hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of children during my decades-long tenure as an elementary school vice-principal, I failed my own son.
It began to get dark, and I walked home in winter twilight, taking one slow step at a time. The bright lights of my ocean-view condominium shone like a beacon. Coming home, I took a deep breath of fresh laundry smell in the crisp and immaculate lobby. I picked up the weekly flyers from the stack on the oak newspaper table, then frowned at my mist-melted silver curls in the antique mirror. On the way to the elevator I glanced up the curve of the grand, milk-coloured stairway and saw a pair of brown Florsheims. That’s when I began to shake.
My neighbour Charles was lying on the carpeted steps in his suit, his briefcase upturned, files scattered. Papers and forms cascaded around his immobile legs. I stumbled down the hall. I stood in front of the superintendent’s door, barely able to lift my hands and make fists to bang for help. I knocked and knocked again until the door swung open. Somehow I squeaked out the words “call nine one one.” Then I returned to Charles to wait with him for the ambulance. Even when I realized he was still breathing I shook and quivered, my Parkinson’s triggering tremors independent of my anxieties. If it weren’t for my solid, ugly orthopedic shoes, I would have lost my balance entirely.
The blaring ambulance sirens were followed by hushed hallway whispers and stares. I overheard Louise De Costa and Doris Lu speculating about it on my way to fetch the newspaper the next morning. When I passed them again they were still talking — debating whether it had been an aneurysm or a massive heart attack. I discounted both theories. Charles returned after a two-night stay in hospital and avoided eye contact with me, and everyone else in the building. He kept to himself, even after his office, Coast Tyee Insurance, published his retirement notice in the Courier-Islander. I understood it was a forced retirement, as a result of his illness. Not an event to be celebrated. I watched and waited for days, then finally cornered him in the mailroom. I wanted to find out if he was all right — from him, not the neighbours.
I clutched three envelopes. All bills. I watched as Charles stuck his hand searchingly into his empty mailbox then locked it back up, turning the key with a sigh.
“Congratulations on your retirement, Charles.” I enunciated each syllable. When nervous, I still have a tendency to speak as though I’m making an announcement over my school’s P.A. system. “We’ll be seeing more of you around here, I expect.” A rare patch of sun shone through the lobby windows and glinted off mailbox steel. I surveyed the carpet pattern. Charles fussed with his new cane. Then he cleared his throat.
“I had a diabetic attack last week, Hélène,” he said, in his slow, steady business voice. He stared past me, making his admission to the mailboxes. Then his voice softened. “Thank you for helping me.”
“You’re welcome. I was glad to.” I hesitated, not sure what else to say, and took two small steps towards the hall.
“I’ve had to make some changes, and now the doctor says I have to start walking every day to control this condition,” Charles continued. “But no hills and no stairs.” I looked back just as Charles lowered his chin and cast his eyes to meet mine, his white eyebrows pinched. The way this facial expression revealed exactly what he was thinking reminded me of my grandson.
“Sounds boring,” he said.
“I’ll walk with you,” I volunteered. “I start to fidget when I stay inside too much.”
I did not add that my son Geoff had taken my driver’s licence away. It was humiliating. Geoff said my hands shook too much on the wheel, even though I could still turn it — quite capably, I thought.
I began meeting Charles in the lobby downstairs at ten every morning. We chose the sea walk as our route, a long path following the Georgia Strait from one end of town to the other. The narrow old island highway stretched beside the paved path, but the sound of the tide somehow drowned out the buzzing traffic. We rarely talked anyway. There was no need to comment on the view of the Pacific, the mainland mountains, the bobbing fishing boats, and the occasional sleek cruise ship. At times, our silences felt weighted. With history, memories, things we did not wish to talk about. But over the days, weeks, then months that followed, the marine ephemera — even the odd seal or heron — became routine. At first I slowed and stopped with Charles when he needed to rest. But, in time, as Charles grew stronger, he set the pace, until finally I realized he was slowing and pausing for me. I was startled the first time Charles reached for my arm to help guide me around a puddle. After that, I took note whenever Charles accidentally brushed his shoulder against me, or put his hand on my back to signal it was time to cross the street. It was simultaneously comforting and comfortable.
I remember now, with embarrassment, how I kept telling Charles that my grandson would be visiting on spring reading break from his studies at the Emily Carr University of Art and Design in Vancouver. I must have mentioned it when we were walking one day, then repeated it the next. I know I blurted it out again one especially rainy Friday. I didn’t realize I’d mentioned it more than once until Charles said, “Yes, you must really be looking forward to it, Hélène.” He gave me a patient look, but I made a note for myself on my mountain scenes calendar: Nikky’s visit. Charles informed. For a few days I even stopped adding as much Baileys to my morning coffee, even though I relied on it for steadiness. I sacrificed a measure of control for a clearer mind. I don’t want Charles to think I’m muddled.
Nikky is going to arrive in town today. I add a little brandy to my tea, rock gently, and wait. I expect the phone call in the evening. The visit tomorrow morning. But the phone rings at three in the afternoon, startling me. Nikky is at the bus station.
“Mom’s got a dog show tonight and when Dad saw me with metal in my face, he turned around and got back into his truck,” Nikky says. “Can I stay with you?”
“Of course, dear.” I feel a quivery thrill to hear Nikky’s young voice. I put on a warm cardigan, grab my keys and wallet, and make my way downstairs to the lobby so I can pay the cab driver when Nikky arrives. I wait and wait. I finally take a seat on the hard, decorative wooden bench by the stairs. Maybe Nikky couldn’t find a cab. Maybe I’d misheard and he’s not coming right away. I stand and gaze out the glass lobby doors. In the distance I see a tall, dark figure walking in the shallow ditch beside the highway, a couple of large transport trucks, no bright orange and green cab. I adjust my glasses. Watch the shadows grow. It begins to rain. The figure turns towards the condo. Nikky? No. Yes. He’s walking.
I stand up and push the door open. Nikky drops his overstuffed, dirty duffel bag to give me a hug. I let him envelop me with too-thin arms, cold cheeks and chin, the sharp smell of unwashed clothes. When I look into his face I see the smoothness of youth before noticing the little spike he’s added to his eyebrow and the ring in his nose. It seems impossible my son could think Nikky’s two pieces of silver are so offensive. I don’t think it’s any worse than the snake tattoo Geoff came home with at Nikky’s age, back in the early eighties. And Geoff had been returning from a logging camp, not school. I squeeze Nikky’s hand and remember being upset at my son. My ex-husband Tibor had been furious. It’s a circular moment. A kind of loop only grandparents can see.
“Let’s get you something to eat.” I reach up and tug at Nikky’s ear. “You’re too skinny.” Nikky shoulders his bag and follows me. When I look back he smiles, but there’s a raw look in his eyes. I choose to interpret it as hunger.
“Let’s stop in at my storage unit first,” I say, rattling my keys. “You can help me get some things from the deep freeze. I’ve been saving them for you.”
Upstairs Nikky falls asleep on the sofa as I cook. A proper roast beef dinner with horseradish, baked potatoes, and dill pickles. A big bottle of red wine, the fine silverware, real china, and proper white linen
