Interference (4 page)

“So,” says Mrs. Rathbin, clearing her throat. The car shakes and rattles as they head off down the highway. “Do you knit?”

“No.” Claire closes her eyes.

“I knit.”

“I can see that.” There are knitted doilies hanging from the rear-view mirror. There are bags of yarn in the back seat now. There are, in fact, knitting needles resting in the little compartment in the door and poking Claire in the thigh. She stifles the urge to take them out and stab Mrs. Rathbin in the eyes. The image comforts her.

When she was diagnosed, Claire thought about all the things she wanted to do in her life. She developed one of those bucket lists. And the first thing that occurred to her, the first thing on her list, was murder. She wanted to get violent, attack someone, kill. She wanted to torture Paul Bernardo. Or Charles Manson. She wanted to slice the neck of a serial murderer or a pedophile. Claire imagined choking someone evil or slashing her nails across the eyes of Hitler. All these people who are and were allowed to live, instead of all these people who are forced to die. Claire would lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling and conjuring up the most gruesome deaths. It wasn't a good thing, but it made her feel some sense of control or, at least, some sense of the beauty of revenge. An eye for an eye kind of thing.

When Claire told Ralph, jokingly, about her thoughts, he said it wasn't like her to talk like this. He said she was depressed. And then he took her to the doctor, who put her on antidepressants. Now she doesn't think about killing people. Not that much. Sometimes Jude will turn on a video game for her — where she can shoot people — and this makes her feel better. If only for a minute or two. The anti-depressants make her feel like a shell. She's full of emotion for only a second. Her shell has holes. The emotion leaks out quickly. One minute she is close to tears, the next minute something distracts her and she feels nothing. Not happy. Not sad. Nothing.

“Not a mean bone in your body, Claire,” Ralph says. “You couldn't even kill a fly.”

Little does Ralph know that Claire has killed many flies. And ladybugs. Centipedes. She has killed spiders and worms and roaches and ants and she once actually hit a black cat with white feet in her car and didn't stop to see if it was okay. She drove on. She's really not as nice as he thinks she is.

See? These are the things she will leave behind. A vision of herself that isn't correct. And this worries Claire, makes her nervous.

The antidepressants also make her unfocused. She can't concentrate for very long on one particular thing. They make her feel like she's on antidepressants instead of making her feel like she's normal. Claire moves in and out of thoughts. She watches things flash in her mind and then they disappear. Nothing stays for long. This worries her — when she remembers to worry. Because if nothing is staying put in her mind then she's missing out on a lot of things that she needs in order to live the rest of her life. She wants to be heightened and aware and alive to the world around her. But she also doesn't want to be depressed.

“I knit hats for cancer patients,” Mrs. Rathbin says. “Would you like one?” She reaches back, swerving slightly on the icy road, and grabs a hat from a box in the back seat. Like Mrs. Rathbin's shawl, the hat is orange and fuzzy, tiny bits of sparkles in the yarn. Claire is holding onto the dashboard.

“Oh, thank you,” Claire says. “That's very kind of you.” She puts the hat on her lap and pets it like she would a small cat. It's one of the ugliest hats she's ever seen. It's lopsided and looks like it would fit a giant.

“I used to knit hats for newborn babies, preemies,” Mrs. Rathbin says, “but then I got to thinking about chemotherapy and figured that people like you, well, they aren't used to being bald. A baby is used to it. A baby is born bald. But you, well, you haven't been bald since you were born and so your head must be mighty cold.”

Get me out of this car, Claire thinks.

What surprises Claire the most is that she thought that the way she observed the world would change. She always thought, when she contemplated eventually getting cancer, that she would say to herself, “Well, at least it will make you grateful and appreciative and patient and kind,” and all that crap. She thought that, being sick, she would see the world through rose-coloured glasses. Perhaps be more willing to donate to charities or help people across the street, or be more caring. Love her neighbours, her annoying friends. Instead, Claire feels more impatient, more ornery and angry. Because her time is running out, she has no desire to waste a precious minute with anyone she can't stand. It's hard to be polite when you have cancer. The other day her old friend from one block over, Trish, phoned and started rambling about her life, about her kids and her handcrafted teddy bears, about Rachel's habit of eating in the living room, and the new neighbour who has moved in. And something about a man with a scar on his face. Silly, unimportant things. A neighbourhood party they had in the late summer, a woman whose husband left her for another woman, what she had cooked for dinner that night. She was blathering away quickly, without pause, and Claire couldn't stand it. Not for one second more. Claire knew that Trish was uncomfortable, unsure of what to say, merely trying to make conversation, only trying to distract her, but Claire had had enough. So she hung up on Trish and hasn't spoken to her since.

The strange thing was Trish never phoned back. So, Claire reasoned at the time, in the long run she thought she did them both a favour. She gave Trish the release she needed; she hung up so Trish didn't have to finish what she was saying. It was over.

One less person at my funeral.

Now she thinks she should phone Trish back. She also knows, deep in her heart, that Trish will be the first one into her funeral. That's the kind of woman she is. Annoying and clueless, but kind and patient with other people's faults.

“You can take a hat for your girl. Or even for that boy of yours,” Mrs. Rathbin says. “I bet they'd both like a nice warm hat. This winter might be a doozy.” She starts to reach into the back seat again.

“I'll get them,” Claire says. “Watch the road.”

The car slides into the on-coming traffic lane and Claire holds her breath. But Mrs. Rathbin adjusts herself and the wheel and gets the car back safely. Given a quick choice everyone wants only to live.

“It's an innate kind of thing,” Mrs. Rathbin says.

“What?” Claire has her body twisted into the back seat. She is rummaging through the box of knitted hats. Every colour under the rainbow. Blue, black, green, yellow, orange, pink, red, purple, white. What would Jude like? She smiles, imagining Jude's expression when he sees one of these hats.

“Knitting. It's like I was born doing it. I don't even have to think about it. Do you know?”

“Do I know what?”

“What it's like?”

“What what's like?” Claire is confused. She's not really listening to the woman. Or, at least, not taking it in. Mrs. Rathbin's thoughts have slipped out the holes in her shell.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Rathbin says, looking over at Claire. “I've overwhelmed you, haven't I? I do that.”

“Do what?”

Mrs. Rathbin laughs. “What were you born doing, Claire?”

Claire pauses. Wonders what they are talking about. Born doing. Claire remembers nothing about herself before she was married and had kids. She can't remember how she felt, thought, moved, talked. She can't remember being anyone but who she is now. And what is that? A mother. Mostly a mother. Sometimes a wife. But a mother. With cancer. Was she born being a mother? Not possible. A teacher? No, she could take it or leave it and, in fact, had to leave it — early retirement — when she was diagnosed. Too much to handle teaching and cancer at the same time. Jude, Caroline. Claire defines herself by her kids. What will they do without her? What will she do without them? How will she be able to let them grow up without her?

“I am fifty-nine years old,” Mrs. Rathbin says loudly. “I may look older, but that's how old I am.” Mrs. Rathbin pauses to breathe. Claire is astonished. Mrs. Rathbin does look a lot older. “I can't eat Brussels sprouts. They are good for you but they make me vomit. They are ugly and they take a long time to decompose in the compost. And they attract aphids like crazy, so are hard to grow without pesticides. I hate to drive. I have been in several accidents. Once I had my license taken away. But I got it back. Everyone I've ever met says I talk too much. Lots of people say I overwhelm them. But I can knit a hat and that,” she pauses and looks at Claire, “that makes all the difference.”

Silence in the car. Claire swallows.

“Your turn!” Mrs. Rathbin shouts.

They've parked the car and entered the hospital. Mr. Manuel used to let Claire out at the front entrance and go ahead and park the car, but Mrs. Rathbin insists on parking and then coming inside with Claire. This means Claire has to walk through the parking garage and into the hospital entrance and down the stairs to the radiation department with a huffing, puffing Mrs. Rathbin.

“A little exercise will do you good,” she says, as she sweats and breathes heavily, rolling her bulk towards the hospital.

Me?
Claire thinks.

Mr. Manuel would wait in the hospital cafeteria. He would do the crossword puzzle in the newspaper and drink hot water. Mrs. Rathbin comes right down to the radiation department with Claire, ignoring Claire's suggestion that she wait somewhere else.

A woman in the waiting room with Claire last week told her that she was burned by the radiation and that her breast swelled up to the size of a cantaloupe. She broke out in rashes. The woman was scared to get the radiation again. But there she was. “What else can I do?” she had said, shrugging her thin shoulders.

Mrs. Rathbin settles into a chair in the waiting room. Directly across from Claire. She pulls her knitting needles out of a bag she has hidden under her bulky shawl. There are many baskets of yarn placed all around the room for people to knit scarves while they wait, but Mrs. Rathbin has her own ball of yarn, her own needles. Mrs. Rathbin begins to organize her hobby all over her lap and on the seat beside her. She hums. Her plastic bag crinkles. Her knitting needles clack. Claire watches the TV in the corner, on mute, the news racing past, scrolling words under images. Snow­storms and fires and highway accidents, traffic and politicians and stock markets and shootings. A boy has fallen through the ice while skating. They've left his body there, under the ice, until it is safe to retrieve. Claire tears up, wipes at her eyes. Mrs. Rathbin clicks away.

Sorrow. There is something about that word — the sound of it, the look of it on a page, the feel of it in her heart. Jude's sorrow. Caroline's sorrow. Ralph's sorrow. Claire owns that word now. It belongs to her.

“Stop that,” Mrs. Rathbin says. She points her knitting needle at Claire.

“Pardon me?” Claire looks around.

“Stop crying. It won't do you any good.”

Claire opens her mouth to say something but nothing comes out.

“Honestly. I know.” Click click go her knitting needles. Another hat. The nurse at the front desk looks up from her computer and smiles shyly at Claire. Claire looks again at the TV. Then she looks back at Mrs. Rathbin and sets her jaw.

“How dare you tell me how to feel?” Claire says. Her voice shakes.

“That's right,” Mrs. Rathbin says. “Yes. Much better. Get angry.”

“Angry?” Claire shouts. “I've been nothing but angry since April.”

“A world of good,” Mrs. Rathbin says to her knitting. “It'll do you wonders.”

“You're crazy,” Claire whispers.

The two women sit in semi-silence. Claire glaring. Mrs. Rathbin knitting and humming.

On the ride home Claire is uncomfortable. She is bone-tired. Mrs. Rathbin is singing along to music on the radio.

When Claire was the sickest with the chemotherapy she could almost understand not being afraid of death. She was so ill she wanted to die. “Put me out of my misery,” she said to Ralph as he held her hair back while she vomited. But even then, when Jude or Caroline came home from their world, when they sat near her on the sofa, wrapped themselves in her afghan, pressed their large, warm bodies against her cold one, even then, no matter how bad she felt, Claire really didn't want to die.

“You've got only two choices,” Mrs. Rathbin says. She flicks off the car radio. “You eat those Brussels sprouts or you throw them in the garbage. That's all there is to it.”

Don't they screen these volunteers? Shouldn't they have to take a competency test or something? A psychological examination?

“Or,” Claire sighs, “you could not make them in the first place. In fact, you don't even have to buy them. You could pass right by the Brussels sprouts container in the grocery store. Buy asparagus or broccoli.” Claire looks straight at Mrs. Rathbin. “So there.”

“So there.” Mrs. Rathbin smiles. “Right you are.”

Claire is home. Jude is beside her on the sofa. They are watching
Ellen
on TV and trying to laugh at everything she says, even if it isn't funny. Forced laughs. Jolly laughs. Claire tells Jude about Mrs. Rathbin. She hands him the knitted hat. She has picked an orange one for him. He takes it. He puts it on. It's bulbous and horrible. They laugh some more.

In bed that night Claire relives her final few minutes with Mrs. Rathbin. The woman had pulled up in front of Claire's house, her hubcaps scraping on the curb. She had turned her large bulk slightly and looked Claire directly in the eyes. For all her craziness there was a kindly twinkle in those eyes. Claire had felt a tiny bit ashamed.

“Mr. Manuel will be back tomorrow,” Mrs. Rathbin had said.

“Good. Thank you.” Claire had moved to get out of the car, but Mrs. Rathbin laid a hand on Claire's leg.

“Let me tell you something, Claire,” she had said.