day, and building docks, and painting his deck. Heâd feel guilty and lost if he wasnât doing something useful. Someday Iâm going to have a cottage at the end of a long dirt road, miles from the nearest neighbour, facing the ocean where the waves are wild and fierce in November. There wonât be a lawn, just sand dunes and rocks and seaweed. There will be walls of weathered wood and a sleeping loft, windows with wavery green glass, and rough shelves covered with treasure: dried sea urchins, razor-clam shells, blue beach glass, bouquets of wildflowers in old pickle jars.
But for now, I donât mind the sound of the lawn mowing, itâs the sound of peaceful Sundays, lilac-scented lazy Sundays. George and Elizabeth came and collected Edith half an hour ago and took her off to church. I have tea in my hand, and breakfast on a tray on the floor. Soft-boiled eggs in my favorite ceramic chicken egg cup. Toast on my favorite sky-blue plate with the goldfish swimming around the rim. Elizabeth brought it up and woke me before they left. Later Iâll get up and go down and do up all the dishes before they get back, Iâll baste the chicken and put the vegetables on and set the dining room table for dinner. Penance for pretending to be too sick to go to church with them.
I like the idea of church better than I like church. I like the dark polished wood, the dusty, lemon-polish, lily-of-the-valley-toilet-water smell. I like the coloured bars of light slanting down from the windows full of apostles, landing on the seats and the open pages of the hymnals. When I was small I got in trouble, squirming, trying to keep the bright jewels of light on my page as the sun moved slowly across the sky and dragged the coloured lights along the pew. I like to sing, depending, of course, on whether the organist plays or tortures the instrument.
What I donât like is the fact that Iâm not allowed to argue with the minister. He stands up there, in long black robes with purple silk draped round his neck, and pontificates. I looked it up: pontificate: 1a. play the pontiff; pretend to be infallible. b. be pompously dogmatic. He can say whatever the hell he wants and youâre not allowed to call him on it.
âWhoa there, Bud,â I want to stand up and say, âprove it!â I want to challenge his complacent little pronouncements. The older those guys are, the worse they are. Get them quoting St. Paul and Iâm ready to tear my hair out.
Calm down, Gwen, breathe, and inhale lilacsâthe scent of heaven, surely.
After Sunday dinner, itâs time to go back to the San. I have to be there by four oâclock, in time to get back into pyjamas and propped up in bed for inedible supper. It only takes an hour to drive there, but we have a stop to make on the way.
I havenât been there in months, not since I got sick and was thrown into the Sanatorium. They wouldnât let me in until I tested negative. I canât argue with that. From the front, it looks like a judgeâs house from the last century: fake white marble columns, sun porches along the sides, a long tree-lined drive that sweeps past the entrance and back down the hill. In behind, where theyâve built on, itâs not so pretty. In behind it looks like what it is, an institution. Patients here donât get better. Some part of what makes them human is lost: burnt, or dead, or blood-starved, or diseased, or never there in the first place. There are holes in their minds, like there are holes in my lungs.
Iâm always amazed when I look at old pictures of my mother and Aunt Edith. They were skinny young women, farm girls with square shoulders and firm jawsâbeautiful the way Katherine Hepburn was, although they didnât think so. They thought they were too tall, too thin. Nowadays they would be supermodels. In their twenties they ate like horses and burned it off, but my earliest memories of them both are soft and
But for now, I donât mind the sound of the lawn mowing, itâs the sound of peaceful Sundays, lilac-scented lazy Sundays. George and Elizabeth came and collected Edith half an hour ago and took her off to church. I have tea in my hand, and breakfast on a tray on the floor. Soft-boiled eggs in my favorite ceramic chicken egg cup. Toast on my favorite sky-blue plate with the goldfish swimming around the rim. Elizabeth brought it up and woke me before they left. Later Iâll get up and go down and do up all the dishes before they get back, Iâll baste the chicken and put the vegetables on and set the dining room table for dinner. Penance for pretending to be too sick to go to church with them.
I like the idea of church better than I like church. I like the dark polished wood, the dusty, lemon-polish, lily-of-the-valley-toilet-water smell. I like the coloured bars of light slanting down from the windows full of apostles, landing on the seats and the open pages of the hymnals. When I was small I got in trouble, squirming, trying to keep the bright jewels of light on my page as the sun moved slowly across the sky and dragged the coloured lights along the pew. I like to sing, depending, of course, on whether the organist plays or tortures the instrument.
What I donât like is the fact that Iâm not allowed to argue with the minister. He stands up there, in long black robes with purple silk draped round his neck, and pontificates. I looked it up: pontificate: 1a. play the pontiff; pretend to be infallible. b. be pompously dogmatic. He can say whatever the hell he wants and youâre not allowed to call him on it.
âWhoa there, Bud,â I want to stand up and say, âprove it!â I want to challenge his complacent little pronouncements. The older those guys are, the worse they are. Get them quoting St. Paul and Iâm ready to tear my hair out.
Calm down, Gwen, breathe, and inhale lilacsâthe scent of heaven, surely.
After Sunday dinner, itâs time to go back to the San. I have to be there by four oâclock, in time to get back into pyjamas and propped up in bed for inedible supper. It only takes an hour to drive there, but we have a stop to make on the way.
I havenât been there in months, not since I got sick and was thrown into the Sanatorium. They wouldnât let me in until I tested negative. I canât argue with that. From the front, it looks like a judgeâs house from the last century: fake white marble columns, sun porches along the sides, a long tree-lined drive that sweeps past the entrance and back down the hill. In behind, where theyâve built on, itâs not so pretty. In behind it looks like what it is, an institution. Patients here donât get better. Some part of what makes them human is lost: burnt, or dead, or blood-starved, or diseased, or never there in the first place. There are holes in their minds, like there are holes in my lungs.
Iâm always amazed when I look at old pictures of my mother and Aunt Edith. They were skinny young women, farm girls with square shoulders and firm jawsâbeautiful the way Katherine Hepburn was, although they didnât think so. They thought they were too tall, too thin. Nowadays they would be supermodels. In their twenties they ate like horses and burned it off, but my earliest memories of them both are soft and
Similar Books
