“It needs work,” she said. “I don’t quite see a three-act structure yet. But we’ve definitely made progress.”
She ripped off a generous piece of sweet bread and dipped it in her coffee. “Shooting in Marrakesh and Mumbai would be a blast. I’m sure George’ll like that part.” Then, noticing Mina looked puzzled, she said: “You don’t think so?”
“Sure, but, I was just wondering . . . I guess you’ll figure it out.”
“Figure what out?”
“How does it end?”
Lenore was exhausted and starving. Ever since she’d found out she was pregnant, her attention span had been dictated by hunger. She couldn’t seem to go more than three or four hours without eating. The little person inside wanted more than a slice of cake. She’d already sent Dean a text. He was waiting outside in his car. She looked at the last blank page. If Mina liked the film, George would make it happen.
“Okay, the ending: Wide shot of the crowded emergency room, the two women in conversation surrounded by humanity in crisis. In the back corner, a door opens. The man from the snow bank emerges, still completely naked but no longer in pain. His flesh is radiant, the glow of life. He drifts through the crowd, feet barely touching the floor. Nobody notices. As he passes the two women, he raises his hands above his head, continues toward the exit, disappears into the night. Fade to black. Credits.” “It’s a nice image,” Mina said. “Who is he?”
“He’s a life force who stops the Indian girl from making a terrible mistake.”
“An angel?”
“Could be. Or maybe he’s an atheist,” Lenore said. “Ask George. I’m sure he’ll have an opinion. Anyway, it was his idea. Feel free to remind him.”
She reached for her scarf, began bundling up for the journey home.
Mina looked at the pile of pages on the table.
“I could type these up and email them to you,” she said.
Lenore agreed that would be helpful. Mina slipped the notes into an inside pocket of her vintage lambs-wool coat.
It was snowing when they stepped out into the night. Just before she got into Dean’s car, Lenore said: “I hope you’ll continue working on the script with me. It’s a collaboration, right? The best ideas drop out of the sky. Brainstorming is good.”
Mina headed along St. Viateur, intending to take the St. Laurent bus north, but when she got to the corner the Number 55 was pulling away. The wind had dropped so she walked, thinking about the white man, what he meant.
When she got home there were two plates on the table, a candle burning between them, a bottle of wine uncorked and breathing. George had eaten one piece of the pizza but the others were nicely spaced out on a cookie sheet and waiting in the oven.
As she hung up her coat, he peppered her with questions. They all boiled down to one: What had Lenore thought about his outline?
“She seemed basically aware of the potential. She said she’d sleep on it.”
“So she is interested?”
“I would say she is, yes.”
He followed her to the table, poured two glasses of wine. She sat down, waiting for the pizza to appear.
“What did you two girls talk about? I mean, three hours?”
An awkward moment. She wondered how Lenore would answer his question. If she would answer. Three hours? The time had flown by. It was the most creative time of her writing life, thus far. She was not ready to share it with George.
“Oh, you know, stuff,” she said, picking up the glass. “Ask me tomorrow. It’s been a long day.”
SAGE
THERE WAS A time when Sage saw her life stretching ahead just as it was meant to be. Things that had once made her afraid or annoyed or bored ceased to exist. Her best side turned to the future. Hope, expectation, confidence ruled. During this time, she was with George and all was well.
Then one day the tide turned. She missed her period. Ignored it for a while, then saw a doctor. The cause was perfectly normal. Nobody’s fault, a technical failure.
George did not hesitate, not for a moment. He was young and broke; they both were. They couldn’t consider tying themselves down to a family, not yet. Still, he went through a cartwheel of emotions and explained them all in detail. To himself, but out loud. What would it be like to be a father? Girl or boy? If one or the other, what difference? How do parents cope? Who are the good ones? Where did his go wrong? In the days they spent waiting for her appointment, they made love often. He held onto her as if she might get broken apart by the waves of manhood surging through him. He’ll make a wonderful father, she thought. Someday.
When it was over, George had a business trip to LA. He was trying to get a film project off the ground and had an important contact to follow up. She went to her mother’s sixtieth birthday party in another city. When they got back together, he was in a strange mood. The rest was long and slow and in the end, messy. She cried, shouted that she didn’t deserve to be treated like shit. He agreed. And so they broke up.
It took her three years to get over George. Two before she could walk by his apartment, another until she could smile at a guy and not compare. His name was Patrick. She met him in a woodworking class, night school. They were both clumsy and looking for the same thing: manly skills, or at least the appearance. Patrick’s bookcase was better than hers, well-planned and sturdy. In the end, they partnered up on the final project, a matching coffee table, and moved the pieces into their first apartment.
He thought her name was strange and lovely. Sage: One of the herbs of Provence. A synonym for wise.
For the longest time, she feared the rebound effect, that maybe Patrick was a consolation prize. The hole left by George would never be filled. But did that mean she had to live like a zombie for the rest of her life?
She continued to spend time alone after they moved in together. She took long walks on the mountain, booked mysterious trips to Toronto, New York, Boston, just to be sure she remembered her natural state, alone. Patrick barely noticed. He was a hard worker, always juggling two jobs, saving to buy a rundown apartment they could fix up. He was obsessed with getting a stake. She wasn’t sure she even wanted to stay in Montreal, didn’t give a moment’s thought to things like rising prices, market value. He talked about them all the time.
One day he dragged her to see a place on rue Chambord, near the park. Definitely a fixer-upper, he warned, as they climbed two flights of crooked stairs to the third floor. He wanted her opinion. She didn’t have one. It was too late anyway. He’d already put in a ridiculous offer, and been accepted.
Sage was better with power tools than her woodworking instructor had judged. They never argued. She left the glossy decisions to Patrick. Granite versus stainless steel, rain shower or tub. After two years of late nights, weekends and holidays, the home of his vision emerged from the ruins. It had two bedrooms plus a den, walk-in closets, a gigantic terrace, hardwood floors as smooth as glass, skylights in the hall and bathroom. They served sparkling wine at the open house.
When the guests were gone, Patrick said it was time to start a family. His declaration left her numb. She had no opinion. No strong emotion two months later when the pregnancy test came back positive, except a slight tingling sensation in her fingers and toes, as if a part of her had begun to unthaw.
As she grew bigger, the feeling travelled throughout her body. Not always pleasant, her legs and arms swelling, belly growing enormous, cheeks out like mumps. She was afraid she was gaining too much weight, and had nightmares about losing it after the birth. The more she tried to control her diet, the hungrier she got. She kept a meticulous food diary. The doctor told her not to worry, she was still within the normal range. But she felt huge and ugly. She tried to focus on the baby and what it would mean to be a mother. Girl or boy? If one or the other, what difference? How do parents cope? Who are the good ones? Where did hers go wrong?
Patrick remained his usual calm, confident, quietly excited self, as though it was all just another lap of their long-term
project. They were filling up the spare room, a matter of assembling the right parts, following instructions, keeping your eye on the nail while wielding a hammer instinctively. In the end, he was right. The birth was natural, painful, utterly normal, except that the baby was twins. Girls, one hiding behind the other on the ultrasound. The doctor was embarrassed. Thrifty Patrick was ecstatic. He called it “two for the price of one.” Three weeks after they were born, she could almost comfortably zip up her favourite jeans.
For a time Sage was sure her life had started again. The long period of hibernation had ended. Patrick made a wonderful father. Their workload was exhausting, relentless. At least twice a day, she collapsed onto the bed, gripped by bone tired pain and exultation. The treadmill of new motherhood banished fear and irritation. She had no time for the luxury of boredom. She lived day by day, without expectation. Her best side faced forward; hope, curled up in her arms, constantly hungry for milk.
By comparison, the early childhood years were a breeze. Lucy and Alana (after Charlie Brown’s friend, and Patrick’s granny) played well together, slept in the same bed, wore the same clothes and never fought over toys. They were talented, easygoing, full of love. A world unto themselves, by the time they were four, they could retreat into some elaborate fantasy and not come out for hours. If she knocked at their door with a tray of cookies and milk, they’d look up dreamily, say “thank you Mummy” in singsong voices, and turn back to their games. Mostly she didn’t mind. She was busy, needed, grateful for respite. She found a part-time job she could do from home.
When they started school, the rhythm changed. The old feeling came back, a sick sense that she was standing on the side looking in. She took a trip to New York City and made a terrifying discovery. She had lost the ability to be alone. The house felt empty, her job was numbing.
Patrick and the guy who tiled their bathroom had opened a business together, and were making scads of money renovating old apartments. He wanted to sell their floor and get a triplex. When Sage said she didn’t think she could stand the noise and mess, Patrick assured her the new place would be ready before they put the old on the market, meaning he’d be working days, nights, weekends and holidays for months, maybe a year. He urged her to quit taking on work and open a business, do something, anything, what she’d always wanted. “As long as it makes you happy.”
He meant well, she knew it, but underneath was judgement. He was telling her to get her act together. Be happy. He couldn’t see the hole. He hadn’t been around then. It wasn’t Patrick’s fault, she knew, and yet knowing meant nothing. Knowing was her problem, not theirs.
She started seeing a therapist. Three months into their weekly visits, she still hadn’t mentioned the source of her problem. What was her problem? Anxiety, boredom, fear, a toxic combination? No. Those were symptoms, consequences. Not the problem.
* * *
A hazy midsummer day, she bumped into George on St. Catherine St. He was wearing a pale seersucker suit and had gained weight. He looked good, but slick for her taste. His mouth shot open, a celebrity grin. He flung his arms out and grabbed her up into a bear hug. He was a star. His first feature had won a prize at the Sundance Festival. She couldn’t help it, she gushed right back.
When he was gone, she felt nothing. It started to rain. She stood on the corner of St. Catherine and Peel while her hair and clothes got drenched. She felt great. So, the problem wasn’t George: something to tell the therapist.
Months passed. The girls started piano and violin lessons. No competition, they insisted on learning the same songs. Sage was amazed that time could pass so quietly while she felt so bad. She quit therapy and tried weight training, but dropped out after two weeks. It was too much effort. She was exhausted. She cut her work commitments down to part-time, telling Patrick she wanted to take a computer graphics course. But she couldn’t find the energy to enrol. She slept a lot. She decided sleep was the solution.
A tiny voice from her religious upbringing said, it could be worse. This is a good life. Life is good.
* * *
One night, Patrick called her into their bedroom and closed the door. He had something to tell her. He reached out, took her hand. She wondered why he’d shut the door. The girls were sleeping at his sister’s. Her mouth went dry.
He took forever to speak. Then he circled around the subject, beginning with consequences, how she had every right to be furious. He wouldn’t hold anything she said or did against her, because he’d been wrong from the start. Totally, he was at fault, every step of the way.
What are you saying? The words stuck in her mouth. She’d braced herself with one arm planted on the bed. The arm began to melt.
“I hope you can understand. It’s not just something I kept from you, okay? I kept it from myself. You have to know that. I . . .” He stopped, as if he wanted to take the sentence back.
A cloud lifted, revealing what she’d long suspected: This is the end of a good life, a life I was too weak to live. Now it will be gone and a much worse life will fill in the hole. I won’t be dead any more. I’ll be sorry. The next word is goodbye.
She reached up with tingling fingers and touched his cheek. His chest caved, as if the air trapped in his lungs had been let out and he was finally able to speak. He said he had a son out west. From the time he worked on the rigs. He hadn’t seen him in ages, though he’d sent money, a lot of it, which was why things were always tight.
“How old?”
“Thirteen,” he said. “It wasn’t my choice. Well, some of it, obviously. But I’ve never had anything to say about it. Until now. I mean . . . I’m sorry, Sage.”
She took his other hand. “Don’t say you’re sorry. That’s a terrible thing to say.”
* * *
Ten days later they went to the airport to meet a plump, black-haired kid with thick glasses and a loopy grin, and the social worker charged with bringing him east. The boy came up to Sage’s shoulder. He had two identifiable learning disabilities and no concept of boundaries, the vocabulary of a four-year-old, and mathematical aptitude bordering on genius. He cried when they wouldn’t buy him ice cream and wet his pants on the back seat of their car.
The social worker made a fuss. “Look what he’s done,” she screeched, as if he couldn’t hear. A buxom woman tightly packaged in a navy pantsuit, she lit up a cigarette and made a desultory attempt to blow the smoke out the back window. She said she’d never been to Montreal and was looking forward to seeing the sights.
By the time they turned onto the autoroute, the boy was sobbing. Cigarette smoke filled the car. Sage ordered Patrick to pull over. He said he couldn’t pull over just like that on an eight-lane highway in rush hour. The social worker ordered the boy to calm down. Sage ordered the social worker to shut up. Patrick took the next edit, pulled into the first gas station he came upon, got out, slammed the door, and started to cry.
Meanwhile, the women screamed at each other over the boy’s tantrum.
Sage got out, ordered the social worker to sit in the front seat, Patrick to get back in the car and drive. She sat next to the boy in the back seat. He put his head on her lap, stopped howling.
The social worker was furious and lit another cigarette. Patrick said: “What you need is a couple of beers and put your feet up.” She laughed, tossed the fag into the wind and buckled up.
The rest of the ride was quiet. The boy drifted off to sleep. As Sage stroked his arm, he nestled his mop of black hair in her lap. Mouth open in a half grin, he drooled on her jeans.
She caught Patrick’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. He had a look in his eyes she’d never noticed before, although it had always been there. Heat from the boy’s riled body spread from her lap to the hole inside her. By the time they reached home, the hole was full. Gone.
MARLENE
TBABY BORN to the Walmsley family during a late-January snowstorm was colicky. She couldn’t keep her mother’s milk down. When she wasn’t sleeping, she cried. Her sisters Flo and Marlene
, brothers Roger and Luke, took turns looking for the magic trick that would settle her down. A new sound or a bright object dangled in front of her face might provide momentary distraction, but as soon as the novelty wore off, she started up again, high-pitched screams that turned her face purple before settling into mournful wails. When she stopped, the sun came out from behind a cloud. She’d look up at them as if she’d been away or busy with some dogged mission. Whoever noticed first would summon the others. When Roger tried catching her wobbly smile with his Kodak Brownie, the flash sent her into hysterics. She was christened Patricia Kathleen but Luke called her Patty Kate, and the name stuck.
Helen Walmsley was thirty-nine by her fifth pregnancy, and slow to recover. Her mother stayed on through the summer to help. After months of sleepless nights, Gran started feeding the crier a teaspoon of pabulum mixed with warm formula, followed by a lick of Gripe Water, and bundling — a flannel blanket wrapped tightly around the nervous infant until she couldn’t move. Quiet reigned as long as Gran rocked the bundle and hummed Irish lullabies.
Years later, Marlene would wake out of a fever in some godforsaken place with a sensation of spiders crawling over her face, Gran’s voice in her head. Driven into the deepest crater of memory, the songs broke her fall, provided the bounce she needed, just as that summer the mournful crying drove her out of the house, into a world of benign neglect where she found her taste for freedom and the beginning of everything else.
* * *
With Helen busy elsewhere, Florence took over the laundry and pretty much ran the kitchen. It was better than disgusting barn chores or weeding the garden under a hot sun. She tried out recipes from Chatelaine Magazine whenever she could get the ingredients: casseroles and summer salads involving macaroni, olives, tuna, melted cheese; Jell-O moulds, tapioca-based puddings and fancy baked desserts. Her specialty was Queen Elizabeth cake. The dark, chewy base was made from softened dates, smothered by a transparent mixture of melted butter, sugar and shredded coconut. Marlene and Roger fought for corner pieces, where the icing was thickest. In her spare time, Flo lay in the hammock reading Nancy Drew mysteries and old issues of Time magazine she’d picked up at the church bazaar. In July, she turned thirteen. Her thoughts were future-bound.
Mankind & Other Stories of Women Page 3
