Miriam Toews - All My Puny Sorrows

I went back into Elf’s room and stood at the foot of her bed. For a second I felt like her executioner come to offer her a last meal and a smoke. The world has gone a bit dark, eh? She blinked. You’d concur? I said. She blinked again.

I sat there for a while looking at my manuscript. I read a page to myself, it didn’t make me happy, and then gently placed it upside down on Elf’s flat stomach. Then another and another. I continued to read and place pages gently on my sister’s body and she lay very still, hardly breathing, so they wouldn’t fall. Finally I told her that I was going back down to the fifth floor to check on Tina and to bring them Starbucks coffee. She nodded and rolled her eyes a bit because I’d said Starbucks. It’s all they have here, I said. I gathered up my pages from her stomach. Elf smiled and touched my hand. She held it for a few seconds. I realized that I’d forgotten the moisturizing cream. I knew she meant for me to tell our aunt that she loved her, that she hoped she’d be okay. I told Elf that I would tell our aunt those things and she nodded. I wanted to say: imagine mom losing her sister. How horrible, no? But it wasn’t that dire, it was only an event, and I had no more energy, after taking on psychiatry, cardiology and Mennonite evangelism, for haranguing.

On the way to the Starbucks in the lobby I got a call from Finbar. He asked me what the hell I’d been talking about. You want to kill your sister? he said. I’m a lawyer, for god’s sake. Don’t tell me these things. No, I don’t, I said. But I’m wondering if I should. Yolandi, he said, you’re exhausted and stressed out. You can’t kill your sister. You can’t do anything for her other than what you’re doing right now. I told him I wasn’t doing anything for her right now and he said that I was there, that’s what mattered. Was there something he could do for me? I asked him to drive past my apartment in Toronto and see if there were signs of life from Nora and Will and maybe he could knock on the door and ask them if they were okay and why Nora wasn’t answering her phone. Although I already knew why. It was because she had poisoned Will and dragged his body into a closet and was having unprotected sex all over the house with her fifteen-year-old Swedish dancer boyfriend and she didn’t have the time or the inclination to talk to her sad old disapproving mother in the midst of it all. Consider it done, he said. He promised to call later that day.

To my surprise I met a family I knew from East Village in a waiting room in the cardiology ward, where they were watching TV. They asked me what I was doing there. I told them my aunt was here, a patient. They said is that Tina Loewen? But doesn’t she live in Vancouver? I said yeah, she’s here visiting. She’s here for an event, a coronary event. They didn’t laugh.

We made some small talk. They told me that the woman’s brother was having heart surgery, a valve replacement. Straightforward. He’d be doing his standard three-mile jog within a week of being discharged.

They had great faith in the doctors. They believed in rain dances and placating the gods with human sacrifices as well. Probably. Their brother’s surgeon was the best in town, they adored him. They told me that their oldest son, a guy my age, had done his PhD in economics at Oxford. Cool, wow, I said. I remembered that son, Gerhard, had teased me mercilessly when I wet my pants in grade one. He called me and Julie lezzies for holding hands at recess. He drew swastikas all over his jeans and notebooks. And now he’s in London, said his mother, a policy analyst. He’s basically paid to think, she said. Imagine! It seems that every time he delivers a lecture he’s offered a scholarship to some university or another the very next day. It’s tempting, she laughs. But of course he has to consider his wife and kids. She has a busy career of her own, curator for the Tate Modern and ambassador to Rwanda, and the kids are in good schools — rubbing shoulders with royalty, no less — that they wouldn’t want to leave.

Ahhh … I managed to say.

You know, he saw your sister Elfrieda play with the London Philharmonic and he said it was the most amazing thing he’d ever heard. Thankfully the church has finally seen fit to allow musical instruments into the community. We were always supportive of her piano playing, by the way. Your mother and I used to bump into each other at the post office sometimes and share a giggle about the hidden piano and I always told her to keep at it, to keep paying for those lessons because Elfrieda has a real gift. God would approve even if the elders didn’t. To think that somehow I contributed to her fame! I think Gerhard used to have a crush on her. Didn’t he, honey? She was talking to her husband.

Hmmm? What? he said.

She rolled her eyes. And what have you been up to? she asked.

Oh, I don’t know really, I said. Not much. Learning how to be a good loser.

Just then my mother came into the room looking as weary as a human being can look and not be dead. She greeted these people in a friendly, wary manner. They spoke in Plautdietsch for a while. They told her they were sorry about Tina. Thanks, my mom said, she’ll be all right. (She threw down a Plautdietsch expression here that the East Villagers nodded to appreciatively.) They don’t think she needs surgery, just possibly a certain type of heart medication.

Then Nic came into the room. He’d just heard about Tina. He was wearing a blue polyester-cotton blend dress shirt that had giant sweat stains under the arms. There was tomato sauce or blood on his chin. Half of his collar was turned up and he looked like a kid who’d insisted on getting ready for school all by himself.

Good grief, he said, and gave us each a hug. How is she? My mother explained again. Yikes, he said. I’m really sorry. Elf’s still in ICU, said my mom. Yeah, said Nic, I was just there. Wait, said the East Village people, Elfrieda is in the ICU? What happened to her?

She cut her wrists and drank poison, said my mom. Nic and I stared at my mother. Her throat closed but she didn’t die, said my mom. Not this time. She’ll probably be okay too. Everyone will survive eventually. And what brings you here this evening?

Nic and I allowed for a minute or two of this gong show and then pulled the plug. C’mon, mom, let’s get you home. You need to rest. I knew, as soon as the words were out of my mouth, that she’d resist. She was on the rampage, combative as hell and prepared to stamp out any ember of hope or kindness. I’m not tired, she said. But perhaps you need to rest. She was either being petulant or presenting a wonderful, almighty challenge.

Nic said he’d go say hi to Tina and then sit with Elf for a while longer, maybe read to her or play his guitar quietly. Any news from the doc? he said. Beats me, said my mom. I’d call him but I don’t think he gets cell service at the Quarry Oaks Golf Club.

Her throat isn’t right, I said. Nic said yeah, he knew that and asked me what I thought it meant. I don’t know exactly, I said, but maybe there’s an infection now that’s making it painful for her to talk. We waved our hands around to fill the gaps. We need to phone Tina’s kids, said my mom. Yeah, we’ll grab some dinner first and then go home and call, I told her. She’s stable, right? The nurses said? Yeah, said my mom. They’ll just keep her overnight for observation. Nic said he’d call me later if there was any news on Elf. I tugged on my mother’s sleeve like a four-year-old. C’mon, let’s get out of here, I said. I second that emotion, she said.

I waved goodbye to the successful people and told them to say hi to their son. They called after my mom and said all the best with Tina and Elf.

She didn’t really hear what they’d said and answered back I’ll see ya in the funny papers!