SSC (2012) Adult Onset (19 page)

“Good work, Maggie.” She is so focused. Candace is here only five or six hours a week these days but it’s paying off. Mary Rose wishes she could hire Candace to look after her too—is there such a thing as nannies for grown-ups?

Of course there are, they’re called therapists.

“Sank you, Mumma.”

She returns to the kitchen, wondering if she would be capable now of
witing
a book with a pen. How did the Victorians do it? They went blind and died young.

She pours a Scotch and turns on CBC radio.
This is … As It Happens …
She dances a little, nerdily, to the familiar theme music as she tips the plate of tamari-marinated tofu cubes into the frying pan … 
for Tuesday, April second …
and picks up the phone to call her sister in Victoria … but there is no dial tone.

“Hello?”

“Rosie?”

“Mo? I just picked up the phone to call you.”

“I just dialed you.”

“That’s so weird.”

It isn’t that weird, it happens a lot.

“How are you, Rosie Posie?”

“I’m great, I’m cooking tofu.”

“Oo, yuck.”

“I know, it’s for the kids.”

Maureen counsels inmates, parolees and burnt-out corrections officials.
But who will counsel the counsellors?
Duncan posed the question way back when Maureen switched her major from cartography to criminology. She did not start working outside the home, however, until her youngest was in high school. Now Maureen is the unassuming white lady at the back of the sweat lodge, the lone woman at the weekly halfway house potluck; she sings in her church choir, gardens, quilts, belongs to two book clubs and goes to Vegas twice a year with her husband. She sees the occasional ghost and sometimes continues conversations with Mary Rose that have begun telepathically.

Mo bucked the trend of her generation by marrying young and having five children. Now she is a grandmother with a boomeranging son in the basement.

“How’s Rory?”

“Oh, he’s doing pretty well, he’s working on his websites, he’s been great with Mum and Dad.”

As if Rory were a therapy dog, thinks Mary Rose. But didn’t families used to make room for that kind of thing? The homebodies who made themselves indispensable. Is Rory a homebody or a shut-in? Contented or depressed? Maybe he will fool them all and make a fortune inventing a computer game.

“Mo, do you know when Mum and Dad are going to be leaving Victoria? I’m supposed to meet their train when it stops over here.”

“I’m not sure, Mum’s misplaced the tickets.”

“You’re kidding, not again.”

“I’m actually a little concerned about them, Rosie.”

“I know, do you think Mum’s starting to lose it?” Mary Rose tops up her finger of Scotch.

“Poor Mummy, she’s been quite vague all winter.”

Maureen has always called their parents Mummy and Daddy, unlike her and Andy-Patrick, for whom they have always been Mum and Dad—if either ever sported a y, it was shed like a tail and never grew back.

“I know. She couldn’t remember the difference between Winnipeg and Calgary.” She sips guiltily.

“A lot of people are in the same boat and we’re not asking them to go for a cognitive assessment.”

Mary Rose registers the rebuke and wonders why it is that, even when she is agreeing with her older sister, she so often feels she has given offence. Yet Mo spends half her waking life with offenders. She shakes the pan and the tofu sputters. “They’re probably just in her purse.”

Mo chuckles. “I’m scared to look in there.”

Mary Rose chuckles back. “I know, God knows what might be coiled at the bottom!”

“Oh, I don’t mean that, Rosie, I just mean it would be like an archaeological dig, we’d need to get out stick pins and little labels and call in the British Museum.”

“We might find the Elgin Marbles or a piece of the True Cross.”

“We might find Jimmy Hoffa,” says Mo.

Mary Rose laughs out loud and wishes she’d said that. But then Mo might not have found it funny. She opts to push her luck. “Maybe Mum should have an MRI.”

“Why?”

“I was just thinking, do you think it’s possible she might actually be experiencing changes in her … you know that part of the brain, what’s it called, the um, the memory lobe—you know, it sounds like an endangered species?”

“No.”

She has heard a crimp in her sister’s voice. It is important not to upset Mo. She shoulders everything and it has begun to tell. She is in remission from an autoimmune disorder that the doctors finally labelled
“polymyalgia” because everything hurt and they had no idea what else to call it. Stick “poly” in front of something and you know you’ve got an imposter on your hands—why not call it “everything-hurtsia”? Whatever it was, the disease grew tired of waiting for someone to guess its name and slunk away. But who knows what might awaken it?

“Good, I was hoping you’d say that, Mo. I was beginning to get worried, especially after their last visit here, Mum was so
nice
! Ha.”

“Mummy has always been nice.”

Is Maureen on drugs? Or is she just … nicer than Mary Rose?

“Don’t worry, Rosie, I don’t have dementia. It’s just that Mummy is mellowing, and that used to be considered a normal part of aging …” Is Mo choking up? Oh no.

“Mo, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s okay, it’s just that I remember a different Mummy than you do, Mary Rose,”
sniff
, “and I’m sorry that you didn’t have … what I had.”

Until I came along and wrecked it
. “I know, Mo, she was, she’s still, they’re still, they’re really sweet.”

“Don’t be worried.”

“I’m not, I’m just …”
irked
. “She can’t seem to remember when Alexander was born or exactly when he died. Neither can Dad, but Mum keeps on—”
don’t say “looping”
—“returning to it. As though she gets caught in a thought-snare, and the harder she struggles to remember, the tighter the … loop gets.”

“What a lovely way of putting it, Rosie, you really have a way with words.”

“Thanks, Mo.” She sips. “Maybe if we can nail down the dates, it’ll help her let it go.”

“There’s a great deal of unprocessed guilt there,” says Maureen.

“And guilt is toxic.”

“I said grief.”

“No, you said guilt.”

“Rosie, I know what I said.”

“How’s Zoltan?”

“He’s driving me crazy.”

She chuckles. “Good.”

“I’ve given him an ultimatum: either he cleans out the garage or I’m dialing one-eight-hundred-got-junk. I stepped on a rake and nearly concussed myself reaching for a case of juice boxes.” Mo’s nest will never be quite empty, she still buys bulk. “How are you doing on your own with the kids, Rosie? You’re really in the trenches.”

“It’s okay, it’s great, it’s a learning curve.”

“I wish I were next door and could help you.”

Mo visited the winter after Matthew was born. She cooked and cleaned and picked up six months of frozen dog poo from the backyard. They drank Ovaltine spiked with cognac and watched
Pride and Prejudice
; she changed diapers, organized the spice drawer and replaced the flapper thing in the downstairs toilet tank; she laughed every time Mary Rose did her impression of Melanie singing “Ruby Tuesday.” Then Maggie was born and she did the same thing, plus helped Hil with the breast pump and mended Matthew’s beloved Bun, cross-stitching into the night. But for all that, Mary Rose wound up on antibiotics both times—perhaps she too is being stalked by a Rumpelstiltskinny disease, weakening her, one dry hacking cough at a time.

“You do help, Mo, Mum and Dad spend every winter out there practically next door to you and I don’t have to worry about a thing.”
Cough
.

“Mummy and Daddy are going to need some form of assisted living soon. I wish they’d darn well move out here for good.”

“Have you talked to Dad?”

“He changes the subject.”

Dolly and Dunc spent a good deal of their married life moving their family from one posting to the next. So long as another move remains on the horizon, they don’t have to think of the place they are currently living in as the last place. Or admit that the next move will
be the last one. And neither does Mary Rose. But what if her parents do move out to the west coast? So much for the regular visits. Her children will miss out on whatever brief time remains with their grandparents—they’ve already lost Hil’s mother. It’ll be all packeeges and phone calls and e-mails,
Dear Dad, I …
She says, “I wish they’d move here.” Will she go to hell for this lie? Is it a lie?

Silence. Then, “Rosie, you don’t mean that.”

“I guess I don’t really.”

“You’ve got your hands full already.”

“I know. I wish the country wasn’t so big.”

“I know, me too.”

I’m going to lose my parents again … my sister is taking them away
.

“I wish Zoltan were here to de-Facebook my computer.” Now that is a lie. Her brother-in-law is a highly qualified IT systems and security engineer. She doesn’t want him anywhere near her computer.

“I can put him on the phone, he’s just driving up—”

“No, that’s okay—”

Calling, “Zolty!” Then, to Mary Rose, “Oh no … oh, what’s he doing? Oh for Pete’s sake, he’s taking a big Home Depot box out of the back of the Jeep—”

“I better let you go.”

Mary Rose loves Zoltan. He taught her to play Risk when she was eleven—doubtless more out of an excuse to spend twelve hours at a stretch in the MacKinnon house than even his considerable enthusiasm for the game. Mary Rose wonders if Andy-Patrick would be better adjusted if he had a big brother. Alexander would have been three years older than A&P. Two?

And as though reading her mind, Maureen says, “The dates would be in the photograph Daddy took at the grave.”

“Oh. Wow, you’re right. Mo, you’re amazing.”

“Look for the album next time you’re in Ottawa.”

“It’s not in the album.”

“Did you take it out?”

“No, Mum must’ve, it’s been gone for ages.”

“I never liked looking at that picture.”

“Neither did I.”
Lie
. “Do you think she tore it up?”

“Well, can you blame her?”

Of course. Mum may have got rid of the photo because it was painful. Mary Rose, with the egoism of a child, had blamed herself for its disappearance. But now it makes sense. Adult sense.

“He was born in December,” says Mo slowly, “but they placed the stone in spring. I can almost make out the numbers …”

“Is that around the time you hung me over the balcony?” She grins. “Rosie, why on earth would I have done that?”

“Because you had to look after me and I was a terrible-two.”

She hears Maureen sigh. “Okay, smarty-pants, where was Mum while this was supposedly going on?”

“…  Wow, Mo, I just realized something. I’ve always thought of the balcony as this kind of funny, bizarre thing? But … if it really happened, then it means Mum must have been really … out of it.”

“Rosie. She was depressed.”

“Of course. I know that, I guess … I just never really connected those dots before.”

Mo sighs again. “I see what you mean. Mummy could hardly get up off the couch. Of course it could have happened. Cripes. I’m sorry.”

Mary Rose says, “I forgive you,” and chuckles. But Mo is silent. “Mo? It’s actually one of my favourite memories.” Her triumph in getting her older sister to admit to the “balcony scene” is short lived. Now she feels guilty for making Maureen feel guilty.

“Mo, what time is their train, I can’t get a straight answer out of Mum.”

“Don’t worry about any of that, Rosie, I’ll let you know as soon as I know.”

That’s more like it. Efficient Mo. The-boss-of-me-Mo.

“Thanks.”

“Now, try to be early. I’m afraid Mummy may wander and Daddy will carry the bags himself and run into difficulty.” Die of a heart attack in public, leaving Mum lost and keening. Or making loads of new friends. “I’m not crying, don’t you cry!”

She glimpses Matthew heading into the powder room and resolves to bite the bullet and start potty training Maggie first thing tomorrow—Hil is right, it isn’t fair to hold her back.

“I’ll be there. Wait, when?”

“Sometime this weekend—I’ll let you know for sure. Have a good evening, Rosie Posie.” Mo has to go, she is at work after all, it’s three hours earlier out in Victoria.

“Oh, Daisy almost bit the mailman.”

“I hate our mailman,” says Mo with sudden bitterness.

She is on Lipitor—so are Dad and Andy-Patrick, while Mum is on something for her adult onset diabetes. Mary Rose is the only one not on meds. She pours another fingernail.

“Why?”

“He kicked Molly Doodle.”

Molly Doodle is a cairn terrier, every bit as territorial as Daisy, but at nine pounds, while her transgressions might cost a new pair of pants, Daisy’s will cost her her life. “That’s horrible.” A howl arises from the bathroom—“I gotta go.”

She rushes in. Matthew is standing with his pants down, crying. He has peed all over the floor, having been unable to get the child-locked toilet lid open.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, that wasn’t your fault, come let’s get you changed.”

She rescues the tofu and steams some green beans. After supper, the marathon that is bedtime is achieved with the usual gnashing of teeth and rending of towels, splashing, laughing, screaming; toothpaste is ingested, hair is combed, a flood averted, jim-jammies are
snuggled into, stories read, songs sung, glasses of water fetched and mopped up. In due course, they are in bed.

She kisses Matthew on the forehead. “Good night, sweetie pie.”

“G’night, Mumma.” His words are muffled by his thumb as he slips it into his mouth. He is only five. There will be time enough to worry about orthodontics and oral fixations later. He has every right to self-soothe.

She winds his glass unicorn and it tinkles his favourite tune. It was her first gift to him, and he keeps it on his windowsill where it prisms the light each morning.

She slips into Maggie’s room and sees she is asleep, baby brows furrowed, sucking intently on a soother. She reaches down to stroke her back, but the child pulls away.