In the 1940s, Mohandas Gandhi had asked his grandson to draw a tree and to paste it on his bedroom wall. Every evening, they reviewed the day’s events together—everything that the boy had experienced, said, seen, or read about. Arun Gandhi was asked to write these things on slips of paper and to paste each of them on his tree under one of two categories: physical violence or passive violence. Within a couple of months, the wall of Arun’s bedroom was plastered with acts of violence of the latter kind. These acts (taunts, bullying, refusals of recognition), his grandfather explained, generated anger in victims, who then responded explosively with the first kind of violence. Passive violence always engendered a consequence. It was the fuel.
The phone rang. Hannah put the book down on the counter and ran to answer.
“Hello?” she said, in a small, breathless voice.
It wasn’t Hugo, which confused her, because his presence had been so strong while she was reading Arun Gandhi’s words. It was Connie.
“I’ve been calling and calling,” Connie said. “Didn’t you get my messages?”
“I’m sorry,” said Hannah. Over the past three days Connie had left five rambling messages. None of them were frantic. None had announced her father’s impending death or even a downturn in his health. This did not justify silence, Hannah knew, but it showed she wasn’t totally callous. At least she had checked. She just hadn’t answered.
“Is everything okay?” Connie said.
The temptation to talk was great, but Hannah resisted it.
“Hannah?”
“I’m here.”
There was a long silence. She felt her reluctance giving way, felt the words coming, when Connie spoke. “Well, I’m glad you finally picked up. I was beginning to think there was a real catastrophe down there. How is Hugo?”
“Hugo?”
“I’ve been worrying all week about him, and when you didn’t answer …”
“Oh,” said Hannah. Mononucleosis. Her excuse. How could she have forgotten? She thought guiltily about all the times she’d let the phone ring, knowing exactly who it was. “I’m sorry. He’s doing much better.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“It’s been incredibly busy around here. We were so worried. He had to have all these tests.” Hannah winced. There was a tiny kernel of truth in there, but not enough to absolve her. Lying was violence. Arun Gandhi said so.
“And Father?” Hannah said, shifting away from the uncomfortable subject. “How is he?”
“He’s coming home.”
“Home?” The word dropped out of Hannah’s mouth before she fully registered it. She pictured her father strapped to the surfboard-like stretcher the nurses had used to bathe him. “But he can’t even walk.”
“Yes he can.”
“He can?”
“When the orderly’s there,” said Connie. “He walked today. Two full steps.”
“Mother,” she said, leaning on the stove for support, trying not to look at the congealed mess of her dinner. She couldn’t say more. Her parents’ house with its long flight of stairs flashed before her. The only full bathrooms were on the second floor, none of them adapted to the needs of a man in Alfred Stern’s condition. There was no way he could go home.
“He’s walking, I said. Two full steps.”
“Yes, I heard you,” said Hannah. Had her mother come unhinged?
“They can’t keep him at the hospital any longer. Two days ago, Dr. Ufitsky said it’s time for him to move on.”
“But not home, surely?” Hannah took the wooden spoon from the spoon rest and gave the stroganoff a hard stir. There was sour cream in it. She should probably put it in the fridge.
“Look. I’m doing the best I can.”
“I know you are, Mother,” Hannah said, suddenly weary. “I didn’t mean …” She returned the spoon to the spoon rest, abandoning the stroganoff to its bacterial fate. Either Ufitsky was nuts or Connie was wilfully misunderstanding what he’d said. “Aren’t there rehab centres?” she said. “Longer-term places where he can receive proper care?”
“He doesn’t want that.”
Hannah’s eyes widened. “He’s talking?”
“No,” said Connie. “But he doesn’t need to.” There was a brief silence. “Would you want to be packed off to one of those places?”
For some reason, perhaps because of the conversation she’d just had with Manny Mandelbaum, Hannah pictured a boy in short pants clutching a battered suitcase.
“Well?” said her mother. “Would you?” She didn’t leave a space for Hannah to answer, but began almost immediately to talk about Benjamin. “He’s very caught up with his work,” Connie said. “I just got off the phone with him. He’s in court all next week.”
So that was it. Her mother would never state a need simply or ask directly for help. Instead, there were hints. Seemingly random facts, finding their mark in your neck.
“Hannah?”
But Hannah remained silent, her fallback position. In silence was safety. She shifted the telephone to her right hand to change ears. Her neck was hurting. She pressed tentatively into the stiff ridge of her trapezius muscle and winced.
“Benjamin can’t fly here every other week. He’s come once this month already. Vancouver’s so far away.”
“It is,” said Hannah. She leaned her back against the counter and slid down the cupboard door into a squat. “The other end of the continent.” She was still working her neck muscle. The pain fanned down her left shoulder and arm. She regretted telling Connie that Hugo had recovered. Her mind began to scramble. “There must be a decent rehab place in Toronto. It would just take a little research.”
“No, Hannah.”
“What do you mean, no? Have you even looked into it?”
“Your father doesn’t want to go. The doctor talked to him about rehab. He said he could get him a spot in a good centre. The very next day, your father stopped eating.”
“What?” Hannah sat down heavily on the floor.
“It’s been two days.”
Hannah felt sick. The guilt was doing its work.
“Dr. Ufitsky says he sees it a lot. People go on strike.”
Hannah pictured her thin, wasted father. “Maybe it’s a physical thing,” she said desperately. “Is he having trouble swallowing?”
“No,” said Connie. “Until that talk with the doctor, he was eating fine. He’s had enough, Hannah. It’s perfectly clear. He doesn’t want to be cooped up anymore. He wants out.”
Hannah stared up at the ceiling. A shadow darkened the centre of the frosted glass ceiling light. It looked fairly large. Had some insect gotten trapped in there? Or was it just dirt? “It’ll never work,” said Hannah. “He’s sick, Mother. You’ll need round-the-clock nursing care. Not to mention physiotherapy, speech therapy, God knows what else. And where will you put him? He can’t handle the stairs. You’ll need a hospital bed.”
“All that can be arranged.”
“This is nuts,” Hannah said. It was like a bad dream in which everyone was unaccountably blind to looming danger. Everyone but her.
“He’s been in hospital almost a month, Hannah. He’s had enough.”
“And what about you?” Hannah asked before she could stop herself. If her mother was exhausted now, how would she be as her husband’s full-time nurse?
“Me? You think I enjoy it there?”
Hannah took a deep breath. “Think about it a minute, Mum. At least now you can go home and sleep. There are nurses to help. Orderlies to bathe him. This is a huge undertaking. Way too big to manage.”
“Alone, yes. That’s why I’ve been telephoning.”
Hannah held her breath. The kitchen seemed stark and painfully bright as she sat there for several seconds, legs splayed on the wooden floorboards, gazing at the light.
“They can keep him a little bit longer at Sunnybrook while I fix the bathroom and get a bed installed downstairs. This is the issue. I’ll need someone to oversee the workmen whil
e I’m at his bedside. The housekeeper is there Tuesdays and Fridays, but it will take someone with authority.”
“Mum.”
“What?”
But Hannah couldn’t do it. Couldn’t bring herself to say no. The word jammed in her throat like a stone—painful, cutting off the air.
“It’s one week. That’s all I’m asking, while I make the preparations. I can’t be in two places at once, Hannah. You could work in the house. Bring your laptop like last time. Get that husband of yours to look after Hugo.”
“I’ll call you back,” Hannah whispered.
There was a brief silence, and Connie said goodbye.
It was half past eight. Hannah felt guilty, but not guilty enough to change her mind. Her mother would think her totally callous, but Toronto would have to wait. The marigolds caught her eye. What was that nursery rhyme? Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home, your house is on fire and your children all gone.
She sat on the floor, staring at the telephone. There was still no word from Hugo. Be calm, she told herself firmly. Do not panic. She punched in Hugo’s number and pressed the phone to her ear. The ringing sounds were hypnotic. She counted them. One, two, three, four, five, nodding her head in the little pause of silence after each one. “L’abonné que vous désirez rejoindre n’est pas disponible actuellement. Veuillez raccrocher et essayer plus tard.” She pressed the End button and put the phone down carefully in front of her on the floor. She was kneeling now. She covered her face with her hands and bent forward until her forehead touched the floorboards.
She was still on the kitchen floor when, a half hour later, the front door to the apartment opened. “Hugo?” she said in a shrill voice, standing up too quickly. “Where on earth have you been?” For some reason, perhaps because of talking to Connie, she had addressed him in English.
He strolled into the kitchen, not meeting her eye.
“I called your cell repeatedly.” Again, in English.
“It was off,” he said to the floor. He too was speaking English, as he was doing more and more, in defiance of Luc.
“I know that, Hugo. Believe me. What I want to know is why.” His face was preternaturally pale. She took a step nearer. “Have you been smoking?”
He turned away.
“Your first day back. How could you?”
He raised his eyes then, but only to the level of her mouth. “I was with Vien.”
“Smoking up? Do you honestly expect me to believe that?” She grabbed his shoulders and held them. He was looking down again, refusing to face her. “Look at me, goddammit! Look me in the eye.”
He didn’t resist. It was as if he weren’t there anymore. As if he’d packed up and gone, leaving this skinny boy’s body, the husk of him, here in her desperate hands. Mandelbaum’s book was on the counter where she had left it open, face down. Its title stared at her: Nonviolent Communication.
Her hands dropped like dead weights. She had earned a place on Arun Gandhi’s tree. “Your dinner’s cold,” she said, ashamed. “You’ll have to wait a minute while I reheat it.”
After she’d warmed it in the microwave, he took the entire pot of pasta on his plate and all the beef stroganoff. This, too, made her feel guilty. She knew he didn’t want to take anything from her, didn’t want to give in. But he was too hungry.
She sat across from him at the table she’d set. Neither of them spoke. He looked like an animal, a squirrel or a rat, nervously scanning the room as he forked down his food. His skin was sallow. It was naturally olive-coloured, like his grandfather’s, and did best with a bit of sun. Now, it looked sickly, almost jaundiced in the indoor light. And how thin he was. Not an ounce of fat anywhere, no matter how much she fed him.
He’d definitely been smoking. His eyes were far-off and filmy. There was no point of contact or entry. His jaw moved as he chewed like a machine, clenching, releasing, clenching. Mandelbaum’s list came back to her: callous unconcern for the feelings of others; persistent attitude of irresponsibility. She shook her head. Not her son. Please, not her son.
“I’ve booked an appointment tomorrow with Mandelbaum,” she said. She was feeling a little more steady, now that he was safe at home, and had switched back to French. “The school wants an assessment.”
Hugo laid down his fork and stopped chewing. “The school can screw itself,” he answered in English, his mouth full.
“Hu-go,” she said in a warning singsong.
“Han-nah,” he sang back.
“We can go together,” she said, ignoring this provocation. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow after your meeting with Monsieur Vien.”
Hugo stood up. “Vien’s a jerk.” He paused and seemed to think. “They all are.” There was another pause. “You all are.”
“Who’s the you?”
“You. And Dad. Vien. Everyone at that fucking school!”
She took a breath. “Language, Hugo.”
“Fuck language!”
It was the most he’d said in months. She searched his face, but he just sneered and looked away. His body language was so angry, both hands balled into fists. Something must have happened at school to upset him. Possibly with Monsieur Vien.
Hugo turned on her suddenly, eyes blazing. “Do you know where he is right now?”
“Who?” said Hannah, bewildered.
“Luc,” he said. “Your husband.” He could hardly contain the anger. His face was contorted. “Well?” he asked.
“Well, no. I don’t know where Luc is. People don’t keep track of their spouses every minute of the day.”
“You ought to check, sometime.” The tendons on both sides of his neck were standing out. Hannah could actually see the blood in his carotid artery pulsing upward to feed his angry brain. “There’s a lot about Luc Lévesque we don’t know,” he said quietly.
“Hugo,” she said, and stepped toward him again. His energy had shifted. His fingers had uncurled. Perhaps now they could talk. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
But the moment was gone. He looked down, pursing his lips. “Forget it,” he said. “It is what it is. Or isn’t.”
It is what it isn’t? What did that mean? What was she missing?
“Why did you stay?”
Her thoughts were racing. What was he talking about? Stay here at home tonight, waiting for him? Stay married to Luc?
“In Montreal,” he said, seeing her confusion. “In the seventies. When Alfred decided to leave.”
Alfred. When had he begun calling his grandfather that? And the seventies? She stared in utter mystification. “Because of your father,” she said finally. “We’d met by then. We were a couple.”
Hugo grimaced. “Do you ever wish you’d gone with them?”
Hugo kept turning his face away from her, but even when she could see his expression, it gave no clue to what he was trying to say.
“I mean,” he said, “we just about never see your family.”
“I do,” she said. “I was down there two weeks ago.”
“Because your dad almost died.”
Fair enough. Some years she didn’t make it to Toronto at all. And she hadn’t once been out West to visit Benjamin and his family. Not in fifteen years. The extent of their contact was birthday cards and an annual donation of Hanukkah geld for her two young nieces.
“I barely know them,” Hugo said.
“You want to get to know my side of the family? Is that what this is about?”
He looked away again. “I want to know why we never see them. It doesn’t make sense. They’re not bad people.”
Hannah sighed. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s because of Luc, isn’t it?”
Luc. As if he were a casual acquaintance. But it wasn’t Luc’s face that flashed before her as he uttered the name. It was the face of Alfred Stern, forehead creased in disapproval.
“I’m not a kid anymore,” Hugo persisted.
“No,” she said, gazing through her vision into Hugo’s angry young eyes. “I guess you�
�re not.”
13
The little bronze woman with the round belly was still in the gallery window as Hannah hurried into the building. Hugo trailed behind her glumly.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” she said, bursting into the waiting room, where Manny Mandelbaum had come to greet them. “I took a taxi to pick up Hugo, but there was an accident on Atwater, and by the time I got to the school he’d wandered into the yard.”
Mandelbaum held up his hands. “It’s okay,” he said. “I have nothing else this afternoon, there’s no rush. I’m glad you both made it.”
He was quiet and calm. Hannah took a deep breath. And another one. His client base was probably small. This would explain why he was so relaxed and welcoming. Whatever the reason, she was too grateful to care.
Mandelbaum filled two glasses from a water cooler for Hannah and Hugo before leading them into his office. “You can use my desk,” he told Hugo, pulling out a coaster with the face of an elephant on it for Hugo’s drink. “Ganesh,” he said. “The Indian god of students.”
Hugo looked at him blankly.
“My favourite Hindu incarnation,” said Mandelbaum. He pressed his nose into his shoulder and waved his arm comically back and forth. “Erases obstacles with his trunk.”
Hugo sighed.
“You just want to write this thing, huh? Get it over with?” Mandelbaum said, smiling kindly.
Hugo nodded.
“Okay, then. Here’s a pencil. I’ll be right outside.” He took Hannah’s arm and steered her out of the room. She was surprised by that. He was more fluid than the last time they’d been here. More in charge. She wouldn’t have predicted such a firm touch. His voice was still low, but the scratchiness was gone.
They sat on his waiting room couch. It was leather, like his chairs, but ancient and sunken, covered with small cushions that smelled of patchouli.
“You’re feeling better?” she asked, politely, but also out of self-interest, not wishing to get too close.
He said his wife, a homeopath, had plied him with remedies.
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