Doing the Right Thing

Fiona let herself in.

Oliver had given her a copy of the key a while ago so she could drop in if she needed a place to stay in the city — or just a place to stay. He had often come home and found his sister there, unannounced, cooking up a vegetable stir-fry and doing his laundry. “Is it okay if I stay for a night or two?” she would ask, smiling. Just until she got back on her feet, until the “friend” she was subletting an apartment from went back to Vietnam, until things calmed down with her boyfriend of the moment.

But it was none of this, now. Fiona had settled down, it seemed to Oliver. She was in grad school with a decent job. She lived in a quiet university accommodation. She wasn’t seeing anyone at the moment.

The apartment was dark; Fiona wondered if her brother was in. She could only perceive the solider shadows of the pieces of furniture in the gloom: the low table against which she lay her bag, the humps of the sofas and armchair, the large square expanse of the TV against the wall. She walked past the living room and into the kitchen. All was quiet and dark, there too, except for the hum of the refrigerator and the glow of the oven’s LED clock: 10:17. She hadn’t realized it was so late.

In the hall she saw a sharp glare of light on the floor and the wall. It peered out of the crack in the bedroom door.

“Oliver?”

She heard the sound of shifting fabric and something crash against the floor.

“Fiona?” he cried back.

She realized there might be a girl with him in there. She suddenly felt terrible, wishing she had called before coming.

Oliver appeared in the doorway in an old UBC T-shirt and sweat pants.

“Fiona? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Hey! Sorry to bother you...” She tried to peer behind him at the mess in the bedroom.

“No, it’s fine,” he said. “I was just working in bed. I, um... I had a big day. I didn’t hear you come in.” He reached for the light switch. He regretted it immediately. Fiona’s eyes were red and dry, she looked exhausted.

She brought her fingers to her face.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I must look awful.”

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I went to see Mom today. I just got back...”

“Oh...”

“We have to talk.”

“Come sit down, I’ll make some coffee.”

Fiona sat at the kitchen counter while Oliver fussed about with his espresso machine, frothing milk and grinding coffee beans. He had been a barista as an undergrad and still made a mean cappuccino. Finally he placed two elegant cups topped with perfect islands of foam on the counter. He stood looking down at her, leaning on the other side of the counter while she took a sip of the strong, scalding drink. He seemed relaxed.

“Thanks,” Fiona said. “It’s good.”

He took a sip from his own cup. A sliver of foam stuck to his upper lip and he wiped it away quickly with the back of his hand.

“So, how is she?” he asked.

She wiped her own mouth self-consciously.

“I think she’s getting worse.”

“How much worse?”

“Well, she’s not getting better.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know, Oliver. But that’s how it is. What do you want me to say? You don’t get better from these things...”

“It wasn’t so bad when I saw her last week. She was okay. I thought she was stable, at least.”

“Did you know she went almost blind last month? It lasted for an entire week.”

“No. She didn’t tell me.”

“Of course not. She didn’t tell me either. Mrs Simpson did.” She paused. “That kind of thing — it’s going to happen more often.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s already worse. She could barely walk today. She said she didn’t sleep well last night, either. It’s the spasms.”

“But that’s just —”

“Look. Having Mrs Simpson over isn’t enough anymore.”

“No,” he shook his head, business-like. “No, Fiona. That’s out of the question.”

“She needs professional help. Somewhere where they can monitor her all the time.”

“Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m having this conversation right now.”

“Well, it was pretty clear we were going to have it soon enough, Oli!”

“But it’s not that bad! Maybe it just seems bad now but she’ll get over this phase, or whatever —”

“She won’t. You know she won’t. It doesn’t make any sense. We have to be prepared.”

“Prepared for what?” He almost shouted it.

“It’s unfair to her if we don’t give her the help she needs. She can’t live alone anymore.”

Then go live with her! He thought it — but held back from saying the words. It made sense, but he knew it was unfair. Why ask her to do something he wouldn’t do himself? Fiona’s face changed as if he had said it aloud, though. Her eyebrows arched, questioning him, and then her features softened, as if she pitied her brother. She wanted to comfort him.

“Look,” she said. “There’s this place. It’s just outside the city.”

“Oh, because you’ve done some research?”

“It’s not too expensive and it would be closer for both of us. It’s set up like an apartment so she’d still keep her autonomy, but there’s medical staff on call —”

“Stop, please.”

“I’m just saying we can look into it and put her name on the waiting list, for when she’s ready —”

“Stop. I don’t need to hear this.”

“You don’t need to hear this?”

“No. And I can’t believe you’ve been thinking about it behind Mom’s back. It’s disrespectful to her.”

“Oh, don’t be a dick! I’m just trying to find a solution —”

“By trying to place her into some home.”

“By helping her. By helping us! That’s what people do, you know.”

“You want to get rid of her!”

“Well, I’m sorry, Oliver, but I go up to visit her as often as I can and I help out as much as I can and it’s just not enough.” Her eyes were glossed over in tears, now. Oliver felt like looking away, as if he was seeing something he shouldn’t. Something private.

“It’s just not enough,” she said again, sighing deeply.

“What are you insinuating.” The words caught in his throat, he almost choked. He felt angry — at Fiona, at himself.

“I’m not insinuating anything,” she said. “I’m trying to be realistic.”

Oliver started sobbing, quite suddenly. He tried to hold back the tears, which made them look so painful Fiona started crying as well, out of sympathy. Oliver’s shoulders jerked up and down and he gripped the counter with both his hands. All his body shook with heavy, hurting hiccups. He let out a deep, anguished moan, as if all the air had been pushed out of him. It was like a cry of anguish that wanted to be let out from somewhere broken within him, muffled and awful.

“I’m sorry,” Fiona said. “I’m so sorry. I wish... I wish there was another way. Something better...”

Oliver turned his back to her and grabbed a kitchen towel to wipe his eyes. He turned around again. His face glistened, boiled raw under the skin.

“She can’t come here,” he said. His voice was unequal. He was out of breath. “I can’t take care of her. I just... I couldn’t do it.”

Fiona placed her hand on her brother’s hand on the counter.

“I know, Oli. I know.”

They stared at each other with eyes wet and burning.

“It’s the right thing to do,” said Fiona. “I really think so.”

“I know,” Oliver said. He breathed deeply, filling his entire body with air, trying to get rid of the overwhelming dread, which still made him shake with spasmodic sobs. “I just wish she could get better.”

“Is it okay if I sleep here tonight?” Fiona asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Of course it’s okay.”