Mira is
about to check the beets, to turn them over and see if they need a drizzle
of olive oil when her phone rings: moss green, wall-mounted, rotary dial. Since
it’s 4:55 p.m., the caller will be Ellen, the niece who’s been saddled with the
task of keeping an eye on her.
“Can’t talk, sweetie.”
Mira stretches the phone cord closer to the stove with one hand; reaches for an
oven mitt with the other.
“I can’t either. Just a
reminder that Jake and I are coming over tomorrow.”
“Jake?”
“The guy you met at
Christmas.”
“The one who kept popping
out to the porch? He smokes.”
“No, Auntie Mira. He’s a
real estate agent. Business is 24/7.”
“I thought you broke up?”
“We did, sort of, but
he’ll get you a good price for the house.”
“Who said it’s for sale?”
“Mom, me, everybody.”
The response to Mira’s,
“Everybody but me,” is a dial tone. Followed by the beeping of the smoke
alarm.
“Shit.”
Mira grabs the tray with
the oven mitt, but the beets are heavy and the metal thin. She steadies it with
her unprotected hand in an attempt to prevent a spill.
“SHIT!”
Both the beets and Mira’s
hand are burned. The beets she can bury under compost, but her hand? Mira turns
on the cold water, lets it pour between her fingers and over her palm. If Ellen
notices the blisters or any swelling, she will report this to her mother,
giving them proof that Mira should not be living alone. Plans are being made on
her behalf. For her own good. And it pisses her off.
Ellen’s mother, Lisa, was
born on the afternoon of Mira’s grade eight graduation. While Mira was
delivering a farewell speech on behalf of her peers, her mother was delivering
the baby intended to reset a marriage that was hanging on by the threads of obligation
and routine. Even a fourteen-year-old
knew that was a lot to expect of an infant. Their dad left, their mother
crawled under a quilt, and Mira took over.
A neighbour ran a home
daycare; an extra child was no bother as long as no one asked for a receipt.
Just as well that five years later Lisa’s elementary school was on the
university bus route. Mira scheduled classes that allowed her to pick up her
sister by 3:45. When seminars or midterms required her to stay late, she set an
alarm to remind their mother to pick Lisa up. And gave the school the
neighbour’s phone number. Just in case.
On his way to Mira’s the
following morning, Jake stops at another client’s house to check that the
stager has transformed the guest room into a home office. No need to remove
family photos; they were smashed weeks ago, a consequence of Jake’s 6-step method
for building a client base:
Assess if a new house is an attempt to
reset a relationship;
flirt with the weakest link when touring the bedroom;
place a “For Sale” sign on the original property;
locate separate properties for the shattered couple;
collect the shared commission from three transactions;
repeat.
A young woman is whirling
strawberries, yoghurt and chia seeds into a smoothie and doesn’t hear him come
in.
“And you are?” Jake waits
until the blender is quiet, though he should’ve waited further away.
“Fuck! Who are you?”
“Jake. I’m selling this
place.”
“Ashley. I’m the
collateral damage. Getting ready to lose not only my childhood home, but also
my family.”
“Yeah, heard about that.
Sorry.” Jake looks at the clock on the microwave. “Got some clients coming in soon
with another agent. Any chance you can, you know…”
“Disappear?” Ashley
provides Jake with the blunt word he’d been reluctant to use.
“Yup.”
“Not unless you’ve got a
studio apartment tucked up your sleeve. And a U-Haul in the driveway.”
“That would be no.”
While Ashley slips on shoes, Jake places a
travel lid on the smoothie and the yet-to-solve issue at the back of his mind.
They both get into his car.
Mira hates to admit it,
but she’s looking forward to the company. That’s the part about aging in place
that no one talks about. The tasks are easy; she’s made arrangements for lawn
cutting and snow removal; downloaded Uber as well as a grocery delivery app.
But in retirement, she increases the volume on the radio so it can be heard in
every room. Familiar voices, engaging conversation. Who knew she would miss the
office banter, the last-Friday-of-the-month cake for anyone who was
celebrating, well, anything?
Her pattern of busy days
and quiet evenings has the potential to flip due to the recent glut of widows.
They plead with her to join them for concerts, for plays, for the dance
recitals of their grandchildren; anything to avoid an unfilled calendar and a plate
of leftovers.
She accepts the
invitations that appeal to her; after years of not tolerating nonsense from
men, she’s not about to start accepting it from women who were accustomed to
setting tables exclusively for pairs. As if filling up an ark instead of
hosting a dinner party.
“Hi Moira, I mean Merna.”
Jake wipes his shoes on Mira’s mat, reassured it contains no images of cats.
One less item to remove and an indication of reasonable taste.
“This is Ashley. She’s
going to hang out here while I take measurements and a few photos.”
Mira extends her hand to Ashley who notices
the burn.
“Ouch. That looks nasty.
How did…” She pauses when Mira moves her head a smidge to the left, then back
again. Jake is trying to decide if he can add a heater to the back porch, call
it a sunroom. And doesn’t notice.
Ellen arrives while Mira
is tipping level scoops of coffee into the French press and Ashley is scraping
the last bits of fruit from the bottom of her cup.
“Hi, sweetie. I wasn’t
expecting you’d come too. This is Ashley. She’s with Jake.”
With Jake. Ellen has moved
beyond rage, but is not yet ready to shrug. She’s been slow to follow the “Fool
me once” adage. Forget twice, it took a series of excuses for Ellen to realize
that Jake was unlikely to change.
Ashely stands up, takes a
few steps toward her. “He’s selling my parents’ house and I was in the way this
morning. So, I’ve been sitting here with your fabulous aunt.”
Fabulous is not among the
words Ellen uses to describe her aunt. Old-fashioned, stubborn, set in her ways
are more apt; cautious and conservative are included in the missives Lisa sends
from whatever mountain retreat on which she’s seeking clarity.
“A masters in mechanical
engineering, part of the team that pushed the city to add barriers and not just
paint to bike lanes.” In less than an hour, Ashley knows more about her aunt
than Ellen has learned in two plus decades of emptying out Christmas stockings
and gathering up Easter eggs. Side by side.
“And this one,” Mira
points to Ashley. “A degree under her belt and all set to fast-track to be an
educational assistant.”
Jake has a client in mind
for the house; he texts her a few photos and hopes for a quick off-market
closing.
While Ellen might take
pleasure in undermining the sale, it’s Mira who creates a plan based on a novel
in which a ten-year-old suggested his family invite a homeless
stranger to move in. He stopped in front of a knockdown-rebuild on his way home
from school. “I know someone who needs a house!” he shouted up to the workers
on the roof; that someone being the man who stood outside the beer store.
Collecting empties and change. A need, a solution. Is this similar?
Ashley moves into Mira’s
spare room and begins her program at the local college. Ellen stops phoning
every night; Lisa continues to hop around the globe; Jake removes the photos
from his website.
Mira sets two plates for
dinner every night for a year. She drizzles olive oil on beets, sets the oven
to 425, and places the tray on the bottom rack. She trims perennials in the
garden before unfolding a lawn chair to rest. Ashley smells the smoke as soon
as she gets home, pulls the pan from the oven, and hears the sizzle when she
tosses it in the sink. She searches the house before finding Mira in the yard.
Drowsy, dozing.
“Shit, did I burn the
beets?”
“You sure did. Same as
when we met.”
“You knew?”
Ashley nods. “We have to
tell them, you know. Ellen, Lisa.”
“You call them. I’ll call Jake. He can bring
over the documents I need to sign.” Mira rubs the raised scar on her hand.
“He’s the only one who won’t say I told you so.”
And she’s right. Sort of.
Ashley doesn’t say it either. She doesn’t say anything.
Marg Heidebrecht lives and writes in Dundas, Ontario. Her first book of essays, In the Shade: Friendship, Loss, and the Bruce Trail was shortlisted for the 2020 Hamilton Arts Council Literary Awards. Her essay, “Invasions,” won a creative nonfiction prize in the 2022 Hamilton Arts & Letters contest and is included in her 2024 book, Mosaic through East-Facing Glass: A Collection of Personal Essays.
She’s
also published several opinion pieces and many letters to the editor in The
Globe and Mail and The Hamilton Spectator.
Visit Marg at:
https://intheshade2019.blogspot.com/
https://mosaicmarg.blogspot.com/
https://www.instagram.com/intheshade2019/?hl=en
See Brian
Henry's upcoming weekly
writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.
For more essays and other pieces about books or about reading, writing, and the writing life, see here (and scroll down).
