by Claire Tacon
“You’re trying to meddle,” she snaps, covering her face with her hand. “You just want to know if there’s enough to keep me in that place.” After a moment, she has to drop her arm, unable to sustain the exertion.
It would have been better if I’d told her the extent of the damage as soon as she was stable. I was wrong to blindside her at the meeting. I start the conversation by apologising, by explaining that the fire and the stroke shook me so much I’ve been overprotective. I walk her through the expenses of the restoration company, the appliances that will need replacing, the estimate of cosmetic repairs.
She’s still swivelled towards the window, stubbornly avoiding me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry that I left you alone for so many years.”
My mother finally turns to face me. “Even if I can’t live there, I need to fix up that house. Your father put so much work into it, I can’t walk away until it looks the way he left it.”
The financial advisor is young and freshly ironed out of business school. I wonder if it’s the same one Clarence spoke with. He advises us to get my mother on early CPP, despite the penalty. The co-op pension will cover the cost of the nursing home but there’s nothing to spare. With the damage to the house, it won’t be worth over a hundred thousand. Apart from that, she has sixty-five thousand in savings—enough to modestly pad the rest of her life at this level of care. But if serious medical expenses come up, it’ll burn through in a heartbeat.
We leave with a certified cheque for ten thousand made out to the restoration company. Richard and I will cover the rest. The last order of business my mother brings up herself, instructing the advisor to add my name on all her accounts.
She wants to swing by the co-op before she goes home. As soon as we get in the door, word gets around and I can’t roll her two feet forward without another person rushing over to ask how she’s doing—employees and customers alike. I stand behind the wheelchair, mute as a wallflower watching my mother greet everyone like the reigning Apple Blossom Queen.
The manager, who’s worked with Mom for almost two decades, swoops down to give her a kiss on the cheek. “You’re looking good as new, Lynne,” he says. “Paula’s called in sick—you want to fill in at the deli for us?”
“I’ll get my arm in the slicer,” she says, holding her bad one up and letting it drop into her lap.
“We’ll mark it down special,” he chuckles. “Lucan Lunch-meats. Got a ring to it.”
He pulls an envelope out of his apron pocket and hands it to her. “Open it later. We all chipped in.”
Fat Mary waddles over and announces that she’s on coffee break. “You got any shopping to do, Ellie?” She takes the wheelchair handles and carts my mother off before I can answer.
I should pick up some groceries anyway—more juice tins and bottled water at least. I take my time walking through the aisles, grabbing breakfast supplies, fresh fruit and some snacks for the tournament. Dinners are harder to plan because we still don’t have a fridge. It takes a good twenty minutes before I’ve been rung through but Mary’s still chatting away, unconcerned about starting work again.
As I get closer, I realize they’re talking about Linda and Bernie’s engagement. “Never thought the McInnes boys were the romantic types,” Mary crows. “But I’ve seen front teeth smaller than that diamond.” She catches her tongue as soon as she sees me.
My mother wheels around, loaded down with so many sundries that I can barely see her in the chair. I ask if she wants me to pay while she finishes her visit but Mary waves away my suggestion. “On the house,” she says then lowers her voice. “We’re supposed to throw them out tomorrow anyway.”
Fat Mary’s turned my mother into a hospitality basket. As I propel her out of the store, I count three jars of honey-roasted peanuts, liquorice allsorts, four boxes of Ritz crackers, a bunch of bananas and several tins of her favourite shortbread cookies.
In the car, my mother gives me the envelope from the manager. Inside is a cheque for almost four thousand dollars, the result of a two-week drive with tins at the registers.
Richard hasn’t said much about it, but I can tell that the article isn’t going well. Last night there was another long call to the UK. His chief research partner is on vacation so he hasn’t had anyone to run his drafts past. I’d hoped that today’s news of my mother’s savings and the co-op contribution would be some consolation, but it’s barely acknowledged.
I’ve been trying to give him as much space as he needs, but tomorrow’s the first day of the tournament and we won’t be able to avoid each other. I catch him alone after supper and ask how it’s going to be tomorrow.
“I thought we decided to go as a family.” He’s irritated by my question. “But I’m not sitting anywhere in the vicinity of that fucking redneck.”
I nod my consent.
“We should get up by seven,” he continues. “Do you want to help pack up Stephen’s gear or do you want me to?”
I can do it. “Do you mind getting Luke ready for bed?”
It’s so alien making these overly polite requests. When something needed doing in the past, one of us would get in there and do it, none of this fussing through each detail. Mostly, I’d like to ask if we’re going to have time to talk before he goes but don’t want him to think I’m pushing him into making a decision.
Linda’s name shows up on my cell call display after the boys have gone to bed. I take the phone outside to Dad’s tool shed, nervous that Linda’s talked to Irene and has put two and two together.
Sure enough, she launches into a bluster of concern. She strings her questions together so fast I don’t have time to answer—Why didn’t you tell us? Do you need a place to stay? Is Richard really taking the boys? Do I want to talk about it?
“I’m fine,” I say. “It’s civil.”
“You really aren’t going back to the city with them?”
“We’re still trying to work the details out.”
“If you don’t want to talk about it, just tell me to lay off,” Linda says, but steamrollers ahead without giving me room to do it. “If it’s about your mom’s place, you know Bernie’d help with that. When he heard he felt as bad as I did.”
I doubt Bernie feels remotely the same.
It isn’t until Linda mentions how Max never took to Lisa’s daddy but that he’d be wrecked if she and Bernie split that I realize what the phone call is about.
“Is your mom the only reason you’re staying?” she asks.
I’d been worried she was going to ask for an out and out denial of the affair. All she wants to know is that I’ve got no designs on her fiancé.
“You know Bernie’d do anything for your mom—you’re practically his sister.”
I’m not that either.
Satisfied or not, Linda changes the subject. “You guys going to watch the tournament tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want us to save you seats?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Richard’s still... ?”
“We just want to keep it together for the boys.”
After she hangs up, I sit in the shed a little while longer. There are details I hadn’t noticed the last time I was out here—little scraps of card stock stuck in the door frame with carpentry plans on them. The paper is yellowed, but the pencil’s still legible. There are the measurements for a side table, a birdhouse and what I believe is the bookshelf up in my old bedroom. It makes me wonder how many plans my father got through before he died, how much he left unfinished. It makes me wonder what he’d say now, if he was witness to our family’s unravelling.
11
BY THE TIME Luke and I get to the tournament, the place is so packed that the lots are closed and we have to park up on the trail out of the complex. We find Richard in the stands just before the ref blows the starting whistle. There isn’t nearly enough room and the woman next to him scowls as I pry my hips in between them.
Twelve teams are competing today in three divisions. The formula for advancing is based on number of wins and points scored. If Stephen’s team wins all three of its games today, they automatically go through to tomorrow’s semifinals. If they lose one, they can still get a wild-card spot with enough goals. Lose two and the boys will be on the road back to Toronto first thing tomorrow morning. We’re playing Berwick first and I rack my brain, trying to remember the outcome of our earlier game.
At halftime, the other families get up and stretch, but Richard and I stay rooted in place. We sit in silence, Luke between us, watching a tournament volunteer dole out Dixie cups of Gatorade. All of our earlier games were in the evening. Now that they’re playing in the heat of the day, the boys are slick with sweat. They wilt in a line while the coach parades past, barking orders. When his back’s turned, Max waves to someone in the stands. Bernie and Linda must be farther down the pitch on the next set of bleachers.
The teams are too evenly matched. They volley back and forth, frequently intercepting passes and charging into the opposing end, only to have a quick reverse. Ten minutes left and there’s still no score. Richard sits with his arm level on his knees, his watch in full view. One of our players fumbles a shot on goal. It rebounds out of the crease and Berwick’s defence braces to kick it out. Stephen launches himself feet first to scoop the ball away. He times it so exactly that the ball shoots free, but his opponent has already started the arc of his kick and his cleat connects with Stephen’s back thigh. For a second, everyone is too stunned to react. I’m up and on my feet, ready to scramble over to Stephen. The ref reaches for his whistle as one of our players makes a shot on goal. It goes in as the whistle sounds.
Richard holds my waist as I crawl across him and points out to the field. Stephen’s up and walking but he’s obviously favouring his left side. Both coaches are in a heated conference. “He’s okay,” Richard says, suddenly tensing. I slide back into my own seat. “He’s okay.”
The call comes down—no penalty but the goal stands. Canning 1, Berwick 0. Stephen is benched for the rest of the game, but the team holds onto the lead. The next game isn’t until one, so at least he has a couple of hours to rest.
Stephen ambles over to us, an ice pack wrapped around his thigh. He doesn’t complain, but I’m worried that he’s really hurt.
“You’ve got to stretch it out,” Richard says. He motions for Stephen to lift the hem of his shorts. There’s a fist-sized bruise blooming on his upper thigh with dark purple rounds where the cleats hit. “Yep, that’s a war wound.” He massages the area and directs Stephen into a series of bends to keep the blood moving and the swelling down.
Stephen doesn’t say much as he eats lunch, but Richard talks almost continuously. “You’ve just got to shackle their players. I watched Kentville for a bit this morning and they’re weak in defence.” He glides a tomato slice and a pickle across the wax paper wrapper, demonstrating the way Stephen can cut off their striker. At first I’m worried that it’s overwhelming him, but Richard’s tips have a hypnotic effect. Instead of making Stephen nervous, it relaxes him. I do my best to entertain Luke so that the two of them can make the most of the time.
As the game against Kentville approaches, I keep an eye out for Brad and his father. Before Richard found out about the affair, I fantasized about what it would be like having my husband here and watching Brad’s father squirm. But now I just want to make it through the day without incident. We’ve all had enough confrontation.
When the boys line up, Brad isn’t on the pitch and I wonder if his father pulled him off the team or if the coach couldn’t cope with the ongoing vitriol. Regardless, the team’s doing better without them—Kentville scores early in the game and we have a hard time keeping the ball in the offensive zone. Knowing how important this game is, it’s impossible to follow its progress calmly, especially now that Stephen’s hurt. I hold my breath each time he intercepts the ball, my pulse barrelling.
I don’t want to leave before the end of the game, but the water has gone through me too quickly. The washrooms are off behind the other pitch, so it’s a hike to reach them. All over the fields, the bleachers are packed, filled with families supporting their under-eighteen soccer enthusiasts. Seeing them reminds me that even if our team makes the finals, tomorrow is the last day that we’ll be together as a family. The thought makes me start to panic. It’ll be fine, I think with each step, it’ll be fine. I reach my hand under the back of my tank top and find the channel of my spine is soaked.
I make it to the bathroom and lock myself in a stall, dabbing the sweat with wads of toilet paper. Sitting brings down the anxiety but gearing up to leave the bathroom is slow and painstaking. I numb my wrists under the cold tap trying to calm down.
When I leave, Bernie’s waiting by the concession stand and there’s no way to avoid him. He flags me over and I watch him juggle four smokies underneath the ketchup nozzle.
“You guys avoiding us?” he asks.
“I thought it would be easier for Richard.”
“He still in a twist about the bar?”
There are too many people around to talk comfortably so we wander ten feet off, into the shade of a maple tree. I keep an eye on the field, nervous that Richard’s going to see us.
“Heard you were over at the farm.”
“Clarence’s got nothing to worry about with that inspection.”
“Said you were launching into one of your own.” The cardboard hot-dog sleeves are already glistening with dripped grease. I can’t read Bernie’s expression, whether he’s grateful or thinks I’m interfering.
“Linda mentioned you’re staying.”
“For a while at least.”
He stops shuffling the drinks and snacks and catches my eye. “Were you hoping?”
I shake my head, no.
Again, I can’t determine his reaction.
“Your mom’s so excited about the wedding,” I say. “Congratulations.”
There’s a long line forming at the concession stand and I recognize some of the people from our section, which means the game’s over. I’ve missed it. I start to walk away, desperate to know who won, but Bernie keeps abreast of me. After a few paces, I stop him. “Do you mind if I go ahead? Richard’s promised not to fight, but I don’t want him to have to see us.”
Bernie whips his head around to make sure no one’s standing close enough to hear. “You didn’t say anything to him did you?”
“He’s not going to tell Linda.”
“Christ, Ellie, why’d you do that?”
In high school, Bernie was the only person who didn’t always register as a separate entity. Being with him, I sometimes felt the same communion I got walking out on the dykes, facing across the shore towards the Blomidon look-off. There’s no stretch of land more beautiful than those few kilometres of clay and marsh grass.
The landscape shifts, however, on the walk back. Instead of ocean and fields, it’s the town you see, Crowell Tower rising up in a thick, brick block. The path hasn’t changed but the journey’s entirely different. Now when I look at Bernie, it’s like I’ve got reoriented.
No, that’s not it at all. Bernie is Bernie. I’ve just been blindsided, looking at him all one way or all the other. This is the truth I’ve been running away from my whole life, trying to connect with the place while distancing myself from its inhabitants. There’s a word for that kind of person and it’s just as ugly as the word townie. In the very place I was born, what I’ve become is a tourist.
Richard eyes me suspiciously when I get back to the pitch. “They lost two to three. You missed Stephen’s goal.”
On the rankings board, there isn’t much hope for our team to make the wild-card slot. There’s an hour’s rest, then they play again. The coach doesn’t release the players. We leave our stuff spread out on our seats and take Luke to the park entrance to kick the ball around. I want to ask Richard what the team’s prospects are, what would have to happen to meet the formula, but he�
�s focused on our son.
He flicks the ball up with the top of his shoe and bounces it on his knee like I’ve seen Stephen do countless times. I don’t know why it never occurred to me before, but Richard must have taught him the trick. Watching him play with Luke, it feels like we’re back in Toronto at one of Stephen’s games down at Christie Pitts. All we’re missing is Terrence.
I’m startled by the ball hitting my calf and look up to see Luke grinning at me.
“Pay attention,” he teases. He and Richard fan into a triangle to include me in the game. We pass back and forth a few times then Richard seizes the ball and starts juggling it with different parts of his body. He counts off five head-butts followed by three toe bounces and eight alternate knee kicks.
“Show off.” I shove into him to knock him off balance and he catches the ball in his hands.
“Penalty.”
“You’re not supposed to touch it.”
Richard lets me pin his arms back long enough for Luke to rush in and steal the ball. As soon as he has it, Richard shakes me free. Luke circles the two of us, dribbling the ball and we freeze in the centre, embarrassed by the contact.
The last game is against Halifax East, a team they’ve never played. The other team must have better funding, because their gear is flashier—technical soccer shirts and matching cleats. If they have that much to spend on uniforms, I’m worried about how much more experienced the coaching must be. It’s also the only ethnically diverse team we’ve played all summer.
