Ann-Marie MacDonald - Adult Onset

“Who’s that?” asks Gigi.

“My brother.”

And there are dates. December 18–December 23, 1961 … no wonder Christmas is sad. She was two. Maggie’s age.

“Is Gigi still there?” asks Hil.

“She’s staying over, the kids are in bed, we’re in the basement watching Mamma Mia! again. Do you want to say hi?”

“I believe you. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine, it’s all pretty banal.” Hil is silent. Mary Rose adds, “Not in the Hannah Arendt sense of the word.”

“Call me from the train station tomorrow.”

“I will, what’re you eating?”

“Perogies, I’m on a break.”

“Winnipeg’s got the best perogies. I’m surprised you could find them in Calgary.”

“I love you, have a nice evening.”

“Have a good preview.” She holds the phone out. “Say hi, Gigi.”

“Hi, Gigi,” calls Gigi at the phone.

Daisy levers herself up onto the couch and wedges between them, next to the popcorn.

Winnie is smiling down at her, as if Mary Rose were much smaller and unable to see over the counter, saying, “You pick yellow.” Winnie’s voice deepens demonically, her smile undertows to a frown as she adds, “You put him in de gwound.” Mary Rose wakes in a sweat, her heart pounding. But there is another sound behind it — and she realizes it was this other sound that woke her. A thud-thudding accompanied by a kind of guttural clicking. It is a completely new sound. She gets up. It is coming from the landing. She goes to the top of the stairs and looks down.

“Daisy?”

Daisy appears very old and grey under the fluorescents of the Veterinary Emergency Clinic, but she is panting affably, cold-nosed and alert, huddled between Mary Rose’s knees. If Gigi hadn’t been sleeping over, Mary Rose would not have been able to rush the dog to the clinic — it is almost as though Daisy waited till it was safe.

“Good girl, Daze.”

Sometime after 2:00, the vet examines her and listens, unfazed, to Mary Rose’s account: she got up to find Daisy lying on her side on the landing, limbs spasming, mouth foaming, eyes rolled back.

He says, “Best not to let her sleep near the stairs from now on.” And writes a prescription for anti-seizure medication.

“Does she have epilepsy?”

“In a dog of her age, it’s more likely to be a tumour.”

“You mean … a brain tumour?”

“We can’t say without an X-ray.”

He tells her an X-ray would require that Daisy undergo general anaesthetic, which poses its own risks.

“And what if it does turn out to be a tumour? Can you operate?”

“I’m sure if you look hard enough, you’ll find a vet who’s willing to operate. Personally, I wouldn’t.”

Fucking prick. Mary Rose is blanched with rage, can barely get out the words. “Because she’s a pit bull?”

He looks bemused. “Because she’s old.”

He has freckles. He is pale. Younger than she first thought. “What would you do?” she asks.

“Take her home and love her.”

She puts Daisy’s bed in the living room and closes the baby gate at the bottom of the stairs. She gets down on the floor, spoons around the dog and cups the old helmety head in her palm, feels the warm weight of it. “I’m here, Daisy,” she whispers. “I’m here.”

A Long Follow-Up

At ten-thirty on Sunday, April 7, Mary Rose MacKinnon gets off the subway and walks the underground maze to Union Station. She passes a Laura Secord candy store and pauses. Laura Secord was a Canadian farm girl who tipped off the British that the Americans were about to attack across the Niagara River in the War of 1812. Somehow she came to be synonymous with candy. Maybe that was her reward for saving the British Empire. In the window is a chocolate Scrabble game. Mary Rose hesitates, then resists buying it for her mother. She has been a crusader against Dolly’s sugar addiction, why become an enabler now? “Who gave you the candy?!”

“General Brock. His pockets were always full of it.” She buys a coffee at the Croissant Tree from a woman burdened with life-altering beauty, and waits in the stray subordinate clause of Arrivals.

She is early. She steps into a bookstore. Soon she will be able to walk into bookstores without a pang. Eventually her books will go out of print and no one will ask, “In the third one, will Kitty do this/see that …?” She buys her father a book. Payback , by Margaret Atwood. Now she has nothing for her mother.

She has left Maggie and Matt with Gigi, the three of them doting on Daisy, plying her with treats, encircling her with train tracks and towers and totems — both Elmos were going. Hilary will be home Thursday. Mary Rose needs to remember to send flowers for her opening. She needs to remember to buy eggs on the way home; they are going to decorate them for Easter. An echoey announcement darkens the fluorescent air, “Train incomprehensible from incomprehensible is now incomprehensible.”

She is here to meet her parents. She has known them all her life, what if she does not recognize them? What if they do not recognize her? Maybe she is the imposter. Maybe she really was killed in the street yesterday and she will see them but they will not see her. She will follow them frantically into the PATH all the way to the Tim Hortons, screaming unheard at their retreating backs. She looks up at the light in the ceiling high overhead and wills her vision not to constrict — tunnelling is a sign of an anxiety attack. She is not aware of feeling anxiety. Which is perhpas a sign.

Where are her parents? Their train has arrived. To lose one parent may be counted a misfortune, to lose two … The crowd balloons past her.

“Golly Moses, Mary Roses!”

“Hi, Mum.”

Hug. She dreamt it all, none of it ever happened. It was all a mid-life childhood abuse fantasy born of the desire to make sense of her own bad behaviour by pinning it on her parents. Baby Boomers, unite!

Bonk on the head. “Hi, Dad.”

“Where are the kids?!” Dolly looks around, alarmed, as if Mary Rose had only moments ago abandoned them.

“They’re home with a friend.”

“Why didn’t you bring them?”

“I’m sorry, I just … wanted to … not.”

Dolly is resplendent in leopard print beret, velour hoodie, gold bangles, an eighteen-karat Holy Mother round her neck and stretchy pants. “Oh, doll, you’re exhausted.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re not twenty-five, you know.”

“Daisy had a seizure.”

“What’s that?” says her father. Bright red peaked cap, yellow windbreaker.

“You got a new freezer?” pipes Dolly.

“No, yes, well, I want a new freezer,” says Mary Rose.

“Dunc, buy your daughter a freezer!”

“What kind do you want?” says Dunc.

“It’ll be your birthday present and your Christmas present for the next three years!” Dolly, mock fierce, slicing the air with her hand, setting her jingles to bangling.

“Better get one with a balcony in that case!” Duncan grins.

Mary Rose smiles. He looks good, good colour in his face.

“Where’s Maggie?!” says Dolly, looking around, alarmed.

“Mum, she’s home with Matt and my friend Gigi—”

“Where’s Hilary?” asks Duncan.

“I told you, Dunc,” says Dolly. “She’s in Winnipeg.”

Mary Rose says, “She’s … out west.”

“Did I tell you, I slept right through the prairies?!” exclaims Dolly.

“How’s big Matt? You got him up on skates yet?”

“Not yet, but—”

“There’s no rush, Gordie Howe didn’t own a pair of skates till he was twelve—”

“Shall we head for the Tim’s?” says Mary Rose.