“Oh, Wynona.” I made sure the door to the dining room was tightly closed, then sat down and spoke in a lowered voice.
“Wynona, it isn’t you. Bridget has a problem, a terrible problem.”
I opened my mouth and closed it again. I had revealed her condition to so few people that it seemed like the deepest, darkest secret. I hesitated, afraid that speaking the words would make them more real. Yet oddly enough, I felt that it was safe to tell Wynona the secret — that she would be the last person in the world to judge. She sat there now like a stone Buddha, waiting patiently without moving or speaking.
I took a deep breath and forced out the words. “Bridget has never spoken to another person in the whole world, except me.”
For once, Wynona looked startled. Her dark eyebrows flew up into her forehead and her eyes widened.
“You mean, like nobody?”
“Nobody.”
“Like, never?”
“Never.”
Wynona stared at me for a few seconds, blinking, and then dropped her eyes again. We sat there in silence until I spoke again. “Her condition has a special name. It’s called selective mutism. She was seeing a therapist back in Phoenix, but it didn’t do much good.”
“Yeah, counsellors suck.” Wynona’s voice was emphatic.
“I’m telling you because I don’t want you to think she doesn’t like you. Honestly, it’s nothing to do with you.”
“But she talks to you?”
“Believe it or not, she’s a little chatterbox when we’re alone.”
“Will she come out of the other room if I promise not to talk to her?”
“I doubt it. She hates it when people look at her. And if anybody touches her, she gets really upset and cries.”
Wynona frowned. “I don’t get it.”
“I don’t get it, either!” I spoke the words feelingly, and felt my burden lift slightly. It was such a relief to share my frustration with another person, even this unworldly child. “The only other person besides me who was allowed to touch her was her babysitter in Phoenix. But Bridget never spoke to her, either. Can you imagine? Not one single word!”
Wynona sat silently, pondering. Finally she got to her feet. “I gotta go.”
“Thank you for listening, Wynona.”
After she left, I sat at the kitchen table alone while I thought about Bridget’s condition, syndrome, whatever it was called. I had read all the books, researched it until I thought I would go mad with possible explanations.
Bridget’s first word was “Mama.” Like all mothers, I was overjoyed, especially when she began to say the usual babyish words for eat, sleep, goodbye. But soon my joy turned to anxiety when I realized that Bridget wouldn’t use those words in front of Gabriella, or anyone else. She turned two years old, then three.
By her fourth birthday, I was frantic. Every day I would rush home and my eyes would meet Gabriella’s eyes, searchingly. She would shake her head. As soon as the door closed behind her, Bridget would chatter quite happily. But only when we were alone.
It was torture taking her out in public. At first it seemed as if she were only shy. As a toddler, she would “make strange” by hiding her face. Later, if anyone spoke to her or even patted her on the head, she would scream hysterically.
I tried to treat her behaviour casually, hoping it would wear off. Then I tried gentle encouragement, then reasoning with her. I even resorted to bribery. Nothing worked. Her little flower-like face would turn to stone when I raised the subject. And her condition got progressively worse. All the medical websites said that failure to seek treatment only allowed the negative habits to become entrenched.
So I took her to see Dr. Cassalet. She was expensive, but she was the best child psychologist in the business. On that first visit, the doctor gave Bridget toys and craft supplies and left her alone, observing her from behind a two-way mirror. Then she spoke to me privately. She showed me a picture that Bridget had drawn. It was a little girl with a round circle for a mouth, outlined in green crayon. “This indicates that your daughter has a serious problem.”
“What do you mean?” I looked at the picture but I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. It was a simple child’s drawing, a stick figure with arms and legs.
Dr. Cassalet pointed to the figure’s face. “A happy child will draw a curved line to indicate a smiling mouth. Your daughter drew a round circle for her mouth. The open mouth indicates a cry for help. And she used a green crayon. Green is the colour of sadness. Your daughter needs immediate treatment.”
I stared at her with dismay. “What is her prognosis?”
“Because selective mutism is an anxiety disorder, if left untreated, it can have very negative consequences throughout the child’s life and, unfortunately, pave the way for a whole array of academic, social, and emotional repercussions. We’ll begin with behavioural therapy, and if that doesn’t work, then we’ll discuss medication.”
“What — what type of medication?” I asked in a choked voice. I couldn’t bear the thought of drugs entering her tiny perfect body.
“Anxiety disorders often respond to serotonin reuptake inhibitors, the same class of drugs used to treat depression. These are effective only if the child has a true biochemical imbalance. But let’s start with the therapy first. The goal is to reduce her anxiety level and increase her self-confidence. If we can do that, she may recover without further intervention.”
October 3, 1924
I wrote another letter to Ma and Da today. I save my letters until we go into town, and now I have six of them waiting, tied with red ribbon and covered with kisses.
After finishing my letter, I had a bad spell of missing them, and I had to creep into the attic and weep. There’s an old Irish saying: “May never a tear be shed under your roof.” I fear there have already been many tears shed under this roof, and it not even a twelvemonth old. I hope that my tears won’t bring a curse upon our heads, but the pain is sometimes so powerful, sure it pulls my heart right out of my chest.
My only regret in marrying my dear husband is that I didn’t have a chance to say a proper goodbye to my family. Had I only known on the pier at Queenstown what was in store! I waved my lace handkerchief blithely, with never a thought that I might be seeing them for the last time. Only my granny was crying, but then she has the second sight.
I console myself that I had my mother’s love and care for eighteen years. I’m so thankful for the many skills she taught me, how to bake bread, how to sew and knit, and all the other household arts. She set chores for me when I was barely out of nappies: setting the table, sweeping the floor, feeding the cat. When I was old enough to help in my father’s clinic, she gave me simple duties like rolling bandages. Little did she know that she was training me for a life in the wilderness!
When I reflect on it, I’m grateful that she taught me to have good manners and respect for others, especially my elders. If I transgressed her rules, there were immediate consequences. I remember the time I pinched my cousin’s arm and Ma made me send a note of apology, even when I could barely write and she had to help me form the letters. And when I refused to eat my fried tatties at Granny’s house, I wasn’t allowed any jam on my bread for a week. When I teased my brother, I was sent to my room to contemplate my sins and ask God’s forgiveness. I remember being cheeky to her only once. Her face darkened and she said: “Whisht, colleen, or the pookas will take you away!”
The rod was spared in our home, for the most part. I never received a whipping although Macaulay was caned once or twice. We esteemed our dear parents too much to overstep our boundaries. We understood that they were simply putting their arms out to stop us from falling. Undoubtedly we are both better people today because of their firmness.
It is so important for a wee one to learn that the world doesn’t turn around her head. When I have children of my own, I will follow Ma’s shining example. So often did she quote from the Bible: “Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old, he will
not depart from it.”
But oh, if I could only see her smiling face and feel her arms around me again!
I set the diary on my lap. There was a dried blot on the margin that looked like a tear stain. Beside it was a fresh spot, caused by a hot tear from my own eye. Mary Margaret had never said a proper goodbye to her mother, and neither had I. She had lived without her mother for most of her life, just as I had.
I recognized that we had something else in common, too. Like Mary Margaret, my parents had provided me with a happy childhood. For the first time I reproached myself for trying to forget them. I had been so determined to bury my own pain that I hadn’t appreciated my own good fortune in having two loving parents for the first twelve years of my life. I thought of Wynona and felt very lucky by comparison.
And what kind of parent was I? For me, motherhood was like wandering in a wasteland, without guidebook or guide, making it up as I went along. If I were able to write a letter to my mother, what would I ask her?
The answer came to me immediately. I knew without a doubt that my first question would be: “Mother, what in the world should I do about Bridget?”
Days remaining: 307.
12
October
It was Canadian Thanksgiving Day, and time to prepare for our visit to the McKay household. I had thought long and hard about not showing up, but I couldn’t insult these kind strangers. Besides, in spite of what I had told Lisette, occasionally I did long for some adult conversation.
Bridget was sitting at the piano, practising a simple tune she had invented called “Rain on the Roof.” When I informed her, with the greatest reluctance, that we were going to visit a strange house, she created the most tremendous fuss — whining, then crying, then yelling repeatedly: “You can’t make me!”
Normally I would give up the fight at this point and allow her to have her own way. In a little while the storm would pass and the sun would shine again. This time, for some reason, it was terribly important that Bridget make a good impression. I felt my patience stretch to the breaking point like an elastic band, and suddenly it snapped.
“You’re coming with me and that’s final! I don’t care if you talk, but you WILL sit at the table and you WILL NOT make a scene!” To my horror, I realized that I was yelling at the top of my lungs.
Bridget stopped in mid-howl and stared at me in shock, her mouth wide open like the screaming figure in the Edvard Munch painting. I hurled myself through the back door and slammed it behind me.
I hadn’t put on my jacket and the chilly breeze cut through my thin sweater. I stomped around the yard, feeling guilty and furious with myself. What kind of mother would force her emotionally handicapped child into a terrifying situation? If I made her go, it would probably set her back for years.
It was the first time I had ever shouted at her. My eyes stung with hot tears that rolled down my cold cheeks. I was a terrible mother. We would drive over to the McKays and Bridget could wait in the truck while I made up some excuse.
After ten minutes I wiped my eyes and blew my nose with a crumpled tissue from my jeans pocket and returned to the house.
Bridget was sitting meekly on a kitchen chair. She had changed into her red corduroy overalls and a matching long-sleeved top printed with red and white hearts. She had even brushed her short unruly hair and fastened a lopsided red barrette on one side. “I’m ready, Mama,” she said in a meek little voice.
My jaw dropped. For a minute I was tempted to throw my arms around her and apologize, but I quickly came to my senses. “That’s my good girl!” I said briskly.
I ran upstairs to change. I wasn’t sure how much dressing up was required, but I had one skirt, an ankle-length black jersey wraparound. Unfortunately, when I pulled it out from the bottom of my suitcase, I found it was a mass of wrinkles.
I carried it downstairs and held it over the steaming kettle without success. Then I remembered the set of flat irons and the wooden ironing board stored with the other laundry supplies in the back kitchen.
I fetched both of the irons, almost straining my wrists because each one weighed several pounds. These were triangular chunks of solid metal with these words engraved on the top: “Mrs. Potts’ Sad Iron.” I wondered who Mrs. Potts was and why they were called sad irons. Probably because using these things would make anyone sad.
After scouring the metal bottoms until they were spotless, I set them, flat side down, on the surface of the hot stove. I spread out my skirt on a thick towel laid over the ironing board, and dampened a cotton tea towel to use as a pressing cloth. With a cleverly designed detachable wooden handle, the irons were easy to lift off the stove. I picked one up and spit on it.
This was intensely fascinating to Bridget, who was watching my every move. “What are you doing that for?”
“If the spit makes a sizzling noise, then the iron is hot enough.”
“Can I spit on it, too?”
“No, but you can see the same thing if you spit on the stove.”
While Bridget repeatedly spit on the surface of the stove and watched her beads of saliva dance and evaporate like tiny bouncing Ping-Pong balls, I set the hot iron on the tea towel, which immediately gave off a scorched smell.
I snatched up the iron to find a faint iron-shaped brown mark, which happily had not burned through to my skirt. After waiting for another minute, I judged the temperature was about right and managed to get most of the wrinkles out of one side. After flipping the skirt over, I attached the wooden handle to the second iron and finished the other side.
My wrist was already beginning to ache. Remembering the mounds of white cotton sheets and pillowcases in the upstairs closet, not to mention her long skirts and blouses and petticoats, I marvelled again at how my great-aunt had survived without electricity.
I wrapped my skirt around my hips and fastened it on one side. The hem covered the tops of my black leather boots. I pulled a black turtleneck sweater from Ann Taylor’s Loft over my head, bundled my hair up as neatly as I could with a pair of combs, and donned my dangling silver Navajo earrings.
When we arrived at the McKay house, I was surprised to see how large it was. The long ranch house was covered with white clapboard siding and trimmed with brick. The yard was attractively landscaped, with a front walk of flat stones. An old walking plough, like the one in my barn, was painted dark green and used as a lawn ornament.
As we arrived, Bridget’s chin started to tremble, but I pretended not to notice. I picked her up in my arms and deposited her on the front steps before ringing the doorbell.
The woman who opened the door wore chocolate-coloured pants and a matching cardigan. She had the short grey hair typical of Canadian farm wives, but it was beautifully cut and styled. “Hello, dear. I’m Eileen McKay.”
I allowed Bridget to hide behind me — as long as she wasn’t crying, I would ignore her — while Eileen introduced me to her husband, Cliff, a Canadian and hopefully non-smoking version of the Marlboro man. Then we walked into the living room. Seated on the couch, side by side like a pair of cheerful sad irons, were Roy and Joy Henderson. Joy had dressed for the occasion in a purple velour track suit adorned with a rhinestone brooch shaped like a peacock.
Standing at the fireplace with one arm resting on the mantel was Colin McKay. I hardly recognized him. His shaggy blond hair was clean and shining. His beard was trimmed close to his jaw, and he wore jeans and a white cotton shirt. When he turned toward me, I saw for the first time that his eyes were green.
After a few pleasantries we took our seats at the dining room table. Bridget pressed herself into my right side, making it difficult to use my fork. Roy smiled at her and opened his mouth to speak, but her face assumed such a mask of terror that he turned away and changed the subject. Everyone else studiously ignored her. I wasn’t sure if this was the famous Canadian reserve, but I was thankful for it.
In fairness, we were so busy enjoying the food that Bridget’s behaviour was probably the last thing on anyone�
��s mind. I couldn’t remember when I had last eaten a home-cooked Thanksgiving dinner. A crisp-skinned golden turkey. Mashed potatoes so fluffy and delicious I could happily have eaten nothing else. “Beat them with a fork and don’t add anything but salt and butter — no milk or cream, just butter,” Eileen told me when I praised them.
Chestnut-coloured gravy, smooth and thick. Stuffing ripe with raisins and sage. Crisp green beans covered with slivered almonds. Turnip casserole, baked in the oven with a topping of caramelized brown sugar and pecans. And the most divine cranberry sauce, crimson as rubies, sweet with a bite of piquancy.
“High-bush cranberries,” Eileen said. “I picked them at my special place by the river. I’ll give you a jar before you go home.”
I looked down at Bridget’s plate. She had carefully scraped the cranberry sauce to one side, but she had eaten everything else, even the turnips. I hadn’t seen her eat such a big meal for a long time, perhaps ever.
The saskatoon pie with whipped cream was delayed while we took a breather. Everyone moved into the living room and collapsed into comfortable seats. Bridget snuggled down beside me and peeked out from under my arm.
The conversation began with the recent harvest. I listened with interest, unable to make any useful contribution. As I looked around the room, I spotted an old school photograph of Colin on the mantel. He had been an adorable little boy, with a shock of white-blond hair and missing his two front teeth.
“Looks like you had a bumper crop over on the Lee place,” Roy Henderson said to Colin. “Must have been fifty, sixty bushels to the acre.”
I realized that they were referring to Wildwood. It was gratifying to hear that the crop was good. I hoped that meant I could expect a higher price for the farm.
“Yeah, it was number one grade all the way.” Colin looked pleased. “We didn’t even need to dry it this year.”
I remembered Lisette mentioning grain dryers. I pictured a gigantic clothes dryer, or maybe an enormous hair dryer.
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