The Matriarch's Table

Viv, Layla and Hugo are the first to arrive. Frieda, the family matriarch, is already seated at the western side of the large rosewood dining table. Behind her the Lions Gate Bridge separates Burrard Inlet and English Bay. Container ships pass near the horizon beneath the blue-grey blanket of clouds. Ten places laid out with fine bone china, the rosewood table adorned with silver candelabras, silver serving platters, and large silver serving spoons of varying sizes. The grandeur of elaborate high society parties hangs in the air. The servants and guests are long gone. Each room, drenched in the secrets of a bygone era, now collecting cobwebs and dust. Tonight, this one room hums with a throng of life not seen for decades as this final gathering of the motley successors feeds life into the old bones of the structure.

The room is dense with an air of civility, twenty eyes each avoiding direct contact leading Layla to observe that not enough booze has been consumed yet. Leaning back in her chair Layla makes herself comfortable enough to wait for the inevitable unruliness as the true personalities are unmasked.

Layla spent her childhood years looking up to Viv, wishing her time away so she could grow up to be just like her older sister. She copied the way she dressed, the way she moved, the way she laughed. It was the first conscious mask Layla wore before she realised that all relationships are a delicate balancing act of mask-wearing.

Tonight, Viv, wearing a full-length blue and white maxi dress topped with a denim jacket, and loose weave cotton scarf seems rather overdressed for a summer evening. It is July after all, but she is used to the North Australian summers. Vancouver seems, to her, very temperate. She has been here three weeks and has yet to dip her toe in the ocean. Viv has a personality that is liked by everyone, she wears a reputable disguise. She moves around the room hugging and making conversation with ease. Her body exhibits a stiffness that only those who have observed her their whole life can detect. Sidling alongside Layla she whisks the glass of wine from her hand and, tilting her head swigs from it as though it is water.

Avril, the sole heiress to a large fortune when Freida finally passes, clad in a violet, sleeveless gown sits gracefully poised to the left side of the head of the table. This seems oddly appropriate since at its head sits her ex-husband placing her right by his side as the new matriarch, the Queen beside her King-albeit estranged-while his young girlfriend is relegated to the opposite end of the table between Layla and Viv. Below her right shoulder, Avril wears a solid gold and ruby brooch, a family heirloom. She engages Elliott in solid chatter, interjecting often enough to keep enlightening the conversation. It is a watertight veneer, a well-practiced role-play between the two.

Elliot, having just completed his first year of medicine at McGill talks only about his lectures. He spends at least 2 hours, egged on by Avril, discussing the ethico-legal issues of medicine in relation to indigenous and marginalised communities. His conversation ignites a hodgepodge of thoughts within Layla’s head, her own silent voice acknowledging that voice is just another mask, another way in which we choose to project our personality. Elliot speaks out with authority using a tone that condescends, demeaning by choice.

Frank, who rarely makes an appearance at family gatherings seats himself, without consultation, at the head of the table. Pouring himself a glass of wine before anyone else, he neglects to introduce his very youthful girlfriend who goes by the name of Shauna. As he opens his second bottle of wine Frank proclaims, in his West Australian drawl to all and nobody, that Australian wine is world-class.

Shauna is seated at the far end of the table. With a false smile stretched across her face, Layla introduces herself, wondering whether Shauna is Frank’s illegitimate child or his lover. She looks as out of place as a condom in a nun’s convent, full of hubris and flouncing around in a pale pink mohair midriff, white jeans that are clearly a size too small, and pale pink patent leather sandals. Part-way through the evening and oblivious to the disapproving looks of others Shauna rises from her chair and, unbuttoning her too-tight jeans with the family looking on incredulous, she motions to show them the tattoo of her ex-boyfriend’s name that will scar her labia forevermore. A smile sweeps across Layla’s face as she realises that the right amount of booze has been reached in order to decay the camouflage. “Let the party begin!” She mouths to Viv.

Freida, the matriarch, sits, almost hugging a small clear glass bottle half-filled with transparent liquid. Wrapping her gnarled arthritic-riddled fingers tightly around a small shot glass and raising it to her lips Freida empties it’s entire contents at once. No salt to lick, no lemon to follow as she works her way through the medicine bottle of morphine. So it is, with ignorance and complacency the extraordinary becomes ordinary. Nobody blinks an eyelid as Frieda knocks back her morphine shooters.

Hugo, fighting destabilisation of alcoholic reform has, to distract himself from the rapacious intake of alcohol and pot, eaten too much too fast. He finds himself doubled over the porcelain bowl in the main bathroom regurgitating most of the home-cooked fair.

Gary, the guy everyone wants on their charades team, but nobody wants as their overnight guest, tells the entire family, over dinner and after one too many spliffs, about his diagnosed sex addiction. Only Shauna seems mildly interested. He fails to mention the obvious alcohol and drug dependencies. Avril says Frank is to blame, which he, now onto his third bottle of wine, seems almost proud to acknowledge.

Viv, tears streaming down her lumpy, flushed cheeks rummages through the kitchen searching for tissues. The neon light reflecting gaudily off the orange, green, and blue floral wallpaper is not kind to her complexion.

From the outside looking in you might see disconnect, dysfunction, entropy and quite frankly a big fat declining mass of human decay. Fortunately, It’s not what you look at that matters, but what you see. Freida sees a family. She sees love and connection, solace, encouragement, kindness, and acceptance. She sees patience. She sees the burden of an individual being lifted. She sees that the ordinary becomes sacred when viewed from a position of love. This night, in particular, she recognises with the clarity of a morphine-induced haze, that she is witnessing love in its many forms. She sees not the masks nor the judgement. She sees just love. Nothing more, nothing less.