Girl in Shades (27 page)

“He's not my father.”

“He raised you, Maya. That's something. He does want to be a part of your life still.”

“He gave up on that a few years ago.”

“He was just confused about what to do.”

“I've got to go to sleep now, Aunt Leah.”

And with that, our conversation ends. Again.

That night when the apartment is silent, I listen for Buffy's sleeping thoughts, and for the first time in a while, I hear nothing.

Two days later I gather my stuff in one box to take over to Elijah's. My clothes, my mother's books and journal, her stones, the aromatherapy bottles, my high school textbooks. I find my Corey Hart tape hidden inside a box of tampons.
Don't masquerade with the guy in shades, oh no
. I toss the tape in the trash bin almost filled to the top.

I open my mother's picnic basket to stuff in a few more things, and that's when I see something bumpy in the top lining. I swipe my hand across the rough cotton and discover that there is a little slit along the side and something has been stuffed up underneath. Almost three years and I've never noticed it there.

I soon see that it's a letter from my Grandmother McCann. To my mother. I take the small yellowing envelope in my hands and slide out the papers, four of them folded together into one. And I allow myself to read what my grandmother had written:

February 14, 1974

Dear Marigold:

I trust you had a safe journey and have settled in fine. I'm sorry that things have become strained between us and that you felt you had to leave your home.

I thought I could deal with what you have done, with the mistake you made with the coloured man. I thought now that you were married to Steven, things would feel right for me. But I know that what you have done may send you to hell and I can't get over that. I can't stop the guilt I have that my daughter has borne an illegitimate child. That fact will never seem right to me and I don't think that our Heavenly Father would fault me for that.

I'm sorry also for telling Steven that your affair was with that strange man in the broken-down van. I'm sorry for that, but again, I thought it would help make things right. He needed to know and if you didn't want him to know, well, then you should not have allowed yourself to do what you did. You should not have made yourself impure by giving in to the sins of the flesh. This I know for sure.

Mostly though, I would like to apologize for what I did to Maya. I can't say for sure what happened that day. I'm not certain why I left her there. You know how my memory is. But that park was full of people, other parents, kids, and she was never in any danger. I knew someone would look out for her. And it was only a matter of minutes until you came looking for us and found her asleep in her little stroller. No harm done.

She's a perfectly lovely child, but there are some things I just can't get past. You can't tell me that Steven is not reminded of what you did every time he looks at the child. I hoped that with time I wouldn't be reminded of your sin, but Maya is its embodiment.

The words you screamed before you left were so harsh. They were words that no mother should have to hear — you brought me to my knees later, and not just in prayer. Ever since losing your father, I have worn myself down and down, and now I feel like I am one raw nerve. It's hard to function. I just wanted the best for you. I am sorry that you and Steven have felt it necessary to move all the way to the Prairies.

I think that is all I need to say. I hope to hear from you soon. I will await an invitation when and if you ever feel ready. I will end by saying goodbye and good luck.

Your Mother
.

I unload my belongings on the floor of Conrad Finn's guest bedroom with a thump. Grandmother McCann's letter has been torn into seventy-two small pieces and deposited in the trash bin on the corner of St. Clair and Winona. I left the bits behind as I boarded the streetcar that would take me to the subway and then out to Elijah's house on the Danforth.

“All settled in?” Elijah asks me. I am slumped against the side of the bed, my butt on the floor. “I have to say, it's pretty damn cool that you asked to stay here.” He reaches over and puts his hand on my boob. I slap him away.

“Stop it, Elijah, seriously. It's not about that.”

“Sorry. I just thought . . .”

“You thought wrong. I need a place to stay is all.” We both stare out the window, not touching, not moving. “My own grandmother tried to get rid of me,” I say then.

“What?”

“My mother's mother. She didn't like me so she left me in a park when I was a baby.”

Elijah runs his fingers through his shaggy hair and shakes his head. “Maya, I tell ya. There is no end to your baggage.”

“Why don't you break up with me then?” I say, terrified that he will. He stands up and walks towards the door.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

“No, I wouldn't,” I say after he disappears around the corner.

In the end, we dragged my mother from the teepee. If she had had the energy, she would have left screaming. Instead, she hung limply in my father's arms, letting go of the weight of her body.

After August 1st, she had stopped eating, stopped using the bathroom much, and simply stared and slept a lot. The skin around her mouth shrivelled into her bones and her face glowed yellow, especially around sunset. I could feel my baby sister curling up tighter and tighter inside her body. And one morning, with the sun hidden behind a cloud morphing everything from happy to sad, both my father and I knew it was time to go.

“Maya, I'm taking your mother to the hospital today,” he said to me while I slurped corn puffs from a white bowl.

“She doesn't want to go there,” I said.

“The decision is final.” My father left the room and returned with a pair of my mother's shoes dangling off each of his fingertips. “I'm going to get her now.”

We both knew what this meant.

My mother had run out of time to be brave or depressed or angry. The girl she used to be — naïve, passionate, curious, dramatic — had slipped away long ago, maybe right when Amar had left her. Despite what people thought, she was not mystical or heroic (I see that especially now). She was just a sick lady who regretted her life.

My father tried to put my mother's shoes on, but she pushed him away. I stood near the doorway flap, wrapping my arms around the teepee so it wouldn't fly away in the morning wind.

“We're going to the hospital now, and that's that,” he said to her.

She licked her lips, swallowed hard, put her hand on her stomach and closed her eyes.

“Don't worry, Mother, the doctors can help you.” My father turned and gave me a look that spoke like a twelve-page apology letter. His own eyes were only half open.

“C'mon, Mari, you don't have to wear the shoes but please put your housecoat on.” She did. But when he tried to lift her, her body hung heavy like her limbs had already started to harden. “Maya, help me lift her. Take a hold of her feet.”

We carried her to my father's car, her body stretched out like a sagging starfish. We settled her into the back seat like an infant, and I heard this weird chanting from inside Mother's mind:
All things must end. All things must start again. All things must end. All things must start again.

“Marigold, for fuck's sake, lift your feet onto the goddamn seat.” My father had started cursing, something he did when he was under stress or put in a situation that seemed to have no logical or satisfying solution.

I tucked her legs into the car and sat down with them across my lap. Light legs, like two straws trying to suck up life from the air.

Father revved up the gas before we went, as if trying to wind us all up and spring us to the hospital in an instant. Mother popped her lips and moaned as we drove, rubbing her cheek against the leather of the seat. The window was down, and air was blowing in barbeque from outdoor picnics. Picnics full of happy families. My hair flew up in the breeze like it was trying to escape and my mother, who now had a short mane of auburn grass sticking up on her head, moved her head back and forth as the wind tickled her scalp. Every so often she mumbled, and because I couldn't see her mouth I couldn't tell if it came from outside or inside.
Don't worry, Maya
, she said.
You'll be better off without me.

Within minutes of getting to the hospital, Father and I were standing at the wall of a green room while nurses hooked my mother up to feeding tubes, took her blood pressure, and drew blood. One nurse with a broad frown and a clipboard approached my father as he leaned against a gurney with a bedpan sticking in his back.

“Mr. Devine, can you please tell me exactly what drugs your wife has been taking and what sort of treatment she has been undergoing?”

“No drugs, no treatment,” my father said with a straight face and stern voice that filled the room.

“I see,” the nurse said, looking towards my mother on the bed.

“She didn't want it,” I said. “She wanted to do this on her own.” The nurse put her chubby hand on my bare shoulder.

“Mr. Devine, can I talk to you alone for a moment?” My father looked down at me, his eyes dead like they had surrendered.

“Maya, go get me a Coke,” he told me then, holding out a palm full of quarters he had been jiggling in his pocket. I took the coins and left the room, turning once the door shut to see the nurse's solemn face through the rectangle glass in the door. She was thinking that my mother was a selfish idiot.

I fed quarters into the machine, pressed the square Coke button and waited as the can fell down with a clunk.

That's when I felt it, heat, wet, between my legs and dripping down my thigh.

I grabbed the can and squatted on the ground, putting my hand underneath myself to stop whatever it was from dripping out onto the floor. The thought of standing up terrified me so I stayed down, squatting, waiting for an idea of what to do.

“Can I help you with anything?” A voice from above me, a woman's voice. I looked up to see her standing there, a nurse dressed in pink hospital scrubs, a stethoscope around her neck, her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. The hallway lights created a halo around her face.

“I'm okay,” I said to her, lifting my body up but keeping my legs squeezed together.

“You're bleeding!” she said, pointing at my legs. I looked down to see two red streaks weaving their way from my shorts to my ankles. I burst out into sobs.

“I don't know what's happening to me,” I said. “My father is going to be angry.” The Coke can dropped to the ground and rolled under a gurney. The nurse took a tissue from her pocket and wiped up the blood from my legs.

“It looks like you just have your period is all,” she said, her voice calm like a smooth lake. “Is it your first time?” I nodded. She held my hand and told me to follow her into an empty room. I limped beside her, afraid that something would pop out. Inside the room she helped me change out of my shorts and underwear, which were bloody, and into a new pair of cotton underwear and hospital pants. She also gave me a pad and told me to go into the bathroom and fasten it into my underwear.

“What's your name?” she asked when I came out of the washroom.

“Maya.”

“This is not a bad thing, Maya. It just means you have become a woman. This is a really momentous day for you!”

When the nurse stood up, I reached up to grab her hand.

“Thank you for helping me.”

“My pleasure, Maya.” Her smile was warm and normal. Her cheeks plumped up at just the right spots. “Now take some more of these pads and put them in your purse for later.” I stuffed the two plastic packages into the tiny purse that hung by a string on my shoulder. Inside were two extra quarters and the piece of paper my mother had given me to read out loud when it was time.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course, ask away.” She was still smiling, but without showing her teeth, her lips curling up towards her ears.

“Do you know of any way to keep a baby alive outside a woman's body when it's not done growing?”

The nurse looked at me seriously and bit her bottom lip. “Well, it all depends on how far along the baby is. The doctors can do a lot to help premature babies these days.”

“Three months,” I said.

“Three months is too early,” she said. “A baby wouldn't be able to survive on its own that early.” She had told me what I already knew.

“Thanks anyway,” I said. “Can I stay here for a while?” I did, but when someone else needed the room, the nurse came in and led me back out into the hallway.

When I returned to my mother's room, my father was sitting by the bed holding her hand. She was dressed in a hospital gown and sleeping, a tube growing out of her arm and attached to a metal pole like string hanging down from a tree. There was a plant behind my father on the windowsill, dark forest pot, green leaves and yellow flowers. They were marigolds.

“What took you so long? I was looking for you all over the hospital.” I put my hand on my purse. I couldn't look him in the eyes so instead I looked out the window when I spoke.

“Sorry.”

“Come over here and hold your mother's hand.”

When I traded places with my father, he got up and paced from one end of the room to the other.

“I met a nice nurse,” I said. But when he didn't respond, I looked down at my mother's sleeping face.

For the next four days we went back and forth between our house and the hospital. Sometime during the second day, people started gathering in the lobby of the hospital — ladies with flabby hips, old men reading the paper, a news lady with a cameraman. They were waiting for word about my mother. They wanted to know what would happen to the woman they saw on TV: would they save her and her unborn child? Would she save herself? Would she offer some sort of prediction about when the end of the world was due? Lottery numbers for tonight's draw perhaps? Would she magically rise up off the bed as she died?

Eventually, the hospital staff pushed these people into the parking lot.

“She's stable but medicated,” my father told them on our way in one morning. “We would appreciate our privacy.” And me, walking beside him with a pad stuck to my underwear (I had found some old Kotex of my mother's under the sink in the bathroom), would smile at their faces shooting out pity glares, feeling my face go red with embarrassment.

On the fourth day, my father decided to go back to work.

“Just for the afternoon, Maya,” he said. “I have a new actress coming in that I need to interview. I've been trying to set this up for a while. She could be the next big thing.” I was sitting on a blue chair that leaned back in the corner of the room. “I'll be back before three. Call me if there are any problems.” He handed me a piece of paper with his work phone number on it, tucked his dress shirt into his pants, and walked towards the door. My mother's nurse stopped him before he got there.

“Where are you going, Mr. Devine?”

“I need to go to the office for a few hours, that's all.”

“And the girl?”

“She's staying her with her mother.”

“That's not really allowed,” my mother's nurse said.

“It's only for a couple hours,” he said and pushed past the nurse and out of the room.

“Looks like you've been abandoned,” she said when he was gone and I wondered if it was true.

One hour later, after the doctor looked over the chart hanging at the end of my mother's bed, he told me to call my father and tell him to come back. He said it in a way that pretended like I didn't know why, and his colours were all gritty and black when he spoke.

“Maya, it really is best that your father be here. You're too young to look after your mother all by yourself. Call him and tell him to come back now.”

When the doctor left, I picked up the phone beside the bed and dialed the numbers from the paper my father gave me. A woman's voice answered, giggling before she spoke. “Steven Devine's office,” she said, like she was announcing a surprise.

“Can I speak to my father, please?” I said to her in the deepest voice I could make.

“Oh, yeah, of course. Just a moment, please.” There was shuffling around, no more giggles, and then my father's voice.

“Maya, what's wrong?”

“The doctor says you need to come back now.”

“I'm on my way.”

I hung up the phone. I knew something was coming. The bones around my mother's eyes seemed to have grown harder. Her eyelids were shut, her lips were dry and bitten. I leaned my lips down near her ear: “Mother, I became a woman,” I said. Her lips opened a bit and she spoke like dust was caught in her throat.

“Be careful how you use that,” she said and smiled a little bit, like a skeleton looking for candy on Halloween. Then she touched my hand, stroked it, and a tiny tear dropped from her eye.

When my father arrived, he had sweat on his temples, in his hair, and in the armpits of his white dress shirt.

“Let me sit there,” he said to me.

I scowled at him with my eyes, as if to say “this is my spot,” but when I heard him thinking that this was his last chance, I moved from the chair beside my mother's bed, to the window. I looked out at the sun heating up the afternoon. There were people in the parking lot of the hospital. They were standing in a circle, praying, and a cameraman was filming them.

“Steven,” my mother said then. “I'm sorry.”

“You just rest now, Mari.”

“I didn't deserve you.”

Outside, the people were swaying with their arms up in the air and hugging each other. One woman seemed like she was crying and another woman was rubbing her back. They had all sorts of beautiful colours melting into the air above them: turquoise, grape, sparkling mauve — the colours of goodness and caring.

“I wasn't a very good husband,” my father said then, inhaling the words with his nose after they came out. “I tried, but I just . . . you sleep for a while now.”

“You were as good as you could be,” she told him. From the corner of my eye I saw him stand up over her. “Live for you now,” she said in a whisper. “Like you should have in the first place.” My father leaned down, kissed her on her nose, and walked out of the room. This left only my mother and me.

I will never forget the peaceful sort of stillness that descended into the room when the end came. It was like a thick fog that no longer let me see out. For a moment, I remember thinking that something that feels like
that
must be all right. But of course, I couldn't tell anyone — they would never believe me.

And that is the complete story of how my mother died.

This may be exactly how things happened, or maybe not quite. I promise everything is how I remember it, but perspective is a strange beast — totally shaping what we think we know. Either way, I had to write it all in here. To remember my mother for what she was, what she tried to be, and what everyone else hoped she could be. To say goodbye to her. To move on.