by Julie Paul
Then Patti sent a photo of the back of it too.
FIRST HARVEST was written in faded ballpoint pen. And, below it, in fresher ink, but shakier writing: WE MISS YOU.
Gerry wiped her eyes with her sleeve.
The ukulele player left the stage after just one song, and the audience was on the move, heading toward her and the concession. She couldn’t face them or the nice things they might say, not right now. Quickly she made a beeline for the door and out into the blustery evening. A few smokers had beaten her to the door, and she faked a conversation on her phone as she passed them, smiling.
She texted Patti from the sidewalk.
Thank you. Is Mom still awake, do you think? For a chat?
The band would need at least ten minutes to set up, which meant she had time to call home, but it was after eleven there. Well past bedtime, especially for her father, if he was on day shifts. But Patti had just sent the photo. Maybe she’d just been there?
Patti texted right back.
She’s up. The new drug she’s on gives her insomnia. Good thing it’s working otherwise. She held a paintbrush last week!!!
A paintbrush.
It had been years since her mother could hold anything besides a Kleenex.
Gerry texted back.
That’s amazing news. Calling now. xoxo.
When her mother answered, her voice was stronger, well beyond the whisper it had been at Christmas.
“Barkers’,” she said, as if the farm was still running, and it wasn’t the middle of winter, and she wasn’t sick, and Gerry was a customer, wanting to know when their beautiful berries would be ready.
//// Clutter
That’s his map of the world. Above the fireplace.
I don’t see the wonders. I just don’t see them. Mind you, I don’t lie on the living room floor like he did, staring at the thing, imagining the adventures we’d have. There’s no carpet anymore, so where would I even lie? Not that I would’ve—God, dust mites are one of the worst allergens. I feel itchy just thinking about it.
He wanted the rug when he left, but I put my foot down, since I’m the one who chose it to match the couch. I guess I could’ve had him make me an offer, instead of the crazy girl from Craigslist who came on a scooter. She strapped the thing right onto her seat and then just rode away on it, broomstick-style, waving. I nearly died from worrying I’d caused an accident.
No, what I see when I look at that map is clutter. I want to tidy it up, join the gaudy chunks of land, put them back where they belong. My eyes can’t seem to help it. Humans have to fit things together: hand and hand, tongue and tooth, man-parts into female, or otherwise. It’s natural.
My living room is a mess because of the world.
I wonder about the why of it, sometimes, all that distance between the land masses. And despite its faux-antique look—the oceans are not blue but brown up there, a kind of fake parchment, his idea of posh—it reminds me of Grade 6 homework, the endless shading of provinces or the patchy countries of Africa. The teacher probably told us why the earth looks the way it does too, but why would I remember that? I’m no geographer, if that’s even a word. Ugh. I hate ugly words.
The thing is, no matter how hard I squint to keep the pieces together, they float apart again. I’d stitch them together if I could. Of course, I’d have to use the strongest thing in the world. Hemp? It’s not just for smoking. But no. It’d have to be on an epic scale. Dinosaur skin, that kind of thing. As if that’s going to be easy to find. All we have left are their bones made into oil, and they’re all nearly burnt up.
But what if I could manage, by some miracle, to lasso the continents together? It’d ease transportation costs to Europe. I wouldn’t mind the Italian shoes being closer—my calves really do feel better in soft, dreamy boots from the Boot. My muscles can contract more easily. It’s natural, since we’ve been wearing animal skins forever, and God, that fake stuff? It cracks after about three days.
I guess it might bring people closer too, you know, like one big party. Unity, oneness, what they rave about at church and such.
I’ve tried it. I lived with other people, way before he moved in, and the idea seemed noble enough. But I know what it feels like to have someone eat your whole pint of Häagen-Dazs or drink your last beer. I know what it’s like to have a roommate yelling for more, you know, lovin’, and getting it.
All things being equal, well, nothing ever is. If Africa huddled up against the Atlantic States, would peace prevail? Would the reptiles of Madagascar play nicely with Australian kangaroos? Would Newfoundlanders start taking two-hour lunches and wearing matching panties and bras once they were spooning with France? And what would happen to our good highways, our farms and fruit trees, our empty shopping malls? Would the party be worth the hangover?
I should take the stupid map down. I happen to know, however, that it’s covering the hole he put in the wall from trying to hang that heavy mirror of his. I didn’t want it there, but oh no, he had to try, said it was meant to hang over the fireplace as a centrepiece. I don’t want to look at myself like that all the time. I’m not ugly—I’ve gone to therapy, I’ve worked that stuff out—but isn’t art a better choice for a focal point? Doesn’t a mirror as the centre of attention make you seem kind of vain? While he struggled to hang the mirror, I told him about the time I lived in Germany, on an exchange programme, in a home with no mirrors at all. How I only had my compact, and how it made me feel the best I’ve ever felt about myself, not being able to see the whole picture at once. He tilted his head, all thoughtful and considerate, and then just said, help me hold this up, will you?
I didn’t tell him that I went to a friend’s house every chance I had to make sure I wasn’t sprouting bulges or wings or that, after a few days, I started to feel like my body was made up of bits and pieces, like I might break apart into islands of limbs and torso and head. I didn’t feel whole.
Feelings. Now there’s something strong. If I could harness those and pull the continents together, then I’d have a chance. Like the first time I fell in love. That’s powerful. Best drug ever. And no, it wasn’t with him, although I never brought that up. He wanted to be a pioneer, touching new ground. Ha.
Then there’s sensation: if I stroke my inner thigh, right now, well, that’s bigger than any thought. Or rub the end of my nose or pull on my hair five times like I do before a conversation. Those are gigantic. Powerful.
But not to him—he never supported my diagnosis. Thought it was a weakness, taking meds, like I could overcome my anxiety disorder if I just did the homework. Like if he lined up the shoes in height order for me, everything would go back into place, and I’d be someone he could love more completely. It doesn’t work that way, I kept telling him. I have to line things up myself.
And even if I line up the shoes just right, on my own, it only helps for a minute.
Anxiety dis-order. Ha, that’s a good one. Even the name is messy.
I bet, though, if I could truly make those continents join up, I might feel better. And wouldn’t my name go down in history! The woman who stitched the world back together. It’d be a comfort, knowing my name would live on after I’m dead. What a lovely thought.
Of course, if I could solve that little inconvenience—dying—well, then, I’d never be forgotten. Everyone living, everyone not born yet, they’d all worship me. Forget reuniting the continents, how about eternal life?
Just one problem that I can see.
That’s going to be too many people, making more babies, more garbage, more gadgets, more bad music, more lineups. More clutter.
Back to the map.
I have to do something to make it work. I might have to get my old Laurentien pencil crayons out again and sharpen them all to dangerous points; just pick a colour and start at one end, make a tidal wave of such intensity that it would s
wallow the whole world.
I just wish I had something else to hang on the wall. Something to pick up the orange and blue flecks of the upholstery. I like things to coordinate. He didn’t match me, that was all. When I threw him out—he’ll tell you different, but it was me, telling him to go—he was wearing unmatched socks when he put on his shoes. And one of them was mine! If I’d had any misgivings, they vanished the moment he took his slippers off.
But still, the place is pretty dismal now. That rug did lend a certain coziness to the room, even with its microscopic organisms. And I do miss the way he used to come up from behind and hug me, without turning me around. I don’t think it was because he didn’t want to see my face.
We were South America and Africa, though, places you couldn’t imagine being one. In my perfect world, however, they’d go back to being attached to—well, you already know.
Yes. I’ll start with the ocean. Brown just won’t do. When I’m done colouring it tonight, it’ll match the couch. If he doesn’t call, wanting to see a movie. If he doesn’t want to talk about his day or say he’s sorry for yelling at me when I couldn’t stop checking to see if the door was locked. He needed his sleep, I get it. I just can’t help myself.
Better yet, I’ll cut the continents out, nestle them together into one big island. If I paint the whole wall blue, I could float my new world on it, wherever I want.
Now that would be a beautiful thing.
//// The Expansion
What a prodigious growth this English Race, especially the American Branch of it is having! How soon will it subdue and occupy all the wild parts of this continent and of the islands adjacent. No prophecy, however seemingly extravagant, as to future achievements in this way are likely to equal the reality.
—Rutherford Hayes, 1856
19th president of the USA, 1877–1881
We don’t like to brag. We label bragging as a slight toxin in the system, a habit we’ve been working on purging since we got here.
Hmm. Let me rephrase that. Got here implies owning the place. To get it implies striving. We are not keen on these kinds of verbs. No. When we arrived, I meant to say. When we merged with this paradise, where all our dreams have been made real.
No, we don’t mean to brag, but we can’t really help it. This afternoon Don and I have been driving around our island, and I know we’re both entertaining the thought that free-floats in our heads pretty much 24/7, something we give airtime to when we just can’t hold it back: this place is freaking amazing. It’s awesome! Incredible! Too good to be true!
But then we make our faces go soft and placid again; we summon peace and wonder, invoke calmness to descend like warm water from our solar shower. It is true, and believable, because we, Holly and Don Russell, are living proof that dreams and dreamscapes can all manifest in real time. You can live your perfect amazing life, and no one can stop you or SO HELP THEM!
Just joking! Violence is not allowed here. Well, allowed isn’t exactly right. It’s just that there’s no space or need for it on the island. It’s like saying you’re not allowed to have a second brain installed in your skull. Allowing isn’t part of it; there’s simply no room in there for anything more, given its flawless design.
We don’t mean to brag, but oh, are we happy! We know how wanting can feel like acid in the system when you don’t have what you desire. Although that, too, can be turned into motivation! That acid can be upcycled into commitment to yourself: Don and I committed, and look at us now!
No, ha ha, no need to look at us for real. We haven’t had a peel or fill in months, other than the DIY ones I snuck into my bags. Look instead at those petals meandering down through a blue afternoon, the bark strip-teasing from arbutus trees, the chalk pastel colours of the houses. Isn’t it all just to die for? Don’t you feel like you’re already in heaven?
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One good burger, that’s all I want these days. There’s supposed to be a decent pub in the one little town on this island, but I have not found it to be decent. Have these people never been inside a real pub? This one is all glass and light and positive vibrations, which echo only too well the glossy menu of options—options that should never see print. White bean and chia burgers? Beer made with hemp? Gimme a non-organic break.
Holly and I diverge on a few minor points about this program/life-in-heaven thing we’re trying out here. I agreed that smoking would have to go, and I said okay to a hybrid SUV, but I never said beef was out. I will accept the backyard cows here gladly, if I can ever find one between two buns.
Instead I am driving her to a café on the other side of the island just to buy coconut sugar—whatever that is—because it’s supposed to keep your brain healthy. When did Sudoku stop being enough?
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Don and I started with a fresh slate when we arrived nearly nine months ago. No one knows what we did to get here; that’s one of the main tenets of Can*Carma*Clear™. The past is over; the future is sparkly and clean. It’s not that we’re ashamed of what our past life looked like; we don’t want to give people the wrong impression. It’s not like we killed anyone ourselves! Everyone needs clothing, right? Everyone’s got a choice about where they shop. We just provided a unique experience for them. We responded to a need.
Our business was called Babes & Babies. We convinced mothers that their babies’ brains would be smarter if they dressed in matching outfits. When a baby recognizes their parent, they, unsurprisingly, have lower anxiety levels. That’s what making strange is, after all: a baby looks at someone who has blonde hair when their mother has black, and instantly freaks out. That’s not my mama! is what their cries really mean. We just wanted to strengthen the child-parent bond. Yes, perhaps the styles were a bit risqué, although I still don’t see the issue with a young girl showing off her belly. What’s wrong with a sweet little torso?
It was never ever our intention to encourage anorexia in kids under ten—although that’s what the media will have you believe. We just imported everything from a country where people are much thinner, and their size six did not work for our six-year-olds. Oh, we tried really hard to get our seamstresses to follow our orders via quite a few emails, but unfortunately, they never seemed to respond. And that was well before the unfortunate events of last April, when fire consumed one of our biggest and most efficient factories. Polyester really does ignite with a passion.
In any case, that’s all far, far behind us, and we’ve given ample compensation to the families. What the articles said, though, was that we turned the profits into roses, that we “washed that past right offa that cash” by coming here, to C*C*C*™’s answer to karmic debt. We found all of that rather crass, and don’t even get me started on the cruelty surfacing in the online comments. Still, we paid up, and here we are, in our Western Canadian island paradise.
You might think that Don and I would naturally have children, given our business choice, but we have decided against them. We’ve seen how kids operate, witnessed adults reduced to tears over how cute their little girls look in their gold lamé sleepers, and watched their hearts growing larger right in front of us. Thus, we have decided—even though our own hearts jump at the idea of being parents, even though we’ll never truly know what it’s like to be a family of more than two unless we do it, even though we ache to watch a child of ours learn to walk, talk, ride a bicycle, deliver a speech, win a race—not to go there. We have equanimity. We have bliss. Plus, we have read the statistics on how each child increases the strain on the world’s resources. And although we’re both learning to relegate to a deep, deep place our desires about many things, such as hot fudge sundaes and plastic bags, this is the biggest desire we wrestle with.
Desire is no longer a part of our world. We have reached the other side of desire. We are serene. We are, well, we’re living the dream.
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I make my own lists, but they’re a little more involved. Mostly they have to do with the house and the portfolios I’ve held onto, secretly. I’ve got an elaborate system of coding for all of them. Holly thinks I’m worrying over screwnail sizes, and that’s okay. It’s better if she has less to fret about. The whole debacle with the fires was harder on her than she’ll admit, although I don’t know how she can deny it every time she looks in the mirror. The knife-in-custard wrinkle between her eyes just won’t go away, no matter how many good vibrations she channels its way.
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We say “our” island, but it’s just because we love it so. This island is home to hundreds of beautiful people (and a few that don’t quite make that category—or, what I mean to say is that we just haven’t been able to see that beauty quite yet) and an ecosystem that’s nearly pre-contact in its wholeness. We coexist with this land’s first beings, and let me tell you, they make better neighbours than the boomboxers and muscle-car collectors in the city. Some people complain about their gardens being levelled by deer and rabbits, but we smile and breathe deeply from behind our fences. We are safe and sound, and everything is in harmonious balance.
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God, these twisty roads are making my gut hurt. I’m tired and cranky and not a little bit pissed off at Holly for making me come, but while she natters on, I can’t do anything but smile and nod like a fucking Chinese mechanical cat as I drive us home. After all, she’d remind me if I should complain, what else do I have to do?
