Nearly Normal

by Cea Sunrise Person

  Thirty minutes after James and I sat down together, our seven-year marriage and nine-year relationship was over. Marriages in their final death throes come down to a division of numbers, time and often blame and responsibility. James and I had managed to stick to the first two. We promised each other we’d stay amicable, knowing we still shared a future together through our child.

  I stood up and left the room feeling relieved and absolutely terrified. I went upstairs, found Avery playing with his train set, and wrapped my arms around him for dear life.

  After selling my swimwear stock, I had enough money to live on for a few months—about long enough for my book to sell, I figured. I emailed Arnold—Just wondering if we’re ready to send my manuscript into the world yet? He wrote back that he planned to submit it to publishers the following week, and my pulse quickened nervously. My book was good enough—it had to be. I had not revealed all, but was that really necessary? Of course not.

  One of the first people I told the news to was my old friend Carleigh, who’d been living in Vancouver since high school. All these many years later, we were still as close as ever, holy-roller camps and fabricated rapes all but forgotten.

  “I found a place to live,” I told her optimistically. “A duplex. Small but cute.”

  “That’s great. But what are you going to do about a car?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I do. You can use our second vehicle. It’s old, but it’ll get you around.”

  “Seriously?” My eyes filled with tears. “Thank you. I really can’t thank you enough.”

  I smiled a little as I hung up the phone. Carleigh had been with me through so much—we’d even been bridesmaids at each other’s weddings to our first husbands, whom we’d both since divorced. Kevin—I hadn’t thought about him for a long time. Our relationship had been wrong in so many ways, but now I found myself reflecting on our separation almost nostalgically. Things had been so much simpler then, with no children to think of and enough money in the bank that I had no worry of supporting myself. At the time, I’d promised myself I would never go through another divorce. I’d seen my future as something that stretched before me with endless possibility, providing me with all the time and tools and experience I’d ever need to make the right choice next time. What I hadn’t understood was that without an honest cataloguing of my mistakes and failings, I was destined to keep repeating them.

  1990–1991

  Hamburg & Calgary

  Frau Bittner was an alcoholic. At least that’s what I’d heard from the other models in Hamburg who had lived with her. For me, the word conjured up an image of someone emptying a bottle of gin and passing out on the floor every night. The idea of living with a bona fide alcoholic was a little unsettling, but I also knew that Frau Bittner was sixty-plus years old and lived in the best part of town, and that her room was the right price. So I didn’t blink an eye when my agency placed me with her on my first trip to Hamburg. I was twenty years old, I’d just left my mother and her lame-ass boyfriend behind in Calgary, and I was focused on one thing: making money.

  My new home was a long, dark apartment with walls lined in oil paintings of cats, flowers and young women in repose. The paintings were done by Frau Bittner herself, I learned a few weeks after moving in. I was making myself a salad in the kitchen, and she was sitting at the table drinking a glass of wine.

  “I still paint a little. When the fancy strikes, you know.”

  “Well,” I said. “They’re really amazing.”

  I could feel her eyes on my back, and when I turned around, she was giving me an appraising look.

  “You know, plenty of models have stayed here over the years. You’re the first one who doesn’t go out. All the other girls, they never buy groceries. Just go for dinner with lots of boys.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess I’m a bit more of a homebody,” I replied with a smile, and, sensing impending questions, I left the room swiftly with my plate. I was determined to turn over a new leaf in Hamburg, one that didn’t involve partying or dealing with men looking for a fair trade.

  Each night I’d eat with Frau Bittner’s big-boned cat purring at my feet, then read a book or write a letter to a friend back home, or sometimes attempt to write poetry in my doodle-covered notebook. Frau Bittner stayed in her bedroom at night, usually only emerging to refill her wineglass. For some reason, though, there were rarely any empty bottles in the recycle bin.

  One evening Frau Bittner surprised me by knocking lightly on my door. I opened up, and she stood before me with a book in her hand.

  “I noticed you enjoy writing,” she said in her heavily accented English. I could smell booze on her breath, but she didn’t seem unsteady. “I wrote a book of poetry once, many years ago. It is in German, of course, but I will translate if you ever wish to take a look.”

  “Wow. Thank you,” I said with genuine admiration. I’d never known a published writer before, and my other dream, besides becoming a model, was to write. The cover of the book had a painting of a weeping angel on it, her wings wrapped around herself like a winter coat. “Is this one of your paintings? It’s beautiful.”

  She nodded, adjusted her thick glasses and gestured at the notebook on my desk. “What are you writing about?”

  “Me? Oh, just some poetry.” I waved my hand dismissively. “It’s dumb. I think I suck at it.”

  She shrugged. “Would you read me one?”

  “A . . . a poem?”

  “Yes. I am curious.”

  “Oh . . .” I could feel my cheeks burning. I’d never really shared my poetry with anyone other than Mrs. Bell, my high school English teacher. “Um . . . sure.” I picked up my book and flipped through the pages, wondering which one was my least embarrassing. Clearing my throat, I began to read:

  “The leaves changed early that year

  fell from the trees and returned to the earth

  more beautiful dead than when alive.

  One by one, I crunched them underfoot

  Yellow for the warnings I didn’t heed

  Orange for the energy I spent pleasing you

  Red for the love you didn’t return

  “I told myself that when spring came

  With its buds of green

  I would be healthy again

  like I was before you came

  Not envious as I am now, of her

  and the choice you made

  With no regard for the hurt child inside

  “I wish I could dive naked into freezing water

  And emerge reborn, wiped of your memory

  But my feet won’t take me where I want them to go

  Instead they just wander,

  crunching and crushing

  Reminding me each day

  Of the brightly coloured scar of you upon my soul.”

  “I was, um, writing in character,” I added quickly, glancing up at Frau Bittner.

  She was staring off into the distance with her head tilted to one side. “Very good,” she said finally. “You have a natural talent, a . . . what do you say—instinct? You want to be a writer?”

  “Yes . . . I mean no. I mean, I want to be a model—”

  “You are a model,” she pointed out. “So why not be a writer too?”

  “Maybe in my next life. Next career, I mean.”

  She took a large sip from her wineglass and gazed at me directly. “You are an interesting girl. Not like the others who have stayed here. You have something to share, no? Something from your past. Difficulties, perhaps.”

  “Ahh . . .” I tapped a finger on my chin, wondering how much to say. “Not really,” I replied finally.

  Frau Bittner smiled and raised her glass to me ever so slightly. “Well, then. Maybe I am wrong. But everyone has a story. And I know that if I hadn’t been able to express mine . . .”

  I nodded and dropped my eyes. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to hear Frau Bittner’s story. Judging from the shadowy male figures in the background of some of her painti
ngs, I was pretty sure her ex-husband, or perhaps her father, was a big part of it. She waved a hand in the air.

  “Anyway, it is late. I will let you sleep.” With that she walked into her own bedroom, closing the door behind her.

  I lay awake for a long time, thinking about the poem I’d read. I knew that to Frau Bittner, it probably sounded like something I’d written about a lover who’d scorned me. What I could never tell her, or anyone, was that the poem was about Barry.

  My weekdays were busy with work, but my weekends were dull. Since I didn’t go out and only had sporadic friendships with other models who were always travelling, I’d spend hours reading, shopping, strolling the city and basically waiting for Monday to arrive again so I could get back to earning more money.

  One Saturday I got a call from a friend back home, who reminded me that my ex-boyfriend Kevin was also living in Germany, after moving there to pursue his hockey career. Hearing Kevin’s name brought back mixed feelings. He had been my high school boyfriend, my first real lover, and we’d stayed together for nearly two years until I’d moved on with Jason. Everything about Kevin had seemed right—he was handsome, hilarious, on the honour roll, a talented hockey player with a promising future, from a family that appeared as perfect and normal as I’d ever seen. And he clearly adored me, showering me with flowers and cards and date-night dinners. He always wanted me to choose the movie, the radio station, the restaurant. All I had to do was mention liking a pair of shoes or a book, and the items would materialize. He lived in my neighbourhood and had a car, so sometimes he’d drive over and knock on my bedroom window when I was sleeping. I’d let him in, giggling, and we’d cuddle in my single bed. We never had sex there, for the simple reason that my mother had told me I could feel free to.

  But Kevin also had a dark side. When he drank too much, he got nasty. His behaviour was mysterious and unsettling—we would spend a wonderful Saturday together, and then he’d go drinking with his friends and come knock on my window. I’d open it, excited to see him, and he’d started spewing at me about how my best friend was a whore or how he’d caught me looking at some construction worker, which was totally untrue. It only happened a few times, but enough for me to give this side of him a name: Dark Kevin. Always the next day, though I doubt he even remembered what he’d said, he would be full of apologies. Flowers, poems, tears—whatever it took to make me forgive him. Many times I took him back, not only because I loved the real, daytime Kevin, but also because I didn’t realize that the small amount of power I felt when he was begging for forgiveness was part of the cycle of the abused and abuser. So it was not Kevin’s behaviour that ended our relationship but rather something I saw in him that I didn’t want to face in myself.

  One night Kevin came to my window drunk and said he wanted to tell me a secret from his past. As I listened, I felt my irritation grow—not because of what he was saying, but because he was crying about it. My heart felt like ice in my chest. You poor baby, I thought harshly. You think that’s trauma? Deal with your shit and leave me alone. For the first time ever, I slammed my window shut and told him to go home.

  The next day was a Saturday. I lay in bed, ignoring the ringing phone and thinking about Kevin’s window visits. Then I called Jason, whom I’d met at a party the month before. He’d been badgering me for a date ever since, so he was pleased when I accepted one with him that night. We went to a movie, and when he dropped me off at home, I saw Kevin sitting in his car at the curb. I let Jason kiss me and then went into the house. Kevin chased after me, bawling and asking me why why why, as we stood on the porch. I just stared at him, wanting nothing more than to see the back of him. It was like I wasn’t even in my own body. Only a couple of days ago, I had been madly in love with him, and now he just seemed pathetic. You didn’t see me whining about my childhood or getting pregnant and smoking pot like Mom had at my age. No way. I was seventeen years old, and I’d dealt with my shit.

  “I don’t think Kevin ever got over you,” my friend was saying over the phone. “I saw him last summer, and he was going on and on about you.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. It was kind of nice to think of someone carrying a torch for me after all these years, though I had to admit he’d barely crossed my mind. I’d recently broken up with Jason and had hardly given him a thought since either, though we’d been together for almost three years. Men bored me, I realized. As soon as the initial rush of attraction wore off, I found myself feeling restless and sticking around more for their sake than anything else. Was that normal? I wasn’t sure. Some of my girlfriends had been with their boyfriends for years and still seemed perfectly content.

  I ended the call with my friend and sat for a minute, staring at Kevin’s number. Why are you even thinking about it? I asked myself, but of course I knew the answer. I picked up the phone again and dialled.

  A week later, Kevin and I went on our first date. He took me to an Afghan restaurant, where we ate stuffed eggplant and flatbread sprinkled with sesame seeds. Kevin ordered a chicken dish, and when I mentioned I’d become a vegetarian, he sent it back to the kitchen. It was then I remembered his eagerness to please me.

  We returned to my place afterward, letting ourselves into the darkened apartment well past midnight.

  “Shh . . .” I said to him in an exaggerated whisper as we tumbled onto my bed. I’d had three glasses of wine at dinner and was feeling rather tipsy. “My landlady,” I said, pointing at the wall that separated our bedrooms. “She’s supposed to be an alcoholic, but I don’t believe it. She’s just an artist who drinks wine.”

  Kevin rolled on top of me, pinning my wrists down playfully. “I don’t want to talk about your landlady. I want to talk about you. And us.” He kissed me.

  I waited to feel a rush of passion, but it didn’t come. I pushed him away and sat up.

  “Do you remember why we broke up?” I asked.

  “Yes, but that’s all in the past . . .”

  He leaned forward to kiss me again, but I moved sideways to avoid his lips.

  “No. Tell me why.”

  He looked surprised. “Because . . . you met someone else. You kissed him that night, in front of me.”

  I shook my head, feeling a little buzzed on power. I easily could have called this a night and never seen Kevin again, but I could tell he was already emotionally reattaching to me.

  “No. That was just a result. You were an asshole to me. Do you remember those nights you used to come to my window when you were drunk?”

  He nodded, shamefaced. “I don’t know what was wrong with me, but I’m so much better now. I was dealing with some . . . things from the past.”

  “Right.” Kevin was even more normal than he knew, I realized. Quite likely, these were the darkest skeletons he had in his closet, and they were nothing compared to mine. I leaned in to him and lowered my voice. “That stuff you told me about? Let’s make a deal. Let’s live in the present, not the past. You don’t tell me your shit, and I won’t burden you with mine. Okay?”

  “Okay, okay,” he replied, anxious to please.

  I held his eyes for a minute so he’d know I was serious, and when he started to squirm, I placed my hand on his thigh.

  “I always knew we’d find each other again,” he said, reaching out to stroke my hair. “And this time, I’m not letting you go.”

  I smiled at him. This was so easy. Dark Kevin was gone, and his feelings for me were obvious. I was quite certain that if I just gave myself a little time, I could feel the same way about him.

  “Surprise!”

  I stared uncomprehendingly at my mother and Grandma Jeanne, who were both clapping their hands with excitement. We were standing at the entrance of Golden Acres Garden Centre in Calgary, and four of my friends had just materialized from behind a display of Christmas trees. It was December sixth, 1990, six days after my twenty-first birthday. I’d flown in from Germany a few days before, leaving Kevin behind to play his season games so I could go home for two weeks. Tho
ugh I saw Mom and Grandma Jeanne during my visits, home really meant Kevin’s parents’ house. I always stayed with them when I came to Calgary, fitting cozily into their farmer’s market runs and movie nights and Sunday dinners. I loved their predictability more than I could ever admit to anyone.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Mom.

  “It’s your birthday party!” she said, as if it were perfectly obvious.

  “My birthday party? But . . . my birthday’s already over,” I replied with mounting panic. That was the least of my concerns, but I was too shocked to say much else. I glanced at my friends again, looking for a sign that this was a bad joke, but it seemed they had all taken a sudden interest in a display of Christmas ornaments.

  “Yes, right here in the store!” Mom replied. “The staff said we could, wasn’t that nice of them? Here . . .” She grasped my hand, pulling me through the Christmas trees.

  I saw a folding table with eight chairs positioned around it. Grandma Jeanne was busy putting tin plates and plastic cups out, as curious shoppers looked on.

  “Staff Christmas party?” a woman with a small child asked.

  “No, we’re having my daughter’s twenty-first birthday here!” Mom responded enthusiastically. “Isn’t that groovy?”

  “Wow. How original.”

  I could feel my face reddening as she turned away.

  “Well, let’s sit down,” Mom said, bustling me toward the table. “I’ve had each of your friends bring a dish.”