Whatever (16 page)

“Andrew okay?”

“What?”

“He hasn't had another . . .” he swallowed hard and then said it. He said the “S” word. “He hasn't had another seizure?”

“No, Dad, he's fine.”

Robin stood up. “Got to go,” he said abruptly and walked out.

“That young man looks troubled,” said my father.

“He had a shock today.”

I saw the question beginning to form on Dad's lips, and stood up myself. “Let's see what we can find for dinner, okay? Why don't you check on Mom, see if she had anything planned. If not, mac 'n cheese it is. Or we can order in.”

Of course, Robin did tell his parents. The second I walked into Mrs. J.'s house, I knew. She sat on the tall stool by the kitchen counter and glowered at me. “Why did you talk to your brother about my eyesight? You promised not to let anyone know.”

“I didn't tell him, he helped me figure it out using his computer because I wasn't allowed to use mine except for school work. I'm sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I am. Both my sons were here this morning, didn't even go to their jobs. Fistfuls of brochures from those places: Sunny Side Residence; Retirement Haven; Silver Strands Home; The Imperial—” She waved them in front of me. They had pictures of smiling old people puttering about in gardens, or playing cards, or having tea with other smiling old people.

“My sons read the brochures to me, loudly. As if something was wrong with my ears, not with my eyes. As if I were going deaf, not blind.”

She shoved the pile of shiny brochures off the counter. I started to pick them up, but she shook her head. “Let the damned things lie there. I want them out of my sight.”

I started picking them up anyway, wanting to get them off the floor so she wouldn't slip on them. She didn't notice.

“My sons told me to choose a place I wanted to go, or they'd decide for me. Damn it, I gave them that power of attorney
years ago, never figured they'd use it against me like this.”

“I don't know what that is. Power of . . . ?”

“It's a legal document I signed, so that if I'm brain dead or really sick or just plain ditzy, they can handle my money and take care of me.”

“They are trying to take care of you.”

She glared at me. “Whose side are you on, girl? They want to warehouse me! Bet their wives are already arguing over which real estate agent should handle the sale of my house.”

“Andrew didn't know that it was a secret. He felt terrible.”

“It's not the kid's fault. I knew they'd find out soon. Grab me the tea strainer.”

“What kind of tea shall I make?”

“Don't want tea, just the strainer.” She held it in her hands for a few moments, running her fingers over the long handle before she replaced it in the silver dish that kept the wet tea leaves from dripping onto the tablecloth.

Then she thrust it at me. “Here. Take it.”

“What?”

“Take it. Keep it. It was a wedding present, sterling silver, from my grandmother, the one who painted the china. I want you to have it, now that you've learned how to make a decent pot of tea.”

“I can't . . .”

“Damn it, girl, I can still make my own decisions about my own things. Take it.”

I didn't understand why it was so important to her, but I
took the silver strainer and its small silver dish. The handle of the strainer was decorated with starfish and sea shells, so worn in spots that it was hard to see what some of the engravings were.

“Thank you.” I didn't know what else to say. Now was not a good time for questions, that was obvious. “Thank you very much.” What was I going to do with a silver tea strainer?

“Put that in your backpack and take out some paper.”

“Paper?”

“Don't you use paper in school anymore? Something to write on, five or six pages. And a pen. But first, grab me two of those pills in the cupboard up where I keep the tea. And a glass of water. Then sit down, I've got a job for you, and it has to be done today.”

Chapter Fourteen

I TUCKED THE SILVER
tea strainer and its dish into my lunch bag, grabbed a half dozen pieces of loose leaf-paper from my binder and went back to the kitchen.

“Pull up that other stool and sit beside me,” Mrs. J. commanded. “I can't see what you're writing, but at least I can see that you're writing something.”

I brought the stool over and climbed up onto it. “I'm ready. How do you want the page set up?”

“Use note form, no need for full sentences, but make sure your writing is legible. I'll help with spelling.”

“Both my handwriting and spelling are good,” I protested.

“We'll see. Begin, ‘The Queen Anne chair—'”

“The what?”

“Queen Anne (that's Anne with an ‘e') chair is for Karen, she's always liked it. My sterling silver flatware is for . . .”

I wrote for half an hour. The dining room table and chairs, her jewellery (not much, an engagement ring, a wedding ring and a string of real pearls), her good dinner china, crystal glasses, the big armchair—every item I wrote down was followed by someone's name. Once in a while she'd stop and ask me to go back and make a change. “No, cross her out; I know where that will be better appreciated.”

My fingers were cramping. Her directions would have been so much easier to key into a laptop, instead of writing out by hand. “Can we stop for a bit? My hand hurts.”

“Yes, let's take a break. Put the kettle on. Regular tea, we'll have to use the tea bags. Don't know where I put my tea strainer.”

The look on my face must have shown my shock, because she laughed, and put a hand on my arm. “It's all right, I'm not going senile. I know exactly where my strainer is, I gave it to you. That was my rather sorry attempt at a joke.”

“It wasn't funny!”

“I apologize. Now get that tea going.”

When we were settled again, mugs of tea in front of us, she returned to her itemizing.

“The sterling tea strainer—write your own name after that, girl, just to make sure everyone knows I gave it to you and you didn't steal it. You don't want to have to go through another one of those circle things, do you?”

I shuddered. “No, thanks. One circle was enough.”

“Next item: Grandma's painted tea set, six each of cups, saucers, side plates, and two matching serving plates are for Robin.”

“Robin? Really? He'll be thrilled.”

She grinned. “Won't he? I hope he doesn't let his mother use it; she's one of the clumsiest women I've ever known. Oh, and make a note that he already owns my car and no one is to try to take it away from him.”

I took a sip of tea; it was too hot and burned my mouth. “Ouch,” I said. My eyes blurred, and I fought back tears.

“What's wrong?”

“I burned my mouth . . . you're giving everything away because they're going to make you move. To one of those warehouses that you hate.”

“Don't worry about it.”

“It's my fault that your family found out about your eyes. If I hadn't made you fall and break your leg—”

“It's no one's fault, girl. It's life.” A surprisingly strong hand gripped my arm. “You are not to blame yourself, understand? Promise me you won't blame yourself, no matter what happens.”

“But if I hadn't pulled that alarm, then . . .”

“Then my family would have found out anyway; my eyesight is rapidly getting worse. I couldn't hide it much longer. Besides, I enjoy having you here. You're going to be a good cook.”

I sniffled, still fighting tears.

“Stop whimpering. Grab a tissue and blow your nose. We've still got a few things to add to that list.”

A few minutes later she announced, “That's it, we're done.” I shook out the cramp in my hand again, and the doorbell rang.

I went to answer it and ushered in Mr. Allen. He chose the purple slippers today.

“You're right on time, David. Let's get to it.”

“I'm ready, Janie. We've got an hour until my office closes, we'll be there in plenty of time. I told them to wait for us, even if we were a bit late.”

“Office?” I was completely confused.

Mr. Allen smiled at me. “I still practise a bit of law, once in a while, although I seldom go to my office, even though my name is still on the door. I started that law firm forty years ago.”

“A lawyer?” I couldn't help it, my eyes slid to his purple clad feet. “Really?”

“Indeed. And although I am retired, I can still help an old friend with a codicil or two.”

“What's a codicil?”

“What you just wrote down,” said Mrs. J. “Instructions that go with a will, so that relatives don't fight over who gets what.”

“We'll have what Darrah wrote for you notarized at my office,” said Mr. Allen. “Then it's legal. Did you decide who will get your grandmother's china, Janie?”

“Robin, of course,” she said.

“Oh, I'm sure he'll be delighted,” said Mr. Allen, chuckling. “Shall we get started?”

“If you'll help me up, David, we'll work at the dining room table.” He put his briefcase on the floor, and gallantly offered her one arm, the one not holding his cane. She groaned as she stood up, then swayed, grabbing at his arm for support. I jumped up to help, but she scowled and shook her head. “Been sitting too long; a bit dizzy. Don't fuss.”

The two of them made their way arm-in-arm to the dining room, their canes moving almost in unison as they walked. Mr. Allen seated her at the table before pulling up a chair for himself. “Darrah,” he called, “could you bring me my briefcase and those papers you were working on, please? Then pull the sliding doors closed when you leave the room.”

“But . . . but what will I do?”

“Oh, do anything you like, girl. We won't be long.”

They weren't. I had just organized my math homework when I heard the sliding door open, and they emerged, Mrs. J. again clinging to Mr. Allen's arm. “Could you get my briefcase?” he asked. It was on the dining room table, closed tightly and there was no sign of my loose-leaf paper with the notes.

“We'll drop you off at home,” said Mrs. J. “Get your stuff together.”

“But I'm supposed to stay until six.”

“I'll give you credit for your whole time. Let's go.”

I went.

Two days later when I climbed the orange stairs, everything seemed back to normal. Mrs. J. sat on her tall stool, a mug of tea in front of her. She didn't look as tired as she had on Monday, and she smiled as I came in.

“It's December,” she announced.

“Has been for a while.”

“Time to make Yule Log. It's our family version of the traditional Christmas cake.”

“But . . .” I stopped, not knowing how to ask the question that had been worrying me since I last saw her.

“But what?”

“Don't you have to move? I mean—”