Ann-Marie MacDonald - Adult Onset

“You know, in the old country, a woman didn’t believe her husband loved her if he didn’t beat her.”

“What old country was that, Mum? Cape Breton?”

“Don’t be saucy.”

“Was your mother born in Lebanon, Dolly?” asked Hil. “I would love to go there sometime, I know it’s a beautiful country.”

And you have beautiful manners, Hil. WASP avoidance strategy.

“It is a beautiful country, Hilary,” said Dolly, sounding quite WASP herself now.

“Have you ever visited, Dolly?”

“Yes, once.”

“She went during a ceasefire in the seventies,” said Mary Rose.

“Oh my goodness.”

“Hilary, it was amazing. I walked down the street and everyone looked like me !”

Hilary rested her chin on her hand, and looked at Dolly with genuine affection. “I can imagine what that must have meant to you.”

“But your mother was born in Canada, right, Mum?”

“That’s right, but Puppa wasn’t, he was from the old country, and you know in the old country a woman didn’t believe her husband loved her if—”

“I guess that’s why you married Dad.”

Dolly looked comically nonplussed. “Your father didn’t beat me.”

“That’s what I mean. But somehow you could tell he loved you.”

She was suddenly coquettish. “Oh, I could tell, I had six babies. Five. Wait now, how many are you?”

“Mum, are you saying your father beat your mother?”

“Sometimes a woman needs a good slap.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“No one can tell me Mumma didn’t love Puppa. When’re we going to play Scrabble?”

The kettle shrieked.

Hil made tea. “I thought you were going shopping,” she said, no doubt desperate for some peace.

Dolly turned to Mary Rose. “I was going to buy you an outfit.”

“Oh, um, I’m pretty well fixed for outfits, Mum, but is there anything you—”

“I need a new bra.”

“Okay, I know the perfect place, it’s right on Bloor, let’s go—”

“Don’t go just for my sake, Mary Rose.”

“I’m not, that’s where I buy my bras.”

“Do you need a bra?” Dolly pronounced it bra-a as in brand .

“No, Mum, but they can help you find one, they’re professional bra fitters.”

“What do I need another bra for, I’ve enough bras, I got bras coming out the yingyang. And you know, Mary Rose, it’ll be you kids having to go through all that stuff when I’m dead, I’m not buying any more stuff!”

“Okay, let’s just go for a walk, then.”

“No, let’s go to the bra store.” Hollering to the living room, “Dunc, we’re going to the bra store on Bloor! I’ll buy you a bra, Mary Rose,” she said, and burped.

Hil was preparing a tray for Duncan.

“Don’t forget the sultanas,” said Mary Rose. She turned toward the cupboard and walked into a kerfuffle, her mother was tossing something at her — did Dolly’s purse harbour a false bottom? She caught it before it could put out her eye.

“You forgot that in the summer.”

“Oh. Thanks, Mum.”

The foot calendar. Mary Rose had “forgotten” it in Ottawa. She pinned it to the corkboard next to the dead clown.

Dolly was ready at the back door, bundled in her coat, hat and … nylon slippers.

“We’re off, Dunc!” she called, and sang out, “ ‘Auf Weiderseh’n, Sweetheart!!’ ”

“Mum, you’re going to need your boots, it’s chilly out.”

Hilary appeared at the top of the four steps with Dolly’s boots.

“Are ya ever nice!” said Dolly. “You’re almost as nice as Dunc!”

“How’re you fixed for cash?” called Duncan from the living room. “Need any mad money?”

Dolly winked. “Your father’s so good to me.” Then she called in reply, “I’ve got my credit card, dear!”

“Look out!”

Mary Rose waited while Dolly bent to pull off her slippers and almost fell over.

“Can I help you, Mum?”

“What for?” She sat— kerplunk —on the step and struggled to pull on her boots. She would soon overheat in her puffy coat. “Mum, you might want to take your coat off while you—”

“I can’t be bothered with all that rigmarole.”

She managed to jam one foot into one boot with a grunt. She reached for the other.

“Mum, let me help you.”

“I can do it myself, Mary Rose.” Do it Me-self!

Mary Rose backed off and waited.

At last, Dolly stood up, wobbled, staggered theatrically and steadied herself.

“What’s going on with these boots? Have I grown out of them at my age?”

Mary Rose looked down. “They’re on the wrong feet, Mum.”

“Get out, they’re not.” Dolly looked down and laughed. “I must be going senile, look what I’ve done. Dunc! Come look at your wife, dear, I’ve got my boots on the wrong feet!”

“What’s that?” came the sleepy voice from the living room. Could the brain take only so much lurching between chemical states before it lost elasticity and plaqued over? Had Dolly mood-swung herself into atrophy? It used to be called “second childhood.” If so, it says a good deal about the founding personalities of those so afflicted. Judging by these criteria, Dolly Mahmoud had been a cutie-pie. A handful. But a honeybun.

She kicked off the boots, steadied herself with the railing, sat back down on the step and renewed her efforts, saying sotto voce , “I’m not really senile, Mary Rose. Just preoccupied.”

It hadn’t snowed much for January, all was damp and grey. It was as though Earth had forgotten how to do winter, or else was mixed up as to which season came after which — the planet itself in the grips of dementia. They reached the corner of zooming Bathurst Street. Dolly was wearing the tam Mary Rose had given her for Christmas — leopard print like the one she’d had back in Kingston.

“ ‘Archie’s Variety,’ ” she read aloud. “Are they from Cape Breton?”

“Korea.”

Mary Rose waved to the lady through the window.

“Who’s that?”

“The lady who runs the store.”

“Will we go in and say hello?”

“What for?”

But before she knew it, her mother was in the store. She followed, already hearing the greeting sung from behind the counter, “Hello, how are you?”

Ten minutes later, they were back on the street, Dolly having acquired Kinder Eggs for the children along with the lady’s life story. Her name was Winnie, she had been a university professor back in Seoul. “And her with a math degree, imagine!”

They walked south.

“ ‘Grapefruit Moon Restaurant,’ ” said Dolly.

Mary Rose saw Rochelle disappearing into the restaurant and looked down in order to spare them both the necessity of a greeting. But bloody Rochelle stopped and said an unprecedented, “Hi.” Mary Rose introduced her mother, then feigned interest in the dry cleaner’s next door till her mother rejoined her. “Now that little gal has a back problem—”

“What ‘little gal’?”

“Your neighbour, Rachel.”

“Rochelle.”

“ ‘Freeman Real Estate,’ ” said Dolly.

“Let’s cross at the lights, Mum.”

They crossed Bathurst and proceeded down quiet, signless Howland Avenue beneath the bony-fingered trees, and to her surprise Mary Rose was able to keep up with her mother. At four foot eleven and a half, Dolly nonetheless had a stride — rather, she had had one — and on every back-to-school shopping excursion, “Walk tall, Mary Rose, walk as if you own the place.” “Mum, it’s the Kmart.” “I don’t care if it’s the Taj Mahal!” Now Mary Rose realized her mother might need to rest. When they got to the corner of Bloor, she said, “Would you like a cup of tea, Mum?”