September 14, 2015 | Occasus | Issue 5 | Fiction

Reflections

   
    There is an old woman who lives between my walls. Most days she stays hidden but I always know that she is there, creeping behind the paint and plaster, her frail body barely making a sound as she moves from room to room. I catch her in the spaces in-between: a wisp of grey hair, sagging skin around tired eyes, an unsteady hand; then she is gone. Other days she lingers and stares, green eyes searching my face for answers that I don’t have. We spend our days together, separated only by the thin walls of my house and the memories that crowd my head. I call her Nan, because she reminds me of my grandmother; she doesn’t call me anything.

        My son holds me by the crook of my elbow as he walks me from his car to my door. I move with a deliberate slowness, wincing so that John is certain I am in pain. There is a fine line between playing up my injuries and over-acting; I tread this line carefully. Glancing up at my house, I catch Nan’s lined face peering out at me from my bedroom window. Just a glimpse and then she is gone. She doesn’t like strangers.
        “Elizabeth’s class is doing this school play about Thanksgiving. She’s got this role as one of the turkeys. You should see her costume, mom, it’s hilarious. Keep on walking, we’re almost at the door.” John crowds the chilly fall air with his one-sided conversation, speaking in a determinedly calm and steady voice as if to will us both into believing that I am all right. He firmly believes that one can keep any disaster at bay as long as you speak to it with firm confidence. His face is just visible behind the bag of ice I’m holding up to my swollen eye. I’m momentarily shocked by how grown up he looks. He keeps shooting uneasy grins in my direction but I refuse to return a smile.  
        I passed out in the grocery store this morning. Three stiches and a deep purple bruise mark the spot where my face hit a shelf in the cereal aisle. A dizzy spell, the Emergency Room doctor had called it, “Nothing to be worried about at this point, these things sometimes happen as we age.” I resented her cheery use of the word we; she looked as if she had just graduated from high school.
        I don’t remember falling, or much of the time I spent in the E.R. waiting to be stitched up. More than two hours had passed before I asked a nurse to call my son and tell him where I was.
        I didn’t tell the nurse that for those two hours I’d forgotten I had a son.
        I catch Nan’s eye again as I walk through my front door before she disappears again. She looks at me sadly. I can tell by her face that sometimes she forgets things too.

        John leads me to a big green armchair in the corner of my sitting room, and I am instructed to keep holding the bag of ice to my eye. I feel a jolt of irritation at his even tone, but I’m too exhausted to protest. Instead, I turn my head away from him and glare intently at the spot in the corner where the faded floral wallpaper has curled away from the wall. I think about the years that have passed by in this room, remembering the many birthday parties and Christmas mornings. I imagine the wallpaper slowly pulling away, unsticking itself so gradually that it took years before anyone noticed.
        Once John is satisfied that I won’t fall out of my chair, he moves towards the kitchen to make us tea. I’ve seen him walk into that kitchen a thousand times before. He’s in his forties now and heavier than he used to be, but John still slouches towards the fridge with the same boyish optimism he displayed as a teenager. When he was growing up, John would eat anything. A shadow falls across my lap and I sense the memories standing around me, crowding my peripheral vision. They start by lightly tapping me on the shoulder, but soon the memories are shoving me, demanding my full attention. I cling to my bag of ice, hoping it will anchor me here in the present. It isn’t enough, so I give up.

        Bathed in the yellowish light of the early morning sun, my sixteen-year-old boy is slumped over our small kitchen table; still wearing the jeans and t-shirt he had left the house in last night. He is fast asleep. A small pool of drool has collected beneath the crook of John’s elbow, his forehead stuck to his forearm. John’s breathing is deep and heavy and his nose makes a soft whistling sound with every exhalation. The scent of cigarette smoke and stale beer cling to his grungy clothes.
        I know that I’m supposed to be angry: he should have been home by midnight, and I absolutely hate smoking. But his pimply face looks so innocent, and I can’t quite bring myself to react the way I should. I battle my conscience for a few seconds and then decide to haul my clunky old vacuum cleaner into the kitchen. The deafening roar of the machine sends John crashing to the floor in total bewilderment. I meet him on the kitchen floor soon after, shaking uncontrollably with laughter.
        John spends the rest of the morning vacuuming the house: a fitting punishment to compliment his hangover. There will be time to be angry with him later.

        John returns and places a mug of tea in on the table beside me and I realize that the bag of ice has been steadily dripping onto the carpet, creating a lake beneath my feet. He sits down on the couch but I feel a twinge of irritation as I catch him glance at his phone. Now that I’m settled, he’s itching to leave, but I won’t make it easy for him to go. I want to ask him about my granddaughter, but I can’t find the words. Instead I stare out of the window, sulking, while my tea grows cold. I shift my weight in the chair and pull a face- I want him to feel guilty when he leaves.
        Unfazed by my grimaces, John drains the remainder of tea from his mug and stands. “I’ve got to go now mum, Elizabeth has soccer practice tonight. You’ll be fine here. I’ll call you tomorrow.” 
        I’m afraid of what will happen when he leaves, but I don’t tell him that. Instead, a steady stream of complaints leave my mouth, following John to the door. He is used to my complaining. He just smiles wearily, which irritates me more. “Bye mum, you can call me if you need anything.”
        I won’t call. I don’t tell him that I can’t call. I don’t tell him that most days all the numbers on my phone wiggle and stick their tongues out at me, melting together so that I can’t read them.
        John’s car disappears around a corner but I continue to stare out the window, confused. I can’t remember where he’s going or if he’s coming back. 

        One day slides into the next, mixing together in my head. I hear Nan tiptoeing around the house, but I have not seen her for days. She can be quite the troublemaker – sometimes she moves my things around so that I don’t know where they are. I am forever finding things in odd places: keys in the fruit bowl, plates in the oven, rain boots in the pantry. I’ve started leaving notes all about the house so that she knows where things should go. I worry about Nan. She looked so thin when I saw her last. I don’t eat often, but when I do, I always save some food and leave it out for her to find. She never eats it, but I leave it out anyways.
        John phones me twice a week. This is how I keep time.

        I spend Christmas Day with John and his family. There are people everywhere, cousins and second cousins, aunts, uncles, grandchildren, nieces and nephews. There is so much noise and so many faces all chatting and asking me questions as I try desperately to remember who they are. I pull myself through the bright colours and loud sounds, finding a place on a couch to steady myself. I am at John’s house. I am at John’s house. I have to keep repeating this in my head so that I don’t forget.

        It is John’s first Christmas; he is almost a year old. I’m watching him sit amongst the piles of torn wrapping paper and ribbons, playing with some toy my sister has picked out for him. The toy has a shiny coating on it and John can see his reflection on its surface. He stares, transfixed, the look on his face fluctuating between bewilderment and excitement as he tries to figure out what he’s seeing.
        I sit there watching him, feeling completely at peace.

        The pop of a Christmas cracker pulls me back to here, making me jump. I laugh at my surprise. Everyone looks on and smiles, so I keep on laughing until tears are running down my face and I can hardly breathe. I am at… I can’t finish the thought. I’m smiling but sobbing as I frantically search through the concerned faces for someone that I recognize. The room is hot and stuffy; the air sits on my tongue like glue. The walls and ceiling press down in on me so that I can barely breathe. I have no idea where I am or who any of these people are.
        Hours later, John stops his car in my driveway. For a while we just sit in the dark. I stare at my house, searching for Nan in one of the darkened windows.
        “Mum… What is happening?”
        When I look at John, I am startled to see that he has been crying. I don’t know how to answer his question, so I don’t say anything at all.

        John starts visiting the house once a week. A lady that I don’t know starts coming round to clean and fix meals. Then, one day John drives me to a big building where several people are there greet me, painting rainbows with their calm, bright voices. I don’t believe them for a second, but John keeps telling me that things are going to be all right. Everything smells like hand sanitizer and cleaning solution. They have a room just for me. There is a squashy red chair and a television and a bed with a brightly coloured quilt on it and my own washroom. Old men and women who look like Nan sit at tables and around televisions. Some wander up and down the hallways. One man carries around a baby doll; a woman wearing a housecoat smiles and wishes each person she passes a happy birthday.
        When John leaves, I lock myself in my washroom and shout at the nurses every time they try to get me to come out. I throw myself dramatically onto the floor. Just let me die in here. If I act miserable enough John will have to come back and get me. Good thing I am excellent at being miserable.

        When I finally stand up again, I find myself face-to-face with Nan. Her grey hair hangs limply around her face, tangled and unkempt. There are dark shadows under her eyes, which are wearily searching my face. Her mouth opens just slightly, as if she wants to ask me a question, but she does not speak. For a minute, or maybe for an hour, we stand in in silence. I want to tell her we’ll be ok, so I reach for her arm. My hand is stopped by a flat, cold glass surface.
        I don’t know why this makes me so sad.

LYNDSAY FEARNALL is a fourth year student at Huron University College where she is completing an Honours Specialization in English Language and Literature.