The Speed of Mercy by Christy Conlin (adventure books to read .txt) 📗

lipstick smeared on the filters as her father pulls her through the sea of the women, smoke billowing and mixing with their strong perfume and sweat. A group of children coming now, holding three-scoop cones and rocket Popsicles. They giggle and shove past Stella, who then sees four girls who look about nine years old, in terry-cloth shorts and with high ponytails in blue tartan scrunchies. Her father pulls her to the side as the girls skip by arguing: I told you so. You did not. Like, yes, I did. No, you didn’t.

Stella feels she is neither tourist nor local but some nether creature caught between. Some sort of event for very young children is just finishing at the park near the boardwalk by the river as Stella and her father walk by. Stella’s chest feels tight, her breath simmering, almost at a rolling boil, and she wants to scream along with the sugared toddlers passing them, children overstimulated and ready for a nap. Four party clowns walk down the street, two on either sidewalk, smoking cigarettes now that their work is done. If she has to breathe in any more smoke she worries she’ll throw up. Cars are parked on either side of the road and the traffic is steady, people looking for parking, people in cars and trucks just passing through. There are no stoplights and the traffic streams one way, weaving into the centre, then onward and outward.

They are finally at the other side of the village, on a side street. Birdsong fills the air, and the smell of some sort of flower. A gust lifts Stella’s hair and her stomach slowly relaxes, her boiling-hot breath settling back down deeper in her body. Her father lets go of her hand and points up at the sky where a flock of large birds fly in silence. They look familiar to Stella but she can’t place them.

“Those are turkey vultures, Stella. They’re only interested in carcasses. Flying, they’re called a kettle. When eating something dead, we call them a wake. But don’t worry. They can’t hurt you because you’re alive.”

He takes her hand and they continue walking slowly down the sidewalk.

Thinking Thursday.

The Lonely Road.

Now

Dianne sat in a poufy armchair in the corner of Grace’s office used for meeting. Stella perched by the window. The room was transformed by a woven rug of deep blues and greens. Comfortable armchairs, a round oak table in the corner for therapeutic writing or drawing, or tactile activities. Potted ferns on the floor. The walls were a very pale blue and when the light from the south shone in, the room had a soft, soothing glow. There were floor and table lamps throughout, and Grace only used the overhead fluorescent lighting if they were doing crafts or activities. It was a popular room with residents, and Grace was a favourite staff member.

When Grace announced that she would be on holiday again next week, Dianne said, “Oh yes, that’s nice. Where you going? The beach?”

Grace laughed. “I’m having a staycation. I’m doing a poetry reading at the Courthouse Museum too. And trying to get some things done around the house. I want to sell it.”

Stella stiffened.

“I want to downsize, that’s all, now my son is at university. Don’t worry, Stella, I’m not going anywhere.”

It was always difficult for Stella when Grace went on summer vacation. She could manage the weekends, but weeks were disorienting. Stella and Dianne normally met with Grace on Tuesdays. Today was Thursday. But it should have been Tuesday. The schedule changes were chopping up her continuity. Sometimes they talked with Grace. Sometimes they listened to music and drew pictures in response to different poems, to books and pictures and objects. Grace called the experience deep listening and authentic response.

Nurse Calvin disapproved of Grace as much as she disapproved of Stella. Flakey Gracie, Nurse Calvin called her. Woowoo Grace. Stella knew how Nurse Calvin disapproved of Grace being a single parent, being a poet who wrote poetry that didn’t rhyme, for letting her red hair go grey, for being in her forties with a pierced nose and tattoos, for encouraging the residents to embrace their eccentricities, for her bond with the residents. Grace indulged them. Grace was part of the problem, not the solution.

“Maybe we should tell Stella what we’re doing,” Grace said to Dianne.

“Just talking.”

They knew Stella could hear them — that she might listen, or might let her mind drift.

“That’s right, telling stories. It’s called narrative therapy, Stella.”

Stella considered an antique art deco Czech Bohemian crystal perfume bottle with an etched Japanese pagoda design on Grace’s bookshelf. She wasn’t interested in any sort of therapy today. She would rather think about Isaiah, who had given this bottle to Grace as a Christmas present. Stella didn’t know which Christmas exactly. Grace had had the bottle for years. It was always on the window ledge, where the ornate crystal stopper refracted the sun and threw rainbows on the parquet floor at the edge of the carpet. But Grace had moved it. Stella saw a miniature green and red cactus in its window spot. This bothered her, the bottle on the dark shelf, that cactus in the sun. Where was Isaiah? She didn’t want to think about Mountain Top. Or Dianne in a nursing home. Sorcha in the hospital. Or narrative therapy. What she wanted was to see Isaiah, to know where he had gone. Eugene had been sick. She understood that. Isaiah had been away. He had gone on holiday before and there were times she forgot until he gave her a souvenir. Or sent her a postcard. (Cynthia sent you a postcard. Remember?) Maybe he was on vacation.

Grace was taking vacation. On a writing retreat. No, she had gone on a writing retreat, to Elizabeth Bishop’s childhood home in Great Village. That was in the past. She would have a staycation in her own home. (Your mother loved Elizabeth Bishop. Her favourite poems were “The Moose” and