She Felt No Pain (25 page)

Ann’s parents had been globetrotters even before his retirement from a career as a Canadian Tire executive. But then he’d slept late one final morning. Her face calm and her pinkie finger extended from a cup of tea, Phyllis had registered her usual sangfroid. “Fred’s bought the farm,” she had said when Ann rushed over. “I’ve called the police, the lawyer, the undertaker and the crematorium. Let’s get things rolling. First up, sell the old Mercedes. Don’t take less than five thousand. I never needed to drive, and at eighty, I’m not starting now. That’s why God made taxis and children.”

Ann was relieved to be able to move her mother to Sooke to keep a closer eye on her. “I don’t understand why you want to associate with the worst in society, grub around in the gutter. You had such a way with people,” her mother had said. “You could have been a teacher or a nurse.” These professions were historically honourable for females during the Great Depression. “Or found a maaaan,” she added, elongating the syllables. She’d badgered Ann so much about the mystery father that Ann had left for Vancouver six months pregnant and kept house for a friend until her son’s birth. Her father Fred Troy had used his contacts to track her down and insisted on giving her a loan for the baby. Phyllis hadn’t met her grandson until he was five. It had taken Ann years of working to raise her son before she could go to college then join the force.

Ann hopped into her sagging Cavalier, left her small condo behind Sooke Elementary and made a few turns into Eyre Manor. Conveniently located for shopping, doctors, dentists and restaurants, the handsome complex had been a successful and timely initiative. Short of blowing up the ferries, there was no way to stop the burgeoning numbers of retirees from frigid zones from tossing their long underwear and moving to Lalaland to play golf year round.

She was in no hurry to meet Phyllis. Their mutual abrasion was like two entwined trees rubbing wounds on each other. Ann spent a few minutes admiring the new landscaping. Rhodos, arbutus bushes, a mock orange, a row of cedars, even pear, plum and apple trees. Mobile residents were encouraged to get into action and help plant the annuals and trim the perennials. Beds of red and white petunias adorned the front. A few people with walkers strolled the grounds, and every now and then a wheelchair or motorized scooter, Canadian flag waving on a fibreglass pole, appeared around the corner. One narrow, enclosed vehicle was nearly the size of a Smart Car. Her mother had asked for one, but with that independent streak, she might tootle off to the beach, crossing thoroughfares at her own risk. Mother had always made the rules.

Three levels of living had geared-to-income costs: independent cottages, assisted apartments, and a care wing, aka nursing home. Entering the main lobby for the apartments to the tune of 101 Strings on the speakers, Ann headed for the dining room, steamy clouds of a hot meal meeting her nose. She paid for her own lunch on a monthly basis, though her mother thought she was treating her daughter. Ann left it that way. Her father had made bad investments, and the family fortune had been reduced by three-quarters the year after he died. Ann did the accounting, and when her mother asked how Nortel, General Motors and Katanga were faring, she replied, “Same as everything else these days.” If Phyllis knew that she was being subsidized by her daughter, she might insist on moving in with her and driving them both nuts.

On the wall was a seasonal exhibit of arts and crafts by the elders. One watercolour caught Ann’s attention, a picturesque cove with floating beds of kelp and seals basking on the rocks.

Her mother scuttled up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder none too gently with her malacca cane. Her head was bent as she peered beady parrot eyes at Ann. What she lost in height, she made up for in chutzpah. “You’re three minutes late. Come on. It’s fish today, and it’s just plain disgusting when it’s cold. So damn bland anyway. Why can’t we have some real meat? Are they forcing us to turn vegetarian or just being cheap? Did you bring the Tabasco? That green kind. Doctor says no red for me.”

Ann felt her chest tighten. Phyllis always made a food request, and this one had slipped her mind. Last week it had been Patum Peperium spread for her crackers. Anchovy paste. Talk about a salt lick. Try to find it outside of Victoria. “Sorry. I’ll run some by on my way home.”

“Gangway. Move aside,” Phyllis said to a young server. Ann rolled her eyes sympathetically and got a nod. They made their way into the dining room and took a seat at a window table. With a ruthless perm that made her white hair even thinner, her mother had turned crabbiness to her advantage. She got her own way or made lives miserable. No one wanted to room with her, so a single became hers at the same price. Phyllis’s icy pale-green eyes bored into Ann from head to toe. Powdered cheeks had the substance of pale lavender hydrangeas. “Are you gaining weight
again?
That’s not good for your back, you know.”

“I’m still at fighting trim. Haven’t gained a pound,” Ann replied.

“When I was your age, I weighed the same as when I was a girl of twenty. About what I weigh now,” Phyllis said with a satisfied smirk.

Phyllis hadn’t raised an honest sweat from hard work in her life, a trophy wife from day one with a weekly house cleaner and cook. She’d been a beauty and entertained on a rajah’s level. Fred Troy’s career had been boosted by the lavish dinner parties and salons. Their home wasn’t so much a house as a theatre of manners and business. Ann had been glad to escape even though she’d gotten pregnant before twenty.

Ann’s stomach was rumbling, and she shifted, afraid her mother would make a comment. A cheery, pink-cheeked volunteer waitress brought a basket of rolls, and, having missed breakfast, Ann reached for one. She saw her mother’s narrowed glance and pulled back, brushing her hair with her fingers in a distracting gesture. Why couldn’t she stand up to the old woman? She’d been afraid of her mother’s viperous tongue for years, and now, when she could assert herself, it seemed mean-spirited. A retreat for charity’s sake. People like Phyllis grew meaner as their abilities failed. Frustration turned against the world. To know all is to forgive all, Ann felt.

“So how’s that job?” Phyllis asked. Her liver-spotted hand reached for one roll, then another, along with a wad of what looked like butter but was probably healthier and non-saturated. She put both on her side plate, tore into them like a velociraptor, and popped them into her mouth. Ann poured a glass of water from the carafe and sipped slowly. A slice of lemon showed the extra effort from the staff.

“Same old. Speeding tickets. A lost cat. We had an overdose in the homeless community. It’s far from glamorous.” Far from sympathizing, her mother had torn a strip off her when Ann had been injured stopping a felon. Whatever health complaint anyone had, Phyllis always had something more painful.

“It’s no profession for decent women. In my day there were no homeless. People worked for a living or damn well died. We didn’t even have socialized medicine, not that that’s a bad thing. Abused by some is all. Rush to the emergency room for an ingrown toenail.” Phyllis brushed a crumb from the floral shirtwaist. Women did not wear pants. Sending her clothes to the nearest dry cleaner in Langford was an extra expense for Ann. “Why didn’t you become a teacher? I told you I’d babysit Nicky while you went to university.” Having reopened as many wounds as possible, she shook her head in wonderment. As for charity, Phyllis claimed that she forgave, but she never forgot, so what was the benefit for the sinner?

A hot flash of suppressed ire creeping up her spine, Ann boiled quietly, her best strategy and the way her father had coped. Maybe that’s why he’d had a heart attack the year after he retired at sixty. “Take care of your mother. She thinks the world of Nicky. Sometimes love skips a generation,” he’d said the last time they’d met. “And let her have her way. It’s easier.”

She smiled at the waitress as a plate of poached halibut, small potatoes and peas was placed in front of her. While the palates of the elderly demanded more flavour, stomach and gall bladder problems argued against it. Without thinking, Ann reached for the salt. Her mother’s bread knife touched her hand in warning and left a small smear. “Stop that. Salt is a poison. We’re addicted to it. Just break the habit on ten consecutive occasions, and you won’t think about it any more. That’s what
Prevention
magazine advises. You’ll see, dear.” She poured on ketchup until her fish was swimming in pink.

Ann milled pepper onto her food instead. Her stomach was cramping and to relax her muscles, she looked around the dining room. Effort had been made to make the place more homey and less institutional. Chintz curtains bordered the windows, and the tables and chairs were early American style. Easy-care linoleum on the floors simplified cleaning and facilitated wheels. The ratio of men to women seemed about one to five. The few males got star treatment and acted like pampered roosters.

Oblivious while she ate, her mother had cleaned her plate and taken another roll to mop up the juices, though her hand was shaking. Ann made a mental note to check her meds with the nurse. Then she pushed the last piece of fish aside and assumed a casual tone. “Do you know a woman called Dee? She lives here, or so I’m told.”

“Dee?” her mother repeated, frowning. “That used to mean Dierdre. I don’t know anyone called that. Not that I’m friends with everyone. There are some who...” Her voice trailed off with a humph.

One steely eyebrow arched to the ceiling, she turned to a woman on the left. “DO YOU KNOW A LADY CALLED DEE?” Ann flinched. Phyllis turned to her daughter and tapped her own ear. “Deef, you know.”

The woman adjusted a hearing aid, pursing fuschia lips. “Dee. Dee. Let me see.”

Phyllis roared out, “Something wrong with your mind? I said Dee. This isn’t poetry class.” As an entire table of diners looked over. Phyllis circled her temple in a “whacko” gesture.

“There
is
Dorthea. That’s spelled D-O-R-T-H-E-A. Only one O.”

Turning her back without a thanks, Phyllis resumed her conversation with Ann. “I remember that one. Very brash. She’s in the left wing, perfect for her politics. Prefers meals in her room. Doesn’t socialize at all. Reads mostly. Probably those trashy romances.”

Ann balled up her serviette and rose. She motioned to the server who was bringing a tea pot. “Sorry to leave early. I have some business, Mother.”

“What? You haven’t finished your fish. No doggie bags here. Waste not want not. Where are you going? I want some ideas about Nicky’s Christmas present.” Phyllis’s voice rose until the room became as quiet as a graveyard except for the clatter of dishes in the kitchen. “Ann? You come back right now, young lady. I’m...”

Without explaining further, Ann left her mother, her wizened mouth still open but her attention drawn to her teacup being filled and the heralded arrival of
petit fours
. She got quick directions from a familiar worker in rainbow scrubs and went down the bright hall to room 14. On the open door with the nameplate
Dorthea Roehl
was a collage of dried flowers and sea shells. Ann craned her head inside to see a very small lady at the window.

Dorthea carried herself like a duchess and probably had practiced posture with a book on her head. On the patio, she watched two hummingbirds duelling at the feeder. Then she moved to a cozy velvet chair, propping her legs on an ottoman. The room was small, but neat and clean, with a bed, dresser and side table. A handsome portrait of the young Queen mounted on a horse was on the wall. Down her back Dee wore a thick white French braid streaked with grey.

Ann came forward slowly in case the woman was hard of hearing. Introducing herself, she explained that her mother lived here and that she was volunteering to chat with some of the residents.

“Isn’t that nice, dear, but you don’t need to worry about me. I have my reading.” The lady held up a large-print copy of Agatha Christie’s
And Then There Were None.
“Talk to some of the others who need the company.” She bent back to her book.

Ann twitched. How to get the conversation on track. A hook. “Someone said that you were Marilyn Clavir’s aunt. I’ve gone to her for massage. A truly talented woman.”

At this, a corner of Aunt Dee’s mouth rose. “With her business, she doesn’t have a lot of time to spare, but she visits once in awhile. Even took me to Fuse on my birthday.” Fuse was an upscale restaurant with a gorgeous harbour view. The pride in her voice about this small grace touched Ann’s heart, and she vowed to redouble her efforts to tolerate her mother.

Banking on the fact that older people loved to talk about the past, she added, “Marilyn said that she grew up in Sooke. It must have been different then. Much smaller. I arrived a few years ago.”

“Oh, yes. People were so close in the community. Pioneer families. Eating the same apples from the same orchards as their great-grandparents. They helped each other and came together. All-Sooke Days. Our wonderful Fall Fair, over a hundred years old. Church, dances, there wasn’t but one television station from the city. Bunny ears we had. My sister had the first colour set on our block.”

“I understand that Marilyn’s mother died very young. And her father, too.”

“Tom went far too early. Those who say only the good die young had it right with that boy. Got home from a marathon race, went to sleep, and never woke up.” She tapped her chest. “Congenital heart disease. Never knew what hit him.” She gave Ann a softer glance and marked a page in her book. “Well, if you’re staying, please sit down, for lord sakes. I’ve forgotten my manners.”

Moving aside a copy of the
Times Colonist
and a
Maclean’s
magazine, Ann took the only choice, the bed. It had a bright yellow afghan and a very realistic stuffed border collie. So far, so good. Dee had picked up on everything she’d offered and run with it. Perhaps she was lonelier than she let on. And she probably missed a dog. “Marilyn said that you raised her. She was very lucky to have a devoted aunt.”
Careful with the fulsome
praise. Dee’s bullshit antenna would begin transmitting.