All the joy makes me walk funny, and I almost wipe out on the way back. Jessie catches my arm and I have a long, twisty recovery which she says would totally be YouTubed tomorrow if she had her camera.
I eat lots of pizza. Jessie draws and I google the scientists, email one of them re: mitochondrial crafts.
‘See,’ I say, ‘my real point is that sex is broken. And mitochondria are very very disappointed with us humans so there’s an energy crisis.’
‘We’re running out of oil because of sex?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Yo. Discuss.’
‘Okay. So if sex is the one thing the entire species is driven to do, and no question we’re driven – ’
‘No question,’ says Jessie.
‘Then it’s got to be the one thing that makes everyone care about the species. So, if you, I mean anyone, really had great sex, you’d be all I’m-one-with-my-species and you, I mean the universal you as in us, couldn’t buy clothes made by people who, say, were sewing for three cents an hour and weren’t allowed to go to the bathroom for ten hours because it would be like it was you who was suffering.’
‘I’ve got to tell Clyde.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Clyde, we’ve got to wear no clothes. Joking? Take a breath?’
‘Sorry. Okay, here’s the thing. The deathforce says shop no matter what. Forget about those three-cents-an-hour people.’
‘Ohhhhh.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Shopping killed sex.’
Jessie waits for me to say something. I nod or twitch, who knows. ‘Clyde has to quit his job at Walmart.’ Another spasmodic neck movement from me.
‘You really turn red a lot.’
‘Sorry.’ My face goes up another ten degrees.
‘Have you ever done it?’
‘Not exactly. What are you drawing?’
‘Disappointed mitochondria.’
I love you love love you. So, have you? The words stay inside my head.
‘So, really, our duty is to have excellent sex,’ says Jessie.
‘Clearly. Because shopping won.’
‘So, you’re going to become a great big slut or what?’
‘I wish.’
‘Who knew Jennifer Stegner’s trying to save the planet? As long as she keeps her effing hands off Clyde.’
Okay, time for a new topic. My thighs are starting to vibrate. I point to her sketch. Black-hooded creatures. ‘The deathforce?’ She nods. ‘You’re like Picasso,’ I say.
‘I’m like my dad. Not as good. He was genius.’
She adds creature after creature with a couple of wavy lines. They all look the same except one. One gets black dots for eyes, an almost-bald head and a familiar massive mouth.
‘Deathforce?’ Jessie holds up her sketch pad. ‘This is death-force.’ She points at the face then pokes her pencil right through one eye. ‘Ever see this guy?’
I tell her, yeah, maybe, but how weird because I just met him at the hospital, ran into him while I was visiting Grandma, and what a creep. My face burns.
‘His name’s Rinkel. You okay?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ I say.
‘He murdered my dad.’ The hate in her voice could shrivel a piano. ‘Bastards.’
‘More than one?’ My hands need something to do, so I pick up the name thing on the desk. Rose Letorneau, Editor. Letorneau. Hey. That name.
‘One other guy.’
I need to make some sort of uh-huh sound but I can’t. Tim Letorneau Centre for the Arts. That’s where I’ve seen the name.
‘I dream about my father all the time. I’m supposed to avenge his death.’
‘Oh.’
‘You sure you’re okay?’ Jessie looks in my eyes.
‘Yeah, I just don’t know what my dad wants me to do. He pretty much drank and smoked himself to death.’
‘Oh, yeah, they tried to say suicide about Tim.’
‘Really? They?’
‘Oh yeah, total bullshit. I put a curse on both of them.’
‘Curse?’ I have to look at her sketch again. I have to look somewhere – my face feels way too exposed out here in the open. The hooded creatures have become horror-movie monsters.
‘Exactly. In the prison up there.’ Jessie points in the general direction of the hospital. ‘At the wall of hell. That’s where he died, and that’s where they’ll rot. You okay?’ She stops drawing and looks at me.
‘Just – oh man oh man am I tired – feeling kind of dizzy. When did he die?’
‘What?’
‘I mean, do you do something on the anniversary of his death. Someone says I should plan something for my dad’s, that his spirit will be lighter, but he’s been dead less than a year, so I wondered how long – ’
‘I reinforce the curse every year.’
‘Good one. Like Christmas in reverse.’
‘Actually, no.’ She points her pencil at me. ‘You could help me make the candles this year.’
‘Wax totally freaks me – ’
‘No, this is different. Next week. We can work on the mitochondrial thing too.’ I haven’t heard Rose come in but there she is, smiling. Like a game show contestant about to lose everything, I smile too. ‘Aunt Rose, Dree’s going to stay over next week, ’kay?’ Jessie says.
‘We’ll see,’ says Rose.
‘Man oh man,’ I say. ‘I drank a lot of water today, like two litres.’ In the can, I reflect. Why do I feel so totally queasy? Okay, 1) Jessie said her father died at the hospital when she was a baby which means fifteen years ago. 2) My father had some big crisis about fifteen years ago and, 3) he quit his job at the hospital, he and Joan moved to Edmonton, he embraced alcholism, and I was born. So, what? Maybe it was a crisis-ridden year for everyone. They probably didn’t even know each other. Okay. Get out of the can.
When I come out, Rose is a few feet away yelling, ‘Shirley, go home, get out of here.’ But I feel like she’s been waiting for me. ‘You know, Dree, Jessie doesn’t know Leonard was your dad.’
‘No problem,’ I say.
‘I’ll talk to her tonight.’
‘Great.’ WTF? Why should Jessie know anything about Leonard? And what does Rose think I know? My queasiness intensifies into life-threatening nausea.
We’re at the archive shelf now, and I wonder aloud if I can do a bit of research because I love the smell of old newspapers. I actually say that. Rose looks over the divider and orders Jessie to get out her Social project. ‘I want an outline in twenty minutes.’ Then she squeezes my hand and says, ‘Come get me if you need anything.’
Fifteen years ago means 1994. What, I read through that entire gigantic volume hoping to see ‘the Leonard and Tim story’? I blow dust off the top of 1994 like this is one of those fairy-tale movies that starts with a huge book. I open it towards the back, get a photo of kids selling poppies for Remembrance Day, flip a few pages and read ‘Decay at Timbley Hospital’ on the front page. After that, there are daily headlines like ‘Staff shortage blamed for patient neglect,’ ‘Investigation into medication error,’ ‘More cutbacks at hospital.’ I scan stories about doctors quitting because they have no support, nurses quitting because they have no respect, especially from doctors, the hospital board saying everything’s fine, the Timbley Chamber of Commerce saying there might be a problem but the hospital has to stay open because it’s the town’s main employer. Nice. What’s wrong with these people? There’s about a million of them and they’re all pathetic. Who cares. I’m searching for Dad.
Flip, scan, flip, scan – I become a machine. A photo stops me momentarily – the froggish lips, the tiny head. Chief Medical Officer, Dr. Paul Rinkel.
On November 29, it’s ‘Another suicide at Timbley.’ A seventy-year-old man killed himself, a man who’d been an army officer in World War II. It doesn’t say who found him, only that his wife was angry, no kidding, and it was the fourth hospital suicide in two years. An investigation was pending.
Okay, that’s what got to him. Leonard knew this guy, listened to his war stories, said, ‘Hey, Sam, how’s it going?’ every day. He probably saw patients being abused, too. He would have shrunk back, like he did when we went to the Italian Market for ice cream and a cop punched a Native guy in the face, a young guy already in handcuffs. ‘Dad!,’ I yelled, but Leonard just muttered, ‘Bastards,’ and hunched over for the day.
Unless. Unless he was one of them. Number one: Right across the face when I was ten and left the milk out of the fridge. Number two: ‘Wipe that expression off your face,’ then slap – so hard I hit the wall. Number three: I ducked. He got the side of my head and fell over.
‘Jessie, I’m checking that outline in fifteen minutes,’ says Rose, all barracuda-auntie. ‘Do not move until you’re done.’ For someone so wide, Rose is fast and silent. She puts her hand on my shoulder and whispers. ‘All the gory details, hey? Must have been hard for him to talk about.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ I say. ‘Really.’
Silence, dangerous silence. ‘Actually’ was ready to roll out my mouth, as in Actually, Rose, what the hell are you talking about? My mouth won’t open. Possibly, dread has clamped it shut.
After a story about two patients disappearing for three days, November is done. December starts with a front-pager, ‘Investigation complete: Scandalous conditions at hospital.’ Hello? There’s a week of everybody blaming everybody else, then a missing patient almost dies of exposure, two staff are fired, twenty others protest and the head of nursing resigns. Was this Rose’s ‘it’? No, the two staff are Roy someone, Helen someone. On December 18, there’s a fire in the kitchen and four patients get frostbite when they’re evacuated without shoes. Okay, the year is almost done. This has to be the deal. Did Leonard somehow start the fire? Forget the shoes? No. Faulty boiler, says the next day’s story. ‘Fire department lauds hospital staff.’ Lauds must mean compliments, because the fire chief says it was a miracle that staff got everyone out through the thick smoke. Maybe Leonard almost died in the smoke.
I zone out. Nothing makes sense but it looks like he didn’t kill anyone and I’m willing to be forever confused. I can live with that. All I want is to get back to Jessie.
December 26. The headline flies off the page, smacks me, then goes all fuzzy.
‘Christmas Day Suicide at Hospital: male, 32, found dead.’ A man killed himself on Christmas Day after the fire alarm was pulled. Staff thought everyone was evacuated. The man was supposed to be on continuous supervision. His name was withheld until the family was notified.
Like Christmas in reverse, I had just said to Jessie. Actually, no.
I keep going because that’s what you do when you discover something awful. You read about it until it feels real. Terrible tragedy, says Dr. Rinkel, chief medical officer: Tim Letorneau was a brilliant artist. A nursing assistant failed to perform his duties. Witch hunt, says the union of hospital employees: the assistant was ordered to evacuate other patients during a fire drill. Absolutely untrue, says evil Rinkel. As the supervising doctor that night, he gave no such order. His deep condolences to the family. Staff member responsible for artist’s death, says the next front page. Leonard Johnson is the assistant who neglected his duties on Christmas Day, begins the story. Every day, there he is. Leonard Johnson is a problem employee. Leonard Johnson has been in trouble before. Leonard Johnson hasn’t returned to work following incident. Leonard Johnson may face charges. Okay, Dad. I get it.
‘You’re kidding, right?’ Jessie and Rose are back at it.
‘Give it to me,’ said Rose.
‘Right. And you give me your new press machiney thing.’
‘Now.’
‘No.’
‘I said now.’
‘Dree, help, I’m being abused!’
‘Not funny, Jessie.’
‘Dree!’
More than anything, I want to fling myself into the cubicle. But Jessie hates me and doesn’t know it yet. I leave the book on the table. Rose tries harder to get Jessie’s sketchbook and the screaming and crashing make it easy for me to slink away. Somewhere between 4Ewe and Eve’s Dentures, I think about Grandma’s broken picture frame. Damn. I forgot to get her a new one. Damn.
Wool turns into felt when it’s really shrunk – but it has to be 100 percent wool. Check the label to make sure. Once you have a felted sweater, it can be made into anything. Water bottle covers, change purses, hats, mitts, slippers – whatever you can think of. You can cut into the wool and it won’t unravel.
You need:
1 wool sweater from someone who’s never coming back Yarn for blanket stitching and fat needle
1. Shrink sweater three times in hot water and dryer until it’s really thick and really small.
2. Put your hot water bottle on top of sweater and mark with chalk or pins.
3. Cut one full inch outside of chalk line. Blanket stitch, leaving opening at top to fit HWB into.
