Still i cannot save you, p.11
Still, I Cannot Save You, page 11
“Cosmo also had an advice column that told me men like to have their eyeballs erotically sucked on, and I’ve never met a partner yet who seemed game for it.”
She sputtered a laugh. “Okay, doll me up and then take me home to my babies.” She stretched to kiss my cheek and followed me into the bathroom, sitting like an obedient child on my toilet seat while I streaked liner across her lids, swept brown shadow in the creases, and dragged a mascara wand through her impossibly long lashes. I blew her hair dry and she leaned into the gusts, euphoric at being fussed over. When I finished, she shone with a confidence so ebullient that I wanted to cry.
* * *
—
After a three-hour car trip with Meghan doped up on Gravol, I pulled into her poorly plowed driveway that was littered with choppy patches of snow. The bungalow windows were dark. No sounds emanated from inside the house or the garage. Sammy’s swing tied to the maple tree hung lank, its basin holding a seat of ice. A sadness took hold and froze me in place, convincing me I couldn’t open the car door to get out.
“Where’s Bernard?” Joe asked from the back seat, leaning forward over the console. Pot Roast snorted awake from Joe’s lap and sat alert to lick the window. We were packed to the headliner with gifts for our family’s Christmas celebration, Meghan’s luggage, and our own. “He knew when we were coming, right?”
“Oh.” Meghan’s voice was fairy-like; tiny and distant. She fumbled for her phone as though checking messages. I glimpsed the screen and saw there were none. “He’s just picking the kids up from Phyllis’s house. He’ll be home any minute.” She stepped out into the wintery temperatures and lifted her arms in a salutation. “Ah, it’s good to be home. Not that I haven’t appreciated staying with you guys.”
“We get it,” Joe responded as he followed, keeping his tone light. “When you feel like crap, it’s nice to be in your own house with your own stuff.” He popped the trunk and carried her bags while Meghan swatted at my attempt to steady her by the elbow to cross the treacherous path up the porch stairs. Joe tested the doorknob, and in finding the door unlocked, carted the bags into the living room. “Well, Meghan, I guess we’ll see you and the rest of the Montaignes tomorrow for the Thompson Christmas, eh? You’re probably sick of us by now.”
“Thanks so much for having me to stay, Joe. For everything you did.”
He gave her a hug and took careful steps back to the car while I lingered in the cold, stamping my feet. I hadn’t bothered with my coat and I regretted it in the biting wind that swept up the open meadow.
“I don’t want to just leave you here alone.” I peered behind her to look for a sign of Bernard having made an attempt to make her feel welcome—a warm light on, a show she liked playing on TV, dinner prepared. Nothing. She swirled her keys in a loop around her finger, clacking the metal together in a way that set my teeth on edge.
“It’s fine, Kell. They’ll be home any minute. Go. I’ll see you tomorrow at Mom and Dad’s.”
“You sure?”
“Didn’t you say you had lectures to prepare anyways? You have,” she pretended to check her non-existent wristwatch, “two point five weeks until school is in session and twenty-four hours until I see you again.”
I had been hired by Trent University to teach a first-year creative writing course, to start in January. Commuting from Trenton to teach in Peterborough had seemed like a good idea, but the drive would suck up long Friday hours and, if I made the trip to Barrie from Trent for Meghan’s impending chemo, would stick me in rush-hour Toronto traffic. I had accepted the job before the surgery, the diagnosis, the planned treatment. What if she needed me? What if?
“Joe!” Meghan called out and he rolled down the window. “Take your wife with you!” She made a lame attempt at a laugh, but I saw the hint of disappointment and felt my breastbone crack in two.
“Okay, okay.” I backed away with a bow of surrender. “But I’m going to make you the best dinner tomorrow. Enough gravy to drown in.”
Meghan leaned against the porch railing while we manoeuvred the car around the slush and she called out to us, waving the whole time. She was so grateful for our care. She couldn’t wait for family Christmas. She was so excited. All of these things said in an inflection that hinted at the opposite emotion. When she thought we were out of view, the smile dropped from her lips and she turned to go into the house, her shoulders slumped forward with something akin to dread.
fifteen
The next day, the smell of roasting turkey and sage filled Mom and Dad’s house as steam wafted from the oven. I drizzled the crisping poultry skin with a line of fat from the baster, added some more salt, checked the temperature.
“Late, as usual,” Dad said with a huff from his recliner, dramatically assessing his watch.
“You know if it was up to Meghan, they’d be here first thing,” Mom quipped. “She loves Christmas.”
“Can’t be on time, even once. For her.” Dad’s decibel level rose with Mom’s support. They shared a look while I rattled the turkey back into the oven, then uselessly fiddled with knobs on the stove. The food, at least, was on schedule. Joe kissed my shoulder as he passed and poured me a glass of wine.
“I just want to give her a nice, final Christmas,” I whispered as I took the pinot. Meghan’s surgical report lingered in my inbox, where I still marked it “unread” despite having nearly committed it to memory. Nausea floated up at the thought.
“Deep breaths,” Joe said, wiping the counter. “Let’s just get through today.” I blew out through pursed lips at the exact moment the doorbell chimed.
“About time,” Dad muttered, but still, he pushed up from his chair to help Mom walk to the front door. She’d been moving so much slower lately, her MS clearly affected by all the stress. But this was a worry for later. Joe was right: the focus had to be on getting through the day.
We collected in the entryway and saw Bernard looking miserable on the other side of the glass front door with the children. When I flung open the door, he shoved Lily at me, her body a puffy snowsuit sausage.
“Merry Christmas, Montaignes! Hi, Pudding! Hi, Piggy! I missed you guys so much!”
“Auntie!” Sam circled my legs with his arms before fleeing to his grandpa, who scooped him into the air and zipped him airplane-style through the foyer. There was a murmur of hellos and missed yous, squealing baby noises, and the clanking of hangers as jackets were hung. Meghan ambled wearily up the driveway. As she got closer, it was clear she’d slathered on too much makeup and hairstyling product in an effort to disguise the melancholy underneath.
“How’re you doing?” I asked, leaning in to kiss her cheek while Bernard wordlessly piled packages into my arms alongside his daughter. I’d helped Meghan do her Christmas shopping before she went into hospital, and, with forethought, she’d wrapped them before her surgery. It was unlike her to plan so far ahead.
“Alright.”
“Well, come in so we can load you up with food and presents.”
The entryway became a trove of boots and mittens, melted snow making puddles on the tiles. Joe and I helped the kids shuck the rest of their layers and eased Meghan out of her coat and into a chair to catch her breath while Sam darted into the living room to play with the trains Dad always set up for him. Our parents hovered at the top of the stairs holding one another to brace against the shock of Meghan’s appearance, having not seen her since she went into hospital weeks ago. I should have prepared them, but how was one to prepare other loved ones for the starkness of that suffering? I didn’t even know where to begin.
“I’m frigging hungry,” Bernard muttered, his first words since arrival. He had not taken off his outerwear and stood like a hunched bear by the door. “Gonna go get a bite.”
“Oh, we’re eating in an hour.” I nodded towards the kitchen with my chin. Lily had begun to whine and I jostled her like a maraca to stave off a meltdown. “I baked cookies if you want something to tide you over. Maybe my Lily wants a cookie too?” I kissed her all over until she bared her mottled gums.
“Cookies! Treats!” Sam had appeared at Dad’s side, clinging to the leg of his jeans.
“I need to eat now,” Bernard wheedled to Meghan, without looking at the rest of the family. “I’m going to go grab a burger.”
“We were going to open presents first,” I said, bouncing Lily with more fervour now that her bottom lip was trembling. When no one rose to the defence of my perfectly laid plans, I hefted Lily farther up my hip and made a point of assessing the grandfather clock. “You’re two hours late.”
Bernard ignored me and walked back to their vehicle, revved the truck engine, and then raced out of the subdivision. Meghan watched from the window, tears glistening.
“Hey,” Joe said to Sam. “Why don’t I take these little minions down to check out the tree and see what Santa brought, eh?” I gave him a grateful kiss as he lifted Lily from my arms and ushered Sam downstairs.
Mom, Dad, and I stood, waiting for some kind of explanation, even when the point seemed moot. It wasn’t the first holiday they’d nearly missed for tardiness, but surely even Bernard knew this Christmas was different.
“What the hell is Bernard’s problem?” I blurted.
“Kell,” Meghan grunted as I stooped to tug off her winter boots. “Not now, please.”
“Let’s just have a nice day,” Mom chirped. As a habitual people pleaser, she was keen to keep us on the right side of polite. But her mouth trembled as she fought to keep herself together. “Meggie, we missed you so much.” Meghan went to Mom and Dad and leaned into their combined hug, looking so tiny and in need of the kind of comfort only parents can give. Dad caressed her hair and squeezed her tightly and their chests collectively heaved with stifled tears while I fussed with the remaining outerwear and sopped up melted snow with the dog towel. I was armouring myself in some way, determined to immunize myself to the ratcheting levels of anguish.
“I’m okay. I’m okay,” she said, pulling away finally. “I’ve got to keep it together, for the kids. I want today to be nice for them.”
“You look tired.” Mom reached out to pat Meghan’s curls. “Did you get any sleep?”
“All I do is sleep, Ma. It’s all I do.”
“Well, let’s get you settled downstairs then,” Dad said. “I thought you’d be comfiest on the rocker, and I put out an extra blanket for you. And the fireplace is going.” He took Meghan by the elbow like a gentleman leading a fine lady, but their bodies bottlenecked on the turning staircase and he was forced to watch her descent with his grip tight on the banister. He rushed to follow and helped her into the rocking chair, his arthritic knees popping like bubble wrap.
“We’re like the lame leading the lame,” Meghan said, kissing Dad’s cheek as he tucked a blanket around her legs. His tenderness towards her, considering his lifelong military career in which he was known for toughness, made my chest ache. Mom flopped into the leather couch like a baseball hitting a catcher’s mitt, her face already tear-mottled. Everyone looked worn out, and it was barely lunchtime.
“Mum! Presents!” Sam jumped up and down pointing at the tree, while Lily lay on her stomach, rattling one of Pot Roast’s dog toys before bringing it to her mouth.
“Lily, oh no, Lily, drop that. That’s dirty.” I tried to pry it from her hand but her screams paralyzed me.
“Oh, who cares.” Meghan’s tone was deadpan as she pulled the blanket up around her neck. “I mean, can it really be that bad? Some dog slobber? Won’t kill her.”
Mom clapped her hand over her mouth, like she was the one who’d spoken, then turned to stare into the gas fire that danced behind the glass. It was impossible to withstand the recognition that there were things that could kill, silent things so much more sinister than germs.
I sat on the floor near Meghan’s feet, Dad squishing in close next to Mom on the couch. My focus had been so squarely on Meghan that I only then considered how Mom and Dad had aged this past year. It showed in their stiff joints and drooping cheeks, in their necks folding in like worn handbags. But we were together, and I wanted to hold the memory close. I raised my phone to snap some photos, then dropped it—a push-pull between keeping and letting go.
“Mum, we open? We open now?” Sam sat by the tree with Joe, holding out various packages that glittered in metallic paper.
“Are we waiting? For Bernard?” Mom asked tentatively.
“Do we know when he’s even coming back?” Dad couldn’t keep the growl from his throat.
“Fine. It’s fine,” Meghan said, her lids half open. “Let them open their stockings, I guess. It’ll keep Sam busy. Baby, ask Uncle Joe where your stocking is.”
Joe and Sam passed out overfilled socks and we feigned interest in rolls of Life Savers and tubes of hand cream, but the feeling of celebration had been sucked from the process. It helped to focus on the kids instead, as Lily zeroed in her concentration on Pot Roast’s toys, joyless in the actual gifts she was given, and Sam rushed to show us each treasure he wrenched free from his stocking.
An hour later, a waft of marijuana marked Bernard’s arrival as he wordlessly joined us, flopping into the chair in the farthest corner of the room.
“All better?” Meghan called out. She didn’t make an effort to hide the annoyance in her voice, and I loved her for it. He shrugged as Sam rushed up and placed a gift gingerly in his father’s lap. Bernard turned the box around in his hand like it might explode, then patted Sam on the head like one would a dog.
“Thanks, bud.”
“Open, Daddy!”
We watched silently as Bernard unwrapped a set of long underwear from Joe and me, holding them between his pointer finger and thumb. “These are great, thanks. They’ll be good for work.”
A hush fell, with not even Lily squealing or paper rustling. The awkwardness was painful, like something stuck between my teeth.
“Hey, Sammy,” Joe called. “Why don’t you pass out the rest of the presents, eh?”
On cue, Dad stood to hover at the ready. “You done there?” he barked each time someone finished opening a present. Before we could say thanks, he snatched the wrapping and balled it into a construction-grade garbage bag, as per every other Thompson family gift-giving event. It was something Meghan and I had always joked about—his unease with celebration if it came with litter, mess, disorder. We called him the Garbage Nazi behind his back.
“Hey, Dad,” Meghan said innocently. “I think you missed a piece over there.” She pointed to the opposite corner of the den, warbled her wrist generically.
“What?” He whipped around to face us, head on a swivel. “Where?”
“Over there,” Meghan repeated airily. Dad stomped to the corner to peek around furniture as Meghan continued to gesture non-specifically. “Keep searching. It might have blown under the chair from the furnace fan.” Same old, Dad, she mouthed to me, only a foot away, and we stifled smirks. I could smell her laundry detergent, the essential oil–based soap I’d bought for her, her hairspray: these things that reminded me that she was still here, in this moment. And just for a second, I tried to imagine life without her. No one else—absolutely no one—would share in this joke with me, this history, this knowledge of our family and its complicated inner workings. The Garbage Nazi joke would die with her, and all I wanted for Christmas was to stop time.
“Where, Meg? Where’s the paper you saw?” Dad’s bum wiggled from behind the armchair, where he’d stooped to peer under the skirt of its cover.
I wanted to laugh with her, out loud and noisy, but I also wanted this silence, this perfection, to remain a private thing. I love you, Meghan mouthed to me. I patted her legs, swallowed so many times that my throat felt raw.
* * *
—
Utensils clacked against dishes strewn with smears of gravy and apple pie. Our meal had been hilariously silent and fraught, making me grateful for the distraction created by Sam narrating each item he put in his mouth.
In the few hours since her family had arrived, Meghan’s energy had wilted like a flower. Joe, Dad, and I began clearing the table while Bernard settled into the recliner in the living area and Meghan worked at freeing the kids from their highchairs.
“Let me,” Joe said, gently touching her arm to stop her. “You’re not supposed to be lifting anything, remember?”
“I know, I just . . .” Meghan started to cry as she glanced at each of us in succession—Joe. Mom. Dad. Me. Her children. Finally, she turned to Bernard, who was either sleeping or pretending we weren’t there. From the dining table, it was hard to tell.
Sam reached for Joe’s neck. “Gunco Joe!” Joe swung Sam from the chair and held him upside down, comically bouncing to some unheard beat until he had a child in each arm, galloping around the living room.
“Why don’t you go lie on the couch?” I said to Meghan as I reached across her for her plate. “You look tired.”
“It’s pain, actually.” Her face bunched into something between anger and sadness. “But I don’t want to dine and dash.”
“My God, Meghan, we’re family. We don’t care. Go home and have a rest.” Sometimes it was easy to forget that just over two weeks ago, she’d been in surgery, the incision a foot long. And only a week ago, I had carried her to the car like a princess and it hadn’t felt like we would ever make it to this dinner.
“You guys sure? Maybe you’re right. Babe?” she said to Bernard. “Do you think you could gather the kids and gifts? I’m in a lot of pain. Think I’ve overdone it for the day.” Bernard’s lashes fluttered open, but he didn’t answer.
“Babe? Did you hear me? Can you get the kids? So much pain.” She pointed to her abdomen for effect, in case any of us had somehow forgotten.
