Colours in Her Hands, page 23
“So why do it?”
“I have to do something. I can’t just let her smash a hole in the wall.”
Iris hesitated, but what could she say? The money she was giving Mina was going to undermine Bruno’s attempt to discipline her — but the money was also the only way she could get the embroidery.
“And what about her birthday now?” Bruno had gotten tickets to an acrobatic dance and circus troupe from Belgium. “I can hardly take her out to celebrate while she’s being punished.”
“Come on,” Iris objected. “You keep telling me how important birthdays are to her. You can’t not celebrate her birthday.”
“You’re right, I can’t. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“Begin by withholding her spending money,” Iris said gently. “I’ll talk to her too. Maybe I can get her to understand that she has to get along with her neighbour.”
A snort escaped him. “If you can get her to understand that she doesn’t live on an island unto herself, it’s more than I ever managed.”
She leaned against him and he put an arm around her shoulder. “Are you still seeing those otters in the river?” he asked.
“I see gulls. And two herons.”
“Ha-ha. Aren’t you funny? I see them too. Pretty hard not to. Oh,” he interrupted himself. “Guess what? I’m getting a cell phone.”
“I thought you said you were never getting one.”
“My antique guys complain they can’t reach me and I’m losing work. Val too. She used to be reliable with emails, but now she’s sending texts all the time. But listen, I absolutely do not want Mina to have the number. It would be like handing her a leash to strangle me.”
“Understood. Zipped lips.”
* * *
Me! cried the yellow. Mina loved this yellow because it made her think of the flowers Mama used to grow under the kitchen window. She licked her fingers to wet the thread and said, “D-d-do it,” to make it poke through the needle. She was knitting on oatmeal-coloured cloth Iris called linen. Linen was good for knitting but why such a blah colour? She had to knit and knit and knit and knit to cover it. Blues and yellows, lighter and darker. Little pinholes of green.
She wasn’t telling a story because she had to go through every step of the plan in her head to be ready. The spool of pink cord was on the kitchen table. Pink like bubble gum, only it didn’t stretch like bubble gum. It would be tight!
Nobody was going to find out this time, not even Bruno. She wasn’t happy with him at all right now. She didn’t like him. He didn’t put her blinds up yet and he wasn’t giving her money this week or next week. That wasn’t right! It was her money. But! She would let Iris buy an extra knitting on Tuesday, and $35 was better than $20 because $20 was only $20, but $35 was a $20 and a $10 and a $5. Bruno could go fart in the flowers!
Normally she went to bed at midnight, but tonight she stayed up waiting for everyone in the whole apartment building to be asleep. She hadn’t even taken her Metamucil and orange juice yet. Both watches said 00:26. She was waiting till 00:35 because 35 was her new lucky number.
She’d tugged the pink cord between her fists as hard as she could and it didn’t break — and she was stronger than that old lady next door. Her and her friend across the hall were always talking and making crooked eyes at her. Mama said no one was allowed to call her a retard. If they did, she was supposed to tell, but telling on people didn’t always make them stop.
At 00:35 she stuck her needle in the pincushion and set her knitting aside. She dropped the spool of pink string and a pair of scissors in her pockets. At the door she considered the slippers on her feet and then went back to sit on the sofa to kick them off. Her slippers were quiet but socks were quieter. She’d shut off the TV at midnight the way she always did, so that anyone listening would think she was asleep.
She’d already slipped her key fob in her pocket and patted her hip to make sure it was still there. She wasn’t going to lock the door going out because she was only going down the hallway, but Bruno had told her never to leave her apartment without her key.
Did she have everything she needed? Scissors, extra strong pink string, her key.
* * *
When Bruno got home, the answering machine was flashing with six messages. That would be Mina calling six times to harass him about putting up her blinds or to shout about her money. Ignoring the me-me-me! flash of the light, he went to the kitchen to put water on to boil for pasta, grabbed Parmesan, mushrooms, and the carton of eggs from the refrigerator.
But what if it was Iris? He walked back to the living room and jabbed the button on the machine. The first call, as he’d expected, was Mina. She seemed to be protesting her innocence, but he couldn’t tell about what. Her stutter was worse than usual. Then Faiza’s shrill voice.
“Monsieur Corneau, we need to speak immediately! This is urgent! Please call me immediately!” The next message was Faiza again, reiterating the urgency. Then Mina again. And again. Something about going to bed at night and sleeping? The last message was from Faiza, this time with her private number. It was absolutely important that he call, no matter the hour.
Shit. What had Mina done?
He picked up the phone, wondered which version to get first, and decided that Faiza’s might be closer to consensual reality. As he listened to her, he dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. For once he didn’t object that she had no proof. Who but Mina could have dreamt up such a simple yet wackily effective stunt?
“It’s out of my hands,” Faiza said, sounding unnaturally subdued. “With the hole in the wall and now this, your sister has shown she’s a danger to others and needs more supervision.”
“Which means?”
“She’s been put on a list for a group home.”
He dropped his head. A stone on his shoulders. Faiza was still talking. He couldn’t take it in. And then lifting his head, interrupting her, “You know she’ll fight it every step of the way. And she’s capable of wreaking more havoc in a group home where she doesn’t want to be than if she’s left in her apartment where she wants to be.”
“As I said, we have no choice. It’s only a question of time before she does something more dangerous.”
He didn’t want to agree but he knew she was right. “Did you tell her?”
“We thought you might be able to explain it so she would understand.”
A mirthless laugh. “Understand? She won’t ever. But yes, it’s probably better that I tell her.”
He felt grim as he walked to Mina’s. He’d known she wouldn’t be able to stay in her apartment forever, but given her health, she should have been able to live there for a while yet.
When he pressed the intercom, she didn’t answer. He pressed again, longer. She still didn’t answer and he was about to use his key when he heard, “Yeah!” Defiant.
“It’s me. Let me in.” The door buzzed.
She was toddling back to the sofa. Green plaid pants stretched wide across her bum, striped yellow sweater drooped off her narrow shoulders. Exasperated as he was by what she’d done, he felt sorry for her. The world as she knew it was about to tip into an abyss and she would never understand that she was the one who’d tipped it.
She pointed an accusing finger at the boxes with the blinds that he hadn’t put up yet, but didn’t otherwise acknowledge him. MiNA was printed in heavy black marker across them.
He leaned to reach for the remote but she clamped her hand over it. “Turn it down,” he said.
She didn’t.
“No problem. I’ll unplug the TV.”
She pursed her mouth but turned the sound down.
He took a seat across from her in the armchair. This wasn’t going to be easy however he did it. “I understand that the police were here this morning.”
She arched her eyebrows but said nothing.
“I talked to Faiza. She told me.”
“I d-d-didn’t —”
“You did. Look at me, Mina.”
She slit her eyes at him.
“You tied your neighbours’ doorknobs together.”
Her eyes shone for a triumphant millisecond before she remembered to set her face in denial.
“Your neighbours couldn’t open their doors. They were trapped inside.”
The thought didn’t seem to trouble her, but empathy had never been her forte.
“Did you know they wouldn’t be able to get out with their door-knobs tied together?”
Her mouth was softening to smug satisfaction.
“Of course you knew. You’re not stupid.”
“I’m not stupid!”
“But this is where you miscalculated. One of your neighbours has a cardiac condition — something wrong with her heart. If she’d tried to get out and she couldn’t, she could have died.”
Smugness was turning into not-listening and wanting him to stop talking. He looked around for the pink cord Faiza had described but he didn’t see it. That meant nothing though. Mina knew to hide evidence.
“The problem is that you endangered someone’s life.” Whether or not Mina understood, he had to say it. For himself, if not for her. “I’ve told you and I’ve told you and I’ve told you. You have to get along with the other people in the building if you want to stay here.”
“I have my l-l-lease!”
“The lease can be ripped up when you do something really bad. You’ve done a few things that are really bad. This last one was beyond really bad.”
“She — !” Mina jabbed a finger in the direction of the neighbour’s apartment.
“I have no doubt that she provokes you. But she didn’t make that hole in your wall and she didn’t tie her doorknob to the doorknob across the hall.”
“Yeah!” Mina shouted.
“No, Mina.” How could he protect her if there was no telling what she would dream up next? “You’re going to have to leave your apartment. You’re going to be moved.”
Whatever protest she wanted to blurt made her choke and she started coughing. He went to the kitchen and brought a glass of water. “Drink some.”
She gasped. “M-m-m-my lease —”
“Forget the lease. The police want you out, Social Services want you out, the owner of the building wants you out. You can’t live here anymore.” Blunt words but they were simple and she understood. He could see it in the shock on her face.
“Mama said you had to!”
He opened his empty hands. “What you did has proven you can’t live unsupervised. I’m sorry, Mina, but that’s how it is.”
“Mama said!” she bellowed.
“Mama had no idea what you would get up to.”
“I w-w-won’t go!”
“We don’t have any choice. The things you’ve been doing lately . . . Even I can’t argue that you should stay here.”
“No!”
“Remember how you didn’t want to move from your apartment where you lived before? And look how comfortable you are now. Wherever you go next, you’ll get comfortable there too. I’ll still be watching out for you — and Faiza and Iris. I know you think losing your apartment is the end of the world but it isn’t.”
Again he lifted his empty hands. For him, this was a failure too. He’d done his best but it wasn’t enough. “I’m going to leave you to think about it, okay? I know you don’t understand but . . .”
Mina had grown very still, eyes latched onto the TV. He wasn’t sure what to do for her. Faiza hadn’t said how soon there would be a place for her in a group home. If it was anything like the move from her last apartment, he would have months to talk to Mina and get her accustomed to the idea.
* * *
Iris walked as quickly as she could, breaking into a trot now and again. Bruno had called and told her what Mina had done. He sounded so defeated. Nothing was as important to Mina as her apartment, but not even he could argue that she should stay there if she was doing things that endangered other people. What if she tried to start a fire to burn down the neighbour’s door without realizing the whole building would go up in flames? She’d basically proven that she couldn’t be trusted to live by herself anymore.
He asked Iris if she could look in on her in the morning. Of course, Iris said. But as soon as she hung up, and even though it was already past nine when no one was allowed to call because Mina had a roster of TV characters to check up on, Iris called. No answer. Was Mina so absorbed in her programs or was she too upset? Upset, Iris decided. For Mina, her apartment wasn’t only her home; it was who she was. Philomena Corneau, as she’d identified herself on her mailbox.
When Iris tried calling again and Mina still didn’t answer, she shoved her feet into her shoes and grabbed a sweater. She would go see her and talk face-to-face. Try to comfort her. If nothing else, let her vent about Bruno.
The lamps that lit the path through the park turned the trees into stretched bodies with monstrous ghoulish heads. She would tell Mina that it wasn’t her apartment that made her special. It was her creativity. That was Philomena. And she could do that anywhere. Nobody could take that from her. Iris would help her to understand that.
She’d never visited Mina this late and didn’t know if she would answer the intercom. On the sidewalk she saw the light from Mina’s lamp and the syncopated flashes from the TV. For days Mina had been complaining that people could see into her apartment because Bruno hadn’t installed her blinds yet, but the ground floor of the building was high enough from the sidewalk that Iris could only see the upper half of the walls with the embroidered decals of names.
Iris pressed the intercom, waited, then pressed it again. She took out her phone and dialled. Still no answer. She didn’t want to startle Mina, but from the sidewalk she reached up with her phone to rap against the window.
Nothing. Maybe Mina couldn’t hear that over the noise of the TV.
Iris glanced along the sidewalk, then walked around the building. The side door was locked. In the alley she found an abandoned recycling box. It was cracked but it would hold her weight. She carried it to the window, where Mina’s TV continued to flash its manic lightshow, and climbed onto it as lightly as she could, grasping the window ledge for balance.
In Mina’s living room the sofa was empty, except for the usual mound of cushions and embroidery. Iris hopped off and carried the recycling box to the bedroom window. Mina wasn’t there either.
Back to the living room window, fingers gripping the window ledge, Iris craned her neck to see into the kitchen, though its light wasn’t on. She scanned the living room again. The cushions weren’t usually in such a big pile on the sofa.
That was Mina slumped over! Iris jumped — nearly fell — off the recycling box, hand scrabbling into her pocket for her phone.
* * *
Bruno’s eyes burned in the dry hospital air. It was imperative to think about nothing but Mina. He had to believe that he could bring her back from wherever unconsciousness had claimed her.
When Iris called, he’d run from his place, keys clenched in his hand. Breath ragged, he found her unresponsive and pale, sprawled over her cushions. He and Iris propped her upright and he was tapping her face and calling her name, when suddenly the paramedics were there, telling him to move aside. Did she have a heart attack? he demanded. Out of the way, sir, we need space. I can help carry, he said. She’ll be heavy. We’ll be fine, the attendant told him. And added, It’s a good thing she’s bottom-heavy. It kept her from tipping onto the floor. Oh Lord, Bruno thought, Mina has to live so that one day I can tell her she was saved by her big bum.
The ER doctor said she had most likely had a cerebral hemorrhage. They didn’t yet know how severe. She was being taken for a CT scan and would be transferred to the ICU.
Bruno and Iris sat in the icu waiting room. At first, he was glad she was there, squeezing his hand and trying to sit close, but she kept murmuring assurances until he asked her to stop.
As the hours passed, he felt ever more urgently that he should be alone, holding vigil. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, directing his thoughts to Mina. Get through this! You have to! There’s still so much life to enjoy — so many frîtes to eat! Your embroidery and hidden word puzzles. TV and Elvis. The dollar store! You want to go back to the dollar store, don’t you? And you can still do all that, even in a residence. I’ll put the blinds up in your new place. I’ll get you that new lamp you wanted. I’ll, I’ll, I’ll, I’ll . . .
Running running running running, panting and tripping across the tree roots in the forest, desperate to reach the mountain he had to find if he was to save his sister who lay unconscious, her face pale, head lolling on the cushions. Branches and thorns tore at his clothes and skin. It was unholy magic to try to subvert what had been decreed since before they were born, but to not attempt would leave him broken. He could not bear to think she would die. He staggered through the trees until he saw the mountain before him. He knew that at the top was the castle, but its turrets and pinnacles were concealed by veils of mist. Sheer walls of rock rose before him. His hands bled as he tried to climb. He couldn’t find the way and he wept with frustration. I’m here! he called. I’ve come! Finally the raven, who saw how vainly he searched, took pity and showed him the hidden crevice that marked the path. He tried to hand the bird a gold coin in thanks. Keep your gold, he heard. Riches are of no use to me, nor to you in your quest. Go — if you still hope to save your sister! Legend held that there were untold riches in the towers of the castle. Iron-banded chests of jewels, lustrous, thick carpets that had been carried by camels across deserts, handblown goblets in colours that no longer existed. He cared for nothing of this. His steps did not slow. His errand was through the low arched doorway beneath the castle into the dungeon. Here, the air was dank and heavy. Fat candles fluttered atop casks. He walked on soft feet to the stone wall he could sense more than perceive in the gloom. Earthen bricks had been mortared to shape boxes where bottles were stacked, one atop the other. Each was filled, corked, and labelled, though the writing was faded and illegible, eaten by the powdery spread of mould. Many bottles were sealed with a hammered silver cap imprinted with the years the person had lived. Among all these bottles, he had to find his sister’s and steal it. How else to stop it from being capped?
