re checking each other to make sure that we’re both okay with this simpler version of the truth.

  My eyes are welling and Chris puts his hand on my shoulder protectively.

  She’s in a better place, says Bettina piously, and without censoring myself, I instinctively jerk my hand from Molly’s and smack the table with it, making everyone jump with surprise, and my stomach clenches from indignation and grief.

  You’ve g
ot to understand, says Chris. For my mother, there was no better place for my sister than right by her side, no matter what.

  Now the tears come from surprise. Is that what Chris believes?

  “Francesca, I’m sorry that I mentioned your daughter,” apologizes Molly formally. “Even the thought of losing one of my children is unbearable, and I can’t imagine what you must have gone through. Please forgive me.”

  Even though Molly means well, her words do nothing to soothe the ache in my throat that comes from trying to control my tears, and Molly is astute enough to realize that is what I’m fighting to do. She changes the topic abruptly.

  I’ve been meaning to mention this anyway, Chris. If you think your mom needs more social interaction than you can provide, why not hook her up with a companion? I mean, I don’t know how finances stand…

  Quickly: Finances are fine. I’m just not sure how Mom would take to a stranger. She never was that outgoing.

  My sister is looking for clients, Blaire pipes up.

  Ugh. Anything to do with Blaire! I’m making a face. I know I’m making a face.

  You could give it a try. Introduce them, see how it goes.

  Maybe.

  Huh. Maybe not! Does this mean I’ll see less of Chris? I don’t like this idea at all.

  Molly finishes my nails and she and Bettina and Blaire drift away. Chris has a lot to tell me. He and Theresa have put their house on the market. Theresa is living there until it sells, and he is living at my house with the other renters, who are friends of his.

  I knew about the renters, but I’d forgotten. They’re using my furniture, which is significantly more bearable to think about than imagining it all sitting on the front lawn with a big yard sale sign and a couple of balloons.

  “I suppose I could sell the house for you, Mom, if that’s what you want. I’m pretty sure I could get more income from investing your money than you’re getting for rent after taxes.”

  I shake my head.

  “On the other hand, you’re not pressed for money. You’re okay. I really don’t want to, um, slam that door shut. On our past. We’ve…”

  Chris cleared his throat.

  “We’ve had that phone number as long as I can remember. I’ve got the land line forwarded to my cell phone. Angelina knows that number. I mean, she knew that number.”

  It makes me angry that he’s put me in the position of having to shake my head at him, to remind him what we both know.

  “I know. She’s not coming back. But it’s the only number left that she’d know.”

  I grimace and Chris ignores me.

  “Anyway, it works out, and I’m grateful to be able to stay there now. Daisy and Abdul are good roomies. Actually, it’s really nice to have them there. They’re good people.”

  I’m pleased with the arrangements; a house shouldn’t be standing empty.

  * * *

  Angelina disappeared fifteen years ago somewhere between Revelstoke and Montreal.

  She called Chris collect one day from Revelstoke, sounding excited and happy as she told him they were thinking of heading down to Radium Hot Springs, one of many picturesque side trips Michael made on his way out west from Montreal last summer. Listening over Chris’s shoulder, I hissed out my worries. “Tell her to be careful, the Rogers Pass is dicey to drive, tell her to check the weather report, tell her…”

  “She can hear you, Mom.”

  “Let me talk to her,” Ang laughed, and Chris passed the receiver to me. “Hi, Mom! Are you being a good girl?”

  “Angelina.” Now that I had her on the phone, my throat was dry.

  “Have you been yelling at Chris enough? You better practise on him while I’m gone, I don’t want you to lose your scolding skills!”

  “Don’t you sass me!”

  “That’s the ticket! That’s the mom I know and love!”

  “Do you think she was high?” I asked Chris when she hung up.

  We waited a long time for the next call, and when it didn’t come, I got angrier and angrier, cursing her for her negligence, cursing her for not knowing or caring that we needed to know she was okay. Still there was no news, and finally Chris went to all of Ang’s friends, asking if they’d heard from her, and when that drew a blank, it occurred to us that we didn’t really know Mike very well. Chris starting tracking down his friends, but they didn’t have much information to give. Mike hadn’t been in Victoria for very long. He was a great guy, lots of fun. Yes, he smoked dope; no, no hard drugs as far as they knew. Yes, they knew he was planning a trip with Ang, lucky guy, she was a hot babe. No, they hadn’t heard from him.

  Finally we called the police. When they started looking for Michael and Angelina, we learned that the last time Michael used his credit card was when he gassed up in Revelstoke, the same day Angelina called us.

  By this time we had connected with Mike’s frantic parents in Montreal. Mike had told them about his new girlfriend but not that he was planning to bring her for a visit. They guessed it was meant to be a surprise. That would be just like Mike: he was a bit impulsive, a big kid, really, a lovable clown, the kind of guy who’d try anything once. When Chris asked if that included drugs, there was a hesitation that stopped my heart.

  “This isn’t a judgment,” said Chris. “I just need to know.”

  “Does Angelina do drugs?” Mike’s father countered.

  “She smokes pot,” said Chris, “but that’s it, as far as I know.”

  “Mike too,” said his father. “As far as I know.”

  It wasn’t reassuring to any of us.

  Against Theresa’s bitter protests, Chris used his spring break to fly to Montreal, where he talked to Mike’s family and school friends.

  “I told you so,” said Theresa, when Chris came home empty-handed.

  There were posters asking for information all over Victoria; only cranks responded.

  The police found no evidence of foul play. No one remembered seeing them in Revelstoke or Radium. Their vehicle was never found.

  I had trouble sleeping because of the imaginary films that played on repeat in my head. Did they decide to take a scenic route, a back road? I saw a dark night, deep powdery snow, Angelina and Mike hitting a patch of black ice, skidding into a canyon in a remote part of the mountains, fresh snow quietly, fatefully covering their tracks. That was the best-case scenario. What if they picked up a hitchhiker? Would that be “just like Mike” too, guileless and oblivious to danger? He wouldn’t be thinking of Angelina’s protection! Or what if Mike was not the harmless buffoon his friends and family made him out to be? Why hadn’t he told his family that he was bringing Ang to meet them? That seemed suspicious too. Maybe he intended to head down to South America all along. What if he was involved in trafficking? Could Ang be hunched in some alley with a needle in her vein? Or prostituting herself? At first Chris tried to reassure me: these were wild, crazy thoughts, but at night they crowded in, intruders making themselves at home in my head, and I got up and paced myself to exhaustion with the lights on and the television blaring. As time went on, and the police had nothing new to tell us, my despair deepened. It was harder and harder to hold on to hope, and eventually Chris and I realized, even if we did get news, whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

  She didn’t run away. She would have called. She’d have called Chris if she did something so stupid that she was too ashamed to call me. Eventually, she’d have called.

  That’s how we know. Unless she has amnesia and is living as someone else somewhere, she must be dead.

  * * *

  As it turns out, Tiny hates water.

  Michiko’s shoes are squelching, and Molly points.

  You’re leaving tracks. You showered Tiny? How?

  I bullied her.

  Oh no.

  Yup. She said, “I don’t need your help, I’ve been washing m
yself for ninety years, I’m a clean person, blah blah blah,” and I said, “Stop making such a fuss and acting like a big baby, and you’d better hold this cloth over your eyes if you don’t want soap in them.”

  Oh my.

  Uh-huh. She backed right down. Last week, I tried to sugar her up and it took me forty-five minutes and I never did get her hair washed, so this week I thought, “Fuck it,” and I tried a tougher approach and it worked. And you know what? I’m glad. She reeks.

  She does have a strong odour.

  Yup. Some people are just like that, and she’d be one of ’em. She probably did wash every day when she was herself. She’d probably be appalled to know she stinks. I did her old self a favour.

  And you’ll do it again next week.

  Oh my God, I sure the hell hope not. I’m praying for a miracle.

  Did they ever get her an order for Ativan?

  Yes they did, but it doesn’t seem to touch her. Maybe it would help me. It’s not my idea of a good time, bullying people. Even if she is acting like a stubborn bag.

  * * *

  The sky is blue and my heart leaps up to meet the sun as Molly adjusts me in my chair.

  “I want you looking especially nice today, y’know why?”

  It’s Wednesday—surely Chris isn’t coming today? What else would I care about? I shrug my shoulders.

  “Today you’re going to meet your companion, remember? Blaire’s sister?”

  Immediately I scowl. Blaire is so…disengaged from her work. It’s true that she’s capable, I give her that, but I feel like a slab of brisket in her hands. I just know she wants to be here approximately as much as I do—which is to say, needs must. This is much better than the General Hospital or some dirty overcrowded facility, but it’s a far cry from standing at my kitchen window with a nice glass of white wine looking out over the tulips in my own backyard.