Ann-Marie MacDonald - Adult Onset

“What a lovely way of putting it, Rosie, you really have a way with words.”

“Thanks, Mo.” She sips. “Maybe if we can nail down the dates, it’ll help her let it go.”

“There’s a great deal of unprocessed guilt there,” says Maureen.

“And guilt is toxic.”

“I said grief.”

“No, you said guilt.”

“Rosie, I know what I said.”

“How’s Zoltan?”

“He’s driving me crazy.”

She chuckles. “Good.”

“I’ve given him an ultimatum: either he cleans out the garage or I’m dialing one-eight-hundred-got-junk. I stepped on a rake and nearly concussed myself reaching for a case of juice boxes.” Mo’s nest will never be quite empty, she still buys bulk. “How are you doing on your own with the kids, Rosie? You’re really in the trenches.”

“It’s okay, it’s great, it’s a learning curve.”

“I wish I were next door and could help you.”

Mo visited the winter after Matthew was born. She cooked and cleaned and picked up six months of frozen dog poo from the backyard. They drank Ovaltine spiked with cognac and watched Pride and Prejudice ; she changed diapers, organized the spice drawer and replaced the flapper thing in the downstairs toilet tank; she laughed every time Mary Rose did her impression of Melanie singing “Ruby Tuesday.” Then Maggie was born and she did the same thing, plus helped Hil with the breast pump and mended Matthew’s beloved Bun, cross-stitching into the night. But for all that, Mary Rose wound up on antibiotics both times — perhaps she too is being stalked by a Rumpelstiltskinny disease, weakening her, one dry hacking cough at a time.

“You do help, Mo, Mum and Dad spend every winter out there practically next door to you and I don’t have to worry about a thing.” Cough .

“Mummy and Daddy are going to need some form of assisted living soon. I wish they’d darn well move out here for good.”

“Have you talked to Dad?”

“He changes the subject.”

Dolly and Dunc spent a good deal of their married life moving their family from one posting to the next. So long as another move remains on the horizon, they don’t have to think of the place they are currently living in as the last place. Or admit that the next move will be the last one. And neither does Mary Rose. But what if her parents do move out to the west coast? So much for the regular visits. Her children will miss out on whatever brief time remains with their grandparents — they’ve already lost Hil’s mother. It’ll be all packeeges and phone calls and e-mails, Dear Dad, I … She says, “I wish they’d move here.” Will she go to hell for this lie? Is it a lie?

Silence. Then, “Rosie, you don’t mean that.”

“I guess I don’t really.”

“You’ve got your hands full already.”

“I know. I wish the country wasn’t so big.”

“I know, me too.”

I’m going to lose my parents again … my sister is taking them away .

“I wish Zoltan were here to de-Facebook my computer.” Now that is a lie. Her brother-in-law is a highly qualified IT systems and security engineer. She doesn’t want him anywhere near her computer.

“I can put him on the phone, he’s just driving up—”

“No, that’s okay—”

Calling, “Zolty!” Then, to Mary Rose, “Oh no … oh, what’s he doing? Oh for Pete’s sake, he’s taking a big Home Depot box out of the back of the Jeep—”

“I better let you go.”

Mary Rose loves Zoltan. He taught her to play Risk when she was eleven — doubtless more out of an excuse to spend twelve hours at a stretch in the MacKinnon house than even his considerable enthusiasm for the game. Mary Rose wonders if Andy-Patrick would be better adjusted if he had a big brother. Alexander would have been three years older than A&P. Two?

And as though reading her mind, Maureen says, “The dates would be in the photograph Daddy took at the grave.”

“Oh. Wow, you’re right. Mo, you’re amazing.”

“Look for the album next time you’re in Ottawa.”

“It’s not in the album.”

“Did you take it out?”

“No, Mum must’ve, it’s been gone for ages.”

“I never liked looking at that picture.”

“Neither did I.” Lie . “Do you think she tore it up?”

“Well, can you blame her?”

Of course. Mum may have got rid of the photo because it was painful. Mary Rose, with the egoism of a child, had blamed herself for its disappearance. But now it makes sense. Adult sense.

“He was born in December,” says Mo slowly, “but they placed the stone in spring. I can almost make out the numbers …”

“Is that around the time you hung me over the balcony?” She grins. “Rosie, why on earth would I have done that?”

“Because you had to look after me and I was a terrible-two.”

She hears Maureen sigh. “Okay, smarty-pants, where was Mum while this was supposedly going on?”

“… Wow, Mo, I just realized something. I’ve always thought of the balcony as this kind of funny, bizarre thing? But … if it really happened, then it means Mum must have been really … out of it.”

“Rosie. She was depressed.”

“Of course. I know that, I guess … I just never really connected those dots before.”

Mo sighs again. “I see what you mean. Mummy could hardly get up off the couch. Of course it could have happened. Cripes. I’m sorry.”

Mary Rose says, “I forgive you,” and chuckles. But Mo is silent. “Mo? It’s actually one of my favourite memories.” Her triumph in getting her older sister to admit to the “balcony scene” is short lived. Now she feels guilty for making Maureen feel guilty.

“Mo, what time is their train, I can’t get a straight answer out of Mum.”

“Don’t worry about any of that, Rosie, I’ll let you know as soon as I know.”

That’s more like it. Efficient Mo. The-boss-of-me-Mo.

“Thanks.”

“Now, try to be early. I’m afraid Mummy may wander and Daddy will carry the bags himself and run into difficulty.” Die of a heart attack in public, leaving Mum lost and keening. Or making loads of new friends. “I’m not crying, don’t you cry!”

She glimpses Matthew heading into the powder room and resolves to bite the bullet and start potty training Maggie first thing tomorrow — Hil is right, it isn’t fair to hold her back.

“I’ll be there. Wait, when?”

“Sometime this weekend — I’ll let you know for sure. Have a good evening, Rosie Posie.” Mo has to go, she is at work after all, it’s three hours earlier out in Victoria.

“Oh, Daisy almost bit the mailman.”

“I hate our mailman,” says Mo with sudden bitterness.

She is on Lipitor — so are Dad and Andy-Patrick, while Mum is on something for her adult onset diabetes. Mary Rose is the only one not on meds. She pours another fingernail.

“Why?”

“He kicked Molly Doodle.”

Molly Doodle is a cairn terrier, every bit as territorial as Daisy, but at nine pounds, while her transgressions might cost a new pair of pants, Daisy’s will cost her her life. “That’s horrible.” A howl arises from the bathroom—“I gotta go.”

She rushes in. Matthew is standing with his pants down, crying. He has peed all over the floor, having been unable to get the child-locked toilet lid open.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, that wasn’t your fault, come let’s get you changed.”

She rescues the tofu and steams some green beans. After supper, the marathon that is bedtime is achieved with the usual gnashing of teeth and rending of towels, splashing, laughing, screaming; toothpaste is ingested, hair is combed, a flood averted, jim-jammies are snuggled into, stories read, songs sung, glasses of water fetched and mopped up. In due course, they are in bed.