powder room I choose the one with the handicapped sign on the door, where there are cold metal bars to hang on to. I look into the bathroom mirror and think of Nikky. He has my eyes. Voluminous pools. He’s not at all like his father. I busy myself with washing my hands, waiting for the tepid water to turn hot.
Geoff speeds into the parking lot and honks his horn. The passenger door flings open before the truck even comes to a full stop. It’s raining again and I’ve forgotten my umbrella. I get into the truck and wish my son would ask questions about my appointment or Nikky’s visit, but he stares at the road and twiddles the windshield wiper controls.
“I can take a cab, dear, if driving me is a hassle.” I hold on to the passenger door as Geoff rounds a corner too quickly.
“Waste of good money.” Geoff shakes his head no.
“Nikky took a cab to the bus station,” I say, trying to pique a reaction. “He didn’t see Annette.” Geoff turns up the volume on the radio. I think I heard him mumble “Kid’s messed up,” but I’m not certain. I worry about Nikky, trying to take care of himself in Vancouver. Will he do his own laundry? Did I give him enough money? Should I send more? What is he eating? It starts to rain harder. Geoff twists the windshield wiper controls again, agitated. He adjusts the fan and vents then bangs his hand on the steering wheel.
“Can’t see a damned thing.” He leans forward and rubs condensation off the windshield with a swoop of his hand. “Quit breathing so hard, Ma.”
A small stream of water pours down from the roof of the truck, onto Geoff’s matted hair and the front of his dirty ski jacket. “Goddamn roof leaks. Goddamn rain.”
The bulky shape of my condo building appears ahead. I fret about what the rain will do to my set hair. It won’t do to arrive home looking as bedraggled as my son. Geoff screeches to a stop at the door, under the lobby overhang so I won’t get wet.
“I’ll bring the groceries on Friday.” Geoff reaches around me to open the passenger door. “I won’t forget.”
“That will be nice. Thank you.” I climb out, taking my time. Geoff watches, trying to be attentive. “Call your son,” I say and push the door closed. The lobby is toasty warm after the damp of the truck, and, as I shake the rain off my coat, I feel my silver curls still bouncing.
Back upstairs I decide to make a batch of blueberry scones. I’ll feed them to the seagulls if Charles declines a visit again after our walk. I pace in the living room while waiting for the oven timer to ring, thinking about Nikky. And Charles. The timer bleats its staccato beep and I place the scones on a trivet to cool, checking and rechecking to make sure I’ve turned the oven off. I flip the pages of a mystery novel, realizing I’m clever enough to have already figured out whodunit, but not enough to know whether Charles wants to see me. I pour myself a glass of ice wine. And then another.
I feel something prickling my face. Carpet. The colour of slate. The same shade as the dull morning light streaming through the windows. Wobbly, I push myself up to my feet using the chair for support. I step over to the windows and watch tufts of morning fog coming up from the water, rolling up like the spasms in my stomach. Near-invisible cars inch along the highway, headlights cutting through interminable grey. My TV is still on, broadcasting an exercise show. The arms of the clock splay vertical. Six a.m. I walk down the hall past Nicky’s still unmade bed. The flowered coverlet on my own bed is still smooth.
In the bathroom, I let the water warm up as I undress, shedding clothes into the white vinyl-covered hamper. I stand for a long time, wavering under the steady spew of hot water in the shower. I feel the cool white tile, then my forehead, receiving water on my head like a blessing. It reminds me of my last confession, so many years ago. I’d fallen in love. Jean-Marc. Montreal was such a romantic city. But I also remembered the teenage confusion, rejection. The priest had listened, but I felt as though he were laughing at me, grinning behind the curtain. I vowed to never let myself expose such naked feelings again. I let go of the tile. “Je m’excuse,” I whisper, feeling as ashamed as a child. “I am too old for a hangover.” I let the words hang in the steam, swirling to encircle me. I wobble out of the shower and wrap myself in a pale yellow towel, unable to dry my own back. Too old.
I find my robe and slippers, make coffee, and sit down at the dining table to watch the fog dissipate, along with my headache. The tide begins to change, the waves agitated like worries. Charles. Nikky. Geoff. Parkinson’s. Losing control. Losing authority. Losing. Drinking. Medications. Charles. Too old.
I shuffle to my bedroom to get dressed. I put my ear up against the wallpaper above my nightstand. I can hear a clock radio tuned to the CBC. Charles. If I knock on the wall, Charles will hear me. I sit on the bed and decide that I have nothing to wear. Geoff. I notice fine dust collecting on my old cedar trunk. Nikky. I get down on my hands and knees, push the trunk open. Wool. Knitting needles. I’d forgotten my idea. I finger the skeins, feeling their textures for the first time after so many years. The yarn is something tangible. Useful. I have what looks like enough charcoal grey yarn to make a sweater for Nikky. It will match his eyes. And I can cast off the final rows with black, his favourite colour, for contrast. I select a pair of size-eight needles from my orange plastic needle holder, nestle the wool in my arms, and return to the living room. I sit down in my big chair and begin to knit the first sleeve, counting the stitches aloud as I cast them on. Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq … Without a few steadying drinks in me, each stitch is a struggle. After a few rows my fingers began to ache. Progress will be slow, but I have time. I can keep busy, filling long afternoons with the rhythmic conflation of knit and purl, sips of tea, and a kaleidoscope of memories. I’m quite certain Nikky’s sweater will be ready for him by the time he returns.
I glance at the clock. Somehow it’s already five minutes to ten. I set my knitting down and head to the elevator. I’m shaking. My medicine isn’t working. But when the elevator doors open, I see Charles already waiting for me at the lobby door.
“Good morning, Charles.” He holds the door open for me and I step through it, popping my umbrella open.
“Good morning, Hélène,” he says, unfurling his.
We walk at our usual slow pace through the mist. I catch Charles looking at me and return his gaze, lobbing it back like a badminton shuttlecock. I was good at that game in my day.
“Feeling all right?” he inquires.
“Oh yes,” I say, thinking of my new knitting project. “Just fine. And yourself?”
“Well, thanks.”
We step to the side to allow a jogger and his big brown dog to dash past. I feel Charles looking at me. He stands still. So do I. He reaches his hand toward my face and touches my cheek so softly the sensation gets caught in a gust of wind and twirls all around me. For a moment the weather holds me steady.
“Hélène,” he says.
I want to touch his hand, but he’ll feel me shaking.
“I don’t want to be like other old people,” I say.
Charles lets his hand fall to his side.
“We don’t complain, though,” he says. “Like other old people and their incessant blather about their aches and pains.”
I nod. We start walking again.
“You helped me, Hélène,” Charles says. “I can help you.”
There’s a soft authority in his voice. A calm confidence
