The Seary Line (42 page)

Nettie's expression remained unchanged, and Stella regretted bringing the story out into the light. She stared at Nettie for a moment, then at the bowlful of tapioca on the tray, edges dry, plump fish eyes beginning to shrink.

Even though Stella knew her aggravation was unwar-ranted, petty even, sometimes she resented Nettie. Resented the fact that Nettie offered nothing in return, no clues on where to go, on what to say. But there was always an expectation hanging in the air, though Stella was unable to define that expectation. She generally tried to keep the chatter easy and humorous, to offer up stories that might float in through Nettie's ears, and make some hidden part of her smile. But how was Stella to know if this was what Nettie wanted? And when Stella sat in silence, Nettie would stare at her, blinking. Stella thought that if Nettie's eyes could make a sound, that sound would be shrill.

Perhaps Nettie preferred that Stella talk about the greater meaning of everything. She had tried that, but it always sounded too personal, especially when Mrs. Jenkins or the nurses were listening. No. That was a lie. It always sounded too final. Reflection did not involve moving forward, only looking back. Stella did not want to look back. And think. There was too much that didn't make sense. By surveying, she was likely to discover too many strands in her life that were unfair. Growing old was one thing. Old and bitter, something entirely different.

Stella stood, unfolded the quilt draped over Nettie's footboard, and laid it across Nettie's folded knees. As she did every time, Stella touched Nettie's face, pressed slightly at the corners of each eye, daubed both sides of Nettie's mouth. Paper-thin skin, sunken and nearly mummified, Stella's gentle touch adjusted her best friend's expression. It's a harmless thing to do, Stella told herself. Who would ever know? At the end of every visit, Stella kissed Nettie's forehead, and Nettie stared back with a fixed, but pleasant smile.

On her way down the hallway, Stella stopped at the door with the brass cowbell decoration. Her visits with this hapless elderly woman began as a favour, but had turned into a habit. And now she was unable to leave Pine Ridge without at least saying “Hello” to Miss Miriam Seary.

Some months ago, a nurse had approached Stella about another resident of the home who had spent a short time in Bended Knee.

“Well, travel's a lot easier these days,” Stella had replied.

“No, no. I believe 'twas when she was much younger. A young woman. She doesn't talk much, but when she does, she always goes on about Bended Knee.” The nurse leaned closer to Stella. “I minds she says she fell in love there.”

Stella was curious now. “P'raps I knows her?”

“You could, my dear, though she's quite a bit older. Miss Seary's her name. Miriam. Oldest woman on the floor. Lived here for ages. Before I came on to work, even, and I won't tell you how long I've been here.” The nurse reached out, touched Stella's elbow. “Don't suppose you got the time to spend a few minutes with her?”

“Ah. . .” Stella stepped back slightly, glanced up and down the hallway. Close by, she noticed a woman with a liver-spotted scalp in a reclining wheelchair, staring at a framed print on the wall.
Why do they hang such dull artwork?
Stella wondered.
Why would someone whose sense is lost want to stare at a bird flying into a forest?

“I knows, 'tis a lot to ask. But Miss Seary's a lovely woman, and as far as we knows, she don't belong to no one. Never had a single visitor since she came to us. Not a one. Not even a card or a call. We all says she come out of nowhere. Got no line. No line to speak of.” The nurse hesitated. “Plus, Mrs. Smith used to enjoy spending a bit of time with her. Before, well, she took to her bed and all.”

“Well, I suppose.”

“You never knows, you might end up related.” The nurse had nodded. “There's always some connection, isn't there?”

Stella found that notion highly doubtful. She had never heard of anyone in Bended Knee with the last name of Seary. This woman was likely someone who'd spent a summer there, or maybe worked for a year or two as a mother's helper.

Placing her hand on the door, she stopped for a moment, wondered what type of person she was going to find behind it. A person who belonged to absolutely no one. What might that be like? No parents or aunts or uncles rooting her with stories and tradition, no children or grandchildren, making her light with their silly antics, unwavering love. How empty must that feel? To have no line. No line to speak of.

As the nurse looked on intently, Stella shuddered slightly, pushed open the Seary woman's door, secured it in place with the rubber doorstopper and stepped inside. She had intended to visit that one time, but was surprised to discover she found Miriam Seary's childlike company comforting. Familiar. There was something filling about it. Reminded her of warm bread, ready to eat, thick layer of butter melted down through.

When Stella entered the room after visiting Nettie, Miriam Seary was seated in the worn chair next to her bed. Her head was angled towards the window, likely tilted to watch the blustery wind hurtling hard flecks of snow against the glass. Light arriving through the snow was clear and bluish, and the room was cast in soothing tones. Stella slipped into the second chair, its burlap textured fabric weathered, and though she was tempted, she resisted picking away at loose strands, bits of exposed yellowed foam.

Settled beside Miriam, Stella felt incredibly slight. Miriam was a woman of grand proportions, her girth was made worse by the clothing she wore – large print polyester dresses, usually a combination of brown, dull green, a smattering of white. In her current dress, her trunk was a human landscape, rolling field, earth turned, dead vegetation turned inwards, first snowfall hiding in dips and folds. Her cheeks appeared greasy, and her shiny cleft chin,
resting on the loose skin of her chest, was nearly lost among the layers of soft fat. Though Miriam was certainly clean, Stella found that she still smelled very much like a baby who had not been bathed, as though drops of creamy milk, trapped behind her fleshy ears, were fermenting. Stella did not find this offensive at all, her appearance, her odour. Instead, she felt a tenderness towards this aged infant, pity, too, certain that in Miriam's lifetime, many people had let her down, never nurtured her as promised.

Speaking in her characteristic short bursts, repetitive phrases, Miriam once again began to tell of her time in Bended Knee. And Stella always listened politely, though she had given up trying to discover any common ground. Miriam only spoke of minor things, such as kittens in a loft, setting out plates on a tablecloth embroidered with fruit, making soup from fish heads with an old woman. Stella thought perhaps Miriam worked in a kitchen, or perhaps she never lived there at all. There was nothing in her descriptions that would lead Stella to believe her one way or another. She had mentioned a man, but he could have been a man from anywhere or anytime. And Miriam had just placed him in Bended Knee because that was a memorable place for her.

“Ellie.” Trying to straighten the sharp bend in her back, Miriam looked up at Stella with wide set eyes. “You knows him?”

“Ellie? No, Miss Seary,” Stella replied gently, as she did each time Miriam asked this same question. “No, I don't mind that I do.” She guessed that Miriam had been born simple, that her childlike manner was not due to senility. “Do you recall his Christian name?”

“He plays the music. Music.”

“What sort?” Stella reached up to touch the slight cleft in her own chin, stared at the cleft in Miriam's.

“Lots of keys. Keys opens nothing.” She guffawed at her own joke, wide mouth revealing a set of perfectly even greyish-white false teeth.

“Keys?”

“Keys, keys.”

“Piano, you means? I never heard you talk about a piano before.”

“Oh, yes. Nice music. Good boy.”

“Did you play?”

Miriam giggled, slapped her thighs with both hands. “No, no. He gave me nice.”

“Music, Miss Seary?”

“Good boy. Nice boy.”

“Yes, Miss Seary.”

“Dancing. You dance?”

“Not lately, no. But I did. Back in the day.”

“Oh, I dance, dance. Missus don't like it.”

“Missus?”

“Good girls don't dance. By theyselves.” Miriam began to open and close her legs, hoseless thighs slapping slightly.

“To a bit of piano music? I don't see no harm in it. 'Tis harmless.”

“Dancing for the devil. Devil dancing.”

“That's old nonsense now, Miss Seary.” Reaching over, Stella patted Miriam's shoulder. Somehow, Stella had expected her fingers to sink into Miriam's flesh, but instead, she encountered a reassuring firmness. “Whoever filled your head with that don't mean it, I's sure.”

As they chatted, Stella's thoughts skipped backwards, flicking through old memories, and at once, she sat upright. With this talk of a piano, a small door cracked open in Stella's mind. Only one person in Bended Knee owned a piano and that was an old widow named Berta May. She
had died years ago, but Stella remembered the man who lived with her, helped to take care of the land, few animals, and the house. He was an odd individual, used to wander up and down the laneways in all kinds of weather, would stare at Stella and frighten Elise. But he played beautiful music. The melody often wound its way out through a cracked window, lingered in the air like a foggy charm.

“Was his last name Wood?” She could no longer conjure his first name, though didn't fret over the lapse. That man hadn't crossed her mind in a decade or more, and Stella's memory was about as crisp as a damp rag.

“Got me in trouble. Trouble. It did.”

“Oh, come now, Miss Seary.”

“Oh my, oh my, oh my. All sorts. Ask missus.”

“What sort?” While in the company of Miriam, Stella often had the desire to dig through her purse, find a peppermint knob, offer it up.

“Missus don't like it.”

“Probably you misunderstood.”

“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!” Miriam's voice, suddenly shrill, angry.

“Pardon me?” Stella flinched in her seat, put her hands to the knot in her scarf. Miriam had never before spoken in a harsh tone. “Oh, I do apologize, Miss Seary. I didn't mean. . .” Stella began to stand, slightly nervous now.

“She says shut up. Hurt awful bad. Owww.” Miriam slumped forward, praying hands pinched between her knees. “Owww.”

On the edge of her seat now, Stella said, “Miss Seary, is you all right?”

“'Twas hot. Hot belly fire.”

“Do you want me to get the nurse? A drink of water?”

“Fire down. Down there.”

“The washroom? You need the washroom, Miss Seary?”

Miriam opened her eyes, stared at Stella, her gaze reminding Stella of an innocent goat. Open, trusting, a hint of fear.

“I left it. Left it there.”

“What did you leave?”

“Left it. Uh-huh. Had to.”

“You couldn't go back for it? Whatever it was?”

“No, ma'am. Uh-huh. 'Twas dead. Missus said so.”

“I don't understand you, Miss Seary. I don't want you to be upset.”

“Dead. Took it away.” Miriam sucked in air. “Right quick. Gone.”

“Oh my. I'll get the–”

“Before I even seed.”

Stella clutched her black vinyl purse, stood up. She placed her hand lightly on Miriam's shoulder, said in a hushed tone, “I'll go and fetch the nurse. I's awful sorry, Miss Seary. I gone and upset you with my questions.”

Stella walked out into the fluorescent lights of the hallway, tottering slightly. She leaned her shoulder blades against the wall. At first she hadn't understood, but after a moment, her mind snapped to attention. Miriam Seary had had a baby in Bended Knee. Born still. Or so someone had told her.

With her knuckle, Stella daubed the moistness that had formed in her eyes. She stood as straight as her spine would allow, and took a deep breath. The old woman had surprised her. In her head, Stella had conjured up a magical life for Miriam Seary. A full lifetime as a child, brimming with wonder, absent of misery or sorrow. But now she recognized how foolish that was. Every person experienced loss. Every person, no matter their wits or station, was occasionally enveloped in it, forced to absorb it.

Directly across from where Stella stood hung the portrait of the black bird. Flying straight into a forest of dark green brushstrokes. It angered her suddenly, this image. Of innocence about to be devoured. And she stared at that bird, clenched her fists, willed it to arc upwards, towards the heavens, and avoid the tangle of certain night that lay ahead.