The Dead Don't Get Out Much. Mary Jane Maffini
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said, “I can't be tied up for hours. I have places to go and people to see.”
Dead people? I wondered. I decided to tough it out. “As soon as the doctor gives you the green light, you'll be on your way.”
“No time to dally.” She straightened her shoulders. “Everything's fine. Excuse me, please.”
It crossed my mind that maybe Benson & Hedges and Harvey's Bristol Cream were also calling. Even so, I had to admire her sense of drama.
“Maybe she is okay,” I whispered to Alvin, as we stood uselessly watching Mrs. Parnell clump with her cane toward the exit.
“Do you think?” he whispered back.
“She sounds like her old self,” I said, “although she's a funny pasty colour.”
“And her knees are wobbling. You can see them.”
The paramedic was not as useless as we were. He followed her. “If you don't mind, we'd like to confirm that you are all right.”
“I do mind.” Mrs. Parnell fixed him with a look that should have terrified a lesser man.
He didn't even blink. “Won't take any time at all. And, I'll make sure you get some privacy,” he said, giving us a dismissive glance.
* * *
“Well, you can't just let that go,” my sister Alexa huffed over the phone line. “It sounds like the start of dementia to me.”
“What are you talking about? Mrs. Parnell doesn't have dementia. But something's wrong, and I wanted to tell you Alvin and I are here at the hospital, because I know you're planning dinner. I don't know when we'll be out.”
“Don't be silly. Dementia's extremely serious.”
“Once more for the record, it is not dementia. She seems to have had some kind of shock. We haven't had a chance to talk to a doctor. Mrs. P. was whisked away, in case it was a heart attack.”
“You said she was talking to dead people. I was a nurse, in case you have forgotten, and I can tell you when people are in their eighties and they start having conversations with those who have gone before, it's not a good sign. So just this once, don't argue with every word that comes out of my mouth.”
“I'm not arguing,” I said.
“Of course you are.”
“Am not.”
“As usual.”
I massaged my temple, something I find myself doing in every conversation with one of my older sisters. It's not enough that I have to be the short, dark, stocky one in the family, the three of them get to be tall, blonde and elegant. Apparently part of the deal is that they have the answer to everything. Always. My sisters are very attached to the notion of being right.
On the other hand, I was working hard to be nice.
Alexa said, “Edwina wants to talk to you.”
Great. Just what I needed. The supreme commander. “No time, I have to go right…”
“Now look here, missy…” Edwina began.
“Okay. Let's start again. I didn't call to have an argument.”
“It certainly sounds to me like you did, missy.”
“I wanted to let you know that I'm in Emerg with Mrs. Parnell, and I may not make the family dinner tonight because…”
“What? You really are incredible, Camilla. You miss out on so many family events. You know how important this day is to Daddy.”
I took a deep, soothing breath. “Daddy will understand. I have to stay here until we find out if she's all right.”
Edwina sniffed. “Alexa has worked very hard to make this special dinner. She's livid.”
I said, “Alexa doesn't get livid. You're the one who's always livid. Alexa does the guilt trips. Never mind. Put Daddy on the line. He really likes Mrs. Parnell. I'll explain.”
“This is a very emotional day for him. You'll manage to upset him about this. I'll make up a plausible story.”
“What do you mean make up a story? Just tell him the truth.”
“Leave it with me. I'm sure you'll show up eventually.”
Oh, what the hell.
* * *
“I'm a bit tense, try not to make it any worse,” I said to Alvin. We both knew this waiting room too well. We had now been hanging around in useless mode for what seemed like hours, breathing in air heavy with body odour and disinfectant. Our backsides were numb from too long in the molded plastic chairs. Hours earlier, Mrs. P. had vanished into some examination room along with a pack of highly-focussed medical personnel. At least they had behaved as though sudden headache and collapse in a woman in her eighties was worth taking action.
Alvin said, “Me? You're the one who always makes things worse.”
“Who used the word ‘crazy’?”
“You don't really think that made her…?”
All right, I didn't. He just gets me going, and I was worried. Maybe Alvin had been right. Maybe I should have tried harder to talk her out of marching. At the very least, I could have stayed in touch with her more in the preceding week. A good solid Catholic upbringing equips you to wallow in guilt over many issues. I was wallowing big time.
In the few years since we'd met her, Mrs. P. had begun to dote on Alvin, who didn't get much of that from other sources. She'd also saved my bacon more than once. She'd ended up in the ICU as a direct result of some of our investigations. In a pinch, she was game to spend the night guarding a client who was in danger. At the moment your life was flashing before your eyes, you could count on her to pop into the picture brandishing her Benson & Hedges and the appropriate military motto. She'd provide you with a tumbler of Bristol Cream to help you get over whatever trauma you'd be facing. I couldn't imagine life without her.
Alvin reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and produced a brightly-coloured notebook. Unless I missed my guess, it had repeating images of Margaret Trudeau on it. Very Andy Warhol. He clicked a hot pink gel pen, bent his head and began to write.
“What's that?” I said.
“It's my journal. Do you like the cover? I designed it myself.”
“It's very interesting, and I'm not surprised you designed it yourself, but since when do you keep a journal?”
“I just started. I'm using it as an ongoing process of self-discovery. Not that it's any of your business.”
“Everything is my business, Alvin,” I said, for no particular reason. Sometimes you just have to pick on the closest person. I'm trying to cut down on that sort of thing, but Alvin makes such a fine target.
Alvin said, without lifting his head, “I was going to write about all the wonderful things Violet has done for me, like dropping everything and driving to Nova Scotia when my brother, Jimmy, was missing, but now I'm making a note that although you were supposed to try to be nicer to people, you have failed miserably. I hope that will be a lesson to me not to be half-assed about my own personal objectives.”
“I can see you're going to enjoy your voyage, Alvin,” I said nicely.
He snapped the book shut. “I'm scared, Camilla. What's wrong with her?”
I refused to say the awful words that reverberated in my mind. Aneurysm. Alzheimer's. Dementia. Brain tumour. Stroke. Cardiac arrest.
Alvin poked me in the ribs. “I need a bit of reassurance. Is that too much to ask?”
What could I say that wouldn't make things even worse? Mrs. Parnell smokes a package of cigarettes a day and consumes sherry by the vat. She doesn't believe in