The Waiting Hours

by Shandi Mitchell

  She went over to the bed, laid her fingers on her mother’s wrist. A steady pulse of blood thrummed.

  “It’s Friday, Mom.”

  * * *

  —

  On her way out, Kate kept her hand loose on Zeus’s leash. Masked and gloved cleaners popped in and out of rooms, littering the halls with soiled laundry bags and rolling carts stacked high with the desiccated remains of breakfast trays. It reminded Kate that she hadn’t eaten yet. Her stomach growled. She squeezed closer to the wall to allow a gurney to pass. The leash tightened and she looked back at Zeus.

  He was bowing, his bum high, his paws stretched forward, scratching at a closed door. He whimpered a high-pitched keen and looked to her expectantly. She had trained him well to have a distinctive alert.

  “Live only,” she said.

  * * *

  —

  All Kate had to do was go inside, but she was rooted to her mother’s porch. A line of ants paraded across the boards. Fat spiders lazed in the corners of trembling webs abuzz with trapped wings. Zeus waited with his head between his paws. His eyes flicked upward to check her face, but she gave him nothing to read.

  The door was open. She breathed in mildew, cheap perfume, and potpourri. Somewhere a clock was ticking. The fridge hummed. Behind the vintage orange curtains that cast the room in perpetual sunset, a fly’s furious bumble hummed and stalled. Her mother didn’t believe in pulling back the curtains. Anyone could look in.

  Olive greens and sickly browns clashed with cellophane-sheathed lampshades and dog-gnawed walnut side tables. The furniture hadn’t changed position in three decades. In the entranceway, school photographs smiled back with missing front teeth, bad haircuts, and questionable fashions. The collection stalled after her brother reached grade nine and she was left suspended in grade six with a bowl cut, sloping bangs, and a purple plaid jumper. She looked happy. They both did. Later, she would see Ruth staring at these photos looking for signs of what was to come.

  A swath of bills and junk mail littered the floor. The softwood bore the claw marks of stray dogs Kate had brought home. She claimed they followed her, but in truth she lured them with pilfered food. The neglected, abused, and wounded seemed to find her. Sometimes she went looking. She cut one dog loose. Robbie the collie had mange and oozing sores under his rope collar. His paws were swollen and bloody and the ground trodden bare from endless circles. When the owner came raging, a neighbour from two houses over, her mother answered the door with a rusted, unloaded shotgun and threatened to judge him right then and there. Ruth feared dogs, even the pups. She didn’t trust their teeth, but she always let them stay. You don’t turn your back on what’s hurting. That’s what she said.

  The last dog in the house was Bear, a decrepit deaf, half-blind mutt her brother had held captive to his chest for four and a half hours before relinquishing him. He said the dog’s heartbeat was keeping him alive. He was sixteen.

  She should deal with the mail and empty the fridge. She should take out the garbage and open a window. She should go inside. She should go in. Make sure the stove was off and plants watered. She should check for wet clothes in the washer. She should go inside.

  But that would bring her closer to the bathroom door that her brother had shut and didn’t open for three days, and the window he broke, and the floorboards stained blood-dark from his cut hand. It would mean walking past the kitchen table of untouched meals when he deemed that only Kate’s leftovers were safe to eat, and the locked cupboard where her mother hid the knives, and the latches on the bedroom doors when he started wandering the house at night.

  She couldn’t avoid the stairs and him clinging to the banister and doorframes when the police escorted him out. He was seventeen and had stopped wearing clothes. She remembered thinking that his skin was too thin to hold his bones together and that she was too young to see a boy naked and know he had hair down there. Under the stairs was the cubbyhole where he hid when he refused to be taken away, because in his mind he wasn’t sick. Once he hit nineteen, he knew nobody could force him to go to the hospital against his will. He was always the smart one.

  He was the one she was always trying to impress but could never surpass. He was her teacher and protector. He’d drop the needle on his turntable and extol the colours of jazz and Bird and Davis and Parker and Coltrane. He’d read passages to her so she could hear and taste the language of Shakespeare and Proust and Hunter and Ginsberg. She was ten and pretended she understood just to be in the room with him.

  Kate swallowed. Her lips were dry, and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Zeus’s ears pricked back. If she moved a finger now, he would sit up. He was studying her for the slightest tell. She had taught him to watch her eyes. But really, he had taught her that she could speak with her eyes and he would follow wherever she looked. Go left. Go right. Come close. Stop there. He always won the game, unless she closed her eyes. Then he’d jump up and lick her face until he could see her again.

  If she closed her eyes now, perhaps she could erase the image of angels obscuring the rubble of their lives. Hundreds of porcelain faces, white gowns, and stiff upright wings cluttering the floor, chairs, couch, tabletops, and shelves. A narrow pathway wended from the front door through the living room to the kitchen and up the stairs. She couldn’t go in.

  As she reached to shut the door, Zeus pushed his way past, assuming a down stay across the threshold. His ears forward, he stared straight ahead.

  “Let’s go.”

  His hindquarters tensed.

  “Now.”

  He spun around and resumed his previous position. His eyes flicked almost imperceptibly to the left. She followed his focused gaze above the angels’ heads and forced a smile to hide whatever expression was in her eyes. She felt it spill down into her chest.

  “Find live,” she whispered.

  He bolted forward with his nose to the floor, breathing in thirty years of socks, bare feet, and shoes. His head bobbed side to side but his route was direct. At the cubbyhole door, he bowed and barked his sharpest bark. His tail swept angels onto their backs.

  She followed his path. Wings brushed their obscene hope against her legs. “Good, boy.” She rubbed his head and gave him his reward. “Good, good boy.”

  He took the frayed rope with the tethered ball deep into his mouth and chomped down a joyful squeak-squeak-squeak. Tossing his head high, he pranced past her, nudging his ball into angel faces before lying down in their valley. Careful that their praying hands couldn’t reach his just reward.

  Kate made her face smile, her eyes soften, and her voice warm. She steeled herself against the stench of urine, filth, and sweat and opened the cubbyhole door.

  “Hello, Matthew.”

  * * *

  —

  In the kitchen cupboards, Kate found a stockpile of mac and cheese, Matthew’s favourite childhood food. He stood in the corner watching her, and Zeus, at her feet, watched him. There wasn’t any evidence that he had been eating. Food was rotting in the fridge and the sink and dish rack were empty. They stood in silence for eight minutes while the water boiled. She had opened the screened side door, and Matthew stared at the ragged mesh ripped long ago by eager paws. His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing the sharpness of his ribs and too-thin neck. His muscle tone had deteriorated, a sign that his body was feeding on its own protein. The timer dinged and he flinched.

  She described her movements to minimize further agitating him. “I’m going to drain the noodles now…I’m getting butter from the cupboard…I’m getting milk from the fridge…” But the milk had spoiled, so she substituted water and thickened it with ketchup. She set two plates and two spoons on the table. She couldn’t find the forks and knives.

  “I’m hungry,” she said. “Sit down.”

  He hesitated. So she sat. He took one step forward, two steps back, three steps forward, one back. His eyes wandered around her outline as if she were shining.

  He said, “Your eyes look different.”r />
  “Sit down.” She picked up her spoon and he sat across from her. She scooped noodles onto her plate and a mound onto his. Zeus lay beside her with a paw on her boot and his eyes on the filthy socked feet under the table. His nose was up, breathing him in. Kate took the first bite. “Eat.”

  Matthew picked up the spoon. His gnarled nails were chipped and blackened. He held the spoon over the plate, but didn’t touch the food.

  “It’s good,” she lied.

  Keeping his eyes on her, he lowered his spoon to the macaroni. She swallowed the gag of rubbery, artificial flavour that had become her breakfast and lunch. He watched her eyes. She swallowed spoon after spoon. He did not. With only a few spoonfuls remaining, she slid her leftovers towards him. He touched the back of her hand with his spoon, as though expecting it to pass through her skin.

  “Eat,” she said.

  He ate what remained on her plate.

  “When was the last time you had your meds?” She kept her voice light and non-judgmental.

  He stuffed his mouth, squirrelling noodles in his cheeks.

  “When was the last time you saw your doctor?” He had lost an incisor, and a thick tartar obscured the remaining front teeth. His brown hair flecked grey was matted in ratlike tails and the follicles were pulled taut against his scalp. She wondered if he had lice. A rash or infection, greenish tinged, mottled the side of his nose. His skin was jaundiced and the circles under his eyes were dark. He looked much older than the three years that separated them. “Swallow,” she said.

  He did. She reached across the table and filled her spoon from his plate. She chewed the cold, limp noodles and swallowed. She kept her eyes fixed on his. She was his poison tester. He scooped a spoonful from his plate.

  She filled her spoon again as he wadded his cheek. “Do you know what happened to Mom?”

  He looked at her hard, his eyes sharp as broken glass. “They took her and won’t let her come back.” Macaroni stuck to the roof of his mouth. She wondered if he had been at the flea market when it happened.

  “Who took her?” She held his fierce, unblinking stare. “Swallow,” she said.

  He spat the orange mash onto his plate and abruptly stood. Zeus scrambled and pressed hard against her legs. A low grumble rumbled from his throat. She silenced him with a wave of her hand. He had never growled before.

  “Eat your dinner,” she said, pretending nothing had changed and Matthew wasn’t staring hard at Zeus. She scooped another heaping spoonful from his plate and hoped she had ground the meds into a fine enough dust. There were only three pills in the bottle she had found hidden behind the butter. Expired, no refills. She had used them all.

  “You can see Mom,” she told him. “I can take you there.” She had his attention. “But first you have to bathe, put on clean clothes, and eat more food. Then we can go.” And so their old game had begun. Listen to my voice. Listen only to my voice.

  “They won’t let you.” He looked behind her when he said this. She wondered if They were in the room.

  “I can help you, Matthew.” She believed it, just like she had every other time. This time it could work. This time he could get better.

  His eyes found hers. “Katie…”

  He hadn’t called her that since childhood. She was ten years old again, looking up at her big brother. His voice was weary, disappointed, maybe even loving.

  “They’re not afraid of you anymore.”

  He walked out the door, leaving her at the table with the bitter taste of medication on her tongue.

  17

  When Tamara called Bluebird Taxi’s dispatch she was told Hassan’s shift didn’t start until one.

  No, she didn’t want another car. She would call back.

  The woman on the other end of the line sounded irritated. A smoker, Tamara speculated from the deep, wheezing breath. Older. Overweight. Sore knees. White. Poorly educated. The whir of a fan crackled across the phone line. Hot. She leaned forward to better hear the woman’s rasping breaths. Perhaps she used a puffer.

  “Is there something else?”

  Yes, she wanted to say, but didn’t speak. She cradled the phone tighter and imagined the woman sitting in her battered office chair with the armrests digging into her ample waist. Maybe she was staring straight ahead trying to visualize her, too. Would she hear the confidence and diction of her voice and assume she was a privileged white woman with money to waste on taxis? She heard an end-of-her-rope sigh and the line went dead.

  But Tamara kept listening. She listened past the gap of dead space and through the dial tone. She hummed to its tuning pitch. Mmmm. Closed lipped, it slipped away. AAAaaa. Open mouthed, she caught it again. She listened to the intertwine of calming notes undulating F and A until they were interrupted by the clipped, mechanical command, “Please hang up now. If you need assistance dial the operator. This is a recording. Please hang up…now.”

  She appreciated the non-human identification—“this is a recording”—though perhaps it would be more accurate to say, “this is a representation of a humanoid voice. Do not talk to me, I will not hear you. Do not presume I care.”

  She also admired the pause between “hang up” and “now,” with the emphasis on “now.” Strong, emotionless, practical. You are incapable of performing this task. That is okay. I will tell you what to do. Now.

  She recoiled from the shrieking tone, pitched two octaves higher, reaching for the alarmist sphere of smoke alarms, sirens, and crying babies. She forced her ear back to its piercing squeal. It shuddered down her back and rattled the words free: Don’t hang up. That’s what she wanted to say. She hung up and the sound’s residue wormed in her ear.

  She hadn’t been outside since Tuesday, having spent most of her three days off in bed, cocooned in the covers. She followed her hunger to the fridge. The milk was sour, the lettuce slimy, and the strawberries had softened under a downy mould. She drank three sips of black coffee and forced herself to eat a mottled banana. She sat in the white hum of the room and wondered if there was such a thing as absolute silence.

  The air was heavy like church and death. She opened the window a crack. Heat spewed in. She shut it tight and turned on the fan. Standing before its oscillating blades, she tried to discern the rhythm of its purr until her skin goosebumped. She watered her wilted plants, not bothering to wipe away the droplets on the sill. She looked at the piano and then the bookcase, but settled in front of the television, not turning it on. She waited for Hassan’s shift to start.

  She practised being as inanimate as the couch, the piano, the bookcase, a book, a single page, the period at the end of a sentence, the white space between the words…until the clock reached one. She dialed Bluebird Taxi, relieved to hear the same cranky voice. She requested Hassan’s car and gave her address.

  Ask me, she willed.

  The woman recited back the address.

  Ask me. She cradled the phone with both hands and replied, “Yes, that’s correct.” Ask me again, “Is there anything else?”

  The line went dead. She cupped a hand over her ear and hummed in perfect pitch.

  * * *

  —

  Hassan wasn’t wearing a sweater today, but he still had on a long-sleeved shirt buttoned crisply to the collar. His hair had been trimmed, highlighting the grey distinguishing his temples. She glared at the sun and its blistering heat. Her cotton dress was already limp and her underarms perspiring.

  “Beautiful day, yes?”

  She slid across the cool vinyl seat and he turned to look at her directly. She was acutely self-conscious of the silk scarf wrapped around her head and the two loose braids coiled in the grocery bag on her lap.

  “You don’t work today? I waited this morning, but no call. You’re good?”

  “Yes. I took an extra day off.”

  It was the first sick day she had ever taken. Her supervisor suggested she take two, but she declined. The cab’s interior smelled lemon-polished and freshly vacuumed. The silk flowers in the
vase had been replaced with real wild roses. The dashboard gleamed and the words FASTEN YOUR SEATBELT PLS. seemed especially kind.

  “I hope for a better day for you.” He watched her eyes. She couldn’t lie, so she looked away. “You are Tamara, yes?”

  He said her name like a love poem. The short a’s equally weighted, the r sliding, Sa-HA-ra, Ta-MA-ra. Her name sounded like it was being played only on the black keys. The melody was so different from the lower register and plodding heft that she was accustomed to hearing: Ta-MARE-a.

  “Dispatch said a lady, Tamara, asked for me and I knew this address.” He was pleased with this fact. “This is you. Tamara.”

  She wanted him to stop looking at her now. She wanted him to drive and not make left turns.

  “I am Hassan.” He twisted farther and pointed to the identification sign on the back of his seat. “You can call me Hassan, please.” With that he turned to the wheel. His eyes found her in the rear-view mirror. He tapped the yellow stencilled words: FASTEN YOUR SEATBELT PLS.

  * * *

  —

  Tamara tried not to flinch as Edie unwound two more braids. Granny Nan said her sensitive scalp line would toughen up, but it never had.

  “I told you, you need the scarf to keep it good. Look at this mess.” Edie detached a straggle of hair.

  “It came off.”

  “Then you wrap the scarf around the pillow if you can’t keep your hands off your own head.”

  There was no arguing with Edie. When she’d opened shop four years ago, word spread fast. Her extensions, relaxers, and cornrows were pure art; even her flat-iron work hardly smoked. She could coax the most stubborn hair into docility. “Look at that one,” Edie said, nodding towards a young man sitting under the dryer at the back of the shop. His hair was twisted in long, glistening curls coiling well past his shoulders. Edie leaned in confidentially. “All his. He has better hair than most women who come through here.” She smiled broadly at the boy, revealing the small gap between her front teeth that made her look perpetually young and reminded Tamara of a runway model. She had always wanted her own small, distinctive gap. Edie shouted over the dryer, “I’m telling her you’re getting your locs today, Trevor. The ladies are going to be chasing you around the block. Guaranteed.”