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Assurance
by Janet Hong
I crouch here beside the shed in my backyard, digging a hole with my hand shovel, and I am struck by the absurdity of the situation. My mother had told me to go outside and start shovelling while there was still light. I’d been horrified that she could suggest such a thing. “But Mom, how could we do that when Bendiga is still—don’t you think it’s a little premature?”
She had spoken haltingly, her palms uplifted. “She’s going to go any time now. What will you do if it happens in the middle of the night? You can’t very well go outside and shovel in the dark, can you?” Having folded her hands in her lap, she gazed down. “Don’t get me wrong, it breaks my heart, too. I was afraid something like this would happen…I told you she was too young…I’ll do anything I can, but she’s yours and I don’t want to see her that way. I can’t.”
I stand up, stretch, and rest a little. I swipe the back of my hand over my forehead and I’m surprised to find I’m sweating. I didn’t think digging a small hole would be this hard.
I bend down and start to shovel again. If the neighbours were watching now, they would think I was gardening. The truth is, I’m digging a grave for my puppy that is dying inside the house. Just this morning, I’d gone to the vet again. The same doctor who had found nothing wrong with her a few days ago now said that he was sorry, that there was nothing that could be done; for an extra fee, would I prefer leaving her at the clinic so that the body could be disposed of more conveniently? The veins in my forehead had bulged and I’d demanded her back, my voice shaking. When they brought her out swathed in towels covered with blood and vomit, I’d received the damp, feverish bundle with my outstretched hands as if I were collecting an offering. Then I had kicked open the door and stormed out. I’d made sure the door crashed behind me.
Now nine hours later, I’m standing outside, digging in the sun. It seems coldly efficient, much too resourceful to be preparing a burial site for something that is still breathing, although just barely. Maybe I’m only encouraging death by this act. A believer would be praying past all hope, insistent on a miracle, but not me. I don’t want to end up with a dead dog on my hands, especially in the middle of the night.
I dig deeper. I widen the hole. I start to think it’s still too shallow, so I dig some more. I hope what they say about animals possessing a sixth sense—their ability to sense impending disaster—is wrong. Those accounts of how they take cover an hour before earthquakes and tsunamis, while the human death toll surges into the thousands. I hope Bendiga doesn’t sense what I’m doing out here.
When I was fifteen, I came home from school and there were two strangers drinking tea in our living room. My father was home early, which was unusual. As soon as my mother saw me, she shooed me away. As I was going up to my room, I had a glimpse of my dad signing some forms that were spread out on the coffee table. The strangers wore dark suits and looked like salesmen of some sort, but there weren’t any products splayed around them. As soon as I heard them leave, I sprang out of my room and rushed downstairs. My dad looked more tired than usual and I thought, sad. He said he had a headache and went to take a nap. Alone with my mother, I plied her with questions.
“Who were those people? Why’s Dad home early? He never comes home this early. What’s going on?”
My mother put on her rubber gloves and started doing the dishes. “They were just company. You know, from his work.” She didn’t look at me. She just kept soaping the plates.
“Then what’s with all those forms? What did he sign?” Alarm only increased my determination.
My mother glanced at me sharply. When I continued to stare back, she sighed and turned off the tap.
“You know how I always say that without your father, we couldn’t possibly go on? That without your father, I can’t provide for both you and Michael, not even for myself?”
What she said was true. My mother had never worked a day outside the home. She had no particular aptitude and the time for her to pick up some new skills had passed, or so she believed and took every opportunity to remind us. But I didn’t understand why she was telling me this now.
“What’s the got to do with those people? Those forms?”
“Well.” She sighed again. There were tired lines around her eyes and mouth. Funny I never noticed before. “Your father and I’ve been talking about it for a while and we thought maybe it would be a good idea to get…life insurance.”
“What? Life insurance?” It was as if something alien had landed right in the middle of our kitchen. “Is something wrong with Dad? Is something the matter?”
“No, no, of course not. Nothing’s wrong at all. I mean, they wouldn’t give it to us in the first place if something were wrong. They need to see medical records and all that first…seems like they need nothing less than a clean bill of health.” She smiled weakly. “It’s just that your dad and I—well, we thought it would be safer…just in case, you know… It’s the smart thing to do, since we’re getting older and you and Michael aren’t children anymore. I mean, there’s college for both of you…marriage…it doesn’t hurt to be prepared, right? We just—your dad is doing it for us…for me.”
“So—you both got it?” I felt like crying.
She glanced away, “No, just your dad.”
“So, how much, I mean, how big?”
“We decided to go with a big plan.” She looked out the kitchen window into the backyard. “A million dollars…in case of death.”
“A million dollars?” It was as if we were talking about winning the lottery.
“Yes, a million dollars.” She turned and started doing the dishes again.
What can you do with a million dollars? Buy a new home. Move. Get a Porsche. Cruise down Robson Street. Vacation at five-star resorts in Maui, Fiji, Australia, the Florida Keys, in that order. Go surfing. Spend one month at Disney World. Learn to scuba dive. If your boss fires you for taking too many days off, laugh in his face. Eat as much lobster, caviar, and escargot as you want. Bathe with Evian water. Like the scene from Pretty Woman, have the snooty clerks at an upscale clothing store flock to your feet. A million dollars. Rock star money. You’re a rock star.
So it started. The whole talk about life insurance and everything else it conjured shook me up, but like other things, I forgot about it soon enough. Then my dad started having financial problems with his business. Since the monthly payments were considerable, my parents talked about cancelling the insurance; it seemed to be a luxury we couldn’t afford. Plus, there were years left to worry about things like life insurance. I heard something about missing a couple of payments, but I didn’t really pay attention.
That all changed when Dad got sick a year later. I was now forced to think about the words “in case of death.” While we tried to care for him and prayed for a miracle, we worried about the same thing. We mastered the art of speaking without speaking, to sense the weight beneath words.
“Mom, the insurance…Do we still—can we still—”
“I hope so, we’re trying to find out…”
“But I thought—didn’t we cancel…”
“No, we didn’t. We thought about it, but we didn’t…”
“Then what about the missed payments…”
“We paid it back when your dad’s business got a little better. And after that…we started again.”
“Even though we—would they still—”
“I don’t know, we’re waiting to hear, but hopefully—”
“How about our house? Will we have to move?”
“If the insurance goes through, the house is covered. So let’s hope—”
“What will happen to Dad’s business?”
“I don’t know…but this is no way to talk. We shouldn’t—we can’t—”
“Mom, it’s okay—you don’t have to say it.”
In the end, we did get that money. We signed up for the insurance and before even a year was up, we cashed in. Just like that. We were bad for business.
The sun is starting to set now and I’m almost finished. I didn’t think it would take this long. I look at the deep hole and shiver. Soon, Bendiga will be placed in this hole. I’m still struck by our natural push for survival. How this greedy need to survive overrides everything, even the things you care most about. Does preparation equal expectation equal anticipation? What is the price of life? What is the price of death? How do you measure life?
I look at the house and think about Bendiga, only ten weeks old and counting down to her last breath. I put down my shovel and stand in the fading daylight. I will go in, hold my baby, cover her with an electric blanket, give her water through a dropper, speak to her. And when she dies, I will wrap her in her blanket, carry her down and lay her in the hole that I’ve dug. I will scatter earth over her body, cover her with soil from our garden, fill the hole, then pat it over flat, so flat that you would never know that her lifeless body was tucked into the ground where I now stand.
First published in emerge Anthology, 2007
Author Bio
Janet Hong (TWS 2007) is a prize-winning literary translator and writer. Her translations have appeared in various newspapers and periodicals and her creative writing has been published in Quills Canadian Poetry Journal and Megaphone. She is pursuing an MFA in creative writing at the University of Guelph.
