Losing It - Softcover

Alan Cumyn worked for eight years for the Canadian Immigration and Refugee Board, writing on international human rights issues. He taught in the People's Republic of China and in Indonesia, and ran a group home in Toronto. He lives in Ottawa, and Losing It is his first book to be published in the United States.

  1“You aren’t going to throw that out,” Lenore said, standing straight to stop it once and for all, this dreadful boxing business. She plucked the thing out, turned it around in her hands.“What is it?” Julia asked. Sharply. Just like a daughter to know exactly how to say things to make it difficult, Lenore thought. Julia had been doing this all her life. Lenore remembered clearly: she never cleaned up. Always gave a hard time over food, clothes, whatever. This Lenore remembered.“What is it?” Julia asked again. Lenore turned it around and around. It had a lever and holes in the side. Everybody knew what it was.“It’s a whatsit,” Lenore said quickly. “You know what it is.”“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Julia said, too patient this time. That too was always a problem with Julia.“You know what it is,” Lenore muttered, turning it around. “It’s for things.”“For things, Mother?” That tone again. Words wouldn’t form properly. That’s why she was using it. She always wanted to take over, wear her shoes, her lipstick, her earrings. Now this.“If we don’t know what it is, it’s going out,” Julia said. “You’ve had weeks to pack.” Just the way she said it. “We only have a few hours left. It’s time for hard decisions. There isn’t much room in the new place.”“Ricer!” Lenore said suddenly, moving the lever up and down.“A ricer?” Julia said. “For ricing potatoes?”“Yes!” Lenore said in triumph.“Well, you won’t need that at Fallowfields. Meals are provided. Honestly, Mom, I’ve never seen you rice potatoes, and I’ve been around since 1969.”The ricer went in the Fallowfields box. A small victory. Everything else was going. Lenore knew which boxes to look for. Julia had written “S.A.” on them in green Magic Marker — Salvation Army. Lenore pulled out a faded dusty thing, green and white, read the side: it was a “cooky” press made of “micro-alumilite — electro-hardened aluminum.” She pulled out her cheesecake-recipe book and her whatsit plates, which Julia said she had never used but which Lenore could remember using. When was it? It wasn’t that long ago. Trevor was there and her brother and June and their kids. What were their names? Faces she was very clear on. In a way, anyway — she could remember some faces. But her brother’s kids? They were just little then. The little ones. Before the one of them got big and killed himself. That was a disaster. On a motorcycle.“When did you use the oyster plates?” Julia asked. Lenore looked at her, startled.Lenore asked, “Who was it who died on the motorcycle?”Julia said, “What?” That tone of voice.“On the motorcycle,” she repeated.“That was Tommy,” Julia said, boxing like a tornado. The blue china teacups and saucers. The English cutlery. The lace table flats. And all of her towels. Boxes and boxes of them. “Tommy died on the motorcycle,” Julia said. “It must have been twenty years ago. Did you use the oyster plates then?”“What oyster plates?” Lenore asked.She wandered into the living room. Everything down from the walls now. So dizzy. There were strange shadows around the spots. Julia had packed most of the pictures, but on the flat thing an old one was lying out. Lenore read the print near the bottom: “On the way home — off the track — Capt. Buzbie would like very much to know where they are.” Captain Buzbie with his fur hat, driving his sleigh. And what’s-her-name beside him. So pretty. Another beneath this one: “Capt. Buzbie drives Miss Muffin.” Lenore strained through her glasses to read the scratch on the back: “During WWI I was convalescing at Dieppe — in the Hotel Bretagne I saw these 2 old Canadian prints. After prolonged bargaining with the hotel owner, who thought they were paintings, I obtained them. I showed them to an expert in London who told me they were of a set of 6 and very very well worthwhile.” A shivering signature. Someone related to Trevor? Where did they get Capt. Buzbie?On to the card drawer. Good thing Lenore was here. Just throw it out. That was Julia’s solution. What about the bridge pads? We They We They. Felt covers with old Chinamen. You never see those any more. And on the shelf, two of Daddy’s duck decoys, a red crystal pheasant, and a Chinese rooster. In the bottom of the drawer, almost hidden, was an old picture-paper. Lenore opened it to a peachy-cheek: “Checked undergrads: a dream of a team for intra-mural and extra-curricular activities. Sweet and neat checks in all wool.”“Mother!” Julia called from the other room and Lenore looked up, shocked. Julia marched in like a two-year-old. She was going to say something, going to announce it. But then just like that the breath went out of her like a mudbath, and then the weird little noise. The what am I going to do? noise.Trevor had a saying for this sort of thing, Lenore thought. But, of course, he was never there when you needed him.
 
 “I don’t see why there’s all this rush all of a sudden,” Lenore said bitterly in the new place. It smelled like that, a new place, all ... smelly and such. Total confusion. First everything was going into boxes then there was such a mess and the boxes were going here and there and nothing was left in her house. What was she supposed to do with nothing left?“We’re not rushing all of a sudden,” Julia said.That jaw working up and down, and that strange look, as if Lenore had walked out of the change place without any clothes on in the middle of Pullman’s. She remembered Julia holding her leg up one aisle and down the next. Up and down! All for that toy. That talking whatever.“Well, I was living just fine, thank you very much!” Lenore said. Boxes going here and there. The smell was wretched. This new place. Like living in a hotel. Corridors and stink and wretched, ugly carpets. And old people, everywhere, wrecks.“The house has been sold,” Julia said, too tiptoe. She patted the bed, like it was, what? “Won’t it be great never to have to cook another meal?” Like a piece of copper. “You know how much you hated cooking. And there’ll be new people to meet ...”“Well, I’m not going to live here!” Lenore said. She stamped her foot and sat down hard on a box in the little space between her bed and her sofa in this silly thing they were trying to call her room. “I don’t see why there’s all this rush!” she said. Slowly, clearly, with no mistakes at all. “It’s all just ... a rush!”“We sold the house, Mom,” Julia said. Up and down. A little toy. Holding on to her leg like that, making such a scene. Lenore should never have given in. This is what happens. “The cleaners are finishing up, painters will be there tomorrow, and the new family moves in next week.”“I’ve never heard such broken eggs! Why did no one consult me?”“We did, Mom. We’ve been over this again and again. We sold the house – you remember that. I wish I could take care of you but it’s just becoming too difficult.” Julia was back to patting the bed again, as if soothing a pet. “We can’t give you the care that you need. Alex is in Calgary, he has his own life. And I have Matthew now; you know how demanding a baby is. I know you know that! You need people who can be here for you all the time. I’ll be here some of the time, of course I will. But you have to trust –”Lenore got up, sat down on another box, got up, put her hands over her ears, sat down, then got up again. Nothing was right, nothing! And why? All because of a stupid mistake with onions. Well, she was sorry. She’d never do it again. Never. So let’s stop all this nonsense.“Could you sit still, please?” Julia asked. Such a whiny little voice. About to cry. Well, let her. She wants to be a spoiled brat. Holding on to her leg. Up and down. Rotten behaviour. Trevor wanted pot roast for dinner, hated it being late.A man came in then, a huge man. He startled Lenore so badly she lurched back and nearly toppled out of the window. What kind of place was this, they just leave it open so anyone could throw you out? They wanted the money. That was why. Lenore turned and the man was right there, lifting one of her boxes.“Who’s that?” Lenore demanded. A huge man, grunting, a shaggy black bear with grey hair at the temples.That look on Julia’s face again, as if horrors were upon them.“Well?” Lenore said.“It’s Bob,” Julia said. “My husband. Your son-in-law. Bob!”“Hi, Lenore,” the man said. “I know this is upsetting. How are you feeling?”A huge man, sweating big. She’d never seen him before in her life. He lifted a box, moved it from here to there, then put it down.“There’s still the dresser,” he said.“That’s not Bob!” Lenore snorted. They were shifting everything when she knew it all before. Perfectly!“Of course it’s Bob,” Julia said. “Just take a deep breath. Relax.”“It isn’t Bob,” Lenore said softly. If Julia could be quiet, so could she. “I’m sorry about the onion. It wasn’t my fault!”“Of course it’s Bob!” Julia said. “And what is all this about an onion?”“This man is Bob?”“Yes!” He was standing there like a labourer, sweating on the carpet.“Well, what does he do?” Lenore asked.“He’s a university professor,” Julia said. Talking for him. Because he wasn’t Bob.Her little girl, that puffing-up face.“I think you’re making this up,” Lenore said.“Who gave us the gold-trimmed placemats with the rose patterns?” Julia asked.Lenore laughed nervously. It was all a stupid, smelly dream. If she just waited it out then everything would be marigolds again.“The gold-trimmed placemats,” Julia pressed. “You organized our wedding. You used to know exactly who gave each of our wedding presents. You can remember this.”“The Houghtons.”“Yes!” Julia said, hugging her. “You see? It’s all in there still, you just have to access it!”“Can I go home now?” Lenore asked.
 
 There was one time, Lenore remembered – in a wispy way, for the most part, though it came in strong as nails sometimes – they were driving in a snowstorm. Trevor, of course, was at the wheel. Driving and smoking, his brow creased in concentration. Outside, snow – the blinding white against the black of night. There was a bridge party, with ... with what’s-their-names. Who had the little boy who committed suicide. And that was before what’s-his-name – the man – went off with that young woman from his office. It was before all that. Trevor would have nothing to do with him after, and Babs – that was her name. Babs and Dougie. Babs fell apart. It was before all that. It was just bridge and everything was happy.Except for the snow. Trevor smoking, worrying, peering out the windshield of their old car. It was new then. The wipers went whap! whap! furiously clearing the snow, but new blurriness always returned right away. Whap! Whap! Lenore could tell Trevor was getting a headache. The tires were spinning. The new car was clumsy in the snow. It was so heavy, the backside slid around.“Why didn’t you put on the snow tires?” Lenore asked and Trevor gave her his King-of-the-Castle look. He was King-of-the-Castle anyway. He didn’t have to give her that look. Smoking and peering, the tires spinning, everything vague in black and white.“For God’s sake!” Trevor said everything sharply. “I just wanted to play some bridge!”This was what it was like in the new place. Lenore wandered around peering, but it felt like snow and gloom behind a windshield. I’m ready to go home now, she thought. Sitting on a box with the telephone on her lap. Sitting in her slip with a sweater on and the blackness pressed hard against the windows. She called up Julia and told her about the bridge, about the snowstorm with Babs and Dougie. Then Julia wasn’t there, it took the longest time to figure out – some problem with the phone. But nothing seemed quite right these days anyway. So Lenore punched in the numbers again. One after another. It was better if she didn’t think of them. That was the funny thing. As soon as she thought straight at the numbers they went away.It rang and rang and rang. Then – Trevor! But she didn’t want to talk to him, not now. She asked him, very politely, if she could speak to Julia.“Who?” he said, but in an odd way.“Why won’t you let me speak to her?” Lenore said. Then she added, “I am sorry about the onions. I won’t do it again!”He hung up. Drunk! Lenore, punched the numbers again immediately. Just with her fingers. It rang and rang and rang again.“Uhn-hn!” said a woman. Then, “Yes? Hello?”“Julia?” Lenore said.“No,” said the voice. Then louder: “NO. Wrong number! God, what time is it?”“But that’s not possible,” Lenore said. She was trembling.“There’s no Julia here. I’m sorry,” said the voice. But she didn’t go away. Lenore said, “Well, could you give me her number?”“Who is it you’re calling?”“I told you. Julia!” Lenore said.Nothing. The phone was working badly. Lenore tried again. “We’re not in right now,” a voice said. “But we’d like very much to respond to your call. So please leave a message after the tone.”Lenore waited, then said, “Why won’t you talk to me? I want to go home! Why can’t you understand that? Has everybody gone nutmeg here?” Lenore cried for a bit, then talked some more, but no one replied.As soon as she put down the receiver it rang, a huge jangle that made her leg jump. She snapped up the phone.“Julia?” she cried.“Who have you been talking to?”“Well,” Lenore said, “you’re not the only one in the world who has friends.”“Friends?” Julia said.“Yes,” Lenore said, proudly. The box was starting to dig into her back. Why couldn’t they give her some decent furniture? “I’m meeting lots of new friends,” she said. “Lots and lots.” She added, “Ever so many!” but Julia couldn’t keep up her end. “Are you there?” Lenore asked finally.Julia yawned and said sleepily, “Oh, I’m sorry! I had an itchy nose.”“Well,” Lenore said, “that means you’re going to kiss a fool!”“Does it?” Julia said absently. Then, “It’s time for bed, Mother. Time for sleep,” so gently, with so much tucked wool, it reminded Lenore of something, she could almost put her finger on it.LOSING IT. Copyright © 2001 by Alan Cumyn. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.