All of These Things

All of These Things

By

Anna De Mattea

Copyright 2016 by Anna De Mattea

Cover design copyright 2016 by Katia De Palo

ISBN: 978-0-9952430-0-2

ePub Edition

All rights reserved.

Published September 2016

This book is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

For anyone taking the road less traveled

#autismawareness #learningdifferences #mentalhealth

Chapter One

“Do you know why I decided you need this vacation?” Sofie asks. She’s at her monthly upkeep, somewhere between a hair dryer and a coffee machine. “I was with my meditation group, and Ruby told us to focus on something new in our lives, which got me thinking: when the hell has there been anything new in
your
life, Caroline?”

I sigh, taking another sip of coffee before placing the travel mug in its slot between my mother and me. It’s early enough to avoid blaring the AC, but we’ve been treated to a vast array of scents ranging from freshly mowed grass, pool chlorine, and pine, to skunk and manure. Mom looks fixedly out the window. I honestly can’t tell if she’s catching a glimpse of anything at all as she sits there blankly. I can’t complain, though, since she did stop retaliating and isn’t acting severely annoyed with me. She isn’t even slightly riled at me anymore for coaxing her to therapy. Instead, she’s just here—taking no notice and paying no heed to anything I can put a finger on. On the other hand, I know from experience that quiet on the outside hardly means quiet on the inside.

“There’s nothing, am I right?” Sofie grills, obviously still going on about something.

I take a sharp breath.

“What?” I ask.

“Something new!” Sofie shrieks. “There isn’t anything new in your life, and basically it’s time I personally do something about your pathetic existence.”

I grip the steering wheel in the way I imagine wringing Sofie’s neck at least once a day.

Sofie and I met on my birth day. Our grandmother Sarafina—Noni Sara to us—tells this adorable story about a rambunctious five-year-old who always thought she was too old to hold an adult’s hand and walked too far ahead in the hospital corridor to meet her new baby
cousin
.

It’s just like my father to have been quick off the mark and christen us as such, prompting an instantaneous connection between his eldest sister’s daughter and myself. Urgently and without delay, he legitimized my place within his family, lest anyone dared to think disparagingly of it. The story goes that Dad was steady with someone else when he met my mother, my
already-pregnant-with-me-by-another-man
mother, but turned up out of the blue and introduced Mom to Noni—belly included. He went on to make things even more exciting for the De Andreis clan by announcing their engagement; ergo the understandable shock that ensued, and specifically, Aunt Mara’s horror and unrelenting distaste for us. But despite his efforts, gossipmongers lurked.

To be honest, I can see why our small family is easily the centre of attention. There definitely is a lot to say about the unconventional composition of our arrangement, making my parents and me an easy trio to look into and review. Some audacious personalities in my life, or
The Stupids
as Sofie refers to these individuals, make it well-known how odd they think it is that I don’t know more about what’s truly behind my blue eyes. It’s obvious they’re not relics of Mom’s hazel stars, but instead they are an aquamarine abyss. My father—my only father—the father who cared so much about the woman he fell in love with that he couldn’t digest the idea of the word
undeclared
donning her baby’s birth certificate, went on to complement my existence with his name. As fate would have it, Nathaniel De Andreis has similar blue eyes, and it’s too perfect, really, so I simply never needed anyone else.

Noni Sara literally puts me and Sofia-Marie on a pedestal. A framed photograph of our very first encounter sits atop the shortest of three plant stands in her front room. I’m about twelve hours old, swaddled in pink and grey infant fleece. Noni says I shuddered at Sofie’s incoming voice and flinched from the boisterous brown-haired girl with disheveled pony tails. At eighty-three years old, Noni’s still eager to re-enact Sofie clawing her hands over the rim of the bassinet to pull me closer. Her impulsiveness terrified my poor father, and it dawns on me that I’ve never heard a thing about where Mom was in the midst of the small commotion.

“Can Caroline come to my house now?” Sofie had asked the surrounding adults.

She’d tell Dad—her Uncle Nate—that she thought he married the prettiest person she had ever seen that wasn’t on TV. Unfortunately, her mother wasn’t keen to share in her youngest brother’s
deranged
happiness, but that ugly truth never shook her daughter’s opinion of me or my mom. What’s more, the pestering claim Sofie had on me then is still incorrigible today—twenty-seven years later.

“Aren’t you supposed to be reflecting on
you
during these Friday night hocus-pocus events? Why do you always come out of there enlightened by me?” I demand.

In the background, I hear Noni relay a message, and Sofie responds too favourably. “Aw. That’s perfect for her toiletries. She’ll take it!” says Sofie, undoubtedly flashing a proud smile that’s making the foil in her hair sparkle.

“I’ll take what? What am I taking, Sof?”

“Noni said she has your old Strawberry Shortcake suitcase, and you can use it for our trip.”

“Strawberry Shortcake? That’s what you think I’m taking to Maine?”

“Why not? And she has my old Scooby Doo one, too. They’ll make perfect cosmetic cases, don’t you think? Oh, and Noni agrees with me, by the way. You need this vacation, Caroline. She’d tell you herself, but she can’t hold up the phone right now. Our grandmother is getting a manicure. When was the last time
you
got a mani?” she sneers.

“Alright. I’m hanging up on you now,” I bite back. “I hope Jenny dyes your hair green,” I say and end the call. Looking ahead, I realize we’re only a few exits away from the only road serving as the outlet to our destination point. “Mom?”

“Hmm,” she responds peacefully.

“Do you want to talk about me leaving tomorrow? Sofie says the rental property is available as early as noon, so we were thinking of leaving around six am.”

I wait, conjuring something else to say that may stir her.

“Did I tell you that I met Angel Mae at the office yesterday?” I ask as brightly as I can. “She’s been working for Anthony Parrotta’s family for a year now, and his wife only has nice things to say about her. She’s from the Philippines, and I think she’ll be a great companion for the week. I’ve left her a notebook with instructions, and she’s up to date with your schedule and routines. And most importantly,” I persist, trying to dazzle her with cheerful reassurance, “she’s totally up to speed with your expectations. Maybe the two of you can be friends. Angel Mae doesn’t know too many people in Montreal. Anyway, she has my number, and of course, if you’re not comfortable around her, you can call me yourself. Also, if you get anxious about anything at all, Dr. Toussaint has offered to step in.”

Mom whips around.
Finally.

“Did you tell her not to touch my things? Tell her I like everything exactly where it is and not to bother me.”

I grant a promising nod, baffled.

I’m bemused my mother hasn’t capitalized on this conversation, using it as an opportunity to remind me of the unpleasant daughter I am. In hindsight, I’m hopeful it all came spurting out of her system earlier, and she’s not saving more gunfire for group.

Every Saturday, I drive Mom an hour north of the city to a private mental health clinic. My father’s quick-thinking led him to Catherine’s House the same year I entered kindergarten. Fortunately, it didn’t take him very long to recognize how miserably lacking the public sector can be. He knew there had to be another option out there for her, and even though his wife had ejected him from our apartment, and they went on to divorce, Dad’s still on the governing board.

Before every ride up here, I can bet on some element of drama. Usually, it’s in the form of a tantrum, since each and every week Mom resists therapy with a string of insults reserved just for me. Yet all the while, she’ll organize herself to actually go, but not without exploding in my face a hundred-thousand times. None of that matters, though, as long as I lure her into my Volkswagen by eight am. By then, I’ve tackled the laundry, hung the bed sheets, watered the potted plants and herbs, and set the slow cooker; the rest of the housework usually waits until later in the afternoon. It’s routinely proceeded with a stopover at Sephora
if
Mom holds her end of the bargain by doing her part in session.

Amalia De Andreis is not a shy woman. In fact, Mom’s known to be quite verbose and hypercritical. Generally, she feels more content and relaxed if there’s less stimuli around her. It’s challenging to guarantee my mother her valued personal space, but if she doesn’t get her own chair in group and is forced to sit in close proximity to someone else who may have their legs too spread out, or somehow grazes a spec of her skin or clothing, Mom can go to pieces. She’ll be too frazzled and distressed to adequately bid her mind back to its right place. So, I ensure we leave Montreal extra early for her ten am recuperative therapy and life skills meeting.

There are worst places to start a weekend, I suppose, than on a private estate, tucked in a serene valley between trendy ski hill towns. But sometimes, I really just want to get my hair done, too, or spend the morning catching up with my Noni. In retrospect, it’s the reason Sofie took it upon herself to plan a trip behind my back. Armoured with my father’s support and his sweet spot for the two of us, her wholehearted concern for my
patheticness
went full speed ahead like everything else Sofie does.

A man in a white t-shirt stands facing away from me, holding a canvas. I’m not feigning knowledge in the Arts, here—because I know I have no business conferring with myself at all—but to some degree it’s obvious that I have, since I’ve decided that in his grip is an original creation.

The strokes and smears are too fresh and thick for it to be some kind of reproduction or imitation. Those are the proper terminologies aren’t they? Well, they sound like the right jargon. I’ve never seen a picture in any retail chain look so—well,
real
, and that’s essentially the point that helps make up my mind on the matter. Yet, if this is true, I suppose it’s excessive for a place like this. Unless a patient painted the piece for Catherine’s House, then I imagine the governing board has already investigated the addition. Of course, the board wouldn’t use the term
patient
. I expect they employ words like guests or frequenters and drop-ins. I hardly suspect the guy in the white t-shirt and black jeans is the artist in question because he looks rather nonchalant about the painting.

White T-shirt sets the canvas down by his grubby, leather boots, prepping the area behind a boxy, bright yellow loveseat. I catch a glimpse of sunglasses hanging dangerously by his V-Neck, and the artwork leans steadily against the wall adjacent to a bay window. Clearly, I hear the shuffled clinks and clatters from White T-shirt’s tool bag, and it dawns on me how quiet it’s become in the centre’s main building. Actually, I’m significantly indebted to this stranger. Tulips are my mother’s favourite flowers, and after all the effort I put in to get her here, the close-range view of a bewitching field of them abated her frenzy.

Typically, on Saturday mornings, Amy Walsh facilitates group, but today Jed Rosenberg welcomed us for circle.

Glitch.

Jed was in the hall between the narrow corridor and the common space as Mom and I slowly, but surely, made our way to one of the therapeutic rooms. When it’s put like that, I guess it really doesn’t sound so bad. In fact, one can almost fool herself about where she’s really going. “We’re off to our
therapeutic
appointment now.” It’s just too easy to picture me accompanying my mother to some fancy spa, and to be honest, I appreciate the unassuming names around here.

The founders decided to honour Mont Catherine in the background, and I’m eternally grateful they didn’t throw a burning, red-hot label at it like
mental institution
. The patients and families know exactly what the main purpose is, and I’ve even found myself announcing to no one in particular, “Off to Cat’s!” Mom, though, never refers to it at all, and if a stereotypical connotation had been tossed to the place, then it would surely defeat the purpose. We’re hoping to catch even a fleeting glimpse of light at the end of the tunnel, so we don’t have time for unconstructive subtext.

Anyway… about that glitch…

Jed turning up like this is a hiccup in Mom’s routine, and usually such a thing would be a calamity. I basically bribe my mother before we leave our apartment and harbour no qualms about admitting that to Dr. Toussaint, either. It’s essentially the same pact every week if she cooperates: lipstick. So when Jed materialized on our path to the therapeutic room, he nearly ruined everything. He was so disconcertingly unanticipated that his mere presence triggered an outburst from Mom. Therefore, and I imagine not unlike a mother with a toddler, I swiftly and eagerly renegotiated the terms with her. Sometimes I think there’s not enough coffee in the world to prepare me for a new day.

Yet, as I mull it over, I like what the painting conveys. I especially like how it manages to relax and avert my mother without costing me another expensive lipstick she doesn’t need and won’t wear. Surrounding the tulips are blurred, windswept satiny coats of blue-black and purple-red paint. It’s bewildering how uncompromisingly rigid they stand in an unsheltered environment. Mom is thoroughly drawn to the piece and saunters over to White T-shirt’s side. He nods a greeting, but she only considers the painting. It rests securely on the bamboo floor of the newly refurbished meeting room. Mom disregards his pleasantries altogether, and that uncontrollable, and maybe even irreproachable, snooty air of hers discomfits me once more. White T-shirt studies her, and my nails dig into my palms.

I know I should be better at this by now, but some days I’m overcome by an upshot of protectiveness for my mother, while on other days deflating mortification takes control. Today, it’s the latter, and I attempt an elusive study of the fresh surroundings in the room. Clearly, I’m stalling for time in preparation for White T-shirt’s interpretation of Mom. It’s a contemporary facelift in here, rather bright and energizing in a chalky, red brick, Victorian shell. I look back at White T-shirt, half expecting a deliberation to be splashed across his face; instead I get the impression he knows my mother. A small intake of breath is followed by a full-fledged smile. His head turns to scan the room behind him, and White T-shirt finds me. I process his reaction while wanting to call Mom away from his restrictive workspace. White T-shirt definitely knows me, too, and I recognize something familiar about him.