Roland and his mother chatted from opposite sides of the living room, which was used for regulated visits during the COVID-19 pandemic. His mother sat on the sofa by the entrance to the hallway that gave access to the rest of her house. Roland sat on one of the matching chairs by the residence’s front door, previously reserved for solicitors and deliveries but now the exclusive entry point for visitors and health care providers. Both the front door and the side door had been off-limits to all visitors in the early part of the pandemic. Back then, visitors had to sit in the dispersed lawn chairs in the back yard, but this requirement was repealed when winter arrived. Today, the early spring weather was already as clement as last year’s summer but entering the house was now an acquired privilege and with Mother’s rapidly deteriorating mobility, neither she nor her guests considered reinstating last year’s rules.
Last year, a long folding table was put out in the back yard for sharing a birthday cake, for exchanging photographs, for displaying a gifted vase of flowers, and for holding small personal items. This year, the table was moved to the living room, repurposed to squeeze Roland, other guests, and the two matching chairs tightly against the wall. A new policy required objects brought in from outside the house to be deposited in the corner of the living room for a three-day quarantine. The table demarcated the visitor area from the prohibited area. On the table, a giant dispenser of hand disinfectant stood guard, a constant reminder of the distancing protocols in effect. Roland, who was wearing a mask, gave two firm pushes to extract the clear antiseptic goo which he spread squeakily over his hands. He sensed his mother’s watchful approval without having to look at her and then announced that his niece Roxanne was in town. He ended with the exasperated summation, “She’s everywhere!”
His mother reflected a moment, sighed, and changed the subject. “Last night I had a disturbing dream,” said the weak, muffled voice behind the flickering face mask. “Little Thérèse appeared to me in a dream. As you know, she’s my baby sister who died of polio in the ’40s. In the dream, she was pulling me in toward her with her hands. She kept saying ‘Come on! Come on!’ Then, it was as if my hands were being pulled by Mommy, with her thin, gaunt, skeletal face that she had when she died of cancer. That’s when it occurred to me that they were both dead and I didn’t want to go with them so I was resisting. And then, I woke up.”
Hearing these last few words as she opened the front door, Roxanne walked into the living room. She and her autistic son Michel had been redirected by the sign posted on the side door window to use the front door.
“That’s right! Resist, Grandma! It’s about time somebody woke up,” she joked, feigning to be in on the conversation. “How are you feeling, Grandma?”
Roxanne did a double-take as her eyes locked onto Grandma’s wig perched above a pair of eyes peering from deep, emaciated sockets. Roxanne’s smile dissipated as she came to terms with the ravages of chemotherapy on her grandmother.
“Hi Roxanne. It’s been―” replied her grandmother with an inflection.
“No. No. No,” cried Roland as his eyes followed little Michel darting from outside, around Roxanne and straight into his great-grandmother’s lap. She recoiled and then gave in, hesitantly placing her hand on the child. “Your great-grandma has low white blood cells so she can’t give you hugs right now,” he explained awkwardly, realizing that Michel knew nothing of white blood cells.
“Come and sit on Mommy!” ordered Roxanne. “It’s okay. He’ll be alright now that he got his hug.”
Michel released his hug with his great-grandmother and ran back to the designated visitor area where he stood at attention.
“Say ‘hello’ to Uncle Roland,” said Roxanne.
“Hello Uncle Roland,” echoed the child monotonously.
Roxanne sat down in the vacant chair, picked up her child and sat him on her lap, and turned, presenting her free hand to her Uncle Roland, who rejected the gesture but counter-offered an extended bent elbow in her direction. Roxanne accepted the gambit by extending her own bent elbow to nudge against his.
“Hi Michel,” replied Roland. His eyes shifted up to Roxanne’s and he continued, “But you have to put your mask on!”
“Oh! I forgot in all this confusion―but Michel doesn’t keep his on; he’s too little to understand,” she explained, as she reached into her big bag to retrieve her mask. Her hands looped the elastics around her ears and released them with two perfectly synchronized snaps.
“We have to be super careful over here. Mom didn’t get vaccinated,” warned Roland.
“Yes, the doctor said that I would be the first in line for the vaccine―after the doctors and the natives―because of my age and pre-existing conditions, and right now, my doctor didn’t even get his shot yet. It’s just taking forever,” elaborated Grandma.
“Well, just don’t get sucked into taking those vaccines that mess with your DNA,” warned Roxanne.
“That would be none of them,” quipped Roland curtly. “Don’t you want to be vaccinated?” he asked Roxanne.
“There’s not much point, is there?” replied Roxanne. “Those who catch the virus have a 99.7% survival rate and the best vaccine is 96% effective, so, you do the math―and even if I did get vaccinated, I’d still have to wear this thing,” she continued as she pointed to her mask, which navigated diabolically on her face, momentarily exposing her lips and nostrils. “This whole story is all about Big Pharma having politicians in their back pocket. Did you know they pay doctors $2,000 every time a patient gets COVID? Why do you think there is so much testing going on? They keep testing until they get a false positive. The whole medical staff is in on it. All you gotta do is follow the money!”
Before Roland could formulate an answer to Roxanne’s glib speech, her cellphone rang.
“Hello… Yeah!… Yes… I was wondering if you could keep Michel for a couple hours… Sure. I can drop him off right now if that’s okay… Perfect timing! Great! I’ll see you in a few minutes… Thanks. Bye!” said Roxanne.
She ended the call with a tap of her index finger and inserted her cellphone in her back pocket.
“That was Children Services. They’ll babysit Michel while I go help out with the protest in front of City Hall,” said Roxanne.
“You’ve been in town for a few hours and you’ve already found an anti-vax rally!” exclaimed Roland.
“I do my research,” answered Roxanne.
“Oh yeah! What did you research? Pandemic gatherings or super-spreader events?” asked Roland.
“Eh! Don’t you find it funny how hospital parking lots are empty and funeral parlors are struggling to stay in business during this so-called pandemic?” retorted Roxanne.
“Well, hanging around with your crowd is exactly what you shouldn’t be doing right now!” said Roland. “It defeats the whole purpose of the lockdown.”
“My crowd? My crowd and I are doing this for you. If we don’t comply, it’s to protect your rights, because either you don’t see it or you don’t want to see it. Why do you always have to be so negative?” replied Roxanne with eyes welling up. “I gotta go now. Bye Grandma. It’s nice to see you. We’ll keep in touch.”
She stood up and lowered Michel onto the floor. “Come with Mommy, Michel,” she added.
“Well, you got that right,” muttered Roland. “I really don’t see it.”
Written by Raymond Pilon, June 2021
Raymond André Pilon was born in Cornwall, Ontario. He studied at the University of Ottawa and McGill University. He has a Bachelor of Arts with Honors in Mathematics and a Bachelor of Education. He lives in Ottawa, Ontario. He works in informatics for the Public Service of Canada. He is the author of Crooked House and Crooked House 101.
‘Keeping in Touch’ was inspired by Raymond’s mother who passed away during the COVID pandemic and who lost her baby sister Thérèse to polio in 1949.
