Making Family

Chapter One

The fog is swirling around the streetlight poles and dancing around the sidewalks. It seems to have a life all its own, but then again, what about this place doesn’t? As I sit down in the worn chair by the window and watch for nothing in particular, I notice how the fog seems alive on this Tuesday morning.

I sip my tea slowly, waiting for the warmth to spread through my middle and take away the early morning chills. No one but me would be awake at such an ungodly hour, and I have always been one to enjoy such solitude. My poor mother had often worried about me when I was young; I seemed to survive on little to no sleep, staying up all hours reading and disappearing over the hills with the first light of day. That seemed like a lifetime ago – I suppose it was. I shake my head to clear out those long distant memories, and turn my thoughts once more to the view from my window.

I didn’t much think about that place, once I left. Occasionally, it would slip, unbidden, into my thoughts in the early morning, such as today, when I have little to distract me. Soon though, the streets of the old city will be coming alive, and those bothersome memories will disappear once more. The sun is beginning to cast its fiery glow over the Southside hills, and the late season frost glistens as the fingers of daylight stretch to choke away the icy blanket. The scattered window is lighting up – people are getting up and about now – they’ll soon be heading out to work and school, another day ticking away.

I had come to this city as soon as I had my chance. I was barely more than fifteen, as I recall now. Thinking back on how foolishly I had acted, I couldn’t help but shudder. I had been in such a hurry to leave home and had no idea what I was getting into. As I stepped onto the boat that morning, I had vowed never to look back, and I hadn’t. Not once. Not when the boat lurched away from the dock, not when my mother cried out to me. And not when we slipped out of the harbour into the open sea, and the place of my birth slipped out of view. I was disgusted with myself for letting one tear slip down my cheek, and brushed it away before anyone noticed. Back then I was full of piss and vinegar and wanted to look forward, not back. And that’s exactly what I had done.

Now I am sitting here, a lifetime later, and I wonder what the rush was about. I could have waited a year or two. I could have stayed longer to help. But I didn’t. I chose to run away and pretend that my life there was nothing more than a made-up story, like the ones I was reading in dime store novels. Now, most days, I sat and watched from my window as other young girls made the same mistakes. I smile tenderly as I watch them try to distance themselves from everything and everyone that defined them – their families, their friends and this place. When would they realize, like I had, that all of those things made them who they were and would forever be a part of them? All the distance in the world would not change that…

I pull the quilt over my legs again and snuggle back into the corner of the overstuffed, floral chair. Every day this chair seems to be growing, and I can disappear a little further into it. Silly child, I chide myself, you’re this old and still thinking like some four year old. Grow up! My voice sounds strange in the empty room. The house itself is full of echoes since I am the only one left now. Funny how, from time to time, I think I can still hear some of the others wandering around. Those days are also long gone. I have lived alone these past ten years, at least.

My tea is almost gone and I lean forward to pour another cup from the pot on the cluttered table. I catch sight of my knobby, gnarled hands as they wrap around the little ceramic pot. This getting old business wasn’t for the faint of heart! The quilt slipped a little off my lap and I have to pull it up once more to cover my faded dressing gown. Some nights I don’t even bother pulling on an old flannel nightie – I just sleep in my clothes, with that same quilt pulled up to my neck. I’d drift off in this selfsame chair but never slept for more than a few hours at a stretch. It seems as if my tired, old body doesn’t want to waste what little time I have left with such a useless activity as sleep. The second cup of tea seems to rouse my spirits today though, and once I sip the last drop from my favourite china mug, I am finally ready to face the day. But what exactly am I facing? Another day sitting by the window, watching as others lived life and I was the observer? Another day of listening to my lone voice echoing in the narrow downstairs hallway? Or should today be the day when I finally did like the others – take to my bed like the frail, old woman that I was supposed to be, and wait for my last breath? Not goddammed likely, I muttered, for I know that I am not one to give up so easily.

With a deep breath, I pull myself upright (or almost upright, these days) and gather up the teapot and mug and head out to the kitchen to tidy up. The narrow hallway hugs me in welcome, being used to bodies bumping up against its beadboard sides, it was not used to life with one. Nor was I, even though so much time had passed, the wallpaper above the chair rail had been picked out by Mary. She had loved those little clusters of purple pansies tossed against the pale yellow stripes. How we’d all teased her for that! She had stood her ground though, and the wallpaper stayed. In time, I had grown fond of it too, but I didn’t dare tell poor Mary, lest she think she had converted me into a lady such as herself. Another smile passed my lips. Sometimes the memories were good, and those were nice company. But the memories from my early days at home were unwelcome, and those were the ones that bothered me. I clatter the dishes around in the sink for a while – not that there are many, just a small plate and the pot and mug, but the sound made me happy – made me feel like I am useful, and cleaning up after breakfast in the old days, when the wooden table had three or four girls sitting around it, chattering excitedly about what adventures their day would bring.

I finish the dishes quickly and leave them to dry in the dish drainer. I make my way back down the hallway and grab the solid banister to make my way upstairs to get dressed. The knob on top is worn, but is a strong old post, and doesn’t shake at all when I grab it. The paint isn’t badly chipped, just worn thin in a few places, where it had gotten the most use over the years. The narrow, steep stairs lead to another beadboard hall – this one with three doors and yet another set of stairs. The other stairs were seldom used, as the top flat had been vacant for many years now. I stop in the hallway and look at the heavy closed doors. Each one could tell it’s own story, but I was glad that their voices were silent. I push open my own room door.

The room had changed very little in the past fifty years. The same iron, four-poster bed sat in the corner and the same wardrobe graced the far wall. It was by no means a large room, couldn’t be more than 10x12, but it had the best view of the city by far. From my window I can see the spires of the Basilica to the left, and sweep my eyes across the horizon to see Cabot Tower, guarding the old city. Piles of handmade quilts sit atop the heavy wooden wardrobe, quilts I had made to pass the long winter nights. Now my hands wouldn’t allow such fine stitching, and I was contenting myself with knitting and crocheting. The quilt on my bed was one of the last ones I had completed, and it was heavier than the others. I am finding it harder to rid myself of chills and aches these days, so I had made it extra warm.

I pull on a knee-length, black skirt – for I never wear pants, and a warm cardigan sweater on top of a pretty, pale pink blouse. I run a brush through my hair quickly and try not to look at the gray in the mirror. The curls are still holding out, and this makes me smile; my curls had been the thing that I had been most proud of when I was a foolish young girl. I put on a pair of pearl earrings and shove my feet into a pair of moccasin slippers.

Eventually I find my way back downstairs to the front room again. Now the street is full of activity. I watch children racing down the block, heading to school. Young Nathan next door is swinging his book bag at the girl who lives further down the street. She is sticking her tongue out at him, taunting him, and he is pretending to try to hit her with his bag. She squeals at a near miss, I can hear her through the glass. I laugh a little, in spite of myself. I’m sure that they don’t think of me as a crotchety old woman, but I have been known to express my opinion. Finally Nate notices me watching, so I pretend to be upset and shake my fist at him. He reads my expression though, and winks. Since when do ten year olds wink? I think with a rueful smile. What a smart ass! He gives a quick wave and takes off, running after the girl again. I turn away, still grinning.

I set about tidying up my little room, not that there was much mess with just me sitting by the window all day, but I straighten the pillows on the sofa and stack the books on the table a little more neatly. My eyes are still good, so I devour books as a way to pass the long, lonely days. My gaze sweeps across the room, satisfied that I have done my housekeeping for the day. I look at the old photos in the frames on the wall. Most are faded and the sepia is more yellow than brown. The stern faces that stare back at me with those unseeing eyes, give me the chills. No one looked like that in life, and these photos had always made me shudder. They were mostly of long-dead relatives; Mary’s parents in one, Beth’s mother and grandmother were in another. No one made a fuss when I didn’t want my parent’s picture mounted on the wall, although I could tell they had some questions.

I remember the day that those damn pictures went up on the wall. Mary had decided that we should try to make this place more like our home, since we had all bought it together. She had trotted up to the top flat and returned with two giant pictures in matching walnut frames. The unsmiling faces of her parents glared out as us all, but she didn’t seem to mind their expressions much. There, she had said with a satisfied grin, now this is more like home!

For whom? I asked gloomily. I wasn’t really taken with the idea of coming face to face with those characters every day.

Cheer up – you can put up pictures of your family too, she had said as she wiped her hands in her apron.

No thank you, I said simply and walked out of the room. Beth followed and touched my shoulder.

You don’t talk about them – ever. If you ever feel the need… her voice trailed off. I shook her hand away and headed upstairs, so that she wouldn’t see the tears that had come suddenly to my eyes.

Now, all these years later, and those two were still staring out from their dark frames, judging me. You can quit now; you’ve seen all the bad stuff and now it’s just me left. Not much I’ll be doing to disgrace you. Maybe one of these days I’ll take them down – if the paper behind isn’t too faded.

According to the nice looking woman in the smart suit on the television channel, the fog will burn off shortly and it will be a pleasant afternoon, but a cool evening. I decide that I should go out for a while – blow the stink off of me – as Beth would say.

I putter around the kitchen and make some raisin tea buns. I lay them on racks on the table to cool and begin making a sandwich for my lunch – ham and cheese on homemade bread. I can’t knead the dough anymore, but the bakery on the corner makes it almost as good as my own. I sit at one corner of the table and eat my lunch in solitude. I turn on the radio for a little company, and the announcer’s voice is rich and deep. The community service announcements end, so he introduces the next song as an oldie but a goody. The cliché doesn’t bother me too much, especially the way that he croons the phrase. He’s right. The oldies are definitely the goodies, way better than the trash they were passing off as music these days. I recognize the tune at once – Moonlight Serenade. God, how I had loved dancing to those Glenn Miller tunes at the base during the war. I close my eyes and rest my chin on my hands, the sandwich forgotten. I let the music wash over me. It holds me in its embrace like those soldiers did so many nights ago. I can still feel their hot breath on my neck and their hands on the small of my back. I sway a little to the music, forgetting that all of that had been a lifetime ago too, and I am sitting alone in my kitchen over sixty years later.

Lunch is finished, so I head back upstairs to get a sweater. I catch a chill more easily these days and think it best to take one along, just in case. The one I had put on this morning isn’t really warm enough on its own, and a spare couldn’t go astray. I find a gray, hand knit pullover, feeling pretty sure that I won’t need it, but don’t want to be caught unprepared.

As soon as I shut the front door, I know that I had made the right choice. The sun caresses my cheeks, like an old lover, a familiar touch that still holds some warmth. I head towards the shops on Water Street. I’m not looking for anything in particular, just twacking, mostly. I have little use for the touristy things that most of the stores peddle, but I did plan to stop in a craft store to look at some wool, and a little café for a cup of tea mid afternoon. With the sun dipping below the tops of the buildings, I know that the time had come to head home. At my slow pace I will be lucky to make it back in an hour, and that is the time when the streets were at their busiest. I didn’t like walking around downtown during rush hour. I had never much liked cars, and the congestion on these tiny streets makes me nervous.

As I turn the corner to my familiar street, the place I had called home for more than half a century, I look at the houses that line both sides of the road. They are mostly linked together in many colours, like yarn that had been joined haphazardly together to make a scarf with little thought of the combination. Some of the people have been doing up the houses – flipping them, I believe is the term they use. My house looms lonely almost at the end. It is one of the few unattached ones, which had made it quite a find when we girls had bought it. I suppose it is still quite a find, and someday, someone will probably make a fortune off of it, if they renovate it properly.

Every time I walk down this road, I stop midway to stare at my house. Even after all this time I can’t believe it is mine. It is a three-story house, with turrets on either side. The faded red colour is like wine, and the money I had spent last summer to have the front porch replaced and painted white was well worth it. I had a small wicker chair, also white, placed in the corner so that I could enjoy the fine weather. I squint a little.

There appears to be a small shadowy form in that very chair. Usually the kids in the neighborhood stop by after school to say hello or have a cookie. I don’t mind, am glad for the company, and am fairly certain that their parents asked them to check on me. It is nice living here, these strangers treating me like family, and for that, I am grateful.

I get closer and the shadow doesn’t move. It doesn’t stir at all until I am at the bottom of the three steps leading to the door.

Can I help you? I ask, not recognizing the figure at all. When it looks up, I realize that it is a young girl, maybe fifteen or so. She is thin and pale, and has long blonde hair that hangs straight down her back. Her eyes are so blue they are almost black, and judging from how red-rimmed they are, she has been crying. She is a striking girl, even in her misery. I slowly mount the steps and head towards her. She still hasn’t spoken. I am at a loss for words – I have never been the good one at this sort of thing. Dealing with tears had always been Beth’s department.

I put on hand on her shoulder and she lifts her face to look in my eyes. Suddenly I am struck by