Bone and Bread (17 page)

As a conscientious objector and outspoken atheist, Bassam Essaid claims he will face deadly reprisals should he be forced to return to his country of birth, but the Immigration Board of Canada disagrees.

In his six years in Montreal, despite being unable to work or study, Bassam Essaid has fully integrated into Quebec society. He has also campaigned tirelessly to help other refugees seeking official status. He met and married his wife, herself a Somalian refugee, in Canada, though unlike her husband, her immigration status is secure. Together they have one child, born in Montreal, a baby boy now less than a year old.

I spend a few minutes opening and closing other files, wading through a wealth of these specific functional documents and little that seems personal. But there are hundreds of folders and subfolders to dig through. Following the intricate architecture of my sister's organizational scheme is like lowering myself through an ever-narrowing hole. It is tedious and tiring, and when I turn off the computer, I feel calmer.

Moving the laptop aside, I pull back the covers and crawl in between the egg-blue sheets. The linens, that's something else to deal with. The bed, too. All the furniture. God. I'll need a truck, not to mention somewhere to put it all.

I imagine Quinn in this place, the walls papered over with Radiohead posters and Linux charts, if he were able to move in. And, inevitable at the end of the summer, another packing job. All of Quinn's books and clothes taped into boxes, too. And with the thought of this packing, or in what I tell myself is the terrifying thought of all the work ahead, my lips begin trembling in earnest, and I let my tears leak out onto Sadhana's pillow in a long cry that I lead myself out of only once I start to hear the regular sounds of birds and cars outside. Against this reassuring soundtrack, I begin a mental enumeration of new necessities for Quinn when he leaves home, depending on what the residence hall provides. A proper desk instead of our old kitchen table, a bookcase instead of his planks-and-bricks setup along one wall. Maybe a toaster.

Somewhere in the middle of this inventory, I fall asleep.

I am woken by a distant knocking that I decide is some sort of home improvement project going on in the apartment below. Picture hanging, or maybe crate assembling, something pointless and endlessly loud. I roll over onto my other side, away from the window, pull one of the cushions down over my ear. Then I hear the soft beeping tone of my cellphone ringing inside my purse on the floor. I fumble for it, bringing it to my ear.

“I'm downstairs,” says Quinn. He sounds impatient. “Let me in.”

When I unlock the door, he gives me a hard look, the entitled frown of annoyance of a person who has been kept waiting.

“Hey,” says Quinn. “What were you doing?” He shoves a pamphlet in my face. “New political party,” he says, and with a prescient fear I take it from him, my heartbeat loud in my ears. “It was jammed into the door.”

And so I am barely surprised to see the three-fold glossy emblazoned with the words
MOUVEMENT QUÉBEC/QUEBEC FIRST,
Ravi's affiliation that I saw on the evening news. Literature no doubt left behind by the man who'd yanked on my sleeve. The idea of Quebec independence not a recurring debate so much as a familiar refrain coming around after every new verse. A glance at the pamphlet shows me that it features only the party leader and key platform messages; Ravi's name and those of the other candidates have not been included. And a quick check of Quinn's face reveals no special interest or concern.

“Hi,” I say. “You're here.” I pull back the door to let him in, and the light from outside is dazzling. I can feel the heat coming off him as he squeezes by, taking the stairs two at a time. It isn't like him to push past me. I follow slowly. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay,” I say, understanding, and my heart aches. But there is no way to take on this pain on his behalf. He is here now, of his own accord.

He pauses for a moment on the landing. I am standing two steps below, and I see the outline of his wallet in his back pocket, the lighter rectangle of denim on the right side. It's an image I associate with men I've known, their easy practicality. The way they move through time, happy to let it show in these little signs and markers. Shoes, jeans, wallets wearing out as a matter of pride.

“Go ahead,” I say. “It's okay.” And he steps into the apartment without looking back, as if not to acknowledge any hesitation. He looks to the left, where there is a brass umbrella stand with three umbrellas, a companionable number, and a straight-backed wooden chair, a favourite spot for shedding purses and coats. Then his head turns to the right, to the hallway that leads to the bedroom, then down to his sneakers.

“Leave them on,” I say. “We'll be dealing with boxes and stuff.” But he takes two squeaky steps inside before turning back, stepping on the heels of his sneakers to slip them off. He leaves them next to my own scuffed sandals, removed from force of habit.

“She wouldn't like it,” he says, and he's probably right. It took Sadhana years of pleading to get her landlord to refinish the hardwood floors, and now they are shiny and perfect. So shiny I still half expect my bare feet to stick to the varnish, stopped in my tracks like a mouse caught in a glue trap.

I head back into the bedroom, and behind me, Quinn says, “It feels the same here. I thought it would feel different.”

“I know.” Though I'm not sure if he means because Sadhana is gone or because we know that she died here, that this is where she was found. My involuntary imagination has run through every possibility, but I don't know where exactly, which room. There are reasons to be grateful for Uncle's reticence.

“Have you been sleeping?”

The sheets have given me away, along with the scattered mess of clothing all over the bed, the things on the floor to either side. I pick up my bag and stuff the political pamphlet into it, together with Sadhana's laptop and some of the strewn items.

“A little,” I say, though I have no idea what time it is or how long I have been asleep. This time of year, it stays nearly as bright as noon until past eight. Quinn ties back the double drapes so the whole room is full of sun, revealing the barest hint of lilac in the light paint, the zest of yellow colour fields in two Rothko-inspired canvases on the wall behind the bed.

“Where were you?” I ask, remembering how he left before I was up.

“Went for a walk.” He is looking out the window. I can hear a family with small children walking by, high-pitched chattering over the lower murmurs of adult conversation. For the most part, it is a quiet block, just trees and walk-ups and on the corner a vegan café with two banks of washers and dryers.

I finish sorting the clothes on the bed and begin tackling everything else in sight, whatever I can see that can be packed. Quinn takes some boxes into the living room, and we work in silence for a while. There is no sign of a diary. When I start to get hot, I search on Sadhana's dresser for an elastic and pull my hair back in a ponytail. I can hear the plasticky shuffle of CDs as Quinn stacks them in a box.

“Are we keeping all this stuff?” he calls out.

“We can keep whatever we want.” Or rather, we'll keep whatever we can't bring ourselves to give away.

When I check on Quinn later in the living room, I find he is more efficient than I am. The CD racks are stripped and disassembled, the books and magazines packed. He is working his way towards the kitchen.

“I guess we're taking just about everything then,” he says again.

“I guess.” I wonder if unexpected loss always breeds materialism or if it is only in our family. Sadhana and I divvying up all of Mama's clothes, and the accompanying screaming matches. There is one horrible scene I always think of, a yellow terrycloth robe torn seam from seam. And afterwards, both of us stalking off with our halves, tucking away the unwearable strips in our secret spots. Both of us reminding me of the bad mother before King Solomon, the one who had already lost everything that mattered. “Except the furniture,” I amend. “Though it's a pity we can't sell it.”

“Sell it?” says Quinn. “Why would we?” And then, “Why can't we?”

“We don't need it. Also, I wouldn't know how to go about selling it all. Not a lot of time to advertise.”

“The internet,” Quinn says with the merest shake of his head. “But I'm moving out. You don't want to have to buy me all new stuff.”

I pause, considering the logic of this. “Maybe. We'll see. Maybe some stuff.”

The light from outside is beginning to drop when I finally finish up most of the bedroom, leaving one of the larger boxes untaped in case we want some of the clothes to wrap around breakables. Quinn has packed up the towels and linens in the bathroom, and I see that he has filled a tote bag with half-used bottles of shampoo and wrapped guest soaps.

“You're thorough,” I say. I hope he has thrown out the toothbrushes, the makeup.

“I try.” He steps past me to the wide windows behind the sofa, where square pillar candles on shallow ceramic dishes are ranged along the ledge. He gives me an inquiring look. When I shrug, he begins placing them in a box one by one.

“Someone must have been watering the plants,” he says. As he carries the box back to where he has begun stacking them in the middle of the room, he stops by the spreading jade plant set on a low bookcase. His fingers graze a leaf, waxy and smooth. There is not even a wrinkle. “This wouldn't have made it. The cactus maybe, but only maybe.”

“You're right,” I say, though I'm unsure, wondering how my teenage son came to feel like an authority. We have the garden at home, but no houseplants. “Uncle, I guess.”

Quinn puts on the radio in the kitchen and tunes it to the university station. Over the music, I can hear the muted bang and rattle of cupboards and drawers being opened and closed.

I am rolling up one of the long carpets in the hallway when I notice a shadow under the bookcase. Under the chair by the door and slipped halfway beneath the bottom shelf, where it looks as though it might have fallen, is a zippered leather agenda, scuffed along the spine. Not a diary, but Sadhana's planner. I drop to one knee to pick it up.

It is a Filofax-style agenda, with dated calendar pages, an address book, plain lined pages with personal notes, and coloured tabs dividing each month and section. A pocket at the back stuffed with receipts and business cards, and a wad of other slips of paper tucked in among the pages. Normally it was always in her purse, the purse that Uncle already took away, concerned as he was — as somebody had to be — about cancelling her cellphone service and credit cards.

“Mom,” says Quinn, calling out. “Look at this. It was on the floor.”

There is an urgent appeal in his voice, and I am at his side in a moment. The fear in my chest tells me he has stumbled upon something related to Ravi. I know I ought to have told him I saw his father on television, but I can hardly bear to face it. Guilt bruises into dread with the slightest touch.

“What is it?”

He hands it to me with the printed side up, an ATM withdrawal slip dating from the last week of November. “The other side,” says Quinn.

On the reverse is scrawled a list in my sister's handwriting:
bread, bananas, tomatoes, penne, garlic, white pepper
. Each word has a line through it. A grocery list. The square of paper has a slight sheen, worn grey along the barest crease lines. I rub my thumb over the words before passing it back.

“I found her planner, too, just now,” I say. “It was under the bookcase.”

Quinn stands with the corner of the grocery list pressed between his finger and thumb, like a penalty card about to be raised aloft. “Did you see it?” he says. “Did you look at the date?”

“Yes.” I think for a minute, but it is Quinn's face that makes me realize, the way the bottom of his mouth is scrunching up as it would when he was little and about to cry.

“Oh,” I say. The end of November, the last days of my sister's life. Probably one of the last shopping trips she made, if not the last. In the same instant, I begin to fear the planner I'm clutching, as though it holds an image of Sadhana's final moments, a series of recordings, like the black box of an airplane. Even just the first blank page will be horrible. If I could throw it out of reach without alarming Quinn, I would.

“So she was eating,” says Quinn.

“Maybe.” I sit down on one of the wooden kitchen chairs, put the planner down on the table. I let out my breath. “Maybe not. Remember how she used to cook for us. Even through the bad spells. Maybe even more during the bad spells.”

“But we weren't here. This wasn't for our benefit.”

“It could have been for somebody else's benefit.”

“Like who?”

“I don't know. Anyone. Other people who knew enough to be concerned.”

Quinn turns back to packing the large pots and pans, and I can see he doesn't believe me. He has persistent doubts about whether or not Sadhana used to hide things from us, and I suspect him of having rewritten things in such a way that it was always me, doing my best not to see or know. He thinks that she talked to me in a way that she didn't talk to him, that I knew all her secrets.

“But if she was eating,” Quinn says, turning back to me after wedging a handful of large cooking utensils around the edge of a stockpot. “That's what this list could mean.”

“What?” I say. “It's a list. It's a piece of paper.”

But it's more than that. It means that on November twenty-­seventh, at three thirty-seven in the afternoon, my sister was still alive. When they found her body, it had been too long, they couldn't narrow it down beyond a stretch of days. In this I had failed her along with all her friends — none of us inclined to worry, or to worry, at any rate, about the right thing. For eleven days I thought she was reading my number on the call display and choosing not to answer. I put my elbow on the table, forehead pressing into my palm. Looking into my lap, I see streaks of dust covering my jeans.