Lodz Ghetto, 1943

 Lodz Ghetto, 1943

Travel back with me,
I cajole you, Jewishly, femininely 
my brown eyes can fade into hazel then green.
I died young, so I rest young.
Our Noble Elder
shook hands with the Devil
He too will be deported.
But that is not now;
That is later.
I travel
in rhyme, in time
and I conversed
with the Angel of Death.
He flirted in the manner
of tearing the wings off an insect.
But that is of no
consequence. I urge
you to follow me even though
I have been dead for close
to a sharp century.

Miss L's Travails—Chapter II

 

 

CHAPTER TWO—I WENT NOWHERE

 

It was Elaine and Gloria, never Gloria and Elaine. Her family moved into the upper duplex my parents owned when she was seven years old. We shared the same birthday, October 29, but I was exactly one year younger, and she never let me forget it. Everyone who didn’t know better assumed we were sisters. She had two of those; I had none.

We were both scrawny little creatures with fine light brown hair that we deplored as being the most humdrum colour of all. She had pretty green eyes; mine were a less glamorous hazel, though Elaine insisted they were merely light brown.

Elaine had more gumption than I did. I was a shy, clingy little thing with a defiant spirit seemingly trapped underneath my ribcage. Because of the age difference, Elaine avoided me, first at the elementary school we both attended—Westhaven, and then at Royal Crest High.

I watched from the sidelines as she bloomed into a comely teenager, wasp-waisted, lanky, long, shiny hair highlighted beach-blonde. In contrast, my awkward stage spanned four seemingly endless years. My pert nose grew big and lumpy, my body thickened and I was assaulted by cystic acne that was as painful as it was hideous. I still have scars from those infected pustules, but blemished skin on a 67-year-old goes pretty much unnoticed.

We went to different universities, both in Montreal, and I rarely saw her anymore. We no longer visited each other’s homes, and even though she was living above my nose, I lost track of her. She married young, moved first to Toronto, then New York, then London, then Los Angeles. From time to time her mother, Sarah, showed me updated photos: Elaine with a reasonably presentable but balding husband, Elaine with identical twin baby girls, Elaine on vacation in a black and white polka-dotted bikini, looking sun-kissed, lovely and lithe.

In 1983, Elaine’s father died. Two of the three daughters were scattered to the winds by then, and didn’t attend his funeral, which my parents found shocking and indefensible. The middle daughter, Ruth, the dutiful daughter managed the funeral arrangements and invited her mother to move in with her family in Westmount. My parents never tried renting out the upstairs after it was vacated. Over the years, they were often approached by people who knew people who knew that the flat was unoccupied, but my parents would smile and say they preferred it that way.

I went nowhere. I became an elementary school teacher at Westhaven, my first alma mater, and worked my entire career there. It was located just a few blocks from where I lived. I took two years off to care for my mother when she sickened from cancer and I did the same for my father shortly thereafter. After he died, I was alone in their house, which had become my house and I also decided against renting the upper duplex. I didn’t have the temperament to oversee the myriad details that comprise the duties of a landlady.

It was a bitterly cold Sunday in mid-April,1997. I was cleaning the upper duplex, a mind-numbing task I performed once a month. One might think it would be easier to clean empty rooms than ones filled with furniture and other objects, but I didn’t find this to be the case at all. There were no visual distractions, and that made the washing of counters, baseboards, tiles and linoleum surfaces dreary indeed.

I was running the bathwater, making a paste of Old Dutch cleanser in order to scour the tub when I heard the doorbell ring. The upper duplex, unlike the lower one, had a pleasantly musical door chime. I came close to ignoring it, but my curiosity got the better of me, and I buzzed open the front door downstairs. A rangy woman stood in the doorway.

“Hey stranger. It’s been like what, a million years?”

I recognized the husky voice immediately. It had been so attractively distinctive when she was a girl. Now it made her sound old and hard.

“Elaine!” I shrieked, gripping the bannister as I awkwardly tripped down several curving steps to meet her more or less halfway. The long, winding stairwell reeked of nicotine.

Our embrace was bony.  Both of us were thin middle-aged women although I wanted to believe that time had been kinder to me than it had been to her.

It didn’t surprise me in the least that once again we resembled siblings. We both wore our hair long, were dressed in muted medieval colours and our eyes were rimmed with inky liner.

As soon as we entered my flat, Elaine exclaimed, “Why, it hasn’t changed at all! Have you been living here all this time?”

I admitted that I had been. By this time we were in the kitchen, where the light was crisp and bright. I noticed that Elaine looked somewhat downtrodden. Her long olive-green skirt was muddied at the hem; her sensible lace-up shoes were scuffed and nicked. Much of the prettiness had been leached out of her narrow face.

She sat down unsteadily, holding on to the table-top as she did so. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

Actually, I did. Mind. I did, but I was uneasy saying so. Instead, I mumbled, “If you absolutely must…. I’ll get something you can use as an ashtray.” She had already fished a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of her deep skirt pocket. I fetched a teacup saucer, and she ran her yellowed fingers over its porcelain rosebuds.

“Your parents?” Elaine had liked them and appreciated their subdued, restrained ways. She had often told me so when we were children.

“Both dead. Cancer. My mother’s was lung, my father’s pancreatic. Would you like something to drink? Rosehips tea? Coffee? A glass of white wine?”

“When? When did they die?”

“What does it matter?” I thought but didn’t ask. Instead I answered dutifully, robotically. “Mother died in 1992, Dad in 1994. What about your mother? And tell me about your sisters, and your daughters. How old are they now? Your daughters, I mean. Not your sisters or your mother.”

Elaine laughed. It sounded like the bark of a small dog. “A glass of wine would be lovely. Will you have one as well?” I nodded repeatedly as I stood up.

“My girls are seventeen years old. They live with their father in New York. My mother has Alzheimer’s. She’s been a patient at Spinoza Geriatric Hospital for the last couple of years. My sister Ruth is her designated caregiver. Lucky Ruth. She’s the only one of us still living in Montreal, so she got the position by default.”

I surprised myself by asking, “Your cigarette looks very appealing. Can I bum one?”

“Be my guest.” She slid the rumpled pack and miniature lighter toward me.

I couldn’t help thinking, “What a charming picture we must make! Two old broads smoking cigarettes and drinking wine in broad daylight.”

“So listen, Gloria.” Elaine’s eyes looked at me nervously. I sensed what was coming. “Can I crash here for a few weeks, until I get on my feet? I’m staying with an ex-boyfriend, but his welcome for me is wearing thin. Truth be told, it wasn’t thick to begin with.”

The request had a certain charm. My own company wasn’t all that entertaining. My personality struck me as being mechanically melancholic. My little rituals, quirks if you will, bored me senseless. So I was tempted to say “Yes. Yes of course. You can stay here as long as you like.” But that unspoken assent was instantly waylaid by a better, bolder, brighter idea, which sprung out of my mouth like a newborn snake. “The upper duplex is empty, has been for years. You could stay there, rent-free for as long as you like. It’s very sparsely furnished, though. You’ll have to buy a shitload of stuff and split the Hydro and Gaz Métro bills with me.”

I’ve always been a cautious, many would even say fearful person, but it seemed like the perfect offer to be making at the time, and I never had cause to regret it.

 

Miss L's Travails—Chapter I

 

CHAPTER ONE—ON EDGE

 

I thanked my lucky stars for the peephole! It was arguably my apartment’s most valued feature. The front doorbell buzzed a few times, and I eyeballed the opening anxiously. It was just Ralph, dear sweet Ralph, my one and only friend and trusted handyman for the past ten years. His boyish, evenly featured face looked distorted, chipmunk puffy, but his brown eyes exuded their habitual goodwill.

I unlatched the double chain-lock and let him in. “Sheesh, Miss L. It’s insanely cold out there. I can’t recall it ever being quite so ferocious in November.”

“I’ll make you a grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of cocoa. The list of fixes is beside the desktop. I hope you can get the poor old workhorse up and running again.”

“I’ll do my best, Miss L. There’s almost always a workaround for every problem.”

“It’s the almost that worries me, Ralph. Sooner or later, I know I’ll run out of luck.”

Ralph carried his quaint wooden toolbox to the computer room, and I headed for the kitchen, a room which was comfortingly outdated. If my computer, or for that matter, my stove, refrigerator, washing machine, television or home phone were to conk out on me, I would be in deep trouble, for it had become impossible to find replacements for the older models.

The new systems were integrated and interactive. They were programmed to leak your personal data to the CIC—Citizens’ Information Centre. You couldn’t use the stove for example, without the screen asking in illuminated text, “Where did you purchase your tilapia? How much did you pay for it? Please swipe the receipt.”

Many people weren’t overly concerned about this intrusion into their private lives. Some were even pleased because on occasion, after you swiped your receipt, you became the instant winner of a month’s supply of dairy products or mixed nuts or frozen meals or some such prize. But for people of my age and older, these interactions could prove to be very, very dangerous.

Indeed, even running errands had become risky business, and I had recently asked Ralph if he would run them for me.

“Not yet, Miss L. It’s not time yet. Why that long blond hair of yours and your slender figure and stylish clothes make you look under the age limit, way under it.”

But I didn’t agree. Of late, during my forays for consumer items, I had been noticing that people were looking at me differently, with less benign neutrality. There were fewer smiles and more inquisitive expressions directed my way. I had begun wondering if I should go the route of skin fattening, but that procedure had recently become illegal and was now dangerous for practitioner and patient alike.

Seniors who had this technique performed on them were conferred with plump, smooth skin, skin as firm as Gouda cheese. But they still didn’t look young. They looked like old people with retextured skin, at least to my eyes. They were often referred to as CheeseHeads by the population at large. The procedure didn’t seem worth the cost or pain. Nevertheless, the notion of “reversing time” intrigued me, so I had once made an appointment with the most famous skin rejuvenator in Montreal, Dr. Lesage. That would have been five-and-a-half years ago.

I was so nervous walking into his aluminium-coloured office that my blotchy hands trembled. The receptionist was clinically exquisite: sleek platinum bob, perky nose, full rosy lips, melon breasts, a crisp glaringly white lab coat. She was perched daintily on a grey leather stool behind a plexiglass partition. At the time, I still had a Medicare card, which she swiped even though had I agreed to a procedure, the cost would be out of my own  pocket. She handed me a clipboard and requested that I fill out a questionnaire while waiting to be called. The final section confused me thoroughly. I was required to check the box beside the type of filler or fillers I wanted:

ð      Resveratrol

ð      Matrixyl

ð      Hyaluronic Acid

ð      Lactic Acid

ð      Glycolic Acid

ð      Vitamin C Acid

ð      DMAE Bitartrate

ð      Resveratrol- Vitamin C Acid

ð      Resveratrol- Matrixyl

ð      Matrixyl- Hyaluronic Acid

ð      Resveratrol- Glycolic Acid

ð      DMAE Bitartrate-Vitamin C Acid

ð      DMAE Bitartrate-Matrixyl

The list rattled me. I hadn’t known that I was expected to make an informed choice. The room was otherwise vacant and the white-coated creature was engaged in a personal phone call. The telephone she was using was not a cellular device, rather a lollipop pink landline apparatus which was the only source of vivid colour in the otherwise stark landscape of the reception area. I walked over to her glass cage and waited humbly for her attention. As I watched her lips move as though they had a life of their own, I noticed that her skin, although taut and firm, was tellingly dense. The realization that she was a CheeseHead gave me instant courage.

I waited patiently for her to complete her conversation and finally, after what I estimated to be a good ten minutes, she lowered the phone handle to the cradle and rewarded me with her full attention. Although her face looked eerily ageless, I calculated that she was around my age, and I asked myself which was worse: to look one’s age or to look neither young nor old, but like a creature that belonged to some other species entirely, humanoid—with a covering that resembled  skin, but wasn’t actually skin, rather an ersatz more durable material.

“I’m afraid I can’t check off the appropriate squares in Section D,” I informed the receptionist. “I have absolutely no idea what these fillers are.”

She smiled at me reassuringly. “No worries, dear. The doctor will explain everything to you. He’s an injection genius. Look at what he’s done for me.”

I smiled back at her but said nothing. It was true that her “skin job” was better than average, but I’d already made up my mind that I didn’t want to look like that. I decided, however, not to exit the office. Perhaps the good doctor could propose a different sort of procedure, one that yielded a more natural-looking result.

One of three glass doors opened, and Dr. Lesage took my chart out of the hands of his receptionist and asked me to follow him into his office. I was surprised to note that he was also a Cheesehead, and a balloon-head to boot. He was so skinny that his head looked as though it belonged on a different body entirely. He was either deathly ill or severely anorectic. He was short for a man, my height—5’5”, and his severe halitosis filled the otherwise immaculate room.

There were two metal chairs on the patient side of the desk, and he sat down in one of them. I followed his example, and placed my lumpy purse awkwardly on the pearl-grey carpet. He then stretched out his unusually long arms and turned my face this way and that way, tilting my chin, running his bony fingers up and down my neck.

“I see that you haven’t filled in your preference for fillers,” he spoke softly, almost dreamily.

“That’s correct, “I acknowledged. What do you recommend?”

“That depends entirely on the effect you want and on how much money you’re willing and able to spend.”

“I was hoping you could show me digital results of what the various options would produce.” By then, his deathly breath made me feel faint and I was in desperate need of fresh air.

Again the soft and dreamy voice. “Yes, yes, of course, Will you be wanting your hands, arms and chest area done as well?”

“Not straight off. I was thinking I’d start with my face and neck and see how it went.”

“Baby steps,” he murmured. “Let me say that for satisfactory results you’ll require at least three treatments, and I think that for your particular type of age damage, I recommend the DMAE Bitartrate-Matrixyl option. That should tighten, lighten and brighten your skin significantly.”

“And how long should the benefits last?” I asked. “I mean, how often will the procedure have to be repeated?”

“Oh, that’s very difficult to predict. Every case is different. On average though, refilling is required two to three times a year.”

“I see. And for the filler combination that you recommend for my face and neck, how much will three sessions cost?”

“Forty-five hundred dollars, payable before we begin.”

I groped for my purse and rose. This time it was the doctor who followed my example. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Lesage. I’ll get back to you as soon as I’m ready to be filled. Should I expect much pain?”

“No pain at all. A little discomfort, but no actual pain.”

We shook hands and I bolted out of his office. The receptionist cocked her head toward me expectantly. She resembled an albino parrot. “I’ll be back,” I told her breezily,” once I sort out my finances.” But, of course, that didn’t happen.

I carried Ralph’s sandwich and sea-salted potato chips into the computer room. “Time for a lunch break,” I informed him as cheerily as I could. “Would you like mineral water or beer?”

“Tap water will be great, Miss L. I always vouch for Montreal tap water. It’s the sweetest drinking water I’ve ever tasted.”

When I returned with a jumbo-sized glass of cold water, I inquired, “How’s it going? Do you think you’ll be able to fix everything on the list?”

He finished chewing the delicate bite he had taken out of the sandwich. “We’re in luck this time ‘round, Miss L. But I don’t think patches will be available for much longer. This old baby is well on her way to obsolescence.” He pointed toward my eleven-year-old PC, but he might as well have been pointing at me. Ralph continued speaking glumly. “Everyone’s being herded in the direction of integrated systems. That’s just the way it is. It’s only a matter of time.”

I was aware of that and was preparing myself to go off the grid. As far as I knew, that wasn’t illegal. Damned troublesome, yes, but not against the law. I had been paying for everything exclusively in cash for the past three years, and not once had my money been rejected. And I rationalized that living without a stove, refrigerator, washing machine and clothes dryer might prove to be a kind of adventure in urban homesteading. Who needed a broiled steak or baked fillet of halibut when peanut butter was so high in protein? I would save time and money by eating out of jars, cans, boxes and bags. I could easily wash my clothing and bedlinens by hand and string up clotheslines in the dining room. And as for communication, well, if I truly needed to see someone or someone needed to see me, there was always the quaint rite of visiting.

There would be few personal visits, though. I was virtually friendless unless I counted Ralph as a friend. But he wasn’t really; he was my friendly handyman. But better than friendly, he was trustworthy. I didn’t see how I could manage without Ralph.

“Doesn’t it bother you to see all those still serviceable electronic devices and electrical appliances tossed to the curb?” I wanted to know.

“It used to, but not anymore. I suppose I’ve gotten accustomed to seeing them. They do look kind of forlorn, abandoned. And I do worry about little kids fooling around with refrigerators and getting stuck inside. Well, Miss L. I’m all done here. You’re good to go for now.” Ralph stood up. He was so boyishly lanky and polite that I had an urge to tousle his thick, spicy-toned hair. I resisted it because I didn’t want to embarrass him.

“How much do I owe you?”

He just about began shuffling his feet. “Golly, Miss L. I don’t feel right taking money from you. It would be like charging my own mother. Why won’t you let me do this stuff for you without payment?”

I made my voice sound as stern and stubborn as possible. “Nonsense! This is your work. It makes no sense for you not to charge me. You have to make a living. Do we have to have this discussion each time you visit? I’m not impoverished, and I don’t expect to be anytime soon. So kindly tell me what I owe you.”

“Fifty dollars will be fine, Miss L. I had to be in the neighbourhood anyway. You know, I grew up just a few streets east of your place. It’s amazing how little this district has changed. I always feel kind of happy when I drive around here.”

“That’s good,” I commented. “I suppose that means you had a happy childhood.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that although it certainly was happier than my adulthood’s been so far.”

“You’re still very young, Ralph. You’ve got everything going for you. Anything you want is within your reach.” I almost believed my encouraging words. The only thing that Ralph lacked was ambition. A strong-willed young woman could change that. Ralph would be okay. I had to believe that.

After Ralph left, my own company seemed sad, old and tired. I couldn’t recall the last time I had enjoyed being by myself. Had it really been so long ago? If I could only spend the day with Elaine. Just one day. But then that day would end and I would be in exactly the same lonely spot. She had been out of my life for eighteen years, but I still half-expected her to ring my doorbell and simply re-enter my little back stairwell of the world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Miss L's Travails

 In the coming days and weeks, my plan is to deposit Miss L's Travails here, chapter by chapter. I may or may not complete this task. 

                                                      

 

 

This contemporary novel with dystopian elements shifts between two focal points in time: 2016 and 1997. Gloria Lewis, an unassuming retired school teacher is the protagonist.

When her 2016 story begins, Gloria is living life on the edge, for citizens over the age of 65 (and the unemployed) are being targeted for special programs by the government. She believes it is safer to move into a senior citizens residence, and she says goodbye to her one remaining friend—a young handyman named Ralph.

She moves into Serenity Lodge with a certain degree of dread, but is pleasantly surprised to connect with a few sympathetic characters there: a dapper old man (Saul Acker), two large and vibrant women, Rose Gold and Ruth Margolis and a young and gender-shifting employee, Ballerina Girl/Sam. She is less impressed by the manager, Ms. Julie Dowd, who is strangely hostile and suffers from a disfiguring skin disease.

WHO ARE YOU TO ME?—CHAPTER III

 

Chapter Three—False Memories and the True Nature of Orchids

 

It is Sunday, two days after Charlotte’s manicure, and my distaste of Lydia has had time to ferment . She emailed me late Friday evening, delighted by how many tasks she had accomplished that day. I didn’t respond.  She emailed me again on Saturday with more of the same self-congratulatory comments. She telephoned me late Saturday night, but I didn’t pick up. Her message mentioned her kite-running high produced by the heap of events she had executed over the past 32 hours.  I have decided to block Lydia from my life. Now all I have to do is to send her bouncing face-to-face.

 I visit my parents  almost every Sunday; sometimes my son joins us. He is their eye-apple.  Both of them were born on the same day of the same year and they are happier together in advanced age than they have ever been. At least, my witnessing skills tell me this. They cook together, figure out the vagaries of Internet options, garden on their condo roof-top, watch CNN with fervor, stay true blue to Barack Obama through his difficult mandates, and shop for gifts on Amazon. My father, Joshua, is still handsome, even at the age of 83. He has maintained his boyish walk and trim physique and his lips curve naturally into a hearty smile. My mother, Diana, is slender with refined, almost sharp features.

 They met when they were barely twenty at her father’s Inn in the Eastern Townships.  She was waitressing and working at the front desk along with her four lovely sisters.  When my father  studied each one of the comely Shaw girls, he couldn’t decide who  the prettiest one was.  He knew only to whom he was the most attracted: Diana, with the slight overbite and cherry red lipstick. Unless, unless he did not exclude the eldest: long-stemmed Rose with her bouncing auburn curls and distractingly deep bosom.  Perturbingly, there was something off about Rose. She laughed too loudly, spoke and walked in abrupt chops and halts, wore too much feverish rouge . Also, it was rumoured that she could hold down neither a job nor a boyfriend, but her lips and hips were luscious.

 The year was 1948; the aura in and around Montreal optimistic, almost charmed. Anything seemed possible for the young and healthy.  My father spent the entire summer at Hollyhock Inn. He was there with a young auto mechanic, Karl, who was later to become a millionaire, but remain a lifelong friend. He courted Diana fastidiously, but a sliver of his imagination stalked  Rose. My father never understood his obsession with James Shaw’s eldest daughter, and he confessed it to me only after she died. Rose had never married. She had lived her life tentatively, never certain of who she was or who she hoped to be.

 In fact, my father was soon enamoured of Diana’s entire family: her hard-working  and gentle mother and reckless red-haired father, both of whom had emigrated from  Ireland. How different they were from my father’s prudent parents, and the main difference was religion. In those days, it was scandalous for a Jewish boy to marry a Gentile girl, especially if she hadn’t converted. I suppose that the inverse was also true, but James Shaw was a free-thinker, and conformed to nothing but his own notion of what made sense.

My mother presumed my father was just interested in a good time, and she held on tightly to her virtue. But oh! The warmth, charm and energy of her family. At meal-times, there was so much hot debating and easy banter, so unlike the rather dour dinners held in my paternal grandmother’s stiff and formal dining room. And so, my smitten father threw caution to the wind and proposed marriage to his Irish sweetheart. His parents refused to talk to him for years, but they relented when I was born.  Unfortunately, they remained ill at ease with my mother and never met any members of her family—not even once.  In contrast, my mother’s parents welcomed Joshua from the outset: a pharmaceutical student with impeccable manners and a car to boot!  They praised him to the skies, telling all of their daughters repeatedly that he was their favourite son-in-law by far.

 My parents  chose to elope even though James  Shaw offered them the gracious dining room in his well-known Inn. (He would  lose it due to unpaid back taxes only a few years later, and go on to other  brazen investments, which all ended in financial disaster).

 On this particular visit, I feel clingy and needy. My dad shows me his new collection of orchids.  They are grouped gracefully on a round mahogany table around a stained-glass lamp he designed and built himself.  The lamp is a work of art to my fantasy-addicted eyes:  lagoon-green mermaids perched on slate grey rocks, their tresses silver and gold. My father enjoys his freckled orchids. “The flowers last for months, and look at the homely speckles. Don’t they remind you of frog bellies? They look prehistoric, almost ugly and yet the creamy texture and rose and lavender tints look like brush-strokes. What an intriguing mixture of ugliness and beauty.”

 “But, Dad, surely they’re more beautiful than they are ugly,” I both assert and question at once.

 “That’s not certain at all, Gloria.  I can tell you this, though. If they had cost more than $24, I wouldn’t have bought them.  Do you remember when Provigo was selling Venus Fly Traps?”

 “Yes, yes, come to think of it, I do. And for very little money, as I recall.  I was very tempted, but being an aspiring vegetarian, it seemed peculiar to buy a carnivorous plant.” I change the subject abruptly. “Dad, I want to thank you for helping me out, supporting my decision to opt for early retirement.”

 “Gloria, honey. You’ve worked hard. If you need to walk away from it all, and figure your life out, your mother and I are all for it. We have your back.”

 On cue, my mother enters the study, so lovely in a white sweater, turquoise shawl and black trousers. Her hair is pale-silver and her eyes have always looked green to me even though she claims they are merely hazel. The three of us walk single-file to the breakfast nook where my mother has set an elegant table of smoked salmon, rye crackers, vegan-wasabi caviar in little mounds on Melba Toast rounds and creamy slices of drag-queen flamboyant Dragon Fruit with its quirky black-headed edible seeds.

 I love my mother dearly, but I adore my brilliant father. We sit down, and in the background Leonard Cohen is snarling and crooning. I will always be safe with my parents alive. When they depart, I will be shipwrecked, and  I don’t even begin to understand what that means.

 We eat quietly. My mother offers wine. We decline. My early retirement will start in only two weeks, at the end of the autumn session. My parents share the concern that I will be defeated by the lack of structure, that the minutes and hours will drag me down into dark and doubting waters. My father also retired young, but in his case, it had been a seven-year-plan and his acumen at reading the stock market had made him what is humbly referred to as comfortable. They were prepared to support my drastic decision, but they had one major concern: my eBay spending. They both agreed that it was on the edge of being out of hand, and perhaps they were right. I only knew that it gave me great pleasure and I tried to be very reasonable with my highest bids.

 Dad suggests we take in a movie, but I don’t want to be in public; the movement and dissonant energies  of  throngs of people are very draining.  My mother mention my brother’s upcoming wedding in Vermont.

 “I hope it isn’t going to be too cold. A tent-wedding in November is risky business.”

“There should be plenty of space-heaters, but  just in case, I’ll have toasty throws in the trunk,” my father explains.

 “Gloria, tell me about Susan’s dress.” My mother is a fashionista. She loves dressing up for parties even though she doesn’t feel beautiful anymore.

 Susan and I had chosen her dress shortly after Ralph moved out. I think she believed the quest would be a distraction for me, and strangely, it was. We entered upscale, minimalist boutiques on Laurier and I was immediately attracted to a one-of-a-kind raw silk turquoise dress. The lines were simple; the fabric shimmered. The colour of the dress was a perfect replica of Susan’s jewel-toned eyes. When she stepped out of the fitting room, I could only hope that she would choose this one. No other would do. No matter how many dresses she might try on, none of them could possibly possess the same magic. I was ecstatic when she said this was the dress she had to have. We hadn’t yet acknowledged the price tag—$1200.

 I watch these bride-stalking-perfect-dress programs on TV. The attendants provide long, white garments that are often beaded, feathered and flounced and classified as mermaid, princess or ballroom. And the costs are more often than not over $5000. I shake my head over this. A fat girl is a fat bride. An ungainly girl is an ungainly bride. A beautiful girl is a beautiful bride. I don’t appreciate the wedding gown being a costume, disguising the personality of the bride.  Luckily, this custom need not apply to older, second-time brides.

 Even though the dress was perfect, it was not perfect for a near-winter wedding. Susan and Saul had hoped to have a summer wedding, but US immigration had other thoughts, and Susan did not receive her clearance until November. Her brother was to be the caterer. Catering parties was one of his many sidelines. My gift was to supply the wedding cake. The wedding would take place on their tract of land which was framed by Lake Champlain and a marsh.  I had spent a weekend there over the summer. There was a carpet of collectibles all over the main room, and tables were piled with tureens, cups, figurines—items that Susan hunted down painstakingly and sold on eBay, Etsy and Ruby Lane.

 After brunch, I help my mother wash the dishes; she usually eschews the dishwasher. I then decide to walk home. It will take about an hour, but the crisp air might do me good.  I am in turmoil. At my age, how could I have and be so little? And will I have and be even less once I stop teaching?

 

 

WHO ARE YOU TO ME? CHAPTER II

 

 

CHAPTER TWO—MATCHSTICK POETRY HOTEL

 Home, however, is not an easy place to be for two compelling reasons. First, my lover of seven years left me in late spring, early summer. He fell in love with one of his students. She is 37; I am 53. I cannot compete even though measure by measure I am slimmer, prettier, smarter, more charming, and probably a lot nicer. And then there is the matter of my imminent and premature retirement. My elderly, crippled directress, who drags her right leg, and implements capricious policies regularly has, at long-length, defeated me. I perceive  Alya as a crow, a spine-broken raven  umbrella.  She is as vain as any wicked queen in any fairy tale, and her alleged beauty is all smoke and mirrors: hair extensions, Botox injections, tooth veneers. At any rate, her rule of terror drove me to tender an early retirement, the notion of which both exhilarates and alarms me.

 Home is a shabby-chic  duplex on Royal Avenue with good bones but in a state of perturbing disrepair. (Like Charlotte? Like myself?)  My advance inheritance.  The first three years that  Ralph lived here with me , I felt so lovely and light. Every moment was an intake of breath, a ribbon of adventure until his moodiness and ambivalence toward me divided us.  I lived beside myself in a bubble of enchantment.  Strange that we should have met online even though we were residents of the same seductive city: Montreal.  Ralph moved out five months ago, and I’ve done very little cooking and cleaning since then. Just enough to get by. Things fell apart between us and my delusions  collapsed overnight. He became smitten with a younger woman, a Bulgarian student of his, and disenchanted with me. Suddenly I was too thin, my hair too messy. My lipstick was too thick and bright, my clothes too costumey.  In contrast, I was still enraptured by all of his flaws: slight stutter, round hips, shortish legs, putty nose, chipped teeth, flamboyant apparel, velvet and amber voice.

 We met on an online Poetry Community Website: MatchStick Poetry Hotel. My moniker was Dancing Bandit; his—Rasputin11.  His poetry was old-school, brooding, Heathcliff pacing the moors, Sweeney Todd hurling shabby women into the dragon-furnace. Mine was much terser.

We were instantly attracted to each other’s words and began to message each other privately. It was confounding  to discover that he also lived in anglo-Montreal and was an adult educator.

It took us months of phone calls before we met in person. The photos I had sent to him were retouched by Portrait Professional. My skin was perfectly smooth, my lips more plumply curved, my eyes deep-sea green. More distressing, however; he was five years younger. Whenever I’m out with a younger man, I believe he’s going to realize he’s made a mistake. He’s going to realize that my skin won’t do at all—too used, too loose. I postponed meeting  him  for as long as possible; our Internet romance was fierce and dramatic. I am so low-tech that Internet is like a magical kingdom to me; all the characters are larger-than-life. The electronic curtain is spun from such bewitching cloth. I remain transfixed by all that is not revealed.

 When we met for the first time, I was weak with fear. We chose Downstairs, a jazz club that was  situated downtown  but  upstairs in a two-storey building .   It was stony and dark, and I’m quite certain that the floor tilted. He was sitting all the way against the back brick wall. I had foolishly chosen to wear stilettos with pointe-shoe ankle ribbons, and walking was quite a chore. My steps sounded clumpy, as though I were wearing clogs. My dress was a witchy black swan number, and I had lightened my hair to two tones shy of platinum.  He stood up. A short, stocky man with moist chocolate eyes.  A deep cleft in his chin, big, shapely hands, long, strong fingers.

“Gloria, you are glorious.” He kissed my hand.

“I can’t believe we’re here. We must be crazy or brave. Either way, it’s so exciting to meet you.”

My voice was shaky, but at least I could still string words. What would my teenaged son think of me? Would he be amused or appalled? And what about my father, who still hoped that I would one day show reasonable judgement?

 We complimented each other, picked at our seafood, drank a couple of bottles of house white, asked and answered a posy of questions, listened to each other with apparent  respect and delight.

“You are so unusually beautiful, so pale. I love watching you. You move  your arms and hands and precise neck like a dancer.”

 I believed him.  It was a hot, white June night, and I felt like a woman of mystery, a platinum poet. We were both divorced teachers who lived in Montreal and were addicted to writing poetry. Though the evening was almost perfect, there were red flags, even as he was trying to fall in love. He flirted with the leggy young waitress, and he asked me if we could begin living together.

 “Let’s not waste time. Let’s experience this adventure and turn our lives inside-out and upside-down. Let’s live together. What do you say, Gloria? Are you going to stay or run away?”

 I was infatuated, drunk and lonely and so I said, “Agreed. When would you like to move in with me? There has to be one condition, though. No sexual duress. No erotic blueprint. We’ll make up the rules as we go along. Can you, will you, agree to that?” How peculiar that as I spoke these words, I wanted to be with my father, in either of our gardens, speculating, planting, but mostly just being close to his handsome, honourable, seasoned silence.

 I suppose that because Ralph was a native Montrealer, I didn’t consider him to be potentially dangerous. Even though he had flirted quite piercingly with a few female members at MatchStick, he was here with me, and he claimed to find me alluring.

 We didn’t go home together that night. Instead, we agreed to meet at an NDG sushi bar in precisely one week to either seal or break the deal.  I was wondering whether he felt more or less real to me now that we had actually met.  He walked me to the metro station, and drew me close when we said good night. He held me tight, and I was proud that my stomach was flat and that my thighs felt hard. In contrast, he was a little soft, but his skin was aromatic and warm.  He was his poetry, and nothing was going to contradict that for a good long while.  I didn’t know whether I felt ugly or beautiful, old or ageless, but I certainly felt alive.

Who Are You To Me? Chapter I

 

Who Are You To Me?

 

“We say of some things that they can’t be forgiven, or that we will never forgive ourselves. But we do—we do it all the time.”

                  Alice Munro

 

  CHARLOTTE’S NINTH LIFE

 

Charlotte is waiting for us. She is wearing the cherry-red jersey tunic I bought for her several visits back.  That and a black velvet skirt I purchased for her on eBay. I rap playfully on her door, and her posy face lights up when she sees us. “Are we going downtown?” she asks with a slight stammer. For Charlotte, downtown is the first floor at Spinoza Geriatric Center. We escort her to the coffee shop each time we visit. Every few weeks there are vendors in the main lobby selling somewhat gaudy and predictable garments at supposedly discount prices. This is where I take Charlotte shopping for scarves, sox,  gloves  and such. Each time I purchase an item for her, I email her daughter, who has the same given name as I do:  Gloria. I want Gloria, the “Other Gloria,” to step up even though I am largely sympathetic to her chronic ambivalence toward her mother.

 This time, however, we’re not going downtown. We’re doing better than that; we’re busting out!  We’ve booked an appointment for Charlotte at Encore & Toujours Jolie, an establishment I noticed during one of my treks along NDG’s proletariat Somerled Avenue.  We have taken Charlotte there once before—bundled her up and brushed her hair, signed her out and positioned her securely into Lydia’s silver Honda. She has forgotten how to negotiate complex motions, and she is like a marionette, whose limbs must be adjusted . The Vietnamese sisters treated her well, and one of them, May, painted her fingernails a perfect rosy pink.

 May was very curious: who were we to Charlotte and to each other? She noted that Charlotte had pretty skin but asked why she wasn’t wearing teeth. I explained that her dentures were uncomfortable and that she couldn’t get used to them.

 “Ah, that is the word for those kind of teeth? Dentures?”

 “Yes, although often they’re just called false teeth.”

 “Dentures. Thank you. Today I learn this new word.”

 Today’s outing proves to be less of a success. Lydia wants to nail a hat trick and leaves us at Encore & Toujours Jolie, promising, “I’ll be back in no time. I have to run a couple of errands.”

This time, Charlotte selects a deep plum bottle and I settle her  into a chair for her manicure.

The procedure is much faster than the one prior; I suppose because much of the shaping, pruning and buffing is still in good repair. I don’t appreciate dark nail polish, but Charlotte seems very satisfied with her shiny purple nails. She admires her hands and looks at me expectantly.

I oblige her by saying, “Lovely. Now your nails look like jewels.”

 I bundle her into her cranberry wool jacket, and pay the bill, leaving my signature tip: much too big. My motivation isn’t generosity. It’s something akin to a desperation to be invisibly accepted and unquestioned. Fat tips are shibboleths, reserved for honourary club members. Overweight tips offer immunity to snide comments and disdain. At least I hope they do, but I can’t be sure. What if, after I leave, May laughs at me with her sister. “Why that woman leave such a big tip? What’s wrong with her?  She must be as crazy as that other one.”  

 Dressed to go, we wait for Lydia near the storefront. Charlotte is stuffed into a slender reception chair, and my nose is almost pressed against the glass.  I am becoming upset. In addition to paying for the manicure, will I have to pay taxi fare? I can’t imagine Charlotte boarding a bus.  Movement has become so awkward for her. She has even forgotten how to properly get into bed.  Her vocabulary, on the other hand, remains almost unscathed.

 I am one of those freakish creatures who does not own a cell phone.  I ask the sisters to call a taxi for me, but they don’t know how to do that, so I find the number of Legionnaire’s Taxi

Service in the Yellow Pages. The younger, plumper sister whose name I have forgotten asks, “While you wait, you want some some tea?” Charlotte says, “Yes, please,” but I thwart her and state flatly, “No, thank you. Charlotte, we’ll have ice cream at Spinoza. We’ll be there really soon.” I can’t gracefully accept strangers doing any kind of favour, no matter how modest, for me.  Their motivation simply doesn’t make sense. I don’t really know Charlotte all that well, but I suspect she has lived her entire life automatically accepting acts of generosity from anyone who would be so inclined. She looks at me as though I were an annoying stranger,  one who has been neither invited nor welcomed to this outing.

 “But I want tea,” she tells me with an edge of bite in her voice.

 “No, Charlotte.  The taxi should arrive any minute. There’s no time for tea,” I answer sternly.

 Then I catch sight of Lydia approaching.  Her step has a bounce and she is smirking. She has changed into sportswear, all pink and black.  No sooner has she stepped inside the salon, do I sputter, “We’ve been waiting for over thirty minutes. I was worried. We called a taxi.”

 Charlotte is perhaps cognitively a five-year-old with a charming vocabulary.  She now eschews teeth and bras. Toothless, breasts fallen, hair no longer dyed a golden chestnut, she is, notwithstanding, a comely older woman with creamy skin, and fetching hazel eyes. I don’t know what she makes of all of this, but she is surely vexed. She hates to be kept waiting, particularly if distraction is not provided.  She has lost all aptitude for patience. In her world, everyone is a servant:  either good, bad or unimportant.

 Lydia explains that inasmuch as Charlotte’s first manicure took an hour, she calculated she had that time-frame to go home, change, text her daughters and do whatever else. My back is up. I am always waiting for the axe to fall: to be betrayed or at very least disappointed.  I am a true dragon, astrologically and temperamentally. My devotion to Charlotte stems from a source I don’t fully understand.  Alzheimer’s is a shameless robber. I yearn to be its vigilante, and take it on. Bring it on. It  is only after several months into my visits that Charlotte’s long-distance son, Evan, informs me that his mother is not suffering from Alzheimer’s but from something far worse. What could be worse than Alzheimer’s? I ask him in an email. He answers, “Frontotemporal Lobe Dementia.”  I disagree with the diagnosis, but he is merely repeating what he has been told. Whatever has afflicted her, I find it atypical.

 We are back at Spinoza, first floor. I purchase two coffees, one chocolate pudding, one strawberry pudding and one caramel ice-cream cup from the coffee shop. The sweet food is all for Charlotte. She will devour it fiercely, far too quickly, licking the undersides of the lids until they are colourless.  Charlotte and Lydia are waiting at a small table beside an immaculate window.

 Lydia will be attending a book launch and a Plateau Ballet this very evening. I will take the 138 or 104 bus back to Somerled to do my banking and food shopping.  At 5 o’clock, Charlotte will gum her scoops of potatoes-meat product-vegetables at the eating alcove on the third floor. By now, I recognize  the participants: the paid and the caged.

 Lydia announces that she’ll be back in a moment; she has to use the washroom.  That reminds Charlotte, “I have to go too.” She rises  and follows Lydia. I lurch after her with three coats and two purses while guiding Charlotte to the washroom. Once I install her and assume the role of cubicle-guard, she shrieks, “Too late! Too late!” 

 “Don’t worry about it, darling. You’ll get changed upstairs,” Lydia soothes her as she exits a cubicle and relieves me of her handbag and coat. Then we all walk to the elevators. Lydia and Charlotte hug goodbye and I am on my own. The elevator passengers are, for the most part,  despondently familiar.

 Charlotte is never certain that the third floor is her de facto home. I always remind her.  I hold her elbow and wrist as we disembark. Just as we are turning a corner, I catch sight of  one of the kinder and seemingly sincere nursing assistants or orderlies or auxiliary nurses.  I’m not sure what his job description is, but he has a gentle Latino face. I tell him that Charlotte’s diaper needs changing, and he promises to assist her in just a few minutes. I believe him.  I know him to be a man of his word. He’ll show up before too long . That’s the kind of person he is.

 Charlotte finds walking difficult. She doesn’t quite get the hang of it. The motion is familiar, but the know-how is growing dim.  As soon as we reach her room —329— another employee enters, scolding me gently. “Are you a family member?”“No, I’m a friend, a close friend.” Not exactly true, but I feel I have to bolster my credentials even though Evan has authorized Lydia and me to escort Charlotte on outings.

 “You didn’t sign out,” she admonishes. Her features are coarse; her complexion is greasy, yet she speaks kindly. For that, I am grateful.

 I smack my forehead. “Crap! Sorry! I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I absolutely forgot. I’m really, really sorry.”

 “That’s okay.” Her intention is not to torture me, but to get my signatures both  OUT and IN. Keep the staff off the hook.  I castigate myself several times, but  Ms. Broad-Face ushers Charlotte into her institutional ensuite. The woman calls out to me, “Can you find something for her to wear? She’s soaked through.” I rummage frantically through Charlotte’s closet, and the employee ( I am a piece of work; I cannot remember her name) mutters , “ A skirt, a skirt, a skirt is better than trousers.” I tug at an old frayed pink Indian skirt worn over and over again, and interestingly, it is now my task to dress Charlotte in this. Charlotte waddles out of the bathroom in a spanking  fresh pull-on diaper and the employee leaves us  wordlessly.   I instruct her to sit on her bed and I roll the cotton fabric up, politely asking her to lift her bottom, and she is dressed.

I study her still lovely face. Her wide hazel eyes are sometimes found, sometimes lost. I have no idea what she still manages to understand, but I suspect that it’s plenty.

This visit has not been smooth. Lydia made two major getaways, the first at the salon and the second in the lobby coffee shop. She’s one of those people who cannot easily spend time at home. As a result, she crams her days with busy-ness and always appears to be in a kind of solid rush.  I know that when I finish sulking over being deposited in the nail salon and left to fend for Charlotte on my own, I will unwelcome Lydia from my little life. I will cut her loose and she will either float or swim vigorously to new shores. Women like her never sink despite their bulk. They always latch on to some unsuspecting hitching post.

 Now comes the most difficult moment of the visit. Charlotte’s scoops of lump-dinner will be served soon and I cannot stay to watch her gum the mash potatoes, peas and beef.  There is no time for a story.

When things go right, Lydia or I read a story to Charlotte from a cushiony- covered edition of The Tales of Hans Christian Anderson. Story time with Charlotte is a sweet event. I am proud to have thought of the idea and then purchased a beautifully illustrated book. When I read to her, I love restraining my voice, throwing it, tweaking it, hushing it, lilting  it. I love how she follows the words, phrases, clauses, sentences, paragraphs. I love this graceful collaboration.

 This time, however, I must make an abrupt retreat.  I can tell by the way she swallows  that my haste distresses her. She senses that something is wrong, and so it is. So it is. Lydia’s behaviour has upset me fiercely, and I have to be alone to sort it out. I have to go home.

Charlotte watches me collect my belongings and pleads, “Don’t go! I don’t know what to do now!” She stamps a foot and then yanks her hair. Her voice rises; she caterwauls and I have to embrace her firmly to calm her down.

“It’s  okay; it’s okay,” I try to subdue her, but she wrenches herself free.

 “It’s not okay. It’s not. They’re fuckers here. They always forget me,” Charlotte rants, but her hissy fit has already worn her out and she sits down on her bed and begins to whimper. I tell myself that I will bring her an exit-bribe the next time I visit. I suspect that she would be far less agitated if she had some soft, sweet treats to pop into her mouth.

 “Good-bye. I love you. See you next week.” The words, even to my own ears, sound like cheap parting shots. Charlotte doesn’t turn to watch me leave. She doesn’t respond.

 When I arrive home, I feel brittle and rattled. Each time I think about Lydia’s disappearing act, my heart snarls, “What a cheap fraud.”  Busy people don’t impress me, especially if they perform tasks without paying attention to detail.  Truth be told, I have  grown tired of always being the one to pay for the small gifts, sweets, manicures, eBay trinkets, story  books.  Our system is fatally flawed. Even though I am the passenger (I don’t drive), Lydia is along for the ride. I despise myself for this mean-spirited, small-mindedness. Nevertheless, this imbalance cannot go on.  Lydia reminds me of the valiant little tailor, jumping up on the hoisted tree while pretending to toil virtuously.  I smile at the image. I have been reading too many fairy tales.