“What would you like to drink today, Charles?” I open my door with a jangle of keys. “Coffee? Tea?”
“Thank you, but I have some business to attend to, Hélène. Charles takes his own keys from his pocket. I search for a kind, sad apology in his eyes, but I can’t see it. Or maybe I refuse to. I regret the fact Charles has something of importance to do that doesn’t involve me. Worse than anything, Charles is shifting the new routine back to what it was before.
I unlock my door and try to will my hands to stop shaking. When I finally wriggle out of my coat, I gasp. The wet spot from sitting on the bench is still visible. Soiled like a small child’s jacket. Like one of my students. Charles must have seen it. I struggle to hang my coat on the hook then stand alone in the dim entryway, hanging my head, too. I fumble toward the kitchen, my legs cold and lurching. The closed spare room door emphasizes the distance. I think of how I used to walk down long school hallways with children, counting their steps in French. The words were always exotic enough to take their minds off upsetting things. Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept. I count my own steps to the kitchen. I look at the plate of freshly baked, Saran-wrapped cheese biscuits, but I can’t eat them by myself. They’re for sharing. I throw them in the trash. I pour myself a full crystal glass of sherry. I shuffle to the living room and turn on the television, but can’t settle, even nestled in the warm pocket of my big chair with a crocheted afghan over my knees. Yesterday’s conversations feel like spent luxuries. I miss my grandson. The emboldening effect of his company has already evaporated. “Charles is my neighbour,” I whisper into my empty sherry glass. “Only a neighbour.”
I sigh and struggle out of my chair. I don’t like anything unpredictable. I’ve had enough of that for several lifetimes. I look around. At least dust is a constant. I begin cleaning the stove. That always uses up a great deal of time. Then I wave the yellow feather duster around the living room. I water the three houseplants crowding the windowsill. I organize my liquor cabinets, lining the bottles up and turning the labels out. My guest bar is the lower shelf of a large antique china cabinet, but I keep very special bottles in a former safe in the master bedroom, behind a large, gaudy macramé frog I bought at a craft bazaar years ago. I’ve always admired his gaping, hungry mouth. It makes more sense to me than hanging a dream catcher.
There’s a soft knock at the door. I return the frog to its place on the wall and step out into the hall to see Annette striding in, holding up two bottles of ice wine. When my son and Annette divorced, a week after Nikky graduated from high school, I insisted Annette keep her condo key.
“Hiya.” Annette smiles as she hands me the bottles. “Thought I’d bring you something new to try. Hope you like it.”
“I always do enjoy it, dear.” I carry the bottles carefully to the dining room. “You’re so good to me.” Though Annette visits infrequently and often arrives unannounced, her generosity with gifts reminds me of old friends from Montreal.
“Well, you’re so easy to please. Little bottle here, another there, and voilà you’re happy.” Annette peers around the living room “Where’s that son of mine? Still sleeping?” She pushes the spare room door open. “Oh, he’s not even here.”
“Nikky had to go back to Vancouver last night, dear.” I need to sit down.
“What? I didn’t even get to see him!” Annette stares past me. “That little stinker.”
“He’s six feet two inches now. We measured.” I sit and wait for an emotional outburst. Tears. Instead, my daughter-in-law opens and shuts the drawers in the sideboard until she finds the well-used corkscrew.
“Oh well, more for us, then.” Annette pulls the cork from the ice wine and pours two glasses. I wish she’d chosen the crystal, instead of the everyday ones from the kitchen. She’s always been efficient but informal. Her wedding gown was nothing more than a white cotton sundress with a neatly pressed, but cheap, blue ribbon tied in a bow around her waist. And Geoff wore jeans, claiming they were dressy because they were black. I would have given them the money for proper clothes — lovely ones — but Annette never asked. She sits down heavily now and picks dog hairs off her sweatshirt. Then she unpins her liquor store cashier’s nametag and shoves it into her pocket, fussing with change and keys.
“Guess I’m not important.” She finally looks up. “Doesn’t need Mom anymore. That’s no surprise. What was it? A painting? A stroke of creative lightning? Nik told me he was looking forward to this break.”
“His girlfriend called.”
“Oh, his girlfriend. That’s young love for ya.” Annette takes another sip. I wait for her to smile. She drums her fingers on the table. “Maybe she’s breaking up with him. I mean, things can’t be going well if he had to absolutely leave in such a hurry.”
“Oh dear, I certainly hope not. He adores her.” I beam, thinking about young love and my grandson deep in it. “You should have seen him when he talked about her. I want to meet her.”
Annette leans back in her chair and gazes out the window at the sea view. “Meh. Nik’s young, attractive, he’ll have lots of other girlfriends, bounce back. That’s what men do.” Annette gulps her ice wine then stares into her empty glass. “Better than disappointment and divorce. Then more disappointment.”
I pause to straighten the coaster, but my trembling hands nearly knock my glass over. “I would like to see some of Nikky’s newer art soon.” I place my hands on my lap.
When Nikky was in high school he painted a cityscape that reminded me of Montreal, even though he’d never been there. Annette raved about one Nikky did of the trees around her house, but I found that painting oppressive. The cluster of tall, stalwart evergreens looked like a small, green army, complete with cedar generals.
“Let me make you some lunch, Annette,” I say. In the kitchen, I fret about Nikky while chopping the ingredients for a small niçoise salad. I hear the door open, followed by heavy footsteps in the hall. I grab a towel to dry my hands, and turn, hoping to see my grandson.
Annette groans. Her hunched shoulders sink farther. Geoff clears his throat noisily and glares at Annette. My hands find their way toward my mouth. I stop myself in a half-gasp and straighten the collar of my blouse. Being in the same room as Annette makes Geoff irrationally angry.
“Hello, Geoff.” I try to make myself appear as tall as possible. Not that it gives me much authority. Not anymore.
“What’s she doing here?” Geoff looms like one of the stern, military evergreens in Nik’s disagreeable painting.
“I’m making lunch, dear.” I gesture at the dining table. The room seems smaller, darker, and stuffier with my son in it. “You can eat with us or you can wait in the living room.”
Annette’s chair hits the wall with a clunk and startles me. “Sorry, Hélène.” Annette rubs the mark on the wall with her finger. “It’s nothing. Not even a dent. Just a bit of dust. There. It’s gone. Sorry.”
Then, to my surprise, Annette steps in front of me. I wonder how many times Annette has placed herself protectively between Nikky and his father.
“Ma’s got a doc appointment.” Geoff’s voice booms in comparison to the ticking of the clock, the whir and hum of the condo heating. He leans past Annette to peer at me. “Ma, what are you doing? It’s appointment day. Let’s go.”
I drop the tea towel, flustered. I hadn’t forgotten Geoff was coming today, I forgot it was Wednesday. I have a medical appointment every second Wednesday afternoon, so the doctor can monitor my medications and change them, if necessary. I would have warned Annette that Geoff was coming, had I remembered.
I rest my hand on Annette’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, dear,