Circle of Stones (3 page)

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe they'll leave them,” I say.

Charles turns away and dabs his nose vigorously with a handkerchief. He stares at the beach. I shiver and wait. He surveys the blue circle again, frowning. We walk back to the condo in silence. In the elevator, Charles stares up at the LCD light, waiting for it to reach the third floor. His expression is serious and businesslike. After years of negotiating insurance claims, whatever he's thinking is impenetrable.

“What would you like to drink today, Charles?” I open my door with a jangle of keys. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Thank you, but I have some business to attend to, Hélène. Charles takes his own keys from his pocket. I search for a kind, sad apology in his eyes, but I can't see it. Or maybe I refuse to. I regret the fact Charles has something of importance to do that doesn't involve me. Worse than anything, Charles is shifting the new routine back to what it was before.

I unlock my door and try to will my hands to stop shaking. When I finally wriggle out of my coat, I gasp. The wet spot from sitting on the bench is still visible. Soiled like a small child's jacket. Like one of my students. Charles must have seen it. I struggle to hang my coat on the hook then stand alone in the dim entryway, hanging my head, too. I fumble toward the kitchen, my legs cold and lurching. The closed spare room door emphasizes the distance. I think of how I used to walk down long school hallways with children, counting their steps in French. The words were always exotic enough to take their minds off upsetting things
. Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept
. I count my own steps to the kitchen. I look at the plate of freshly baked, Saran-wrapped cheese biscuits, but I can't eat them by myself. They're for sharing. I throw them in the trash. I pour myself a full crystal glass of sherry. I shuffle to the living room and turn on the television, but can't settle, even nestled in the warm pocket of my big chair with a crocheted afghan over my knees. Yesterday's conversations feel like spent luxuries. I miss my grandson. The emboldening effect of his company has already evaporated. “Charles is my neighbour,” I whisper into my empty sherry glass. “Only a neighbour.”

I sigh and struggle out of my chair. I don't like anything unpredictable. I've had enough of that for several lifetimes. I look around. At least dust is a constant. I begin cleaning the stove. That always uses up a great deal of time. Then I wave the yellow feather duster around the living room. I water the three houseplants crowding the windowsill. I organize my liquor cabinets, lining the bottles up and turning the labels out. My guest bar is the lower shelf of a large antique china cabinet, but I keep very special bottles in a former safe in the master bedroom, behind a large, gaudy macramé frog I bought at a craft bazaar years ago. I've always admired his gaping, hungry mouth. It makes more sense to me than hanging a dream catcher.

There's a soft knock at the door. I return the frog to its place on the wall and step out into the hall to see Annette striding in, holding up two bottles of ice wine. When my son and Annette divorced, a week after Nikky graduated from high school, I insisted Annette keep her condo key.

“Hiya.” Annette smiles as she hands me the bottles. “Thought I'd bring you something new to try. Hope you like it.”

“I always do enjoy it, dear.” I carry the bottles carefully to the dining room. “You're so good to me.” Though Annette visits infrequently and often arrives unannounced, her generosity with gifts reminds me of old friends from Montreal.

“Well, you're so easy to please. Little bottle here, another there, and
voilà
you're happy.” Annette peers around the living room “Where's that son of mine? Still sleeping?” She pushes the spare room door open. “Oh, he's not even here.”

“Nikky had to go back to Vancouver last night, dear.” I need to sit down.

“What? I didn't even get to see him!” Annette stares past me. “That little stinker.”

“He's six feet two inches now. We measured.” I sit and wait for an emotional outburst. Tears. Instead, my daughter-in-law opens and shuts the drawers in the sideboard until she finds the well-used corkscrew.

“Oh well, more for us, then.” Annette pulls the cork from the ice wine and pours two glasses. I wish she'd chosen the crystal, instead of the everyday ones from the kitchen. She's always been efficient but informal. Her wedding gown was nothing more than a white cotton sundress with a neatly pressed, but cheap, blue ribbon tied in a bow around her waist. And Geoff wore jeans, claiming they were dressy because they were black. I would have given them the money for proper clothes — lovely ones — but Annette never asked. She sits down heavily now and picks dog hairs off her sweatshirt. Then she unpins her liquor store cashier's nametag and shoves it into her pocket, fussing with change and keys.

“Guess I'm not important.” She finally looks up. “Doesn't need Mom anymore. That's no surprise. What was it? A painting? A stroke of creative lightning? Nik told me he was looking forward to this break.”

“His girlfriend called.”

“Oh, his
girlfriend
. That's young love for ya.” Annette takes another sip. I wait for her to smile. She drums her fingers on the table. “Maybe she's breaking up with him. I mean, things can't be going well if he had to absolutely leave in such a hurry.”

“Oh dear, I certainly hope not. He adores her.” I beam, thinking about young love and my grandson deep in it. “You should have seen him when he talked about her. I want to meet her.”

Annette leans back in her chair and gazes out the window at the sea view. “Meh. Nik's young, attractive, he'll have lots of other girlfriends, bounce back. That's what men do.” Annette gulps her ice wine then stares into her empty glass. “Better than disappointment and divorce. Then more disappointment.”

I pause to straighten the coaster, but my trembling hands nearly knock my glass over. “I would like to see some of Nikky's newer art soon.” I place my hands on my lap.

When Nikky was in high school he painted a cityscape that reminded me of Montreal, even though he'd never been there. Annette raved about one Nikky did of the trees around her house, but I found that painting oppressive. The cluster of tall, stalwart evergreens looked like a small, green army, complete with cedar generals.

“Let me make you some lunch, Annette,” I say. In the kitchen, I fret about Nikky while chopping the ingredients for a small niçoise salad. I hear the door open, followed by heavy footsteps in the hall. I grab a towel to dry my hands, and turn, hoping to see my grandson.

Annette groans. Her hunched shoulders sink farther. Geoff clears his throat noisily and glares at Annette. My hands find their way toward my mouth. I stop myself in a half-gasp and straighten the collar of my blouse. Being in the same room as Annette makes Geoff irrationally angry.

“Hello, Geoff.” I try to make myself appear as tall as possible. Not that it gives me much authority. Not anymore.

“What's
she
doing here?” Geoff looms like one of the stern, military evergreens in Nik's disagreeable painting.

“I'm making lunch, dear.” I gesture at the dining table. The room seems smaller, darker, and stuffier with my son in it. “You can eat with us or you can wait in the living room.”

Annette's chair hits the wall with a clunk and startles me. “Sorry, Hélène.” Annette rubs the mark on the wall with her finger. “It's nothing. Not even a dent. Just a bit of dust. There. It's gone. Sorry.”

Then, to my surprise, Annette steps in front of me. I wonder how many times Annette has placed herself protectively between Nikky and his father.

“Ma's got a doc appointment.” Geoff's voice booms in comparison to the ticking of the clock, the whir and hum of the condo heating. He leans past Annette to peer at me. “Ma, what are you doing? It's appointment day. Let's go.”

I drop the tea towel, flustered. I hadn't forgotten Geoff was coming today, I forgot it was Wednesday. I have a medical appointment every second Wednesday afternoon, so the doctor can monitor my medications and change them, if necessary. I would have warned Annette that Geoff was coming, had I remembered.

I rest my hand on Annette's shoulder. “I'm sorry, dear, there seems to have been a little mix-up. Will you please take the salad with you in a nice container? You should have a nice lunch.”

Annette doesn't answer. Geoff picks up one of the bottles of ice wine. He studies the label then jabs his ex-wife in the arm with the stab point of his index finger. I grip Annette's shoulder, attempting to soften the jolt.

“Are you serious?” Geoff waves his arm and slams the bottle back down with a clunk. “I told you to quit doing this, Annette. I told you a long time ago.”

I let go of Annette's shoulder and step around her. “Annette brought me a lovely ice wine to try. It was kind of her.” Geoff stares at me. I've always disliked the bulge of Geoff's eyes. He has the same eyes as his father. Geoff leans into me and positions his face so close to mine that I can feel the grease of his hair, smell his cheap aftershave. His chewing gum and nicotine mouth.

“Ma, you're not supposed to be drinking.” He shakes my shoulder hard with his root-claw hand. I hold on to the sideboard for balance then swat his arm away.

“Shush.”

I glare at my son. He turns and rubs his nose with the back of his hand.

“I can drive her.” Annette's voice wavers. It makes me wish she'd mind her own business.

“She's my mother,” Geoff says.

“I should put the salad in a container.” I bustle past Annette to the kitchen and rummage through the cupboard for the appropriate-sized Tupperware.

Annette hovers in the doorway, uncertain. “You have that for your supper,” she says finally. “I've got to get back home to my dogs, take them for a walk.”

“Bye, dear.” I give up and shove the whole bowl of salad into the fridge. I unfold a fresh tea towel and hang it on the hook, listening to the sound of her heavy footsteps in the hall.

“Your son was here, by the way. We had such a wonderful visit, he and I,” I hear her fib to Geoff. “You should have seen him, all grown up and tall. Not that you care about anyone but yourself.”

I click my tongue and shake my head. I'll explain the actual details of Nikky's visit to Geoff — later when he's in a better mood to listen. I duck around Geoff's sprawling limbs. “I'll be ready in a minute, dear.”

I close my bedroom door as I freshen up with a little face powder, lipstick, and a spritz of Coco Chanel. I look at the mountain-scenes calendar tacked to the wall and draw a checkmark beside “Doctor's Appointment” in the square for Wednesday, although I probably deserve a star. I continue the appointment charade, even though I don't trust the medicines, and I don't always take them. I'm entitled to this secret. I've been a responsible follower of rules all of my life. I open the door.

“Let's go,” Geoff insists. I rush to put my coat on, straighten my collar, and lock up. In the elevator Geoff's finger is pressed on the door open button. He glances at me and releases it. I count the floor numbers backwards in French to myself and feel the lining of my coat.
Trois, deux, un
. I'm relieved to discover my coat has dried. I think about how my son left home too young. Tibor had kicked him out for smoking pot, a hasty, stupid thing, considering Geoff was only a teenager. I stopped talking to Tibor after that. Geoff left for the logging camp and I didn't see him for several years. I had wanted to teach him more about gentlemanly behaviour. He was just like his father, and the allure of their particular type of brawn, as Annette and I had both discovered, did not last. Geoff could have been a businessman. And kind to his family. Instead, he is a logger turned carpenter. A house builder who lives alone in a small, musty apartment.

The doctor's office is in a squat, two-storey medical services building. Geoff drives straight for the front door. He keeps the engine running as he waits for me to manage the heavy passenger door and climb out. I sit and wait for him to open it for me. I hope it's not so much thoughtlessness anymore as selective forgetting. A lazy remnant from when I was the strong, sure one, taking care of him. He's going to have to turn and look at me. See me shaking now. I stare ahead. Geoff shifts in his seat, reaches over me and pops the door open with a swift push. I see him looking at me through the rear-view mirror as he drives away. I wave at him then stand on the curb for a moment before patting my hair back into place and striding into the office. The doctor sees me right away. I get my prescription refilled at the pharmacy next door, then wait an hour and a half for Geoff to return. I read magazines in the doctor's waiting room, trying not to notice when Cindy, the receptionist, looks over and smiles. I hate sympathy.

She looks young enough to have been one of my students, years ago, I realize, remembering the days when children were afraid of me, and teachers and parents respected my authority. I stare at the low-pile carpet, trying to decide whether it's pink flecked with brown or brown flecked with pink. When I get up to use the powder room I choose the one with the handicapped sign on the door, where there are cold metal bars to hang on to. I look into the bathroom mirror and think of Nikky. He has my eyes. Voluminous pools. He's not at all like his father. I busy myself with washing my hands, waiting for the tepid water to turn hot.

Geoff speeds into the parking lot and honks his horn. The passenger door flings open before the truck even comes to a full stop. It's raining again and I've forgotten my umbrella. I get into the truck and wish my son would ask questions about my appointment or Nikky's visit, but he stares at the road and twiddles the windshield wiper controls.

“I can take a cab, dear, if driving me is a hassle.” I hold on to the passenger door as Geoff rounds a corner too quickly.