Bone Black

by Carol Rose GoldenEagle

  Wren holds her sister, stroking her arm and marvelling at the skyline that has turned from pink to purple to a breathtaking indigo.

  “We need to capture this moment,” Raven instructs. She sets her Nikon to the self-timer mode and adjusts the camera on a rock. Moments later, an image is collected in time. Two beautiful women, smiling and happy, the way they always are when they’re together.

  The Still of the Night

  Wren is happy and content, especially tonight, knowing that Raven is sleeping just down the hallway. She feels further blessed waking up in the middle of the night and seeing Lord beside her. He is snoring again, as he always does after eating too big a meal. That smoked turkey brought back so many cherished memories, but through these thoughts of joy, Wren feels abject discomfort and pain in her abdomen. She figures it’s because she ate too much earlier. There isn’t even enough turkey leftover for sandwiches. Every bite of the smoked, oversized breast was gobbled up.

  She feels a sharp pain in the lower area of her body and figures she might have gas. She gets up from where she’s been sleeping and puts on the striped, black and white silk robe Lord brought back for her the last time he was on a business trip. As she ties a knot in the sash, she asks herself, Why did I eat two whole jalapeño peppers the same way anyone might eat an apple? What’s up with that?

  Wren had always made jokes about women who experience odd pregnancy cravings and earlier tonight, she was one of them. After dinner and two pieces of saskatoon berry pie, she had a craving for spice that wouldn’t go away. Jalapeños were the only things she could find in the fridge so she ate them, even if it was midnight. As she heads to the bathroom, she thinks about the disturbing dream that shook her from sleep. She’s had the dream many times recently. Now awake, she sees the vision again and it bothers her. It is macabre. She cradles her tummy one more time.

  * * *

  Wren is walking through the meadow along the coulee outside her home. There’s a pathway that follows the shallow creek and leads toward the shore. That meadow is quiet and fragrant, filled with wild baby’s breath, wolf willow and the deep purple of delicate asters. Purple, she thinks, is a colour that represents the calming stability of blue, along with the fierce energy of red. Wren’s kohkum used to tell her that purple is a colour that combines mystery and magic. But something is off. Wren spots a weathered scarecrow that looks to have horse hair covering its head in place of a cap. The hair flies in the wind. There’s no reasonable explanation why a scarecrow would be placed there—there’s no vegetable garden nearby, only a playground for squirrels and whatever other wildlife happens to wander along. As Wren moves closer, she notices the scarecrow is clad in a dress made of red and white gingham, like the tablecloth she and Lord often use for picnics.

  * * *

  She feels another discomfort. Chills and a cold sweat. She figures there’s no point in waking her husband or her sister, but the pain in her lower body is getting worse. If it’s food poisoning, she thinks, why isn’t anyone else awake now too, needing to head for the bathroom like me?

  The floorboards make familiar creaking sounds as Wren holds on to the handrail of the old wooden staircase. The sound makes her smile for a moment, reminding her of crickets and the songs they sing to each other at dusk. There’s a night light in the upstairs hall, but this evening, its usefulness is replaced by a bright, full-moon beam of light that illuminates the old farmhouse, giving the impression of first light.

  “Grandmother Moon,” she whispers.

  Wren can’t help but wonder if her thoughts have caused problems to manifest. Thoughts are powerful, and obsessing about the negative can make the unthinkable happen. Her kohkum told her this years ago: “Be careful of your thoughts.” It occurs to Wren that she’s been preoccupied with worries of a healthy pregnancy. It’s the reason she internalized signs of cramping, earlier tonight, while preparing the meal. She mentioned the slight pain in her lower abdomen to no one. Although she did feel a sense of dread and worry, she couldn’t even bring herself to admit that fear to Raven.

  Instead, she turns in for the night, still feeling pain and pressure. It causes her restlessness and sleeplessness. It is just before dawn when Wren feels a wetness between her legs. Spots of blood.

  She silently makes her way to the bathroom, all the while praying her fears will be unfounded.

  Her moment of calm is replaced with panic once she’s in the bathroom. She notices an extreme bloat in her lower abdominal region where it hurts. She winces, trying her best to let out the gas that might be the problem but nothing happens. The only sound is the distant second-hand on the antique mantel clock, ticking its seconds ever so slowly. Wren decides to stop her efforts and moves to the oversized wicker chair that’s been placed beside the original clawfoot tub. As she sits, she notices drops of blood trailing along the floor toward her chair. Desperate moments of agony follow as she realizes that the staining is also along the bottom of her dressing gown.

  The pain increases, forcing Wren to hold the side of the bathtub. She does her best not to let any sound come from her mouth, although what she really wants to do is scream as loud as she’s able, to wake someone up. She’s frightened. Blood begins to gush, staining the entirety of her gown. She grabs a large bath towel and holds it tight between her legs. Wren moves to the floor and continues to breathe heavily. She begins to pray: “Creator, my heart, please spare this child who I promise will be accepted into a home filled with love. Please keep this child safe.” Wren thinks her prayers might have been answered when she feels the intense pain stop. She removes the towel and a grief unlike any other weighs down on her.

  There are thick, red stains on the towel and gelatinous blobs the colour of cranberry sauce. Wren stops breathing as she gazes at the towel. In the middle of the mess is a small figure, no bigger than the size of her thumb. Shaking uncontrollably, Wren removes the tiny shape, cupping it in both hands and holding it close to her heart. Again, she prays: “Please carry this child home and keep her safe until we meet again.”

  Wren sits there, alone, on the bathroom floor. She sobs. She finds it hard to breathe. She doesn’t move until the morning sun shows its first rays, replacing the cold moonlight. Her unborn fetus is still cupped in one hand as she rises to retrieve a facecloth from the shelf. Placing the baby’s remains inside, she gently folds the corners of the cloth over it. She doesn’t want to shower, even though dried blood covers her legs. The sound of running water would likely wake up her husband and she can’t face him now. Instead, Wren undresses, gathers the soiled bath towel and wraps the bloodied nightgown with it. Then she rifles through the clothes hamper looking for smaller towels and facecloths. She sponges herself clean using water from the sink and throws some on her face to wash away the stain of tears. She cleans the blood off the floor. She dresses in dirty clothing from the hamper.

  As she descends the staircase, more tears make their way out. She’s carrying the bloodied cloths with a plan to take them outside. She’ll build a fire. While these items are burning, she’ll go back upstairs and retrieve the facecloth that enshrouds the baby’s remains. She’ll put the bundle in her studio and make a little nest of dried wildflowers and sage until she figures out what to do next.

  Dawn of Dread

  The early morning finds Wren alone and working in her studio, unable to return to bed.

  And what will these hills witness this morning? Wren thinks as she, ever so slowly, wraps the tiny being in cloth, into a delicate, two-inch mound that reminds Wren of the tadpoles she used to capture from the slough when she was a girl. She uses a soft piece of red broadcloth to cover the baby she’ll never meet, the baby she’ll never see grow. Wren places these sacred remains in a small cereal bowl she recently fired in her kiln, the first of many baby pieces she’d planned to make. She remembers a story told by her kohkum years ago about how red is the one colour to which the spirit world is attracted. This morning, she hopes i
t’s her kohkum cradling this never-born soul, her unborn baby, and offering comfort to them both.

  Wren decides during these early morning hours that she will incinerate the baby’s remains in the electric kiln in her studio. Her way of remembering. Maybe she will then make a colourful planter so that baby’s remains will be a part of new growth, new life, some type of perennial plant like a lily or a tulip. Or maybe she will plant an aloe vera and use its soothing gel any time she has an inevitable kiln mishap that causes a minor burn. Her unborn baby could help her through that.

  Wren reaches into a second swaddling of red cloth close at hand amid a wicker basket. Inside this new piece is a mixture of tobacco leaves and sage—two plant elements she uses during prayer. She asks for a safe journey home for the spirit of the baby who has left this world. She asks for forgiveness and understanding from the spirit world because what she plans to do with baby’s remains is done from love. Wren decides she will add what is left after burning to the clay and shape it into a colourful vase. She will decorate it with an ornate design of summer wildflowers. The vase will sit beside the large window facing east, a place from which to greet the morning sun and new beginnings.

  But new beginnings for what?

  Wren brushes a salty tear from her cheek. Her grief is staggering as she throws a ball of clay on her potter’s wheel. She adds slip casting and as the wheel turns, Wren lovingly fashions the middle of the ball with both thumbs so the round blob can begin to move upward into shape. Her tears flow fast now and begin to fall on her creation, becoming part of it. A memory in stone. A large-tiered and layered remembrance in clay for a baby she’ll never meet.

  Wren decides she will name this unborn baby Amber. To Wren, amber has the ability to capture moments in time, nature’s way of preserving and calling witness to a single moment, a reminder of things that have come before. Wren begins etching that sacred name at the bottom of her moulded clay, still damp, when she is suddenly interrupted.

  The heavy oak door to her studio opens and Wren sees the face of her sister. She is carrying a mug of hot coffee in one hand while balancing a plate of breakfast casserole in the other. Both the mug and plate are of Wren’s creation. The casserole recipe has been in the family for a long time, something their mother made while the girls were young and something both remember as a Saturday morning treat while visiting their kohkum. The recipe is like French toast, but mixed with leftover bits from a smoked ham shank. “Never waste food,” their grandmother would say. “It’s a sin to waste food.” This morning’s variation is rounded off with asparagus, herbs and onions—all picked from Wren’s garden. She notices the dish is sprinkled with extra cheese.

  “Hey, you,” Raven says. “Can’t stop working. What’s up, my lovely sister? What brings you to your studio so early in the morning?”

  Raven’s pretty smile quickly disappears when she notices the sadness that shrouds her sister’s entire being. It’s as dense as a wet blanket and just as heavy. Raven sets the food and coffee on a counter, then goes to hold Wren’s face with both her hands. Wren closes her eyes, and another labyrinth of tears floods her cheeks. For the first time, Wren tells someone about being pregnant, but in the same breath that she isn’t anymore. “Baby went away last night,” she says, continuing to sob.

  Raven honours the sadness of this moment, offering no empty sentiments, no It’s going to be okay. She just holds Wren, letting her release the thoughts that haunt her.

  “What if I’m damaged?” Wren asks, finding it difficult to speak through laboured breaths. “What if what happened before is the reason I couldn’t carry this child?”

  Raven hugs her sister even more tightly, offering comfort and knowing that Wren is revisiting guilt that she’s carried from days long past—guilt about when she was raped as a teenager by someone she’d trusted, a secret Wren has never told anyone except her twin sister.

  * * *

  When Wren and Raven were in grade nine, they often babysat for a family renting the acreage down the road. The dad was her school volleyball coach and the girls had no second thoughts about accepting rides home. But on one godforsaken night, the coach didn’t drive Wren home. Instead, he drove toward the dump, stopping at the closed gates that had already been locked for the night. “I have some things I need to get rid of,” Wren remembers him saying. He placed a worn set of goalie pads near the locked gate, as well as several black garbage bags that seemed heavy.

  By the time he came back to the car, Wren saw the erection under his pants. She remembers the struggle, then the helplessness, and the pain. There were no witnesses except for a lone coyote on its nightly hunt. The coach drove Wren back to her kohkum’s home like nothing happened.

  As weeks passed, the coach no longer paid attention to Wren when she came to volleyball practice and she was never invited to babysit again. Just as well. In the months following, a growing shame and terror overtook her—she missed her period once, then twice. But who could she tell? Who would believe that a well-respected member of the community had assaulted her so severely?

  Wren didn’t sleep well those months. She stopped eating, only poking her food with a fork at mealtime and throwing the bagged lunches her kohkum made into the trash can. She isolated herself in her bedroom where she’d hug an oversized body pillow Kohkum had given to her as a birthday gift. She stopped combing her beautiful long hair, only bothering to pull it back into a ponytail for school. It was like living out a prison sentence, until she finally revealed the dark secret to her sister Raven.

  In the days that followed, Wren took to self-mutilation, beating on her abdomen with hard fists and urging the fetus to leave, at the same time knowing that what she was doing was a violation of that gentle thing growing inside. Wren has no recollection of when the fetus left her body, no memory at all of the miscarriage. She’d blocked out that sad moment until today.

  Not surprisingly, the coach was never called to task. Nothing was ever said, and the girls often wondered if he had made the rounds, hurting more girls than just Wren. He found a new job as that school year came to an end, and he and his family relocated to Ontario. Wren never saw him again.

  * * *

  “But I thought that all that ever happened to you was bruising when you hit yourself,” says Raven, trying her best to console. “I’ve never thought you carried a child. You never talked about a miscarriage. There would have been some kind of trauma that you’d remember coming from your body.” After a moment, she continues, “God does not punish the innocent, not in that case and not in this one. The innocent one is you, my dear sister.” Raven wraps her arms around Wren even tighter.

  “I need to tell Lord,” Wren suddenly says.

  “Maybe,” counsels Raven, “but not right now. Give it some time. I want you to make peace with yourself before going to pieces again. And always remember, God does not punish the innocent.” Then after a moment she asks, “Are you sure it’s a good idea to transform those remains into something you are likely to look at every day?”

  “I’m sure,” Wren promises. “This sweet little angel will be remembered with dignity. Plus,” she says, “I don’t see it as any different from all the people who keep ashes of their loved ones in an urn on the mantel. She brought moments of joy to me and she will continue to bring joy, even if she’s now in the spirit world.”

  The Red Cravat

  Instead of drinking the coffee she’d brought, Raven suggests her sister have some chamomile tea, out of the studio and away from the sadness that she’d been sculpting in clay. “Let’s go in the house,” she suggests. In the warmth of the farmhouse kitchen, Raven puts on the kettle. “Here,” Raven offers once tea is steeped. “To settle your stomach and help you get some rest.” She hands Wren a steaming mug.

  “What’s this?” Raven picks up a note left on the large kitchen island. It says, Didn’t want to disturb you and Raven reminiscing in your studio, so I took some breakfast to
go. Miss you already and see you in a few days, my love.

  This may be the first time Wren really wishes her husband was staying with her at home instead of travelling. He was off on an early flight to Calgary again, since he’d just secured a contract with his old firm to design stone guest houses at one of the mountain lodges in Alberta. He’d be gone until Wednesday.

  “Well, I’m here with you,” Raven says, “and I will extend my visit until Thursday, or even Friday, just to make sure I’m not leaving you alone. We’ll have fun. Maybe jump in the lake later this afternoon. Check out some garage sales.”

  Wren agrees that it sounds like a good plan. She figures that healing waters may help heal her broken heart.

  “But before we do anything,” Raven says, “I’m going to suggest you head upstairs and try to lay down for a bit. I’ll clean up the kitchen and figure out something to eat later for lunch. You need some sleep.”

  Raven casts a glance toward the stairwell, hoping Wren will honour her wishes. Wren agrees, sighs and gently holds the hand rail as she makes her way up to the bedroom.

  As Raven begins washing dishes, she notices the local newspaper laying on the counter. She dries her hands and starts leafing through the pages. It makes her smile to read stories of the small community. Two young boys rescued a fawn, left abandoned after its mother was hit by a car. The boys wrapped her in a towel and brought her home. Their efforts made sure the little animal was sent to a wildlife sanctuary in Moose Jaw.

  Raven reads another story about residents in the town gathering at the community hall to celebrate someone’s ninetieth birthday, a beautiful old woman who carries knowledge and appreciation for the land. There is another a story about a dinner-theatre production being staged in the school gym, evidence that local community members embrace the arts. Amidst the headlines, Raven notices an ad: