chapter thirty
RESTORATION
THE HUSH SURROUNDING her tickles her eyelids open. Slowly Zarine lets the light into her eyes and looks around at the mote-filled air, savouring the quiet as she had done only short hours ago. Morning sun breaks through the slits in the shutters and sneaks in under her bedroom door. She sits up, throws back her covers, and swings around. She plants her feet on the floor and looks down at them as she feels the cold hardness of the old wood underneath their soles. It feels so new, so different. No pain. She stands up, using her abdominal muscles, not her arms, using her quadriceps to balance her upright. She feels strong. She walks around her bed, testing these new legs, toward the door. With her hand on the knob, she looks back at her bed with its rumpled covers and wonders: why does she get up at the far side of the bed? Why not the near side, closest to the door? And then she realizes that when she pushes back the covers, she faces the window. She may not always be able to see the day breaking outside, but she knows it is right there in front of her. She turns the knob, pulls open the door, and sees Smokey waiting for her patiently for once. She leans down to stroke her cat and then takes the few steps across the upper hall to the bathroom.
Light shafts in through the uncovered window, lighting the floor, revealing the texture of the semi-gloss paint on the walls. The colour blue fills the air as the sun reflects the Wedgwood blue wall colour onto the white ceramics of the sink, toilet, and tub. She pauses in mid-step to gaze upon this familiar room that looks new to her eyes, as if she hasn’t been here in seven years. Her bladder yells. She moves into her morning routine, her muscles knowing what to do. But her mind considers all, her eyes roving the room, finally landing on themselves in the mirror as she washes her hands under running cold water. They are no longer cloudy brown or matte brown or black coffee brown but burnished brown alive with coruscating specks of gold. They mesmerize her. Are those her eyes?
Her hands scream their coldness. Quickly, she turns off the tap and shakes the water off them. She grabs the flattened towel on its hook to the right of the sink and dries her hands the best she can.
Zarine hurries past the patient cat back into her bedroom, pulls open the top dresser drawer, noticing how small the grab handles are in her hands. She pulls out the first underwear and sweat socks she lays her hands on. She grabs her jeans at the top of the pile on the open shelves next to the closet, then her favourite “Chocolate is My Pain Reliever” T-shirt, tosses them all on the bed, hauls off her pyjamas, puts on her clean underwear and socks, reaches her arms up into her T-shirt, struggling with the sleeves in her haste, pushes her legs into her jeans as she yanks them up. Dressed and with Smokey trotting behind, she runs down the stairs, jumping the last one and swivelling toward the kitchen at the same time. Oops, newspaper first. She does a one hundred and eighty degree turn and walks fast to the front door. She unlocks the brass dead bolt, pushes down on the handle, and pulls the door open. Sun floods her face. She stands there inhaling its rays, dropping her eyelids against its strength, revelling in its heat, forgetting about the paper and that there is a cat about to dash for freedom. But after a brief sniff, Smokey turns away from the frozen outdoors, preferring the comfort of a furnace-warmed house.
Cold air blows against Zarine’s face, forcing her eyes open, ruffling the fluffy snow blanketing walk and stairs. Across the street, her neighbour is shovelling his drive, puffing clouds of steam in rhythm to his swings. A cardinal lands on a silvery branch in the candelabra tree, showering snow on her neighbour. He doesn’t notice. Just keeps shovelling. She smiles. The cardinal fluffs its feathers, hops one way then the other, stretches its neck forward. A black squirrel leaps into the tree above it, and the festive-red bird flies off in a blur. The squirrel bounds along the branch, scattering snow as it goes, twists down the tree’s mottled silver-and-brown trunk to just above the ground, dives into the snow, and leaps out, its black fur glistening in the sun, somehow repelling the white flakes. She watches it until it disappears down the street.
She steps back inside, pulls on her boots quickly, shrugs on her coat without buttoning it up, and pulls on her gloves. She steps outside, shutting the door behind her firmly. Zarine picks up her shovel that stands next to the front door and starts pushing the white, sparkling fluff onto her front garden. The snow is so pure and bright that she thinks briefly about going back in for her sunglasses. But she’s enjoying the movement too much to stop, the movement of pushing snow, filling up the shovel, and swinging it onto her garden. Pushing and swinging, pushing and swinging, she moves swiftly down her walk and stairs. She pauses on the sidewalk and realizes she’s not breathing hard. She can clear her section of sidewalk. The city will do it for her in about two days, but the December air snapping against her cheek and sinewing in through her open coat to embrace her is like the most refreshing drink in the world.
Zarine hums as she first shovels to the left of her stairs, the sun warming her cheeks and shoulders, and then to the right, leaving tapering strips of snow at the edges and some raised white patches where passing boots had stuck it onto the concrete. She doesn’t see Smokey balancing on the inside window ledge, watching her through the glass, as if with pride. When she’s done, she holds the shovel at its neck, resting it on the cleared sidewalk, and surveys her work. She breathes in the bracing air and exhales a stream of steam, watching it dissipate upwards into the blinding blue sky. She smiles and trots back to her front door, picking up the morning paper where it lies to the side of the door, shaking the featherweight snow from it. She opens her door and turns back to enjoy one more moment of this glorious day. Satiated, she continues on in and sees Smokey sitting there, watching her. Oops. She shuts her door fast, smiles at her cat, strokes her, and then, after shedding her outdoor gear, skips to the back of the house.
She tosses the paper onto the table, having barely seen the front page. That’s for when she has her breakfast in front of her. Out of habit (one picked up during the flu season that was labelled “different” by the media) she uses her elbow to turn on the kitchen tap. She lathers up her hands, rinses them, and brushes first the front of them then the back against the towel hanging on the wall. She bends down to reach for Smokey’s dry food out of a lower cupboard and pours it into the food bowl. Smokey starts to eat while she’s still pouring out the dry kibble. She picks up her cat’s water bowl, cleans it out, fills it with fresh water, puts it down next to the food bowl, and watches Smokey for a while, enjoying the sight of her cat hunkered over her bowl, crunching her kibble. The cat food’s carnivorous odour reaches her nose. Her stomach rumbles.
Now for her breakfast. She opens the kitchen cupboard door, and the plain white china sitting there, waiting for her, softly glows its man-made nature at her. It’s like she’s seeing the white plates and bowls for the first time since she bought them, just before Akaesman entered her life. With a clatter, she takes the top bowl off its pile and puts it on the counter. She opens a drawer, reaches her hand in to where the spoons sit unaware, rubbing them together as she grabs one of the good ones, one of the ones not bent out of shape or with sharpened edges from age. Another cupboard door she opens and reaches in for the cereal box. She pours the cereal into the bowl, trying to hurry, both her mind and stomach saying faster faster as the scent of wheat is released when cereal hits bowl. She pivots on one foot, reaches long, hauls open the fridge, and plucks the skim milk out of the fridge. She pops open the carton and inhales its sweet scent before pouring its bluish whiteness into the bowl until bits of cereal float up. Suddenly there’s too much milk in there. She moves her hand upright, squeezes the carton flaps closed, and sticks it back in the fridge, slamming the door shut.
She opens the first cupboard door again, reaching higher to the second shelf for a mug. She fills it with water at the sink. And carrying both brimming mug and sloshing bowl, she walks to the table where her paper waits and sits down. She inhales deeply and sighs it out.
She scoops up some cereal as she looks over at the front page. Sh
e eats as she reads. She separates the main section from the inside sections so that she can flip it open and continue reading the top-of-fold front page article. The cereal disappears in her bowl; the water level drops in her mug. The paper rustles as quiet reigns in the sunny room. The rustle grows louder as she flips a page. The cereal is gone; the mug is empty. The paper rustles again. Quiet surrounds her. She picks up the inside sections as a group as she moves the bowl and mug away from her. She flips through them until she sees the Life section. She pulls it out, leans back in her chair, and starts reading it from the first page to the last non-stop. Suddenly, she puts it down and looks at what she’s done.
She’s read the entire section; she’s read the main section too. She’s strong, energetic, ready for more. Eagerly, she reaches for the section focusing on the Greater Toronto Area and reads it from first page to last page, even the obituaries, just because she can. She still feels good, still crackles with energy. Her head does not hurt; her body does not hurt. And she doesn’t need chocolate or coffee. Speaking of which, she runs her tongue over her teeth and wants to clean them. And so she does, for suddenly brushing is not a painful, tiring chore.
Coming back down the stairs, she hears a knock at the door. Puzzled, she opens it without her usual checking through the window beside it. Nance is standing there or, rather, hiding behind an enormous paper-wrapped bouquet.
“These are for you,” says Nance as she offers them to her. Zarine takes them speechlessly. “Please open them,” Nance says.
She pulls the tape off the flap, lifts the flap up, and looks in at a dozen, bold white roses looking back up at her. She lifts her head and regards Nance. These are the roses of peace. Why is Nance offering them to her?
“Can I come in?”
Zarine steps back and to the side, letting the door swing wider. Nance steps in, and she closes the door behind her against the cold outside. But Zarine makes no move to invite her further in, says nothing either. Nance clears her throat, shifts from one foot to the other, pulls at her jacket zipper, looks down, expands her lungs, and speaks.
“You see it was like this, after I left you, no, after you left me, well, whatever, after we parted, I was really mad. I thought you were wrong, that you were malingering, that you just wanted to be sick and have all this attention because you didn’t want to work and wanted to live off of other people.” She takes a deep breath and peeking up at her, continues, “I was so mad at you, I told everyone I met, all my friends, even my estranged brother, how mean you were to me, how you needed to change, and how you’d been pulling me down, how every time we talked, you went on and on about yourself and never gave me a chance to talk about myself. I mean you had to change, you were so selfish. Everybody knew you hadn’t been invaded, you hadn’t gotten this Akaesman syndrome, whatever that was. You were smart, there was nothing wrong with your speech, you could do all these things. ‘What was the problem?’ they asked me. I told them you were depressed and you needed to change because you were getting nowhere. I ignored all the work you did because I didn’t want to see it. But then someone, I forget who, asked me what you did all day. I said watch TV because you were so lazy. They looked skeptical and asked me if you didn’t see somebody. And I said how you were going to this therapist and that therapist, not real shrinks. So this person asks me what these therapists do. I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. I wanted to talk about how you were not going anywhere and using this syndrome as an excuse. But this person wouldn’t stop with the questions. They wanted to know more about the excuse and what you were using it for. ‘Not for anything,’ I said, ‘just to laze,’ I said. But they wouldn’t be put off by my flippant, angry reply. They wanted to know what those therapists were doing, and they asked how you were able to pull the wool over their eyes. They kept asking and asking. And the more they asked about what they, the therapists, did and what you really did during the day and how you knew stuff about me if you never let me speak, the angrier I got because I didn’t want to hear the truth.”
Zarine’s stomach contracts in response to what Nance is saying, as all that old pain comes blazing back. She says nothing as Nance pauses.
“I was complaining to a group of friends, not Charlie and Belinda, one day about you and how this person wouldn’t stop badgering me with these questions. And they were all silent. I looked at them, and finally one said maybe that person had a point. I stormed out of there. When we were still friends, everyone was on my side about how you were pulling me down and needed to change and needed to move on with your life. But after we parted, they weren’t so sympathetic, maybe because you were out of the picture but I was still complaining about you. I don’t know. It took me a long time. But one day I went to my Minister and talked to him. He told me to read Matthew 5:21 and 5:23 about reconciling. I was angry with him because I thought it was you who should reconcile with me, and I didn’t see how 5:21 had anything to do with me, with my behaviour.”
Zarine searches her memory for that verse and into her mind comes: “Anyone who is angry with his brother will be subject to judgement.” Interesting.
Nance’s voices interrupts her reverie, “That was last year. I didn’t speak to him for months afterwards because reading those passages made me so angry. What did they have to do with me? It was insulting. But again and again I could hear his voice in my head urging me to read them. One day, one of the Bible passages read at the front of the church was from Job. It was one of the friends speaking, I forget which one, to Job. It was like hearing my own voice the last time we spoke. I thought no wonder you didn’t want to know me anymore. I said I liked you and wanted to be your friend, but everything I was doing, everything I was saying to you was the exact opposite. I started to cry so hard, the Minister had to give the service over to his assistant so he could take me to his office to comfort me. We spoke a lot after that about that passage in Job, about the passages he’d asked me to read, and I knew I couldn’t go to communion anymore until I came to see you though he said it was alright. I was really afraid you would turn me away at the door, that’s why I asked you to open the flowers first, so you’d know I come in peace.
“I’m so sorry, so very sorry about the way I treated you. You were in such great need, it was selfish of me to ask you to listen to me. It was mean of me not to cheer your successes. They seemed so small, but after everything you’d gone through, they were a big deal to you, and I was so wrong not to see that. It was no wonder you were hurt. I can’t believe I did that to you. But I wanted you back, the old you, not the one that talked about this Akaesman. That’s not an excuse, I know, but I missed you. And I took it out on you, and I expected you to pay attention to my adjustment issues when you were the one in real trouble. You were the one grieving, and I didn’t see that or want to see that. I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe I was thinking if I told you to change enough or said you were depressed enough or said that there was no change from the old you, you’d stop talking about your problem, and we could go back to pretending nothing had happened so I wouldn’t have to deal with my own grief. I really, really missed you. And I am really, really sorry that I didn’t support you when you needed me, that I put a time limit on my compassion, and that I gossiped about you instead of helping you in the ways you asked for. It was wrong, and I’m so so sorry.”
Nance takes out a crumpled Kleenex from her jacket pocket, wipes her eyes, sniffs, and glances hesitantly at her. “I missed you even more once you were really gone. Yeah, the person I met when we were still kids was gone, but you were still there. I could’ve focused on that and enjoyed what I could. I could’ve helped you in the way you needed, not the way convenient to me or what I wanted for kudos, and I could’ve felt good about doing that. But I didn’t. And I’m really, really, really sorry. I want to be friends again, but I know I have to earn your trust. I know that this time I’ll have to do all the initiating because I can’t expect you to treat me as if I’d never said and done all those things to you. I ask …” She gu
lps in air, “I ask that you’ll forgive me … consider forgiving me. I can’t believe you let me in and didn’t tell me to go to hell like I deserved. I want us to be friends again. I’ve come to ask you for mercy, to reconcile with you. I hope you will consider it, and I know it’s going to take years to fix it. To fix us.”
Nance stops talking and holds still. Tears stream down her face.
Zarine’s chest burns, her eyes water, and she contemplates Nance for a long moment.
“I forgive you,” she says with a thickened voice.
Nance hiccups; her eyes redden as the tears stream faster.
Zarine puts the flowers down on the table in the sunroom, then wraps her arms around Nance. They stand like that for a few moments, pull apart, wipe their cheeks.
Nance says, “Thank you Zarine. I don’t deserve this, but I’ll do everything I can to regain your trust, and your friendship.”
Zarine nods, unable to speak. She opens the door, and Nance leaves.
Zarine stands looking at the closed door; then draws in air right to the bottom of her lungs and exhales. She returns to her paper, but the phone rings before she can sit down. She’s spent; her eyes are sore. She isn’t sure she can speak. It’s her lawyer.
“Great news. The Shadow Court and Akaesman lawyers want to settle. Are you sitting down?” When she sits down, she says yes, and he speaks all the details into her disbelieving ear. He says that they’re offering a generous one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, not including back payments owed, an unheard of sum for a case such as hers where income loss had to be calculated from freelance earnings not an employer’s pay stubs, where medical expenses did not include Shadow Court-approved methods, where housekeeping costs had not been billed (never mind that she had been dissuaded from billing), and where pain and suffering was considered minimal because she can walk and talk. His fees will come out of that amount, but not disbursements. They will be paid directly by the Shadow Court.
“But I still can’t work,” she replies when he’s finished. “How am I supposed to live on this for the rest of my life? Or pay ongoing medical bills?”
“This is exceedingly generous. The Shadow Court and Akaesman government representatives don’t offer this kind of deal. A court case will cost so much that you’ll have to win triple, maybe even quintuple this settlement in order to end up even with today’s offer. I recommend accepting the deal.”
“How do others live on this?”
He clears his throat, “Well, they buy fancy SUVs and large-screen TVs.”
“But how do they live? Where do they get the money to pay their bills?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t follow them after they leave. But I imagine they end up selling their SUVs in a couple of years and go on welfare or Ontario disability.”
“They’d have to sell those SUVs for next to nothing compared to what they paid for them.”
“Yes.”
“Basically, Akaesman attacks, and we’re all supposed to go on welfare and say sayonara life?”
“I don’t see that for you. You’re not going to say sayonara. Look how far you’ve come. You’re going to do great things yet, I know it. And this offer will help you. It may not seem like much to live on for the next forty, fifty years, but I don’t believe you’ll have to. I believe you’ll be working again soon. It might take five years — at most — but a creative mind like yours cannot be held down. And this will help you.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“You won’t get a better offer, I assure you. Think about it. Take a few days, make your calculations, or write down the pros and cons. You’ll see I’m right. I don’t mind you taking your time: after their miserly first offer, it’s good to make them wait, maybe squeeze a little more out of them. I’ll try. But this offer is better than I’d hoped for, way better.”
“Okay,” she pauses. She has to admit that this settlement will allow her to pay her treatment debts and future costs and to re-establish her career, as long as she can do it within a couple of years. And maybe she can. Maybe her sudden improvements this morning mean normality is returning and returning quickly. Hope fills and overflows her. “Okay, I’ll get back to you.” They say good-bye, and she remains seated by the phone, her hand frozen over it, reeling from first reading large sections of the newspaper, then Nance’s apology, and now this.
Get up.
Huh?
Get up. Go upstairs.
Zarine doesn’t want to, she wants to sit and absorb all the good news. But the urge is strong. She gets up. She climbs the stairs as slowly as she can. Smokey takes the steps one at a time behind her. Reluctantly, she walks into her music room.
Play.
She stares at the keyboard. The silent, covered keyboard. The one she hasn’t touched in years now. She frowns as she tries to remember how long it’s been. She hadn’t been able to play anything worthwhile last time. Mary Had a Little Lamb was not on her “good future” prophecy list.
Play.
She shuffles over and stops.
Play.
She steps closer to the keyboard, hauls off its cover, and turns it on. A hum fills the room, low, waiting. She’s amazed it still works. She takes a seat on the bench and stares at the keys. Smokey leaps onto the bench beside her and then onto the back of the keyboard to her left, neatly avoiding dials and buttons. She barely notices her cat settling her haunches down to stare at the keys with her.
The keys await her, shining white and black, reflecting the sun spilling into the room. She lifts her hands up over the keys and wonders: What to play? She almost retracts her hands back into her lap when the memory of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata fills her mind. She can hear and see the melodic notes in her head. She stands again, raises the lid of the bench, and scrabbles around inside for the sheet music. She finds it and, sitting down again, spreads it out on top of the keyboard in front of her. She hunches over the keys and stretches her fingers into position and lowers them, feeling the white and black plastic smooth under her skin. And freezes. Smokey bows her head, her fur shining in the sunlight, stretches her tongue out, and begins washing herself, noisily, attracting her attention. Smokey stops mid-lick, her pink tongue ever so slightly poking out, her eyes fixed on hers, as if to say, “do you mind?” She looks back down at her frozen hands, feels again the keys under her fingers. She pulls in an enormous breath, opening her chest, lengthening her spine, and exhales, lowering her shoulders, relaxing her neck, focusing on the music.
Zarine plays.
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She Page 30
