by Ross Pennie
She’d waved her hand dismissively, then extended it to indicate that he should assist her out of the chair. His dad helped her into her coat and made a face that said, Your mother, she make up her mind, and I doing what she tell me.
Now, as Zol walked her from the parking lot toward the hospital’s main entrance, Kitti refused the wheelchair ramp and steered him to the steps. Three teenagers were lighting up, two paces inside the yellow line marking the tobacco exclusion zone, an exact nine metres from the front door. Of course, it was his health unit that was charged with enforcing the Smoke-Free Ontario Act, but only a jerk would hassle those kids over a couple of metres.
Two of the teens had ski jackets thrown over their flimsy hospital gowns. The third teen, a boy of about fifteen, looked like a visitor — black pea coat over a tee-shirt and jeans, piercings in his lip and eyebrows. Zol was getting used to the body jewellery kids sported these days, but he couldn’t help being shocked by the boy’s extreme obesity. The youth was a head shorter than Zol and weighed well over three hundred pounds. Diabetes, heart disease, and sleep apnea were lurking for him around the corner. The kids in the gowns, a girl and a boy, were attached to IV poles and puffing away. He couldn’t see any obvious lesions on their lips. Were they jaundiced? He couldn’t tell from this distance and didn’t want them to think he was some weird guy leering at them.
Both kids were emaciated, weighing no more than ninety or a hundred pounds, that was obvious. He couldn’t help eyeing the contours of their collarbones jutting above their open jackets. It struck him again that much of the world had lost its ability to correctly judge how much they should eat. Until half a generation ago, calorie consumption came naturally to almost everyone. Without thinking much about it, Zol’s family had stayed trim because they balanced their food-energy input with their exercise-energy output. But nowadays, most people were too fat and a few were too skinny. And whose fault was that? He understood the urgency of the issue, but nothing in his training as a chef and a doctor had taught him how the fatness epidemic had happened so quickly and on such a grand scale. And no one seemed to know what to do about it.
He nodded to the smokers through their tobacco fog. He was struck by the harsh, tarry smell of the cheap, unregulated stuff from Grand Basin Reserve. Half an hour away, dozens of Native-owned smoke shops offered cigarettes they produced from locally grown tobacco and sold at one tenth the cost of the international brands available in town. The sale wasn’t legal, but law enforcement had given up interfering with the trade. He despaired at the hopeless task of persuading young people not to smoke in the face of a ready supply of cigarettes sold in packs of twenty-five that cost less than a cup of coffee.
Ringo Starr jammed three bars of “Yellow Submarine” into Zol’s brain as he fought the stench, the front door, and the blustery wind. Two steps inside, Kitti stopped and clutched her chest. Her face was ashen. She tried to speak, but nothing came out, not even a cough. Oh my God, was this the end? Had Mum known it all along and was putting on a false front?
His own chest tightened with panic. He scanned the lobby for a wheelchair. He spotted one and scooped her into it as her knees gave out.
He started wheeling her at top speed to the emergency department. When she realized where they were headed, she put up her arms and shouted, “No, Zollie. Stop.”
He kept rolling. “Don’t be silly. You’re having a heart attack.”
She waved her arms. “A little spell, only.”
He stopped rolling and looked her in the face. “Mum, this is serious.”
“I am fine. This happens. Sometimes. When I am doing too much . . . vacuuming.”
“You’ve been vacuuming?”
“Who else? Your father, he doesn’t even know . . . where I keep it.”
“For God’s sake, Mum.”
“Zollie, is okay.” She motioned to the bank of empty chairs in the waiting area at the far side of the lobby. “We wait there. A few moments only. Then we continue.”
“No,” he said, pushing the chair forward. “You’re going to Emerg.”
She scraped her boots against the floor and jammed them under the wheelchair’s foot rests. He had to stop pushing before he broke her ankles.
“Good,” she said firmly. “Now, let me catch breath.” She felt her handbag as though checking to be sure the contents were intact. “And then I tell you where we going.” She closed her eyes and bowed her head.
A few moments later, she opened her eyes. Her breathing had settled and she pointed to the hallway leading to the older section of the hospital, which housed the inpatient wards. “I’m ready. Take me to elevator.”
“Not so fast. You said you’d tell me where we’re going.”
“Soon, you see,” she said and waved him forward with an imperious flip of her fingers. “But now, you push.”
Opting for peace, he rolled her toward the elevator, the route taking them past the cheery gift shop and the spartan library. Being Saturday, the gift shop was open, the library closed. Commerce trumped knowledge. He wondered whether these days anyone read printed medical texts and journals. Medical stuff was better online — easier to find, more up to date, and loaded with fantastic images.
They stopped in front of the twin elevator doors. “Up or down?” he asked.
Kitti thought for a moment, which surprised him. He thought she’d already worked this out. “Down,” she said.
“The basement? Are you sure?”
“Yes, down.” She slipped something out of her purse and palmed it so he couldn’t see it. Whatever it was, it seemed to reassure her.
Against his better judgment, he pushed the down button. His chest was still tight. They should be in Emerg, not taking an elevator to God knows where.
The left-hand door opened, and he wheeled her forward.
“Stop. Not that one.”
“For heaven’s sake, Mother, they both go to the same place.”
“No. Stop.” He did as she asked and let the door close without them. She waited a moment, then pressed the up button three times. “We take next one.”
They waited in silence.
Was she losing it? First down, now up. Maybe it was a lack of oxygen. He glanced at her lips. They were pink enough. But what was that in her hand? What the heck was she up to?
Her eyes flashed in satisfaction as the right-hand elevator opened.
“Okay, now?” he asked. He’d let a little sarcasm creep in. His mother was used to that. His sister had a Master’s in it.
She looked from side to side, as if checking to be sure they were alone, then nodded. “Yes. This one.”
“Which floor?” he said, once they were inside.
She hesitated, then told him to push number four, the top floor.
He pushed the button and watched the indicator numbers light up in succession. Two. Three.
Suddenly, she lunged forward, waved the thing in her fist over the elevator’s control panel, and hit the large red button.
The car lurched to a stop, and so did Zol’s stomach. “What the —? Mother, what are you doing?”
She sought his face, and held him tightly with her gaze, her lips quivering. She pressed her palm to her mouth, then took a slow, deep breath. Still clutching her purse, she said, “Know where you are, son?”
Yeah, stuck between floors three and four with a woman whose behaviour was becoming increasingly irrational.
She stared up at him with a faraway look, her eyes glistening, teardrops on each cheek. He took a step back, unnerved. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his mother cry. This wasn’t the face of the practical, no-nonsense woman who, until a few months ago, had kept a spotless household and spearheaded half a dozen charity projects. It was downright frightening to see her this way.
“You born right here.” She pointed to the scuffed linoleum that looked as thoug
h it hadn’t been replaced in more than thirty-five years. “My first baby.”
He fumbled in his pockets for a Kleenex, but realized she didn’t want one. She wasn’t tearing with sadness. She was indulging in a moment of nostalgia.
He knew the story, of course. And the graphic details of his sudden appearance on the elevator floor amid a gush of blood and body fluids.
“Your dad, he parking the car. I told him he should hurry, the baby is coming. But that man, he always behind. Like cow’s tail.”
“Come on, Mum. You’re not supposed to interfere with the elevator. Security’s going to —”
She showed him what she’d hidden in her fist. Her photo ID card from hospital. CODE ORANGE VOLUNTEER was printed across it in bold letters. “I’m on Disaster Team. They allow me control the elevator when necessary. And necessary now. A few minutes only.”
“But —”
“No time wasting.” She dug into her handbag and pulled out something the size of a couple of cigarette packs wrapped in blue gingham.
Without unwrapping the object, she raised it with both hands. “I must die in peace.”
He grabbed the handrail and squeezed his eyes closed against the vertigo threatening to topple him. His own mother, delusional from the cancer now spread to her brain, was asking him to euthanize her. Right here in the exact spot she’d delivered him. Her sense of the poetic was in overdrive, and she was out of her mind.
He opened his eyes and held the rail with both hands. His mother’s eyes were clear, the faraway look replaced by earnest practicality. Maybe she hadn’t lost her marbles. Perhaps she’d come to a rational decision about ending her life. That would be just like her. Everything planned, micro-organized to a fault. She must have squirrelled away enough of her bedside morphine to do the job. And now here, where she’d brought him into the world, she wanted him to inject her with an overdose. She was asking him to end her life in the exact location she’d brought life to his. Rational perhaps, and clearly dramatic, but out of the question.
“Mum, I can’t —”
“Quiet, Zollie. I show you something.” She removed the gingham wrapping. In her lap was a small box. He recognized the logo and blue colour — a Birks jewellery box. She removed the lid to reveal the object inside, nestled in a bed of cotton batting. “This for you. Now your turn keep it safe.”
Zol couldn’t believe what his mother was holding. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. His heart was racing, his chest tighter than ever. “How did you get this?”
“You promise keep it safe? Don’t tell your father?”
His tongue was as dry as a boxful of sand. “Um . . . well . . .” He’d never seen her look so vulnerable — her turban, her sunken cheeks, her grey eyes imploring with a new set of tears welling at the corners. At this moment he’d do almost anything she wanted.
He stared at the object in the box. Its eyes. They weren’t red, they were black. How could this be?
She replaced the lid and the gingham wrapping, then handed him the box, the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Hide it in your pocket. Quickly.”
She watched as he stuffed the box into his jacket. When she was satisfied, she wiped her cheeks on her coat sleeve and said, “Okay. Now we go.”
“But —”
She pressed the green button on the elevator panel. “Take me home. I tell you story in car.”
CHAPTER 6
An hour later, his hands shaking, Zol removed the gingham cloth from the Birks box and placed it, unopened, on his kitchen counter. All the way back to Hamilton from his parents’ place, he’d been obsessed with keeping to the speed limit, terrified the police would pull him over and search his pockets.
Colleen padded into the kitchen and pecked him on the lips.
“Any news from Hamish?” he asked.
She shook her head. Her eyes narrowed. “Oh my God, you look awful.” She squeezed his arm. “How’s your mum?” She searched his eyes. “What’s happened?”
He cocked his ear toward the computer room. “Where’s Max?”
“Still with Travis. Swimming, then a movie. He was really keen on it, and I didn’t think you’d mind. They promised to have him back before dinner.”
“Perfect.” He didn’t want Max knowing about any of this. He pointed to the Birks box on the table. “I need you to open that.”
Colleen raised her eyebrows, then scrutinized the box from several angles. She looked and listened, but didn’t touch. “Birks,” she said, finally. “The jewellers. What is it? Something of your mum’s?”
“Please, just open it.”
She grasped the lid and it eased off, then jumped back when she saw what was inside. She leaned in for a closer look. “How extraordinary. Zol, it’s stunning.” Her face tightened. “But it’s hot. The police . . . The Native councils . . . However did she get it?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. The police are going to —”
“It’s never been in the ROM.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“It’s not the loon in the newspaper. See? Her eyes are black, not red. It’s the —”
“The mate? No. Don’t tell me the second loon actually exists?”
He wiped his hands on his jeans and lifted the beautiful little loon from her cotton nest. He cupped her in his palms, stroked her smooth grey back, felt the sharpness of her beak, her heft, the fine balance of her tail. He held her to his face with the smoke hole opposite his lips, and stared into the creature’s eyes. He could see that if you were stoned on its hallucinogenic tobacco, those piercing, black eyes would be mesmerizing.
“Your mother gave you this?”
“She didn’t want anyone to find it accidentally when . . . you know . . . the time came to go through her things.”
Colleen’s eyes began to glisten. “Oh, Zol, I’m so sorry. But how touching.” Her mouth twitched as she gazed at the loon cupped in his palms.
“Here,” he said, “you hold her.”
She held out both hands, then cradled the creature like an injured duckling. She seemed reluctant to hold her for long. “Let me put it away before either of us drops her.”
She placed the loon in the box, then took Zol by the hands and kissed him on the lips. “You’d better sit down. And then tell me what this is about.”
He poured himself a glass of water, took a few gulps, and sank into a chair at the kitchen table. “Turns out they’ve had that black-eyed loon for at least five years.”
“Your mum and dad?”
“Dad found her, then gave her to Mum for safekeeping. She’s the organized one.”
“Why didn’t they give it to the ROM?”
“Because of all the hassles and indignities they endured after finding the first one.”
He told her the story of the Native land claim made against their farm as soon as word got out that the Szabos had unearthed a priceless First Nations artifact. The Natives were convinced the family was sitting on a sacred Iroquois burial site. For three weeks, a gang from Grand Basin Reserve — and a few imported rabble-rousers brandishing unregistered firearms — barricaded his family’s driveway, built bonfires on their front lawn, and blocked access to their home. For Hungarian immigrants who’d fled the excesses of Soviet totalitarianism, the experience was terrifying. The land claim fizzled when his dad produced the English strongbox in which Zol had found the pipe and persuaded a group of moderate Native elders that the pipe came from a White man’s cache and not a First Nations burial site.
“Do your parents know about the legend?”
“That’s another reason why they hid the second loon. To keep the two of them apart.”
She nodded, her expression solemn. “Had your mum and dad heard about the bombing at the ROM?”
“Oh yeah.” He gestured at the litt
le blue box. “I think that’s what reminded Mum about our friend here.”
“Where did your dad find it?”
“In the opposite corner of our property from where he found the first one.”
“In another strong box?”
Zol sipped his water. His tongue was still thick. “Also made in Sheffield.”
“So at one point, the same guy had possession of both loons.”
“Looks like it.”
“And chose to separate them. What does your mum want you to do with this second one?”
“Told me not to tell Dad I had her. He’s terrified of another land claim and doesn’t want anyone to know we’ve got it.” He shrugged, then cracked his knuckles. “But otherwise, she told me to use my judgment.”
“That’s a bit heavy. Especially with the coppers looking for its mate as part of a potential terrorist attack and homicide investigation.”
He was stuck in it deep. Up to his neck in the crap. If he presented the loon to the curator of the First Peoples Gallery at the ROM, the Assembly of First Nations would go crazy. They’d rail against yet another instance of a White guy, and a government agency, misappropriating their aboriginal heritage. Any goodwill between his office at Simcoe’s health unit and his flock on Grand Basin Reserve would fly out the window barely two weeks into his new job as their medical officer of health. “If I hand the loon over the ROM, no one on Grand Basin will ever speak to me again. And if I hand it over to the cops, they’ll accuse me of theft and being an accessory to murder. I can’t see them believing I came by it honestly.”
She answered without hesitation. “You do have a point. Police detectives are not in the business of crediting the innocence of coincidence. Your possession of this loon, at this moment, no matter what its eye colour, will be seen as highly suspicious.”
“So, what do I do?”
“Give me the loon and keep quiet. I have a safety deposit box in the name of a numbered company. Absolutely no link to you. Even with a search warrant the police will never find it. And nobody else will, either, for that matter.”
