In Search of the Perfect Singing Flamingo

Chapter 4-2

She’s mentioned it in passing before but we’ve always missed the deadline. Apparently most of the show’s clients are relatives or friends-of-friends. Otherwise they end up with crazies.

“How much say do you have over what that woman does with the place?”

Kath tries to dab a giant broccoli floret into the glass of curried mayonnaise without tipping it. Considering the cost of what she’s sitting on, eating at all seems reckless. “That’s a good question. Sometimes the reveals are out there.”

“There are two consultations. But you’re family, I know the team would take extra care.”

“When’s the deadline?”

“End of October.”

“Good,” Kath says. “That will give us time to clean the place out.”

“Do you think they could rig up a proper stage for Starr? I could help them incorporate the band.”

Melly looks at her mother and Kath tilts her head slightly. “I think it’ll be a longer discussion.” She wipes her mouth, leaving a trail of coral on the linen. Their planned renovations do not include the Laughing Rat Band. This is what they’ve been driving at, why Kath and Melly were so keen to make dinner plans, why Starr wasn’t invited.

“Didn’t you tell me they use duct tape on the furniture?”

“Just once,” Melly says, defensive. “We were behind schedule. They duct-taped fabric over the existing cushions. We replaced them later.”

“Well, I don’t want duct-taped cushions.”

Chester has made a pot roast with braised root vegetables, side salad of green beans, ground pork and almond slivers. By the time it’s served, I’m feeling guilty about being belligerent. The kids have had a hard enough time this year.

“If I’d known the food would be this good,” I say, “I’d have joined the firefighters myself.”

There’s a communal dinner at the fire station each week, enough for the crews coming on and off duty. Everyone pitches in five bucks for the burn unit.

“We’re cooking all vegetarian for the month,” Chester says. “So with you coming over, I thought I’d throw meat in as many things as I could.”

“One of the guys has a kid with autism,” Melly says. “The doctor wanted them to try a low-meat diet, low processed grains. The station thought they’d show solidarity.”

“They said it’s good for regular kids too.”

Melly quietly corrects him. “It’s ‘typical.’”

“Right, sorry. Typical kids.”

“They’ve brought that up at some of the Williams groups,” Kath says. It’s news to me, but what I want to know is why, when Chester sticks his foot in it, no one holds up a giant you’ve-done-the-wrong-thing placard like they do with me. “Sugar is the other one they’re trying.”

Kath’s the only one of us who still goes to those meetings, held once a month in the basement of a United church in Toronto. I found it too awkward. Other than our kids having the same condition, our lives were entirely different. I didn’t want to spend my Tuesday night listening to someone else vent.

“So, we’ve been feeling a lot better lately,” Melly says. Chester reaches for her hand. “We’ve been thinking about trying again.”

“That’s the main thing,” I say. “Actually, I have something for you.”

I don’t wait for a protest from Kathleen. I’m glad for the excuse to get to the van, to ease the awkwardness of discussing my daughter’s reproductive plans. I feel good about the gift, glad to have taken the chance. When I return to the table, the three of them are eyeing me with wary anticipation, as if I’m an amateur magician and they’re not sure if the pigeon I summon will be dead or alive. I brandish the canisters for effect. “Enough prenatals for seventeen kids.”

“That’s sweet of you, Dad,” Melly says. She places the jars side by side right at the edge of the table. “Actually, we’ve just had a consultation with an IVF clinic in Toronto.”

She lets the words hang and I think I’m supposed to jump in with approval. “I thought that was for older women.”

Kath adopts her most soothing voice, something she’d use with Starr after a long day. “A lot of older women do use it. But for Melly and Chester, they can do tests before they implant the embryo to make sure the baby’s healthy.”

When Chester called from the hospital it took some time to figure out what he was talking about. They were at nineteen weeks and Kath said they were clear of the danger zone after twelve. Ever since, I keep seeing articles in the paper about how common it is, about how many women go through it. When I bring this up to Kath, however, she recoils, tells me I don’t understand. By the middle of the second trimester it almost never happens.

Kathleen had being a grandmother all planned out – she’d crocheted a blankie, picked out the name she wanted to be called, was imagining all the places she’d take the little one. The baby wasn’t real to me yet. I felt worried for my daughter, wished I could have spared her the pain. But part of me still thinks Melly’s too young. Perhaps it’s just another reminder that she’s about to pass a milestone her sister may never reach.

“You’re only twenty-four. Are you sure this is the business you want to be getting into?”

Melly studies the pill bottles. “These don’t have folic acid in them.”

“Darren’s catalogue said they were doctor approved.”

“Who’s Darren?”

“He’s a kid your father works with.” Kath bats her toe against my calf.

I don’t know why I’m being censored. “He does the character walk-arounds.”

“Why is he selling vitamins?”

Kath places her hands flat on the table. “That’s not what’s important right now. Melly and Chester have decided that this is their safest option.”

If they’ve worked it all out, I don’t know why I’m being included.

Chester speaks next. “I know it’s been sprung on you here. But we’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this.”

“You know my co-worker June,” Kath says. “Her daughter struggled with infertility. They went to the same clinic and now they’ve got happy, healthy twins. Boy and a girl.”

“Any other surprises?”

They all look deeply uncomfortable. Melly’s on the verge of crying and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing wrong.

“It’s a state-of-the-art centre,” Kathleen says. “All the online reviews say the doctor is a miracle worker. They’re young so there’s an excellent success rate and likely they’ll get several embryos to freeze for next time. But it’s not covered by OHIP.” Kath sweeps bread crumbs off the tablecloth to avoid meeting my eye. “It’s ten thousand with all the testing.”

Never in a million years did I expect to be asked to pay for my own grandchild.

My pants start buzzing and I pull my BlackBerry out, despite our rule about phone calls during dinner and setting limits for Starr. Kathleen starts clearing plates. Melanie motions for her to sit down, she’ll do it, and pretty soon they’re all up and outdoing each other. Chester flicks on the coffee machine and I remember that he has to go to work after this. It’s half past nine and his shift starts at midnight.

Starr is upset because her roommate, Della, isn’t talking to her. The TV’s on in the background and I wonder how long she tried to self-soothe before calling. She’s grasped the phone to her ear, her fingers muffling the mouthpiece. It’s going to be a long time before she calms down. If we can’t get her to settle, that means a Lorazepam and Kath coaching Starr through her fear of choking. Take a sip of water and count to five. Try again. Good girl. She should have been here tonight, with her family.

Kath motions for me to hand over the phone. She’s furious with me, but she’s trained her voice to project composure, whatever the situation. If Starr thinks that her mother is unhappy, it will upset her more. She’ll worry it’s something she’s done. “No, sweetheart, it doesn’t sound like you did anything wrong. Della might just be upset because of personal problems.” Personal problems is one of the few code words that can ease Starr’s anxiety. “I’m going away for the weekend, sweetie, but I can make an appointment with Della’s parents. We can all sit down and have a friendly conversation.” As the primary contact with the community agencies, school boards and medical team, my wife has always been better at handling those conferences.

Chester is in the kitchen, laying out a plate of biscotti. His willingness to keep up the social niceties, to prolong the evening, strikes me as both valiant and depressing. I take up Melly’s abandoned post at the sink. Her pink rubber gloves are draped over the lip of stainless steel. She’s gone I’m not sure where.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t more enthusiastic.”

He can’t read what I’m trying to say.

“You had us over for a nice dinner.”

He takes a glass from the tray. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Well, if I’ve offended.” I let it hang there. “You two will have children one day.”

Something sharp comes over his voice, “I hope so.” We have no rapport, this kid and I. He goes off with dessert and I’m alone again.

From the other room, I hear Melly tell Starr she’ll go over next week with a video.

When we leave, Kath pulls our daughter into a tight hug and whispers encouragement. I know exactly what she’s promising. Melly’s goodbye to me is like a 1950s slow dance – plenty of room for the Holy Spirit. I have a terrible feeling that when the door closes, she’ll be crying until Chester has to leave.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “We’ll think about it.”

Chester shakes my hand before wrapping himself around his wife like an oversized beach towel. “It’s been a rough year.”

And then Kath pushes me out the door.

When Melanie was born, Starr took to being a big sister right away. She found it hard to hold the baby because of her muscle tone, but she loved to sit on the couch with Melly propped in her arms. She’d talk to her sister non-stop, calling her “my sweet baby.”

That first year we didn’t sleep for more than four hours at a stretch. Less because Melly was fussy, more because any amount of crying would wake Starr up too. She found the pitch deeply upsetting. She needed constant reassurance that the baby wasn’t dying, that the crying was normal. Kath would get up to feed the baby and I’d go quiet Starr, trying to make her laugh with my rendition of “Big Girls Don’t Cry.” In the end, we moved the baby’s crib into our room and I ripped out the drywall in Starr’s room, packed in decent insulation and replaced the door with something heavier.

For a while, the girls were inseparable. Melly was the only kid whose older sister never minded her tagging along. By the time Melly turned eight, however, she’d started to catch up. Her social circle became more about school than home. The other kids liked Starr, but they didn’t always want her around. I still grieve those years before Melly’s seventh birthday, that time we were happiest as a family.

Kath saw the switch coming. I think she was annoyed that I didn’t. Things couldn’t go on like that forever, she’d said, even if they were both typical.

The van is still rolling to a stop as Kath steps out. The rubber of her tennis shoe catches on the concrete driveway and turns her ankle. She insists on hobbling inside without any assistance. When I hand her the bag of frozen peas, she lets it thaw on the table, inches away from her raised foot. I place Robax and a glass of water next to it.

“You hate wearing flats at trade shows.”

Professional Imprints has two hundred square feet booked this weekend in an Ottawa exhibit hall. Kath taps out two pills and swallows them in such a way that it’s clear she’s not accepting my kindness as an apology. She flaps the bag of vegetables onto her heel.

It always comes back to the same complaint, our fights. That I’m too indulgent with one, not tender enough with the other. As if Kath’s manner is the yardstick of parental involvement.

“Isn’t this something they could have registered for at the wedding?” My joke comes out flat, too hard-edged.

“You’re better than this, Henry.”

“We’re still paying that off.” A full sit-down with four courses, over a hundred guests. “And we helped with college.”

“You know what I’m going to say.”

We both know neither of those expenses will be duplicated. And that, over the years, we’ve spent far more on our oldest. But no one said that the expenses for each of your kids is meant to work out like a balance sheet. During her TVO phase, Kath once sat me down for a documentary on Marx. The only thing that stuck was that line – “from each according to his ability, to each according to his needs.” If I could, I’d get a bumper sticker of that. Pay Kath’s company to embroider it on a cap. Break it out when the discussion starts up about equal treatment.

She knows we don’t have ten grand. After borrowing on our house to buy the condo, we’re more in the hole than Melly and Chester. Retirement’s not a word in our vocabulary.

“Does she know that she won’t be able to do that job with a kid?”

“Chester’s schedule is flexible and his mother got packaged out at the bank.”

If Kath’s going to do it anyway, why bother pretending? Another canker we’ve been picking at for decades.

My wife returns the peas to the freezer and rests her weight on the fridge door. She’s locked into herself, trying to control her anger. I shouldn’t be so combative. I should be softer to her. I give her my hand, half-expecting her to ignore the gesture. She takes it and rubs it along her cheek.

“I’m going to tell you something that you’re not going to like. If you ever let on to Melly and Chester that you know –”

I give her hand a squeeze.

“No, I mean it. God knows we have too much shared responsibility to split up. But if you betray my trust on this.”

Never once, in thirty years of arguments, mild to blowout, has Kath ever threatened me with divorce. She doesn’t look angry anymore, just terribly sad.

“Melly’s baby had too many chromosomes. The specialist said it wasn’t likely to live for more than a few days outside the womb.” Kath threads out the words evenly, but her arms are shaking. “They did all the tests. Melanie asked and I gave her my blessing.”

They didn’t tell his parents either. It must have killed Kathleen that, to keep up the pretense, she couldn’t have been there with our daughter until after the procedure.

“The past year, she’s had to tiptoe around you and your complete lack of understanding about how much it broke her heart. Now, with the help of medical science, Melly has the chance to make sure she never has to go through that again.”

I don’t need to be told twice. I pull Kathleen close and she pours herself against me. All night she wants to be held, my arm around her ribs, her hair swept vertical on the pillow. I lie awake a while, counting her breaths, feeling like some dumb mouse nosing the cheese who hasn’t figured out what’s about to fall.