lives at home?”
“Good question. A year ago he said he planned to move out but something, I have no idea what it was, changed his mind.” She tapped her dessert spoon to punctuate her comments. “Since it seemed he didn’t intend to leave, we converted the third floor into an apartment for him and Tomas. I think Ivan needed privacy. After all, he is twentythree. But I worry about him. Even though he and Tomas have always lived part-time with us, Ivan’s never allowed me to get close. I know inconsequential details—how he prefers buttondown shirts, is allergic to wool, hates anything made with tofu, but nothing important.”
“What about Tomas? How did his second year at UNB go? What’s he doing this summer?”
“He’s finished exams and came home last Friday. He didn’t try for a summer job relating to his engineering course—he’s working at a fast food restaurant. But that’s okay because he’s swimming competitively, and shift work allows him time to practice.” She grinned. “He wants to swim Lake Ontario.”
“Now that’s a serious ambition,” Hollis said. She enjoyed hearing Manon speak about her son and stepsons. Her voice and expression reflected love and affection. Whatever bothered her didn’t involve them. That left Curt, Manon’s husband.
“How’s Curt? Painting twenty hours a day?”
“He’s not...” Manon paused and laid the spoon down, “great.” She aligned her water glass with her dinner knife. Her shoulders slumped, and her voice dropped.
“In what way?”
Manon sighed and moved her plate a fraction. “It’s his heart.”
“His heart,” Hollis repeated.
“After Christmas, he started taking afternoon naps. And his grey skin—it scared me.” Manon picked up and examined a fork. “I gently suggested he see a cardiologist. He not only refused, he shouted at me. He said I obsessed about health, my own and everyone else’s. Told me to worry about myself and leave him alone.” She pushed the fork’s tines into the table cloth. “One day in February, he was in his studio talking with Sotheby’s in New York—they had three of his paintings in an auction. He gasped and stopped talking. Whoever he was speaking to heard him whisper ‘911’. She called Toronto. Minutes later, paramedics whisked him off to St. Mike’s.”
“My God, what was it? How bad? How is he now?”
“A heart attack, one totally blocked artery. Angioplasty isn’t an option. He’s waiting for bypass surgery.” Manon stopped fiddling and looked at Hollis.
“Waiting—you’re kidding.” What must it be like to cope with a heart attack threat on a daily basis? Constant worry. Every pain, no matter how small, possibly the beginning of “the big one”. What a way to live.
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