“Roasting” by Marg Heidebrecht

 

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

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