The Company We Keep Read online

  Addie had casual friends, but no one as close as Sybil. Not counting Tye. The marriage was over, but she and Tye kept in touch occasionally by phone. He worked in the field of bioethics. She had met him in Montreal. Her friendship with Sybil had also begun there, but that was before she met and married Tye.

  Thirty years ago, on their first day of university and while standing as two strangers in a slow-moving line of students, she and Sybil waded through registration procedures on the McGill campus. It was a sunny September day, a day filled with promise. After the first half hour, while inching forward and making barely discernible progress, they agreed on a plan for lunch. The two had been friends ever since. Reliable, loving, lifelong friends. Sybil worked her way up to becoming a professor in the nursing faculty several years after graduation, and she continued to teach, deriving enormous satisfaction from her job. Addie studied administration in health services. After completing her studies, she stayed on in the city. When her marriage broke down, she made the decision to relocate; she needed a new start. She responded to an ad and moved to Ontario, accepting an administrative position at the Wilna Creek Hospital. Eventually, she became the unit manager responsible for the large and newly expanded Danforth Wing.

  Addie had always been comfortable around hospitals, even as a teenager. Her late mother had trained to be a nurse in a hospital school, but after graduate studies, she’d worked as a psychiatric nurse on the locked wards of one of the old Victorian-era institutions—of the kind that were probably no longer in existence. When Addie was in senior high, she sometimes met her mother after school so they could drive home together. Her mother was part of a large family, and Addie still had aunts, uncles and cousins in Quebec and New Brunswick. Sadly, no one made much of an effort to stay in touch now that her mother was dead. Some individuals were key to keeping families together, and that was a fact of life. Addie’s father was not one of these; he had remarried and moved to Spain, and was now living in Sitges.

  Addie’s marriage had lasted sixteen years. She was single now, though she’d resolved to keep Tye’s surname after the breakup. One less change among many at the time. Tye’s full name was Thierry Levesque. The superintendent in their first apartment, a Portuguese immigrant who’d recently arrived in Canada, always pronounced the s in her married name. She had never corrected him. Indeed, she sometimes thought of herself as the former Madame Levesk.

  She unfolded the first letter from Sybil. This was the announcement of the illness that would soon end her friend’s life. Addie knew she should throw away every one of these sad reminders, but so far she had not.

  Dear Addie,

  Have you ever had the feeling that you’re going through something that can’t really be happening? Not happening to you?

  Well, that’s the way I feel at this moment. And since this letter has to be written sometime, the time might as well be now. Remember the lump I mentioned a while back? I told you that I would see about it, that it would be a routine investigation. But it was not a cyst, as I’d been told to expect. The lump was cancerous.

  This is happening. To me. Right now. I am being forced to face reality.

  I’m sorry to be sharing this, but you have to know the facts at some point, and there isn’t going to be any good time to pass on the news.

  January 9 I discovered the lump; two days ago I was in the OR having my left breast removed. I am on the ward now, and in the best hospital for the surgery. Half the nurses here are people I trained myself. I am treated the way one hopes to be treated—if one is unlucky enough to be here in the first place. I’m not experiencing physical discomfort. I dress myself in my own clothes every day. I don’t wear a gown on the ward. I have already begun exercises. The staff—including the cleaning staff—believe me to be an imposter. I cry a bit. I’d like to scream, but not here. That’s the first thing I’ll do when I’m back in my apartment. I don’t want to upset the other patients. I’ll be home soon, as they don’t keep patients long, not here—or anywhere, for that matter.

  I’m cheered somewhat because things are looking positive. Having gone from the initial belief—self-created—that I had two weeks to live, I have now accepted a brighter prognosis. Now discussion is about possible spread: lymph, liver. Or not. Chemo or no chemo. Radiation or no radiation. That news is yet to come. I’m trying to be hopeful. That’s what I mean when I use the word “positive.”

  My mother insisted on coming to Montreal and has been staying at my apartment, but I have encouraged her to go back to Greenley. She wanted to be present while I was undergoing surgery, and I understood her need to be here. However, I want time alone when I’m discharged.

  I’ll be remaining here and won’t be travelling to Greenley, or even to Wilna Creek, for a while, but I will later, during my recovery. For now, for the first time in years, I can report that I have time to read. I asked my mom to bring a couple of books from my apartment, and she showed up on the ward with One Hundred Years of Solitude by Márquez and a biography of Hans Christian Andersen. I admit that I sat in my chair weeping over a badly written biography of the great Dane. At least I learned things about the man, but there have to be better accounts of his life than the one my mother found. As for Márquez, his novel has been buried in my to-read stack for three decades. I hope I have enough time left to finish the tome because I’m enjoying the saga of the Buendía family. I know you gave up on me ever taking the time to read it, but I have become a woman of leisure. Yes, I’ve quit my job. The dean told me she would hold my position in case I change my mind, but I’ve decided to leave permanently. This has not been an easy decision. I have always loved working with students and patients, but now I want to take advantage of opportunities I’ve passed up because I’ve been so busy in the profession. I’m calling this an early retirement.

  Next step? Maybe I’ll have to face chemo. I’ll let you know as soon as I have results.

  Don’t you love receiving cheery mail like mine? If you think this letter is gloomy, look at it this way: my situation is a thousand times more positive than it appeared to be even a week ago. Dear friend, I am going through the sense of loss and fear that we have recognized many times in so many others. I’d have phoned, but the spoken word fails me for the moment. I’ll keep writing until we can talk face to face. If I can manage, I still plan to travel to Denmark with you for our holidays in late spring. Don’t jump to make reservations yet. I’ll let you know when I’ve broken free of the muddle, which at the moment is a guessing game at best.

  In the months that followed, many letters were exchanged between Addie in Wilna Creek and Sybil in Montreal. Sybil continued to communicate only by letter; writing to Addie was therapy. Chemo had been necessary, and the effects were brutal. That was followed by what Sybil labelled her “good life” stage, which lasted two months. But the disease was aggressive. There had been no trip to Denmark. During her own vacation time, Addie travelled to Montreal and stayed with her friend for the three and a half weeks they had planned to be in northern Europe. The treatments Sybil endured did buy her extra time—a little more than half a year. But inevitably, her apartment had to be given up. She had moved back to her hometown of Greenley, back to her childhood room in her mother’s large bungalow. Desperation was setting in. Every weekend on her days off, Addie, though fatigued, found herself driving an hour each way, to and from Greenley. Sometimes, she made extra trips after her day’s work.

  She realized that Sybil would have to be admitted to hospital before long—this time to the cancer ward of the Greenley Health Centre, the palliative care wing. Complications of care were becoming too much for Sybil’s mother, too much for everyone. Sybil’s mother was in her early eighties. Addie was worn out from helping while holding down her own demanding job. She was worn out from driving back and forth.

  Sybil was giving up, breath by breath, what had been, until the past year, her firm grip on life. Her body, once strong and fit, was failing. During today’s visit, Addie had tried to offer comfort,
hope. But how could she offer hope when they were both aware of what was happening? Aware of the hopelessness. One of them was on an out-of-control journey toward death. While driving home, Addie cried most of the way. That, too, out of control; the state was called grief. The feeling was despair, a heaviness lodged behind the eyes. Much of the time, she felt as if an invisible mask had been tied in place, holding back the light.

  She remembered how she had studied stress and its effects on the body. One of the psych courses she and Sybil had signed up for together was called Health Effects of Stress and Stress Management. They’d also studied Spanish. They wanted to learn an extra language beyond French and English and often took vacations together, so they opted for Spanish.

  Addie had no difficulty remembering Sybil’s capacity to abandon herself to helpless laughter. She could also be entirely practical. “C’mon, Addie. Let’s not create stress by anticipating. Let’s not get worked up before something happens. Because maybe nothing will happen. If a problem comes along, we’ll lay out the options and choose a solution.”

  Sybil had propped her up when she and Tye separated, and Addie had been grateful to have someone close to talk to. With their give-and-take friendship, neither she nor Sybil had ever had to lie on the couch of a professional.

  The stress now, however, was the real thing for both. Addie knew that her stress level could not be placed on the same scale as that of her friend. She also had to look after her own well-being while watching Sybil go down. Otherwise, she’d be of no help to Sybil or her family. Nor would she be able to carry on with her own work. Problem-solving abilities were not useful at the moment.

  For weeks, Addie had been helping with the physical care of her friend in Greenley, which meant that she was spending precious little time in her own fifth-floor apartment in Wilna Creek. She cancelled delivery of the Wilna Creek Times because papers were stacking up unread. She had no hope of keeping up with local news, but occasionally she flipped through a city paper left behind in one of the hospital waiting rooms. She began to pay attention to obituaries, and read through these with a deep, knowing sadness while studying photos of the deceased and imagining their lives. She’d recently learned, during a coffee-break conversation, that several of her colleagues carried laminated cards in their wallets with instructions for their own future funerals and those of their partners. The funerals were prepaid, every detail worked out in advance. She sat in astonishment while her colleagues cheerfully compared boxes they’d ticked for various pâtés and specific sandwich fillings for receptions that would not be enjoyed by them. They’d be present, but inside an urn or a casket—also preselected.

  Addie was not one of these preplanners who could whip out a funeral card from her wallet. Nor was Sybil, she was certain. Addie was not executor of Sybil’s will; that duty had been assigned to Sybil’s brother. But she was responsible for some of the decisions being taken now, during Sybil’s illness, because of the power of attorney.

  In the meantime, she made attempts to keep herself in balance. She had little time for physical exercise, little time to make proper meals. Before falling asleep at night, she flicked on the TV. National and world news slipped by without any involvement or say-so from her. Any news apart from reports of Sybil scarcely mattered anyway.

  Realistically, apart from work, all Addie now had time for in her shrunken world was a series of tasks: laundry, change of towels, change of sheets. On occasion, a quick run of the vacuum through the rooms of her apartment. She was fatigued, preoccupied, sick of being in a car that was constantly on the move between two points on a road map. And—she realized suddenly—she was hungry. How could she think of food while sharing her friend’s last days, weeks, hours? Earlier in the day, Sybil’s mother had urged her to stay for dinner, but Addie had found herself making excuses. She could not sit at a table eating while Sybil was down the hall in her bedroom, propped against pillows, taking sips of fluid through a straw, coughing, short of breath, trying to stay alive.

  Do not indulge in melodrama, Addie told herself. She folded the letter she held in her hand and picked up the one beneath it.

  I am not trying to “stay” this disease. I am out for a cure. You will know what a setback it was for me to learn that the last test result was discouraging. Instead of moping, I’m focusing on what is within my control: diet, exercise, mood. I’m doing my best to stay in balance. Trying to mete out my strengths so I can call upon them when I must. What I’m missing is laugh therapy. I underline these words because laugh therapy will happen during your visits. Oh, Addie, my friend, we need to laugh. I can’t wait to see you.

  Addie pushed aside the rest of the letters and got up to check through her kitchen cupboards. Not much to inspire. Her weight gain since her breakup with Tye had been slow and gradual. She’d been eating all the wrong foods and knew she’d have to make a correction, but she didn’t have the energy to solve that issue. Not now. She needed food, any food, and would worry about losing weight later. After Sybil. That was as far as she could take the thought.

  She looked out and down from her kitchen window and began to watch a woman who lived in the building facing hers, but two storeys below. The woman, who had carrot-orange hair, was placing dishes on a patio table in the sheltered part of her balcony. A setting for two: plates, napkins, a bottle of Chianti. The woman stood back and considered. She disappeared into the interior darkness of her apartment, returned with a watering can and sprinkled a hanging plant, a lobelia of the deepest blue. Around the corner of the building, same level, another woman—out of sight of the first—chain-smoked on her balcony while standing at the railing. Smoking was not permitted inside Addie’s building or in the building across the way, and the smoker could be seen outside in all weathers. Some mornings, she was out there shivering in black-and-blue-checked pyjamas, huddled against the cold, a blanket draped over her shoulders, quick desperate puffs pulled into her lungs and wisping outward into the frigid air.

  Addie put on her jacket, took the elevator down to the indoor parking garage, got into her car and drove to Marvin’s. She bought pasta, fresh tomatoes, herbs and green onions. She would make a decent meal for herself. She chose a green pepper and was reminded that this was chili-sauce weather, though she had no time to start putting up jars of preserves. Her mother used to make chili sauce every fall when Addie was a child. On those days, always a weekend, the kitchen was filled with an expanding aroma that took the breath away: tomatoes, apples, cinnamon, onion and celery, allspice and cloves, vinegar and cayenne, all simmering in a cauldron-like container on the wood stove—later, on the electric range.

  Addie passed the bakery shelves and selected a Black Forest cake. Eat now, worry later. At the checkout, she added two bars of dark chocolate. On the way out of the store, grocery bag in hand, she stopped by the noticeboard. One notice looked fairly new, though several strips had been removed:

  GRIEF DISCUSSION GROUP

  The first meeting was to be held the following week, Tuesday evening at Cassie’s. Addie tore off a strip and dropped it on top of the green pepper in her bag. She didn’t want to discuss academic or analytic stages of grief. She didn’t want to turn to colleagues at her own hospital for help. But she did want to talk. Or listen. Yes, if she could listen to others, that might help.

  Good decision, her administrator’s voice echoed in her head. And then she heard Sybil’s voice chip in, too.

  Good decision, Addie.

  Talking Heads

  TUESDAY, SEPT. 18

  The meeting was called to order by Hazzley, who was self-consciously aware of Cass watching. Her friend had deliberately positioned herself at the front counter and was facing the glass partition that separated the main section of the café from the backroom. Hazzley frowned and Cass looked down, pretending to tot up receipts. The partition was partly covered with trailing ivy, but not covered enough. Cass, now grinning ear to ear, stared at Hazzley and raised her eyebrows as if sending a message: Get going. Get the group mo
ving. Hazzley did not return the grin. She was hoping new customers would storm into the café and occupy Cass’s attention.

  Hazzley did not want to be anyone’s leader. But she was the one who had posted the notice; she was responsible. Four people had showed up, for a total of five. Once again, she glanced in the direction of the partition. On the other side, Cass was nodding to herself, biting her bottom lip. Another message? Hazzley wondered for a moment if Cass should be the one running this group. Over the years, she had accumulated her own list of people to grieve. Hazzley was relieved to see her friend disappear in the direction of the café kitchen. She felt free to give her full attention to the group.

  Three women and one man tilted slightly forward in their chairs. There was an undercurrent in the room. The tension of strangers. Of expectation. Of strange expectation. Give it up, Hazzley, she told herself. She’d been standing as the others came in, but now she sat at the round table Cass had set up. A slender vase of cosmos, wispy pinks and mauves, adorned the centre. The most elegant of fall flowers, in Hazzley’s opinion.

  She noted that the man was close to her in age, probably in his seventies. He was tall, had soft pouches under his eyes, looked familiar. He had thick white hair and long slim hands, and he wore a tweed jacket and sat with arms folded across his chest. His glasses needed cleaning, but his gaze was direct and he was taking in the details around him. Hazzley had seen him around town; she couldn’t think where. She saw sadness in his face, but she saw strength there, too. In fact, she sensed strength from more than one of the people now looking at her.

  Two of the women appeared to be younger than Hazzley’s daughter, Sal, and this surprised her. Had she been expecting widows her own age? Widowers?

  “Shall we start by introducing ourselves? Say a few words?”

  The man, seated to her left, responded instantly, as if he’d been lit like a firecracker. He removed his glasses and rested his arms on the tabletop.