Moral Disorder - Margaret Atwood [75]
But the state of equilibrium did not last. Oona’s health had improved at first, but now it was on the downturn. Her legs were shaky; she had trouble going up and down the stairs; she no longer felt she could walk to the corner store. The big containers for plants she’d put out on the deck were too much to water. She heard sounds at night – most likely just raccoons, though, as Lillie said, with sounds you never knew – and they frightened her. The boys put in an alarm system, but it went off once by mistake and that frightened Oona even more, so they took it out.
Maybe all this fear was her medications, said the boys. She was on a new pill, or two, or three. She didn’t want to take these pills, she thought they were making her worse. In addition to that, she was convinced that she’d end up as a derelict on the street – that she’d use up her savings, that she’d run out of money, and that Nell – who was in effect her landlady – would kick her out.
“I would never do that,” said Nell. But Oona thought she would.
Underneath Oona’s expressions of fear was a wish that Nell would reduce or cancel the rent she was paying. One of the boys hinted at this. But Nell was running as fast as she could, financially speaking. In addition to that, she felt pushed too far. I’ve bent enough, she thought. One more bend and I’ll snap.
The boys wanted Oona to move into an apartment – an affordable one, with an elevator. Oona couldn’t decide; she couldn’t climb stairs, but on the other hand elevators were constricting, like tunnels. She was working herself into a state, said the boys. She complained of insomnia. But after using up several real-estate agents and pursuing many possibilities that didn’t work out, they finally found something suitable. It was a one-bedroom, small but manageable; it would be safer; it would not be too much for Oona to handle. Oona reluctantly agreed. She didn’t want to move, but she didn’t want to stay where she was either.
Nell called Lillie in to sell the house.
“With furniture, it’s always better,” said Lillie. “A person can see possibilities. And this furniture is charming.” She wanted to hold an Open House, and Oona at last agreed to that. One of the boys would be there to help; the other would take her out for the day so she wouldn’t have to deal with the crowds of prospective buyers. Lillie would deal with them.
As for Nell and Tig, they went to Europe – to Venice. They’d never been, they’d always wanted to go. With the money about to be freed up by the sale of the house – Oona’s house, everyone now called it – they could afford the trip.
It was time for such a trip, Nell thought. The two of them needed to extract themselves from the slow grey whirlpool that swirled around Oona.
Lillie manoeuvred her white car into the driveway, parked, levered herself out. She went up the front steps, one at a time: her feet were hurting more and more. She rang the doorbell. Oona was supposed to be there to let her in so she could check everything out, get ready for the Open House, but nobody answered.
As Lillie stood on the front porch wondering what to do, the sons drove up. They too rang the bell. Then one of them – the elder – scaled the fence and climbed down via the plant containers, and looked in through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the glassed-in breakfast nook. Oona was lying on the floor.
The son kicked in the glass, cutting a vein in his leg. Oona was dead. The doctor later said she’d been dead for several hours. She’d had a stroke. A cup of tea was still on the kitchen table. The son, holding his leg and trailing