She cancels the newspaper and takes her books back to the library. Then there’s nothing else to do. It seems strange that getting ready is so easy now. Anytime she and Al went on vacation there were endless lists of things she had to do and they always ended up squabbling about something. She can’t remember why. Nor does she remember why the travel itself seemed so complicated. Maybe it’s because she only has to worry about tidying up her own life now, not fending for five other people as well.
On Wednesday morning, she locks the apartment and leaves, catching an early bus. Traffic is as bad as ever and the drive to the airport is endless. She’s given herself lots of extra time and that was a good thing, because she needs it all.
“You don’t have much time,” the agent warns as she tags Ellen’s bag. “You have to go directly to the boarding gate.”
Ellen sprints for the departure lounge, where boarding is already in progress. Cabin attendants rush her to her seat while they do a passenger recount. As she settles in her seat and fastens her seatbelt, she suddenly realizes that she hasn’t left a message for Tim. Nor can she phone him. She doesn’t know his phone number, doesn’t even know his last name. Well, nothing she can do about it now. She puts the thought aside as the plane starts its lunge down the runway. This is the part of flying Ellen doesn’t like. She presses her feet against the floor, tightening her butt against the seat, and wills the plane to rise. There’s a small lurch, and they’re airborne. Now she can relax.
The woman in the next seat has her eyes screwed shut, locking her face into a mask of denial. She, too, has bogeymen, it seems. She keeps her locked up face on during the rush down the runway, while the plane leaps into the air, and for the first few minutes of steep climbing. As the plane begins to level out, she opens her eyes, looks around, then smiles at Ellen. She takes off her glasses and focuses on them as she carefully cleans each lens.
“I always wonder if we’re really going to make it,” she says in such a low voice Ellen can hardly hear her. Is she whispering to herself or is she initiating conversation? Ellen doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now. There are too many things to think about. She pretends she doesn’t hear the woman and makes a great show of yawning, rubbing the flat little portion of her ears above the lobes, and very visibly working at equalizing the pressure in her ears.
A screeching pop deep within her ear signals success.
The woman watches for a moment before speaking again in that soft, whispery voice. “Does that unplug your ears? I have such a problem with that. Perhaps I should try it too.”
She perches on the front of her seat, like a small bird ready to take flight at the first untoward motion.
Ellen doesn’t say anything.
It doesn’t matter. Ellen can tell that over the next few hours this woman will talk enough for both of them. All she needs is a warm body sitting somewhere near her and she’s off. From previous trips (why does she always attract this type of seat companion?), Ellen knows that by the time the flight is over this stranger will have related her reasons for travelling, where she is going, what she will do there, what she usually does at home, and more information about herself and her family than Ellen would ever dream of sharing with a stranger.
She’s right. The woman doesn’t wait for an answer. She starts her monologue even as she works at evening the pressure in her ears.
“My, that does help, doesn’t it? I’m surprised they don’t have the girls telling us how to do that instead of all that nonsense about breathing into gas masks and blowing up life jackets.”
Briefly, Ellen considers telling her those are oxygen masks, not gas masks, the attendants are women, not girls, and they inflate flotation devices, not life jackets. She reconsiders and says nothing.
“That’s such a simple thing, but it certainly makes a difference, doesn’t it?” the woman says, ignoring the fact that Ellen is ignoring her.
Ellen hates being rude. It’s not something she does easily. That’s one of her wimpy, non-assertive traits. It’s less painful to put up with bores than make a statement. Maybe reading a book will send a message. She rummages through the seat pocket and pulls out the in-flight magazine. She doesn’t feel like reading, but it’s good camouflage. Ellen needn’t have worried. The woman ignores the magazine, as though it’s impossible for anything on a printed page to be more interesting than whatever is flitting around in her brain. Ellen is beginning to get annoyed.
The seatbelt light flicks off. Quickly, she unsnaps her belt and stands up. Maybe she can make it to the bathroom before the lineup starts. She’s afraid to look directly at the woman, who continues her monologue. Ellen wonders how long she’ll keep going before she notices no one is there to listen.
There is a short lineup already — mostly mothers with small children or babies. Ellen can’t begin to imagine how they change diapers in the cramped quarters of the washroom. The line moves quickly and she’s soon back in the aisle but reluctant to return to her seat. She delays by thumbing through the magazines in the special compartment on the wall next to the galley. Computing magazines, gossip magazines, fashion magazines, business magazines. Nothing catches her eye. All she really wants is a shield against her seat mate. She picks out a People and carries it back down the aisle.
A male cabin attendant wheels out the beverage cart as Ellen gets back to her seat.
“Beverage?” he asks. “Would you like a coffee?”
“Do you have diet soft drinks?”
He smiles. They always smile. There is a diet soft drink on the cart. No choice, though. Just Diet Coke. Not her favourite, but it’ll be cold and wet. “That’s fine,” she tells him.
She considers trying to stop him before he fills the minuscule glass with ice cubes, then thinks better of it. The ice cubes will be cool on her tongue. And she can’t talk with a mouthful of ice. Maybe she should get a bucket of it to keep her neighbour at bay.
He hands her the glass and a small foil package of pretzels.
Now her neighbour considers the options. She wants to discuss everything on the cart. No, she doesn’t want a cocktail. It’s much too early for beer. Coffee doesn’t sit well if she has to use those powdered packets of artificial cream.
“Don’t you have any real cream?” she asks, querulously.
He offers a carton of milk for her coffee.
“No, milk doesn’t have enough body to it. I mean, it just dilutes the coffee, you know? And cools it, unless you heat the milk first.”
The asinine discussion goes on and on until she finally settles on a glass of apple juice. Wordlessly, he passes it, along with the packet of pretzels. His eyes meet Ellen’s briefly. She raises her eyebrows and his lips twitch in the smallest of smiles before he moves his cart to the next row.
Ellen sips her pop, making it last as long as possible, then begins on the ice cubes, one at a time. She focuses her attention on the magazine she doesn’t really care about. In fact, she isn’t sure who many of the “people” are. She’s heard a few of the names but others are completely unfamiliar and she can’t think why anyone should be interested in them.
Her neighbour settles back into her seat and retrieves her purse from under the seat ahead. It’s a large leather purse, the size of a small briefcase. She plunks it on her lap and opens it wide, obviously searching for something. The leather is soft and worn, with the scuff marks of long service along its edges. Ellen hasn’t seen a purse like that for years.
Ellen rejoices. The woman will take out a book and read quietly for a while. She watches from the corner of her eye. A Readers Digest–sized magazine comes out. She plunges her hand back in for something else and pulls out a pencil, peering at the point to make sure it’s sharp, then flips through the pages until she comes to a half-completed crossword and sets to work.
Slowly, she runs her finger down the list of words, muttering definitions to herself and screwing up her face while she thinks about each one. Finally, something connects. She licks the end of the pencil
and carefully inscribes letters inside each of the little squares. As she works, she runs her finger along the column of words, matching the across and down definitions, testing out a series of possibilities based on the letter she’s just filled in. She mumbles each word as she thinks of it, chewing her lip as she ponders. First the upper lip, then the lower lip. Ellen’s never seen anyone make such a production of a simple puzzle.
The woman glances at Ellen as though inviting a contribution. Ellen ignores her.
The page of Ellen’s magazine blurs as the words swim together. Her mind is full of Lissy. One of the brightest and sweetest children she’s ever known. She’s the image of Joanne at that age, even down to the gap in her smile. Jana resembles Joanne in many ways too, but Ellen sees a lot of Stan in her, especially around the eyes. Jana is a completely different child. Lissy is quicksilver, moon dust, and butterfly wings. Jana is bread and jam and smudges on her face. Ellen loves them both dearly. She hates to play favourites, but somehow Lissy has always been special.
Ellen doesn’t know much about cancer in children. She reminds herself of the strides made against leukemia. Once a death sentence, there are now effective treatments and kids do survive. Not all kids, but many of them. Maybe whatever kind Lissy has can be treated too. They’ve learned so much about cancer. Public support has grown. She remembers watching a television special on summer camp programs for children with cancer. She was surprised there were so many kids in treatment, and how ordinary the kids were. If you didn’t know, you’d never guess they had life-threatening diseases. But it showed in little ways — their activities weren’t quite as strenuous, there were lots of medical personnel around the camp, and some of the kids had an aesthetic, almost ethereal look to them, a transparency. They weren’t plump and solid like other kids their age. But they weren’t angels. Far from it! One of the sickest of the little boys was always pushing the behavioural envelope. Most of the kids had short haircuts — or that’s how it seemed, until you realized they’d lost their hair through chemotherapy. The girls wore the same floppy hats other little girls wore. And all boys wore softball caps. Always.
Ellen has a funny vision of little boys being born with softball caps already on their heads, the visors turned neatly around to the back.
What will Lissy look like? Will she need radiation or chemo? Will she lose her hair? Change in other ways? It’s hard to imagine Lissy moving at a normal pace, never mind a lethargic one. Lissy rushes headlong at life, as though she has a lifetime of living to do while everyone else is just getting started.
Ellen gives herself over to memories, replaying favourite scenes from her children’s childhoods, reviewing her short list of memories of Lissy and Jana.
Eventually the captain’s voice cuts through the drone of the engines as he announces the number of minutes until touchdown in Winnipeg, gives a local weather report, and thanks everyone for flying with his airline. The cabin attendants scurry up and down the aisle, picking up trash, checking trays are locked in place and seat backs are in the upright position. A woman making PA announcements reminds everyone to check for cabin baggage before deplaning. Once again the time is announced, but it’s the wrong time. The voice breaks into giggles and corrects itself. Back in control, she thanks the passengers yet again for flying with them and reminds everyone that for their safety, they are to remain seated with seatbelts fastened until the plane comes to a complete halt.
Stan and Jana are there to meet her.
“Gramma!” Jana yelps, launching herself at Ellen. “Gramma, you came! Lissy’s in the hospital and the doctor’s gonna fix her.”
Ellen bends down for a hug.
“Yes, darling. I know. I thought maybe we could spend a
little time together while she’s getting better. Would that be
a good idea?”
Jana grins. “That’s a super good idea.”
Ellen rises and accepts a careful hug from Stan.
“How’s it going?” she asks.
He thinks for a moment before answering. “It’s too soon to say.” Then he turns to Jana. “Honey, could you get that cart for Grandma?” He points a few feet away where an empty baggage cart stands unclaimed.
Jana bounces off.
“Joanne’s at the hospital. They started surgery about an hour ago. We won’t know anything for a while yet. We’re trying to keep things on an even keel so Jana doesn’t get upset. It’s so hard to explain at her age.”
“I thought surgery was tomorrow.”
“They moved it ahead.”
Ellen catches a breath, ready to ask why, when Jana thunders up with the cart.
“My goodness,” Ellen says, dropping her suitcase on it. “All that space for this one little bag.”
Gravely, Jana considers the bag, then looks around at other passengers with their piled-up carts.
“How come you only have one, Gramma?”
“Well, it’s easier that way,” Ellen tells her. “Besides, it holds everything I really need. And if I need something else, I can get it here. I’ll bet there are stores in Winnipeg, aren’t there?”
Jana giggles.
“Tell you what. If I need anything, maybe you can come with me and help me find it?”
Jana glances at her father before answering.
“Sure. I help Mom lots when she goes shopping.”
Stan smiles.
“Actually, she’s a pretty good little shopper.”
Stan swings Jana onto his shoulders and threads his way to the exit. There’s no congestion at the parking lot and in minutes they’re pulling away from the airport.
Stan flicks a glance ate Ellen. “Good flight?”
Ellen nods, then pauses. “I was just thinking how different this airport is. It was a zoo leaving home. It’s all torn up for a new runway or something and parking is a nightmare.”
He laughs. “Well, that’s one of the nice things about living here. We’re big enough to be a city but not big enough to have all the hassles you do out on the coast.”
Stan clears his throat. “I thought I’d take you home and give you a chance to get settled while I slip out and see Joanne.” His eyes slide sideways to meet hers.
Ellen understands what he’s saying. “Sure. That’s fine by me. Maybe I can even get dinner started.”
Jana sings into the conversation.
“I know what’s for dinner,” she says. “Mommy’s got a surprise for you.”
Ellen starts to laugh. Kids and secrets. They can’t wait to tell them.
“Then you better hush,” she says, “Or it won’t be a surprise anymore.”
Jana starts to talk about something else. Ellen wishes for some way to talk to Stan, but there isn’t one. Not with Jana sitting there. She listens patiently, enjoying the nearness of Jana and her bubbly radiance.
When they reach the house, Stan swings her bag out of the trunk, carries it to the porch, and opens the front door. Then he turns to Jana.
“Honey, I’m going back to the hospital to see how Lissy’s doing. I’ll tell Mommy that Grandma got here okay.”
“Can I come too?” she asks.
“No, not this time. I thought you could look after Grandma till I get back.”
Jana nods. “Okay.”
Stan gives her a quick hug, then puts his hand on Ellen’s shoulder.
“Thanks. Thanks for coming.”
She’s embarrassed. She hates it when people thank her unnecessarily.
“Off you go,” she tells him. “Jana and I will be just fine. Maybe Joanne could phone me when she knows how things are going.”
Ellen is mixed up in time and has to adjust her watch by two hours. It’s mid-afternoon already and she hasn’t had lunch yet.
“Are you hungry?” she asks Jana.
“We had lunch before we came to get you,” she replies. “Daddy took me to Tim Hortons.”
“Was it good?”
Jana thinks for a minute. ”It was okay, but it wasn’t as good as Mummy’
s.”
Ellen gives her a hug.
If only all of life could be that simple.
— 8 —
Jana prattles on, jumbling comments and questions together in a way that usually delights Ellen, but today her words won’t come into focus. Ellen’s thoughts are with Lissy. She listens for the phone, making a hasty bargain with God, or the Earth Mother, or whoever is listening. If Joanne calls with good news — if the tumour is encapsulated — she’ll give up her trip to California and do volunteer work at the Children’s Hospital for a year. Two years. For the rest of her life, if that will make a difference. If the tumour is clean, the surgery will be quick and Joanne will call soon. “Please,” she asks. “Let the call be soon.”
Her neck tightens. A cold shiver ripples down her spine, roiling her stomach in a wave of nausea. Soon could be bad news too. The surgeons might discover it was so widespread they could do nothing. Soon could mean complications. But wait, there has to be a biopsy, doesn’t there? Ellen is sure they do that while the patient is still on the operating table. The patient. She can’t equate Lissy to “the patient,” but she’s pretty sure about the biopsy. That takes a little longer. Ellen draws upon scenarios based on nothing but wishes. She wants to receive a joyous phone call from Joanne. She wants to hear the tumour was not malignant, completely contained, and removed quickly and easily. She wants to know Lissy will be home soon, to be her own sweet self again. She wants the light to come back into her life.
Vaguely, she’s aware that Jana’s chatter has stopped and the little girl is gazing fixedly at her.
“Isn’t that right, Gramma?” she asks, her face screwed up with concern.
Ellen drags her mind back into focus.
“I’m sorry, honey. Grandma’s a little bit tired. I guess I wasn’t listening very well. What did you say?”
Jana has trouble with the word asked and says it the way Shakespearean characters do, in two syllables — ask-ed. “I ask-ed you about Lissy,” she says.
On the Rim Page 11
