Flee, Fly, Flown Page 2

  She steps backward, sits on the bed, shifts her eyes toward the floor. A hot wave surges through me. Here is my daughter wanting to spend time with me, and I’m trying to brush her off. When did I turn into my own mother, the person I swore I wouldn’t be? That horror I always felt when Mother made it clear I didn’t matter—here I am doing the same to Carol.

  “Of course, I’ll go with you,” I tell her. I tug at my wristband. “The thing is I don’t have any money to go shopping.”

  “Mom, you don’t have to worry about money. I will pay for whatever you need and get it later from your bank account. Remember?”

  “I don’t want you to pay. I want my own money. I’m not a child.”

  “It’s the same thing. It is your money. It’s just that you can’t keep cash here. We keep it in the bank so it doesn’t get lost or stolen. We’ve gone over this so many times.”

  “Have we?” I say.

  Carol softens. “I’m sorry. Let’s start over. Will you come shopping with me?”

  I open my closet and pull a purse down from the top shelf. It’s empty. I slide open a drawer and choose a pen, a small notepad, some tissues, and lipstick, tuck them into the purse, and snap it shut. I slip in a chocolate bar from the stash I keep hidden too, just in case we get hungry.

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  The elevator beeps and refuses to move.

  “You need the secret code,” I say.

  Carol ducks out, speaks to a uniform and returns quickly. “You’re right, we need a code,” she says as she punches in the numbers, discreetly shielding them with the palm of her hand.

  “Don’t worry,” I assure her, “I wouldn’t remember

  it anyway.”

  She puts her arm around my shoulder. “What should we do first? Do you want to look at shoes before you get too tired?”

  “Sure.”

  Carol had parked the rental car in the loading zone just outside the door. As we drive away, I think about the plan that Audrey and I have been forming. What type of shoes would be best for wearing on our vacation? “Could I get running shoes?” I ask.

  “Running shoes! Why would you want those?”

  “Sometimes we do exercises. I’ve been thinking that they would be better for walking around the halls too—you know—give me support.”

  Carol laughs. “Okay, if that’s what you want, we’ll look for running shoes but not ones with too much tread. They might stick to the carpet, and you know falls can be very dangerous at your age. Your bones are brittle.”

  Hah! We’re off to a good start. We drive through the downtown. I watch as buildings whiz past, trying my best to take in all the storefronts, amazed at never having been on this main street before. We pass a large bank that looks vaguely familiar.

  “Is that my bank?” I ask.

  “No, Mom. You always dealt with People’s Bank. It’s near here though.”

  “Can we drive by it?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

  I dig in my purse and pull out the pen and notepad.

  I scratch the words People’s Bank on the first page and wait.

  “What are you writing?” Carol asks.

  “Just jotting down a few notes, Dear. I find it useful to write things down. My memory’s not that good these days.”

  Carol turns right and eases down the busy street. “There’s the bank you always dealt with. Remember?”

  I look out the window, then back to my pen and paper. “What street is this?”

  “Albert Street. That should be easy to remember—Dad’s name.”

  “Bless his soul. Is it really Albert Street?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good.” I write down Albert Street. “And do I still have an account there?”

  “Yes Mom, we didn’t change it. We do all your banking online now, so it doesn’t really matter where the physical bank is.”

  I bite my lip. “I’m going to need some money. Can we go in and get some?” I look directly at Carol and watch as her eyes make a slight rolling motion before she catches herself.

  “Okay. Sure, we’ll go in and you can take out twenty dollars. You’re right. You should be able to carry some money with you.”

  Inside, Carol pulls out a card with the bank name and some numbers on it and shows it to me. “You should have one of these in your wallet. Did you bring it?”

  I don’t recognize it at all.

  “You need it to access your account.” Carol swipes the card and taps in some numbers. “Your password is your birthday, February 26. 0-2-2-6. There you go, now tell the woman what you want.”

  “I’ll take five hundred dollars please,” I say.

  The teller’s eyes shift focus to where Carol is standing just behind me, and then she nods slightly.

  “I can only give you twenty dollars right now, Mrs. Gorsen. Is that okay?”

  “Well, I haven’t been shopping in quite some time but it seems to me I’ll have a hard time finding shoes for under twenty dollars. Wouldn’t you agree, Carol?” I ask, turning to see her expression.

  “Maybe fifty would be better,” she says, nodding to

  the teller.

  “Fine, fine,” I say, rubbing the bills between my thumb and forefinger and tucking them into my purse. “Thank you, Dear.”

  Just inside the air-conditioned mall, Carol gets a squirmy look on her face, like she wants to ask me something but knows she shouldn’t.

  “What is it, Dear?”

  “They have wheelchairs here for customers’ use. Do you want me to get one? It’s a long walk from one end to the other.”

  “Well,” I say, “I’m not sure I can push you all that way, but you can get one if you like.”

  She laughs. “Touché.”

  The shoe store clerk is very indifferent, interested only in flirting with two young boys who are skulking around near the ball cap display.

  “Barbara,” I call to the girl. “Barbara.” The clerk continues to ignore me.

  “Who are you talking to?” Carol asks.

  “The salesgirl. It’s Barbara. You know—my friend Trudy’s daughter.”

  Carol shakes her head. “No, Mom. Barbara’s much older now, older than me. That’s not Barbara.”

  “Yes it is. Why must you always try to correct me?”

  I wave my arm in the air to get the girl’s attention.

  She finally tears herself away from her admirers and strolls over to help us. “Can I find a size for you?”

  “Yes. I’d like to try that shoe,” I say, pointing at a colorful running shoe on the shelf. “I take a size eight, Barbara.”

  The girl shoots me a puzzled look and returns a few minutes later with a box, drops it on the chair beside me, and turns her attention back to the boys. Carol helps me lace the shoes.

  “She’s become quite rude,” I say loudly to Carol, not caring if the girl hears. “Trudy would tan her hide if she saw the way she’s acting.”

  I walk around the store, head down, admiring the blue and yellow firmness and support. “I like these. They make me feel young. I want these.”

  Carol waits in line to pay. On the wall, I spy backpacks.

  “Carol, I believe I need a bag too.”

  She steps out of line and sits down beside me. “What could you possibly need a backpack for?” she asks. Her voice is now ever-so-slightly edged with impatience.

  “Because I’ve never had one, and I want one.”

  “But why? Why would you want one?”

  I raise my eyebrows and say nothing.

  Carol walks toward the bags. “Which one do you like?”

  I point to a small, navy pack with peacock blue pockets and zippers. She plucks it from the display and pays for it along with the shoes. I grin. I can’t
help myself. I’m very pleased with having thought of it. It will surely come in handy on our vacation.

  We shop a bit longer, then leave the mall and drive back into the city to a restaurant in Byward Market Square. Carol reminds me we used to meet here for lunch. It’s now a bistro, she points out, run by a co-operative. Young and middle-aged folks talk on cell phones or read laptop screens, anything, it seems, except talk to one another. The menu, chalked on the wall in pink, yellow, green, and blue, lists mostly items that

  I don’t recognize, though Carol is kind enough to explain that they’re made with healthy grains and berries, fruit and cheese from places I’ve never been.

  “I’ll just have a bowl of soup,” I say.

  I take out my notebook and add shoes and backpack right below the name of the bank. And money. I write that too.

  We order cups of something called fair-trade, organic coffee and carry them outside to sit in the shade of a small maple tree.

  “Mom, how are you? How are things at Tranquil Meadows?”

  How am I? How are things? I’ve never really stopped to consider these questions, or at least not to answer them out loud. “It’s fine there, I guess. They’re good to me most of the time….”

  Carol’s expression is much softer than I usually picture it. She looks like she’s trying to understand.

  “I’m lonely,” I admit. “I miss you and your brother and my friends. I wish Albert was still with us. And everything is timed, you know, like a timetable. I eat when they tell me, sleep when they tell me, play bingo when they tell me. Jeez, I even have a poop when they tell me. I could never poop on demand before. I don’t know why I have to start now. And my back hurts all the time.”

  “You’re being a good sport about all of this. I know it’s not what you and Dad would choose, if he were still alive. I wish I lived closer and could visit you more, but I really have to be in Toronto with my job right now. At least I know you’re being well cared for.”

  Back to the same thing she always says. I know it and so does she.

  “It’s okay. I know you and Tom were thinking of my well-being when you put me in The Home.” Sometimes it’s hard to resist playing the martyr card.

  “It sounds awful when you call it The Home,” Carol says, “like we’ve committed you to a locked psych ward from some bygone era.”

  I empty my cup. “Delicious coffee,” I say. “Now, you should take me back to The Home so you can be on your way. We’ve had a good day.”

  At supper, Audrey looks relieved to see me. “Where did you go?” she asks.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to tell you. Carol came and took me shopping. Did you go to the craft class?”

  Audrey nods. “It was good. We made things with dried-out weeds and glue.”

  I touch her hand and spot the white and blue bracelet still wrapped securely around her wrist, just under the cuff of her shirt.

  Days blur together. I suffocate beneath a heavy woolen canopy suspended too close to my face. The invisible shroud makes it hard to breathe. I stay in bed. People come and go. They try to convince me to get up, to eat something, to have a bath. I don’t know who they are and tell them all to go to hell. But they won’t. They just keep coming.

  My mother is here and my granny. At first, Mother is apologetic for missing the interview she set up with my teacher, for forgetting the gift for my friend Helen’s birthday party, but it doesn’t take long till she starts to ignore me, talking to Gran as if I’m not here and going on about that stupid man she married after Dad died. He doesn’t come. Just as well. He’s a nasty waste of space.

  Albert sits on my bed and stays for a long time, though everyone else ignores him. I tell him I love him, then I hit him and tell him to leave. It’s his fault that I’m in this awful place. We should be together. It’s not fair that I am here alone and he is at home in his recliner, reading the paper and doing the crossword and visiting the kids without me. Damn it!

  I say goodnight to him every night before I go to sleep. He isn’t here, but I know he can hear me.

  I get up to use the bathroom, but when I do, the lady in the next bed pounds on the door and tells me to get out—that she needs to go. After that, I just pee the bed.

  It’s morning. Laughter outside my room and a uniform’s cold hand on my arm wake me to a sense of overwhelming hunger. In my closet, I find a new pair of running shoes and a pretty blue backpack. I close the door, then open it and look again. These are my shirts and pants. This is my room, my quilt. I dress and try on the shoes—a perfect fit. I tie them and walk down the hall in search of the dining room.

  “How are you feeling today, Lillian?” someone asks as

  I pass by the desk.

  “I’m fine, Dear.”

  She smiles. “I can see that.”

  She says something quietly to the other girl behind the desk, and the two of them laugh.

  “I’m sorry. Did you say something, Dear?” I ask.

  “No, just glad you’re feeling better. You had a couple of rough days. It’s good to have you back.”

  My doctor has told me I’ll have good days and bad, and I know he’s right. People tell me stories about things I say and do; things I don’t remember at all. I don’t always believe them. I call these my fog days. I try to let them go. Thinking about them too much makes my stomach and head hurt.

  I take my seat at the table, happy to join Eleanor, the little girl, and Audrey for breakfast. They show no signs of missing me.

  “What are we doing today?” I ask. “Does anyone know?”

  Eleanor delivers a flurry of beautiful phrases followed by a smile. The frizzy-haired girl giggles, and Audrey, between bites of toast, suggests in a hushed voice that today would be a good day to ditch the fancy watches.

  She mimes a driver, arms steering wildly out in front, stopping to lean on the horn in the center of the imaginary steering wheel. “Vacation?” she hints.

  3

  “Aaah.” I wink at Audrey and wave to the coach standing in the doorway. I call her Coach because she’s forever trying to get us to play, to be a team, to mingle. Also, I can’t remember her name.

  I pretend to be interested in the plan for the day. “What are we making today? I hope it’s something kinky with paper and glue and scissors. I feel very creative this morning.”

  She laughs. I can tell she likes me. She always makes a special effort to include me, even though, I have to admit, I’m not very cooperative when it comes to being herded around in a group, doing what everyone else is doing.

  “Well, my friend Lillian, we could make centerpieces for the birthday party next week. How does that sound?”

  “Perfect. Audrey wants to help too.”

  The woman narrows her eyes and cocks her head playfully. “What are you two up to?”

  “Nothing, we’re just looking for something to fill our time,” I say, blushing and trying to cover it by wiping my mouth with my napkin.

  “Okay. I’ll be back at ten to take you downstairs and we’ll create magnificent table decorations. See you then.”

  I wander back in search of my room. There’s a wonderful spring in each step with my new shoes. In the elevator, on our way to the activity room, the alarm chimes before the uniform enters the code, then we drop to the floor below.

  The coach—is it Kathy, Karen, Sharon?—has gathered a hodgepodge of ribbon and flowers and decorating bits. In the middle of the table sits a bottle of glue and a colossal pair of scissors.

  “Well, ladies, you can get started with what’s here, and if you need anything else, just give me a shout. I’ll be doing some paperwork at that table,” she says, pointing across the room.

  “Thank you, Dear,” I say. “We’ll see what we can do.”

  We set to work, poking stems into the sponges and setting
them in the pots. I pick up the scissors and snip a piece of ribbon from the roll. Sharp! Excellent! I reach for Audrey’s hand, carefully slip one blade under the band and squeeze. The SafeChip falls quietly onto the table. My pulse speeds up.

  I hand the scissors to Audrey and hold out my arm. Snip. I drop the bracelet into my pocket and direct Audrey to do the same, then tug at my sleeve to be sure it extends fully over my wrist.

  We finish the centerpieces, careful to use all the flowers and ribbon, then sit back to admire our handiwork. I used to do these sorts of things with my Aunt Fraise when I was younger. She always tried to keep me busy making something. She was good at it too. She taught me how to embroider and crochet. She even bought me the wool and helped me make an afghan for my sister. She loved it. Come to think of it, Fraise was probably the one who made that green and purple blanket on my bed!

  “All done?” Coach asks.

  “Yep. How do they look?”

  “Lovely. Thank you for your help. I may just put you two in charge of table decorations every month now that I see how talented you are.”

  Back in the elevator with our chaperone, the alarm begins to chime. Audrey reaches for her wrist, a confused look on her face.

  I pat her pocket and lock eyes with her. “Shh,” I say.

  “What’s that Lillian?” the woman asks as she punches in the code. “Did you say something?”

  I shake my head and look innocent.

  Back on the floor, I gesture for Audrey to follow me.

  I show her the backpack. “Isn’t it great? Look at all the zippers. Do you have a bag to put your things in for our trip?” I ask.

  “It’s at home. I’m not sure where though; maybe in the attic.” Audrey says. “Have you thought about where we should go?”

  “What if we just go nowhere in particular—just go?”

  “Sounds risky,” Audrey says.

  “Now you’re talking! We’re in it for the adventure, right? It doesn’t really matter as long as we go somewhere.”

  I find my notebook and search for the list. At the bottom, I add wristbands gone. “We’re doing great!” I say. “We have car keys,” I add that to the list. “New shoes and a backpack for me, a big purse for you, some money, the address of my bank so we can get more money, and the wristbands are gone. It’s coming together.”