These Are the Fireworks, page 5
“Life is fleeting,” Don would say, and I’d think, Really? He’d been around for almost a century. That never sounded very fleeting to me. But Dad dying—happily pumping up a hill one minute, then gone the next—put a whole new spin on it. Life could be all over in an instant. I was thirty-six. Time I got off my rapidly sagging ass.
I downed my drink and got another. Jess saw me standing alone and came to join me.
We bumped elbows. “You look good in that suit,” I said.
“I know. Makes me look like I actually have shoulders.” He took a step back and gave me the once-over. “You look good in that dress.”
“I know. Makes me look like I actually have a career.”
“High-powered position working with the elderly. That’s what I’m seeing.” He mouthed, Ver-y sex-y.
“This our version of role-playing? Getting all hot and bothered by putting on big-people clothes?”
“Middle-management porn.”
“Our own sub-genre.”
“Yeah. Who says we’ve never done anything!” He laced his fingers through mine. Warm, slightly sticky fingers. It was like the laying on of hands. He’d always had that effect on me.
“You lost Arlo.” I took a drink of wine. It was a pretty nice Sauv Blanc for a funeral. Tea or sherry in the church hall was the best I could expect with Don’s friends.
“Not lost. Wrenched from my arms! These middle-aged women have serious bloodlust for the babies. Like something from a David Attenborough documentary. Predators of the High-End Suburbs. I think Deb Dudek has him now.”
“What about you?”
“They managed to keep their hands off me, though they did like the suit.”
“I mean, baby-lust-wise. How you doing in that regard?”
“Whoa. Surprise question.”
He waved at a couple who was leaving. “C’mon.” I elbowed him. “Babies, how do you feel about them?”
“Generally positive.” As in who wouldn’t be?
“Do you want them?”
“You were the one who didn’t want them.”
“No I wasn’t.”
“Okay. Didn’t want them yet. You said you wanted to get your career established first. Write that novel. Start that heritage food emporium. Et cetera. Et cetera.”
“And how’s that going for me?”
“Hey, it’s not the destination. It’s the journey.”
“Can it be called a journey if we’ve been at an utter standstill. For years?” I thought of an aspic recipe I’d found in one of Ruth’s cookbooks. Hunks of greying meat suspended in gelatin. Almost too on the nose.
“So what?” Jesse slipped his arm around my waist. “There’s no one I’d rather stand still with.”
“Awwww,” I went, very faux.
“Plus, Don’s our baby.”
“You know how much he’d hate to hear you say that?” I took a swig of wine to keep my heart from breaking.
“Yeah. I hate myself for even thinking it. I just mean he takes up a lot of our time and our love. Plus, I’m not sure my gag reflex could survive changing diapers at both ends of the life cycle.”
I sighed. Seven years ago, we’d thought, Professor Meisner’s great, it’s free room and board and it’ll be a chance for us to concentrate on our manuscripts/theses/business plans, before we burst forth onto the world stage to universal acclaim. We were thinking a year. Two, tops. “It was only supposed to be short-term.”
“He decided to live a little longer than planned.” Jesse shrugged like The Pink Panther. “Whaddya going to do?”
I had a sudden memory of driving to the regional science fair with Dad. I wasn’t a science kid, but I’d worked really hard on my presentation. (Genes Make the Dog: Growing a Pugglier Pug!) It was snowing. We got stuck. My presentation! The ticking clock. We were never going to make it. Dad opened the trunk and got out the sand, the salt, the shovel. He shoved the driver’s seat forward, put me at the wheel, then he pushed and pushed and pushed until the car lurched free. He jumped back in and gunned it, his shiny bald head dripping with sweat, his grey trousers pompommed with slush, his face beaming. When we got to the school, he ran in ahead of me, waving my presentation and hollering, “Nina Fforde! Nina Fforde!” so the judges would know we’d made it in time.
Whaddya going to do?
You just do what you have to do, lambchop. The number of times I’d heard him say that. It takes on a whole new significance, of course, knowing what we know now about our parents’ lives, but back then I just thought he was being a good dad. The best.
“You okay?” Jesse said.
“I need another glass of wine.” I handed him the empty.
“Need?”
I shrugged.
“I shouldn’t enable you.” He kissed my forehead. “But I shall.”
* * *
Jesse wasn’t gone a minute before a large woman bustled up to me.
“You must be Nina,” she said.
“I am.” I found a smile. “And you are…?”
“Bonnie Peters.” She had an odd voice. High and slightly strangulated as if she was trying not to sneeze. “Devastated to have missed the funeral. Had a meeting I absolutely could not escape.”
There was a sort of appealing dishevellment about her. She wore a blocky blue dress, big wooden beads, and enormous statement glasses I suspected were left over from the last time they’d been in style. Her burgundy lipstick was a nice contrast to her grey hair, although she’d had a little trouble staying within the lines.
My first thought was she must be one of Dad’s clients. He’d worked on the new Arts Centre. Professor on the design committee, maybe. She gave off that energy.
“What a mensch Mac was.” She leaned in close, her lips wriggling as if she was remembering something slightly naughty. “And a ton of fun too!”
“Aw. Thank you.” I smiled, despite feeling slightly weirded out by her enthusiasm. Dad was a stellar human being but hardly the life of the party. Plus, nobody ever called him Mac. I rethought the client thing.
“How’d you know my father?”
“Petra and I were university roommates.”
“Really?” She had my full attention now. Mum and Dad had never regaled us with stories of their youth. They were both “forward-thinking.” That was how The Dude had described Dad in his eulogy. He no doubt meant it in regard to structural engineering, but it was true in his personal life too. Yesterday was of no interest to either of my parents.
In fact, yesterday was off-limits. I don’t remember any specific prohibition against it, but we girls somehow knew not to inquire into their past. It would have felt a little like asking about their bowel movements. Let’s talk about something else, shall we? I wasn’t going to miss this opportunity to find out more.
“Wow,” I said “So you were at U of T together.”
“No. McMaster.”
We looked at each other quizzically.
Mum had gone to the University of Toronto. I knew that for sure. We’d talked about it when I was trying to decide on a school myself. She thought I’d like living in the big city, but I wanted something smaller. Leaving Lib was going to be challenge enough.
Bonnie’s dishevellment suddenly seemed less charming and more pathological.
“My mistake!” I touched my forehead. “Long day.” Don didn’t have Alzheimer’s—“still sharp as a tack”—but we’d prepared for it. Jesse and I had taken a course at the local hospital. Don’t fight the delusions, they’d told us. Embrace your loved one’s world view, regardless of how bizarre it might be. “Have you kept in touch?”
“Not as much as I’d like. Emails, the occasional catch-up call but, you know. Different cities. Busy lives. We haven’t seen each other in years. I just happened to be in town for a conference and saw the obit in the paper.” She sniffed loudly. “Oh, sorry. Allergies.”
She started digging in her enormous straw bag. “All the perfumes in here. People are so odd about their natural smells, don’t you think? Dousing themselves in chemicals rather than—God forbid!—letting someone in on the shameful secret that they’re human. I’d take a whiff of good old unwashed crotch over some toxic body spray any day.”
By now, I was thinking nutcase. Dad had been on the board of St. Alban’s for decades. (Chair. Head of the Building committee. Official timekeeper of the Sunday school three-legged race.) The church had an outreach program for the mentally ill. I took in the size of Bonnie’s purse and figured that was the connection. You only needed a bag that big if you’re dragging around all your worldly possessions.
“Ah. There.” She pulled out a hankie and swabbed her nose. “Yes, Petra and I were at med school together.”
“Med school?” Whoa. Go big or go home. So Mum’s a doctor now? Of what? Feng shui?
“Met on our first day and were joined at the hip from then on. In fact, I was with her when she first spotted Mac.” Bonnie’s mouth curled into a tight, delighted U. “She took one look at your father letting loose on the dance floor and said, ‘I have to have him.’ And Petra being Petra, of course, she got him.”
I pressed my tongue hard against the roof of my mouth to keep from laughing. Dad letting loose on the dance floor? There’s one good reason not to think about the past.
“Unfortunately, that was just before Petra and I were heading off to Congo—”
“Congo?” Oh, dear. Here we go.
Bonnie babbled on about derring-do in the jungle. An Ebola outbreak. Men with guns. Wild rides in ancient Jeeps. I was pretty sure I’d seen the same movie. I was hoping my sisters would get back before she finished—this was excellent material—but Bonnie suddenly stopped and said, “Oh. She’s free!”
I turned and saw Mum waving goodbye to the Riordans. Bonnie squeezed my elbow. “Better grab her while I can. Sorry I didn’t get to meet the others. Whirlwind trip! Got a plane to catch.”
She lumbered away. Her ankles spilled heavily over the top of her shoes. I remembered Dad talking about the problems homeless people have with their legs. Always on their feet, nowhere to sit. Everything the woman said may have been nonsense, but I was moved by the effort she must have made to get here. If nothing else, her affection for Dad was real.
She called out, “Pet!” and waved. Mum looked up, a startled half-smile on her face. I wondered if I should step in. Deflect Bonnie somehow. Mum was no doubt exhausted after playing mourner-in-chief all day. The last thing she needed was to deal with a crazy person.
But then I thought no. I’d just make it worse. Jackie O was a pro. I knew she’d handle it with her usual poise.
But she didn’t.
Mum saw Bonnie and she ran to her. Dropped her jaw and ran, like a woman sprinting wide-armed to a grandchild in the airport arrival lounge. They hugged. Squeezed each other hard. Stepped away. Did the whole little dance again.
I couldn’t process what I was seeing. Mum was holding Bonnie’s face in both hands, and they were laughing. Gleefully. Unabashedly. Two twelve-year-olds and a fart joke.
It wasn’t right.
It wasn’t right for my mother to do that, not at Dad’s funeral.
Not when she’d never laughed like that with us.
Petra
Malcolm’s response to tragedy had been to lose weight and find God. Petra had been fine with the weight loss—by his thirties, Malcolm’s exuberant appetite for life had started to show around his middle—but she could never stomach the God thing. Malcolm was a smart man. How could he believe that garbage? Especially after what they’d been through.
She remembered screaming at him—this is when she still did that sort of thing—“God treats us like shit, but we’re supposed to say thanks? Like, hit us again, Lord, because we fucking adore Thee? What’s the matter with you?”
Malcolm gazed back benevolently and started talking about divine mercy.
That did it. Petra said a few truly unforgivable things about the size of his balls, then slammed the door and took off. They were done.
He found her a couple hours later and brought her home. Three little kids. A broken heart. What choice did she have?
She’d shut her mouth but her opinion about religion never changed. She bowed her head reverently enough at the funeral, but that was simple ice dancing. Paint a story for your audience. Make them believe. She could do that.
At least until Sharon had shown up. Petra probably hadn’t handled it as well as she could have but oh, well. She’d said what she’d said. Ken Arnold, one of Malcolm’s golf buddies, had graciously led Sharon outside and got her a cab. “Malcolm’s sister-in-law,” Petra whispered sadly to people waiting in line. The poor woman was understandably upset.
Wayne Dudek had come by with a glass of wine—“Drink up, sweetheart. Doctor’s orders”—but Petra doubted anyone else had noticed her shaking. She’d smiled as the Riordans paid their respects, murmured the right things back, but all she could think was Sharon.
Did Petra really need some ghost from her past showing up now? Was that fair? Hadn’t she done her time? She was tough and proud of it but seeing the person largely responsible for destroying her life had pushed her dangerously close to the breaking point.
And then, out of the blue, Bonnie appeared.
Bonnie, who Petra hadn’t seen in years. Bonnie, who somehow always knew when Petra needed her and what to do.
Her dearest friend.
Her only friend.
Thank God, Petra thought, then ran into her arms.
Nina
“Excuse me? Miss?”
Someone was trying to get my attention. I pulled my eyes away from Mum and Bonnie’s little lovefest to see an older man standing in front of me, not quite smiling.
He was trim, and his suit and haircut were expensive, but there was something crude about his face. A character actor’s face. Small-mouthed and pouchy.
He cleared his throat and introduced himself. “Keith Osterlich.”
I leaned in. “I’m sorry. Keith…?”
“Osterlich.”
He looked slightly annoyed that I didn’t immediately drop to a deep curtsy. At the time, though, I had no idea who he was and I was too tired to care. I’d spent a day smiling dry-toothedly at people I didn’t know.
Plus, who the hell did he think he was?
“Are you a colleague of Dad’s?” I at least had to be polite.
“Actually, Malcolm restored a heritage building for me.”
“Interesting.” So he worked for you, not with you. Thanks for clarifying.
“I was impressed with his attention to detail. An excellent engineer. No complaints at all. I’m sorry to lose him.” And then, almost as an afterthought, “You must be too.”
“Yes. We—”
“Right. Well, my deepest sympathies.” He nodded, Prussian officer–style, then strode off, duty done. I almost made a face behind his back, before remembering this wasn’t junior high. (Alcohol never brought out the best in me.)
I shook a few more hands, heard a few more anecdotes, and then the reception was over. It was after seven. In the back of the hall, Clary was sitting on a folding chair, drinking wine and nursing Arlo. Krish was on the floor beside her, also drinking wine, his back against the wall, black dress shoes forming neatly pointed serifs at the end of his slim outstretched legs. Jesse and Lib were circling a table, picking through the scraps of hors d’oeuvres left out on large silver trays. Jesse had forgotten to bring me my wine. Probably just as well.
I looked across to see what Mum was doing. She was standing alone, adjusting her cuffs, dusting off her shoulders, very much her old self again. Maybe the Bonnie thing had been nothing. Mum just mirroring another person’s behaviour to make them feel comfortable. The perfect hostess.
I headed over. “You survived all right?”
She tipped back her neck and brushed hair off her forehead. I noticed a smear of Bonnie’s burgundy lipstick by her ear. “Yes, darling. Of course. It was actually kind of wonderful, don’t you think? Everyone saying all those nice things about your father? People really were so very, very fond of him.”
“I met Bonnie,” I said because, frankly, that passionate little PDA wasn’t nothing and I knew it.
“Bonnie?” she said. A flicker of what may have been panic.
Or maybe confusion. Mum had talked to a lot of people that afternoon. Could have been more than one Bonnie. I gave her the benefit of the doubt. “Yeah,” I said. “Bonnie Peters.”
A server bustled by with a tray of empties. Mum waved at him like she was hailing the last cab out of war-torn Paris. “Any of those available?”
“Mother. You are not drinking other people’s slops.”
“I’ve been on my feet all day. I don’t care who had a go at it first.”
The server, a balding guy with a tattooed vine curling out of his collar, proffered his tray with a bow. “I just happen to have a lovely untouched Sauvignon Blanc with your name on it.” No doubt an out-of-work actor. My age and apparently doing no better. Maybe worse. I smiled at him.
“Oh, thank goodness.” Mum plucked up the glass and took a swig. She’d never been a swigger, a gulper, a wolfer-down of drink or food or life. But, hey, Dad, I told myself. She was suddenly teetering on the edge of a very deep abyss. Sipping wasn’t going to soften the fall.
“Delicious. Sorry, Nina. You were saying?”
“Bonnie Peters.”
“Who?…Oh, right. Bonnie. Such a doll. Haven’t seen her in ages.”
“She said you went to med school together.”
Mum swivelled her neck back, then kind of slumped forward. “She did? Oh, for heaven’s sake. Why would she say that?” She shook her head. I felt better. Nutcase, just like I’d figured.
“Have you eaten?” Mum said.
“The odd morsel.”
She took my arm. “Come. I have to get something into me before I expire.” We joined the others to graze on cold kebabs and deconstructed “sliders,” then we headed home, too exhausted even to be sad anymore.
