The Complex Arms Read online

  “Seems fine with her. So, no, you didn’t miss anything, Zita. Some things just don’t ever change. Boring, like watching canola grow.”

  Zita was laughing now. “Ah, come on, she made that up.”

  “Don’t think so. And I don’t like the way Frosty keeps his eyes on her. Makes any excuse to go by her apartment to see if she needs anything. She’s just as bad. Here’s your mail.”

  Adeen walked briskly into the blazing sun; Zita waddled after her, and Derrick was still hanging on to the food tote. They reached the cool interior of the building. Adeen clasped the packages close to her chest, the smell drifting by her nose. Marietta was renowned for her scrumptious baked goods, especially the bread. Adeen dug into the exposed heel of the ciabatta as though it were a burger and devoured half the loaf as though she had been on a hunger strike until Zita’s return.

  “So glad you remembered the bread.”

  Frosty was never fond of any foreign food, preferring Alberta beef and potatoes, and Spam sandwiches for a snack, which set him straight for the day. So the meatballs and tomato sauce and ciabatta were all hers to enjoy. None for Irene, as Irene would take a mind to playing with the meatballs.

  Adeen helped Zita and Derrick with their luggage to their second-floor apartment and reflected on everything Italian. She longed to get into her kitchen and shove the frozen meatballs with their sauce into the oven and chew on more ciabatta. Zita, so thoughtful, Adeen thought. Like a good daughter.

  Today is Zita’s thirty-fifth birthday, and in Marietta’s world any birthday is an excuse for more than a party — a blessing from the Pope would be in order, or a certificate of longevity, a minimum requirement. By evening, not having heard from her mother, a daughter’s worry turned to panic and so, as always, she phones. That familiar voice — buoyant, insouciant, expectant.

  “It no Sunday. Why you call?”

  “Are you okay, Mammina? I was worried.”

  “Si, I okay.”

  “Well, do you know what day is today?” Zita hesitates, thinking perhaps Alzheimer’s has finally taken hold of her mother’s mind. She could forgive Marietta for that.

  “Si, I know. Your birthday.”

  “You know! You know! And you didn’t call — didn’t even send me a card! You never forget.” She feels the baby’s light kick, rebelling against the noise of the world yet to be experienced.

  “Si, I know. Everything merda.”

  “You didn’t forget?”

  “I have done enough for everybody. I have to think of myself.”

  “What are you talking about? What are you saying? I’m your daughter. How can you do that? It’s like I wasn’t born! Oh God! You don’t know what you’ve done. You don’t know what you’ve done,” Zita is screeching like a demon.

  Marietta is calling her daughter’s name now, trying to get her attention. “Zita, Zita, you too sensitive.”

  But Zita is gone. She needs to repeat it, repeat it, say it out loud. It hasn’t quite registered — you didn’t forget, you didn’t forget, you knew and you deliberately didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t acknowledge it … and with that realization, the back of her throat suddenly releases such a moan, ascending into a howl, full throttle ahead now, words hiccuping from a blubbering mouth, sweat melding with the tears and snot like a baby’s desperate cry for mother’s milk. “You don’t know what you’ve done, you don’t know what you’ve done, you don’t know what you’ve done,” and her mother’s consistent reprimand, “You should be here with me, not over there. Never mind your husband and son.”

  Zita has lost control, deaf to a mother’s sudden soothing words. “You too sensitive.” Something has left her body, snapped, staccato thoughts, words, escaped memories, a daughter’s indignity, and her response:

  I/DON’T/EVER/WANT/TO/SEE/YOU/AGAIN/I/ DON’T/EVER/WANT/TO/SEE/YOU/AGAIN

  Zita has dropped the phone, collapsing on the couch, blood seeping through her sweat pants. She is hysterical, frightening herself with the unremitting rage of loss — a lament, a piercing wail heard only at Irish wakes, or from women in the last vestiges of labour, before the urgent push, the first hurrah of birth and the final severing of the umbilical cord.

  It is after Mona had driven away in her van with Irene still asleep in the back seat that Adeen hears the manic scream, someone in harm’s way, in pain, someone being beaten, robbed, killed? The building is going to hell, she thinks.

  Adeen follows the noise of distress, which seems to originate from Zita’s apartment. Derrick is running down the stairs, two steps at a time, and crashes into her. He’s in a panic.

  “You have to help my mom. I don’t know what’s the matter.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. She was on the phone with my nonna. She started to scream and yell and threw the phone down. Come see, Mrs. Whitlaw.”

  “Where’s your dad?”

  “Fort Mac until the weekend.”

  Adeen rushes in and there is Zita flat out on the couch, frantic, wailing.

  “Zita, Zita.”

  Adeen attempts to shift her to sit up, raising her knees, sliding her legs onto the floor. Zita is now slumped against the cushions, head back, eyes closed.

  “Is my mom going to be all right?”

  Adeen feels the glue-like substance in the palms of her hands and when she looks down, a spread of blood had seeped through Zita’s rear end, staining the couch.

  “Mrs. Whitlaw,” Derrick crouches against the armchair. “Your hands.”

  And she sees the thick burgundy clots creeping around her fingers and palms like an abstract painting pouring pain.

  Adeen hovers over Zita, pushing her bangs away from her forehead. “It’s going to be all right. It’s going to be all right.” And she reaches for the phone on the sofa table and calls emergency.

  “She doesn’t love me … doesn’t love me,” Zita’s voice grieving.

  “Yes, she does. She … you know some mothers just don’t know how to show it, is all. It’ll be okay.” Adeen is wiping Zita’s face with a found terry cloth hand towel. Zita has passed out.

  “Yes, yes, it’s going to be all right.”

  Derrick is half-hidden behind Adeen.

  “Is my mommy going to be okay?”

  Adeen extends an arm and he is encased in a huge hug as though every squeeze would push out a sorrow, make it fly away.

  ADEEN

  Stillborn. A girl. Barely five months. Zita wanted a sister for Derrick. Funny, women who want babies don’t always get them. She blamed her mother for the miscarriage. What mother would forget a daughter’s birthday, a life she bore; the soul of a human being? I didn’t know how it was going to turn out, but Zita was hurting. What was the matter with Marietta? I should have stayed out of it, but Zita’s husband said nothing and did nothing but work, as though if he worked hard enough, stayed away, everything would fall into place. Men are not emotional creatures.

  I’ve always said, it’s the ones who shouldn’t be mothers who seem to be the fertile ones. Look here. They’ve been on the news. This woman so overwhelmed by her life she drowned her two babies in the bathtub. Said she looked away a minute and when she turned back, they were underwater. And this one: after she gave birth, she pushed her car into the Mississippi and drowned all her kids. Four of them. She survived. Everyone thought at first it was an accident, but then the girl confessed. Said she had been feeling blue since her last one and it wasn’t her fault. Feeling blue. Postnatal depression, they called it. Even with all the problems Irene had given me, I couldn’t ever, you know, get rid of her. Can you imagine? I couldn’t even kill an ant. Let them be. No harm done. Even animals protect their young. From what Derrick told me about mice, they take better care of their babies. They lick them clean of any unfamiliar scent. Okay, sometimes they get carried away with the licking and eat one, but it’s always done out of love, not intentionally. Animals, unlike humans, are not cruel unless they are attacked. There is a purpose
to everything. But I guess when you’re mental, you have no control.

  Now, I told Derrick to watch out for his pets. He had my permission to have a couple of mice from the pet shop but don’t bring in any of those field mice, I told him. Rosemary, she was a senior with a dying husband — they lived on the second floor — she swore she saw one of those critters come from under her dishwasher. I told Derrick that if I saw one I would be furious. I would set traps. I can be brutal when I want to.

  Anyhow, that’s the story there.

  MRS. LAPINBERG

  “You missed the commotion here. Zita miscarried.” Adeen is raising her voice. “Where you been?”

  “Adeen, why don’t you stay outta everyone’s life and stay quiet.”

  Frosty slumped into the apartment with angry wide strides, banging the door behind him, the wall hangings sitting at a tilt from the force.

  “You are part of my life, Frosty, and as your wife, I have a right to know. Look at me.” Adeen spits the words out. “You’re never around when I need you.”

  Her hair a tangled mess, a result of just waking up from a nap, she grabs the back of the padded plastic kitchen chair, flings it at Frosty so the back hits the linoleum floor, leaving a dent the shape of an exclamation mark. Weariness rumbles between them. He springs for the bedroom in a rush as though he’s just remembered an appointment that requires a fresh shirt. This summer has been a turning point in their relationship. Adeen faults the miserable heat wave that seems to be infiltrating every nook and cranny of their lives, causing tempers to short-circuit.

  A staccato, light knock and Frosty is shouting, “Come the fuck in.” Mrs. Lapinberg pokes her head in the doorway with Mrs. Antoniuk behind her, another senior who lives in the Complex Arms. With an uncertain temerity, Mrs. Lapinberg says, “Excuse me. I hope I’m not disturbing anyone.”

  Frosty brushes past her in such a huff he almost collides with the frightened Mrs. Antoniuk, who is now cowering meekly behind the door.

  “Where you going?” Adeen’s temper is still out of control.

  “I’m sorry, dear.”

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Lapinberg. Normal conversation here. Come on in.”

  “No, dear. Don’t want to miss my General Hospital. I’ll be out of your hair in a stitch.”

  “Did your son come by last night?”

  “Oh, yes, and that’s what I came to see you about. I’ll be leaving end of the month. I know I’m breaking my lease, but here’s a cheque for the remainder of my rent. Barney found me a lovely seniors place in Sherwood Park close by to where he and his family live. He said we’ll be able to see each other more often and the grandkids are just so pleased, isn’t that nice, so … oh, here, I almost forgot. I started to clean out some drawers and I’d like for you to have this. I remembered you liked it.”

  Mrs. Lapinberg presents Adeen with a decorative plate, an antique of some value that Adeen had always admired on her tea visits.

  “But don’t tell Barney. He doesn’t like it when I give things away.”

  “I know. Please keep it, Mrs. Lapinberg. I wouldn’t want you or me to get into trouble with your family again.”

  “No trouble. I’m still his mother.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Lapinberg, we’re going to miss you so much.” Adeen reaches out for a hug and can feel the comforting squish of droopy breasts like the pillows on her brocade settee, and the scent of Evening in Paris.

  “Well, I’ll be out of your way. Imagine, me always fainting away like that. You and Frosty have been so kind to me. And the other tenants. Such a nice building. I haven’t told Derrick yet, poor boy. Waiting for the last minute. He’s such a sweetheart. He should really have friends his own age.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Lapinberg.” Another hug.

  “You and Frosty, come visit me at the new place. Promise?”

  Adeen nods, knowing that will never happen. Mrs. Lapinberg’s son will sever any friendships his mother ever made.

  Mrs. Lapinberg’s loneliness was apparent to everyone but her selfish children. The family did not appreciate Adeen and the other tenants looking out for their mother.

  “I’ll tell Barney to leave you my new address.”

  “You are too kind, Mrs. Lapinberg. Will you be joining us for the neighbourhood barbecue at the end of the month? We can also make it a farewell party for you. I know people here would want to say a personal goodbye.”

  “That would be so nice, my dear. Can’t remember last time anyone gave me a party. I’ll bring my knishes. That okay?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Lapinberg, but I hope that’s not too much trouble for you.”

  “No, I can still make them. Not as fast but keeps me busy.”

  “Well, okay, and thank you again for the plate. It’s so beautiful. I’ll put it up here in my china cabinet for safekeeping.”

  “Oh, don’t put it out until I’m gone. My Barney might see it and think you stole it.”

  “Mrs. Lapinberg, are you sure you want me to have this?”

  “Yes, my dear.”

  “All right. I’ll put it in the cabinet drawer. For safekeeping.”

  Mrs. Lapinberg was already at the door when she looked back over her shoulder to say, “Yes, for safekeeping. We must all feel safe, mustn’t we?”

  Adeen can hear the shuffle of old slippers across the hallway. She proceeds toward the open door where Mrs. Antoniuk, who has moved herself back into the hallway, patiently waits.

  “Something wrong with toilet. Overflow. I cannot fix.”

  “Frosty is out right now but I can have a look. Maybe it just needs a plunger.”

  “Maybe.”

  Much later she studies Mrs. Lapinberg’s plate. Must be worth something, she thinks.

  Fatigue overwhelms her again. She is always tired these days. She collapses on the couch for another little nap, just a little nap, five minutes is all, and she dozes off to the cacophony of birdsong that sounds as though they are arranging another rendezvous, somewhere in the branches of the elm tree. 8:30, 8:30, 8:30. Be there, caw the black crows.

  ADEEN

  Mrs. Lapinberg. Sweet, sweet, sweet lady. She became frail like a lot of people her age. I don’t know. I do know that she should not have been living alone, so I was glad to hear Barney found a good seniors home for her care. We treat our pets better.

  Never liked the way her family manhandled her. They rarely saw her, except when they needed her to sign cheques. She should have been living with one of the kids; at least Barney would come around sometimes, but that Arlene, her daughter, youngest, I think, rarely saw her. She lived in wealthy Glenora, pretentious little snob. Mothers and daughters. Yeah, special breed of a relationship. Zita told me she had banished her own mother, not from the misery of being her daughter, but from the rage of being a dispensable daughter. Sigh!

  Maybe because the daughters are mini versions. No. I mean, Irene is nothing like me. I don’t know. Hidden under all those tantrums and stubbornness, maybe there’s a part of me in there somewhere. Maybe her father was the crazy one. Certainly doesn’t come from my side of the family. We Irish may like our Guinness now and again but we take care of our own. Yes, indeed.

  I would hear Mrs. Lapinberg moaning, crying sometimes when her kids came over. I’d crush my ear against the adjacent wall and listen hard. They would always be arguing, and sometimes I would hear the sound of slaps, like one of the kids hurting her. I wanted to run in and … I did the first time it happened. Knocked on the door and knocked until Barney finally let me in. I guess it gave them time to normalize things. He looked ruddy and winded; perspiration was streaking down his cheeks like he had been moving furniture on a hot day.

  “I was wondering if I could speak to your mother,” I had said. And he just shrugged his shoulders like he had a parrot perched there and wanted it to fly away. He said that she was asleep and couldn’t be bothered. But I could hear her stifling a sob or two from the bedroom.

  “You okay, Mrs. Lapinberg?” I had called out, and the sobbing stopp
ed.

  “Just brought her some ice cream. She likes ice cream,” I had said. Had to give an excuse so I didn’t look nosy, right?

  “Her fridge is full of ice cream,” said Arlene. I was surprised to see her there. Guess she needed money for her expensive lifestyle; must have been desperate to come all the way here to see her mother. Acted like she was the perfect daughter sometimes. Such a hypocrite. Showed affection to her mother in public, but God knows what she did when they were alone.

  “Just wanted to make sure she was okay. I’ll just leave it here,” I said and left the container on the coffee table.

  “My mother’s fine,” so said Arlene. And she showed me to the door.

  If you ask me, I think there was some elder abuse going on there, but I stayed out of that one ever since Barney threatened to tell the Swanks that I was stealing money from his mother’s purse on those afternoon tea breaks. It was a lie, of course. Mrs. Lapinberg would forget that she had this generous habit of giving Derrick money to spend on childhood pleasures that his parents denied him — comic books, toys, candy — and sometimes that left Mrs. Lapinberg short of cash for her own needs. I would admonish Mrs. Lapinberg, but she seemed to get such pleasure seeing Derrick so happy. I have everything I need, she would tell me. Such a good heart. Barney had no proof but blamed me anyway.

  I did intervene another time, actually. “I’ll call the cops on you,” I threatened Barney that one time. “The walls are thin and I can hear, you bastard. You touch your mom … if I hear her cry one more time … I’ll get my friends after you,” I yelled.

  He wanted to strike me, but I surprised him with a karate kick to the groin.

  “Don’t mess with me, bud,” I said. I looked brave but shook scared.

  He left in a holler with me shrieking so the whole building could hear, “It’ll swell up for a couple of days, bigger than it’s ever been. Your wife will be happy.” I can still see him there bent over clutching his balls, his face a hostile mask of pain, cursing with swear words I had never heard before. How does that song go? “I Am Woman!”