Losing It

by Alan Cumyn

  “Are you all right?” she asked, her face so drained of colour, a portrait of exhaustion.

  She ran her hand through her hair in fatigue, smiled for him with such emptiness – or was it concern? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t know. He’d been married to her for seven years, had fathered their child, had loved her forever, and yet still didn’t know the first thing about her.

  “Julia -”

  “For God’s sake, Bob, just close your eyes,” she said. “Try and rest.”

  I’m not going to let you go. He willed her to say it. He didn’t want to shut his eyes until he heard those words from her.

  “We’ll be there soon,” she said. He could feel his heart lying limp on the floor of the ambulance. She turned to look out the windows at the rear, her face blank. And then he felt her hand on his – warm somehow, despite the chill. Her shoulders were rocking with the vibrations of the vehicle, she was still looking away, but her touch was for him. Suddenly the ambulance slowed down – they’d come to an intersection, maybe – and the siren came on, a doleful, penitent song on the underside of this strange, strange night.

  40

  Everybody was there: Trevor, Mary Hoderstrom, Tommy, the nephews, Babs and Dougie and the others, all of them. Mother and Father. Trevor had been late – he was always getting hung up and such. Now he was eating a banana. He was so hungry he was smushing his face down into his flat thing like it was a cigar. Not a cigar, a rollout, a section head. Just smushing. He was older. All of them were. They had brown teeth and there were cows, and the president was always getting shot, over and over, it didn’t matter so much. It was something to do.

  Lenore said, “Trevor!” and rapped at his forehead. She wanted him to get his face out of the smushy thing, the ligament. The ointment. He ignored her, as he always did, it was so annoying. She said, “Guests are coming!” and the big one, the Italian, said, “Don’t be such a sissy!” It was so sad, Mary Hoderstrom coming down like that, the way she did, getting so old. She had fluffs of white hair and pink skin underneath, she trembled like she was spraying all the time, Dear Lord this and that. Just mottled. Her tongue went wah-wah, like a cradle-cap, muffing, little bits of prayer came down her lip and leaked onto the rug. She was never like that in school, always very clever with her things, and such. She was never leaky. But then it changed.

  Tommy too looked much older after the accident. He had claws and one eye went this way and the other didn’t. He kept watching the president. This hump on his back. Quasi hoo-hoo. From before. Mary would know. She knew everything, very doctor and all. Lenore said, “Why wouldn’t he want to?” but Mary ignored her. It wasn’t the right question. It was something to do with the accident, the shooting, that terrible divorce. She said, “Well, if you must!” and she meant it, it seemed so sad all of a sudden. Things got that way. The glue fell out and then the wind blew it all down south. Lenore said, “Mup-mup!” and tried to ignore Trevor with the banana, but he was having a terrible time with it. Just mushing. The Italian one said, “It isn’t at all like that!” but she was always that way, big and black, just dribbling.

  There were cornflakes outside, they looked so white and silly, Lenore could see them through the bars. It wasn’t such a bad hotel. At least they let everyone stay, and she didn’t know about the tipping – Trevor took care of all that. She was upset about the stinky rooms. She’d tried to talk to the woman, but it just got lunkier every day. Lenore turned to Trevor now and said, “You talk to her! I’ve tried!” but he didn’t say that he would. He was finishing the last of the banana, it was all over his face, he never used to be like that. He was going to ignore it. He’d go away and pretend it was all right.

  It wasn’t all right. Everything was stinky, the cows, the cornflakes, the whole shipyard. But not so bad, as holidays go. She was dreading going back, actually, though she didn’t want to stay. She didn’t know what she was going to do. Hadn’t decided at all. She couldn’t even remember what the choices were. They were all back at home on the kitchen counter in the pile where she kept things. She could picture it clearly, the whole pile, papers and other important ones, a bit bulgy, and she just had to get to it. Put them away in the right order.

  Babs and Dougie weren’t speaking. That wasn’t such a surprise. They were angrily married, Lenore watched them closely for a time. Babs had let herself go completely, she was limping up and down the cricket pitch, sputtering. That’s what happened sometimes; Lenore could remember when she was like that with Trevor. Just up and down. Dougie was watching the president, he couldn’t get enough of it. His neck was all loose now and turkey, he broggled a lot and didn’t like the dessert. He used to be a real car. But that was before. They were all a lot less shiny.

  And Mother and Father, sitting on the corner, holding hands. They just dribbled with it. Lenore had never seen them so happy. This holiday was really doing them good. Father was skinny now, thin as a lake, and Mother was a loaf of bread. Freeze-dried and such. You couldn’t separate them. They didn’t even say much, they didn’t have to, that’s what happened after a long, long time. You just hold hands and clatter.

  Everyone was there and Lenore looked up, she couldn’t believe it. Now everyone was there! She almost got to her feet, she rocked and Trevor elbowed her for help. She said, “Ouch!” and the flat thing got in her way, went crickle and bonked her back down. It didn’t matter. Julia was there with the little one, and the big one with the wiggly-sticks, he looked like a humpy little balloon.

  “Oh hello! Hello! Isn’t this lovely!” Lenore said and she started to cry. Everything was perfect now.

  Her daughter, the pretty one, said hello to her in Italian, it was quite a feat. Lenore shook her head, she was so happy. “I suppose that’s what you’d call it,” she said and she leaned forward. She wanted a kiss. She tried to say it but her lips fumbled, she said, “What about this?” and the pretty one said, “Mess of dishes!”

  Trevor said, “It’s shit rock. God you’re gorgeous!” and Lenore slapped him on the arm.

  “You remember Julia,” she said.

  “Aren’t you gorgeous!” he said, banana all over him.

  “You should kiss your father,” Lenore said, then she said to Trevor, “Swipe your face!”

  He grinned, he was drunk. Lenore didn’t know why she hadn’t recognized it before. He said, “Kiss your father!” and leaned towards Julia.

  “Do you have any kids?” Julia said, hoppity, like a bird. Trevor had her wrist now. He was still a strong man.

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Lenore said, and blished the flat thing at him, it went clank off the banana cheek, but he didn’t let go.

  “Kiss your father, sweetie!” he said.

  “Trevor. Trevor!” Lenore said.

  “It’s all right. It’s okay,” Julia said and took her father’s hand away, like folding a birthday card. She said much more, too much to tell, really, and then they were on their way, which was quite right. If he was going to behave like a triffid.

  Julia helped her up. Trevor went back to his banana gunk. They walked past the sign and Lenore read, “No Smoking Please.”

  “Mom, that’s excellent, that’s really good!” Julia said. Now the other little one went hiccuffy down the way, saying, “Brrrumppp! Brrrummppp!”

  They were all going sniffly-sniff, speaking loudly and Italian about it, so Lenore said, “It’s the cows.”

  “The cows?”

  “The cows! The cows!” she said, and pointed to where they were.

  “Oh. Oh, the cows!” Julia said.

  Scholarship student! Sometimes you have to wonder. Marrying that bear-head. Lenore wondered where he’d got to. He was a lot like Trevor, it was so sad. She wanted to tell Julia, it was really weighing on her. She wanted to tell her what a stupid mistake it was. But she couldn’t find the right time. It just went and went and things came up.

  So she said, now, “Where’s what’s-his-name?” She wanted to tell Julia when he wasn’t around. Before it wa
s too late. “The bear-head,” she said.

  “Who’s the bear-head? Is this your room?”

  Well, she should know, she picked the hotel. Lenore looked up. “I suppose so,” she said.

  They sat on the slab and there was a little worm in the picture, red and cross. Lenore didn’t know who it was. They came with the room, all those things. And there was no door on the bathroom, she certainly hoped that would be reflected in the bill at the end. She’d left Trevor to look after it, but he was such a man, sometimes.

  Julia asked about whatever it was, the thing. She didn’t know whether to sit down or fly away.

  Lenore said, “It’s completely broken!” and the big one hipped off to have a look. Lenore asked, “Whyever does he have the wiggly-sticks?”

  Julia said, “What?”

  “Well?”

  And Julia went on insufferably, as if she’d prevented them.

  “Oh my, yes!” Lenore said. The big one was off so she took her chance. She pulled Julia to her and said, “Don’t make a mistake!” Julia didn’t let on. “When it’s too late you’ll just be worry!” Lenore said. She meant another word but her lips fumbled again. It was the cornflakes, they feed them to you so you won’t be able to figure out the bill.

  Julia mumbled about something else.

  “Don’t marmalade that man!” Lenore blurted. And more mumbly so she said, “You know what I mean! The bear-head!” and then she looked up and there he was. My God, she’d never been so embarrassed, she just blurted the first thing that came in her head. “Bob!” she said. “You look like a million bucks!”

  “Why, Lenore,” he said, sheepy as a goat. But then it didn’t matter. She saw it clear as pain, as anything was any more. They were all together, it would just be a nice holiday, and if Julia went ahead, well, there’ll always be another room, you try one and then another.

  “It’s been lovely,” Lenore said. “Just lovely.”

  Julia said something else, sputtery and little-breathed.

  “Rain and nails!” Lenore said, and Julia couldn’t follow her. It was a problem now with the channels. “Worms,” Lenore said, groping.

  “Worms?”

  “What you said,” Lenore blurted. So upsetting, when the wires bulged.

  Lenore didn’t know what to say next, so she just curdled her baby – the big ones, they never really stop. She wasn’t sure what had been led and what was trump. Ages passed, like a bad winter, Lenore was trying so hard. She tried and tried, knew there was something, but it was frozen off and away. Finally, when she gave up, it came to her. She said, “The really good thing about it all is, after a while, you ferment.”

  “Yes, Mom?”

  “You just do. And it’s lovely. It really has been. Very Christmas, you know. Forgive and ferment.”

  She started to cry then, she didn’t know why. Julia sat up on the bed and stopped being such-like, she put her arms around Lenore and it felt close, with her and the little one, and even the bear-head. Julia said something else, softly, Lenore didn’t bother to hear it so much. It all drips into the same.

  It wouldn’t last, couldn’t, Lenore saw it now. Nothing ever did. But for just this right now it was fine.

  “I wish your father was here,” she said, crying again, it was so too much all of a sudden. “Instead of being such a banana.” And she felt herself dozing, just like that, a gentle leaning murmur into her daughter’s lovely shoulder, a soft little carpet tickle into sleep. It wasn’t much of a dream – she didn’t want to, these days – but it was pleasant and downhill and there were very few onions, which was lovely, she didn’t want to have to worry about dinner till it was done.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The author would like to gratefully acknowledge the financial assistance of the Arts Council of the Regional Municipality of Ottawa-Carleton in the preparation of this manuscript. Thanks too to the many friends and family members whose comments, suggestions, and support have been invaluable. Finally, thanks to Ellen Seligman for her inspired editing. A.C.

  Some sections of this novel, in different form, first appeared in The Canadian Forum (“Capt. Buzbie,” May 1998).

  Alan Cumyn’s most recent books are Man of Bone (1998), winner of the Ottawa-Carleton Book Award (as it was then known) and a finalist for the prestigious Trillium Book Award in 1999; Burridge Unbound (2000), which won the Ottawa Book Award and was a finalist for The Giller Prize; and Losing It (2001).

  Cumyn worked for eight years for the Canadian Immigration and Refugee Board, writing on international human-rights issues. He has taught in the People’s Republic of China and in Indonesia, ran a group home in Toronto for Katimavik, and is the author of a bestselling guide to working and studying abroad.

  Alan Cumyn lives in Ottawa.