The Complex Arms Page 6

She scoops more ice into her mouth as though she were preparing for a shortage and fixes her eyes on Frosty, who is shuffling toward her with a tender awkwardness. He massages the back of her neck, strokes her hair, damp with the humidity of the day, brushes back her moist bangs. “You got time for me?”

  Adeen is somewhere else now, talking to air. “You know what I did today, Frosty.”

  “No, hon, what?”

  “I hit her. First time I laid a hand on Irene. Scared me half to death. All that rage and then, wham, she hit me back, and we were in this duel like the Three Stooges minus one and it scared the shit out of me because I have never ever laid a hand on Irene, even when she’d crap in her pants.”

  “Maybe it’s time to put her in one of those institutions where they can take care of her.” He releases the ponytail and lets her hair flutter through his fingers. “She’s ten now, and it’s gettin’ harder and harder for you … and for me. Maybe go some place nice, Jasper maybe, and not have to worry ’bout her.”

  “No. I promised when I had her, I would never put her into one of those nasty places. I saw One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and vowed that would never happen to Irene. And besides, who’s going to take care of this place? Someone has to be here all the time.”

  “Those are just poor excuses, Adeen. We are replaceable and the Michener Centre in Red Deer, I hear it’s a fine place. She’ll have plenty of friends there and good care.”

  “The Michener? They used to sterilize patients for God’s sake. Did awful things. Eugenics, they called it.” Adeen is shaking her head. “I can’t.”

  “That was years ago. Things have changed. We can at least check them out, no?” He is fondling her inner thighs, his hands riding to her crotch. Adeen feels numb. She is busy swallowing the crushed ice cubes.

  “Frosty, you knew when you married me that Irene came with the luggage.”

  “Yep, and I’ve honoured that deal, haven’t I? But things change. I love Irene like my own daughter, but you don’t see what she’s doin’ to you, hon — to us. Look at your face.”

  “I’ll go shower before I forget.”

  Adeen runs into the bathroom, studies her reflection in the foggy mirror. An image bounces back: a gaunt woman, her already sun-dried face a canvas of wrinkles, and a body on the cusp of middle age. How did this happen? She is crying as she steps into the shower and turns on the cool spray of water. Lathering her face, hair, inner thighs, someone’s hand, not hers, is guiding the soap in the dark creases of her body. Frosty is rinsing her small breasts, her back; his head leans over her shoulder to kiss the crook of her neck. They both share the shower, let the water pulse away the soap and grind of the day. Her face tilted upward, she is giggling and gulps water. In dealing with the minute details of living, Adeen had forgotten how much she loves this man.

  His mouth is on hers now, sucking the wetness from her lips; an entanglement of tongues. She presses her compact buttocks hard against his pelvis. He guides her out the shower stall and both tumble onto the cool damp tile floor. She is laughing now, and he is riding her in a slow rocking motion, gaining speed, moving faster and faster, a human pumpjack, up and down, up and down, and she is saying, “Frosty, Frosty, Frosty, stop, stop.” And he is saying, “Not now, hon, not now, not now.” And then the bronco rider halts, heaves his chest, raises his arms in the air like he had just been declared champion at the Calgary Stampede, and collapses, his face resting on her breasts, gasping for air, his heart fluttering.

  “Neeee. Neeee.” Laughter, a standing ovation. Adeen and Frosty face the open bathroom door and there is Irene, applauding their sorry efforts.

  ADEEN

  I tried to teach Irene so many things that were simple for other children in her age group. I worked hard with her. I wanted her to experience a classroom setting, thinking that maybe through osmosis she would learn a thing or two. I enrolled her in the Catholic school nearby, which had a special-needs teacher working with mentally challenged students. Age-wise, Irene was always much older than her classmates. But mentally? She was still a baby.

  In grade one the class was preparing to receive their First Holy Communion. With loving patience, I showed her how to cross herself so that she could receive Holy Communion with the other kids in her class. Every day, every day, we would practise. I would slowly guide Irene’s hand to her forehead, chest, left shoulder, and finally right, and Irene, looking puzzled, parroted my movements over and over for months at a time until one day, there it was. I cried out, “Yes, yes, Irene, yes, yes, good girl,” nodding and crossing myself, too, and Irene just kept repeating the gestures, jumping up and down, up and down, shaking those hands as though she had just touched a hot stove and was trying to cool them. Irene didn’t have a clue what she was doing or why, but she liked getting dressed up in her white veil, dress, stockings, and shoes. She looked lovely and even mimicked the other children when it came time to receive the body and blood of Christ.

  I am a lapsed Catholic from a long time ago and have no use for any church or their hypocritical, self-righteous believers. Pious flaw-flaws, Mother St. Mary Ronald, my fifth-grade teacher, called them, not realizing that she herself was one of them. But I led Irene to Catholicism, a religion I could at least monitor just in case there was a heaven. I didn’t want my daughter to languish in limbo where all nonbaptized babies wait in line until the gates of heaven open up to them, if that ever happens.

  It took months of patience to get Irene to cross herself, but she did it, and for that brief moment, at least, both of us felt some joy — Irene for her accomplishment and me for the possibility of a future for my daughter. No expectations, but there was always a glimmer of hope.

  It makes me smile to think about that time and Irene’s happy dance for this small success. Of course, everything she learned by imitation was soon erased from her mind. The next year I had to pull her out of school because, after a while, even the special-needs teachers couldn’t handle her.

  What happened that night made me wonder if I could handle Irene anymore. Frosty was mad as hell. I was just embarrassed. First time that ever happened. Irene wasn’t a baby anymore in terms of her physical self. She probably thought we were playing a game of wrestling. She liked to watch wrestling matches on TV every Saturday night. She just clapped whenever they went down. Funny, I mean odd, that she got so much pleasure out of watching two people harm themselves, even if it was for entertainment.

  After the bathroom humiliation, I seriously considered Frosty’s suggestion. I spoke to Mona to get her take on things, and she agreed with Frosty. We went as far as arranging a tour of the Michener, but I just wasn’t ready to give away my daughter, even though it was only an hour’s drive from here. Instead, I made up my mind to be more vigilant. Frosty was losing patience with me. My marriage was tottering like a drunken whore on stilettos. I had so much on my mind at that time, my brain hurting with the migraines. Do you understand?

  Anyhow, that’s the story there.

  MONA

  Summer light glides early across the prairie. The sky is already a jazzy fusion of pink and purple threads, the bashful sun just emerging. It is barely dawn. Crabby crows hide in weeping birch branches; smaller birds, chickadees perhaps, are gossiping in the corners of the lilac bush oblivious to danger. May Be, May Be, May Be, they seem to say. Another replies: 8:30, 8:30, 8:30, as though it has organized a flock meeting in a nest and is reminding the other birds that all should be in attendance and on time.

  Adeen reclines in the lounge chair on the balcony, entertaining the first beer of the day, and massages her hot cheeks with the chilled brew. The squawking, querulous birds (whatever happened to the 8:30 meeting?), the distant piercing wail of the train and rhythmic bump of wheels over tracks, the waste disposal men in their gigantic bulbous truck in back — all signal another day, and Frosty has yet to return from an all-nighter. The humidity is unforgiving, even at this early hour.

  After the bathroom fiasco, Frosty fled, ran away again like a naughty
child, his usual coping mechanism. She had become accustomed to his petulant behaviour and no longer worries about his whereabouts. He always returned because where else could he go and who else would love him more than she? Frosty was a good stepfather, showing patience when required, but now, even he found the situation intolerable.

  Adeen’s mind skips to another place, and time.

  Irene. It had been a difficult delivery. A moment too long in the uterus and a deficiency of oxygen left the baby damaged, with partial facial paralysis, a shrivelled mind, and a language of sounds. Irene’s father had blamed Adeen, said he would always feel imprisoned by an obligation to a woman he no longer loved and a child he didn’t want. So he had vanished from their lives, Irene not yet one.

  “You little tramp,” her drunken mother had shrieked when Adeen broke the news, “you weren’t supposed to follow my life. I wanted better for you. I wanted better.” The drama queen had collapsed to her knees, weeping, hurling the empty beer bottle at her daughter.

  Adeen would forever feel torn by guilt, by the burden of raising a child with too many challenges. “Perhaps if I hadn’t gotten drunk that night.”

  “Perhaps you should stop blaming yourself,” the kind young social worker had tried to soothe her.

  At the advice of her school counsellor, Adeen completed her final year in high school — in the D class, the dumb class — and graduated with the highest marks in typing and steno. Still, as a single mother, she could foresee no future in Montreal, a city in a province on the brink of separating from the rest of the country. She was not fluently bilingual, a requirement for any job. At interviews she would always say in French, “Mais je comprends bien la langue.” But it was never good enough.

  Her widowed mother, emotionally frail and dependent on alcohol to steer her own life, disowned Adeen the morning of Irene’s birth. With no emotional support, no social life, Adeen had wanted to end it all, drink herself to death, stick her head in an oven, rip her skin with thumb tacks, cut her wrists — she was good at theatrics, like her mother — but no one noticed her plea for help, not even her case worker, who observed food in the fridge, a spotless subsidized apartment, and clean clothing for Irene. Enough to report a passing mark.

  And then Mona — their friendship dated back to kindergarten — had coaxed Adeen to Edmonton with money for airfare. There Mona was already an established hairdresser with her own home salon in a new development called the Evergreen Mobile Home Park, located on the northeast side in a wooded ravine on the outskirts of the city. She convinced Adeen it would be an ideal environment for Irene to thrive — fresh air, greenery, farm animals, family events, children to play with, a close-knit community. Adeen wasn’t so sure that it was the ideal situation, but it was a good, practical place to be, at least temporarily. There was no future for an anglophone in Montreal. At least here, out west, as history had revealed, there was a sense of entrepreneurship, possibilities, and adventure, if nothing else.

  “You know I love Irene, and since I work from home, I could babysit when you’re at work. Housing is cheap here and you can get your dream house eventually. Opportunities galore and the men are men, not walking ads for Calvin Klein. Come on, Adeen, you have nothing to lose. Edmonton is where it’s at, girl. And if you don’t like it, you can always go back. I won’t stop you.”

  A house. She had never lived in a house. Her nomadic childhood in a series of tenements, public housing in Montreal’s slums — the Pointe, Little Burgundy, Saint-Henri, the East End — had resulted in a dispirited existence. For Adeen, a house symbolized stability, safety, a home, a loving family, a future for Irene. It was a plan and, indeed, with nothing to lose, nothing left, she saw Mona’s offer as the proverbial lifeline. She grabbed it.

  On July 1, 1982, Adeen, a single mother with five-year-old Irene secured to her like a dog on a leash, arrived in Edmonton, a city in the throes of an economic boom. Apartments were scarce and expensive; jobs plentiful. The world seemed to be migrating to Alberta.

  They temporarily settled with Mona in her tiny mobile home in the Evergreen Mobile Home Park, and at midnight the three rose to their feet on the small deck with glasses of Mouton Cadet, and iced tea for Irene, and sang “O Canada” as they watched the fireworks explode into a prism of colours. Adeen pretended the display was meant only for her, a welcome celebration to a fresh beginning; a standing ovation for a decision well taken. “Thank you. Thank you,” she bowed to the pyrotechnics. At first Irene was frightened by the kaleidoscopic flash and explosions bursting into the abyss, but nonetheless, she followed her mother’s lead and also bowed as though she were greeting royalty. Everyone dissolved into laughter and clapped at the spectacle. And then Adeen met Forester (Frosty) Whitlaw.

  “EEEeeeeee. MOMMAAAA.”

  Adeen flips the empty can behind the lounge chair. Who cares where it lands, she thinks. She can clean up later. A stream of water pulses from above; a waterfall splashing against the wrought iron railing. She looks up.

  “Hey, Payton, is that you spilling precious water?”

  “Sorry, Adeen, but it’s so hot, just trying to cool down the patio here so I can go barefoot.”

  “How many times have I said you can’t do that? Now it’s dripping all over Zita’s balcony.”

  “Bet she’ll enjoy the shower.” And he hunches over the railing.

  “Payton. Leave Zita alone. She’s probably napping. This heat’s hard on her with her pregnancy.” But before Payton can reply, a heavy crash from inside the apartment interrupts their exchange.

  Irene is seeking attention and, in a dishevelled sleepy mess from just waking up, stands pointing a finger directing her mother to the living room. “Neee. Neee.”

  Adeen, still in fatigue mode not having slept since … she doesn’t remember when … sprints inside. Irene, skipping, hopping like a summer hare in the middle of busy traffic, bursts into sudden applause as though her handiwork deserves an encore. Adeen already sees the downed patio verticals, Irene cackling with joy, alternately shaking her fingers and clapping her hands hard. The window coverings lie in a heap of noisy aluminum on the floor like siding meant for the city dump.

  “Irene, come here, baby. Come here.” It takes every effort for Adeen to restrain herself from hitting the child.

  Irene looks for her standing ovation, bravo, bravo. She beams, look what I did, becoming hysterical at the mention of her name. It’s not working. Her daughter is in a frenzy, spinning like a circus dog in performance, begging for a treat — praise.

  Adeen reaches out but Irene pulls away.

  “Neene.”

  The living room is now a slippery racetrack. A game of tag ensues. In her excitement, Irene had soiled the salmon-coloured carpet, a trail of urine to be dealt with later. They chase each other in a circle of catch me if you can. Adeen halts with an unexpected abruptness and collides with her daughter. She scoops up the corded skipping rope lying on the floor and ties Irene’s hands behind her back, as though she were at a calf-roping match at a rodeo. Irene is braying now until she is finally reduced to submission. Adeen lets Irene simmer and runs to the medicine cabinet, returning with a bottle of pills. She is attempting to force open Irene’s clamped mouth. Irene chomps on Adeen’s fingers like a famished infant. Irene is banging the side of her head against the floor while Adeen muscles her down with the palm of her hand and shoves a sedative down her throat, folding Irene’s lips shut like a sealed envelope. Irene has no choice but to swallow.

  The doorbell rings. Adeen waits until Irene surrenders completely, lies motionless. The ringing is continuous, accompanied by urgent knocking. Exhausted and dispirited, Adeen crawls to the door, sobbing uncontrollably. Her sanity is drifting; she is falling into a stupor, a dark place of detachment. Her doctor had prescribed an antidepressant for these wild scenes, but Adeen has never favoured solving problems with drugs. Of course, she is quick to ply Irene with similar medication to handle her erratic mood swings. She is considering going to a happier, peaceful pl
ace herself; either her or Irene. It could never be Irene. Something had to give.

  There seems to be a rhythm to the knocking now, as though several hands have joined to drive the door open. She is in no rush to deal with a tenant’s demands because there are always complaints: leaky pipes, clogged toilets, no heat in winter, no air conditioning in summer, and last week Rosemary asked her to evict the two mice who had set up camp under her dishwasher.

  “I’m coming.” Adeen sounds winded and carries the exhaustion of someone who just completed a workout at Gold’s Gym and needs to wind down.

  “It’s me. Mona. Open the frigging door.”

  Adeen is wiping her eyes with her knuckles. “All right, all right. Said I was coming.” Mona barges inside the apartment in a fury of impatience.

  “How’d you get into the building?” Adeen says.

  “Someone buzzed me in.…”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t know. Someone —” And then Mona is taken aback by the sight of Irene curled up on the living room floor, wrists tied behind her back. “What happened here?”

  “I couldn’t control her. Had no choice.”

  “Bad choice.” Mona bends over to untie the skipping rope but Adeen interferes, slaps her hands. “Let her be. She needs her sleep. And me too.”

  “I can see that, but Adeen, when did this start happening? She’s tied up like —”

  “Don’t judge me, Mona. It’s the only way.” Adeen is now heaving uncontrollable tears.

  “Sweetie, you need a break.” Mona is hugging her. “There, there, everything will be fine. Why don’t I take her off your hands for a couple of weeks, huh? She always liked Evergreen. Maybe she misses her friends there and the petting zoo. She’s all cooped up in here and with the heat and everything … I can take her to the pool or the children’s centre like I used to.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Let me think about it.”

  “Of course.”