Geoff picks up one of the bottles of ice wine. He studies the label then jabs his ex-wife in the arm with the stab point of his index finger. I grip Annette’s shoulder, attempting to soften the jolt.
“Are you serious?” Geoff waves his arm and slams the bottle back down with a clunk. “I told you to quit doing this, Annette. I told you a long time ago.”
I let go of Annette’s shoulder and step around her. “Annette brought me a lovely ice wine to try. It was kind of her.” Geoff stares at me. I’ve always disliked the bulge of Geoff’s eyes. He has the same eyes as his father. Geoff leans into me and positions his face so close to mine that I can feel the grease of his hair, smell his cheap aftershave. His chewing gum and nicotine mouth.
“Ma, you’re not supposed to be drinking.” He shakes my shoulder hard with his root-claw hand. I hold on to the sideboard for balance then swat his arm away.
“Shush.”
I glare at my son. He turns and rubs his nose with the back of his hand.
“I can drive her.” Annette’s voice wavers. It makes me wish she’d mind her own business.
“She’s my mother,” Geoff says.
“I should put the salad in a container.” I bustle past Annette to the kitchen and rummage through the cupboard for the appropriate-sized Tupperware.
Annette hovers in the doorway, uncertain. “You have that for your supper,” she says finally. “I’ve got to get back home to my dogs, take them for a walk.”
“Bye, dear.” I give up and shove the whole bowl of salad into the fridge. I unfold a fresh tea towel and hang it on the hook, listening to the sound of her heavy footsteps in the hall.
“Your son was here, by the way. We had such a wonderful visit, he and I,” I hear her fib to Geoff. “You should have seen him, all grown up and tall. Not that you care about anyone but yourself.”
I click my tongue and shake my head. I’ll explain the actual details of Nikky’s visit to Geoff — later when he’s in a better mood to listen. I duck around Geoff’s sprawling limbs. “I’ll be ready in a minute, dear.”
I close my bedroom door as I freshen up with a little face powder, lipstick, and a spritz of Coco Chanel. I look at the mountain-scenes calendar tacked to the wall and draw a checkmark beside “Doctor’s Appointment” in the square for Wednesday, although I probably deserve a star. I continue the appointment charade, even though I don’t trust the medicines, and I don’t always take them. I’m entitled to this secret. I’ve been a responsible follower of rules all of my life. I open the door.
“Let’s go,” Geoff insists. I rush to put my coat on, straighten my collar, and lock up. In the elevator Geoff’s finger is pressed on the door open button. He glances at me and releases it. I count the floor numbers backwards in French to myself and feel the lining of my coat. Trois, deux, un. I’m relieved to discover my coat has dried. I think about how my son left home too young. Tibor had kicked him out for smoking pot, a hasty, stupid thing, considering Geoff was only a teenager. I stopped talking to Tibor after that. Geoff left for the logging camp and I didn’t see him for several years. I had wanted to teach him more about gentlemanly behaviour. He was just like his father, and the allure of their particular type of brawn, as Annette and I had both discovered, did not last. Geoff could have been a businessman. And kind to his family. Instead, he is a logger turned carpenter. A house builder who lives alone in a small, musty apartment.
The doctor’s office is in a squat, two-storey medical services building. Geoff drives straight for the front door. He keeps the engine running as he waits for me to manage the heavy passenger door and climb out. I sit and wait for him to open it for me. I hope it’s not so much thoughtlessness anymore as selective forgetting. A lazy remnant from when I was the strong, sure one, taking care of him. He’s going to have to turn and look at me. See me shaking now. I stare ahead. Geoff shifts in his seat, reaches over me and pops the door open with a swift push. I see him looking at me through the rear-view mirror as he drives away. I wave at him then stand on the curb for a moment before patting my hair back into place and striding into the office. The doctor sees me right away. I get my prescription refilled at the pharmacy next door, then wait an hour and a half for Geoff to return. I read magazines in the doctor’s waiting room, trying not to notice when Cindy, the receptionist, looks over and smiles. I hate sympathy.
She looks young enough to have been one of my students, years ago, I realize, remembering the days when children were afraid of me, and teachers and parents respected my authority. I stare at the low-pile carpet, trying to decide whether it’s pink flecked with brown or brown flecked with pink. When I get up to use the powder room I choose the one with the handicapped sign on the door, where there are cold metal bars to hang on to. I look into the bathroom mirror and think of Nikky. He has my eyes. Voluminous pools. He’s not at all like his father. I busy myself with washing my hands, waiting for the tepid water to turn hot.
Geoff speeds into the parking lot and honks his horn. The passenger door flings open before the truck even comes to a full stop. It’s raining again and I’ve forgotten my umbrella. I get into the truck and wish my son would ask questions about my appointment or Nikky’s visit, but he stares at the road and twiddles the windshield wiper controls.
“I can take a cab, dear, if driving me is a hassle.” I hold on to the passenger door as Geoff rounds a corner too quickly.
“Waste of good money.” Geoff shakes his head no.
“Nikky took a cab to the bus station,” I say, trying to pique a reaction. “He didn’t see Annette.” Geoff turns up the volume on the radio. I think I heard him mumble “Kid’s messed up,” but I’m not certain. I worry about Nikky, trying to take care of himself in Vancouver. Will he do his own laundry? Did I give him enough money? Should I send more? What is he eating? It starts to rain harder. Geoff twists the windshield wiper controls again, agitated. He adjusts the fan and vents then bangs his hand on the steering wheel.
“Can’t see a damned thing.” He leans forward and rubs condensation off the windshield with a swoop of his hand. “Quit breathing so hard, Ma.”
A small stream of water pours down from the roof of the truck, onto Geoff’s matted hair and the front of his dirty ski jacket. “Goddamn roof leaks. Goddamn rain.”
The bulky shape of my condo building appears ahead. I fret about what the rain will do to my set hair. It won’t do to arrive home looking as bedraggled as my son. Geoff screeches to a stop at the door, under the lobby overhang so I won’t get wet.
“I’ll bring the groceries on Friday.” Geoff reaches around me to open the passenger door. “I won’t forget.”
“That will be nice. Thank you.” I climb out, taking my time. Geoff watches, trying to be attentive. “Call your son,” I say and push the door closed. The lobby is toasty warm after the damp of the truck, and, as I shake the rain off my coat, I feel my silver curls still bouncing.
Back upstairs I decide to make a batch of blueberry scones. I’ll feed them to the seagulls if Charles declines a visit again after our walk. I pace in the living room while waiting for the oven timer to ring, thinking about Nikky. And Charles. The timer bleats its staccato beep and I place the scones on a trivet to cool, checking and rechecking to make sure I’ve turned the oven off. I flip the pages of a mystery novel, realizing I’m clever enough to have already figured out whodunit, but not enough to know whether Charles wants to see me. I pour myself a glass of ice wine. And then another.
I feel something prickling my face. Carpet. The colour of slate. The same shade as the dull morning light streaming through the windows. Wobbly, I push myself up to my feet using the chair for support. I step over to the windows and watch tufts of morning fog coming up from the water, rolling up like the spasms in my stomach. Near-invisible cars inch along the highway, headlights cutting through interminable grey. My TV is still on, broadcasting an exercise show. The arms of the clock splay vertical. Six a.m. I walk down the hall past Nicky’s still unmade bed. The flowered coverlet on my own bed is still smooth.