Out of the Box(5)

I squeeze her hand, and we sit like that for the longest time.

Alison’s death was kind of sudden. Not like car accident sudden, but she died within a few months of her diagnosis. I’d always thought leukemia was a thing that kids got, not adults, but Alison was fifty-five, the same age as Jeanette, and she’d seemed healthier than most adults I know. She and my aunt were always kayaking around the Gulf Islands, or cycling through the Rockies, or climbing some mountain or other. Last summer, I got to go with them on a couple of their trips. Alison had seemed the same as ever. It wasn’t until October that she started getting sick. By January, she was gone.

The funeral was huge, and Jeanette cried more than anyone I’ve ever seen, even more than Mom on one of her bad days. But when we got back to the house afterward, Jeanette dried her tears and started telling her favorite Alison stories. Funny things that had happened while traveling or in the years they’d lived together. Pretty soon she was laughing again.

Mom stayed with her for a week after the funeral, and they’ve talked on the phone two or three times a week ever since. Mom used to take the calls in our kitchen, but lately she’s taken the phone up to her home office. When she told me Jeanette wanted me to stay for the whole summer, and that she and Dad thought it would be a good idea, I was stunned. It seemed to come out of nowhere, but I’m certainly not complaining.

“I’m happy you’re here,” Jeanette says, breaking our long silence on the porch.

“Me too,” I say. “I love spending time with you.”

It starts getting chilly, and we go inside. She makes some of that instant hot chocolate with the shriveled little marshmallows in it, and I drink it all, pretending it isn’t too sweet. Alison used to make it from scratch, thick and rich with cream and melted chocolate, but of course I’d never mention that to Jeanette. Her cooking—which is terrible—is the only thing she has no sense of humor about.

As we sip, we chat about stuff we could do this summer. She grins like a kid, grabs pen and paper, and makes a list for the fridge: canoeing on Thetis Lake, kayaking along the Gorge, cycling to Matticks Farm for ice cream. Jeanette is a big believer in lists. She has lists all over the house, for everything from groceries to home renovations to books she’d like to read. Alison used to tease her about her lists. She said they took all the spontaneity out of life, but Jeanette says they do just the opposite: they help keep her focused on what’s most important to her. Sure enough, by the time we go to bed, she seems as excited about life as ever.



I wake up the next morning to the sound of Jeanette’s hushed voice. She’s talking on the phone. My room is right off the kitchen, and the phone hangs on the wall by her stove. Sunlight is streaming in through my blinds, but I don’t hear the birds that usually sing from the cherry tree outside my window in the morning. I wonder what time it is.

“No, that’s not necessary,” Jeanette is saying. “No, no. Yes, I understand.” Her tone is like a brick wall: firm, unmovable. Whatever she’s discussing, she’s made up her mind and isn’t going to budge.

I decide it must be a telemarketer, and I roll over to look at the alarm clock. It’s the old-fashioned kind that you see in cartoons, with two hands on a round face, and two bright yellow bells at the top. It’s 9:30, the latest I can ever remember sleeping at Jeanette’s house.

Morning is Jeanette’s favorite time of the day, and she sees nothing wrong with making plans for sunrise. Yesterday, she woke me up at six—which is after sunrise, but still way too early for summer holidays— and we went on a march to end homelessness. By 9:30, we’d already walked ten kilometers and were ready for a second breakfast.

“Good grief, Gloria. It’s only a checkup! A couple of months won’t make much difference.” My aunt’s annoyance—and my mother’s name—snaps me out of my thoughts, and I sit up, stunned. Jeanette’s not talking to a telemarketer. She’s talking to my mother.

“Okay, okay. I’ll schedule one. We do have dentists in Victoria, sis,” Jeanette says, her voice gentler, almost teasing.

I blink. How could Mom’s own sister not know the effect of that teasing tone? I picture Mom’s eyes filling up with tears, and the corners of her mouth turning down—two red flags warning that you’ve gone too far and need to apologize. But Jeanette isn’t apologizing. “I’ll find a great dentist,” she says. “It’ll all work out fine.”

I feel sick, the way I always do when Mom gets upset. The calmness of my aunt’s voice doesn’t match what I imagine is happening at home. If my father or I had spoken to Mom the way Jeanette just has, she’d be sobbing by now.