A Brief View from the Coastal Suite Page 2

  Cleo would like to go to Spain, to India, to Peru. She imagines herself drifting freely through a market with spices and braziers and bright pennants of handwoven cloth. She does not think she would like to go there with Trent, or with children.

  She pedals and pedals, her leg muscles warmed up now, in her second wind. What if she were to crash through that glass wall, to just keep pedalling? Or if this were a ship’s prow, sailing southwesterly through the fog?

  Will she travel, when she is older? She’s forty, now. It will be another eight or ten years before her children are more or less grown. Will she still be going to spin class?

  Her foster mother, Mrs. Giesbrecht, with her tight grey curls, her loose comfortable body, would think it a shocking waste of time and money. She gets plenty of exercise in her garden and ironing and scrubbing floors, she would say. But probably more like gossiping and doing good deeds, Cleo thinks. But never mind that. Cleo’s biological mother, Crystal, would see even less point in going to exercise class: Crystal, who at sixty still wears her hair to her waist, is skinny and fey and braless, and gets in her car to go half a kilometre up the highway to the gas station to buy milk. Crystal had a nervous breakdown when Cleo was twelve. She had five children in just over five years, and then lost them all to social services.

  Cleo calls and visits both Mrs. Giesbrecht and Crystal, but never often enough.

  Last push, the instructor says. Gear up again. Let’s cover some miles, ladies. The body achieves what the mind believes!

  Outside the bright glass room, the fog thickens, the daylight ebbs.

  Except for a brief interlude doing her second degree at the University of Ottawa, Cleo has lived all of her life within a hundred kilometres of the Pacific Coast: has spent almost all of her life in the shelter of the dense cedar forests, breathing the mild moist Pacific air. She has always had access to the temperate green delta, to its January camellias and ironic palms, its glass skyrises and pedestrian sidewalks, its outdoor markets, its artisanal coffee. She would never want to live anywhere else. But she’d like to live further west, in Vancouver itself.

  And so, it appears, would two million others.

  She and Trent, a professional couple on an income and a half, can barely afford to live on the fringes, the outer ring of the suburbs. Their house has doubled in market value in the last ten to fifteen years, but places nearer the city centre have more than doubled. They are moving further away from any possibility of living in the lively, multifarious core.

  Anyway, Trent doesn’t want to move. He grew up in a small leafy town in Ontario, where eight-year-olds rode bikes to the five-and-dime to buy Oh Henry! bars with their weekly allowance, and fathers drove to the nearby city to work. He thinks that they can replicate that here, but the satellite city they live in was built to a different scale, built for cars. There are no sidewalks; a six-lane parkway feeds traffic from the residential clusters to the cloned malls. Their street has a walk score of three out of a hundred.

  Trent’s parents had given them the down payment when they were expecting Olivia. They hadn’t been able to get their heads around the idea that the sum they’d given each of Trent’s Boomer brothers in the early 80s to buy their cute farmhouses or Annex townhouses amounted to only a down payment for Trent and Cleo. Why do you need such a fancy house? Trent’s mother had asked.

  It wasn’t a fancy house. It was a basic three-bedroom builder’s house on a tiny lot, in a subdivision of almost identical houses. But even if they had allowed for inflation and given them twice the sum, it wouldn’t have been enough for an inner-city property.

  They could perhaps afford a half-duplex in the shabbier East-end neighbourhoods of the city. Cleo’s sister Mandalay lives in that sort of place. Precariously.

  The cyclists pedal, and pedal, and do not progress.

  She misses Lacey, who always went to spin class with her, who got her to try it in the first place. When they cycled side by side, they could chat through the entire hour, and it went by quickly. There’s a kind of isolation, going to spin class alone.

  In the change room, someone asks, Are you staying for upper body? And another woman replies: No, have to make five dozen cupcakes for the band trip.

  She finds herself heading downstairs with Michelle, whom she has known for years, since their daughters were in kindergarten together. Michelle is changing into a pastel cashmere jogging suit, fastening a tiny diamond bracelet that flashes on her wrist.

  Pretty! Cleo says. Christmas present?

  Michelle looks dazed for a minute and then smiles her not-quite-focussed smile. Yes, she says. Christmas present.

  She looks like she shouldn’t be out on the street without someone to hold her hand. Yet Lacey says she was a dental hygienist, before she married Richard.

  Then Jennifer returns from the sink, where she’s been re-applying her makeup. Where is Lacey? Jennifer asks.

  Lacey has taken on a new job, a full-time one with the regional health authority.

  Is anyone going to Zumba tomorrow? Michelle asks, although it’s just the three of them there.

  I have to work, Cleo says.

  Oh, Michelle asks, as if stumped. What do you do again? You’re an interior decorator, right?

  Whenever Cleo explains what she does, people’s eyes glaze over. She says, now: More or less, yeah.

  God, Jennifer says. What am I going to cook for supper? I think Mike will leave me if I make pasta again, but it’s honestly all the kids will eat.

  Michelle is searching in the rhinestone-embellished mini-backpack that seems to function as a purse for her keys. Richard’s away, Michelle says. So I guess the girls and I are just going to order a pizza and curl up in front of America’s Got Talent.

  Cleo runs through her mental list of the contents of her fridge. Dinner’s all ready to go — she made a spinach and cheese casserole this morning — but there are tomorrow’s lunches, and something niggles about the last loaf of bread.

  Cleo’s car starts grudgingly, as if it had better things to do.

  MANDALAY ALMOST HAS THEM ready in time.

  Aidan is dressed, at least, in his new jeans with the turned-up cuffs and a green checked shirt, standing still under her comb, when the doorbell sounds. She feels his shoulders square, thinks — she can see only the top of his head — that his jaw tightens. Her own chest clenches.

  You’re good to go, she says. Can you grab your backpack?

  Let me see my hair, he says.

  The mirror’s hung on the back of the door. She stands behind him, comb at the ready. His clear skin flushed with the bath. His caramel-coloured hair slicked.

  It’s all wrong, he says.

  How?

  Look, he says, pointing to the curls forming at his temples, where his baby hair, the fine hairline down, has already dried.

  It’s perfect, she says.

  No!

  Knocking at the door now, peremptory. She yells, Coming! and then, at the other child, Owen! and hurries to the door. A flitting awareness that she’s frowzy, her hair sprouting from the twist put in hours before, her T-shirt sopping from the boys’ bath. Her sweatpants stained from a misjudged milk pour. The thought that she had meant to have five minutes to tidy up sinking through her, stones in a well.

  She opens the door and there he is, his wide shoulders in a (new?) leather jacket half-blocking the light. His head is slightly tilted and he’s wearing a faint smirk. She knows he’s just won a bet made with himself about how long it would take her to come to the door, or something like that.

  Nice jacket, she says.

  Thanks, he says. Motorcycle.

  She glances reflexively at the lane, almost believing that he would turn up for the boys on a motorbike, but there’s only the hulking black SU V, as usual.

  In the bath all together? Duane asks, looking at her wet shirt. She feels herself flush and scowls. It’s been at least two years since she stopped bathing with the boys, in the face of his objections. Not that she had ca
red whether he didn’t like it. The bathtub had just been getting a little crowded.

  Then Aidan’s at the door, beside her. His damp hair, his glowing fine skin. Hey, Dad.

  Heyyyyy, Aidan. How are you?

  He doesn’t touch the boys, she notices, again.

  Aidan looking tense, expectant. How are you, Dad?

  Well enough, Duane says. Then, before a conversation can start: Where’s your brother?

  The sound of thumping in the hallway, like a one-legged creature approaching, and then a more muffled thud, the tumble of flesh and bone. She sees Duane wince, knows she has winced herself. And Owen appears, hopping, in the hallway, more or less dressed, but both of his legs in one half of his jeans.

  Did you fall? she asks, reaching for him, but he’s laughing, showing the gap where all four front teeth are missing, the lower permanent ones growing in serrated, as if he’s turning into a shark.

  Aidan has lost and replaced his teeth one at a time; Owen was late, and now losing his milk teeth all at once, scrambling to catch up.

  Hey Dad, Owen says, enthusiastically. Guess what? Guess what?

  I guess you haven’t learned to put your pants on properly yet, Duane says. Get it together, Owen. We’re catching a ferry.

  Oh, right! Owen says, and sits, or rather falls on his bottom, and starts over with his jeans. She feels Aidan’s shoulder blade, like a hard little wing, pressing into her waist, where he is leaning against her.

  I’ll go get Owen’s backpack, Aidan says, and disappears into the hallway.

  Okay now, Dad? Owen is jiggling with energy.

  Shirt’s on inside out, Duane says.

  Owen laughs, and Duane finally laughs with him.

  Glasses, Owen? Mandalay asks, gently, and he turns, trips, nearly collides with Aidan in the doorway.

  Duane says: You had one task today, which was to have the boys ready on time.

  She doesn’t answer; she will not argue with him in front of her children. She can hear Owen still rummaging around. Your glasses are in the bathroom, she calls.

  I know, he calls back. I’m looking for Ed.

  In your backpack already, she says.

  Oh, he says, reappearing in the doorway, grinning. I forgot.

  Who’s Ed? Duane asks.

  Teddy bear, she says, shortly. Of course he’ll say something, make fun of the boys having teddy bears.

  He just raises an eyebrow at her.

  She goes to help the boys into the SU V but Duane says, No, no — they can do it by themselves. They do, opening the heavy doors, climbing into their booster seats, pulling the seat belts across themselves, and fastening them.

  See you Sunday night, Duane says, over his shoulder. There’s a piece of a broken toy on the walk, the arm and rotator cuff of some scaly plastic creature — not in Duane’s way at all but she sees him nudge it smartly off the path with his left foot, not even breaking his stride.

  So now the weekend to herself, except for the four hours she’s working Saturday.

  First Mandalay needs to talk to someone, to ground herself. The house seems so empty when the boys leave, especially after the happy chaos of getting them ready to go. And then Duane’s hostility, his criticism, rattles her. She tries a couple of friends, but neither is answering. She dials her sister, Cleo.

  Ugh, Cleo says. I hate dealing with critical, arrogant men. She sounds a bit distant, as usual. How are the lice?

  Gone, Mandalay says. But you wouldn’t believe how much work it was. Everything had to be washed.

  I can believe it, Cleo says, though Mandalay wonders. Cleo’s kids have never had lice. But it’s good to have a little sympathetic conversation after engaging with Duane.

  I think I should tell him he can only take them one weekend a month, she says. Or even once every couple of months. It’s so disruptive, you know?

  I thought you had a legal agreement, Cleo says.

  Well, she does. But it’s not really fair. She’s the twins’ mother. She’s the one who has nurtured them every single moment of their lives, since they were conceived. It’s just been her. And she alone knows all of their thoughts, their preferences and dislikes, their funny fears and their habits. It’s not right that Duane can just swoop in and take them away, every other weekend. She hates it.

  But you said you need that time to get things done, Cleo says. You said you never have time to get your house organized or work on your art projects.

  Art projects. Cleo has such a way of diminishing her work, sometimes. It’s hard to do much on the weekend, she says. She feels disoriented with the boys gone. What she could use, really, is daily after-school care — someone who would come in and play with the boys, maybe do a little light housekeeping and meal prep. Someone who would interact with the boys, encourage them to do constructive play and reading, but also give them their space. Someone who would be her for a few hours. It would be good to have a regular schedule, a bit longer to work each day. She could get more done. As it is, it feels like no sooner does she drop the boys off at school in the morning, then it is afternoon and she’s picking them up again.

  Cleo is silent. (Cleo is judging.)

  Well, Cleo says. I have things to do this evening.

  Cleo is always busy.

  Mandalay should try to get something done this weekend, herself.

  She wanders through her house, makes some tea, sits for a while with the cat, in a patch of sunshine. The house has such good bones, and she actually loves the renovations that were done back in the seventies — the emerald backsplash tile in the kitchen, the closed-in porch, the little stove. She loves the wood floors and wide trim, the mullioned windows, the bamboo or paper blinds she has hung on hooks, the paper globe lamps and hanging plants, the claw-foot tub with its familiar chips and rust stains. Everything is a bit dusty and worn, but the house has such good light and proportions that it’s just all very warm and cozy.

  It’s a look that people pay a lot of money for now, in those little boutiques along Granville or even the second-hand stores on Commercial, right? Shabby chic, it’s called. But she was doing it before it became trendy. There’s something so honest and comfortable and lived-in about her place, with its old sofas draped in vintage blankets, its rickety but graceful little side tables. Everything looks worn and inviting and real. Maybe it’s harder to keep super clean and tidy, but it also doesn’t really show the dirt, and she doesn’t believe in being anal about it. The occasional stray sock or towel just adds to the charm and layering of pattern, this way.

  She drifts down the stairs, to the basement. It’s not a bad basement, for an older house — at some point it had been finished, a suite made, and it’s partly above ground, and gets decent light.

  At some point, she remembers, there had been some talk about renting out the suite again. But she needs the space. All of her art stuff is down here, piled on the counters and stacked against the walls — and there are the boxes and tubs of stuff — items she has collected for potential art projects, clothes and toys that people have given her, or that she and the boys have outgrown.

  It’s a bit of a mess. Maybe she should clean it up. But she doesn’t have the energy to sort it all. The prospect just fills her with ennui. And it’s not doing any harm, is it? It makes her feel optimistic, to have her raw materials waiting. She will have a studio again one day.

  She likes to come down here, open up the odd box, take out an object that she’s forgotten about, and subsume herself in the memories attached to it. She likes to go deep into the moment — holding, for example, this set of preliminary drawings she did for an assignment back in second year printmaking class. It’s so many years ago, now, but the memory of her days sketching buildings down on the waterfront — before it was all changed — flood back. It’s like she’s reliving it. Such a rich experience, it is, to be able to recapture sensory detail like that! It makes her life so rich, gives her such a deep appreciation for her landscape.

  Or, as now, she opens a box, a
nd out of it come springing a long batik-dyed silk blouse, in almost iridescent teals and cobalt blues and purples; a cotton T-shirt printed with a drawing of a squid; a stack of irregular shaped pieces of velvet that used to be pieces of clothing, in all sorts of shades; a large clump that she has to move other items to lift out — it’s a tangled ball of very crumpled vintage linen table napkins. Under that, folded yardage of wool suiting, charcoal-grey, with a pinstripe. What on earth had she planned for that?

  She roots down a bit. She has a kind of tactile memory now of some intricately textured lace she’d found on a bargain table outside a fabric shop in the Punjabi Market, further south around Main and 49th. Where is it? She has had an image of it, within the last few days, overlaid on . . . what? She’ll remember when she sees it. Is it in this box? But the fabric near the bottom feels damp, and a sharp mildew odour rises as she disturbs the pieces piled there. She pulls out a length of pearl-grey satin and finds it speckled black with mildew. Oh, damn.

  She’ll have to wash everything, now, and throw away the damaged bits.

  One day soon, she will go through all of the boxes — there are only a dozen or so — and sort things in some way, maybe by colour or texture . . . she ought to have a set of shelves built, like the ones that knitting shops keep yarn on, so she could see what’s there, at a glance, for inspiration. Maybe she could find something like that ready-made, at IKEA? And she also needs some long work tables. And really, some better lighting.

  She leaves the box open. She can’t get everything back into it. It had been folded and packed away very tightly, probably by Cleo, on one of her rampages.

  She climbs back up the stairs to the kitchen, calling the cat to follow.

  Dishes everywhere, but she’s not going to waste her solo weekend doing dishes.

  Mandalay’s house is split into two suites, as are many of the houses in her neighbourhood. She has the main floor. The basement had been rented, when the twins were babies, to a single middle-aged woman who worked for some big company — was it a utility or a grocery chain? — Mandalay can’t remember. She was a bit gruff, kept to herself. She didn’t seem interested in, or even tolerant of the boys. Once, when they were small, she had knocked on the door to complain that the twins cried too much. She had seemed really upset. It’s not very nice, the woman had said, to be woken up night after night.