A Funny Kind of Paradise

by Jo Owens

  Chris reels back, shocked, and a gurgling laugh escapes from my gut. I try again: I make the “dismissed” gesture…Janet is long gone.

  “She died?”

  This old man came rolling home…I try to indicate “turnover” but Chris isn’t keeping up at all. Fortunately Ruby chooses this moment to wheel in, and I beckon her near and point to Chris.

  Chris and Ruby shake hands and introduce themselves.

  “You’re Mom’s new roommate?”

  “Yes. You must be Francesca’s son. I recognize you from your mother’s photos.”

  Chris looks stunned. In my previous life, I was unapologetically and vocally scornful of people who showed off pictures of their children and grandchildren. I shrug away Christian’s questioning glance. He should try making riveting conversation without a voice.

  Chris gathers his wits and smiles.

  “Very pleased to meet you. When did you move in?”

  Ruby frowns. “I can’t recall. My memory is not what it used to be. But I think fairly recently.”

  “You’re adjusting?”

  “Oh yes. Everyone is very kind. Your mother is a good friend.” Ruby touches my sleeve. “My son visits.”

  “You have just the one son?”

  “My daughter died of cancer. Many years ago.”

  Ruby’s voice is steady but she surreptitiously wipes the corner of her eye. A tear escapes every time Ruby mentions her daughter, and she always keeps a tissue in her pocket.

  Chris puts a gentle hand on her shoulder, and Ruby reaches up and covers his hand with her own.

  “You and my mom both lost a daughter.”

  “Yes, that’s what Francesca indicated. Your sister’s name was on the back of her photograph. A beautiful girl. I pray for her when I pray for Connie. Well. I just stopped in for my Bible. If you’d reach it for me? Thank you. It was a pleasure to meet you. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.”

  Ruby wheels off. Chris gives me a considering look.

  “You showed her Angelina’s picture?”

  I shrug.

  Chris shrugs back.

  “She’s lovely.”

  I nod. Yes, she is.

  “You’ve changed.”

  Really? How?

  Chris pulls a chair next to me and puts it at an angle, so that we’re not staring face to face. He sits on my left. I can reach him if I want to.

  “Remember Janice?”

  I shake my head.

  “Janice. Our next-door neighbour.”

  Oh God. Janice. The Pentecostal. Ghastly.

  “You had no time for her at all.”

  Surely Chris would not equate Ruby with Janice…they are nothing alike! Again I make the sweeping dismissal gesture and grimace for good measure. Why would I ever think about Janice?

  “She wasn’t so bad, Mom. She had a good heart. She was…but now your roomie is praying for Ang?”

  I shrug. Apparently it’s the gesture of the day.

  “You’ve changed. You…pay attention. No offence, Mom, but you never used to listen. You were always so busy. So sure you were right.”

  I’m holding my breath. Quietly, keeping my eyes on Chris’s face, I let my hand fall open, palm up.

  “What’s going on in that head of yours, Mom?”

  Chris leans back in his chair, smiling.

  “Guess Lily was right, huh, Mom…you’re never too old to change. How about that?”

  Breathe.

  * * *

  After Chris is gone, I think about what he said.

  Is it true that I never used to listen? Is that why Angelina yelled so much? Is that what she felt she needed to do to make herself heard? Oh God. The irony.

  Like a sliver in my thumb, like a pain in a tooth that the tongue keeps seeking, I find myself thinking again about an insignificant moment, an unimportant conversation that lately keeps rising to the surface in the stew of my brain.

  Angelina was in grade five. Her class was taking a field trip to Sooke Potholes Provincial Park, which should have been less than an hour’s drive, but Ang and her best friend, Raven, missed the school bus. They took the city bus downtown, then walked over a mile to get to the highway. The police picked them up just outside of Victoria, with their thumbs out, trying to hitch a ride. I got a call from the police saying they were bringing the girls home, and I stomped around the kitchen, slamming cupboard doors, choking on anger and fear. Chris was home with a mild flu that day. He was propped at the kitchen door, sipping on a can of ginger ale but, deliberately, he didn’t sit down—he was protecting a clear exit path.

  “Why doesn’t she think?” I ranted. “She’s almost eleven, she should know better! Why does she do these things?”

  “But that’s just the point, Mom. She doesn’t think. Angelina is not like us. She doesn’t need a logical reason. She just acts.”

  “But surely even Angelina can see there could be consequences, dangerous consequences…” I had much more to say, but Chris was leaving.

  “Have it your way,” he said, disappearing down the hall.

  It wasn’t just Angelina that I misjudged. I didn’t realize how much Chris identified with me. “Like us,” he’d said.

  I didn’t listen to Christian either. I didn’t even acknowledge that we were on the same team.

  The wave of sadness is nauseating. Love and anguish, sharp as a fresh cranberry.

  But here’s the thing about being a survivor. You get to try again.

  * * *

  It’s with listening in mind that I observe my conversations with Ruby, and I do feel every bit as much an observer as a participant.

  “Milton was in yesterday. I don’t believe you saw him.”

  I shake my head.

  “He brought me this.”

  It’s a candid picture of Connie and Milton as young adults. They both seem to have a fair bit of paint on them, and Connie is gesturing with a brush in her hand. Both young people are crinkly-eyed with laughter, facing each other, sharing a moment of mirth. They look like they’re enjoying each other’s company, and I point from one to the other to indicate the warmth between them, but Ruby doesn’t get it.

  “Oh, that’s Milton and this is Connie. Milton was two years older, you see; Connie always adored him.”

  I mime painting, to keep up my side of the conversation.

  “Yes. My husband and I moved into a condo here when the children grew up, but it needed quite a bit of attention; Milton and Connie gave it a fresh coat of paint for us. Gordon was already unwell by that time.”

  I point to various parts of my body.

  “Breast cancer. We didn’t know what it was for a long time…he just felt sick. People don’t think of men getting breast cancer, but they do. Treatment was not as effective as it is now. I believe they’ve made great strides in that department. Connie died of cancer too. But I told you that, didn’t I?”

  I nod.

  “My memory is so poor. Is that how Angelina went?”

  I shake my head. It’s so complicated. We’ve been through this before. Ruby doesn’t remember. I try for a journey, and then a car, but it’s obvious that Ruby is confused. She gives up.

  “It’s hard, isn’t it? The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord. But children aren’t supposed to die before their parents; it’s not the natural order. I kept myself busy after Connie passed away. My congregation was a great support to me. And I had my work. Did you work outside of the home?”

  Suddenly I have a burst of my old confidence. I nod vigorously. I had a business! I was very important and very responsible, and for some reason, I feel strongly that I want Ruby to know this about me, right now. I am gesturing wildly.

  “You must have enjoyed it,” says Ruby. Just as quickly as my enthusiasm rose, I am deflated.
I didn’t enjoy work, per se. Rather, my work defined me. I wasn’t particularly friendly with my clients, but I liked the person I was with them—a professional. I was confident, reliable, dependable and trustworthy. My role was to ensure that my clients paid as little taxes as possible while staying strictly within the law. You know where you are with a good tax accountant. I knew where I was. But how to explain?

  Ruby is moving the conversation forward.

  “I think most people have mixed feelings about their work. It takes so much time, my husband used to say. He was the type who would much rather be reading…not that he was lazy. He simply resented the time that took him away from the worlds in the pages of his books.”

  For me work was a necessity, a distraction and a source of security. Work was predictable compared to the chaotic backdrop that was my parenting life. Later, in the long years after Ang disappeared, work was the drug that kept me from going crazy, the preoccupation that made the long, agonizing hours disappear. Now I am struck by the sudden realization that I invested more in my work because I cared less, and I invested less at home because I cared more.

  How absurd!

  I feel my stomach knotting up, my face furrowing with frustration. A word flashes in my mind like a neon sign: agitated. That’s what the aides call us when we’re upset. I imagine a washing machine, thumping the clothes this way and that. It shakes something loose in my head and suddenly I’m free. So what if I can’t tell Ruby what a big man I was! That information wasn’t going to impress her anyway. She doesn’t care. She’s lovely and she’s polite, but she has her own fish to fry.

  Indeed, she’s still talking.

  “Milton took after his father. He’s a college professor now. But Connie had a more playful nature.”

  How like real life, I muse. We are stuck in our own worlds, with our own thoughts. Yet we’re friends. We wave to each other across a football field…look at me! Look at me!

  “People said she took after me.”

  There’s the silent tear on Ruby’s cheek.

  Breathe. Carefully, like I’m stepping onto ice, I reach for Ruby’s hand and squeeze.

  It’s true…she can’t read my mind, and I may be getting her all wrong too, for all I know. But we’re here together now and this will have to do.

  * * *

  We’re nearing the end of October. Almost group change…I’ll have Molly, and Blaire on Molly’s days off, for a month. In the meantime, Bettina’s job has been posted and will be up for a week, and it will likely be another week before the lucky owner of a brand new day shift starts, so there is a casual named Jennifer doing Michiko’s days off. Today she’s working with Molly.

  These groups are too hard! On third floor, we’re done by ten thirty.

  This is a heavy wing.

  Evenings should be putting away the laundry. It’s not like they have a lot to do.

  They have their own workload.

  Come on! It’s way easier to throw them into bed than it is to get them up and dressed, and we have bowel care and outings. Days are much heavier than evenings.

  Evenings have to deal with sundowning.

  It’s not that bad. Really. They take long breaks on evenings. And there’s no administration around.

  You do a lot of evenings, Jennifer?

  Oh no. I haven’t done evenings for years.

  Jennifer’s been my nurse for two days, and Anna, if I counted the number of times she’s said “It’s good enough,” you’d be shocked. Or maybe you wouldn’t, because every now and then you’d hire a girl like this at the diner: a hustler. A girl whose mission it is to work hard at avoiding work. You’d recognize the type.

  “I’m not killing myself here,” she says, while she gossips and complains about the other staff.

  Yesterday she gave me “a bed day” without asking me if I wanted one, saying, “What does she have to get up for?” Today she rushed to get me up and “out of the way” before breakfast, barely washing me and skipping my teeth. She left me up after lunch.

  When Stella comes on at three, she puts me to bed first.

  “Molly told me you were up early. You have a good cushion, but your bottom isn’t that great yet.”

  I could hug her. I definitely need a sign for “thank you.” I pat my heart.

  * * *

  When Michiko’s days off are over, I’m extremely grateful to have her back. I give her my best attempt at a grin and grab at her sleeve.

  “Glad to see me, are you?” Michi grins wickedly. “I’m not going to pretend I don’t know why!”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “I’ve worked with her before; I know what she’s like.”

  Michiko leans in and whispers.

  “Crappy casuals have their purpose.”

  I smack my side rail.

  “Yup. They make you guys appreciate the little extras we do for you. Keep you from taking us for granted.”

  Now I’m listening.

  “You’re actually pretty lucky here. No one could be better than Molly—she’s on her own level. But Blaire is a good, solid aide, and your evening staff are good too, right?”

  I nod.

  “Stella? She’s the grande dame. And Fabby is a sweetheart.”

  She’s right.

  Furthermore Michiko herself is one of the best. I decide I’m going to try to tell her so.

  “What?”

  I point at her, then give her a thumbs-up.

  “Me?”

  Thumbs up!

  “Aww! A compliment, right?”

  I nod, grinning. I did it!

  “Well, thank you, Francesca. That means a lot to me.”

  “You know,” she confides, “I wanted to change the world with my music. I wanted to write songs that inspired people to be the very best they can be. But—”

  Michiko straightens up and shrugs. “An artist has a hard life. I had a couple of low-down, dirty Lily-style love affairs and I ended up writing a lot of redundant crap about good love gone bad, and the years went by.”

  I point to my buttocks.

  “That’s right, honey. Hard Assed Bitch. But you know, Frannie, I think this might be my real gift after all…my work here. Looking after you guys. There’s something profoundly spiritual about showing up, day after day, staying present, staying compassionate, staying real. I’m still making music, yeah. But this is a pretty important part of my life. I spend a lot of time here.”

  This is the most personal Michiko has ever been. I wish I could tell her that it makes a huge difference to me, the fact that she’s emotionally invested in her job. Thumbs-up just doesn’t cover it.

  Michiko smiles and poses thumbs-up back to me, with her elbows at her sides and her spiky hair sticking straight to the sky.

  “Let’s get you up, shall we?”

  I nod.

  * * *

  Blaire and Michiko are venting in the sunroom. Ruby and I sit, fawns-in-the-tall-grass quiet, listening.

  When Molly and Michiko work together, I have no trouble identifying who’s speaking, no matter how quickly they talk. But when Michi works with Blaire, I have a hard time telling their voices apart. Michiko mimics Blaire a little. I don’t think she knows she’s doing it.

  Elaine’s daughter was in complaining to the RN again.

  What was it this time?

  Oh, she said we aren’t brushing her mom’s teeth well enough.

  Well, if her mom didn’t spit at me, maybe I’d do a better job!

  Yup. I call that the right to refuse care. I think she makes herself pretty clear.

  She’s better if you get down on her level.

  What, you mean spit back?

  Ha ha, no, stupid! Bend down, so she doesn’t have to look up!

  Sometimes nothing works.

  Yeah, I know. Anyway,
that daughter has complained so many times about so much random shit that it’s not likely they’re gonna pay a whole lot of attention.

  She’s kind of like one of those small yappy dogs. You just wanna misstep and accidentally crush it.

  You can’t please her.

  All the time Elaine’s been here, she hasn’t had one good thing to say.

  She likes to try to pit us against each other.

  She’s a splitter, for sure. I just smile and nod and try not to engage.

  But it makes it hard to deal with Elaine. I get so mad at how her daughter treats us that it’s hard not to go in that room with a bad attitude. Especially when Elaine can be so resistive.

  Uh-huh. Not doing one little extra thing. Not one.

  I don’t want to be that way. Elaine is an old lady with dementia; her daughter’s attitude is irrelevant.

  Maybe not. Maybe Elaine was a terrible parent and role model. Maybe she’s responsible for that daughter being such a pill.

  Irrelevant. She’s old, she’s uncomfortable, she’s confused and she’s nasty. She needs care and that’s my job. If we only looked after the people who deserved kindness, it’d be a skinny job.

  Well, it’s not my job to be treated like shit!

  Yeah. It’s a tough thing to be a good advocate, though. If you want the best for your mother, you certainly don’t want to antagonize her caretakers.

  Or your kid’s kindergarten teacher.

  Yeah, how’s that working out for you? Is Stephen doing any better?

  Oh my God, it’s a nightmare. I can’t wait for this school year to end! I just hope Stephen isn’t scarred for life.

  It’s pretty sad when your kindergarten teacher is a bitch.

  An effin sadist!

  When Michiko and Blaire leave, Ruby and I exchange glances.

  “They’re good girls,” says Ruby.

  I shrug. I touch my right arm, where Michiko has her dragon tattoo, and make the thumbs-up sign. Then I make a circle with my thumb and finger and bring it to my eye to indicate Blaire’s glasses, then wave my hand back and forth to say “no.” I won’t go so far as to make a thumbs-down sign, but Blaire is hard. And tough. She should be the one with the tattoo on her ass.