Alterations

Yesterday afternoon, with only a week’s notice, Adélie’s daughter, Claire, came home from Victoria. “I’m bringing the baby,” she’d said. The baby was eleven months old. It had been seven years since Claire had returned to the three-story walk-up in Verdun where she’d grown up.

Adélie worried about the stairs. Some of her clients (as they caught their breath) complained about the climb up to her studio. Eventually, she’d have difficulty with those stairs and have to move, maybe into a home.

Claire’s hair hung limply around her neck. A grey sweatshirt clung to her bony shoulders and her jeans were baggy. As she lugged a blue, rectangular sack and her suitcase up the stairs, the baby, Brianna, worrying her soother, waited at the bottom in an umbrella stroller.

“What is that thing? A tent?” Adélie asked, pointing at the blue sack instead of running down the stairs to hug the baby.

Claire dumped the sack on the landing and shot a disdainful look at Adélie. “It’s a portable crib. It’s a lot of work travelling with an infant.”

When she was a young mother, travel was a luxury. Those days had overflowed with worry, making do, and exhaustion.

Claire and her husband, Michael, hadn’t told her about the baby until a week after the birth. She and Claire weren’t close but surely, she deserved to hear about the arrival of a grandchild sooner than that. Adélie didn’t send a gift and now that feels mean. She was a seamstress and could have made a quilt for the nursery.

“I’ll need you to babysit while I’m interviewing for the job at McGill,” Claire said catching her breath.

“I’ll do what I can,” she replied. Her daughter had left for university on her swimming scholarship when she was eighteen. Other than the occasional birthday or Christmas card, she’d rarely contacted her. Her life was busy and her scientific work important, but when would she trust her enough to tell her what was going on? 

Adélie’s concerns, the dressmaking business, and the losses with aging didn’t interest her daughter. But maybe, now that Claire was a mother herself, this was their chance to be kinder to each other. At times, Adélie had been unkind. She was ashamed of it and could see now that it hadn’t always been necessary.

She was designing a copper velvet dress like the one Juliette Binoche wore at the Academy Awards in February for her client, Mme Gavreau. Adélie had to cancel the appointment. She’d moved her sewing machine, her serger and the mannequin out of the spare room and into her bedroom. She’d vacuumed the carpets and brushed them with a magnet to find any stray pins or needles lost on the floor. She’d worried constantly bringing up Claire. What would it be worse than being a grandmother? Claire wouldn’t forgive her if she made a mistake and the crawling and toddling Brianna was hurt.

It was nine o’clock, a sticky June evening. Claire was out at a dinner, and Adélie was babysitting Brianna. At bedtime, she’d sung “Michael Row the Boat Ashore.” Her voice was reedy now, and she couldn’t hit the top notes of the Hallelujahs the way she’d done when Claire was an infant. “Should I stick to “Fais Do-Do?” she asked the glassy-eyed baby as she rocked her to sleep. It was a sticky and noisy night like this one when Adélie’s first child was born. The moans and wails of the labouring unwed mothers mixed with the sounds of traffic and sirens pouring into the open windows of the grey building.

Adélie was sixteen when she moved from Québec to Montreal. She worked at the glove counter at Olgivy and met a man who was buying a present for his wife. She’d believed him when he’d said he loved her. When Adélie got pregnant, he stopped calling. Her parents disowned her.

The Catholic sisters took the baby away from her the moment he was born. She remembers the emptiness as she sat on the gurney while the sisters bound her breasts and massaged her lower belly. A few years later, she married Alain and they had Claire. She hadn’t told Alain or Claire about baby Daniel. There was never a good enough time. Alain was killed in Cypress leaving Adélie, only twenty-six years old with two-year-old Claire.

Adélie had tried to shield her young daughter from her worries but there was no disguising that money was tight. Saturday evenings at the laundromat—five-year-old Claire, swinging her legs over the edge of the stainless-steel folding table, watching the TV mounted to the ceiling. No TV at home. Simple things, like new swim goggles, needed a shuffling of the grocery budget.

That Christmas when Claire had wanted an Easy Bake Oven. “These are nice too, Mom,” she’d said, patting Adélie’s shoulder when she opened the flat package containing the baking pan set. Eight years old and she already knew how to hide her disappointment. But if it could be sewn—Adélie smiled, remembering the ten-year-old Claire spooking the neighbours in her Bride of Dracula Hallowe’en costume.

She didn’t dare to wish that she might be included in moments like those with this new baby. This grandchild was a chance to love a child fully. A chance to love, unblurred by grief. Her daughter might forgive her for her mistakes and let her love this grandchild.

Earlier that evening, Adélie made a pasta salad for dinner–it was too hot to eat anything else. Brianna’s corkscrew curls had bounced about as she played on the kitchen floor among the Tupperware and yogurt containers. Claire hadn’t brought any toys for the baby. Adélie didn’t ask why. Things were too fragile between them.

Adélie met Claire’s husband, Michael, when they came to Montreal, the July before they married. He reminded her of a male model in an Eaton’s catalogue—neat khaki pants, collared golf shirt. He smiled when she made him a coffee and offered him a Peak Frean. Along with his “Thank you very much, Mrs. LeBlanc.” she couldn’t tell what his all-purpose broad smile meant. 

Adélie hadn’t gone to the wedding. It was on an island his family owned in Georgian Bay. She’d worried about getting in and out of tippy boats, bumpy waves and splashing water. She didn’t swim. She was afraid of water.

At dinner, Claire and Adélie sat across from each other at the cracked Formica kitchen table. A gold barrette held Claire’s hair tidily at her neck, and makeup brightened her face. Adélie approved of the tidy French-blue blazer she wore over a white linen dress. Maybe Claire had taken in some of her advice over the years, despite her insensitive way of dispensing it.

Claire traced her fingers on the kitchen table, her nails still bitten to the quick. “I remember this pattern. I imagined that each gold starburst contained a spot of happiness.” She sighed. “I pretended we lived in a big house with a father, and you didn’t have to work. You drove me to school in a shiny car and cheered for me at my swim meets.”

“This kitchen table was the first thing that your father and I bought together,” Adélie said, hoping the moment would continue, maybe lead to a hug.  But Claire’s mouth was full, her fork loaded with spirals of rainbow pasta, so they sat opposite each other, neither speaking.

Claire swallowed, “Today’s interviews went well. It’s a great department with access to a statistician and a scientific writer. I’ll get a job here beginning in September for sure. I might be able to start teaching summer courses in July.” 

Claire spoke at the wall, like Adélie wasn’t even there. “What’ll you do?” Adélie asked, wondering if Claire’s certainty was bravado—bravado to mask the terror of whatever was happening with her marriage.

Claire lowered her fork and fused her arms across her chest. “You never listen. I told you this morning.”

 “It’s hard for me to understand,” she said, staring down at the wrinkles and dark spots on her hands. “I didn’t finish high school.” But that doesn’t mean I’m stupid, she thought. Will she ever trust me enough to tell me what’s going on?

Claire’s eyes narrowed. “I’m a migratory bird researcher. I’m known nationally and internationally. I’m in demand.”

Adélie watched the flashing of Claire’s teeth as she spoke. Had Claire noticed how yellowed her teeth had become? Dental care was expensive. Had Claire noticed she could barely thread a basting needle even with her stronger glasses?

“I need your help. I can’t go back to Victoria. I want to stay here.” The edge of Claire’s upper lip trembled. 

Her help. After years of ignoring her, Claire wants her help. 

“I need to stay here. For a few months. While I get set up.” Claire stood back from the kitchen table, her lips pressed into a tight line and looked down at her. “I wouldn’t ask you if I had a choice.”

Adélie’s heart skipped a beat. It happened on occasion. It started up again, without hurrying after a sickening pause. She swallowed and spoke slowly. “There’s no room here, Claire. I need the spare room for the dressmaking. It’s what I live on.”

Claire’s plate clattered into the sink. “Can’t be late. I have a meeting tonight with the folks from UDM. Casting my net with the Francophones. Be back around ten,” she said, grabbing her bag. The front door clicked shut.

UDM, the University de Montreal. Claire hadn’t spoken French since she left for university in Ontario a decade ago. Adélie admired her fearlessness.

Fearless and stubborn. That’s both of us. She’d refused Mme DeMarchie’s request for alterations on the dress she needed for an upcoming wedding. More income lost and maybe even a client. But maybe she could get by for a few months. She could do small projects that didn’t need the fitting room and use her bedroom if necessary. Things might be gentler with the delight and wonder of the baby. But could she manage around Claire’s anger or deal with all the issues they’ve avoided?

Adélie tip-toed into the spare room to check on Brianna. Her knees cracked as she lowered onto the carpet and peered into the portable crib. Brianna’s smooth face shone in the soft glow of the night light. Her eyelids fluttered and her bowed lips quivered as she dreamed. Her smile was the same as Claire’s was when she was a baby. Such a precious thing. Such a precious moment. Adélie didn’t remember feeling this tender with Claire. Most of the time, she was tired and scared.

The buzz of the doorbell jerked Adélie awake. She groped for her glasses and pulled herself up off the carpet where she’d fallen asleep beside the baby’s crib. She peered through the peephole in the door and saw the distorted fish-eye view of Claire’s face.

“Sorry, forgot the key,” she said as Adélie opened the door.

Claire looked grey in the parlour light as she collapsed into the worn velveteen armchair. Adélie had comforted Claire in that same chair when she was a baby. And two years later, she’d sat there, frozen after Alain’s death, unable to hug her bewildered toddler.

Claire scuffed off her strappy sandals and flung her bare legs over the arm. The sandals were too flashy for a business meeting.

“When I was a girl, I loved reading books in this chair,” said Claire, picking at the worn fabric on the right arm.

“You were a good reader. I kept a few—The Secret Garden, A Wrinkle in Time.” 

“We didn’t have many books, Mom. Most were from the library. I’d get so broken up over a sad one. What about the chess set?”

“In the spare room closet.” 

The set of battered wooden pieces was Alain’s. Neither Adélie nor Claire knew how to play so they fought pretend battles with the pieces until Claire decided she was too old. Swimming and getting into university took over everything.

“How’s the baby? Claire asked, sinking deeply into the chair.

 “Beautifully asleep. What a treasure.” If Claire allows her, she’ll do a better job this time round. She’ll do a better job of loving a child.

“You keep Dad’s photo out?” said Claire, pointing to the mantel shelf at the picture of him in his uniform with its blue beret. 

When Adélie knew Claire was coming, she’d taken it out of the drawer, dusted it off and put it back in its place.

“It’s all we’ve got of him isn’t it?” she said.

But it wasn’t. Claire’s eyes were identical, steel-blue and she had the same tenacity.

Claire unfastened her barrette and loosened her hair. She looked at her painted toenails as she spoke. “Mom, I can’t go back to Michael.” She swallowed. “He’s having an affair with an undergrad.”

Adélie pressed her hand over her mouth.

“I was five months pregnant when it started. If the university ever finds out…” she trailed off.

“His first?” Adélie asked. Such an unnecessary question. She wanted to take it back.

“No.” Claire tugged on the stuck zipper on her bag bulging with papers.“It’s been happening for the whole marriage.”

Adélie rummaged through her horrible thoughts.

“Did you hear what I said, Mom? It’s been going on…”

“You knew and you went ahead and got pregnant?”

Claire sat up. Her voice was flat. “His dad died. Michael got his inheritance. The money from their pharmaceutical business.”

“Money’s no reason to have a baby.” Adélie winced as the words dropped out of her mouth.

“What is the right reason to have a baby?” Claire asked, her gaze hard.

Adélie lowered her eyes. “I’m the wrong person to ask.” The moment to be honest with her daughter, to tell her about baby Daniel, flitted past.

Claire picked up her bag and turned towards the hall. “I’m off to bed. See you in the morning.”

What Adélie did know was how she was after Alain died in 1964. He’d volunteered for the peacekeeping force in Cypress and died in a stupid accident—a rolled-over truck on the highway to Nicosia.

After Alain’s death, she’d been a bad mother groping her way through shifting fogs of desperation and helplessness. And even sadder taking the Valium that the doctor had prescribed. She didn’t laugh or say, “I love you,” to her toddler daughter. Claire had a right to be angry with her.

The next morning, Adélie woke to the sounds of babbling. She and Alain had held each other in this bed, listening to the same sounds from Claire. She got up and gently opened the spare room door. Brianna’s two oversized eyes begged Adélie to pick her up. Her expression was the same as baby Claire’s.

“Na-na. Na-na. Up. Up.”

Adélie’s body flushed with joy. “That’s right, Brianna. It’s me. Nana,” she whispered. She snuck the wriggling bundle past her crumpled daughter, snoring on the pull-out couch.

Adélie strapped the baby into the portable seat hanging off the kitchen table. Brianna’s little fists clenched the spoon as she smeared her porridge over the plastic table mat. She was humming and happy in her fresh diaper. Did Claire allow the baby to have juice? The rules were different now.

Adélie glanced into the parlour at Alain’s photograph. He’d been a competitive swimmer. They’d met after he’d failed to qualify for the Rome Olympics in 1961. When he was fourteen, only fourteen years old—Adélie liked to emphasize this part of the story—the police in St. Foy let him drive his father’s car to the pool for swim practice. That would never happen nowadays. Adélie didn’t drive and neither did Claire as far as she knew. There wasn’t enough money for lessons or cars.

It was ten o’clock when Claire arrived at the kitchen table interrupting Brianna’s snack-time. Claire’s muted floral blouse went perfectly with her French blue suit and her eye makeup was tastefully applied. Adélie tightened her worn, quilted dressing gown around her body.

Claire outlined her schedule for the day—more interviews and meetings for her, more babysitting for Adélie. “You could bring the baby to the university?”

Adélie wondered how many buses or how much taxi money that would take.

“It’s your birthday next week. So, lunch?”

Claire remembered her birthday. Adélie sat back from the kitchen table. She’d be sixty-one—widowed for thirty-three years. Baby Daniel would be turning forty-three. He’d started with blue eyes too but then all babies do. “Thanks Claire, but it’ll be difficult getting there with the baby.”

“True. And I might not be able to get away.” She got up from the table flicking her second piece of toast into the bin under the sink.

A thread dangled from the hem of her daughter’s skirt. Adélie forced herself not to snap it off. “It was lovely of you to think about my birthday,” she said.

Later that evening, Adélie knelt on a towel on the tile floor in the bathroom and sang “Row Row, Row Your Boat” while Brianna splashed about in the foaming bath water. Now, she sat in the armchair in the parlour with the baby’s soft body pressed against her chest, nuzzling into the baby scent of Brianna’s hair.

The rhythmic snuffles and sighs soothed her. This little thing, her granddaughter—this was love. She wanted to love Claire this much.

The chinking of the key in the door startled her. Claire was back already. It wasn’t even eight o’clock.

“The baby isn’t in bed yet?” Claire said as she pushed past the door.

“We were having a moment—a moment I wish I’d had more time for when you were this small.”

Claire stiffened.

“How was it?” Adélie asked.

“Got it. Starting as an Assistant Professor at McGill in September. But with my experience, I should be an Associate.”

“Sometimes you have to make do, Claire,” said Adélie, her arms sheltering the baby.

“I am making do.”

The eyeliner and mascara from the morning had smeared around her eyes. She’d been crying. Adélie wanted to reach out and comfort her, but it was too dangerous—too much of a chance she’d be pushed away.

“There’s a summer posting too. I won’t have to go back to Victoria tomorrow, back to Michael. I’ll live here for the first few weeks. I’ll need your help with the baby ‘til I get settled.”

Adélie wanted to help, to do everything for this baby that she hadn’t done for Claire, but it was impossible. It had taken years to establish her business. She’d been thinking about the collar style for the copper velvet dress. “Claire, I can’t. I’ll end up hating you. Resenting the baby.”

“What do I need to do to get help from you?”

The rising voice startled the baby. Adélie rocked and cooed at her to calm her. After a few minutes, Brianna softened in her arms.

“I love you Claire, but you’re not my responsibility anymore. You have a job. You can get a loan. I’ll help when I can, but you can’t stay here,” she said gently, swaying the baby. She’d done as much as she could for Claire. It was Brianna she could help, to love her in the way Claire wouldn’t.

“Fine. Just fine.” Claire dropped her bag and plucked the baby from Adélie’s arms. She cast Adélie a stony look as she walked away down the unlit hallway. The spare room door clicked shut.

Adélie was surprised at the emptiness she felt. She heard Claire chatting to the baby about the people she’d met during the day and the birds they discussed. Then she heard Claire’s clear voice singing Fais Do-Do, as Adélie had sung it to her all those years ago.

It was too hot, too humid, and too early to go to bed. Adélie sat in the parlour in her shift, remembering the soothing pressure of the baby on her chest. Claire and the baby would leave tomorrow. She’d contact Mme. DeMarchie and do the alterations to her dress. She’d confirm the cut of the collar with Mme. Gavreau. Tomorrow evening, she’d visit her friend Marjory, whose breast cancer had spread.

It was dark now. Tomorrow, she’d put the picture of Alain back into the bottom drawer of the corner cabinet. When Brianna was old enough, Adélie would tell her the story of her grandfather. She thought about a pattern for the quilt for the baby. Brianna would need her. She’d need her love, all the love that Adélie could give. It would take more time for her and Claire to find their way. They needed to agree on what they owed each other.