When Mrs. Souris related this to me, she said that she experienced a strange feeling, a sensation that permeated her weary limbs and muscles, something transformed her drained body and she felt energized, younger; yes, she felt forty years old again. Was it draining for her to be the pillar for everyone to lean on? Definitely. But her daughter’s remarks invigorated Mrs. Souris and gave her the strength to endure the struggle a while longer. Still, when she stepped on the balcony the next day, placed her hand to shade her eyes and look at the Hellenic Villa, she sighed and said to herself, “Oh, I’m fine here, it’s okay, but maybe I’d be better off in there. The people there have it so good, they’re so happy, even old age doesn’t terrify them.”
By all accounts, the Hellenic Villa ran smoothly inside, with a well-trained staff and a committed administration that ensured the well-being of all its residents. I could attest to this myself because before my mother passed away, I had promised her that I would visit her eighty-year-old friend Christina, who had been living in the Hellenic Villa for about seven years. She knew my mother for more than thirty years; both hailed from the island of Corfu and had immigrated to Canada at an early age. Ever since I can remember I called her ‘auntie.’ Materially independent thanks to an inheritance, auntie Christina loved life’s finer things and every Sunday I bought a bouquet of flowers or a box of chocolates and popped across the street to see her. As usual her overpowering perfume unsteadied me. In her navy dress, the heavy powder on her face, her auburn dyed hair and the jingling bracelets on her wrists, auntie looked as if she was dressed for lunch at the Royal York Hotel. Her usual greeting went something like this: “Welcome, my dear, come right along and sit by me. Now what do you think of me today, do you like my appearance?”
“Couldn’t be better, auntie, you look more like a forty-year-old.”
“Oh, you silly girl!” And she turned her head left and right, touched her hair lightly, and asked, “What have you brought for me today?” With her fire-red finger nails, she opened the chocolate box, savoured two pieces of chocolate, debated with herself whether to have a third, and finally did. Afterwards, she washed her hands, put some more makeup, and then took me by the hand and said, “Come my dear, let’s go down so I can introduce you to my friends.” My Sunday visits with my auntie and her friends had become a ritual and after awhile, I had come to know them, like auntie. They too brought their own relatives and friends to the gathering place on the main floor. Self-absorbed, gregarious, mere passers of time, their idle talk amused me, although at times it was exasperating. I didn’t know what they were actively pursuing, or trying to escape from. It was in one of those gatherings that I learned of a number of volunteer opportunities at the Hellenic Villa and ended up going there an extra day during the week. And that’s how I met Mrs. Petakis.
It was during a warm spell in late April, one of those sweet hours which drag themselves even further until the arrival of summer—one of those hours when the light pushes away the darkness and youth drives off old age. But old age itself does not leave but only waits, and waits, for only Charon can take it away. And perhaps it was him, whom everyone in the care facility waited for, and they strived with all the cunningness they could muster to deceive him. It wasn’t just the elderly residents who endeavoured to dupe Charon, but everyone associated with the care home. There was the medical team, comprised of doctors who examined the elderly with care, wrote the necessary prescriptions and assured them that they were ‘good as new,’ and the nursing staff who took their blood pressure, gave them their medication and told them their ‘heart ran smoothly as a clock.’ Activities were planned regularly by the recreation staff to amuse the old folk and keep them fit. All the pursuits and goings-on seemed to have one purpose and that was to remind them of their existence, to bolster their confidence and reassure them that they were here—alive, their place in this world had not been vacated. And so they took part in the planned excursions to view Toronto landmarks, played card games, watched television and generally kept up with public affairs. If they wanted spiritual guidance, a priest welcomed them in the Greek Orthodox Chapel on the main floor. Regardless of the activity they were involved in, over time, they expressed a kind of cool self-belief that said, “Yes, I’m here, I exist. What do you think just because I’ve aged, I’m still aware of everything! But in the end, they all waited—all that is, except Mrs. Petakis.
“Nadia, why did Nadia not come?” She stood on tip-toe, looked at me closely and just as I was to answer again, a nurse, a fair, heavy-set woman in her thirties took her by the hand and in a gentle voice, “let’s go in, Mrs. Petakis. It’s time for your pill and who knows Nadia may come and not find you in your room. Come, dear.”
Mrs. Petakis followed the nurse into her room, a bright and spacious room; it had a large window with sheer curtains, a large white carpet; her furniture consisted of one twin-sized bed, a golden oak dresser with many family photos on it, an armchair and two other chairs. Only a gilded, oval mirror hung on the lily white walls and some icons above a table which was affixed to one corner of the room. We helped her in the armchair, and with her thin hands – the muscles had melted from her bones – she held onto the pouch tightly. The nurse gave her a pill in a small white container and a glass of water. I watched her with a mixed feeling of empathy and pity. Frail, her eyes turned to look at me and her defenseless expression appeared to be saying that she wanted something.
“Excuse me, nurse. I was wondering if I could see her again, may I visit her occasionally?”
“Of course you may, no need to ask. Her only visitors are the doctor, me and our assistant from time to time.”
“What about her children, is Nadia her daughter?”
“Yes, and she has a son as well, Philip.”
“And what has happened to them, do they live far?”
“I don’t know about the son, but from what I’ve heard the daughter lives in Guelph, she teaches a business course at the university there. Mrs. Petakis also has two grandchildren, one is studying in New York and the other in London, Western University, I believe.”
“Guelph, why that’s only about an hour’s drive from here. How come her daughter doesn’t visit Mrs. Petakis?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve often wondered myself,” replied the nurse. “What I have heard is that when her husband Yanni Petakis passed away about five years ago, he left the bulk of his estate to Mrs. Petakis; he had made his fortune in commercial real estate. Soon after his passing, the daughter Nadia, the executrix of the estate, with her brother’s consent sold everything, including the ancestral home and brought Mrs. Petakis here. I’ve not met either of the children. I have heard that Mrs. Petakis was very devoted to her grandchildren and raised them while Nadia focused on her studies. That’s about it, there’s nothing else that I’m aware of, and now please excuse me. I must be going. Stay as long as you like, Mrs. Petakis will love that,” said the nurse and left.
Mrs. Petakis sat still in her armchair, her delicate hands, holding the pouch, rested on her knees. I pulled my chair closer beside her. As the light fell on her, I noticed that she appeared changed, her sweet round face still held a certain child-like shine about it under the wrinkles; her lips were dry; her eyes were blurry and were staring far away somewhat absent-minded; and, her forehead was unnaturally smooth and transparent as it shone under her white hair. Impulsively, I reached out and caressed her forehead, and she turned her eyes and looked at me as if for the first time.
“Who are you?”
“A friend, Mrs. Petakis, someone who loves you.”
“Friend? Loves me?” She bent her head slightly and her cheek rested in my palm, a tender gesture which left my hand caressing her. “Who loves me…, as I love Nadia, Philip and the kids? Will they come now? Did you see them?” she asked anxiously.
“Why… yes, of course, Mrs. Petakis,” I said with confidence. I could have told her the truth, but sometimes a lie is better than the truth because it heals the wounds of anot
her.
“You saw them… for sure?”
“Yes, certainly,” She lifted her head up, gave me a puzzled glance and after a moment’s silence she lifted her index finger and signaled to me to come closer and whispered, “Oh, no. I don’t believe you. They won’t come. My Vicki and Tommy are locked away in far-off schools, and they’re alone just like me. They’re alone. And they have no one to look after them. They told me all their secrets… you know. I want to see their faces, to hear their voices, to have them sit beside me so I could touch them and embrace them. Their warm love kept me cozy during the winter months and refreshed me in the summertime.” Silence fell. She continued to move her lips as if she was talking to herself and suddenly: “You may call me Sophie, not Mrs. Petakis. Sophie means wisdom in Greek. My mother used to call me Sophitza, it’s the endearing version of my name, but she was the only one who called me that.”
“Yes, of course, Sophie.” She stared at me with liquid eyes, said nothing and her eyelids drooped. As the afternoon light broke through the light curtain, her pallor was turning ashen. Had she fallen into deep sleep? I reached for my purse to leave when she unexpectedly said: “What is this place? Who brought me here? This is not my house, I don’t see my kitchen. I don’t see my garden and the beautiful flowers. Where are the children? Don’t you see it’s almost lunchtime, they’ll come home hungry, I want to prepare lunch, why am I just sitting here?” she asked in a desperate, almost panicky voice. “My grandchildren love spanakopeta and I haven’t bought the feta cheese or washed the spinach.” Then she jumped out of the chair and in a decisive manner, walked towards the door and said, “I’m going to leave.”
I remembered the nurse’s words earlier and said, “Sophie, Nadia and the kids may come and won’t find you.” She stopped, returned slowly and sat in the armchair again. She appeared tired and I asked her if she needed help to get into bed. She nodded and turned her eyes and glued them on the shrine in the corner of the room; I understood that she wanted to perform her nightly devotions before the icons. She crossed herself when we reached the table, and with an utmost sincerity she began her intimate soliloquy. As much as I tried not to be privy to her entreaty, in the stillness of her room, the rhyming of her children’s and grandchildren’s names and her pleas for their good health and His blessings reached my ears. Then I helped her get into bed, “Sleep awhile, there you are. Rest a little, and we’ll talk again soon.”
I bent down, adjusted her pillow and caressed her forehead; she, in turn, pulled my hand and stroked it gently, and sweetly said, “tomorrow, come again tomorrow.”
Sophie’s devotion and concern for her loved ones lingered in my mind as I headed home. Perhaps her tender heart and generous spirit reminded me of my mother, who sympathized with everyone and suffered for everyone and everything. Whenever Sophie mentioned her children, it was always about what they needed; she talked about what she could do for them, she didn’t ask for anything in return. This is the remarkable thing, she never complained about them, even now when she felt so alone and no one showed up to hold her hand, she never faulted them. I only heard praises from her. This puzzled me. It reminded me of a wise man’s saying in ancient Greece, ‘from perplexity grows insight; the more questions we ask, the more likely the truth will reveal itself.’
During a later visit, when I found Sophie alert and in good spirits, I asked her if she ever got tired taking care of her grandchildren. She smiled and said, “Tired? My dear, true love is not about us, it’s about others, and for this reason I never got tired or sick” A little silence fell and then she continued in a weaker voice. “…When I give my love, either by working for my loved ones or giving them something, I do it instinctively to make them happy, I don’t do it because I expect something in return… If you truly love someone, you do everything you can, at your expense, to make them happy, with sacrifice and humility. Love is an offering, not a possession.” I could have listened to her for hours, her innermost soul was inspiring. If the need arose, Sophie Petakis was prepared to sin for her family and willingly pay the penalty for it. To her, there was no greater punishment than not having the opportunity to love like this.
I headed home. The sun was setting and a rosy veil bathed the Hellenic Villa and the entire street. Just as I was about to go up the stairs of my veranda, a sweet fragrance from the royal mint reached my nostrils, and I noticed Eugenia watering it in the earthen pot. Short, dark and a bit stout, Eugenia’s plain characteristics were erased with her ready smile and the sparkle in her dark eyes. Her pointed chin showed courage and a will to stick to her program of bringing home the bacon.
“Hi, Barbara, I was peeking through the window hoping to see you,” she said in a cheerful voice.
“Hello, Eugenia, you’re in good spirits tonight.”
“Well, I feel good actually. I’m planning a celebration for my mother’s Name- Day next Sunday; it’s the feast day of Sts. Constantine and Helen. As you know, Greeks are named after saints and each saint has a day designated to them, my mother’s name is Constantina, and her Name-Day falls on May 21.”
“Yes. And Name-Day celebrations are more elaborate than birthdays.”
“I thought my mother would love to see her friends in addition to the family, in that she doesn’t get out much and all. It will be a surprise and I want to invite you, our beloved neighbour.”
“That’s a lovely gesture, Eugenia. She’ll love it, and of course I’ll come.”
“Oh, she deserves it, it’s the least I could do for her. She’s the first to get up in the morning and the last to go to bed. I couldn’t repay her for supporting us.”
“It’s thoughtful of you, is there something I could do?
“Well, yes, since it’s a surprise for my mother, could you take her to church. I know you usually attend the Sts. Constantine & Helen Greek Orthodox Church over at Brookhaven Drive; if you took her with you, it will give me some time to prepare. Other than that, I’ve taken care of all the details, Barbara, just come around five.”
“No problem, I’ll take her with me and later I’ll plan something, and make sure to come after your guests have arrived.”
“Thanks, Barbara; you’re a wonderful neighbour, and a caring friend.”
We chatted some more and then I entered my house full of mixed feelings of wonder and respect for Eugenia. As the breadwinner of the household, she worked so hard and yet she had found the time to honour her mother in this way. Eugenia had taken her mother in when her father passed away about five years ago; her parents were renting an apartment near the area, but when her father passed away, her mother couldn’t afford to live on her own. Eugenia and her husband had divorced before Mrs. Souris moved in with her daughter.
The following night I went to see Sophie, for I had started to see her more often. When I stepped into her room she said, “you are late,” and I began telling her how busy I was with marking my students’ papers, and we ended up chatting about my experiences as a high school teacher at Oakwood Collegiate. Then she held my hands, told me what a kind person I was, and how much she enjoyed listening to me. But in a short time I noticed that she was drifting away; her eyes had a faraway look and she started talking to herself in a hushed voice. I didn’t know what she was saying, and then I realized that they were scattered pieces of her life, a mean life deprived of love, but with plenty of money. I sat and listened to her mutterings. It was as if I was eavesdropping behind a closed door—but I did not feel any shame, perhaps because I received her words, not with curiosity, but with respect, and because she had a need of some human empathy. She talked incessantly, as if she wanted to empty her soul from the weight of silence, a dignified silence which her tattered self-respect could no longer withstand.
“One day he was happy, too happy…, but next day very sad…angry. No talk to me or the children for days. It’s embarrassing to fear husband, isn’t it? A heavy burden. But I never spoke to anyone. No one found out.” Her lips cracked a slight smile at this as if she was
proud to have borne it on her own for so long. And then the bitterness in her voice returned, and the pain was visible in the corners of her lips.
“What tormented you, Yanni? What? What can I do with your money? What troubled you, what? I did everything to please you, but you not happy my dear. I’m cold, very cold.” Her entire body was trembling and it curled up in the armchair like a tiny skein. Was nightfall spreading all around her? Her shivering intensified. Had she come to the realization that love’s gate closed with a clank, as if the frosty north wind forced it shut and Sophie remained feeble, naked in the snow?
Sometimes I couldn’t listen to her, and I called an assistant who helped me put her to bed. She pulled the sheet up to her chin and closed her eyes. Just before I was to bid her good night, her hands let go of the sheet and cupped my hands; she pulled them close to her chest, a pleading look appeared in her glance and she said, “…want make peace with God, confession, maybe communion… unction…”
“Oh, do you want me to bring the priest for…?” She nodded and gave me a sweet smile. I reassured her that I would contact the priest right away and make all the arrangements.
“…Gregory, Father Gregory for last rites,” she whispered.
Her rambling continued, like a sad melody that departs and returns in a faster rhythm. Perhaps one bitter complaint must have dogged her, especially now in her sunset years: “If fate has planned happy and unhappy years for everyone, why were the happiest years of my life only the ones before my marriage?”
From the few words that were discernable during my visits with Sophie, I gathered she had a happy childhood, an only child, both her parents adored her. To her mother, especially, she was the light of her soul, the blessing of her old age. When Sophie married at nineteen her life must have changed, for she entered an inescapable dark cage. It was as if the sunlight was snuffed out of her life and her days passed along in darkness. And all the talk of sin and honour and the maintenance of the good name sealed her fate. It wasn’t until she had her children and later in her life when she cared for her grandchildren that the sun’s rays broke through the heavy clouds and warmed her heart. Her love for them was greater than all her suffering, even greater than death. Sophie couldn’t change her fate, but she faced it; she rose above herself, beyond herself and changed herself. Her natural ability to relate to other peoples’ troubles, to find the courage, in her own special way, to comfort them, enlivened her—that’s how she squeezed some meaning from her suffering, that’s what fulfilled her.
The Buses and Other Short Stories Page 4
