In Search of the Perfect Singing Flamingo

by Tacon, Claire;

  Chester and I don’t speak on the drive home. According to the exit forms, we should feel excited to try again. My period ended three days ago and we’ve been given the all clear from the ob-gyn that we’ve waited long enough after the loss. Waited more than we had to. This month’s egg is as good as any.

  What should be relief feels more like a complication. Now we have no excuse to go through this expensive, invasive process.

  “She sounded confident,” Chester says.

  So did our family doctor when he advised us that, at my age, prenatal screening was a formality.

  “I would try again,” Chester says. “It could be me, because I’m older.”

  We each divide up the blame and give ourselves the larger half.

  The pre-implantation pamphlet is covered in pictures of small children blowing dandelion seeds. It’s the kind of photo shoot one of the design girls would style – bright teal dresses, red-haired toddlers and a whirlwind of organic parachutes. Never mind that people annually torture dandelions out of their lawns with herbicides, grinders and blowtorches. This is supposed to represent the best of parenthood, watching your kids undo what you’ve laboured over.

  “Do you feel confident?”

  “I feel hopeful.”

  We both know it’s not the same – sometimes hope can be enough and sometimes it can’t. I keep circling back to the day at the pool. We hadn’t even been gone an hour.

  HENRY

  NOW THAT I’M ONLY WORKING ONE STORE, I’VE GOT time to bully through the renovations. I spend all of Tuesday at Melly’s house, finishing the cabinet and ripping out the shower curb. The tile will be replaced with a solid panel of granite, which means no grout lines for water to leak through. While I’m waiting for the thinset to dry, I make myself a coffee.

  Squeezed beside the kettle there’s a bunch of bananas going past their prime. When I peel the freckled skin, the fruit flops out, too soft to support its own weight. It takes me a few tries before I find a mixing bowl, their kitchen a mystery to me. I run my finger over the spines of their cookbooks, looking for the Looneyspoons compendium I gave Melly when she moved out. We used it a lot as a family when she was growing up – sometimes she’d help me with supper when Kath was busy with Starr. There’s a banana muffin recipe that was a favourite. If Melly’s kept the gift, though, it’s somewhere else. The books here are much more elegant, with pictures of chefs I recognize from the Food Network.

  I consider texting Melly to ask about the book, then decide not to put her on the spot. It’s okay, I know the recipe well enough to improvise. At least her pantry’s easy to navigate. Everything’s in bins, the shelves and Tupperware identified with printed labels, not unlike my basement workshop. Over the years, she’s spent so little time there that I doubt I can claim any credit. More likely it’s from being responsible for all that equipment on set.

  What I can’t get out of my mind is the question of how they knew it would be the worst-case scenario with the baby. Or why Kathleen alone was invited into their secret. It stings, knowing what they must think of me, as a person without compassion.

  What Melanie and Chester did, it was their choice. I can respect why they made that decision but, as I stir the muffin batter together, it’s the IVF that rankles. Their determination to buy insurance against my own life. I worry that I’ve missed something, that Kathleen has confessed to them some hidden hurt or struggle. What does our daughter see in us that makes her so afraid? There’s a harder question too – why can she only see the challenge and not the gratitude I feel, my profound joy? It’s been right there, the whole way.

  The muffins, nice and domed when they come out of the oven, soon sag into their wrappers. By the time they’ve cooled enough for me to cover them, they’re basically pucks. My first instinct is to toss them but they taste fine, just dense, and I leave a note, careful to spell my daughter’s name out in full.

  The family meeting space at the agency is decorated in the same neutrals as the interrogation rooms at Canada Border Services. Instead of their steel-to-aluminum palette, everything here is a variant of sage. It’s supposed to put people at ease, I guess, with its inoffensive black-and-white photos of cityscapes. Even the chairs are green, flattened tweed covers over plastic frames, the polyester shiny where it’s been pressed by hundreds of other backs. I worry that the similarity will spook my daughter, but she’s unfazed. That’s the thing about anxiety. It’s a roulette spin, hard to predict where the focus will land. Balloons.

  Laura, one of the better support workers, comes in, binder in hand, big smiles. It’s not so different from the woman earlier this week at the employment centre. “Nice to see you,” she’d said, even before introducing herself. At first I thought it was for my benefit, her cheerful veneer over a bleak situation. By the time I left, I wasn’t so sure.

  “How have you been this week?” Laura asks, recording the date across a consultation form.

  “When do I go back to Fresh Us?”

  The support worker glances at Starr, then Kathleen, deferring.

  “I’ve spoken to the owner, sweetie,” my wife says. “Riley’s going to stay there long-term. He’s the son of Martha’s friend.”

  “Do you think you two could get along?” Laura slides a glass over to each of us and motions to the water jug.

  Starr’s mouth puckers.

  “There’s a cupcake place opening down the road from the condo,” I say, pitching to her directly. “Wouldn’t that be great?”

  “Can Levi come back?”

  “No, he has a new job now,” Laura says. “If we arranged a meeting with Riley, do you think you could work it out?”

  “He never apologized.”

  Laura pulls out a new sheet. The white border is spotted with artefacts, a photocopy of a photocopy of a photocopy. “Let’s do a fresh strengths/challenges chart.” The form is broken into four squares: pros, cons, abilities and challenges. As if it were that easy to separate a whole person into four slots, a complex situation into quadrants that would add up to something significant. At the employment centre they called it an opportunity analysis.

  “What did you like about your job?”

  “Levi.”

  “What else?”

  “When we did the dessert trays.”

  “What else?”

  “You also liked how close it was,” Kathleen prompts.

  “I got to see a lot of people.”

  There was a lot that I had to put in that column too. Particularly around flexibility, ability to work independently, daily challenges. Somehow, seeing it all listed made the position look a shade away from the Holy Grail. The counsellor kept grinning, but I could see her doing the math. I’d hoped having a new job in hand before telling Kathleen would mute the shame. But that road’s a dead end.

  Starr, Laura and Kath have moved on to the negatives.

  “Some of the sandwich meats were too greasy. My hands would get sweaty in the gloves. Riley throwing out my guides.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Sometimes it was too much of a rush. Levi said you can’t hurry love or sandwiches.”

  Laura asks how Starr liked the level of supervision.

  She doesn’t respond until Kathleen cues her. “Did you like how often your boss checked in with you? Or did you want her to be more involved?”

  “It was fine.”

  We seem to be spending a lot of time on a job that she can’t go back to. I worry it’s giving her the wrong idea. Tiny Tots, the daycare down the street, they might have something. Starr’s great with kids. “How about something with kids?”

  The support worker puts her pen down and mimes contemplation. “If that’s something you’re interested in, Starr, we can put it in our intentions web.”

  “Do you think you’d like to work with kids?” I ask.

  Starr grins at me. “Yes.”

  Laura writes work with children on a blank sheet and draws a circle around it with a line to a satellite circle. Tra
ining.

  “The last time we spoke, you said that having a job was a priority for you. That it ‘made you feel important.’ Is that still true?” She waits for confirmation. “Good, so let’s look at next steps.”

  A few sheets along in the binder is Starr’s previous assessment. She reads out the same bullets that always come up: strong interpersonal drive, can follow written instructions if the steps are simple and clear, able to persevere at similar tasks for a long period of time, average levels of computer literacy. No change.

  We don’t read out the challenges, but we’re all aware of them. Easily fatigued, frustration with handwritten forms, difficulty with money handling. That’s the main thing that’s holding Starr back from retail at a cafe or bakery – somewhere she’s not also required to make hot drinks.

  “Can we upgrade the level for abilities with independent tasks?” Kath asks. “You had a lot of experience with that at Fresh Us.”

  “These don’t get shown to employers.”

  “I wouldn’t want her to miss out on a potential listing.”

  Laura amends the wording.

  “What about making a note that we’re willing to work on the cash issue? In the newsletter, there was some talk about iPod Touch apps that can display change graphically. If it came down to it, we’d be willing to invest in one.”

  Again, Laura edits the sheet, the words boxed into the margin and asterisked.

  Starr’s resume gets pulled out next. It’s more robust than my own, despite the employment centre’s best attempts to pad it. I’ve only had two jobs, the first of which was so long ago that there’s no reference. No volunteer work, no membership in industry associations, a complete absence of professional development since my initial college diploma. I’d be a prime candidate for Second Career subsidized skills upgrading if I didn’t still have the Victoria Park job. The only thing going for me is my demonstrated corporate loyalty.

  Laura starts with the objective. With a bit of coaching, Starr is better at the language than I was. She resists it less. Obtain a meaningful job in the customer service, food preparation or childcare industry, where I can maximize my interpersonal skills. The woman at the employment centre had found my reaction exasperating, but it felt like suggesting china patterns to a girl you just wanted to screw around with. Utilize my skills in human relations to begin a lasting, mutually beneficial relationship. Isn’t the objective just to get hired?

  “The caterer said they’ll give you an excellent reference and a letter for the file. So that’s good.”

  Finally, Laura calls up the current offerings. Checkout assistant at Loblaws. Restaurant maintenance at Wendy’s. Housekeeping at the Best Western. All three require high levels of physical stamina. Kathleen keeps a neutral face, not wanting to discourage our daughter.

  “No,” Starr says. “Not those.”

  “No?” Laura asks.

  Starr doesn’t break eye contact. “No. Not those.” She’s more confident than I’d expected.

  “Because of the time of year, we don’t have as much. These are just the listings for employers we know are inclusive.”

  “What about a receptionist job?” I’d thought it would be easier – off the top of my head, I can list a dozen things Starr would be good at.

  “Will I get to meet a lot of people?” she asks.

  “We do get those from time to time. Often strong note-taking skills are required.”

  “If it’s on the computer, or with some training,” I say. “Those old forms with the boxes – please call, urgent.” The supports would be minimal.

  “It’s a shame,” Laura says. “It’s the economy.”

  Ready-made. Plug ’n’ play. No one has time anymore to grow someone into a position. They made it clear at the centre that employers want someone who’s already done the job, whose cover letter has the right keywords.

  “We usually find the best and fastest solutions are when the family has a personal connection. Have you considered volunteer work?”

  “Perhaps if there’s a clear path to a job,” Kathleen says. “Or if it’s a position Starr really enjoys.” The option’s always rankled us. Our daughter’s time is as valuable as anyone else’s – why shouldn’t it be compensated?

  We make another appointment for two weeks from now. In the meantime we’re supposed to keep an eye out for other openings in the community. Scour windows for notices. Canvas friends. Friends of friends.

  Laura’s got the same smile when she walks us out, but only Starr returns it.

  We offer to take our daughter to dinner but she declines. She’s supposed to make tacos tonight before Cynthia takes her and Della to see a free concert in the park. Starr doesn’t even want us to come upstairs to see her off. We say goodbye at the door. Through the glass, I see her waiting by the elevator and when the doors open, the elderly couple exiting stops to chat with her. I’ve never met them before, am certain they don’t live on her floor.

  Kathleen pulls on my sleeve.

  “She’s always like that after appointments. She’s still going to be excited to come over on Sunday.”

  Transparent as greased paper.

  “Melanie and Chester are never home, you know. And when they are, I’m in their way.”

  “I thought you said all that was left was caulking and touch-ups.”

  “It’s not the renovations I’ve failed at.”

  Kathleen squeezes my hand and tells me to stick with it. She’s close enough that I can smell her lavender moisturizer. I pull her to me and rest my head against her neck, working up the grit to tell her about the Funhouse. Beneath us, the asphalt is striped with tack coat, alternating channels of matte and shine.

  What can I say? Stock phrases that peter out. I didn’t mean, I thought it would, things don’t turn out. It’s too hot for this prolonged contact, but I cling to Kathleen like a cartoon drunk at a lamppost.

  “At work, I did what you said I’d do. Went in and blew things up. I was lighting a fuse when I told Brandon to drop the charges. Now I’m out of a job and I don’t think I’ve helped the kid at all.”

  My wife rubs the small of my back. “I’m sorry, Henry.” Sweat pastes my shirt to my skin but she doesn’t remove her hand. “I know you loved that place.”

  She drives me to an outlet store so we can shop for interview outfits. Kathleen navigates the aisles like a maze, pulling things I’d never grab for myself, shooing me into the fitting room with a cartload of starched cotton.

  Beside the full-length mirrors are framed posters of tropical scenes. Glossy stock photos of Caribbean beaches and couples in hammocks. It gets me thinking of the first cruise we went on, Kathleen, Starr and I, a recommendation from a friend in Kath’s support group. She had a daughter with Down syndrome and said they took great care of her, made sure to include her in the ship’s activities. It was different with cruises, the friend had said. They have someone whose whole job is to make sure people mingle. The boats were big enough to have lots to explore, but it wasn’t like being in a strange city where you can’t let your kid out of your sight. There were no bad neighbourhoods.

  I was skeptical. A floating hotel seemed boring to me and I’d heard stories about disease tearing through the confined spaces. Boatloads of Norwalk. Or, with the open bars, it would become a mobile frat house full of loud, handsy drunks. It turned out, however, the line catered primarily to seniors. Mobility aids in all the rooms, quiet after eleven. Compared to most guests, Kathleen and I looked like teenagers.

  A few had brought their grandkids or the whole family, so there were kids’ activities too, which Starr quickly started helping out with. Seniors and little ones, her two favourite demographics.

  At the first port of call, Starr dutifully trekked along with us. We were let off to explore a market in the old colonial town, but Starr found the noises and the smells alarming. There was a crate of chickens squawking, wings poked out through the wire at painful angles. The flapping, knowing how they would meet their end, ups
et Starr.

  We walked past the bakery stalls, trying to buoy her. There were rows of sugar cookies decorated like seashells for the tourists. Starr stopped to admire a giant clam cookie, jam sandwiched in lieu of mollusc. The woman behind the counter was chatty, which perked Starr up. As did the bright friendship bracelets a few stalls over. We bought her a neon pink strand with a sand dollar and she fingered it like a rosary for the rest of the walk. There weren’t a lot of benches and to get anywhere else required taking uneven stairs, so we returned to the boat after an hour or two. Starr needed a nap by then anyway.

  When the second excursion came up, Starr wanted to stay aboard. We were nervous to leave her by herself, but knew she couldn’t get off the boat easily, was in no danger of getting lost. “I’m twenty-three,” she’d said. If Melly could be trusted to go to university on her own, Starr could be left for the afternoon.

  At first, Kathleen and I followed the tour group to a church famous for a local artist’s paintings of the saints. Outside, there were five or six vendors with knock-offs, eight-by-ten wood blocks with pining Marys, decapitated John the Baptists and a woman with a plate of eyes.

  From there we were shepherded to a seafood grill with waiters in traditional costumes. We sat with other couples from the cruise and listened to them make conversation about other sailings they’d been on. After lunch we were supposed to go to a main square for a dance performance but I pulled Kath away and we grabbed a fresh coconut with a straw from a street vendor and walked down to the water. We sat on the wood pier with our feet over the edge and pointed out starfish to each other.

  “There’s a snorkelling trip a few stops away,” Kath said.

  It had been so long since I’d seen her do more than a lap or two in a pool, I’d almost forgotten Kath swam in high school. That when we’d gone camping, she was the one swimming across the lake and back.