Colours in Her Hands, page 31
“She doesn’t want to?”
“I don’t know . . .” Iris twisted her glass one way, then the other. For a few moments both sat without speaking.
Then Jenny said, “I guess it’s just as well that you never told Bruno.”
Iris let out a shaky breath. She’d sent Bruno a text that she wouldn’t be able to see him for supper this evening. She couldn’t, not with Ruth’s contempt fresh in her ears. Although she wished she could curl up with him and tell him how awful Ruth had been. He would be the only one to understand how exasperating Mina could be when she didn’t want to listen.
Except that telling Bruno was always supposed to include the amazing news that Mina was going to have an exhibition of her embroidery — and now Iris didn’t have a gallery, didn’t know how to proceed, or even if she could with Mina being so stubborn.
She slid her arms across the table and dropped her head onto them.
Then Jenny‘s fingernails were stroking the back of her neck. “Oh, baby. You always want too much.”
“Nothing’s too much,” Iris mumbled into her elbow. She’d planned it so well and it should have worked.
* * *
The door at the bottom of the stairs wasn’t locked like the big front door. Mina had pushed it now and then to check. It opened onto a parking lot. Parking lots were good because they led to streets and where there were streets, there were stores and restaurants and banks. In her wallet she still had her banking card. She remembered her pin because it was the year Daddy was born.
The door in the stairwell was a way of getting out and today she had to. Madame Bingham wasn’t there at breakfast and the orderly finished serving coffee to everyone at another table before he brought hers! When she finally got her coffee, the platter of toast was too far away to reach. Madame Bingham always dropped two toasts on her plate. My toast! she called but the orderly walked away. There was no use asking the woman next to her because she couldn’t hear. She told the man who had the toast in front of him to push it closer but he just kept chewing. He didn’t like her and she didn’t like him. She’d told Madame Bingham she didn’t want to sit with that man anymore, but she’d already sat at every other table. The man with the too-loud watch, the woman who burped while she ate, the one who drooled, the one who made noises like the food was going into his nose, not his mouth. Madame Bingham said Mina couldn’t have a table to herself like she wanted, because those were the rules. Mina understood about rules but a rule like that was stupid!
When nobody gave her any toast, she thumped her fist by her plate and the orderly told her to go to her room if she was going to behave like that. Well, how was she supposed to behave if nobody was going to give her toast? She didn’t have to stay here!
In her room she opened her dresser drawer and pulled out the hoodie with the zippered pockets. In one pocket were tightly folded ten-dollar bills — one of her secret places from before the hospital. Bruno had found a lot of them, but not all of them. She had to keep them even more secret now because he didn’t give her money anymore. He said that when there was a shopping trip he would give her some. Until then, she didn’t need to go to the bank machine.
But she did! It was her money and she wanted it.
The sun was shining but she still put on a sweater, because it might be cold when she went into the diner to have frîtes. Oh boy, was she going to have a big plate of frîtes! But which hat should she wear? Hats were lucky. They made things happen. She picked a red and blue beret with a yellow fat cat button.
She kept hold of the railing going down the stairs. She wanted to hurry but she had to be careful too. Stairs were dangerous. She got out the door to the parking lot, no problem. Because she was good at this! She knew to stay close to the wall like on TV, so that no one looking out the windows could see. But when she reached the street, it didn’t look like any street she knew. There weren’t any stores. She walked to the next street but it was all houses and apartments. Not even a dép where you could buy a bag of chips.
She walked and walked. What crazy place was this where there weren’t any stores or restaurants? She walked all the way up to the door of a building that looked like a bank, but there was no bank machine and no one getting money at the counter. A man behind a desk called, “Do you need help?”
She turned and left, even though he kept calling. It might be a trick.
She wanted a Pepsi and frîtes. She had never walked so far and still not arrived anywhere. She was so tired. Finally there was a bench where she could rest.
A bus pulled to the curb. “Are you getting on?” the driver called.
She didn’t know where the bus was going. Of course she wasn’t getting on!
“Are you lost?”
She didn’t answer.
He got off the bus to ask again. “I can call the police to help you but I can’t wait. My bus is full. Will you stay here on the bench? I’ll tell the police that’s where you are.”
Long ago, when she was little, she was in a police car and it was fun. “D’okay.”
The police who came helped her into the back seat of their car. They wanted to know where she lived and was there someone they could call? She gave them her address and soon they were driving on streets she knew. There! The diner with the good frîtes> where Iris always took her. Here! The park where she liked to sit. Brick houses all in a row. And here, her building with the three steps up.
“H-h-here!” she shouted as they stopped. She wanted to barrel out of the car and up the steps and down the hallway to her apartment, but suddenly discovered she was stuck! There was no handle on the car door.
The police opened it from the outside. “Do you need help?”
She was panting with excitement. Finally finally finally home again! She saw the man from down the hall with the funny little dog but she didn’t have time to say hello. She yanked herself up the three steps by the railing.
One of the police was reaching around her. “Let me get the door for you. Is this where you live? Do you have family here?”
She jabbed her finger at her name on the mailbox — except? She stared. Where her name had always been, there was someone else’s. She swayed a little and the police held her elbow. She shoved his hand away.
“Hey, calm down. What’s wrong?”
Who had taken her name away? “M-m-m-m —”
The police was trying to talk to her but she didn’t want to hear. “Ici c’est à moi!” she cried.
“This man says you don’t live here anymore. He says —”
“Go fart in the flowers!”
“I think we need to — Oh!” He buckled. She’d punched him as hard as she could.
* * *
The studio was empty today so Bruno had come to do noisy drill and sander work. He was building a small ramp to add spatial variation to the otherwise bare planes of the set.
Last night again Iris had had to work and couldn’t come over. He understood she had a business to run and he respected that, but he wished that seeing him was important too. He hadn’t said anything though. She sounded so tired on the phone. Tomorrow, she said, for sure tomorrow. She had to do a house call in Outremont. Maybe they could meet at that little pizzeria downtown that he’d told her about.
When his phone rang, he hoped it was her but he didn’t recognize the caller. It was a social worker — not Faiza — who unfortunately needed to inform him that his sister had escaped her residence. Before he could react, she assured him his sister was fine. She was being returned to the residence by the police.
The police? Fine? There was no way Mina was fine if she’d tried to escape.
He abandoned his tools and jogged to St. Patrick where he flagged a cab and arrived at the residence in time to see Mina re fusing to budge from the back seat of the police car. She did not live here! No! She bellowed with rage, called the police names, swore at the orderlies with language Bruno hadn’t known she knew, screamed that she hated him because it was all his fault. She wouldn’t calm down and the doctor on call for the residence prescribed a sedative.
Bruno stayed with her until she fell asleep. He didn’t mind that she blamed him. She needed someone to blame. But it grieved him how desperately she clung to a past that was forever gone, never to be found again. That she was being protected for her own good was too abstract a concept. Poor, inconsolable Mina. Even asleep, her breath heaved as if she were sobbing in her dreams.
He hadn’t wanted to interrupt Iris when she was with a client and now he’d left it too late to call and change their plans. He still wanted to see her, but he’d meant to go home to shower first. He didn’t have time now. She wouldn’t mind a bit of sawdust, would she? After they ate, maybe they could stop at the residence to check on Mina.
The subway ride downtown was only a few stops and a short walk. Iris hadn’t arrived yet and he took a table beside one of the long windows. The restaurant was on the ground floor of a renovated factory that had once processed beaver pelts. The industrial air ducts that ran along the high ceiling were still in place, their metal construction amplifying the clank of dishes and the hiss of milk being steamed. Huge ferns hung over the tables that were built from repurposed wood. Out the window he had a view onto the back of a stone church with stained glass windows. A couple of blocks away, stores sold electronics, running shoes, perfume, books. This was how a city evolved: cafés and bars in the old fur district, afternoon concerts in a Protestant church, the changing trends of commerce.
Iris walked in, looking pale and preoccupied. It was because she never said no to a commission, even when she had more than enough work to fill her day. She was going to have to learn to say no, if she wanted to be available to design costumes.
She shrugged off her suit jacket and dropped its shoulders on the back of the chair. He enjoyed seeing how she handled clothes — like a chef with food or a musician with an instrument. But her mood seemed heavy as she sat.
“Difficult client?” he asked. He would wait until she had some wine before telling her about Mina.
“More like depressing. I spend a ridiculous amount of time convincing women that they aren’t too fat or too short or their legs aren’t terrible or their waists too high or their necks too long. Some appointments feel more like therapy sessions.”
“You’re here now. Relax.” He nodded at the space around them, thinking she might comment on the post-industrial spaciousness, the high ceiling, the hanging ferns.
The waiter approached to take their order for drinks. After he left, Iris wrinkled her brow at the long thin menu on her plate. She still hadn’t looked up when the waiter set their glasses on the table. She sipped her Merlot but seemed restless.
Bruno tried to make the story of Mina’s escape amusing — not that it was funny the way Mina roared and flailed, and that it had taken five people to force her into the residence she refused to call home.
But Iris only watched him. It was like she hadn’t heard.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Mina,” she said flatly.
“Yes, I’m talking about Mina.”
“I didn’t tell you before because . . . well, I just didn’t. But you know, I had such plans for her. It would have been amazing. She would have loved every moment of it — and it would have made her feel better about living in a residence, because she still would have gotten out to see the world.”
That Bruno didn’t have even the least hunch of what Iris was talking about was giving him prickles. “What are you saying?”
“I’ll tell you.” She nodded. “I’ll tell you.”
He pushed up his glasses. “I’m listening.”
They were interrupted by the waiter setting their pizzas before them. Iris looked at hers as if she’d never seen goat cheese and arugula before.
“Iris,” he said sharply. “Tell me.”
“Well, you know she embroiders.”
“That’s why you brought her thread.” Then something clicked — what Gabriela said about Iris scolding Mina and he hadn’t believed it. “What have you been doing to Mina?”
“To her?” Iris tossed her head as if he were being ridiculous. “For her, you should say. I brought her thread because the embroidery she makes is stupendous. I was helping her.”
“She didn’t need you to bring her thread. She was happy enough with the thread she got at the dollar store.” He’d picked up his knife and fork but only held them.
“She’s creating art, Bruno.”
“Art?”
“How she mixes her colours. How she chooses them. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She doesn’t even trace her designs. They’re entirely freeform and so intricate —”
“What do you think you’re telling me? I’ve seen her embroider since we were kids. I grew up with her.”
She sat back hard in her chair. “I knew that would be your attitude. That’s why I never told you.”
“Told me what?”
“You never saw that what she does — what she creates — is special. You know what I’ve realized about you?” She began sawing her pizza as savagely as if it were a haunch of meat. “You’re so concerned about Mina’s best interests and protecting her and making sure she’s comfortable, but you don’t even see what she can do. I had an art gallery interested in —”
“What?”
“A reputable art gallery who were ready to have an exhibition of Mina’s embroidery.”
“You can’t do that!”
“If Mina agrees, why not? You told me yourself that her signature is legal and binding.”
“Iris!”
“It’s because you think she needs you to oversee everything. You act like it’s some kind of power trip. Bruno to the rescue! But the one thing you’ve never seen is that she’s an artist — all on her own, nothing to do with you! And —” She jabbed her knife to point out the window. “There are people out there who agree with me!”
Bruno’s mouth went dry. Who was this woman? What was she saying? How had he let her get so close to Mina? What had she done? “How —” he began, stopped, and tried again. “How did anyone from an art gallery see Mina’s embroidery?”
Iris looked down at her pizza.
“How, Iris? You’d better tell me fast. Because it wasn’t Mina who walked into an art gallery on her way to the dollar store.”
Iris glanced at the window and then at him. “I showed them the pieces I have.”
“Have? How? Mina doesn’t give things away.”
“She sold them to me.”
He would never have thought it possible, but the instant she said it, he realized it was.
“They’re mine, fair and square. I bought them.”
“And who decided on the price?”
“She did.”
“And she knows how much a supposed piece of art costs?”
“I wasn’t trying to take advantage of her, so don’t make it sound like that! I’d have given her more money when I got it. To start with, I needed to have embroidery to show and we agreed on a price. And let me tell you, it’s not easy approaching an art gallery for an unknown artist. Even with a portfolio and working up a presentation. Just trying to get an appointment is impossible.”
“But you did it.” He tried to keep his voice even. “You took her embroidery to an art gallery —”
“Because I knew it was art!”
“— without telling me.”
“She doesn’t need permission from you. She has rights. She’s her own person. That’s what you’re always saying.”
“I’m her legal guardian. It’s not like you don’t know how to contact me.”
“Whether or not she wants to be known as an artist is a decision she should be able to make herself.”
“But she doesn’t understand what that means, Iris. How did you explain that to her?”
“Stop it! You’re getting angry for no reason. I already told you that nothing’s happening — because now all of a sudden Mina won’t say she did the embroidery. She acts like she has no idea what I’m talking about. And so this gallery person doesn’t believe me.”
Everything Iris was saying and her attitude — practically bragging about what she’d done — sickened him. The deceit, the hiding, the pretense, the lies. And all the while playing at being Mina’s friend — and his lover!
“You can’t believe how much work I put into this.”
“Right! And all behind my back.”
“No no no no no! Don’t twist this into something it isn’t. I did this because you didn’t see what Mina could do, and I knew you wouldn’t want me to do it until I could prove —”
“I wouldn’t have wanted you to do it because people would only be interested because she has Down Syndrome. That’s not fair to her.”
“That’s not true! What she creates is art! Like I said, you don’t get it.”
“No, you don’t get it. I don’t care if what she makes is art. She’s not a clown to be put on display. I don’t want people gawking at her.”
“She does make art, I’m telling you! This gallery owner —”
The waiter was at their table. “We need to ask you to pay and take your discussion outside.”
Bruno reached for his wallet, Iris for her purse. He had to pay with a card but Iris had cash and was able to snatch up her jacket.
She’d already stomped halfway down the block but he ran after her. “I thought you were seeing Mina because you cared about her. I cannot believe —”
“Yeah, well, guess what? Maybe I care more about her than you do, because I see more happening for her!”
“You call that wacky idea —”
“Only wacky to you because you can’t —”
“I’m her brother, I’m —”
“— see who she is. She would have loved being fêted as an artist.”
“— her only family she’s got left, I —”
“She was going to be called Philomena. She loves being called Philomena.”
“— see her every day.”
