A Second Chance Page 3

  I ask everyone to come over to the table. The soup is mild and the flavour of lovage quite pronounced. Even the roast is better than I expected. What they seem to appreciate most is the dill with peas, as though they had never come across this combination before, even though it’s common back home.

  Lara eats voraciously, as though trying to convince me she comes by her slim figure naturally. This idea occurs to me when she says that everyone at work envies her body. Peter takes a long break after every bite. For God knows what reason, the food seems too big a snake for him to swallow. He apologizes for his lack of appetite, saying he just ate with his daughter and her new boyfriend. Lara eats even more aggressively, which makes me believe this is a lie.

  “You could drink a bit,” she says to Peter. “I’ll drive us home.”

  Is this an allusion to Peter drinking too much? That would explain his ruined body.

  Peter grabs his glass of wine to cover his embarrassment.

  The conversation falters, which puts Adam on his guard: he knows something is wrong with these people. Usually, our guests are much more talkative. After the soup course and a few more glasses of wine, everyone forgets about Adam in his corner of the table, everyone but me of course. He can comfortably eat and listen to the sound of their voices, because he doesn’t register much of what people are saying. I think he feels like some kind of blob.

  When we’re at dessert, Lara accepts a liqueur, which prompts Peter to warn her that she’s had enough to drink.

  She responds violently. “I do not need to be told what to do. And for God’s sake, not about drinking.”

  So I was right. Peter does drink too much.

  I think even Adam has figured out this evening’s mystery: this is not a happy couple. He doesn’t understand what’s lurking behind each word, but the tone of their voices leaves him in no doubt. Lately, he has developed a flawless ear for any hint of adversity. This is his only defensive weapon.

  He lowers his head, which is a sign of great fear. I don’t want the others to notice his sudden withdrawal, so I try to come up with a new topic of conversation. Yet, my goodness, how difficult it is to talk to these people.

  I’m greatly relieved when Lara stands up and announces they’re going to be on their way. At the door, we all pretend to be cold so that our farewells will be brief.

  When I get back to the living room, Adam starts crying. He puts his good arm around my shoulders and leans his head against mine. I feel like crying, too, but I try to stay strong. “They’re gone,” I say. “Don’t worry about it. They’ll never be back, I promise.”

  While I get ready for bed in the bathroom, Adam gets undressed by himself. He even folds his clothes and puts them on the chair next to his nightstand. When I come into the bedroom, he’s struggling with the last button of his pyjama top.

  “I got your toothbrush ready,” I tell him, rubbing his good arm.

  He looks at me happily and heads for the bathroom.

  Marta invites us to her fiftieth birthday party, and I know we have to go. When friends throw a party in their home, we usually go for two or three hours, max. This time, though, Marta has rented a Greek restaurant for the evening, which means there’ll be lots of people, and we might be stuck there for an indeterminate amount of time.

  I tell Adam the news, and he does not react. He knows Marta, for she drops by quite often, but he doesn’t remember the details of their long friendship: that they grew up in the same neighbourhood and went to the same university, that their parents are still on good terms. Marta is the most attentive of our friends. She calls every weekend to ask for updates on Adam’s condition and often invites us to join them for outdoor activities and barbecues. Every time she organizes a family supper she invites us, even when her daughter’s in-laws, who only speak English, will be there.

  Marta is a social butterfly, the key link between different groups and subgroups of our community. In her house, she gathers young and old, people of all professions and all regions of Romania. She favours people from the south, invites fewer Moldavians (they’re not funny enough) and even fewer Transylvanians (they’re too proud). We’ve nicknamed her Big Brother, and tease her about her nosiness. Despite her inquisitiveness, she chooses her words very carefully when she does ask questions, doing her best to avoid sensitive issues. Curious as she is, it may be that Marta is actually less informed than the rest of us. I have a suspicion that she doesn’t really want to know too much. She’s so generous that she’d feel obliged to rescue everyone, if she knew the details, and that would be too much, even for her.

  Marta’s tolerance does have its limits. She would see not going to her birthday celebration as a terrible offence, even with Adam as an excuse.

  I drive to work today because I want to go to the mall on my way home and get a present for Marta. I’m not going to get her clothes or perfume, which are the hardest things to buy for someone else and, in our circle, the items most likely to be re-gifted. What we don’t like, we recycle. We wait patiently for the birthday of someone who is not a close friend to get rid of the unwanted gift. We even recycle the wrappings, which we fold carefully and put away neatly so they won’t get crumpled. We are masters in the art of gift recycling.

  This year, I decide on a broach in the shape of a dragonfly with two pairs of wings, one in silver, the other in amber. Marta always compliments me on my jewelry, so I hope she won’t want to give this away to someone else.

  Getting ourselves dressed on Saturday evening requires some thought, especially for Adam. Before, he would never go out without a suit on, so I had to adapt my style to his own. The sober colours of his suits and ties forced me to wear clothes I didn’t like.

  I’ve had to change his wardrobe since his stroke, and I’ve bought him clothes I like – black jeans, turtlenecks, velvet jackets, and wool coats. In winter, he even wears scarves that match the colour and fabric of his coat, gloves and hat. So far, I haven’t had the heart to throw away his old suits, jackets, shirts and ties, but I have relegated them to the back of the closet, packed away in plastic boxes.

  I set out brown cords for him, a beige shirt and a Shetland wool sweater. The clothes fit him so well that I’m envious.

  For myself, I decide on a green jersey dress and my black velvet coat. This goes perfectly with my Damaskin broach and the Mallorca pearls I bought during our trip to Spain a few years back. I pull on thick stockings and my high-heeled suede boots, which will give me a good excuse not to dance.

  I have to warm the car up for more than ten minutes to defrost the sheet of ice on the windows. Adam waits on the sofa while I watch through the window for the moment when the windshield clears.

  Adam is always anxious before this kind of gathering. To reassure him, I explain who we’re going to see, how long we’re going to spend there, and what will be expected of him. He understands that his condition has turned him into a sort of attraction, and this makes him uncomfortable. He would happily avoid social occasions.

  This reluctance to socialize, however, isn’t just the result of his new condition. He never tired of staying home, always suffering from some degree of agoraphobia. We were afraid of what our friends would think if we never went on vacation, so we did sometimes go away. The holiday Adam always liked best, though, was to stay home and sleep in every day. What could be better than not having to get dressed in the morning and fight your way through traffic to get to work?

  A vacation was a nightmare for him, everything about it – choosing the place, making the bookings, dealing with luggage, the airport, the flights, the hotel, jetlag, doing as much as possible for the price we paid. The few times we stayed home, just driving out to the country – to the Gaspé or Charlevoix – were always the most enjoyable vacations. The most exhausting trips were to Europe, and the dullest were at those indistinguishable sunshine destinations.

  No one judges us any more. Adam alwa
ys had poor social skills. It was rare for him to form a connection with anyone.

  He always used to be bored at parties. Two hours after we got there, he would start gravitating towards the door. I was a little uncomfortable in social situations, too, but unlike Adam, I loved listening to the talk around me. When I went to dance, I had to do it in a group, because Adam hated dancing. He was naturally shy and avoided any kind of public exhibition. The only times we ever danced together were in our youth, when he was wooing me. I’m the only person who knew he was not a bad dancer.

  In Marta’s group, there was just one person who was more introverted than Adam, an eternal PhD student in sociology. He didn’t even make the effort to stay with the others, but settled on his own in a corner or watched TV in the living room. I think everyone wondered why he bothered to come to these parties. Adam and I wanted to avoid this kind of judgment.

  When we arrive at the restaurant, the entrance hall is already full of people. I would have preferred to arrive earlier, to avoid having everyone’s gaze fixed on Adam, but I missed the exit on the highway. With all the snow and cold, I should have accepted a friend’s offer of a ride, but this would have meant staying on until they were ready to leave. I don’t want to stay more than three hours, to the end of the main course.

  Daniel wants to help Adam with his coat, but I signal that Adam can handle this by himself. I don’t intervene until he has to take off his boots. His party shoes, perfectly waxed, are under the big galoshes he’s now finally willing to wear.

  How many times we used to fight over those bloody galoshes. He never wanted to wear them, thinking they made him look like a frogman. Avoiding ridicule was more important to him than damaging his leather shoes, and I was the one, anyway, who had to polish and wax them. Now, he doesn’t care.

  We’ve been placed at Dora and Virgil’s table along with two couples we don’t see very often. The music is way too loud for conversation. We can exchange only a few words during short breaks when the DJ shows a slideshow of photos of Marta at every age. Everybody exclaims at these, mostly about how thin we all used to be. Adam is now in better shape than any of the others, and they envy him that, in spite of everything.

  After the aperitifs and the appetizers, I tell Adam I’m going to dance. He nods his head. In the middle of the hall, people are dancing energetically, especially the women, whose tight black dresses still fit them perfectly since they haven’t eaten yet. I’m surprised at all this activity, for I know they all saw one another recently enough. These are people who have been spending New Year’s Eve in one another’s company for years now.

  Half an hour later, I look over to our table and see Adam sitting alone, watching the dancers as if he fears being caught in the act. When he’s on his own, everybody avoids him. Yet going back to him right now would turn us into a really pathetic couple. I stay on the dance floor for one more song, until I can take advantage of a blues track to sit with Adam again.

  Our table is one of the first to be served. Adam can’t manage a knife, so I cut the meat on his plate. After months of physiotherapy, he can still only hold the fork in his left hand. Our neighbours watch discreetly to see if Adam drools. I could reassure them that he does not. Adam eats as daintily as he always did. I always envied his style and the patience with which he chews his food. The stroke has not deformed him; on the contrary, it has actually fixed a slight asymmetry in his face. This evening, his hair has been well coiffed by Ilona, who promised he would break the ladies’ hearts.

  Our friends come over to greet us, exchange a few words, and ask Adam a few questions. He’s coy in front of so many faces and names he doesn’t remember, and this makes him look wise. People are not fully aware of the gravity of his condition and imagine he can still engage in a conversation on industry, politics, and the price of gasoline. His silence fools them; they interpret it as discretion or thoughtfulness rather than incomprehension.

  Men soon make their farewells with an affable slap on his back or, even worse, on his paralyzed arm. Women are more persistent. They don’t give up that easily, not before hearing Adam articulate a few words, at least. I try to save him by dominating the discussion. Adam has the habit of nodding at each of my words, which might suggest to the others that he’s listening and participating.

  I know this is not really so, for he has more difficulty with my explanations than with their questions. The only time he can follow is when I explain the stroke. He has heard this account so many times that he knows all the details. He listens to them with pleasure.

  Three hours later, we’ve had enough, Adam and I. I have some difficulty saying goodbye to so many people, and Marta takes charge of doing it for me. She even remarks that we stayed longer than usual. She promises to drop by tomorrow and bring us some cake, if there’s any left.

  Back at home, as we’re getting undressed, Adam asks, “Did I used to dance?”

  “Yes,” I reply, unfastening his belt. “You were the best dancer. We even danced in the middle of the circle. We danced in front of everybody from the beginning of the evening right to the end.”

  “Are you sure I was that good?”

  “I’m positive. You were the best.”

  Would he like to dance now? Maybe I should give it a try at the next party. We don’t have to move quickly across the dance floor. Despite his paralyzed foot, we could do some bluesy moves. I could even request some songs we used to love.

  Otherwise, I will never have the chance to dance to the blues again, because no one dares to ask me. That would be seen as either pity or flirting. Nobody is so unloved in a circle of married couples as a single woman, and I look available. I have no trouble understanding the look I now see on the faces of old friends, their insinuations, and the exaggerated attention I get from people I only ever exchanged a few words with before.

  These are all people we met after we got here. We met them through Marta, who already had a wide circle of friends. She and Daniel came here five years before us, time enough to smooth out a few rough edges. They introduced us to everybody who could share their experiences with us, or help us if need be. Some of them helped us buy our first car, and some gave us sticks of furniture they no longer wanted – towels, pots, glasses, everything we needed for the months after our arrival.

  Marta’s circle has remained close, but we have also formed our own groups of friends among our work colleagues and people we met at other parties. We frequent Marta’s circle whenever we’re invited. At the start, there were new faces every season. Then some of them began to argue or they decided they couldn’t stand one another any more. Lately, however, the rhythm has changed, and they’ve become a kind of extended family. Without parents, brothers or sisters, they all spend Christmas, New Year’s, and Easter together and go to all the same birthday parties, weddings, and christenings.

  In the last few years, illnesses have slowly started to infiltrate the group, but we haven’t experienced a funeral. No one our age has yet died, though Marta’s best friend’s son was killed in a car accident. A few months later, the mother stopped coming to our get-togethers, and Marta never spoke about it.

  A bunch of them also go on vacation together, but we’ve managed to avoid that, coming up with all kinds of excuses. We’ve never been sociable enough to consider spending a whole week in the same company. Neither Adam nor I can hold a conversation for very long, and prolonged contact with the same people makes us both uncomfortable. It used to embarrass us that we were so boring.

  The real solidarity has always been between the two of us. Adam and I felt good together. It was as though the presence of other people disturbed our subtle chemistry. We were not a perfect couple, but Adam could never stay away from home for long. He was made for family. On business trips, he used to call home twice a day, morning and evening, depending on his schedule and the time difference. He needed to feel the homey atmosphere that he missed. Foreign places disguste
d him. He was chronically constipated because of hotel bathrooms. He was horrified by the sink, the bathtub, the towels, the sheets. He cleaned everything he could clean before using it. He was afraid of new surroundings.

  Adam’s body has now become a perfect engine, functioning according to a very precise schedule. Nothing can disturb his daily routine. Except for the days when I give him some bad news about an upcoming party or an unexpected visitor, he always looks happy.

  I have an appointment at noon today with the principal, Madame Lavoie, and the mother of one of my eighth grade students, David Chukhaib. My argument with him took place in the library over the subject of his oral presentation. I proposed that he research a local writer, comedian, artist, or singer, but he was keen to speak about a French rapper who swore all the time. I didn’t want to take the issue to the principal, but the boy became more and more disobedient and rude, so I had no choice but to call his mother. She doesn’t speak either French or English very well and has a hard time dealing with my calls.

  At home, however, David gave his mother a very different version of our conflict, and she asked to see the principal and me. So this morning I found a note in my pigeonhole about the noon meeting. I’m sure David will try to save himself by blaming me. Nothing new there.

  In her office, Madame Lavoie gives me an opportunity to explain what happened. I tell her David refused to work on the topic I had proposed. Not only that, but he was caught looking at naked girls on the Internet. When I warned him that I would put him out in the corridor or even send him to the help room under the watchful eye of Mademoiselle Gingras, he got angry and refused to leave the computer. He didn’t fancy spending an hour in the basement writing a hundred lines on good behaviour for Mademoiselle Gingras. When he got home, he accused me of psychological harassment.

  The principal has no intention of ignoring the incident. She submits David to a close interrogation. She knows exactly how to get him to lose his temper. What she wants is to show David’s mother his true nature. She starts by going over David’s recent missteps, even getting him to admit to fighting with Muslim students over their religion. This is too much for David’s mother, and she begs the principal to stop. A parent is often a great apologist for her children until they’re charged with discrimination. In a nearly incomprehensible mix of French and English, David’s mother shouts that her son is not stupid and that he speaks four languages. But Madame Lavoie tells her that David may have a conduct disorder; the school will soon have to set up an intervention plan and hire a specialist to accompany David to his classes. His last report card and this latest crisis are proof that he cannot be left on his own any more.