Circle of Stones (8 page)

The couple onstage begins a complicated pas de deux with lots of lifts, but the female dancer keeps gazing at the man in front, who begins spinning in a series of spectacular turns. Her story seems obvious. She can't keep her eyes on the partner who dances for her, supporting her at every lift and turn. He is desperately in love. He reminds me of Mitchell, my former fiancé. Mitchell used to make me coffee and breakfast every morning, ask me how things were going at school, keep our shared condo clean.

I gaze at the young woman. She is fragile, compact, and absolutely stunning. A mystical muse to enrapture poets and cause men to obsess. The kind of dangerous beauty I never possessed. She circles the lavish, turning, twisting man, becoming transfixed, while the other male dancer retreats downstage. I wait for her to jump, like I did, for the magical intellect of the linguistics professor I'd once admired. Except I leapt into his arms and he dropped me. My face flushes, even now, hidden in the dark.

But the young woman dancer instead launches out on her own, dancing solo as the two male dancers disappear into the wings. She flicks her long dark hair in every direction and extends each limb at impossible angles, filling the entire stage with movement. The large man next to me fidgets nervously as he watches the dancer whirl across the floor. She makes no mistakes. I am awed, jealous. It took me a long time to be able to perform in my field with this level of skill and authority.

The piano and bass music crests toward a crescendo. The backlights turn crimson. The dancer leaps. Her back arcs and legs extend in a tremendous grand jeté, like flying. But upon descent her ankle seems to give way. Instead of landing she crashes onto the stage, collapsing to the floor in shudders and violent trembles. The large man beside me gasps and stands. The music stops. The curtain closes. The man pushes past me and the aged couple, shoving knees and elbows to reach the aisle. He jogs toward the exit closest to the stage, making wheezy huffing noises. The audience sits in silence as the house lights come up. A smattering of applause infiltrates the confusion.

“What just happened?” the woman next to me asks.

“I think she's injured,” I say, “I don't think that's how it's supposed to go.”

“Oh dear,” the woman says. “The poor thing. What are they going to do now?”

The audience burbles with whispers. I am restless. I can't decide whether the performance is over, or if this is only a forced, impromptu intermission. A loudspeaker crackles.

“Due to injury, the role played by Jennifer Alleyn will now be danced by her understudy, Maria Verados,” a man's voice announces.

The house lights go down again. The curtains open, the music begins pulsating and a new soloist walks onstage to restrained applause. As she stretches her legs and arms I decide she is neither as riveting, nor as beautiful. The two male dancers slip onstage and swoop around the understudy, but their new triangles are cautious and tepid.

“Well, that was different,” the elderly man says to his wife when the show finally ends. “It was obviously an allegory. A political power struggle. Brought me back to the old days on the Hill. Too bad about the soloist, though.”

“So unfortunate,” the woman says. “That poor dear. Probably the end of her career.”

The audience swarms up the stairs into the foyer. Couples stop to chat in groups of fours and sixes. I head for the doors. Outside the air is cool and humid. I take the steep staircase down to the public boardwalk along the canal and stand for a moment at the edge to watch the bulbous lights reflect on the oily shimmer of water. The performance was supposed to be a luscious escape. Instead, it was a series of unnecessary reminders culminating in a snapped Achilles tendon.

For a moment I wonder how the lummox seated beside me could possibly be connected to the ethereal dancer, but I'm too worn out for conjecture. I look around for something to distract me. It's very dark where I'm standing. The orbs of light are too dim. What did my professor idol say to me before he left? I close my eyes, but can't remember. My mind used to be so muscular. I wish I had someone to help archive my memories. Like my father did for so many years for my mother.

The dancer is broken, mangled, career over. The brightness of my mind is fading, and there's still so much work I want to accomplish. Yet I'd rather be embroiled in any modicum of intellectual struggle than endure a normal life. Be a wife. Drive through the suburbs. Walk the dog. Look after my mother.

Someone sputters and coughs nearby. A disgusting clearing of phlegm and the revolting sound of spit hitting concrete. I whirl around. The large, awful man is wheezing and stumbling down the stairs toward the boardwalk. I step back, out of the light. I look around for joggers, strolling couples, smokers, but there is no one. Fear bubbles. I clutch my purse tighter. If I move he'll see me. I watch as the man strides toward the canal, waiting for him to reach the railing, gaze out at the water so I can slip away.

I hear a shout. Something tall, thin, and fast bolts out of the shadows, hurtling itself at the large man. The figure collides with the large man with such wild intensity it seems supernatural. It's not until the man and the figure scuffle under the light that I see it's a young person. I think for a moment that he looks like that student of mine, Aaron. But then he throws off his jacket and I can see his dark clothes are worn and shabby. The large man grabs hold of the kid's shirt and tears it. Retaliation is a dirty hand reaching up and scratching at the large man's face. This is not a student fight on campus. It's sordid. Malevolent. A duel. The young man is vicious. But his opponent is twice his size and grasping for something in his pocket. Weaponry. My legs wobble. I bolt, running as fast as I can up the grassy embankment. This is not the Ottawa I remember, nor the one I want to experience.

I try to block out the shouting. What if the large man has a gun? Or a knife? And what will the younger man do with those monstrous hands? I don't want to hear. Or know. The two men are swearing. Yelling. Something that sounds like “Jennifer.” Or “Vancouver.” Or “Remember.” Rage. Cries of pain. A splash.

Then silence.

I keep running. The streetlights on Elgin are bright beacons. I look in desperation for a cab, but there are never cabs when you want them in this city. I get turned around, lose my sense of direction. I'm not sure where I am until I see an intersection, street signs. Laurier. How did I get here? In my panic I've overshot the hotel. I stop on the sidewalk, smooth my hair, slow down to a walk.

I look for my cellphone in my purse, press nine then one on the keypad. My hand shakes. What did I see? It was dark. I was right to stay out of it, run away. Protect myself. The splash was nothing. My imagination, or, at worst, someone's shoe hurtling over the railing. The man's laces were undone. No need to panic, call the police, embarrass myself. Become involved. Must be some kind of horrible business. No — I don't want to know. I have my own worries and problems. I can't take any more on. I'm full up on drama. My brain won't process any more of it. And by now the two men are probably gone, anyway. By the time the police arrive there won't be any sign of them, and I'll look like the fool. Best to forget this ever happened. To use forgetfulness in my favour.

I stumble back to the hotel, holding my phone in my hand. On the elevator I think about the splash. It was a quiet splash. Something small. An object. I'm sure of it. Nothing to worry about, nothing human. In my room, two nightstand lamps emit a warm glow. I kick off my shoes, sit down on the big bed, and pick up a pillow, pressing my hands, then face against its softness. But it's not comforting. And I am not at all sleepy.

The red L.E.D. numbers on the clock bleed, reflecting onto the surface of the shiny nightstand. 11:11. 11:12. 11:13.

Anxieties of the moment:

• Intellectual decline.
  
• The loneliness of endings.
  
• The splash on the water.
  

Sondra: 11:21 p.m. We're making her comfortable.

I turn my cellphone off. I focus on the minutiae of my evening routine. I floss and brush my teeth. Wash my face, apply moisturizer, expensive eye cream, hand lotion. I fold my suit, put on my pajamas, click the lamps off, too. Then I lie in the soft bed, unable to sleep. My thoughts keep going, swirling in a wide circle around my mother. I analyze the meaning of the word
comfortable
. Its etymology. I can't think of a single brilliant quote with the word in it. It's not very poetic. I think of the lyrics to “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” How inappropriate they are for the moment. How comfort does not necessitate joy.

Sondra: 8:12 a.m. Some breathing problems in the night.

Sondra: 8:14 a.m. Am going to talk to the doctor again.

I sleep fitfully, climb out of bed after checking my messages, then shower and dress quickly. Today I have one task to complete. Only one.

The morning wind feels harsher than the airy swirls of the night before. I stroll along Elgin Street, avoiding the canal. The city has lost its lustre. The blocks feel short, the storefronts are drab and cluttered. I take the long route, buy a cup of coffee and sip it slowly, but I'm still unprepared when I arrive at the steel-edged glass doors. They slide apart automatically as I step through. I ring the buzzer in the lobby and a nurse in blue scrubs opens the interior door with a smile.

“Hello, I'm here to see Agnes Moreland,” I say. My voice wobbles. “I'm her daughter.”

“Sure, you go on up.” The nurse pauses, waiting for me to move. I stand there until she realizes I need the room number. She consults a clipboard list and smiles. “Three oh five.”

There's a stooped, white-haired woman with a walker in the elevator. She doesn't look up at me and I'm not sure she can. On the third floor I clear my throat and listen to it echo in the empty halls. The air is heavy with disinfectant. Beside each room is a photo of the inhabitant inside. Every door has a name plaque and I delight in the Modernist-era monikers: Myrna, Eloise, Lydia, Edmond. Agnes.

I knock. When I put my ear to the door I hear TV, a faint “hello,” and a cough. I press down on the cold metal lever and push. The room is bathed in sunlight. My mother is propped up into a seated position in her hospital bed, surrounded by pillows. She holds a white teddy bear in the bend of one arm and nods her head up and down. She's wearing a pink cotton nightgown and a green velour bathrobe that's at least three decades old. It still has all of its pink plastic flower buttons intact.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, standing over her. I turn and fake cough over my shoulder, stopping myself from the horrible thing that sounds like choking. Then I put my trembling hand on top of her idle one.

She looks up at me and her eyes are still the same blue. “Hello,” she says, without a flicker of recognition. “Is it time for dinner?”

Disappointment is the worst emotion.

“It's breakfast time, Mom,” I say. “Did you have breakfast, Mom?” I repeat the name, hoping it will trigger her memory.

My mother presses random buttons on the TV remote control and the channel changes to sports. She's always disliked sports. She stares at a soccer game with a content expression.

“Look at that nice young man,” she says of one or all of the Italian players running around the field. “Isn't he handsome?”

I sit down on the guest chair beside the bed and study mother's puffy face. I want to trace each new line and crevice with my fingers. The map of old age. Her white hair has thinned. I should not have to see my mother's scalp. I grasp to remember her with lustrous, long dark curls, in a flowered sundress that floated as she walked. I wait for her to tease me about my dark, wrinkled suit, the grey in my hair. But Mom lies inert and silent. She is small and thin, and the velour housecoat is too big. I reach over to straighten her collar, like she used to fix me, and notice the rickrack trim is coming unstitched. I am already too frayed. I fumble in my bag for my phone.

Anne: 9:57 a.m. The child is the father of the man.

Anne: 9:58 a.m. Sorry. I want to tell you I am here.

Anne: 10:02 a.m. Mom doesn't remember me.

I hover, uncertain. I hear footsteps and turn, expecting to see Sondra. But it's a middle-aged nurse wearing a yellow cardigan over blue scrubs. She's holding a cardboard cup of medication. I don't know how to talk to medical professionals. Where is my sister?

“Hello,” the nurse says to me. “You must be the other daughter. Sondra's told me all about you.”

I step back while she pours a cupful of water from a blue plastic jug at the nightstand. “I'm visiting from Toronto today,” I say.

The nurse nods, then places her hand on my mother's shoulder.

“Hi, Agnes,” she says loudly, leaning in close to my mother's face. “It's time for more medication.”

“Well, is it time for supper?” my mother asks in an exasperated voice.

“No, Agnes, you just had breakfast. We'll be serving lunch soon, though. Here are your meds, dear.”

My mother swallows the pills and water obediently.

“When are we going to the market?” she asks the nurse. “I have to get a good roast and some potatoes for Sunday supper or your father will be all out of sorts.”

“We don't need to go shopping today, Agnes,” the nurse says. “Just relax and visit with your daughter. She's here to see you all the way from Toronto.”

“I hate Toronto,” my mother says. “But you're very nice,” she adds, patting the nurse's hand.

“She's been having problems with her eyes and she won't wear her glasses,” the nurse says to me. “That's why she seems a little more confused than usual. She can't see very well. So sit close and she'll know you're here. It'll be fine.”