When he rang at her house for their first date, Mandy and her mother had raced to the door, pretending to fight over who would answer it and have the first look. Heather was in her bedroom, fresh from the bath, and until that moment, delighted with herself. But she could hear their giggles and scuffling.
He wore the same blue trousers every day. They were short and disfigured where the hem had been reworked too often. He was standing there at her door, in those same trousers, when Heather came down the hallway. Her mother and sister were in control of themselves by then, but the awkwardness had already set in. At the store he was always confident and inscrutable, but now he stood clumsy, uncertain.
They told her later they weren’t making fun of her, or him. Sure, it was only a bit of foolishness. But Heather had gone and stayed with her father, refusing to speak to either her mother or sister for weeks.
It was the type of incident to occur in the years immediately following her parents’ divorce, as though the divorce had corrupted the family unit, not only by removing one parent from the household, but by triggering a fundamental transformation in the other. Heather did not want a mother who was approachable and silly. She wanted one who was distant and aloof. There was an essential parent-ness that her mother no longer exhibited, that she seemed to have cast away, but without which Heather did not feel as safe in the world. Later, when Heather was at university, she was able to step outside her own experience and see that her mother had been doing her best to cope. For a while, at least, her mother had not wanted daughters, she had wanted friends.
*
Heather wondered in what ways the woods had changed with the warmer, longer days. When she closed her eyes, she saw the red crossbills dangling upside down in the trees.
She had sent Mandy to the library for more field guides and sometimes fell asleep at night with them open — on her chest, her belly, the pillow beside her head — the way other people slept with pets. She began to dream of birds, species of her own imagination who were intimate and benevolent, with human voices.
She read about the red crossbill — a monumental example of specialization. The scissor-like bill allowed the birds the luxury of getting at the seeds before the cones fully ripened and unlocked. As a result, Heather read, red crossbills evolved a flexible reproductive physiology, nesting any time of year, in dry hot August or wet slushy February, in areas where — and as long as — there is adequate food. She imagined the fearless olive-green females sitting on their four eggs: pale blue spotted with light brown and lavender. It starts to snow, and gradually, through the night, the small birds are blanketed. Who decided this was flexible? Heather wondered. Wouldn’t accommodating be more fitting? To be ready, at any time, for the business of a rushed courtship? Wouldn’t it be more satisfactory to have a life like everyone else?
Heather froze. Half a dozen birds had arrived at her feeder. Though she knew what they were, she reached for her field guide and flipped through the pages, just for the pleasure of being certain.
Conspicuous white outer tail feathers. Slate-grey hood, like an executioner’s. Juncos.
Heather heard someone enter the house. She put her book down and waited.
Her mother hesitated in the doorway, glancing around the bedroom, avoiding eye contact with Heather. In one hand she held an unlit cigarette. She crossed the room to peer out the window at the feeder and several of the juncos flew off. “I don’t remember any bird feeder.”
“You’re not going to light that in this room, are you?”
“Of course not. I’d never dream of such a thing.” When she turned to examine her daughter, the outdoor light fell across her face, revealing foundation the colour of caramel. It nearly matched her hair. “How long have you been in that bathrobe?”
“I thought you were quitting.”
“I’m trying all the time. Why didn’t you tell me you’d finally taken some time off?”
Heather shrugged.
“It was the Melvin man who informed me he’d been delivering groceries here for weeks, and when I called Mandy, what did she say? Basket case, I think.”
Heather laughed, perhaps a little too harshly. “Basket case? That’s what she called me? Are you aware of the origins of that expression?”
“No, and if it’s unsavoury, I don’t want to either.”
“It’s from World War One. It’s how they referred to the quadruple amputees, because they were carried around in baskets.”
Her mother fiddled with her cigarette.
“It’s understandable if they went out of their minds,” Heather continued. “Imagine, being lugged around in a basket? Were there lids for the baskets, I wonder, in case it rained?”
“I suppose you’re trying to get rid of me?”
But Heather didn’t really want her mother to leave. In fact, she was glad she was finally here.
“Mandy said you injured your feet. Hiking? What’s this all about?”
“I’m sorry, Mom. Sorry.”
“You never called me. You’re so stubborn.”
Until her father’s death eight years ago, her parents had successfully avoided each other for decades. But Heather knew there would have been unavoidable encounters. It was unreasonable to hope they would never pass one another coming in and out of Dominion, or be invited — unintentionally or otherwise — to a Christmas party, or find themselves bumper to bumper at a traffic light. Heather knew what it was like to discover one day that not only had you committed to memory the make and year and colour of another person’s car but his licence plate number as well.
“Heather,” her mother said gently, “I bet you’d feel better if you washed your face and hair. And got dressed.”
The dictionary will also tell you, Heather knew, that the expression basket case evolved from soldiers to some-thing that is no longer functional, like a country unable to pay its debts or feed its people, and to some-one unable to cope, like a woman who couldn’t dress or go to work.
Basket case? Heather looked down at her feet. Indeed, she had nearly lost them.
Once they had convinced Heather to board the ATV, she and Mandy were taken to Vince’s home where a small, anxious crowd had gathered. Most agreed Heather’s socks should be removed and her feet submerged in lukewarm water. She was placed in an armchair in the parlour, which was gloomy but warm. Family photographs, framed string art and a portrait of Pope John Paul hung over rosebud wallpaper. Linoleum in the most astonishing shades of red, orange and purple peeked out from beneath a square of carpet. Heather could see into the kitchen where a woman in knitted pink slippers stood talking on the phone, occasionally glancing in at Heather. After that, Vince wrapped a second blanket around her and someone brought her a cup of tea. They already had her socks off and were again discussing placing her feet in the tub of water, when she put her head against the wing of the chair.
When she woke Bill was standing in front of her and her toes hurt. She leaned forward, thinking of standing, then saw her feet: they were red and swollen. The windows rattled violently, and she recalled Darren Foley’s comment that the weather was changing.
Bill knelt in front of her. “We’re going to take you into the hospital in a minute, Heather. Do you understand? Good. Mandy’s already in the car. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you? You were mildly hypothermic when they brought you in. You’re fine now, but you might need some medical attention. Heather?”
“What’s that on my feet, Bill?”
“Blisters. Not to worry.” He smiled unconvincingly.
The pink slippers stopped by. She said something to Bill, and Heather looked up to see her swatting him with the back of her hand. The woman was hugely buxom and had tight red curls and a generous face. Bill rubbed his arm in an exaggerated manner. Something crashed in a nearby room and a short sausage-shaped dog trotted up to them and sniffed the untouched tub of water near Heather’s feet. Then he turned his rump to them, his ears folded back, and growled. The woman with the pink slippers kicked
him and said, “Go on. Get out.”
The dog bolted from the room. A door opened and cold air swept into the room and the dog began barking, but he was outside now and the sound came to them as though wrapped in a thick sweater.
“Won’t talk to you,” the woman said. “But he’s a nuisance for barking.”
Bill said to Heather, “My second cousin, Helen.”
“Pardon me?” Helen said, swatting Bill again. “Second cousin once removed.”
They were flirting. Heather gazed up at the woman, liking her anyway.
On the way back to St. John’s, Heather sat in the back bundled in blankets, her feet, which were becoming fiercely painful, resting on the seat. It grew so warm that Mandy, in the front, stripped off layer by layer, but never complained.
“Where’s your car, Heather?” Bill asked.
“Cape Broyle,” said Mandy.
“We’ll get it in the morning then. Mandy and I.”
“I’m sleeping in,” Mandy said.
“You can sleep in.”
It was snowing heavily now. It covered the windshield within seconds of the wipers clearing it. Bill was driving slowly. “Not the time of year I would have chosen for a hike up the Southern Shore.”
Both women ignored him.
“Listen,” Mandy said. “I saw something weird out there. Like a white cross.”
“In the woods?”
“Yes.”
“I saw that too” Heather said, only now realizing what it had been.
“So that’s where you were,” Bill said. “Way out there. Christ, the two of you. That was Suse’s Meadow.”
“Suse who?” Heather asked.
“That’s right. At the edge of a meadow,” Mandy said. “I nearly walked right by it because of the fog. Creepy. That’s when I called you, Bill.”
Heather wished her sister would be quiet. It was maddening. “Bill,” she said. “Suse who?”
“Suse. She went cow hunting one day and was never seen again.”
“How old was she?”
“When was this?”
“They looked for her but all they found was her sunbonnet, out on a bog. My guess is she was about thirteen, fourteen.”
Heather tried to lean forward. “Suse who? Did she have a last name?”
“She was a servant girl. Her family was from Brigus South. Years later they found her bones. Suse Hayes.”
“Oh. My. God.”
“Who found them?”
“Some fellas out hunting. They thought at first it was a lost sheep. But the hair was still on her head.”
“Oh. My. God. Are you enjoying this, Bill?”
“They brought the bones back in a biscuit box. It was later they put the cross out in the woods where she’d been found.”
“Cow hunting?”
“Her bones all fit in a biscuit box?”
“That’s the story I heard.”
“I don’t believe that,” Heather said. “I don’t believe she just got lost.”
“Neither do I,” Mandy said.
“Why not? You two got lost.”
“What do you think, Mandy?”
“My first thought was rape and murder,” Mandy said quietly.
“Me too,” Heather said, feeling close to tears. “My first thought.”
“I wonder if this is some fundamental difference between men and women,” Bill said. “I thought it was an interesting story.”
“An interesting story!”
“Well, from a folklore perspective.”
“A girl gets lost in the woods,” Mandy said, gulping. “She either freezes and starves to death over several days, though no one can find her, or — more likely — she is tortured and killed, and you say it’s an interesting story?”
“Freezing to death takes less than several days. You two don’t realize how lucky you are.”
But both Mandy and Heather were crying. Heather couldn’t believe how horribly sad it was. She put her hand on her sister’s shoulder, and Mandy took it in her own. They cried more.
“Jesus,” Bill said.
At emergency they also told Heather she was lucky. The frostbite was not severe; they did not expect gangrene to be a concern.
“You’re a lucky gal,” said the intern, not from Newfoundland.
She hadn’t eaten all day, the temperature had dropped ten degrees in two hours, and she had been wandering in stockinged feet through the wet, snowy woods for no one knew how long, but she was lucky. When they said lucky, she imagined a wide blue sky that never closed above a bog and on the bog, a tattered sunbonnet.
“There’s some terrific hiking in this province, isn’t there?” the intern said. His hair was flattened at the back of his head; it was clear he’d been recently asleep. “I’m ordering antibiotics. That’s routine. I like to tell hikers to be prepared. Appropriate clothing, especially footwear — ” Heather wondered if he knew she’d lost hers — “and always carry plenty of food and water, a map and compass if you’ve got one. Now, is there anything you need to tell me?”
Heather shifted on the bed. “Like what?”
“Like any medical conditions?”
“Why?”
“It’s a routine question.”
“None that I can think of.”
A nurse came in carrying a tray, and the intern jumped back. “The nurse is going to clean and dry your feet, then wrap them in sterile bandages to prevent infection. Frostbite is like any injury.” Gradually, the intern was moving closer to her again. “It’s due to the formation of ice crystals in the tissue but also to decreased blood flow. Imagine the blood in your extremities thickening and turning sludge-like. When your body gets cold, it gets smart.”
“Can I get in here?” the nurse asked, and the intern jumped back a second time. She glanced at Heather and rolled her eyes. The intern was still talking, but Heather found it difficult to look at him. Instead, she watched the nurse, who was working silently on Heather’s feet. She wore a small embroidered pin resembling a pumpkin pie.
“As soon as your body temperature drops, those tiny blood vessels in your skin and extremities narrow. This keeps blood flowing to vital organs like your heart and brain. Of course, that comes at a price, as we see here.”
Heather tried to smile at him. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. His bright enthusiasm was commendable, but give him ten, fifteen years and it would be like pulling teeth to get this kind of information from him. He wasn’t wearing a ring, but it was likely he was engaged. Years of family life lay in wait: the house, the renovations, the cars. The neighbourhood, the pets, the schooling. The first serious illness.
“Now if those blisters had been filled with bloody fluid — ”
A second nurse appeared in the doorway. “Doctor,” she said flatly, and the young man spun around and jogged out of the room.
The first nurse took a deep breath and patted one of Heather’s bandaged feet as though it were a bundled infant all fed, washed and tucked in for its nap. “That’s grand,” she said. “Let’s pray for a speedy recovery. You don’t want to be coming back here.”
“What do you call those birds?” Heather’s mother asked, looking at the feeder. “Lovely, aren’t they?”
“Juncos.”
“I didn’t know you were a hiker. Did you join a club?”
“No.”
“Are those your crutches? What’s the verdict on your feet?”
“Mom.”
“Oh, no. You’re not crippled, are you?” her mother joked.
“Mom, listen — ”
“Actually, I have a little speech.” Her mother laughed self-consciously and moved closer to the bed, gesturing with the unlit cigarette. “Let me just say one thing and then I’ll go outside and smoke this. I did understand, honey. And I do understand. I wasn’t taking sides. If I took sides, it would be your side.”
“I know, Mom.”
“I just didn’t want you to feel endless sorrow. You always knew how I felt abo
ut that man. Sitting on the fence, the way he did.”
“I’m pregnant, Mom.”
Her mother straightened. She studied Heather’s bathrobe more carefully.
“You’re showing, too.”
Heather nodded.
“Well.”
They stared at each other a while, Heather trying to look apologetic, though she didn’t really know how she felt. The window of opportunity for terminating the pregnancy had passed, though she had never made a conscious decision to keep the baby. In fact, she didn’t think she did want the baby.
“So what is the verdict on your feet?” her mother asked at last.
“That I’m lucky.”
Her mother laughed and took a seat on the bed. She let her shoes drop from her feet. They thudded — one, two — on the hardwood floor. Heather relaxed.
“I’ll have to think about this.”
“I thought so.”
“I’ll have to get used to the idea.”
“Yes.”
“It’s his?”
“That’s a fair guess.”
“Who else knows?”
“Only you, Mom.” The conversation was predictable and soothing. “And my doctor.”
“Mandy?”
“Well. I had to tell Mandy.”
“How are you feeling?”
“A little tired. But pretty good. A breeze so far.”
Her mother didn’t smile. “Everything is as it should be? On schedule?”
“Yes.”
“I wonder if you have a pack of cards anywhere in this place?”
*
They played rummy 500 or crib and outside winter gave way to spring. At least once a visit, her mother told her to stand so she could see how far along she was getting. Other than that, Heather did her best to avoid any discussion of her condition.
One day Heather told her mother the story of Suse Hayes.
“They say she went cow hunting, Mom. Does that make sense to you?”
Her mother had just dealt and was moving her cards around in her hands. “What? Cow hunting? Why not?”
“Cows don’t run wild.”
“They did at one time. Occasionally one wouldn’t come home, I guess, so they had to go find it. What is it with you and Mandy and cows? She’s asking me the same questions. Is this a movie you two saw?”
Darren Effect Page 6
