In the Field

by Claire Tacon

  He sounds like a coach giving the last-ditch play to a losing team.

  “Once that’s done, it’s drywall and a bit of work in the bathroom. The rest is cosmetic. You’re going to have to primer everything. Best bet for the bathroom and the kitchen, at least until you’ve got the money, is to get some second-hand fixtures. I’ve got a toilet and a bathtub from the dump. I’ll keep my eyes open for appliances.”

  We walk back outside and sit on the lawn near the tent.

  “First thing you’re going to need is a building permit.”

  “Don’t they take a long time?”

  “Chuck’s cousin’s the permits guy,” Bernie says. “There won’t be a problem.”

  Everything about his confidence is reassuring.

  He can’t stay because Clarence is waiting for him on the farm. It’s awkward saying goodbye. Bernie hugs me with his hands low on my hips, fingers stretching towards my ass. I look around, conscious that Richard and the boys could pull in, wishing that Bernie would let the whole thing drop. He asks if I’d like to go for a quick drive. “I’m not pushing,” he says, but it still feels like a bargain’s been struck.

  The nurses have helped my mother into one of the sweatsuits I bought and she’s brushed her hair into a ponytail. The difference between today and Saturday is astounding. The physio is there again, finishing up an exercise, watching my mother point her toes up and down.

  “Go ahead and tell your daughter,” Joanne says.

  My mother rolls her eyes at the prompt.

  Joanne waggles her finger. “Come on.”

  “I stood up.”

  “That’s right.” She gives me a handout of some exercises I can get my mother to practice—tapping her fingers, spreading her toes, sitting up with an assist.

  My mother dismisses the progress as soon as Joanne’s left. “What am I going to do? Have someone propping me up all my life?”

  I don’t want to bring up the insurance before talking to Richard, so I turn my attention to the line of greeting cards and potted plants on the windowsill. There’s a mini-cactus garden with a card that reads, “Our Lynne – from your family at Co-op Foods.” George or Bernie must have phoned the store to let them know about the stroke.

  “This is lovely.”

  “A few of the cashiers came by.”

  The cards are covered in signatures and promises to visit. Almost everyone’s written “Don’t be a stranger.” I’d never considered my mother to be particularly linked into the community but working at the co-op eight hours a day, five days a week, she’d have been at the centre of a social hub. Retiring must have been a huge shift for her.

  Richard peeks his head in and waves hello before shepherding our sons around the curtain. It’s their first time visiting anyone in the hospital and they’re apprehensive. Richard leads the way, holding my mother’s wrist below the bandage and leaning down to kiss her cheek. Stephen and Luke shuffle towards the bed with a bag from the hospital gift shop. Inside is a white bear with a red heart between its hands that says Get Well Soon, Grandma.

  “Thank you, dears.” She gives each of her grandsons a hug. As Stephen straightens up, she reaches out to touch the raised lettering on his T-shirt. “Is this new?”

  He glances at his father for guidance.

  “We bought them a few things over the weekend.”

  Luke does not pick up on his father’s discretion. “We bought a tent too!”

  “You did?”

  “We’re camping in it.”

  “You mean you’re going camping in it?”

  “No,” Luke says. “We’re staying in it.”

  “Just for a few days,” I say. “While they’re cleaning out the house.” We’d told the boys not to tell her about the extent of the damage but forgot to include the current living situation.

  Thankfully his interest diverts to the medical equipment. My mother patiently answers his questions about the IV drip, the blood-pressure monitor and the emergency call button. She perks up with the boys there and when Stephen brings out a deck of cards, I think it’s safe to pull Richard aside.

  The hospital cafeteria has the same concrete institutional architecture as the Guelph Student Union. I link my hand through Richard’s, wishing we were there, wishing my news was more benign. Richard’s still stiff from sleeping on the ground and both of us are showing the effects of exhaustion. We line up for the automatic coffee dispenser and watch it spit out a French Vanilla Latte.

  When I tell him, Richard waits a long time before responding. I sit, staring at the thin, stale coffee, trying to restrain myself from giggling. I’m so tired.

  “You sent the guys home?”

  I nod. “I’ll ask her about power of attorney tomorrow. Then I’ll see what financing I can get.”

  Richard shakes his head. “We’ll pay it.”

  We don’t have that kind of cash.

  “However it shakes down. In the end, if your mother needs it, we’ll pay it.” He rubs his thumb against my palm. “It’s family.”

  “Bernie thinks we can do most of the repairs ourselves.”

  “You already told him about the insurance?” I hadn’t anticipated Richard feeling slighted, but he does. He drums his fingers against the Styrofoam cup and forces a smile.

  “He caught me right after I stopped the reno guys. I tried to call you a few times.”

  He taps his cell through his breast pocket. “Swimming.” On the way back to the room he casually flips through the call history.

  Tonight is the worst night in the tent. The boys forgot to zip the screen door in the morning and bugs have gotten in. We kill fourteen mosquitoes before we turn out the flashlight, but I lie awake, unsure if the buzzing is inside or outside.

  8

  MY MOTHER’S LUNCH is still on her tray table.

  She’s eaten half an egg salad sandwich but is ignoring the rest to rummage through her purse. Before I can sit down, she draws out her chequebook. “I want you to tell me how much it’s going to cost to fix everything.”

  “We’ll take care of it,” I insist, not wanting to rattle her. Thanks to Bernie’s electrician, we’ve got power back, but we’re running out of clothes and are going to have to go to the laundromat if we can’t get water soon.

  “It’s my house and I’m going to need it fixed up. Please, just tell me how much.”

  “We don’t know yet. Richard went to buy some lumber today.”

  “Save the receipt for the insurance people. I want it all sorted out as soon as possible.” She’s in a snit. I reach over to pat her arm but she shakes my hand off.

  We’ve spent the past two days washing the walls down with a solution of detergent, bleach and phosphate, our hands sweating in rubber gloves. Richard and I do the first wash and the boys wipe the walls with a damp cloth afterwards. They’ve gotten bored quickly. We have too, but the sooner we clean the place, the sooner we’ll be out of the tent.

  I suggest that we talk to the bank to get me temporarily added onto her accounts. My mother holds up her good hand and delivers an emphatic no. “The social worker brought that up too when she came by to plan my discharge. I told her that there’s nothing to plan—I’m going straight home. I’ll be able to handle my finances just fine from there.”

  “When did she come by?”

  “This morning.”

  That’s why she’s so riled up.

  “There’s a meeting in a week.”

  “When?”

  “If you want to be there, fine. But it’s not going to be a big production. I’m going home and that’s it. I want to be able to rest up in my own bed without being prodded up and shipped off to exercise twice a day.”

  “Did the physio come again?”

  My mother shakes her head. “No, they wheel me down to the room now. Stand and turn, sit and stand. It’s exhausting. They want to throw me in the pool next.”

  “Did the social worker mention anything about a rehab hospital?” We’re going to have to let the
discharge team know that the house won’t be ready for weeks, if not longer. There’s also no bathroom on the first floor and I don’t know if she can handle stairs.

  “Ellie, you can’t kick a person out of their own home.”

  “Did they think you’d be able to manage?”

  “Of course. I told them you’d be there to help me.”

  When I get back from the hospital, I go into Dad’s shed at the far side of the yard and start gathering tools. Everything’s arranged by size—jacksaws, hammers, wrenches. There’s a shelf at the far end with mason jars full of nails and screws, their sizes labelled with masking tape. I run my fingers over the labels but they fall off, the adhesive long since dried up.

  Richard comes in and sits on my old stool. The smallness of the seat gives him comic proportions and his legs bend off like a giant arachnid. “Everything go okay at the hospital?”

  “It’s going to be a battle.”

  “No idea yet about the prognosis?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, if she can’t climb stairs.”

  “Knowing her,” I say, “she’ll probably want to put in an elevator.”

  “She won’t be able to afford that.”

  I hold up my hands. I know, I know. “I’m going to check the basement later, see if I can find any financial records.” Anything to let us know how grim the situation is.

  “I talked to some of the guys over at Home Depot. By the time we replace everything. . . .”

  “How bad?”

  Richard leans against the wood framing and shifts his feet so our sneakers are touching, trying to get me to meet his eyes. “Even if we do it all ourselves.”

  “We can’t sell my mother’s house.”

  “I’m not trying to sell it from underneath her,” he says. “But if she can’t move back—the buyer’s going to want to renovate anyway.” He rubs the toe of his shoe against the dirt floor, like he’s making a snow angel. He stops and knocks his foot against the door frame to clear the dust. “We might be better selling now.”

  It’s a valid point but if my mother thinks she’s got nowhere to go she’s not going to get better. The past few days I’ve been running through all sorts of scenarios—in-home care, retirement residences, extended rehab—but none of the permutations involve selling the house.

  “I could stay on for a bit to help her out.”

  Richard throws up his hands, exasperated. “Look, if you want to repair the place, fine.”

  “It’s not meant as a threat.”

  He starts peeling a splinter from the grey door panel. “How long?”

  “Even if she moves into a home, I’m going to want to get her settled. If you’re worried about money, I can pick up adjunct work out here or in Halifax.”

  “I thought you weren’t looking at jobs.”

  Richard doesn’t understand that repairing the house has as much to with my father as my mother.

  “It’s not the money.” He stands and brushes the dirt off his jeans. “If you stay, for what—a month, two months—what happens after? We’re not moving out here. It can’t go back to the way it was before.”

  “We don’t know that,” I say, my voice rising. He’s right. I know he’s right. But if this were Terrence instead of my mother he wouldn’t be able to be so damn rational. “She’s in physio several times a day. She’s already standing and sitting with minimal assistance. Today she said they’re sending her to Aqua-fit.”

  “Aqua-fit?”

  “It’s something.”

  “Do you know what happens at Aqua-fit? They strap floatation devices onto old people and get them to kick pool noodles across the water. Aqua-fit is not working any fucking miracles.”

  “My father built this house.”

  “Fine.” He walks back into the yard before I can respond. That’s the trouble with this summer—we haven’t fought past the point where there’s nothing to do but laugh and apologise. With our current living situation, the blowout’s on permanent hiatus.

  Bernie drives over around four-thirty, when the Home Depot delivery truck is finishing up unloading. Right away he wants to know why we didn’t wait to order the lumber. “I could have got you some salvage pretty cheap. Or at Rafuse, discount.”

  “Richard didn’t want to impose, I guess.”

  Bernie gives me a funny look, pissed off about something.

  The Home Depot truck backs out of the drive and my husband comes over to shake Bernie’s hand. “Ellie says you’re a handy man.”

  “It’s not my day job.”

  “Me neither.” Richard laughs, not realising Bernie wasn’t joking.

  The two of them walk around the place together, not saying much. The boys and I follow behind. “Why’d you rip out the bathroom door?” he finally asks.

  “We tried washing it, but the soot stuck to the varnish,” Richard says. “Looked like shit.” He doesn’t usually swear in front of other people and it comes out strange, like he’s trying on an act.

  Bernie raises his eyebrows. “Coat of paint’s easier than hanging a new one.” He leans over the hole in the floor to tap on the shower backsplash, working his fingers under the grout to pry a few more tiles loose. “Your mom should have called me a while ago.”

  “I don’t think she noticed.”

  Luke asks if he can start tearing the tiles off.

  “Don’t want to get that mould on you.”

  “I don’t mind,” Luke protests.

  Bernie hoists him up into a piggyback. “I’ll get you to help me lay the new ones in, how about that?”

  Back outside, we have to wait for Bernie to unload the truck. Richard tries to help loosen one of the straps but Bernie waves him off—he has his own system. The two of them hoist the table saw off and lug it to the side of the house where there’s an outdoor plug. It’s a strain for Richard, but he puts on a brave face.

  They get going measuring up the lengths of wood but our progress is stalled when Bernie discovers we don’t have a framing gun. He rummages around in my father’s shed for a few minutes and comes out with an ancient nail gun. He tries driving some nails into the discarded planks but it jams. “May as well go grab mine. It’ll save time.” He suggests that I go with him because his dad’ll be there and he’s got a question for me about the field. “Think you can spare Ellie?”

  Richard thanks Bernie again for offering to help.

  “Should only take an hour or so.” It feels like a kid promising his date’s father that he’ll have her home by ten. As we get into the truck, I wonder if Clarence will be any happier to see me or if he’ll be more suspicious, seeing the two of us alone together.

  On the way to Gaspereau, Bernie pops a tape in the deck and Tom Petty’s American Girl is barely discernible above the engine hum. Bernie sings along and puts his hand on my knee, squeezing my quadriceps in time to the music. The contact makes me nervous but I don’t stop it. He changes the second chorus to “Canadian Girl” and looks over to check if I’ve noticed. He almost misses the turn and has to jerk his hand away and winch the wheel to make the corner.

  We stop by the house first and Bernie leads me into the garage. He finds the nail gun right away but doesn’t make to leave. Instead, he motions for me to sit up on his work-shelf while he goes to get a Coke. I ask about Linda and the kids, hoping to diffuse the tension, but he tells me they won’t be back for several hours. Any idiot could see where this is going.

  When he comes back, pop in hand, he surprises me by sitting a few feet off and asking how the boys are coping.

  “We’re trying.”

  He nods. “It’ll be easier when you’re back in the house.”

  “It’s going to take a long time.”

  “What are you saying about my skills?” he asks, teasing. It’s the first time tonight that he’s smiled. He reaches for my hand. “You get the water going, the bathroom floor down, put in a fixture or two—it’ll be functional. Baby steps.” He sounds like my mother’s physio.
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br />   We sit like that for a minute or two, each of us staring straight ahead, our hands the only point of contact.

  Then he’s between my legs, his hands on either side of my head, pressing my lips against his. I ask him again about Linda. He pulls back, annoyed by my hesitation. He repeats that we’ve got time.

  Bernie looks at me, half-expectant, half-hurt, like he did when he was showing me his uncle’s place. It’s easier to just kiss him. He rushes this time, getting my shirt off and unsnapping my bra before we’ve even warmed up. I lie and say I’ve got my period to get out of screwing. Everything about this feels wrong. Bernie presses my hand to his jeans with a teenager’s expectation. I let him fondle me while I jerk him off. As I pump him towards climax, I notice the haphazard tower of cardboard boxes, milk crates with extension cords spilling out around us, so different from my father’s neat labelling. Bernie grunts as I rub him and when he’s about to come, he grabs me off the bench and leads me down so he can finish in my mouth.

  I clean up in the downstairs bathroom. There’s a pair of Lisa’s underwear crumpled next to the toilet. The print is tiny blueberries, the elastic a matching purple. Seeing them gets me so upset I have to run my wrists under cold water to stop myself from crying.

  Over at the farm, we find Clarence in with the chickens. Bernie leaves us to talk while he looks for an extra crowbar. Clarence tips his hat to greet me, and I do my best walking through the poultry towards him in my cheap Zellers flip-flops.

  As soon as I stop, the chickens get curious about my feet and start pecking at my toes. It doesn’t really hurt, but it’s not comfortable either.

  “So you’re going to fix the place up again?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Too bad you don’t have more relatives in town. Hard for Lynne being there on her own.”

  “We’re trying to sort something out.”

  Clarence taps on the feeders and then reaches in to clear a blockage where the grains have clumped together. It takes him a while to gather the nerve to speak. “I’ve got a line of credit application coming up. Irene thinks it’d help if you gave us a consultation after all.”