I perched on the wide
green armchair next to Kathleen, my spine twisted awkwardly. She had made room for me. When I walked over to greet
her at the party our friends were hosting, she had patted the seat
with her thin hand and offered a small, tight smile. The bones in
her jaw stood out like a ledge. Her skin was specked with reddish
blemishes. She spoke slowly, her words forming as if from a long way
away. Perhaps it was the effect of the medication; perhaps her mind
was enveloped in a thick fog, or perhaps she just didn't know what to
say to me.
Just as I did not know
what to say to her. What do you say to an anorexic and alcoholic
acquaintance?
So we didn't say anything
for awhile. I watched her two children: four-year old Pamela,
blonde and serious, and two-year old Michael, sandy-haired and exuberant. A three-inch scratch ran down Pamela's pale face.
Shadows cupped her blue eyes. She wore a pink T-shirt with the words
“Little Chick” underneath a cartoon chicken, a
light blue velvet skirt, and ribbed white stockings. Michael was
dressed in a red short-sleeved Canadiens hockey shirt and blue
elasticized pants.
Kathleen's gaze fell on
her children. “They're good kids,” she said softly. That's what
everyone says about their kids when they're young. We chatted
lightly about the shapes of their noses. Pamela's nose turns upward,
just like her father's, while Michael's nose has Kathleen's straight
blunt end.
Kathleen smiled at me,
made an effort. “So how are things with you?” she asked. Please
don't ask about me, her eyes pleaded.
I told her about loving
coaching, about the piano, about my latest passion of learning poetry
by heart. “I used to memorize poems,” Kathleen said, her voice
brightening. “In high school. In French.” I told her about
learning a poem while on a long drive, and becoming so engrossed in
it that I completely missed my turn-off. Kathleen tipped back her
head and laughed. I noticed the tendons standing out in her neck,
the skin stretched taut. We smiled at one another and fell silent.
“And you?” I asked,
gently patting her bony shoulder. “I heard that you've been going
through a bit of a rough patch.”
Kathleen looked away.
“Yeah,” she said slowly. “It hasn't been the greatest winter.
“But I'm all right,”
she insisted, her eyes darting like a swallow over to mine. “I'm
okay.”
Not a word rose in my
throat. My hand rested briefly on her sholder. There was nothing to
say.
