She puts the date, 1991, lightly, in pencil on the back.
I think of a better title for the drawing, a word I invented with Annie about our trees: rememory. I write it quickly on the back of the photocopy, near the date, but I don’t write anything on the original. Annie will know. We know what the other is thinking.
When we say goodbye, Annie and Ben and their mom are piled with stuff in the Jalopy, Granny’s old black truck. I hand in the cookie tin and my rolled-up drawing tied with blue satin ribbon through Annie’s window in the back seat. Annie’s waving and the baby’s screaming, so she gives him the paper roll to hold. He sucks on the edge and bam-bams it on his car seat. Annie shakes the cookie tin. Then she takes out a cookie and breaks it. She does a distraction exchange like I used to do with Stella and gives him half a cookie in each hand. She takes my rolled-up drawing and flaps it out the window. In the wind, the ribbon comes undone, flying from the car as it drives away. I run to pluck it out of a puddle and pitch it and, for a second, it ripples like a kite in the soft, thawed air.
Baby Tree
I squish clay on the wobbly wood-topped table at the community hall, the wet earthy smell of the clay mixing with the smell of peeling varnish and newspaper. The cool clay gradually warms and softens in my sweaty hands. The teacher is Marjorie. She’s telling us to get to know our clay. She says it’s alive. We’re going to make snakes and then coil them into a bowl for clay fruit. I’m going to have a banana, a pear and an orange. I’ll make the texture of the orange with a fork. We even get to glaze the clay, but Marjorie cautions that we won’t get realistic colours. We’re supposed to focus on form, on the shape of the bowl and the fruit.
After class today, Marjorie asked me to babysit her little Nicki so she and her other children can go shopping. Marjorie has five kids and counting, Mom says. I like to go to Marjorie’s because she has so many clay pieces and stone sculptures. Her husband travels up North for his university research and brings her carvings of bears and walrus and owls. They’re deep green or black or white and all really big and heavy, so even little Energizer Bunny Nicki can’t pull them down. I like to touch them with Nicki, feel the smooth cool stone. Daddy brought me a little black bear, a bear cub, for my birthday the last time he went north to Norman Wells. My clay fruit bowl will be like my little bear when it’s fired, smooth and solid. And even if, like Marjorie warns, the fruit and the container both look brown in the end, the making of it is mine.
You can’t take your eyes off Nicki, ever, says Mom. Marjorie knows I’m home the whole time, so you can phone if you have trouble.
Nicki is a monkey, and crawls up to the windowsills, on top of her highchair, up the bookshelves.
Charlie and Tom were exactly like her, Mom says. Especially when there were two of them. That’s why I was so relieved when you sat with your crayons and glue and scissors, hours on end. I could have a whole cup of tea. Watching you fill page after page.
But I’ll be following Nicki on her special paths, past the fenced-off basement stairs, and the double-locked outside doors. Marjorie has toys all over the house like she’s trying to slow Nicki down, to get her to stop and look at stuff. Like Stella. Even when we’re trying to go somewhere, we usually have to wait for Stella. Mom says inspecting and observing are Stella’s passion, just like my art and the boys’ sports. Stella can spend an hour feeding a leaf to a bug. But Nicki’s only interested in what’s around the corner, across the room, up there, now that way, then this. We play chase. She squeals when I follow her, and I don’t even have to move. I only have to pretend, with a growly smiley face like a friendly bear, and take one baby step.
Nicki clears her path of toys as she crawls. She doesn’t go on top of stuff. Instead, she swooshes it out of the way. I can’t gather the plastic rainbow doughnuts that stack or the blocks that sort by colour or shape, or I’ll lose track of Nicki. I think she’s going to run marathons like Auntie Magda’s new boyfriend or climb mountains when she grows up. Marjorie thinks Nicki will join Cirque du Soleil.
I have to defrost a green cube and an amber cube of homemade baby food from the ice tray, and mix it with hot water and Pabulum. It looks like vomit but smells like pumpkin. When it’s warm, I have to spoon it into Nicki, but I can’t get her to stop moving. If I pick her up, she cries. So we make it a game. I take her bowl across the room, and get her to crawl fast to me and take a spoonful, like Auntie Magda’s boyfriend takes a sip of purple Gatorade from her at a running race. Then I get her to chase me across the other way, spoon in another mouthful, back and forth. She loves it. When her mush is gone, I make her an obstacle course out of propped up couch cushions. She belly laughs when she figures out how to knock them down and go over them instead of going around them.
I try to get Nicki to draw. She has chubby felts. When I uncap one for her, she has to smell it first. She gets more on her face than on the page. But when I make a fast drawing of her on a cardboard box for her toys, she stops long enough to take my felt pen from me and move it on the paper. I chuckle because she makes a circle person with eyes and stick legs.
It’s a dobie, my name for the circle people I used to draw when I was little. Mom still has some of them taped up in the laundry room. I show Nicki how to put in stick arms and a smile.
My portrait of her is in many colours because she wants each pen I’m using, and so I give them to her one by one to keep her interested. She makes little swirls in different colours around her big dobie. To me, it looks like Nicki whirling on a merry-go-round. Even though her body isn’t moving, the circles on the page are. When she’s tired of the felts, I lift her up and get her to help me tape her art to the fridge and then I pretend to be the merry-go-round. I spin her gently around in the kitchen. Then we clean up the couch cushions so I can spin her faster and faster in the living room, dropping her head lower, then upside down. She squeals, thrilled.
And in a swirling spray of amber-green, all over me, the carpet and up the shelves so even the walrus and the polar bears have speckles on them, Nicki spews out her lunch. She’s choking, struggling to breathe. I pat her back, and lay her on one arm, head down, like with the doll in my babysitting course. Nicki’s turning red and sputtering and her little body squirms so I can hardly keep hold of her, and I sort of drop her. She startles, lets out one big cough and more puke, then cries. Really loud.
Oh, Nicki, are you okay? I’m sorry! Oh, Nicki!
Her eyes are mad blue and she spreads goo all over her face. I hug her anyway, mess and all. I’m crying, and she’s crying. She’s sad, and she’s mad, but she’s breathing and rubbing the awful mush into her eyes. She keeps wailing until I take her to the bathroom and start the tub. She loves baths more than anything. I take off my sweatshirt and hold Nicki tight while we clean up the mess in the living room with my shirt, even the splotches on the carvings, with the sleeve, and stuff it in a plastic bag.
Nicki splashes in the tub. She won’t let me use a washcloth on her face, so I get her on her tummy, legs kicking and wash the throw-up off with my hand. Then I put her on her back and give her a shampoo, which she doesn’t like at all. She screams at me again because she gets shampoo in her eyes. I use a towel to wipe it away. Then I sit her up and hold each of her hands in mine and try clapping together: Toshie-toshie tosh-ie, pojedziem do Babci. Nicki calms down when I put her name in, we will go see Nicki, for the second part. She only recognizes the word Nicki in the line of Polish. When we get to her name, we make a big splash.
I keep Nicki in the bath, adding water to keep it warm, because she’s happy with her bath toys and I want her stomach to settle and I’m really glad to be sitting in one spot. When I hear Marjorie and the kids, I bundle Nicki up and dry her off and dress her in blue kangaroo sleepers with ears on the hoodie. I wrap her up snug with three corners of her blanket and take her in to Marjorie, who says I can go after I tidy up the bathroom.
My wet T-shirt smells like pumpkin vomit, s
o I want to get home and get it off. I call out bye to the kids snacking on cut up green apples and pear and banana. The same fruit as in my clay basket, and I get excited about how it will turn out after firing at Marjorie’s class next week.
I look at my sketch of Nicki on the box while I’m putting on my coat. It’s a fast drawing, but it’s Nicki crawling away and turning back, her face asking you to chase her. It makes me grin. Then I pocket my money on the kitchen counter and grab the plastic bag with my dirty sweatshirt by the back door. I walk through fat tumbling snowflakes to the alley and consider throwing my sweatshirt in the garbage, but it’s got a puppy print on it. Stella will want it as long as Mom can get the stain out.
I take a deep breath of cold air.
The picture in my mind waiting to be drawn is Marjorie, hands still wet from washing and cutting up fruit, taking Nicki back in her arms like she has never seen that baby before. Even though I’m telling her about the afternoon and Marjorie’s giving me instructions, her eyes beam, taking in Nicki’s curly damp head, her rosy cheeks, her muscle-body heaviness and drowsy blue eyes all at once. I recognize that look. I’ve seen it on Mom’s face, with Stella. With me, and the boys, even. I’ve felt it, too. With my Nicki sketch. And my lopsided coil clay fruit basket. It’s the look you give your creation.
Tree of Heaven
Auntie Magda picks me up in her sleek white convertible with the top down. She wears a tangerine scarf and huge sunglasses and, even in the breeze, she smells like honey. Her straw swim bag has orange and yellow straw flowers woven in.
I brought lunch, she says. Pickled eggs and cheese and peaches.
We’re at the Mill Creek outdoor pool in the ravine, Auntie Magda and me. I have a new two-piece bathing suit that she bought me last week.
You’re almost twelve so it’s time to get a bikini, she said.
It’s pale yellow mesh. Auntie Magda says it will show off my tan, but I’m white as paper. It’s been raining all June. I think it looks okay, but I’m not sure. I hope the top doesn’t fall off when I dive. It’s a little loose.
Not for long, Auntie Magda says.
Auntie Magda has an orange paisley bikini. It’s got gold accents and she wears three gold chains of different lengths around her neck and dangly golden hoops. She has tangerine lipstick to match and her sunglasses have gold lacy rims.
She’s reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. She’s skimming it, skipping over batches of pages at once.
What kind of tree is it?
Tree of Heaven, she says. It’s really big.
Never heard of it. I study the picture on the front while she flips through pages in the middle, stopping near the end. From the edge of the pool I can see her eyes behind her sunglasses scan the people even though her head is slightly tilted toward the book. It’s starting to get crowded.
Books and houses are very personal, she says. I never show a property to people who don’t suit it.
Well, I like trees.
That’s why I’m previewing this book. It’s for you.
Meanwhile, I swim and dive, and play around with a flutter board. The pool is full of kids my age, and Auntie Magda only goes in to get wet and get out again. Then, she air-dries by taking a few turns walking around the pool, often chatting with people on her way. Then, more Baby Oil. She prefers sunbathing to swimming, she says. She always has a tan, because each winter she goes to Hawaii.
She’s talking to the lifeguard. A whistle shines on his bare chest, tanned even darker than Auntie Magda. She’s got a movie-star laugh that sounds like there’s trickling water in it. His is loud, like a barking sea lion.
For people to trust you to find the absolutely perfect house for them, you need to show you have very good taste, she says.
I know what I like, the guy says. Is that very good taste?
He laughs way too much. I can’t stretch out on my towel beside Auntie Magda because the lifeguard guy is still there, so I sit on the edge of the pool, dangling my legs, watching the little kids, since the lifeguard isn’t.
A blonde boy, browned like he spends all his time at the pool, asks me to play water ball with him. I glance back at Auntie Magda.
Go on, she says.
The lifeguard stays where he is.
The boy and I toss the orange ball back and forth in the deep end, treading water. It’s hard work, but fun. I lose the ball and have to dive for it, and when I come up, he blinks at me.
Woah! He points.
My top is down on one side, the strap trailing down my arm. I duck back in the water, grab the strap and get out of the pool. I let the ball trail into the shallow end so the boy will go get it and I can escape and drip all over the lifeguard, who finally gets back up his highchair while Auntie Magda does both my straps up tight again with a double knot.
Don’t worry, Cassie. It’s nothing.
But he saw!
He saw hardly nothing. And his eyes were full of water.
My eyes are stinging with chlorine tears. But Auntie Magda, I whine.
You’ll be different tomorrow anyway. You’re growing every day. The real you is still in progress. He saw maybe a sketch. Not the real you. No one has, and no one will, until you and only you decide. Okay, Cassie?
My face is red from burning up inside and I keep my eyes closed while Auntie Magda rubs Baby Oil on my back and shoulders and legs. I wonder if I’ll ever take my clothes off for a boy. I’ve done it for myself, in private, to music, for fun, before I put on my nightgown. But I won’t even take a shower at the pool. I’d rather go home in a wet bathing suit. Yet I pull straps off while I’m on my belly, like Auntie Magda, for tanning.
After a while, I feel pink. Auntie Magda goes to get drinks at the counter. I have my face turned to keep an eye on her bag. When she walks, she does it like everyone is watching the most bronzed and beautiful lady there, and they are. She has a ballerina walk in her bare feet, showing off every muscle in her legs as she goes, as tall as possible, with spiral strands bouncing out of her curly ponytail. There’s a little blue star tattoo on her ankle, a golden toe ring and delicate blond streaks in her hair. And in her belly button, a real diamond.
She’s gone a while. Now she’s having a conversation with a couple and their three children as if she’s known them forever. I can hear the pitches of Polish.
I once asked Auntie Magda why she speaks Polish and Mom doesn’t.
I have a lot of clients in the Polish community. So it’s part of my work to keep it. But your Mom still understands it, you know.
I pull up my bikini straps, flip over, pick up her book and get hooked.
I thought you’d like it, Auntie Magda says when she gets back with our ice-cold Diet Pepsis.
I like that in this book Francie has a tree that listens to her, and watches her, and becomes her friend. I understand this girl, even though she lives in New York and I live in a city far away in Canada. She reminds me of my friend Annie who moved to Vulcan, which feels as far away as New York. I tuck myself into some shade under a red pool umbrella, pretending that it’s a Tree of Heaven, and read until the water ball boy packs up to go. He sneaks a look over to me but I keep my eyes in my book. I get Auntie Magda to check my bikini top again.
Sweetie, your straps won’t slip off when you’re a little more filled out.
I don’t know about that. She’s extremely filled out, and the clasp holding her top together in the front looks like it will burst, especially when she bends over to stretch out her lower back in a yoga pose.
Because she’s always on the road, Auntie Magda’s car is her office, and she needs to work out her driving muscles. She does yoga every morning and every evening, on a purple mat, with cushions and a palm tree and tall fragrant candles on purple glass dishes. I sniff them on each visit: lavender, eucalyptus and cedar. Auntie Magda has her meditation space and Babci has her altar, but Babci
’s candles are in pickle jars. I wonder if they know how alike they are, daughter and mother, each needing their own little bit of heaven. Maybe I’m the same, with my floating, not only in the pool, but when I draw.
The lifeguard guy squats down to Auntie Magda with two chocolate ice cream cones, so I get out of the pool and back to my towel. He bought one for himself and one for Auntie Magda, and I think he was counting on the length of time it takes to eat one to chat her up some more, but when I show up, he has to give me one of the cones. Score. Auntie Magda takes one lick while he’s talking to us, and then he gets called away by some rowdy kids at the diving board. Auntie Magda passes her cone to me. Double score. I eat two-handed and expertly keep chocolate from dripping on my yellow bikini. Auntie Magda sticks to her own food, also like Babci, except she loves Diet Pepsi. She says it has no calories and it peps her up. She buys me potato chips because I ask for them, but she won’t even taste one when I offer to share.
No, no. I have to keep my figure.
Keep your waist, I say, and we laugh because it’s what Babci says.
Auntie Magda bites delicately into her pickled egg. Her nails are long and they are apricot against the whiteness, but lighter than her fingers.
I like these because I can eat them when I’m driving and they fill me up and don’t make a mess, she says.
I drip on the concrete a bit and I must have a little chocolate on my face because out come Auntie Magda’s Kleenex. She always has them, in a shiny red satin folding case Babci made her, because Auntie Magda is a crier. I’ve seen her break into tears at every movie we’ve watched together, even The Wizard of Oz and E.T. or Beauty and the Beast. I hear her sobbing on the phone when she calls Mom after every boyfriend breakup and she sometimes even cries when she laughs.
What’s his name, I ask about Lifeguard Guy, because his eyes rest on Auntie Magda at regular intervals.
Art Lessons Page 4
