One Brother Shy

by Terry Fallis

  When I opened my eyes, I immediately noticed what I’d not seen the night before. My clean laundry was folded and stacked neatly on my desk. Saint Malaya. We really struck it rich when she showed up three years ago. She’d served as the only personal support worker Mom ever had. Malaya has told me more than once that providing end-of-life care is the greatest honour and privilege she can imagine. She’d grown very close to Mom. It was a special hybrid relationship where employee becomes friend.

  Like so many other Filipino women, Malaya had come to Canada for her family. Not with her family, for her family. Staunchly Roman Catholic, she often had her rosary beads woven through her fingers as she worked. Every two weeks she sent a significant share of her less than generous paycheque from the agency back to the Philippines to support her husband, Benji, and their two kids, a girl, Divina, eight years old, and a boy, Danilo, six. The goal had always been to save enough money to bring Benji and their kids to Canada. She’d worked very hard, scrimped, saved, and sacrificed, all for the Canadian dream. It wouldn’t be long now. On those rare occasions when I’d seen her eating her lunch at our kitchen table, she’d always pull the photo of her husband and kids from her wallet and set it down next to her plate so she could stare and smile at them until it was time to resume her duties. It was a ritual that did little to bridge the distance between them, but she claimed it helped a little.

  Malaya is the sunniest and kindest person I know. I very seldom ever saw her without a smile. It was as if the resting position of her face was a grin. Asleep? Smile. Headache? Smile. Coma? Smile. The word “Malaya” apparently means free or independent. She told me she was not yet “free” but would be when her family had joined her. Her surname, Matiyaga, means patience. When she shared this, she laughed and said that she not only had patience but served patients, too. She thought that was quite clever, and so did I. We were very lucky to have her.

  By 7:20, I’d showered and shaved and was about to make myself a bowl of instant oatmeal when I remembered my promise. I opened Mom’s door and moved to the window. Mom didn’t stir. I opened the curtains to let in the early morning light. It looked like it was going to be a nice day. Mom was not in her usual sleeping position.

  And I knew. In an instant, a nanosecond, even less, I knew.

  I didn’t know when in the night she had died, but her skin was cool to the touch. I checked the oxygen line to make sure it had been working. The oxygen was still flowing. I removed the hose from around Mom’s face and turned off the tank. I smoothed out the sheets and blankets. I don’t know why I did that. Her eyes were closed and mouth was open. She didn’t really look quite like my mother any more, so I pulled the bedspread over her head as I’d seen in countless films. It seemed the appropriate and respectful thing to do. I stopped for a moment to try to take in what had happened. The sun was nearly up now. I could see cars and people on the street below behaving as if it were just another day. But I felt nothing, nothing except perhaps gratitude that we’d talked last night and I’d held her hand.

  Perhaps to keep reality at bay, I switched into practical mode, which is exactly what my mother would have done. I reached for the file folder that was always in the top drawer of her nightstand. The single page of lined paper inside bore an itemized list in my mother’s hand. While the title at the top was no more specific than the two innocent, harmless little words “To Do,” it was a list we’d worked on together, of tasks to be done upon her death.

  I started at the top, took several deep breaths, and called the funeral home. I spoke to the after-hours person on duty. Trained to be or not, she couldn’t have been nicer or more sensitive. She suggested I leave my mother’s room and close the door. She dispatched a team from the funeral home to take away Mom’s body. By this time, it was 7:45 a.m. I started to dial Malaya’s number to tell her not to come in, but realized she’d be on the bus by then for the final leg of her daily commute and would be here in a matter of minutes.

  I then found the Facetech staff list on my iPhone and dialed Abby’s mobile before I lost my nerve – and I had very little nerve to lose. I’d never called her before. I don’t call many people.

  “Alex, is that you?” Abby said when she answered. “Alex?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s wrong?” She paused waiting for me to say something, but I didn’t, or couldn’t. “Oh no, Alex. Is it your mother? Is she, well, is she all right?”

  “No. She’s gone.”

  “Ah, Alex. I’m so sorry. That sucks so hard. Ah geez. Fruck man, that so bites. What can I do?”

  “Well.”

  “Should I come over? Do you need help? Where do you live?”

  “No. I have a list. Thanks. Can you just tell Simone I won’t be in for a few days?”

  “Of course. I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry about anything going on here. Focus on what you’ve got to do there,” she said. “And I can come, you know, if you need me,” she added.

  “Thanks. But I’m okay. I’ve got some help.”

  “So sorry, man. I’m here for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Just when I put the phone down, I could actually hear Malaya’s footsteps coming down the corridor. It was a familiar sound. After three years of morning tags, I knew the cadence of her walk. She knocked and turned the key in the lock at the same time, as she always did. She came in with her open palm already raised to tag me, as she always did. Then she stopped when she saw me, lowered her hand, and burst into tears.

  I’d kept myself on an even keel so far. It had been easier when I was alone. But seeing Malaya pushed me over the edge. I wasn’t expecting that. Then again, I was new at this. We sat with one another on the couch and engaged in what amounted to mutual catharsis. Then it passed. It wasn’t gone, but we both just put it in a different place, at least temporarily.

  “I’m not supposed to cry. My supervisor always tells me that,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I don’t like my supervisor.”

  That actually made me laugh a little.

  Malaya sighed, stood up, and headed for Mom’s room. I rose to follow her, but she held up her hand.

  “Please, Alex. Stay here. I will go in,” she almost whispered. “It’s what I’m supposed to do.”

  I sat down again. Malaya entered the bedroom and closed the door behind her. I could hear her moving around the room, sniffling and crying softly. I assumed she was tidying up, dealing with the medical equipment, and preparing the room for the arrival of the funeral home folks.

  They arrived about two minutes later, while Malaya was still in with my mother. It was two young women who were soft-spoken, respectful, gentle, and kind. I guess they do this kind of thing often, but they do it well. They had a stretcher of sorts and a black zip-up bag. I knew what it was and tried not to look at it. They told me a doctor was on the way to confirm and certify the passing. Apparently this was standard. Only a doctor can sign a death certificate. Malaya came out to greet the two women and take them into the bedroom. Again, Malaya asked me to stay in the living room. I suppose I could have overruled her and gone into the bedroom. But I didn’t want to.

  When Malaya emerged again and closed the door behind her, she came to me and held both my hands. She looked me in the eyes and told me to go out for some fresh air, walk to Starbucks down the block.

  “I’ll call you when you can come back,” she said.

  Part of me thought I should stay to deal with the doctor. But a larger part of me suddenly wanted very much to be outside.

  “Thank you for being here, Malaya. I’m not sure what I’d have done if you weren’t here.”

  She squeezed my hands, then released them. I grabbed Mom’s handwritten “To Do” list and slipped out into the corridor. I stepped out of the elevator and made my way through the lobby to the door. These very familiar surroundings suddenly looked a little different, slightly off kilter. I had reached the sidewalk when my iPhone chirped. Abby’s name appeared on my screen.

  “Hi, Abby.”r />
  “She is such an asshole!” she opened. “I could just kick the flacking shit out of her right now.”

  “Who? Why?”

  “Simone Ashe-wipe,” Abby said. “She says she has to hear from you directly. Apparently, having me tell her about your poor mother isn’t good enough. You have to call her. I’m really sorry. I tried to reason with her but she threatened to fire me again. That’s twice in two days. A new record for me.”

  “Thanks for trying, Abby. Don’t worry. I’ll call her.”

  I walked to our local Starbucks. It had a large and generally underused seating area one floor above. I took my Tall Flat White and yogurt and granola upstairs and sat down in the far corner. I wasn’t hungry in the least, but Malaya had instructed me to eat something, anything. It was going to be a long day. There was only one other person in the room seated at the other end talking on his phone with the newspaper opened on his lap. I pulled out my iPhone, steeled myself, and dialed.

  “Ashe.”

  Hole.

  “Hi, Simone. Abby said I should call you.”

  “Who is this?”

  You’re kidding. Who do you think it is? Has that much happened in your world in the last seven minutes that you can’t remember your conversation with Abby? Congratulations, you just won the gold medal for self-absorption.

  “Alex MacAskill.”

  “Oh right, Alex. Sorry about your father.”

  Thank you. Yes, it was hard growing up without a father, but this morning we’re actually dealing with my mother’s death. Do try to keep up.

  “It was my mother, but thank you.”

  “Right, mother. Sorry. Yeah, Abby said you wouldn’t be coming in for a little while and I just wanted to chat with you about that.”

  “Well, I have to deal with, you know, the funeral arrangements and the will and all that stuff.”

  “Of course, and you should take as many hours as you think all of that will take,” she said. “And how many hours do you think you will require? I’m just trying to get a handle on what this means for the Gold beta rollout.”

  No, you did not just ask me that. As detached from reality as you are, even you could not have just asked me to calibrate my grief in hours. Maybe I could work on the beta during my mother’s burial? Would that help? It’s kind of dead time anyway. Everyone just stands around looking uncomfortable. It would probably put others at ease if I were occupied with something else while the coffin is lowered into the grave.

  “I don’t know. The Gold beta is on track. My part is essentially done. It’s over to design and UX now,” I replied, clenching and unclenching my right hand and various other parts of my anatomy.

  “What’s UX again?” she asked.

  It means you are a serious moron. Unbelievable.

  “User Experience. UX is short for User Experience. The code is done. The software works. The UX team, sorry, the User Experience team, now needs to work with the graphic design team on the interface, sorry, on what it’s like to use the software,” I explained, speaking very slowly.

  “Oh, that UX,” she replied.

  “Yes. That UX,” I confirmed. “Abby can guide it from here.”

  “So when will we see you? Maybe later in the week?”

  When will you be a normal human being? Maybe never in your life? Sixty-three minutes ago I discovered my mother had died in her sleep. So, thinking it all through and balancing all the competing priorities, it occurs to me that I have no fucking idea when I’ll be back in the office.

  “I don’t know. I’ll call you.”

  “Please do. And again, sorry about your father.”

  And I’m sorry about your stunted cerebral function.

  “Thanks.”

  I ended the call and tried very hard not to hurl my iPhone against the wall. Breathe. Just breathe. I sipped my coffee. It was good. I unfolded my “To Do” list. Seeing Mom’s handwriting again did something to my throat, but I swallowed a few times and was back in business. I uncapped the ballpoint in my pocket and put a check mark next to “Call Funeral Home.” I moved to the next item and slowly worked my way through the list.

  I really didn’t like making phone calls to strangers – frankly, I didn’t like making calls to anyone – but this was one task I could not and would not escape. I called my mother’s respirologist first. She’d been very supportive through Mom’s illness and was sorry, though not surprised, to hear the news. She asked me a few questions that I tried my best to answer. I thanked her for all she’d done for my mother and me. I then called Mom’s palliative care physician. I didn’t reach him directly, but left a message with his office. The receptionist I spoke to was very nice. I suspect it was not her first such call. Another check mark.

  I dialed Mom’s estate lawyer.

  “Melany Franken,” said the voice.

  “Um, Melany, it’s Alex MacAskill, Lee MacAskill’s son.”

  “Yes, Alex, we’ve met. How are you?”

  “Well…”

  “Oh no. I’m sorry, Alex. Has it happened?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m so sorry, Alex. How can I help?”

  “I’m not really sure. I just wanted to let you know so you can commence whatever process needs to be started.”

  “Yes, of course,” she replied. “I’ll need a copy of the death certificate. The funeral home should give you several copies. The will is very straightforward. With Lee as a single parent and you as the only next of kin, it’s a simple procedure. I’ll get started.”

  “Thank you.”

  Malaya called then, so I drained what was left of my coffee and headed back. Apparently the coast was clear. As I turned off the sidewalk and up the concrete path to the front door of the building, I could see the funeral home’s dark van still parked at the loading dock at the back of the apartment block. One of the women was just sitting in the driver’s seat chatting away on her cellphone. Her colleague was waiting for me when I entered our apartment. Malaya retreated to Mom’s bedroom to give us some privacy.

  It took no longer than two or three minutes. The doctor had already been in and out. I guess it really didn’t take too long to confirm that one is no longer among the living. There are, after all, some indisputable indicators. She gave me several copies of the official death certificate, along with a folder with the burial arrangements all outlined in more detail than I thought possible, let alone necessary. Then she walked me through the process of drafting an obituary to run in the Ottawa Citizen. She had blank forms I could have used, but I told her I’d submit it online. Eventually, she moved to the front door. She held my hand in both of hers when she said goodbye. Check mark.

  Almost noon now. Malaya had the vacuum cleaner going in the bedroom. Even though the door was still closed, I could smell the unmistakable scent of Mr. Clean. I wrote the obituary in about fifteen minutes. I’d written it in my mind over and over again, so it wasn’t that difficult. I did have to stop a couple of times when my eyes welled up, but I got it done and uploaded to the Citizen. I’d included a shout-out to Malaya in the obit. I’m not sure “shout-out” is the appropriate term when referring to an obituary, but that’s how I thought of it. Malaya deserved it. As per my mother’s instructions, there was no photo attached to the obit. Check mark.

  I returned to my list and dialed the Cordon Bleu Culinary Arts Institute over on Laurier, just a short walk from the apartment. I asked to be put through to the Human Resources director. A man answered.

  “François Meilleur.”

  “Hello, it’s Alex MacAskill calling about my mother, Lee MacAskill.”

  “How is Lee? We really miss her here,” he said in a French accent. “It’s not the same without her. And the customers ask about her every day.”

  “I see. Thank you. Well, I’m sorry to tell you that she passed away this morning.”

  “Mon dieu! I’m so terribly sorry. And there I go spouting off before you had a chance to tell me. I’m so sorry.”

  �
��Thank you. It was not unexpected. We just thought…well, we thought we might have a bit more time.”

  My mother had worked at the Cordon Bleu Culinary Arts Institute for twenty-seven years. She was the hostess at the Signatures restaurant housed in the ground floor of the institute. She loved her job there, and everyone she met loved her, too. She came to know all of her regular customers, their names, habits, culinary preferences, still or bubbly water, dessert or just coffee. She was as much a fixture there as the crème caramel.

  “The staff will be devastated. I wish your call had been bearing better news,” he said.

  “I’m sorry. She wanted me to thank you for all your support over the years.”

  “That’s just like her to worry about that when she was so ill. Is there anything we can do to help in this difficult time?”

  “I wondered what happens to her pension now that she has passed away?”

  “I’m sorry? Pension?”

  “Yes, her pension.”

  “Alex, we are a simple cooking school and restaurant. We only have twenty-four full-time employees. We have no pension. We’ve never had a pension. I hope there’s no confusion.”

  Actually, there’s loads of confusion. Weird.

  “Oh, I see. I must have misunderstood my mother. Thank you for clarifying,” I said. “I’ll let you know when the burial is happening. Thank you again.”

  Strange. Mom had always said that our rent, groceries, and whatever part of Malaya’s salary that wasn’t paid by the province was covered by her “pension.” That’s what she’d always called it, her pension. And she wasn’t talking about her old age pension. She was too young for that.

  I walked out onto the balcony and leaned on the railing looking at nothing in particular. Living on a high floor yielded a great view of this part of the city. My eyes sought, then found, the Cordon Bleu Culinary Arts Institute a few blocks away. As I watched, the Canadian and French flags on the front lawn lowered to half-mast. I felt like I ought to be saluting or cuing a bugler. I was not aware of any other recent tragic news involving France, Canada, or the culinary world that might have prompted the lowering of the flags, particularly at that precise moment. I knew my mother was well liked at the institute, but I was not ready for such a formal expression of their feelings for her.