The room looked like the sky, is what I remembered. It looked like sky or spun candy, even as it smelt like strong bleach and whatever that strong bleach was covering. Maybe I focused on the parts that were like sky to take my mind off what was wrong, or what was inevitable about her ending up in this place. Maybe I just liked the colour.
Every weekend, it was the same thing, studying the sky on the wall and listening to what felt like a carousel loop of five stories. There was meeting him at the officers’ dance, just after the war in Japan had ended, there was her mom taking in the orphan boy to supplement a meagre income, there was putting together gas masks with the girls from high school, there was the day the Prime Minister came to town, and the day the basement in the house on Albert Street flooded. It was always those, the last things she held onto. I hoped that I would never get to that point, grasping at a few last bits of affirmation that I had, in fact, lived my life, that it wasn’t just something I saw on TV. It created a yawning pit in my stomach to think that everything I had thought, every bit of knowledge acquired, would come down to just those few nubs in the end. Then again, maybe if I kept reading, there would always be fresh material. Maybe that was her problem, not enough reading.
The hallway was less memorable than the room, a flat beige space, offset with coughing, wheelchair squeaks and the occasional disoriented panting. The staff were doing what they could, of course, with all of this. What else could we have asked for? She was safe, there hadn’t been any outbreaks, the food looked and smelled edible. If you had to reach the end of things with little of what you had built up, this wasn’t a bad place to do it.
It wouldn’t have been my choice, but then again it wasn’t, I was still putting my own life together when all the decisions were made. The move was decided after she fell one time too many and couldn’t be trusted at the family home by herself. The facility was in town, just down the patch of streets that criss-crossed the old pear orchard, so it was better for everyone, the family rationalized. We’d still see her whenever she wanted, or it was warranted. Part of me had some romantic, dedicated notion that she should have been kept at home, filial piety and all of that. That way we could have a proper Irish wake when the time came and feel connected to something of our past that wasn’t a shrink-wrapped nostalgia item. At least I wouldn’t feel that vague pang of guilt that we weren’t like the Onakas, whose matriarch lingered in a kind of simple harmony in her section of the house, tended like a delicate orchid by the rest of the family. Why couldn’t we be like that, I often wondered.
But then, it was easy for me to dream of an old-fashioned caregiving situation when I wasn’t the one who would be expected to give the care. I was out of the house at that point, living on my own at the apartment above the liquor store, and that wasn’t any place suitable for a 95-year-old; it was barely suitable for a 25-year-old. I tried to picture it, her worn features and flower-patterned sweaters set against my roommate’s neon Miller sign; it just didn’t fit. So, I went along, picked up her favourite chair and loaded it into the folded-down back seat of the van. What else could I do?
◊ ◊ ◊
The problem with the call was, in the first instance, it wasn’t even a call. It was a text, three words: “She not well”
I considered it in the dull five o’clock bar lighting. This had happened before, false alarms and all of that terminology which felt too cruel to use but was the only thing that sprang immediately to mind. Still, I needed a moment to collect myself before responding; excusing myself from the table and perching in that space between the bathroom door and the bar railing which people usually used to argue or tongue kiss seemed the best. Scents of stale beer and fryer oil hung around me as I typed out: “Where are you? Can I call?”
The next minutes hung heavy, I could feel my heart starting to beat all the way up to my ears. I thought about how fast it would be to get across town. I’d come on the bus, with the intention of drinking more than it was wise to drive after, but the routes from here to the Glenrose would be prohibitive. It would take an hour, at least, and that was discounting any time for switching buses at the depot. After every Saturday, hearing those same stories, paying what felt like a due, but was starting to take on the quality of hourglass grains, I found it hard to accept I couldn’t be there now.
The sharp ringing of the phone cut through the jumbled fog of thoughts. I fumbled with the screen slider and held it close to my left ear, plugging the other one to block out the aimless chatter and too-loud music.
What I was able to make out was that Mom was on the way there but she’d been advised there was little chance she’d make it through the night. The way she explained it seemed slightly perfunctory, like she was discussing something that had already happened. In some way, maybe it had. How long do you have to keep anticipating something before it seems like you’ve already been through it? I had pictured this moment before, in some tucked-away corner of thought, but couldn’t find what had helped process it at the time.
All I got out in response to the news was a heavy sigh, followed by: “Should I come? I mean, I should, right?”
Mom said it was alright if I didn’t, it seemed like it was already done. I asked that she keep me informed, at least. Maybe that was the word I used, probably too formal, but I had no idea what to say then. My legs had gone stiff and numb by then, the weight of whatever was going on in the spaces above crushing down. She said she would, and I heard the punch-code of the digital lock being typed in and the grand click of the hospital-style doors opening.
“Love you, it will be okay,” then whatever silence could manage itself between the background of McThirsty’s on a Thursday.
I paced slightly in the two-foot alcove, dodging waiters coming to the kitchen door and patrons looking for the washroom. I considered just walking through the fire exit, leaving my $20 tab to be dealt with by someone else, collapsing in the November snow to cool the fever rising in my face. I told myself it would probably be excused, I wasn’t normally someone to skip out on the cheque or do much of anything spontaneous or irrational. I was owed this one, under the circumstances.
Then again, it probably wasn’t good for me to be alone right now; I think that’s what the advice always said? Maintaining some foot in this world through the banality of talk about the price of cell phone plans and what concerts people were planning to go to this summer might be helpful. I sat back down at the table, composing myself amongst the four concerned faces staring back at me. I had mentioned her before, the woman who had taken me in when my parent’s marriage had fallen apart, who had put aside the grief at her only son’s death to do what was right and proper, who now existed as a peripheral shadow who I wished I had done something more to help, or ease the pain. Mostly I wished that I would be that strong, if it was ever needed from me some day.
I shared what was told to me, and what I inferred from it. There was a round of sympathies and, eventually, a toast to her spirit. It heartened me, if only slightly, to know I had friends that were there for me, even those who had gone through the same thing. But my mind was elsewhere, trying to imagine if she even knew what was happening at this point. Maybe it was easier if she didn’t in some way, maybe feeling that you just slipped into some other realm without really meaning to was for the best.
About twenty minutes later, my stomach still knotted, boiling, but starting to ease with another pint, I heard the familiar buzz of vibration on the heavy wooden tables. I turned the phone over, slightly shaking: “Sorry, she gone”
◊ ◊ ◊
Sitting at the long tables in the Lions Hall, everything was a blur. How long had it been? Three months? It seemed longer, and shorter, like I had been living in that moment in the bar light for half of my life, and it had just ended. Whatever I had done to take her last possessions home (mainly pictures, which were reviewed carefully and then placed in a cupboard above the fridge), to settle her legal affairs, to write my speech for the service, seemed like it had happened in a separate life. The projector at the front of the room flickered with images, some I recognized, and some were transmissions from another planet, one where men exclusively wore suits and ties and the women’s hair was always freshly done. I became particularly fixated on a photo of her and her first husband, standing outside the First United Church on Queen. The year was 1947, or so it said in the scrawl in the corner. It wasn’t a wedding photo, but it must have been taken shortly after they were married; they were looking off into the distance, like something behind the cameraman had captured their attention just before the shutter clicked. It wasn’t the sort of photo one would keep anymore, just delete and move on, pose better next time.
◊ ◊ ◊
The man and the woman walked down the street, it was a hot August day, the heat hanging a bit swampy despite the breeze from Lake Michigan. The man held his arm stiffly, the woman’s arm interlinked to hold her as close as public decency would allow. As they turned the corner from Pine to Queen, the air became fragrant with new asphalt. A sign of the easing times that oil supplies could be dedicated to retarring roads on the home front again.
They saw the crowd forming in front of the church and the woman had a queasy feeling, too many eyes prying and too many stiffened, Loyalist upper lips to deal with. It would have been too much if not for the man’s arm. It was solid and would see her through.
There were about seventy well-wishers who had gathered for the ceremony, a selection of the lower-middle class who made up in pride and appearance what they lacked in resources. The woman thumbed the ragged edge of the dress she had worn and mended for the last six years, looking for something to do with her hands to distract her mind. A couple of tearful, composed faces pointed themselves towards her and she managed a few words: “I’m so glad you came, really.”
The doors swung open and the minister ushered the crowd inside, advising them to take shelter from the heat. He stopped to ask the woman if she was okay, as she brushed by him, noticing the stark black of his robes against the blue of the clear day.
“It’s okay; just so sudden, and all.”
The minister nodded and said that God sometimes calls to us in ways that are unknown, but he is wise to do so all the same. She nodded back, and sat down near the front, still gripping the man’s arm.
After the funeral, all the crowd came out to the front steps. They mingled and chatted, waiting for the photographer to come by. They wanted to mark the occasion with something to prove they had all been there for the family, recognizing how hard it was to have this happen just after things in the country were finally looking brighter.
The photographer set his tripod on the fresh sidewalk and gestured to the man and the woman, who were standing together at the front. “Maybe just you two, to start. I want to make sure it’s set right.”
The man and the woman waited for the crowd to clear and smoothed their clothes, waiting for the bulb to flash. Just as the cameraman went to click the shutter, something darted into their vision, distracting and throwing off their line of sight. The cameraman, flustered, asked why they weren’t looking into the lens, but said he’d keep the photo for them anyways.
They both would swear, for years to come, whenever anyone remarked on their distracted appearance in the photo, that they’d seen an older woman wandering away, towards the lake. She looked faintly like the woman’s mother, though in a much brighter dress than she ever would have worn. And, of course, she couldn’t have been there.
The man turned to the woman, with a look that was equal parts concerned and quizzical. He asked if she had seen something strange, and if she was feeling alright, or had gotten too much sun.
She felt the absence of her mother strongly in that moment, but more she felt the words that came out to the man: “I wish I had known her.”
◊ ◊ ◊
As the fifty-odd guests each shuffled by me, taking their turns to offer prayers and condolences, and congratulations for the heartfelt speech, I shook their hands and held them faintly. Some I hadn’t seen in close to fifteen years, since dad’s funeral, most likely. This was loss experienced by a man, though, not a boy, and there was less crying involved, more wistful calls for acceptance and truisms that it simply was the way of all things. They said these things, one-by-one, as if they were the only ones to think of it.
The room started to dissolve around me, the haze of vintage Hudson’s Bay perfume setting off claustrophobia. I needed air, some that hadn’t been recirculated anyways, and to be away from the mess of rumpled suit pants and half-smiles through false teeth. The sixty or so paces through the main hall doors, the hallway with the vintage portraits and bowling trophies, and to outdoors felt bracing. I dodged past Minister Burton, knowing he’d be chatty and not having the time or heart for it right now. I admired that quality in him, to keep in good spirits despite most of his job being about the comforting of grieving widows and widowers, but it wasn’t what I needed now.
I stood on the patch of grass just outside the hall and took in the scene. The scattered clumps of weeds, the chewed cigarette butts, the faint woosh of suburban traffic the next street over; it was a bland, featureless place that said nothing about the life we were there to celebrate. I wondered if this is how it was always supposed to end, the last seven years just a series of beige hallways and off-white waiting rooms, places where your mind started to make things up or look to the past just to give a sense of character. Maybe that was what she did with her stories, splashing the few colours her palette had left to paint with onto the walls, making them as beautiful as she could.
As I stared up into the mess of clouds, moving now into a slightly threatening shade of grey, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Mom was asking if I needed anything, a drink or half of an egg-salad sandwich, perhaps.
I thought about the question longer than I probably should. It was a pleasantry, one of the only things she had left to say. But I knew what I wanted, I just couldn’t say it, partly because it was impossible and partly because it betrayed how desperate I was to return to a place where things made sense, where there was warmth and promise in a new day.
I wanted to hear about the house on Albert Street, one last time.
Carter Vance is a writer and poet originally from Cobourg, Ontario, Canada currently resident in Gatineau, Quebec, Canada. His work has appeared in such publications as The Smart Set, Contemporary Verse 2, and A Midwestern Review, amongst others. His debut novel, Smaller Animals, will be published in Fall 2025.
