They sit silently for a minute, holding each other, then change positions. Now she sits at the foot of the bed, side by side, takes his head in her hands, and rests it on her lap.
Her cool cotton nightgown feels so good on the side of Andrew’s face. He looks up at her face. “After we found out that she passed away, we lost Dad.”
“Lost Dad?”
“He ran away, and we looked for him all over the hospital.”
“Did he go home?”
“That’s what we thought, so we went home, but he wasn’t there. Natalie wanted to call the police and report a missing person, but I told her to wait a little longer.”
“When did he come home?”
“He didn’t. I had to pick him up at the police station.”
“What? Why?”
“He beat up some guy in a bowling alley.”
“A bowling alley? What on earth was he doing there?”
“Bowling, I gather.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I, honey.”
“Wow!”
“I know.”
“Now do you see why I forgot to call you?”
“I do. I’m sorry. I did go nuts on you, didn’t I?”
Andrew nods.
She bends and kisses him on the lips.“What a day you’ve had.”
Andrew sighs. “I just want it to end. Make it go away.”
Rosemary pulls his head off her lap. “Lie down and get some sleep.”
“I can’t sleep. I have to write an obituary for the newspaper tomorrow.”
“Don’t they have people who do that?” she asks, clearly unfamiliar with the rituals of death.
“Dad wants it to be personal. He doesn’t want a complete stranger writing it.”
“That’s understandable. I wouldn’t like someone who’s never met me to write about me when I’m dead.”
“I don’t even know what to say. Where do I start?”
It is one-thirty in the morning. Andrew nurses a glass of whiskey he poured himself ten minutes ago with the hope of lubricating his mind so he can write his mother’s obituary. All he has done, though, is stand by his eighth-floor living-room window and stare down at Finch Avenue, giving him a perfect view of the long, narrow bus bay of the subway station.
Andrew watches several people waiting for a bus in the cold, wet September night. As he takes another slow sip of whiskey, he wonders who these people are and where they are going at this late hour. He often finds himself doing that — gazing at people in the midst of their lives. Whether from behind the lens of his camera or through the windshield of his cab, he is always captivated by the sight of other human beings rushing to work, walking their dogs, kissing in the a park under a tree, or lingering at a city intersection, pausing for a light to change.
Witnessing the private stories of others playing out in public isn’t just a hobby but a compulsion. Something about the simple act of observing others moves him. He is touched not so much by their activities, for they are almost always banal, but the very fact that they exist, that out there, at any given moment in Toronto, in any city in the world, are millions of private little narratives unfolding, some beginning, others ending, all adding up to an unfathomable master narrative whose ultimate conclusion is anybody’s guess.
One of the people waiting for a bus is a tall African man who could pass for the doppelganger of Andrew’s friend Zakhariye, which reminds him that he should tell Zakhariye about his mother. Watching people is what made Andrew a good photojournalist. He has never had what could be called a technique or artistic vision, but he does possess the gift of observation. As he takes another sip of his drink, Andrew thinks about the millions of stories that need to be written, painted, photographed, captured in some way for others to see and maybe find consolation in.
A bus finally arrives and parks next to the line of people. They board the vehicle, but it idles for a while. Suddenly, a heavy-set woman with a long blond mullet emerges from the station. She is holding two plastic bags in each hand and starts running. Andrew knows that catching the bus will make the difference between getting home to a warm bed or standing in the cold for thirty or forty minutes, maybe longer. The woman tries to move faster, but her weight holds her back. Andrew thinks about the blank page that still waits for him. He shakes his head.
He spent the past hour at the dinner table attempting to compose a short obituary to inform Torontonians about the life and death of a woman most of them never met and couldn’t care less about. Andrew doesn’t understand the point of the exercise. Its apparent futility makes him even sadder. But his father was adamant that it be done, that they inform whoever is out there about the special woman this town has lost.
Andrew wonders what his father thinks writing an obituary will accomplish. Does he imagine someone out there, perhaps an old friend she lost touch with or one of the young men she dated before she married him, will read the newspaper and discover his wife’s death, share his loss, and grieve with him from afar?
Already Andrew has tried three drafts and found the task of distilling his mother’s life into a few sentences next to impossible. How does one sum up a full, rich, well-lived life? Frustrated and feeling unequal to the task, Andrew now finds himself watching an obese woman frantically trying to catch a bus. He notices he has been holding his breath as he follows her progress. The bus has been idling for sometime now and could drive away at any minute. But she is so close. What a shame it will be, he thinks, what a shame if she doesn’t make it after such a valiant effort. Does God see our efforts?
Andrew isn’t even sure if he believes in God anymore. His former life as a photojournalist took him to the gaping mouths of dug-up mass graves in Bosnia and villages in Bangladesh drowned by nature’s indifference, making it difficult to accept a supreme, benevolent being watching over everyone.
Gazing out the window, he wants to believe there is a God who sees how hard people try — like the fat woman racing for the bus — how much everyone strives only to fall a little short. Tonight, though, one woman does succeed. She reaches the bus’s rear door and boards the vehicle. The bus comes to life and slowly turns westward on Finch. He tilts his neck as far as he can to track the bus until it disappears, then smiles.
Andrew is so happy for her. Whoever she is, wherever she is going, his heart is glad for her small triumph. He takes the last sip of whiskey, relishing its sweet aftertaste in the contours of his mouth. Then he returns to the blank page on the table, hopeful that he, too, will have his own small victory and find the right language to pay tribute to the life of Ella K. Christiansen.
As if by sheer inspiration, the words, good, solid, truthful ones about his mother, tumble onto the page. Andrew’s previous attempts produced what sounded to him like overly sentimental rubbish, and now here it is — a brief, honest, unembroidered account of his mother’s life. As he puts the finishing touches on the piece, the shrill, start-stop-start crying of his daughter drifts out of her room. Although he yearns to finish the obituary, he is happy for the urgent intrusion of the living upon the final affairs of the dead.
Andrew goes to his daughter’s room and opens the door. He stands