In the Field

by Claire Tacon

  “Sure.”

  “Take your time. You’ve got your hands full with your mom.”

  When Bernie comes back, Clarence asks him if Linda will be bringing the kids over to the farm after the hospital.

  “Is there something wrong?” I ask, worried one of them’s had an accident.

  Clarence looks at Bernie then back at me. “She’s just in visiting your mother.”

  I’m too mortified to say anything. On the drive home, I stare at the red dots on my feet from where the birds were nipping. Already an hour and a half’s passed since we left Richard and the boys.

  Bernie asks if anything’s wrong.

  “You should have told me.”

  “About Lindie visiting your mom?”

  “I never would have. . . .” I’m no longer convinced of what I would or wouldn’t have done.

  Bernie takes his frustration out on Richard. He’s given all the grunt work while Bernie operates the power tools. At one point, Richard asks if what we’re doing is safe—if the boards will hold or if we need new support beams.

  “Let me guess,” Bernie says, refusing to address Richard’s concern. “Back home you hired someone for every leak and squeak?”

  Later, Richard reminds him to keep track of his hours, to make sure we pay him for his time. Bernie asks if he’s got a punch clock.

  We’re all relieved when he decides to pack it in at eleven.

  We were hoping to have water back by Friday but the plumber’s not as fastidious as the electrician and the afternoon comes and goes without progress. We’ve been invited to Marc and Margie’s for dinner and, without laundry or our own shower, we arrive at their place dressed in shorts and Ts, smelling of our neighbour’s Irish Spring.

  Marc and his wife are sitting on the porch, nursing beers. Richard sighs as he unclasps his seatbelt and asks if anyone in this province drinks wine. Still, he’s thrilled to be socializing with fellow academics. It feels as if we’ve arrived at a play date, all the same charged expectations and anxieties. Margie’s wearing a black linen halter on a skirt like an over-turned camellia, plain black flip-flops and hair pulled back into a ponytail with a suggestion of bouffant. Their house is the same mix of elegance and IKEA.

  They already have glasses and an ice bucket laid out on the kitchen island.

  In solidarity with Richard, I ask for wine.

  “We’ve got some Chardonnay chilling,” Marc says with a sly expression. “But we’ve also got some microbrews in on special order from the liquor store.” He reaches under the slate countertop and into a built-in bar fridge. “How about starting with a Weiss bier instead?”

  “He’s a bit of a brew-snob,” Margie says, turning over two goblets. “We can open some Cab Sauv or the white.”

  “No, no,” Richard says. “We’ll try the beer.”

  Marc smiles and pulls up four bottles, smooth as a magician setting up a card trick. He pops the swing-tops and pours the beer in a slow, controlled drain.

  Richard rubs his hand over the counter. “Where did you get the slate?”

  “It’s from Ontario.” Marc hands over a coaster made from the same stone. “We got a deal from a company that used to make blackboards.” He gestures to Margie like he’s asking permission. “She made me promise not to do this but I think you might be interested. We’ve tried to incorporate materials from all across Canada into the architecture.”

  Marc leads us around the downstairs, pointing out marble, granite and limestone accents, along with different indigenous woods. The highlight is a large display of fossils on the living room mantel. The specimens are quite stunning—ammonite, nautiloid and knightia fish.

  Even the backyard is immaculately landscaped—a container herb garden near the flagstone patio, six raised vegetable beds at the rear and a border of native grasses along the fence line. I ask who has the green thumb.

  “Mark’s the carpenter,” Margie says. “But the outside is mine. It’s taken the better part of five years to get the place in shape.”

  Home renovations are the last thing that we want to discuss tonight.

  Margie keeps popping back into the house to check on dinner and her entrances and exits disrupt the already tenuous threads of conversation. It’s the first time since Richard’s been here that we haven’t been dealing with crisis management and neither of us is able to relax. We make walk-me-through-your-CV small talk until Margie delivers the first course—gazpacho served in clamshell bowls with toasted baguette rounds and three kinds of tapenade.

  I ask where she got the ceramics.

  “One of the NSCAD fairs a few years ago. You should try to get into the galleries while you’re here. Leave the kids with your mother. Make it a date.”

  “The last time we left them with Ellie’s mother,” Richard says dryly, “the fire department got involved.”

  The way he’s set it up, they both think it’s going to be some kind of amusing anecdote. As I tell the story, Margie’s smile becomes more and more forced. “That’s awful,” she says quietly.

  We all sit, spooning the cold soup, waiting before swallowing, not wanting to be the first to speak.

  “Where are they now?” Margie asks.

  “At soccer with an old friend from high school—Bernie. You met his father at the dig.”

  “And the house?” Marc asks.“Are you getting a contractor in?”

  “No, Bernie and Richard are taking care of it.”

  “Do you have much left to do?”

  Richard ticks through the laundry list of remaining jobs, a small fleck of coriander stuck in his left incisor. He could have brushed the question off, but instead he delivers an item-by-item estimate, which I suspect is directed at me because I was so inflexible about selling.

  Marc grew up working construction with his brothers during the summers and he offers to come by to help.

  I protest, but he says to think of it as compensation for future collaboration.

  “The students just loved her at the dig. You two ever consider moving out here?”

  Richard bristles, but Marc doesn’t notice.

  “Once we get the boomers out,” he continues, not realizing Richard was born in 1958, “there’ll be lots of spots coming open. You’ll make a bundle just from the cut in housing prices.”

  Margie collects the plates, teasing her husband about sounding evangelical.

  Marc points to Richard’s empty glass and asks what he’d like as a refill.

  “Perhaps I’ll try that Chardonnay.”

  “By all means,” he says, grinning impishly. “But I should warn you that we’re having seafood and pasta and I’ve got a pilsner that will drive you crazy it goes so well with the garlic.”

  Richard pretends to consider it. “I might still switch to wine.”

  In the kitchen, Marc hands me a pilsner then pulls the bottle of Chardonnay from the back of the bar fridge and unscrews the cap. It’s already been opened and he swishes the liquid inside before he pours. When I deliver it to Richard, his face sinks into a relieved smile, as if he was worried he’d get the pilsner after all.

  Dinner is five perfectly seared scallops on a bed of basil and gnocchi. All Margie. I can’t remember the last time we’ve had friends over for a dinner party, let alone invited Richard’s colleagues over. Here I am slouching in three-day-old shorts and she’s a blonde Jackie-O. I can’t help wondering if Richard notices the difference between us.

  The decadence of the food improves our rapport, mostly because it leads to easy-to-navigate avenues of conversation: recipe sourcing, local vs. organic, food self-sustainability, raising poultry in the city. Margie’s a producer for a CBC science program, so between the four of us we can practically sleepwalk through the discussion.

  After dinner, Marc brings out a set of dominoes with numbers up to double fifteen. In the dark of the backyard, it’s difficult to make out the colours and digits, but it’s a fun diversion. Half an hour into the game, however, I notice Richard making discreet eye s
ignals. I’m ready to leave too but his impatience is irritating. As I start to make our excuses, Margie springs up, suddenly remembering there’s still dessert. A few minutes later, she calls out to Marc from the sliding door, “Do you know where the blow torch is?”

  With the two of them inside, Richard gets to work packing up the game, the dominoes’ plastic collisions filling the silence. He whispers, “Eat quickly.”

  There is no fuel in the torch so Margie’s doing the brulee in the oven. As we wait for the sugar to caramelize, Marc walks Richard through his agroecology course outline. It sounded so exciting when it was just the two of us, but in front of Richard, the whole project sounds facile. Over the course of his career, Richard’s brought several million dollars worth of funding to the university, chaired the geology department and overseen the operation of one of the only geo-chronology labs in Canada. It gets progressively more embarrassing as Marc earnestly reiterates that he’s lobbying for more Life Sciences courses and name-drops a few grants he’s applying for.

  We’re saved by a loud crack in the kitchen and Margie rushing to the oven. A moment later we hear her muffled explanation. “The broiler cracked the cups.”

  “She warned me,” Marc says, sheepish. He asks if she can save the dishes.

  “What a shame,” I say.

  “We’ve got sherbet in the freezer. Mango or Limón?”

  As soon as we’re buckled into our car Richard asks, “Do you think she’s going to let him have it?”

  “Why?”

  “The dishes. They were probably handmade by a vegan community in El Salvador. Do you have any Rolaids in your purse?”

  I shuffle through the side pocket. “The scallops were delicious.”

  “You didn’t have to drink vinegar with yours.”

  “Have the pilsner next time.”

  Richard turns left on Main Street and heads down to Front at the first side street. I think he’s lost, but he makes a sharp right into the liquor-store parking lot. It’s ten to ten and still open.

  He comes out in five minutes with a case of something. He’s got a boyish look on his face as he gets in the car.

  “Was that necessary?”

  He starts the car up and speeds back down Main towards Bernie’s. “Even in the liquor store, half the wine was pink.”

  “Some people like blush wine.”

  “Is that what you drank in high school?” he asks, still horrified by the store’s selection. “No wonder you moved to the city.”

  “In high school I drank White Shark.”

  “You really were a hick.”

  Richard doesn’t seem to think that I should find this offensive.

  “Is that what you thought of Marc and Margie?”

  “Well, that’s not how you play dominoes.” He reaches over to squeeze my knee, trying to smooth things over. “They don’t really think we’d move back here, do they?”

  I don’t answer.

  “I mean, Regina has cheap housing prices, but you don’t see me buying.” He’s warming up to his argument. “And that course—did he really think we’d want to move to teach that?”

  “You wanted me to teach Geology 101.”

  “Same level, prettier veneer.”

  As pissed off as I am at his arrogance, I can’t blame him for thinking what he does. U of T’s got funding and administrative muscle that Acadia will never have. What Richard doesn’t seem to realize is that for someone with my portfolio—strong on teaching, weak on research—Acadia’s the kind of place where I could build a reputation.

  He drives up Ridge road, taking the curves fast. “If there wasn’t so much to take care of with your mother and the house, we’d be going out of our minds.” He brakes at Bernie’s and leaves the engine running, expecting me to go in to retrieve the boys. “Imagine living somewhere you couldn’t get a decent roti? They probably think the Irish pub is ethnic eating.”

  “There’s the Taj Mahal on Main Street.”

  “Oh, the Taj Mahal.” Richard raises his hands in mock understanding. “And I bet over in New Minas we can get some food-court Moo Shoo Chicken.”

  “If I had said anything like this when we were in Trinidad.”

  “Not the same.”

  “No, it’s not,” I say, getting out of the car. “Because you didn’t even grow up there.”

  The morning of my mother’s discharge meeting I arrive early to help her get ready. She unties her gown, revealing her hysterectomy scar, her weight pooling away from it. I hold out her bra for her—it’s so old the elastic doesn’t spring back anymore. It flattens her breasts against her waist like two Phyllo triangles. Her right arm is too weak to reach around to the back to do up the hook and eye.

  “I can stop into New Minas to pick you up some sports bras.” I reach for the clasp.

  “No, I can get it.” It takes four attempts before she gives up. My mother knows that every step towards recovery is a step away from a facility.

  She’s better with her underwear. If she props herself into a seated position, she can slide the pair over her legs, then pivot back over the bed and shimmy them up. It’s only the final pull that she needs assistance with, just to spot her while she stands. Joanne thinks she could be able to walk with a cane by the end of the month.

  Once she’s standing, I help her put on her jeans one leg at a time. This all feels like a dress rehearsal for a future role, one which my fifteen-year absence has left me distinctly unprepared for. The search through the basement yielded no financial records. If I’d lived closer, I’d have known where she kept them or been able to call up the bank myself to straighten everything out.

  My mother’s tired after getting dressed, but she doesn’t want me to notice. Instead, she sits herself down and pretends to have caught something out the window.

  In the conference room, the medical team is already waiting at the oak table, their pastel scrubs clashing with the coral wallpaper. Dr. Bellingham is the only one in civvies and she greets my mother casually, as if she were merely welcoming her to a ladies’ book club.

  It’s the social worker who acts as both leader and secretary. She’s got a clipboard and pages of forms that she flips through as she speaks. “In our previous meetings, we’ve identified the goal of returning to primary home residence.”

  My mother nods, encouraged.

  “We like to start these meetings with a review of patient progress.” She reads through the checklists supplied by the physical and occupational therapists, all my mother’s basic motor functions broken down like a child’s report card. Patient can sit unsupported. Patient can stand with a mobility aid. Patient requires assisted shower.

  The list quickly runs dry.

  “Dressing,” my mother adds. “Independent dressing.”

  The social worker smiles. “You’re close to the markers we use for assisted home living.”

  For a moment I’m terrified that they’re going to release her home.

  “However,” she continues, “stairs are a problem because of the home layout.”

  “Can we get a stairlift?” my mother asks.

  The social worker takes her reading glasses off and twiddles the lanyard between her fingers. “You’d have to evaluate those options financially.”

  Dr. Bellingham leans forward, propped up on crossed hands. “Most patients take several months to fully recover from a stroke. You’re already showing lots of progress but the reality is that you’re still going to need intensive physical therapy.”

  A bed has come up unexpectedly at a care centre outside Kentville. Because of the unique circumstances, my mother has been designated as a priority case. If she lived in Halifax, she could be transferred to a rehabilitation hospital. Here, a nursing home is our best option. The social worker explains that she’d be working with a dedicated rehab team and could take advantage of other seniors’ health programs.

  “Do I get any choice?”

  “We want to find the solution that works for everyone.”
>
  The hospital needs the bed back.

  “Can I talk to my daughter for a moment?”

  The team hesitates before agreeing, because despite the breezy façade, they’re all on a schedule.

  “Your father always called those places glue factories,” my mother says as soon as we’re alone. “Can’t Richard carry me upstairs?”

  “The house is still under repair,” I say gently.

  “I don’t mind a little clutter.”She pleads. “Ellie, I haven’t asked for a lot from you over the years.”

  We still don’t have a working bathroom. There’s nothing to do but to detail the rest of the damage, including the lapsed insurance policy. I should have told her all this sooner. Now, she can’t take it all in. “Richard and I are going to cover the costs. Bernie’s donated his labour.”

  “Did you talk to Barb?”

  “We’re going to take care of you.”

  She stares at the table. I try to get her to talk, to respond, but she won’t. Too soon, the doctor knocks on the door and they all file back in, minus the OT, who had to see another patient.

  My mother’s face has set like plaster. The social worker interprets it as resignation. She slides a forest green residence brochure over for us to flip through. On the booklet cover, there’s a photo of seniors at the entrance, posed as convalescent estate owners welcoming their guests. Inside, there are pictures of smiling nurses, residents playing board games and a recent trip to Neptune Theatre. The social worker opens to one of the pages with a floor plan of a basic 9’ x 12’ single room. “You can bring your own furniture. Anything that reminds you of home.” She flips forward to a list of sample menus. “There’s a choice of entrées.”

  Wednesday we’ll have access to the room to move any items in and Thursday she’ll be discharged. They’ll lend us a wheelchair so we can save the expense of an ambulance.

  “Many people find it a relief after they first move in, not having to deal with the day-to-day chores,” the social worker says, getting up to leave. “It’s easier to focus on recovery.”