what can we do

The calls came late, and I thought it was from her so I didn’t pick it up. After the second I turned off the ringer. Over morning coffee I listened to the three messages, all from Gavin, saying there wasn’t anything specific to say, but call him back as soon as possible in the morning. The third message was from the landline in Toronto; in the archeology of misery going back to the house is the deepest muck of danger.

The backstory. While my grandpa was having a heart valve replaced, my father went to Halifax to take care of his mother. While he was out my mother slipped on the way to the liquor store and could not get up. 3:30 pm on a Thursday, give or take. The people in the park called an ambulance but she wouldn’t go to the hospital. The police took her home. She gave them my brother Owen’s number in Guelph, who called Gavin, who actually lives close enough to meet the police in the house.

The middle of the story sounds like Rice Krispies, or maybe bubble wrap. Rice Krispies is what your skin sounds like when you have punctured a lung and air is leaking into your body cavity. The doctors told Gavin that if he hadn’t come home on Saturday night she would not be breathing right now. They didn’t take her seriously at first at the hospital because she is a drunk and she has been there many times before. Now the medical students have each, one by one, lined up to feel what a floating two inch piece of rib does to a body.

What it brings out in us is beautiful and shattered. Owen cleans the kitchen and writes an exam on philosophy of the mind. Gavin has a birthday in a hospital, and wrenches his back coughing. Aileen smiles at people at work and tells them it will be OK. Call the dentist. Write the cheques. Make a lunch. Don’t look too sad in public. Don’t forget how to remember what you’re here for, for when you’re able to remember.