Rosie O'Dell (53 page)

That was my deserved dismal state when the undeserved miracle I was waiting for
happened, finally, in its own good time.

ON THIS SUNNY, WARM
summer day, which I’d been
oblivious of till now, I went to answer the knock on my front door, enveloped in
a fog of thought about the writing on the wall of the school toilets: “Rosie
O’Dell, go back to hell.” “And take Tommy, your little dildo on feet, with you.”
I was reflecting half upon our teenage psychic traumas together and half on the
current catastrophe of my life, and pondering a direct straight-line
cause-and-effect connection between the two when I opened the door. Through the
doorway, in the soft air and the gentle tree-dappled sunlight, I beheld a vision
of my first and last love herself. Naturally, I could not at once believe the
sight. She had to be an apparition. I hadn’t seen the woman in thirty years, and
she looked the same as she had back then. It took me a moment to accept the
truth that she was, indeed, right there before me, my exquisite Rosie
O’Dell.

And within seconds I’d confirmed to myself my love for her, and for her beauty
and intelligence, even more appealing to me now in their maturity. Our exchange
of mild sarcastic banter, reminiscent of our adolescence, revealed that we still
thought about each other often after all these years and that she had been
spying on me here for over a week. She’d been gearing herself up to talking to
me about a problem she needed my help on, she said. Her hubby had come back with
her.

I told her we could talk in the house now if she’d like, but she replied, “How
about after we go and see your mother?”

“We? I don’t know if you want to do that, Rosie. I should tell you that she has
severe mental deterioration. I’d be very surprised if she even rec
ognizes you. And God knows what she’ll remember from long ago when I mention
your name.”

“I have to go anyway, whether with you or by myself. I promised my mother I
would.”

“Didn’t your mother die years ago? Up on the mainland somewhere?” I knew
exactly where and when. “Don’t I recall seeing a local death notice in the
Telegram
?” I had a clipping of it in my files.

“Nine years ago. She was living with us in Vancouver by then. She made me
promise I’d go and see your mother for her if I ever got back here. She kept
talking about what great friends they were. This is the first time I’ve been
back since.”

“Great friends? My memory differs slightly. I seem to recall that my mother
resented her for letting you and your sister down so badly.” Right away I
regretted saying that. Anguish flitted across Rosie’s face at the memory of her
little sister. I’d seen it so many times long ago, I should have known
better.

“My mother only let herself remember the friendship they had before all that,
when my father was still alive.”

“Right. Okay then, Rosie, your wish is my command. I’ll get my keys.” I grabbed
them off the little table in the hall and came out again. “Let’s go to the
cognitive dysfunction ward and kick some butt.” I was trying to be nonchalant
and breezy now, and failing piteously.

But Rosie was a still good sport. She shook her head at me with a grin,
feigning censure of my boyish incorrigibility. We walked over to my
seven-year-old BMW and I held the car door open for her. “Nice car,” she said.
“Vintage.”

“Again with the sarcasm.” But getting aboard, I thanked heaven that I’d had the
sense to buy out the residual on this car three years ago rather than leasing
that new one I coveted. With the recession and my partner’s fraud hitting me so
hard, the new fancy car would probably be facing repossession now for default on
the monthly payments.

Settling in our seats, I asked, “What hotel are you staying at?”

“We’re not. We’re staying at his father’s house.”

I drove out onto the street. “Really? I thought he and the old guy were on the
outs. Is that what you two are doing back here now, after all this time,
effecting a reconciliation?”

“His father was diagnosed with idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis about a year ago.
Barring a lung transplant—highly unlikely—the doctors figure
he’s got a year left. We’re back here to help him get through to the end. By
the way, we’re saying publicly that he’s got emphysema, serious but manageable.
He doesn’t want a death watch.”

Or crowds dancing in the street outside his sickroom window. The old prick. It
was high time he croaked and left the world a better place. “I’m sorry to hear
that. It’s not a very pleasant way for anyone to go, basically suffocating to
death slowly.” She turned and looked right at me. I swear she glanced down at my
mouth to see if I was suppressing a
schadenfreude
smirk. “How old is he,
Rosie, seventy-five?”

“Seventy-three.”

“That’s young to die these days, especially with his money. And the last time I
saw him, a year ago, admittedly at a good distance, he looked as healthy as a
horse. I hope this doesn’t sound too brutal, but at least—”

“We won’t start holding back on the brutal at this late stage.”

“Okay. At least you two stand to come in for a lot of money much sooner than
expected.” Rosie didn’t respond. She stared out her side window. I added,
“Unless he’s leaving it all to a fascist think tank or a Las Vegas call girl or
something.”

“Good guesses—but no, neither of those. It’s a bit tangled and snarly. But
you’re zeroing in on what I need to talk to you about.”

“Ah, any reason why hubsy is not in on our mysterious discussion?”

“It’s his idea that I talk to you first this afternoon, and if you’re
interested, the three of us can get together.” She put her hand on my arm. “I’m
a very loyal wife, you should know, no matter what ancient inner urges I might
harbour.” She smiled at me with deliberately exaggerated sweetness. “And he’s
really looking forward to seeing you, apart from all this. You know he always
thought you were great.”

“Jesus, I take it he’s heard of the telephone. He’s only been here a
week.”

“You’ll understand later. You won’t be so hard on him then.”

“When are you going back to Vancouver—no—where is it you live now?”

“New Mexico. Between Albuquerque and Santa Fe. We’re not going back. We’re
staying here, at least for a while.”

So much for his always wanting to stay in Canada. Or was that only Vancouver
when Rosie happened to be there? “Is he taking over the old man’s business or
something? He told me years ago that he couldn’t, quote, ‘stand the thought of
being in business with the effing old bastard.’”

“Their animosity is mostly papered over now. They made a deal. But it’s hit a
snag on our end and might come unravelled.”

I pulled the car in at the nursing home. We had driven across
town and neither of us had used Brent’s name. “This has certainly got my
curiosity piqued. We can talk here now, if you like. We don’t have to go in
right away, or even today, for that matter.”

“Let’s get this over with, Tom. It’s one of Mother’s last wishes, and it’ll be
the last nail for me in that coffin full of shitty memories.”

“Okay. Dad’ll be in there. He spends nearly every waking hour with her.”

“Uncle Joe. That’s one good thing I remember—how much Uncle Joe and Aunt Gladys
loved each other and supported each other through everything. How come that gene
didn’t get passed on? Just joking.”

I chuckled at the question. “Yeah, they certainly did. And just to show how
compassionate Mother Nature is, Dad was the first casualty when Mom stopped
recognizing people. A couple of months after we brought her here, she came up to
me with Dad by her side and said, ‘Tom, this place is full of crazies. Please
tell this pest to stop saying he’s my husband. I never married that old
fart.’”

“Your poor father,” Rosie said. “Her mind was back to when they were young and
beautiful.”

“Dad deludes himself that she’s only joking when she says something like that.
You know what he bases it on? The first week she was in the home here, he and I
were sitting in her room, while she was outside issuing orders to the nurses at
the desk. He said to me, ‘If I ever start to get like your mother, please shoot
me.’ Then we realized Mom was back standing in the door listening to him. She
had heard every word. He was absolutely mortified. But Mom burst out laughing,
whoops of laughter, just like when she and your mother and the other women would
be playing one of their poker games when we were kids—big belly laughs coming
out of her at the idea that someone would rather be shot than end up like her.
Dad uses that to convince himself that her sense of humour is still
intact.”

“He did make her laugh,” said Rosie, “and that’s not nothing in this life.
Does she recognize you at all now?”

“I was the last to go. A few weeks ago we took her out for a drive up Signal
Hill and she said to me, ‘You used to love to walk up here to Cabot Tower and
Ladies Lookout when you were young.’ And I said, ‘Yes I did, Mom, you have a
great memory.’ Then the next minute she was staring at me and saying, ‘You’re
going to find this funny, Tom, but I don’t know who the hell you are.’”

“She could call you by name, but she didn’t know who you were.
Oh my.”

“Even before that, she had stopped recognizing herself. She’d be standing in
front of the mirror putting on her lipstick, and she’d say, ‘Give that back to
me, that’s mine.’ And she’d complain to everyone that a woman had stolen her
lipstick from her. When the nurses would ask her who, she’d say she didn’t know,
some strange woman. She recognized the tube of lipstick in the mirror as her
own, but she wasn’t able to recognize her own face.”

“How long did it take for her to reach that stage? When did it start?”

“About two years ago, so you’d notice. She was seventy-one.”

“It’s not what you’d call early onset, is it, but it still seems kind of
young.”

“Goddamn scary. If it’s genetic, I’ve got about twenty years left. I’d better
get moving.”

“And look at me. My mother died when she was sixty-four. She abused herself
with prescription drugs, of course, but God only knows what’s in my DNA along
those lines. And Dad with the booze. Jeez.”

“I’d say if you’ve reached this point unscathed, after what you survived,
you’re okay there.”

“What we survived, you and I—two cute little idiots. But it does go to show
that you have to grab life while you can, before it’s too late.”

“No argument from me.”

Rosie put her hand on mine again. “Let’s go into the cognitively challenged
ward and get our intellectual butts kicked.” How could I not love this
woman?

We walked into the nursing home and went to the wing with the locked doors. I
buzzed us in, said hello to the nurse at the desk, and looked around for Mom. We
soon encountered her. She was ambling along arm in arm with a male resident who
looked eighty-five, wizened and halting and about a foot shorter than her.
Twenty feet behind them, hiding his misery except about the eyes, walked my
father. Mom was listening intently to the man on her arm. Abruptly, she cut him
short: “I certainly will not go to bed with you. I wouldn’t dream of going to
bed with anyone but my husband.” She flung his arm away and stalked off in a
huff.

Rosie and I caught each other’s eye and then transferred our smiles to Dad as
he came up. He was startled to see Rosie, and then gushy with delight. Rosie
told him she had to say hello to Auntie Gladys and left to go after her. Dad and
I trailed behind. She caught up with Mom down the corridor and walked beside
her, taking her hand. “Hello, Auntie Gladys,”
she said,
“remember me? I’m Rosie O’Dell, Nina’s daughter. Nina asked me to bring you her
love.”

Mom stopped and looked at her blankly. “I am pleased to meet you, my dear,”
she said, looking around. “Where is Nina? It’s her turn this Wednesday
night.”

“She passed away a few years ago, but her last thoughts were of you.”

“My goodness, this is getting exceedingly complicated. Well, nice meeting you,
my dear.” She began to walk on. But then she stopped again and turned back and
said, “Rosie O’Dell? Yes, I know Rosie really well. She’s the one who killed her
father.”

Before Rosie could speak, I jumped in. I’d been expecting something spooky.
“No, Mom. Rosie didn’t kill her father. That’s not true. You shouldn’t say that
ever again.”

Mom grew visibly angry and raised her voice. “Well, I’m only going by what Joe
told me, and my own husband wouldn’t lie to me. Sure, my son was tangled up in
it too.”

Dad’s face was bright red and brackish-looking with sweat. “I didn’t tell you
that, Gladys. You must have misund—”

“Who the fuck are you, butting in every time I turn around?” shouted Mom. “I
didn’t say
you
told me. I said Joe, my husband, told me.”

A female nurse and a male orderly were walking fast towards us. Rosie put her
arm around Mom and said, “It’s okay, Auntie Gladys. I’m Rosie. That was
nothing.”

“That’s right,” muttered Mom sulkily. “Father, stepfather—big frigging
deal.”

The nurse took Mom’s hand and went down on one knee in front of her to look up
into her face, murmuring soothing words, calling her “Head Nurse” from years
ago. Then she drew Dad and me aside and said that Mom had a tendency to get
agitated more quickly these days. The doctor would be talking to us soon about
increasing her medication.