When I finally did return to Vancouver, after almost a decade's moratorium, it was June, 2007. I remember the weather being dull and grey, and only about 14C at around noon. Mother was at the oncologist's with my younger sister when I arrived, so when the cab dropped me off out front, I let myself in to the two bedroom ground floor basement suite at the Kitsilano house that had become the maternal family 'home base' for the last 20 odd years, stowed my suit cases in the small front bedroom just inside the door, and went upstairs to see Gramma.
In many ways she was a larger than life figure. The family matriarch, she had led a storied life, and could weave a good yarn, whether recounting her days growing up poor, to mis-matched immigrant parents on a failing patch of farm land on a Fraser river slough in Ladner, working as a servant for a cruel, rich Vancouver English family as a teenager in the mid- 1920's, or recounting her 'flapper' days in golden-age Hollywood, at the beginning of the Great Depression (before she met my Grandpa, and he "ruined her life"), her stories were always fascinating, and often hilarious. The woman was a legend, who had seen it all. As I creaked open the door at the top of the stairs, she was sitting in her kitchen at the old red arborite counter in front of the window, over looking the perfectly manicured, lush green lawn of her backyard, listening to talk shows on a crackling 40 year old radio, and sipping at a cup of her awful old lady coffee. At 97, and after an absence of almost 9 years, I was initially amazed at how little she had changed since I first walked in the doors of that place as a toddler, in the late 60's. She was a broad shouldered, tall woman, with an imposing frame and big hands...which she attributed to her mix of English and Scandinavian blood. A few more liver spots than I remembered. Though her white hair was more obviously thinning, it was still there, and she worse it in the same style as she always had, in hairpins, and pulled back into a kind of bob...the way it had been in for 50 years, I'm sure. She was wearing a variation of what she had always worn around the house...darned nylon stockings, brown polyester slacks, running shoes, a long-sleeved, men's style button up shirt, tied off at the waist, and an apron prominently featuring a faded and well worn print of R2-D2 and C-3PO that she had fashioned back in the 80's from a frayed Star Wars towel that she had picked up from the Sally Ann, or a rubbish heap somewhere. Back in the day, she thought this was 'cool'...and would earn her points and sway with us kids. Being the utilitarian that she was, I guess that it had stood the test of time, and it became her trademark. She smiled broadly behind her big 'picture window' glasses, and moved to get out of her chair. For some reason she had always reminded me of Big Bird, from Sesame Street.
"Why, Shaun...what a surprise!"
As I hugged her, I could suddenly feel what was less obvious to see...that the frailty of age had finally taken hold. I was a bit surprised...I'm not sure why. Most people don't live to be 97, and those that do are rarely sitting in their kitchens sipping awful old lady coffee, and still powering about under their own steam like Gramma was. Maybe it had something to do with that house...or the fact that my Mum had ended up stranded there, and a stay that was supposed to be of less than a year back in 1983, at that point had translated into nearly a quarter century.
For Mum, it had become a trap....but having Mum there had proved to be a saving grace for Gramma, and Mother's elder siblings, the wicked Aunt and Uncle, used this to their absolute advantage. They could go about their lives unmolested, and Gramma wouldn't need their attentions, (or any more than a very minimal commitment of their precious time or effort) a paid helper, or at worst, a spot at an expensive senior's home, as long as Mum could be kept from moving. Stability is important for old people. Stable living environments, relationships...and predictable routines. You see, the elderly really start to lose it when their life's circumstances change. When a spouse dies. When they are taken from the place that they know best and are most familiar with. The longer Mum stayed there, the more helpless she became. After she stopped working in her early 50's, and with too much time on her hands, she got deeper into her drink, and gradually less capable of wresting back any semblance of control over her life. That she was stuck there meant everything to her elder siblings, because Gramma had her minder, never mind that she was steadily unravelling.
I told Gramma to please sit, and before I could make an excuse to refuse, she fumbled to get another cup from her small kitchen pantry, and started to pour me a cup of that nasty, dishwater coffee that she loved so much. I noticed a tremor in her weathered hands that hadn't been there before. It started to dawn on me exactly how long I had been gone, avoiding the situation, playing buggered up rock star in my own downward spiral back in Nagoya. I had missed a lot, and yet, in that house, time seemed to have stopped sometime just after the war, in the late 1940's. It was like a hermetic chamber, where things never changed. My Father once remarked that it was like walking into a time warp.
"Stand up...turn around...let's have a look at you. It looks like you've put on some weight, Shawnigans. That Jap food must be agreeing with you".
I rolled my eyes. Old as dirt...but sharp as a tack. She didn't miss a beat. In fact, I had gained a considerable amount of weight since re-marrying a few years earlier. In short...I got fat. My struggle with substances and chronic depression hadn't helped matters much, either, and I bounced from one anti-depressant to the next, in an attempt to reclaim some semblance of balance in a world that gone on a seemingly permanent tilt.. The result was that I had probably put on close to 20 kg, and lived in an enormously unsatisfying emotional grey zone, in which I was neither ever really happy, or sad. At any other time, her very blunt observations would have triggered a heated discussion about 'body shaming' and the inappropriate use of the term 'Jap', but I just shrugged it off. Perhaps whatever I was taking at that point had just blunted any ability for me to get excited about anything at all.
"...and how about your new wife? Your Mother said that you had re-married over there. I guess she's feeding you well enough, by the looks of you, you aren't starving, anyways. You always did love rice as a kid. You looked just like a little Eskimo baby. We thought someone had swapped bundles in the maternity ward, and we had got a little Eskimo papoose by accident. Are we going to get a chance to see her...?" Gramma liked to recite the same old anecdotes and stories, and the rice loving Eskimo baby one was definitely a well worn nugget, but I was angling to find a way to broach the topic of Mum's condition.
" My wife...you'll love her. Her name is Mina. She'll be here next week, so you'll meet her. Have you spoken to Mum, Gramma?"
"Well, you know your Mother, Shaun. She's a difficult kind of person. Miserable as the dickens. She comes and goes...I see her pulling out in that red car of hers, and she's gone. Probably to the damn liquor store for more wine, or off to Shopper's Drug Mart for those damned cigarettes. Sometimes she's out with those two cats of hers. I poke my head out the door to say "good morning", and she just barks, "What's good about it?!?", and goes back in her kitchen, slamming the door behind her. Miserable individual."
"So....you haven't heard anything? You don't know what's going on?"
"Oh, no. She can't be cordial. I call downstairs and she pretends she doesn't hear me. I don't know what's wrong with her Shaun. Honest to God, that wine must have eaten up her brain."
Apparently this had been going on for the better part of three years at that point, triggered by some trivial family dust up that I can't even remember the details of. Mum was a grudger...and once she got someone in her cross-hairs, that was it. As my wife would say, "she pulled the shutter down, locked it, and threw the key in the river" Friend or family, it seemed to make no difference. She had done the same with my younger brother some years before, during my prolonged absence. Apparently another alcohol fueled dust-up in which she couldn't keep her corrosive opinions to herself. Her relationship with my sister was an on and off affair, punctuated by long periods of estrangement. She had a knack for pushing people away. I decided to cut to the chase.
"Well, you know, there's some bad news, Gramma. She called me long-distance...she'd been sick, coughing. We thought it was bronchitis, or something, and she finally drove herself to the doctor. They ran some tests, and when she called me back, she was in a state. I guess she hadn't been speaking to AJ, either, and she didn't want me to say anything, for some reason. Made me promise to keep my mouth shut. I gather that they weren't talking, or something. She has cancer. I mean... apparently it's bad, and she needs more tests, but there's not much they can do. I can't believe that she hasn't told you."
Gramma kind of looked away, her gaze drifting out the window, across the lawn, to the small open gravel single car space, where Mum parked her shitty little red compact.
"You know what a difficult person she is, Shaun. Been that way ever since she was a young girl. Why, as a kid, she'd stand right here in the middle of the kitchen floor, and scream and scream...then she'd hold her breath until her face turned blue and purple when she couldn't get her way...I thought she'd pass out, and I'd have to go next door and get blind old Mrs. Hodgins..."
"Gramma. It's serious. The doctors drained a bunch of fluid off of her lungs. A.J. took the morning off of work to take her to the oncologist. It's not looking good."
Gramma wasn't hearing this. It seems that she had tuned it out. She was shuffling dishes off of the counter to the pantry sink, and wrapping the uneaten bread in plastic.
"Well, I don't know about any of that. She doesn't tell me nothing. Can't even be bothered to come upstairs for a cup of coffee, or to say "hello". Funny kind of person, your Mother..."
I sighed deeply, and realized that this wasn't sinking in. Gramma wasn't having it. What to do? Maybe later? I did my best to get that awful old lady coffee down, and took my cup to the pantry sink.
"Just put it on the counter Shaun. Where is your Mother? Doesn't she know that you're here? I saw her going out with your sister earlier this morning, but of course she doesn't tell me nothin." I leaned against the old, red arborite counter by the window, as Gramma started washing the few cups and dishes, as if nothing was amiss. I eyed the clock above the fridge on the kitchen wall. They were bound to be back soon, and I was starting to feel a bit anxious. I don't know if it was the coffee (it never agrees with me), or the lack of sleep, but it wouldn't play well if she rolled in, dying, and I was up hobnobbing with her mortal enemy.
"I guess she's at the doctor's getting some tests, Gramma. I'm soooo tired. It's a long trip out from Nagoya, and I didn't sleep much on the plane, with all this worry. You know, it's the middle of the night back in Japan. She's bound to be back soon, and I want to be downstairs waiting for her when they get back. It's so great to see you. I'll be up again a bit later..."
At that, I grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her cheek. She scrunched up her face, pecked me on the cheek in return, and hugged me back.
"Well, I hope so. You'd better beat it downstairs before she gets back, or she'll be damned good and mad that you're up here. You know how she gets. It was the same when you were a kid. You know, I've always considered you as more like one of my own. You were always such a nice little boy. Get some rest, you're looking tired. I'm going to go have a lie down in the living room. Old Gramma loves you"
"I love you, too, Gramma. You know that. I'll be back up when there's a pause in the action. I have no idea what to expect"
At that, she suddenly turned, jabbed one of her long boney fingers out, and started waving it.
"You know, Shaun, I told her about that damned smoking. No damned good. Are you still smoking those darn things, too? No darned good for your health...and a waste of money, burning your hard earned dollars up under your nose. It'll make you sick, that's for damn sure..." Maybe she had heard what I said? It was hard to tell.
With that, I thanked her for the coffee, and made my way down the narrow, creaking, steep red wooden staircase to the first floor suite. I pushed the sliding wooden panel divider aside. and was in the narrow hallway of Mum's suite.
I needed a bloody cigarette. I opened the flimsy kitchen door, and stepped out into the chill breeze. It was fucking June, and back in Nagoya, it was warm, and already the beginning of rainy season. I zipped up my black Dickies wind breaker, and shuddered. I could see my fucking breath. I hadn't anticipated that it would be so cold. It felt like March in Japan.
No sooner had I lit my cigarette, and sat on the lower stairs going up to Gramma's kitchen door back porch, than the buzzing lawnmower sound of Mum's car engine and the crushing of gravel on the corner of the alley signaled her imminent arrival. Holy shit. What was coming? The mix of feelings that I felt at that moment are hard to nail down. I knew one thing, for sure. I had only been there for an hour, and I was already feeling stuck in the middle. Again.
(to be continued...)
