The Way Things Were

She couldn’t help herself, she positively beamed her pleasure, and against her better judgement absolutely purred with satisfied pride when the dentist, her own age but even younger in appearance, turned her head up from where she was carefully scrutinizing the interior of the elderly patient’s mouth, to congratulate her. After all, she’d been in the profession for a full eight years, why wouldn’t she be good at what she does? Even so, she took great pleasure when patients, like the woman half-reclining before them in the chair, added her commendation, commenting over her soft touch.

She felt like a little kid again, melting with pleasure under one of her father’s rare displays of congratulations over something she’d done. He was spare with that kind of thing. And it wasn’t as though this was an extraordinary thing in any way, here with Nadia Bhattia. She always complimented her on the thoroughness of her work. It was just that every time she did, an unaccountable tide of pleasure swept over her. Nadia was a perfectionist, with her own deftly sweet touch. Her patients absolutely adored her.

Nadia had been in practise just as long, but she was the dentist, while she was the - one of the - dental assistants in the office. She’d been there, in fact, from the very first, when Nadia first opened the office. Actually bought the patient list from another dentist preparing to retire. Who, though his own son originally planned to buy the practise from his father, suddenly decided otherwise. This elderly woman was one of the patients on the earlier dentist’s list, and it was clear she could identify vast differences between her original dentist of long standing, and her current one.

Apart from the fact that women were more sensitive and personable than men in that same practise, she felt, it was the vast differences in the equipment now used, all new technology, easier on the practitioners and just as much so on the patients. Looking at the ceiling above her cubicle set within the larger office with its arrangement of several cubicles, she smiled to herself, that hers was unique with its large yellow-background mass of smiley-faces. When patients were relaxed in the chair, that’s what they saw, and it always elicited a chuckle.

She wondered, as she escorted the elderly women back to the reception room, how her little Christophe was feeling right about now. She could, she thought briefly, call and ask. But decided not to. He was in good hands; if she didn’t trust her aunt with his care then who could she depend on? Again, she laughed to herself since that did have an answer and it was that she could also depend on her twin brother. He would always make time when she was busy, to look after his two nephews, and they adored him.

The old lady, after entering and looking about, had asked if she had a little boy. The last time this women was in for a cleaning was four years earlier; one of those who procrastinated until something happened and they came in for an emergency dental appointment. Which was what had happened with this woman, and after her filling had been restored, she’d been reminded that she hadn’t been in for a thorough cleaning and examination in far too long. She wouldn‘t remember her, she was certain, and at that time Stephane had not even been two years old.

She turned quizzically to the woman, and said, yes, she had two little boys, almost six and just about three. The woman smiled, flicked her hand toward the artwork on the wall to her left, and said “only little boys do that kind of crayon drawing”. The interest emanating from the woman stirred something in her, and while she worked for the entire hour that she poked about inside that open mouth, scraping, polishing, picking, she found herself talking about … herself.

How fortunate she felt to have found, at age 29, a man with whom she had begun a clearly serious relationship, and how things unfolded from there to their marriage. As she worked mechanically and carefully, she spoke almost as though to herself, and she began to recall things she hadn’t thought of for ages. The woman attempted smiles and just lay there, listening. She forgot about the woman, forgot that she was speaking to someone, and just let her mind meander along her memories.

Her father, standing angrily over her older sister when they were just teens, furious at the tone of her sister’s voice, insulting, mean, speaking to their mother. “I will not stand by and permit anyone - anyone to speak to my wife in such a manner”, he said, stiffly. Their quiet bear of a father who rarely said much of anything.

She'd watched, fascinated, as her mother turned surprised eyes toward her husband who had entered the room just as her sister had wound up a nasty accusation. She was so astonished at the tenor of her sister’s voice, her withering scorn, that she was speechless, unable to say anything. Their father’s voice arrested them all, standing there in a slow-motion tableau of confrontation and misery.

After her father’s admonition, she recalled her mother catching a sob in her throat, and rushing away. And her sister, confronting her father just as angrily as she had her mother. Denying that she had done anything disrespectful but had confronted her mother about her attitude toward her boyfriend.

This was the boyfriend whom she’d eventually married. Against her parents’ wishes. They thought him unworthy. His service-industry job and low level of education was enough; that he wasn’t French-Canadian was intolerable, that he was not a Catholic unbelievable ... how could a daughter of theirs make such an errant choice?

Then that daughter of theirs re-connected with them years later, bridging their estrangement. To inform her parents that she had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. No, she was fine, she said, just thought they should know.

And that’s when her parents pleaded with their daughter to come back into their life. They regretted ... everything ... they loved her, they missed her, they would make no further attempts to foist their values on her.

And, after all, they gradually accepted Matthew, who became an integral part of their family. That meagre service job of his had been transformed to store manager of a successful men’s clothing chain. He had done very well, and provided handsomely for their daughter. Who would never have a child, never give them that gift of life, after all.

But she had. Of their three children, she had. Her brother, at 37, would never be other than a bachelor. She was comfortable enough with him to tease him about that. Might there exist somewhere a child he had casually fathered? He thought deeply about that. Then he looked straight at her, grinned, and said, “doubt it”. Then again, even later, he confused her by saying that it was entirely possible that she was right.

How could he be so blasé, not really caring, not make an effort to know, if such a thing was a possibility? Shrugged his shoulders. She found it difficult to match that attitude with the brother she knew, with her boys’ tender, enthusiastic uncle. And wondered what there was about him, after all, that she had no knowledge of.

She thought about that; about how well she knew her twin brother. They had always had a special bond, and wasn’t that true of most twins, even fraternal twins? And wondered, in her idle moments, who knew more about her, her brother or her husband.

Her husband. Now it’s true she felt herself inordinately fortunate at this point in her life. She was still attractive, despite having borne two children. A little overweight, but he didn’t mind and neither did she. She took careful note of her appearance, and liked being a little on the flamboyant side. She could afford it. Dyed her hair jet black, and streaked it with blazing spears of red. “Just like one of those hairpieces for sale at Hallowe’en”, her husband had said teasingly, when he’d first seen that salon transformation.

She’d taken offence. Bridled. Felt belittled. He hadn’t realized right then and there how his words had rankled her, but she let him know. She’d seldom given him a tongue-raking like that. Meant to, on the rare occasion, but always let it slip by. This time, without fully realizing what she was saying, she let him know in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t a clown, didn’t resemble one, and resented the implications of his remark.

He apologized at first, and then, because she simply went on, ignoring his apology, commenced his own biting confrontation. They both said things they regretted afterward, that they really didn’t mean, she hoped. They passed a few days of silent communication. Stephane, not yet three, quickly picked up that something was awry. He regarded them both with evident concern, puzzled at his normally agreeable parents suddenly silent.

His concern communicated itself to them and they melted, spoke again, apologized each in turn, and it was then that they both agreed that they had to talk things out between them, keep communication lines open, be completely frank with one another, not shut themselves away from one another. It was painful, un-needful and solved nothing.

Her parents had been married for 45 years; they had an anniversary coming up in the spring. She always knew, when she was on the telephone with her mother, or in their presence, whether they’d had an argument. Silence reigned between them. Subtle body language; removed yet communicating a message would suffice for their usual chatter. And she would prod, ask them what was wrong. It bothered her as much now as it had long years earlier, when she was a child. “Your father kicked the cat”, her mother would finally mumble.

“I did not!” he would respond with heat. “The cat was in my way, I just nudged it aside…”

“I saw what you did, that was some nudge” her mother said, unwilling to let it lie. She would be unrelenting in her condemnation of him until he finally admitted he had done something that was of concern to her, displeasing her mightily.

Her mother worried about her. First thing she always said was, she looked tired. Had she lost weight? Was she sleeping all right? She’s working too hard."

“But Mom, I only go in three afternoons a week!”

“I know that, don’t I know it? It’s still too much for you. You’re clearly overworked.”

“Mom, you worked the evening shift when we were small. You said you couldn’t see your nursing diploma go to waste!”

“That’s different. Things were different back then. And besides, your father always helped around the house. He looked after you while I was out at work. And he did other things, too.”

That shut her up temporarily. She thought about her own husband, how he was brought up differently than she had been, and those differences resonated in their relationship. There was no closeness, no obvious affection that emanated from him toward his family, and she was never able to observe anything that even remotely resembled concern for him expressed by his parents, or his brother. Even that time when he was hospitalized, when his leg had been caught under a fallen crane. He could have lost his life, then. But he recovered, and made good on his promise to leave the building industry. As a consultant to the industry he made more money, and he was a whole lot safer.

But it chafed him that she spent so much time with her parents, and her siblings. He appreciated his privacy he had once said to her huffily, after her brother had dropped by casually, and coincidentally so did her parents, and they stayed the day, playing with the children, reminiscing, sharing the day's casual meals. All the while never noticing, to her great relief, her husband, fuming in the background.

Afterward she’d laid into him. And, to her surprise, and her regret, he reciprocated. That had resulted in the kind of argument she never imagined they might ever have. The children cowered upstairs in their beds, supposedly sound asleep. She knew better, and she urged her husband to lower his voice. He ignored her, as though he hadn't heard, and just continued his angry tirade. She responded in kind.

She welcomed another patient into her cubicle, after retrieving him from the waiting room. Exchanged a few pleasantries, and pulled on her latex globes. Then she adjusted her surgical mask into place. And just couldn’t help glancing at herself in the mirror. It always pleasured her to glance quickly like that in the mirror with her face mask on. Her eyes were revealed then as her best feature; grey with flecks of green, perfect ovals, well lashed, and a generous size. She looked … exotically appealing. Like a beautiful woman in a harem. She was allowed those occasional conceits, she told herself.

Just like they were all allowed time off. That’s what her father always used to say when he’d saved up enough for the family to go off on a vacation. They’d stay home during the summer months, but come March break and the schools emptied, off they went…! Where else but Disneyland, and when they were kids they adored that break. It was where their father really relaxed, dropped the stern father act and became a … companion. And her mother loving it all. Those time-out breaks in the family’s routine meant everything to them then, and now in her memory, priceless.

Of course that was history. They’d go off on those trips until the kids turned the bend in the road past their early ‘teens. After that, it was just their father and mother who took trips to Florida in the winter. The kids would be apportioned to stay at one of her mother’s sister’s places, or with their grandmother for the week or two their parents were away. They all did that in turn, the entire extended family.

Later, when they were adults, their parents bought a small property in Florida and spent the winter months there. Getting away from the damp, cold, windy, Arctic Canadian winters. They’d drop by themselves, one at a time, to stay over a week or so. That was then. That all changed. The Florida property was sold. Her mother said she would never return. She hated the very thought of going back there.

Two years ago driving back to Canada they’d passed through a surprise weather front in mid-March and her father drove into the back of a tractor-trailer. There’d been a white-out, the roads were slick with ice, and it’s likely he was driving too fast for the conditions. They were anxious, her mother said, much later, to get back home, to see their children, their grandchildren.

Her mother recovered after a prolonged hospital stay. She left the hospital briefly in a wheelchair to attend her husband’s funeral, then she returned to the hospital, turned her face to the wall and refused to have any visitors. None, none at all, even her. When she was discharged, the attending physician advised them that their mother would need patient, loving care. Someone would have to live with her; she shouldn’t be allowed to live alone in the family house.

And that’s when her twin moved back home after living alone as a satisfied bachelor for almost two decades. Well, it was tough on him. All his time off work was spent with their mother, with her or her sister spelling in when they could. But her sister's MS had turned into the monster they had anticipated that it eventually would, and that was yet another worry. And, of course, her mother’s sisters helped too, but they had problems of their own.

This upcoming trip - they were preparing to leave on the week-end - would be the only time he’d been away from tending their mother for the past year and a half. He needed a break. So she’d asked him to accompany them to Disneyland. Of course they didn’t call it that. To them, with their past childhood memories and vacation-proprietorial sense, it was quite simply “Disney”.

She hadn’t thought to clear it first with her husband, it was just one of those spontaneous things; she’d blurted out: “ Serge and I would love it if you would come with us. The boys would be thrilled. It would mean a lot to us, and especially for the boys. “

He’d quickly agreed, and they made arrangements with their aunt who lived closest to move in with her husband for the week they would be gone, to look after her mother. Clearing it with her husband after the fact was another matter entirely. He was angry. Again, he protested that he had no time alone with his own family. Clearly, she thought, he was jealous of her brother. Of her attachment to her twin, of their children’s obvious enjoyment, in being with him.

Now, if only Stephane’s sore throat didn’t develop into an ear infection, making it difficult for them to leave on schedule. And if only Serge would calm down and accept the way things were, the way they always would be….