Every Happy Family (20 page)

“Carpe diem,” says Nancy and everyone looks at her.

Jill hiccups with pride as, all eyes on her, Nancy gives a queenly wave.

“On that note I'll have some more wine,” says Kenneth with a laugh.

Jill sees Holly whisper the question to Quinn who translates the Latin for her. Quinn catches Jill looking at him and she looks away, but not in time.

Pema asks Katie not to pull into the cul-de-sac but to let her off at the corner so she can sneak up on the house and not the other way around. After Katie drives away, she stands there for a minute, feeling out of place in her chuba and seeing her old world with new eyes: the colossal size of the trees, the curious fact of lawns, each home as big as Jampaling's carpet factory, magnolia blossoms the size of her head. Houses in Canada are very big. This was one of the simple English sentences she used to teach her students but she'd forgotten how true it was.

She starts up the street, rolling her suitcase behind her. Despite the weather no one is out except for a tortoiseshell cat in the yard to her right, toying with something unseen in the grass. Pema veers away. Cats have always made her uneasy and her feelings were justified in cat-free Jampaling. Cats get no love from Tibetans. They were the only animal that didn't cry when the Buddha died, she was told, and are considered to be the sociopaths of the animal realm. Mice, on the other hand, were a daily sight.

She realizes that with the exception of Darwin and his sister, Hailey, whom she used to babysit, she can't recall the names of any of her former neighbours. In Jampaling she not only knew her neighbours' names but their family histories, their jobs, their eating and bathing habits.

Half-hidden by the friendly giant, as she always called the oak, her old house looks exactly the same. Closer now, she sees that the white clapboard is streaked grey with water stains and the yellow flower boxes are also in need of paint, but the bright red spill of geraniums makes up for it, she thinks, knowing that painting the house had been Les's job.

She parks her suitcase and backpack by the front door and glimpses Jill through the dining-room window, wearing what Pema used to think of as her
Little Mermaid
dress. A familiar shyness shrinks her stomach. How she used to be embarrassed to open her mouth around Jill who constantly corrected her English or pointed out yet another stupid mistake in her homework. She's grateful now, but it was mortifying then. She wonders if Jill's still upset with her for not finishing high school? At the time it seemed that bothered Jill even more than Pema's leaving home.

A ladybug lands on her sleeve and she urges it away with her finger. She hears the familiar song of a bird – a robin? – and then the clicking sounds of a ping pong game. Sounds like Beau's losing to Quinn she thinks as she hears a gruff shout. She used to refuse to play with Beau because of that smirk of his whenever he was winning.

Holding onto her noisy silver bangles, she picks her quiet way along the patio stones down the side of the house to spy through the fence. The silver Roman sandals she'd borrowed from Katie – her one salute to fashion and Auntie Annie – are rubbing a heel wrong.

She hears swearing. Definitely Beau's voice.

For the past three years she's been surrounded by the alert touch and windy talk of sisters. Hearing her brothers causes her muscles to twitch, and she wants to run and leap on Beau's back. Smack him around the head for not keeping in touch.

She sneaks up to the fence, peers through the slats. Is that really him? This guy is the bulked-up version of the Beau she knew. He has tight lines like parentheses around his smile, his blond hair is now a woody brown. He misses the next point and hisses under his breath. Is he wearing the Coldplay T-shirt she gave him for Christmas back in grade ten? It was way too big for him then, and now the sleeves cut into his biceps. God, she is seriously overdressed.

“I'm out of practice,” says Beau. “Let's call this a warm-up game.”

Pema rolls her eyes.

An unfamiliar female laugh is followed by, “Sure.”

He brought a girl. Isn't this a family event?

She retraces her steps to the front door, finds it unlocked and manoeuvres her bags inside. Sticks her nose into the flowers on the hall table and inhales. She can hear Auntie Annie say something about osteoporosis and Japanese green tea and pictures Datso's husband showing off his braided red and brown leather belt with the snakehead buckle. “Designer snake belt,” he boasts to everyone he meets, then holds up a finger. “One of a kind.” His brother grew so jealous that Datso had to make sure the belt was shared between them.

She slips down the hall, still unnoticed, and stops before entering the doorway into the family room and kitchen. Smiles to see the same yellow kitchen counters with the blackened half circle next to the stove. She'd set down a pot of melted marshmallows while making Rice Krispy squares for some event at school. What was she, eleven? She was so afraid of what Jill might say that she let Beau take the blame with some of his mute macho shrugs, and he lost his computer privileges for a week. She felt badly about that.

She peeks around the corner into the family room. Looking just like herself only with whiter hair, Grammy sits in a chair by the windows spreading something on a piece of bread. Pema pokes her head in a little further. In the chair beside her grandmother sits what looks like an old man, but she knows it's Les, turned to the window and watching the ping pong game. He's gaunt as an Indian aesthete, nothing but skin stretched over bone, and every breath looks like a tragic effort. Her hand moves unconsciously to her heart and at the jingle of her bracelets he turns his head. His eyes are a more eager blue-grey than she remembers, but the person behind them is the very same, and she shrugs hello, smiles while biting her lip to keep from crying. His head lifts off the back of his chair and her name comes out as a pinched squeak. She walks straight over and hugs him, apologizes for her clumsiness as one of her arms gets tangled in his tubing.

“Never apologize,” he whispers and holds her face in his hands.

With those two words, her worries about this homecoming are much relieved. “Thank you,” she manages to whisper back.

They hold each other's teary gaze for a moment longer until Auntie Annie screeches, “It's Pema! Pema! She's here!”

And then she's hugging Auntie Annie, who's also bald for some reason, and then Jill, whose surprisingly fierce embrace squeezes the breath out her. Then sincere, sombre Quinn's brief hug and “Welcome home,” before Pema's mysterious uncle and virtual stranger is also hugging her. And then she's shaking hands with Holly, Quinn's and not Beau's girlfriend, and finally there's Beau, his muscled legs in torn jeans. After such a transfusion of love, it takes all her willpower not to look up at him. She pauses and goes still to give him a few seconds to say something, to speak first or step forward and initiate a hug. But being that he's a let-people-come-to-me sort of guy, she knows he won't. She pretends she hasn't seen him and turns to Jill. “Nice to be home. Could I possibly have some water? Planes make me so thirsty.”

Jill stands in the kitchen looking around without seeing. She has barely eaten today and the wine has gone straight to her head. What time is it? She'd like to get this ceremony started but an overexcited Annie is herding everyone into the family room so she can give her gifts to the kids.

“We're saving Les's gifts for later,” calls Jill.

Annie ducks as if Jill's words were solid objects flung at her. “Just the kids, just the kids,” she says.

Jill surreptitiously refills her mug. Leaning on the kitchen counter, she watches Pema settle on the floor beside Les's chair, reach up and take his hand. Les's mouth doesn't actually move but Jill can tell by the tilt of his eyes that he's smiling. His eyes have grown strangely bright of late, an eerie silver, as though the lens of his eye has grown thinner too, or some tremendous light inside him is pushing its way out.

Beau is on the couch with his arms crossed, staring dagger-eyed at Pema. What is going on with those two? They used to get on like a house on fire. Holly shares the ottoman with Quinn and as he opens his gift she drapes her arms around his neck, slides her face alongside his. A public display, thinks Jill, sipping her wine.

“I'm hungry,” announces Nancy as she spreads brie on another round of bread.

“Mom, you don't like that cheese, remember?” says Jill, frustrated all over again about the burnt quiches, knowing Nancy would have devoured them. “Have some veggies and dip. The nuts.”

Nancy taps her teeth in response.

“Just plain bread then,” says Jill as Nancy continues to stab a knife at the cheese. On the table beside her sits a pile of napkins filled with half-chewed pieces of bread and brie.

Holly gently takes the knife from Nancy and moves the cheese to the far end of the table. At least someone's listening, thinks Jill, unable to bring herself to say thanks.

She preheats the oven for the potatoes. What else does she need to do?

“Thanks, Auntie Annie,” says Quinn over Pema's oohing. “Black and blue. My colours,” he says.

The vest is black cotton in front and royal-blue satin in back, but Jill worries he's being metaphorical, that already, at twenty-five, he feels beaten up by life. Did she push him too hard? She takes a long drink.

As if
she's
his mother, Holly helps Quinn off with the vest he's wearing then helps him on with the new one.

“Cool,” says Holly as Quinn turns to show Les the back of it.

“Cool,” says Jill under her breath.

“Holly has a kid, you know,” whispers Kenneth, suddenly behind her. “Four years old. Owen. I've always wanted to name a son Owen.” He refills his glass.

“It's a purse, a bag,” says Annie, handing a box to Pema. “Just so you know.”

“It's a box,” corrects Nancy, and Beau barks out a laugh.

Jill takes Kenneth by the arm and pulls him through the swinging door into the dining room. “How do you know she has a kid?”

“Because I'm not avoiding her like you are. She's not so fresh-faced but seems decent and sweet.”

Jill sighs. “I'm sure she is. I just had a different vision of things is all.” Hit with a wave of fatigue, she pulls out a dining-room chair. “Feels like I don't even know my own kid any more.”

“How well can we know anyone?”

Not helpful, thinks Jill.

“He seems like a bright kid,” says Kenneth as if catching her thought. “Thoughtful. A little nerdy. He'll do fine.”

“A little nerdy.” Jill hadn't bothered to confide in her brother about Quinn's drinking, the blackouts, arrests, a stint in rehab. Can all that fit with nerdy?

He sits down too, turns his chair in order to face her. “Can I talk to you about something, Jill?” He runs a hand over his head and winces as he tugs on his ponytail.

The defenseless look on her brother's face whisks her back thirty-plus years to Kenneth knocking on her bedroom door for advice about a girl he liked or a coach he wasn't getting on with, and how proud she was that it was her, not Mom, he'd sought out.

“Is this a good time?”

What time is it? “Sure. Is this about Kimmie?”

“Yes.”

“Kimmie and Kenny.” She smiles and drinks from her mug.

Like he always did when he was embarrassed and about to spill his guts, Kenneth scratches inside his ear and focuses on the floor. The wine floods her body like warm syrup and she feels more relaxed than she has all year, since the news of Les's cancer having spread. A sudden rush of sisterly love and she's saying, “Have I told you, Kenneth, that it really is very nice to see you. You who've been gone forever.”

He looks up. “No, you haven't. You've just put me to work.”

She huffs a laugh, gives his hand a stroke.

“Nice to see you too,” he says, “and your brood. You've done a great job, you know that?”

“Thank you.” She hooks her thumb over her shoulder. “That guy in there helped. A lot.”

“I'm so sorry about Les,” he says, and she's tearing up before she's even aware enough to stop it.

“Ohhhh,” she breathes. “Yeahhhh.” It's as though she'd forgotten what this evening was about. She yanks at the nearest cloth napkin, sending a fork flying, and wipes her eyes.

“How're you holding up?” he asks.

It takes another minute before her voice is hers again.

“I'm always holding up.” She bites on a smile. “That's what I do.”

He takes her hand and she revels in its warmth. “I want to thank you for being there for Mom,” he says. “I know it was a hard choice to make, moving her out of the house.”

She points at him. “And I hated you for not being here. I did. I do. I hate you.” She gives his leg a whack.

He nods. “I'm not as brave as you.”

“Brave.” She drinks her wine. “I don't know about that. I still think of you as Mom's hero.”