Mom talked about fighting. She said if she wasn’t fighting she was dying. And that she has to fight to feel alive and to balance things out. So she keeps fighting. She said we’re all fighters, our whole family. Even the dead ones. They fought the hardest. She said she sometimes felt haunted by Grandpa and Auntie Momo. She thought about their last minutes and seconds and about what they were thinking and then about their bodies being in pieces and what if they didn’t die right away. The worst thing is that they were alone. Auntie Momo had wanted Mom to write her letters but Mom didn’t. She just sent e-mails. Why didn’t she write letters? That’s another one of her fights. She said she replaces those images in her head with pictures of me and Gord, even though Gord doesn’t exist yet. She said what makes a tragedy bearable and unbearable is the same thing—which is that life goes on. She told me she says things to herself like, my suffering is the world’s suffering. My joy is the world’s joy. She just went on and on. She said part of fighting is saying things to yourself. While she walked and talked she tilted her head way over to one side and counted to thirty and then moved it way over to the other side and counted to thirty. She said she was trying to create space between her vertebrae.
We sat on a bench in the park and watched two men play tennis. Mom said she hated this new thing called mini-tennis. It’s where the people playing tennis warm up by hitting the ball back and forth in the small area first and then gradually move back so that they’re using the full court. Mom just hates that so much. It looks bad, she said. It’s ridiculous. It’s just so timid! If you’re going to play a game of tennis then play it properly and warm up properly with the full court. Mom used to play tennis all the time with Auntie Momo. That’s the way to play tennis, she said. The way we did it.
Mom said sometimes she and Auntie Momo played doubles with two guys from Lundar. They were the same age as Auntie Momo. Eighteen. Mom was twelve. One day one of the guys came to the tennis court to say they couldn’t play doubles because his doubles partner was in jail. He had been stopped for speeding on the number six highway on the way to Eriksdale. He had a lot of stress in his life. I guess he freaked out, said Mom. He’d grabbed the Mountie’s baton and hit him over the head. Then he’d stolen the Mountie’s gun. Then he’d stolen the Mountie’s unmarked vehicle. And then he took off to see his mom. Hmmm, I said. Mom said yeah. She was quiet. Then she said but I get it, I get it. Eventually the guy got out of jail, said Mom, and they played doubles again for a while until they all … She moved her hands around. Scattered, she said. I asked if they were still friends and Mom said yeah, except that she was pretty sure he’d died. Then how can you be friends! I said. She said you can be friends with dead people. Swiv, she said, we need to embrace our humanity.
Go ahead! I said. （Mom loves to hate things or embrace things.） I don’t even know what you mean. Mom was going to explain things to me but fate intervened and I was saved from having to embrace anything.
What happened is we met a friend of Mom’s who is a director. Mom said oh god, don’t look now. Fucking kill me. I looked and saw a tall guy come walking towards us. Mom tried not to embrace him but he bent down and hugged her so then out of politeness she hugged him for under one second and just with one arm barely touching him. She pointed at me and said, this is my daughter, Swiv. I waved. He said, Oh! I thought you’d say son. Mom and I looked at him. Pleasure, he said. He nodded at me. Mom asked him how he was and he said he was involved in an epic struggle with his demons. Mom burst out laughing and said really? Wow! He said yes, more and more as I get older I’m finding evidence that supports the fact that I’m a tragic character. Mom laughed again. The director looked confused. He said, It’s not funny, really, it’s painful. Mom couldn’t stop laughing. Then I started laughing a bit too. The director frowned and looked away, down towards the far end of the park towards the off-leash pit. Mom said she was sorry. The director said it was fine. He was trying to smile. Finally he left and Mom sat back down on the bench and watched him disappear. When he was far enough away Mom said oh my god, what a douchepetard. She told me he had touched her all over—and she means all over—during one rehearsal when he was trying to show her how to simulate love-making. She said he’s banged every young actress in town and super talks down to everyone. Mom said we can’t afford therapy anymore even with the sliding scale and even with giving the therapist free tickets to the theatre because doucherockets like the tall director aren’t giving her roles anymore because she’s too old and because of Gord and also because he knows she’s got his fucking number. Now she has to audition for fucking tooth-whitening commercials.