Only sisters, p.11
Only Sisters, page 11
Vivien: I don’t have it
Bruno: Then the name
Vivien: It’s not mine to give
Bruno: It’s mine to know. My right. Not yours to withhold.
I nearly told him then, I can’t give it to you; I’m just the aunt. But no—I’d already considered the consequences. I’d have to resort to the truth as I understood it.
Vivien: The birth certificate says Unknown for a reason
Bruno: I don’t believe this. What gives you the right to keep that from me?
Bruno: Every other human being knows where they come from. I couldn’t even get access to my birth certificate until ten years ago.
Bruno: It’s like I’m from Mars
I felt his need, the hole in him, as if it was mine. The missing piece just out of reach. His frustration. His desperation. The intensity of it would have made Vivien angry. I was just acting, trying to give him a feel for her. Wasn’t I? My index fingers on the keyboard, jabbing.
Vivien: I was sixteen when I got pregnant. It wasn’t my plan to fuck up your life or mine
The snap of keys was ever so satisfying. The last tap—send. I did it without a pause. It took a full half-minute for self-recrimination to smack the back of my head.
Vivien: I’ll try to get in touch with him
Bruno: This is intense for me too. Thanks
Vivien: Give me time
Bruno’s green dot disappeared.
Was perpetuating the lie so wrong? It couldn’t last much longer—just until I gave him what he needed.
* * *
Over the next three days, I saw patients, wrote up notes, visited my mother, spoke to her case manager and begged for more time. I uploaded a photo to Facebook of the bone protruding from the leg of the motorcycle-accident patient, with the caption: Bad breaks in every sense. (Oscar and Raoul liked it immediately. I wondered about Grace, but figured she must be in a village somewhere, out of touch). There was a message from Oscar about his mother attempting to report him for elder abuse because he’d gone to a conference instead of taking her to her hairdresser. (I sent him a link: 5 Tips for Coping with Aging Parents.) I put a bowl under the kitchen sink to catch water from a leak, got a plumber in to fix it, and went to my storage locker, where I read my diary from the summer of 1976—which mentioned Mark, but never his last name; if I wanted that I’d have to ask Augie—all the while half-listening for the ping of my phone. On Friday evening, my sister’s son, my nephew, finally messaged me again.
FRI, APR 26, 10:37 PM
Bruno: So you’re a nurse in the DRC
Vivien: I looked you up too, but all I could find was your Facebook profile with nothing in it
I imagined Mark crossed with my sister. Blond, pointy-nosed, sharp-tongued.
Bruno: Try B.G. Edery
Vivien: Got it. You’re a carpenter
He specialized in custom doors—his website showed one carved with a fish leaping from a river, another inlaid with squares depicting celestial bodies—and he lived in Toronto, where he also taught at George Brown College.
Bruno: I like working with my hands
Bruno: Why the DRC?
Vivien: It’s a big country and I don’t like to stay in one place. I’ve worked on three continents. Most recently in vaccination outreach
Bruno: I hate needles
Bruno: Why do carpenters make the best witnesses?
Vivien: Why?
Bruno: They saw everything
Vivien: Funny
There was no picture of him in the list of part-time faculty or on his website. I wanted to see my nephew; I wanted to know him. You’re selfish, I told myself. My self replied, I lost him too.
Vivien: Why is your profile pic Snoopy fighting the Red Baron?
Bruno: I’m a history nerd. Because I never knew my own
Vivien: I could send you a picture
Bruno: Okay
I chose one of Vivien at an outdoor clinic—bare-armed, her tattoos visible—and messaged it, hoping he’d respond in kind. No dots wiggled in reply.
Vivien: Do you look like me?
Bruno: Not really
Bruno: I have a couple of tattoos too
Vivien: I got my first at age 13
Bruno: I waited until I was 25. My parents disapproved. The Torah forbids it. Leviticus. No making marks in the skin, dead or alive. You’re not Jewish, are you?
Vivien: I’m an atheist
Bruno: So am I. What’s that got to do with it? I mean family background. Any Nazis?
Vivien: No. A few Communists. British Isles
Bruno: That’s a relief
Vivien: My father was a bomber pilot in WW2
Bruno: My grandfather was in the Algerian resistance. The Vichy regime sent his brother to a concentration camp
Vivien: Edery isn’t a Jewish name
Bruno: It is if you’re North African. My parents were forced out because they’re Jews. They met in France
Bruno: Speaking of. Fathers and history. What about mine?
Vivien: Working on it
He was gone again.
* * *
I called Augie early the next morning, expecting to leave a message (the script was on my laptop). I was caught off-guard when he picked up, but thought that I managed to be casual enough, asking about the house-stager he’d recommended and dropping in a mention of his stepbrother. “What’s he up to these days? By the way, what was his last name? Something common, I remember. Smith? Jones? Johnson?”
It was Cohen. Try looking up Mark Cohen. In Florida. Sixty-two million hits.
SAT, APR 27, 07:44 AM
Augie: I had a weird call with Joan
Vivien: What about
Augie: My stepbrother. I think she’s always had a crush on him
Vivien: Great! Give her his email address
Augie: No. Mark’s an asshole
Vivien: That’s her business
Augie: She’s an old friend. I wouldn’t do that to her
Vivien: Who are you to tell her what to do, OLD MAN
Augie: Shit. Fine. You don’t have to shout
He sent me the email address, but I didn’t forward it to Bruno just yet, afraid he’d vanish once he got all the information he wanted. While driving to Valley View that afternoon, I had an idea. It was a terrible idea—really, I told myself, you’re going to keep lying? But chastising Mom as Vivien hadn’t led to a lasting change. Maybe telling her about Bruno could galvanize her to co-operate with her treatment plan. All the way to the rehab facility, I debated it. Was I unwilling to go a little further? Just because I’d rather think of myself as a moral person? How could I hide what I knew about her grandson? Was that right? Any guilt over deceiving Bruno had no bearing on what was best for Mom.
The plan seemed all the more feasible because she was in a decent mood when I arrived. Her roommate had been discharged, and her bed was empty, another patient not yet admitted. Mom had used her walker to hobble to the other side of the room to wipe the window ledge clean of dust. She was now lying in bed, worn out, but cheerfully ordering me to swipe the ledge with my finger. I obeyed, glad to turn my back for a moment. Every time I visited, I was startled to see her as a shrunken and sickly old woman.
“No dust, Mom.” I pulled the chair closer to her bed and sat. I gave her the Saturday crossword, and she told me about the latest episode of Our Planet. Then I said, “So, have you heard from Vivien today?”
“No—why?”
“She asked me to tell you, in case her internet service went down.”
“What?” Mom reached for my hand and gripped it.
“It’s not bad news. Her son contacted her.”
Mom echoed what I’d said, and added, “She told you to tell me that?”
“She did. Mom, are you all right?”
“Yes.” She sniffled. I dug a packet of tissues out of my messenger bag and handed it to her. She blew her nose. “Is he…How is he?”
“He’s good, Mom.”
“Do you think I could—would she be mad if I met him?”
It was easy to justify. Who would it hurt? Mom was looking at me, her face open, vulnerable. She needed this. I ignored my qualms. Bruno would benefit from meeting her too. “Just ask Vivien.”
“Not me, Joanie. You do it. Ask her for me.”
“I would, but…” I wondered if Vivien would applaud the cruelty I was about to display. I looked out the window, unable to meet my mother’s eyes. “Do you really want him seeing you in a nursing home?”
“I’m not going there!”
“I’m afraid so, Mom. They’ll be arranging a transfer mid-week.”
“That Martha woman said I could have at least another month here.”
“But only if you work with the physiotherapist.”
“I will, Joanie. I’m not that tired anymore. I’ve had a good rest. You tell her that. Please tell her.”
“Okay, Mom. And I’ll ask Vivien about meeting her son. Just don’t expect an answer right away. You know what she’s like.”
My mother sighed and nodded. Her hands rested in her lap, holding the used tissue as if it was pristine.
* * *
First thing on Monday, I called Mom’s case manager, but she wasn’t available. We managed to connect in the afternoon, just before my appointment with Eddie Wong, and Martha agreed to give Mom another chance. While Eddie was in the washroom, I checked my phone and saw that Bruno had just messaged.
MON, APR 29, 02:30 PM
Bruno: Did you have other children?
Vivien: Only you. Your family?
Bruno: No siblings. Parents are good people, still living. Wife is also good people. Too good sometimes
Vivien: Like my sister
Bruno: So there’s an aunt. Any uncles? Cousins?
Vivien: No. Sorry
I began to write, There’s a grandmother still living. She knows about you. But Bruno’s next message showed up before I tapped send.
Bruno: Did anyone want me?
If I could have reached through the screen to hug him, I would have.
Vivien: I did. Very much. I was just too young.
Vivien: My sister was angry with me for giving you up. I couldn’t stand the look on her face, the accusation. At least when I ran away, I didn’t have to see it
I stared at the words I’d just written—was that the reason Vivien had kept her distance all these years? When Eddie came back to the living room, he looked at me with concern. “You’re pale all of a sudden.” I told him I was fine, just tired. He gave me a peppermint candy, like somebody’s grandpa, though he was no one’s, and I’d never had one either.
* * *
Bruno was born as dawn was breaking on the first Sunday in May. By the time the EMTs were loading the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, the sun was fully up. I wanted to go with Vivien and the baby, but though she asked for me, they wouldn’t allow it. I sat outside on the front steps, watching the ambulance peel away, and waited for my parents to do something. A robin was hopping in the front yard. Other birds sang their nesting songs. After a while, I went back inside and stripped Vivien’s bed. The bundled sheets went straight into the trash with my pyjamas. Then I changed into the one outfit left in my closet: bell-bottom jeans and a peasant blouse, soft from washing.
After Dad roused my mother, they showered and had coffee and called Toronto East General to find out when we could see Vivien. Dad was hungover and Mom was trying to act as if nothing unusual had happened. Dad put on his tie, while she did full face makeup (newly acquired, clearly a priority). He’d lost his licence again, so Mom drove. They were silent on the way, Mom focused on the road and Dad staring straight ahead. Every time I thought of Vivien, I heard the sound of my sleeve ripping as I pulled away from her grip to catch the baby as he slid out, and I shivered, remembering the fear that I’d do something wrong and kill my sister or her child.
The room for newborns was just a few steps from the elevator, a crowd cooing at the large glass windows. We paused, and I pointed at the front row. There he was, with a sign on the bassinet: “Connor Boy.” Dad was mesmerized. Mom called him by name a couple of times before she got his attention, then looped her arm through his and marched him forward. She entered Vivien’s room as if on a mission, while Dad hovered near the doorway.
Vivien was sitting up in bed, eating pie. She looked weary, dark circles under her eyes. I joined her on the bed, though there was barely space for me beside her.
“How’s the pie?” I asked her.
“Good. Apple.” She held out a forkful, and I ate it. “They’re treating me like a hero because I’m not going to be a burden on society. See—private room. Apparently, most girls are keeping their babies now.” Her voice wavered.
Dad remained near the doorway while Mom came to stand at the foot of the bed, hands on her hips. “Of course, you’re not a burden. You have a family.”
“I’ve signed the papers,” she said. “He’s going to be adopted.”
“Great,” Mom said, as if she still thought she’d gotten her way. “I’ll just go and talk to the nurse and we can take you and the baby home. He shouldn’t have to be in foster care if he can be with his own family until it’s official.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Vivien said.
Mom opened her mouth but was interrupted before she could say anything more by a woman who came in, smiling and saying hello to all of us. A name tag was pinned to her knitted vest, which she wore over a turtleneck. The vest, the top, her skirt were all shades of beige. The name tag read, Beverley Radzinski, social worker.
“So, this must be Mom, Dad, and Sister. So glad to meet you all.” Her tone was calm, disarming. “I’ve already had a good talk with Vivien. Let’s go to my office and let her finish her snack. Don’t forget the milk, Vivien!” She nodded at my sister, who nodded back as if they weren’t talking about milk at all. “Just follow me, Mom…Dad…”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Dad said.
“Perfect. That will give us ladies a few minutes to ourselves. Room 502,” Beverley said.
Once they were gone, Vivien said to Dad, “Everything’s in Beverley’s file now, so Mom can’t lie. There are lots of families that want him. Good families.”
“You’d rather give your baby to a stranger?” I’d seen that look on Dad’s face only once before. We were at the cottage and he was painting a pilot surrounded by flames.
“Would you even want him? You hate me.”
“Don’t say that. I was angry—but still. Your child. Of course I want him.”
“I don’t believe you,” Vivien said. “You love drinking. More than us, more than anything. That’s what you really want.”
Dad made a sound as if all the air had gone out of him. Then he turned on his heel and left the room. I was still lying beside Vivien, pressed against her in order to fit in the single bed, feeling the rise and fall of her rapid breathing. Gradually, it slowed.
“You should have kept the baby,” I said, not caring how accusatory I sounded.
“Stop talking about it or go.” Vivien pushed. She was too weak to shove me off the bed, but I got up anyway and moved to a chair.
“I’ll stay.”
Her room was equipped with a TV and a remote—still a novelty then—and I picked it up, avoiding my sister’s eyes. I flicked through the TV channels—it was mostly sports—until I came to Scooby-Doo, which Vivien said we should watch, though we were both too old for cartoons. We laughed as the dog bounced off a crocodile and got caught in a vine. I mumbled, “Sorry,” and Vivien mumbled, “S’okay.” I moved the chair closer to her bed. Before anyone else returned, she said, “Family is so random. We’re only sisters because of chance. Neither of us chose it. Remember that, Roo.”
When Mom came back to fetch me, Vivien asked if she got it now. Mom said she did, that the social worker was very clear. The last thing she said to Vivien before we left was “I’ll never forgive you.”
My sister was discharged the next day. When my parents went to pick her up, they discovered that she’d already gone. That evening she called and said she was staying with her ex-boyfriend, the one with the prison record. Mom phoned the police, who confirmed what she’d been told: Vivien couldn’t legally drink or vote, but she was entitled to withdraw from parental control, with no court process and no official documents required. She could live wherever she chose. Mom blamed Dad, and he accepted the blame. I assumed he’d take it to a bar; instead, he went into rehab. By the time he came out, my sister had left her ex’s place, and no one knew where she was. I remembered what she’d said—that family was random. Having a sister—having me as her sister—wasn’t enough to make her come back.
I didn’t think I’d ever recover. But human beings can recover from a broken heart. They do it again and again.
CHAPTER 10
A few evenings later, I found myself stalking Bruno on HomeStars, gleaning tidbits about him from happy customers, while he spent hours on Vivien’s Facebook page. He reacted to one post with a like and another—about the history of the Congo before it had been colonized, written a year earlier—with a wow face. Every time he reacted, my phone—on the bed beside me—pinged. I shifted position, the laptop warm on my knees. The window was open, and I could hear my neighbour’s grandchildren chatting as they smoked on her porch. Across the street, Uncle Jack’s house now belonged to a childless couple who were out walking their labradoodles. First, one barked, then the other, joining in on the conversation. As the barking receded, I heard the short whistle of a Messenger notification.
