FEATURES Reliance Snapshots of a Caretaker By Paul Eddings, OP Contributor I sit down on the sofa and decline something to drink. As if using him as a shield from the rest of the living room, Sarah stands behind the La-z-boy chair where Mark, her new husband, sits. She folds and unfolds her hands; grabs Mark’s shouldéfs then lets go. For the third time since I arrived, she says, “Marie’s just in the bathroom, she’ll be out any second,” “No worries,” I say for the third time. “You look just the same. Mom, doesn’t he look just the same?” Sarah asks. “T don’t remember.” Roberta, the owner of this stuffy apartment, says. Sarah and Mark laugh nervously. I don’t feel offended at all. “Sarah tells me you’re a writer. That true?” Mark asks. “Yeah,” I answer, “something like that.” I’m not in the mood for idle chitchat. Not in the least. Still, I try, “Sarah tells me you’re a cop. That true?” TYUBGs “Imagine that,” Sarah says, ““Marie’s stepfather a cop.” She laughs again. I smile. I get the irony—it’s just not that funny anymore. We hear the bathroom door unlock and Sarah seizes up. The girl who walks out from the bathroom is a living skeleton. She’s so thin I can see all her facial bones through her skin. Her hair is stringy and limp, her eyes are sunk into her skull, her teeth are yellowish brown and look almost transparent, and her bare feet are covered in open sores, blisters, and scabs. I stand up, trying to look strong, calm, and confident—yet aware that had I bumped into her on the street I would never have recognized her for the girl I spent four years with. Marie sees me slowly, as if trying to recognize some- one in thick fog. “Oh...yeah, okay...wow.’ She moves in for a timid hug. I steal a glance at Sarah who’s still stand- ing behind the safety of the La-z-boy and wearing the happy, everything’s-going-to-be-all-right grin of a desper- ate mother who just can’t give up on her daughter. Mark looks exactly like a deer caught in the headlights. Exactly. You didn't plan for moments like these when_you married her, did you? { think. Marie’s embrace tightens, “It’s really you. I thought I dreamt that...that, this after—earlier today, I—are you leaving?” “No, Sweetie,” I say, “Not just yet. I got an hour or two.” “Tsn’t this a great birthday, Marie?” Sarah asks. “A day with your mom, grandma, Mark, and now Paul.” Yeah, thanks, Asshole, 1 think, and immediately feel guilty. It’s not her fault—I said ’'d come over and visit. After four years I couldn’t say no. Now that I was there and had seen the hideous abomination Marie had turned into, I couldn’t stop wondering just what the hell Sarah or Roberta thought I would be able to do. Maybe nothing, but I suspected they hoped I could do something—any- thing. I wasn’t, though. I wasn’t even going to try. The next two hours are long. Marie is a ghost of her- self. When she first contracted HIV she was told if she took care of herself and took her medication she could have 10 to 15 years before she started to get sick. That was a pretty big “if” Instead of cutting out drugs she hid behind them—who am I to blame her? Her mind and cognitive abilities have been ravaged, and she quickly proves herself to be barely capable of stringing together a coherent sentence. Amid the stuttering, sudden laughing, and spontaneous crying, I truly recognize her for once—she glides silently up behind me and delicately takes my hand, as though it was fragile. It was just the way she always used to do it—a peculiar mannerism and nothing more. My heart doesn’t break, but it does go out to her and her family. Maybe that’s always been my problem. “There you are,” I say. “What? I’ve been here since awhile ago,” she says. “When did you get here?” “An hour ago.” “Yeah? How...when did you and I last...when?” “You were in the hospital. You were very pregnant.” Marie laughs a short cackle, “Babies, babies, babies.” An hour later Sarah suggests to Marie that perhaps it would be nice if I sat with her at an NA meeting. I say my polite goodbyes and leave. T immediately call Tanya, my best friend. She can tell by my voice that I need to spend some time with her, that I’m a little upset but basically okay, and that I’m not fuck- ing around. She cancels her plans. I love her very much— more than a friend but less than a girlfriend. In many ways we're perfect for each other. Before Christmas Tanya begins to pull away from me. She says things like, “I’m sorry, but I’ve got new friends now. Why can’t you be happy for me?” “Fucker,” I think. Over Christmas Tanya gets really sick—first with the flu and then with pneumonia. I go over on New Yeat’s Day armed with essential oils from Sage, her favourite soup, the third season of The Family Guy, and a little known 70s cult film called Deathrace 2000. “Tt’s got Sylvester Stallone in it,” I tell Tanya over the phone. “It’s about a cross-country race where you get points for running people over.” It isn’t a very hard sell. Once I’m there her father pulls me into the computer room. I’ve just bought a new Mac, and he gives me a monitor. Then he starts giving me software and explaining how to install it and use it. He’s obviously nervous—to the point where his wife gets uncomfortable and leaves the room. If I didn’t know any better, I’'d have said he had a crush on me. But I know a lot better. “Close the door, Paul. We need to talk.” I do so. “T need to ask you to stop smoking weed with my daughter.” Fuck, why me? Why does this shit alvays get dumped on me? “Tve cleaned up a lot,” I say. “I rarely smoke weed anymore. I may be part of the problem, but I’m a small part.” “Well, I think it’s the perfect time. And I think you'll opfeatures@gmail.com agree. She needs to do something with her life. She can’t survive on a minimum wage job. She needs to move out. But the dope’s got her. But now that she’s sick she hasn't left the house in two weeks, so she must have detoxed by now.” Marie comes to mind—I’m almost personally offend- ed. I feel like pointing out that you don’t detox from weed, you just get a little bitchy for a few days. Besides, what the fuck do you know about it? I don’t point it out though. Besides, I do agree with him—she has to stop. “Tanya needs to make that decision herself. I barely see her anymore.” “T know, those girls in Aldergrove are bad for her— they don’t care about her, they just want to keep her on dope. It’s part of their way.” The conversation goes on. I’m honest with him about my feelings for Tanya and the lifestyle changes I’m willing to make for her. “There’s a real possibility though that if I refuse to smoke weed with her she’ll just go somewhere else. Have you thought about that?” “We know you can do it, Paul.” Anger—TI feel like asking him why Tanya needs to escape from her life? I feel like asking him if the fact that he is incapable of entertaining the idea that she’s actually a lesbian and hasn’t been going through a five-year phase might have contributed to her need to escape. I feel like asking him if the fact that he constantly reminds her how ashamed and embarrassed he is by her, and how afraid he is that her teenage sister will “follow in her footsteps” just might have contributed to her need to escape. I rejoin Tanya on the couch, slip under the quilt with her, and bring up the time her parents kicked her out of the house—two days after my roommate had given me her notice. Her parents knew she would end up at my place. “I was supposed to fuck you straight, wasn’t I?” “That was pretty much their plan,” she says. “Tm flattered by their faith.” The afternoon turns into a Buffy the Vampire Slayer marathon. Night rolls in and I decide to stay there. “The spate bedroom’s free, right?” I ask. “Stay with me tonight,” she says. “I want to hear your breath next to me.” “You know the rules, Tanya,” her father says. “No boys in your bedroom with the door closed. Sorry.” I cringe. Tanya’s 23-years-old and flaming gay. Her sis- ter is 17, and has been in her room with her 20-something boyfriend for days. As it turns out, Tanya decided that since she hadn’t smoked any weed in so long she might as well keep it up. I’m genuinely happy and certainly won't be the one to tempt her into smoking again. She’ll probably do that her- self. Two days later I get an email from her father, thanking me for my brave decision to reclaim a life of sobriety with Tanya. I laugh out loud. Just what the hell do these people expect me to do?