The particulars are all shiny in my mind’s eye. It’s bizarre I know, but I hold on to those details so tightly. I turn them around to look at them so much that sometimes I think I must change them just by holding them. But here it is, as I remember it: it was an overcast day, and it had rained earlier, a sudden downpour that sent the protestors scurrying to find shelter under a few earnestly planted municipal trees and shop awnings. I was glad to feel the rain; it cleared the way and gave me the opportunity to create an oasis under my big green umbrella. I had perfected the angle that kept us both dry, tilted slightly forward, positioned a foot or so above my companion’s head. We were moving forward up the path, keeping a steady pace. She was tall, this client, and it was a challenge keeping the umbrella steady and in place. There were signs the sun might break through the clouds, and I knew this type of light was not a good sign for us. If the protestors were not too soggy they would be more riled up than ever – the sight of light struggling through dark clouds made them bold. I was just about to take the umbrella down so that we could move more quickly when I noticed a young woman break from the crowd and stand underneath a nearby tree. The woman was petite and brunette with corkscrew ringlets that brushed her shoulders – she was like a cherub carved into the top of a church pew. Her eyes were blue and blank. Her certainty made her so beautiful, which is why, I guess, I didn’t think of her as a threat.
It wasn’t until she was right next to us that I realized her intent. She had a switchblade clutched in one hand, flipped open and at the ready. It glinted like something from a 1950s musical – the moment felt all macho and melodious. I nearly laughed, but then I felt my woman tense and heard her sharp intake of breath. The world slowed down. The sun was still struggling in the sky. I wondered then if I was prepared to die for her, for this, for an idea of freedom and future that gives humans so much agency. I decided I was not, but neither could I allow the cherub to run and slash unchecked. It was too ridiculous. I shoved my woman behind me and squared my shoulders directly in front of my attacker. Then I punched the cherub, quickly and efficiently, in the nose. Odd, but I was thinking of sharks – how best to disorient one if it ever becomes overly aggressive while you are snorkelling in the tropics.
I broke her nose. The tears and the blood mingled on her lovely cheeks and she staggered away. My charge dusted herself off, took my arm again and pulled me towards the clinic. Thanks, she muttered, once I had seated her. No prob, I said. I never saw either of those women again.
And now here I am, leaking blood, confessing to strangers, already tallying all the moments in my life that might have been.
– NC
NC: Wings here. Thank you for choosing us to hold your story. To allow these shadowy corners access to the light is perhaps the most meaningful gift we can give each other. I say this with true feeling and conviction and – I hope – courage. You have inspired me to share my own story, you see. The fact is, I could have been one of your companions on your walks from sidewalk to doorstep, from relative innocence to murky knowingness. When I was twenty-three years old, I opted to end a pregnancy. I will not say it was a difficult decision at the time – you could say I saw no other option.
I had been travelling for eight months, backpacking for a few weeks with a childhood friend and then for various segments of time with other friends, who came to seem to me – in clouds of hash smoke, on train station platforms, in the lounges of youth hostels, on stone benches in public squares, sprawled on the grass that surrounded famous monuments – as friends I had known forever, as my soul’s true companions.
When, back home in Toronto, I first began to feel queasy, I assumed I had brought back a souvenir, an opportunistic worm or virus simply playing its own role in my body’s ecosystem. But then I was Late and Later, and I began to think about all the times in the last six weeks I had allowed myself to be seduced by the wave of sensation that meant I could gather another human into me. When I peed on that wand and saw that crucifix, it did seem to me just another short-term burden to bear. I had to get rid of it. And if I had not? I don’t know. I think I might have married my cousin’s ex. He had a wrinkle on his forehead that made him seem kind, and he listened to me when I drank too much Gato Negro. But he was not what I needed. I knew that then, and I know it now. I wish I could say I mourned the loss of life but I could not, not when all I knew of my own past, present and future was the result of my own arrogant spirit tentacling out to touch as much of the world as I could ... Sometimes I think I should be asking someone or something forgiveness, but instead I am overcome by a gut-wrenching gratitude. Who is it I’m thanking? I’m not sure. I’m still not sure.
– Wings
Holy crap, Wings! Why don’t you give it up and write a novel already?
– Straight Shooter
Oh Wings! Thank you so much for sharing. I knew that bristly exterior was hiding something mushy and vulnerable. You don’t have to respond to this note – I just wanted you to know I understand and I forgive you for your earlier cranky posts.
– Spiral
Spiral: I definitely was not asking your forgiveness. And I still think you’ve been sniffing too much incense.
– Wings
Hi Everybody! Sheila K. here. I’ve been reading your entries like crazy – when I get home from work or running errands I sometimes have to stop myself from running first to the computer before stopping to pee – and believe me, I really have to pee! I guess I just felt like I had to put my two cents in as far as this whole debate or discussion is concerned. I know there are as many opinions out there as there are birds in the sky, but I feel like maybe I’m different. You see, I don’t have a Bible to my name, never mind one I’d like to thump, but I also don’t believe abortion is right. I’m not sure I’ve always felt this way; in fact I don’t think I had an opinion, or at least not a fully formed one until very recently. I wonder sometimes if it was the birth of my first child that changed my outlook, but somehow I don’t think so. I think instead it is a brand of certainty that comes with maturation, a commitment to a set of views that, when I was younger, I might have attributed to the stubborn rigidity of middle age, but that I now see as a kind of bravery. It’s just that I believe that something, once started, should be carried through to the end. Maybe it’s because everything in our lives has become so easily disposable. And I think – no, not this, you should not be allowed to do this. And I understand, I do, that there are issues of freedom, of gender, of a person’s parameters being curtailed by others, of desperation and back alleys. But are we not an innovative, creative species that adapts, that finds ways to manage the unexpected? Should we not persist in filling gaps where gaps exist, evolve to take care of what we have created? What I’m trying to say is there must be more than one way to tidy our own chaos, no?
– Sheila K
Sheila: I hear you! I try to respect a person’s choice, I really do, but I don’t think any woman who’s ever endured IVF – all that poking and prodding and waiting and wondering – would ever choose to end a pregnancy. It just seems like squandered opportunity, something wanton and wasteful.
– Spiral
POST REDACTED BY FORUM MASTER
What does ‘redacted’ mean? It sounds kind of French.
– Straight Shooter
Who is the Forum Master? I didn’t know we had a Forum Master.
– Spiral
I think it might be God.
– Craving City
It’s so weird to think of God using a computer!
– Christian Mom!
Why would God bother censoring us, anyway? When has he ever cared about women’s whinging?
– Straight Shooter
Ah, the ghost in the machine. It’s actually the perfect place for god to hang out, isn’t it?
– Wings
I lost the baby.
– NC
Oh, New Country, what happened? What happened?
– Spiral
Apparently my cervix is incompetent – along with my tear ducts. I know I should cry. I should be crying, right? Instead I just feel like someone has stuffed dry straw into the hole where my heart is and I wish like crazy for a word that might burn it up, make me feel something, anything. That so much liquid could gush from me, that my little one could escape me on a tidal wave of blood, and I could be left feeling so arid and artificial ... This can’t be what it means to be human.
– NC
My heart goes out to you, New Country. And Jesus SEES you, He really does. He understands your anguish and loves you and feels your repentance even if you’ve not yet recognized it. My God is not a punishing God, but there are reasons, there is sense and order in this world, a plan, a structure of sorts that emerges if we take a moment to understand the scaffolding of our lives. It was SINFUL work that you did, helping abortionists to commit abominations. But you are beginning to understand now and that is what is IMPORTANT. You know all too well, I’m sure, considering your CONDITION, that what we carry in our wombs as women is NOT GARBAGE. You know, I am certain, that what stirs within you is LIFE. By eleven weeks a fetus is waking, sleeping, eating, DREAMING. Dreaming of a life outside his mother, but bathed in the light of mother’s love, of God’s love. Please be strong and understand that although you have made terrible mistakes, there is room for you here in the fold, that we will enfold you and keep you and your baby from harm.
– On the Side of the Innocents
Holy mackerel! Who is this nutjob? ‘On the Side of the Innocents’? A bit unwieldy as a handle, no? I know we try to respect diversity of opinion here, but I have one word for you, New Country: ignore.
– Spiral
To ignore the word of God is to court disaster. But when Jesus saw it, he was much displeased, and said unto them, Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God. The souls you helped banish are with Jesus now. You will not be so lucky. There is a table reserved in a restaurant called Hades for you and your devil spawn. A special place reserved.
– Concerned Christian
New Country: Don’t listen to these assholes with all their flaming fire and brimming brimstone. I also dreamed about your baby. He was small and dead. I held him in my palm then laid him on the ground. With my wings, I formed a kind of canopy overtop of him. I wove my feathers together to give him shelter. I protected him.
– Wings
New Country: Are you still there? Please don’t go away because of a couple of kooks with some internet savoir faire and too many holy axes to grind. We’re still here. And we love you.
– Spiral
Oh NC! I had to have a smoke when I read your news. About six ‘ladies with handbags’ (you know the type) gave me the dirtiest fucking looks as they passed me on my stoop, knocked up and sucking on a cig like my life depended on it. I’m so sorry, NC. Is someone with you? Where can you go? I hope you have pals there besides us, all stuck in our virtualness.
– Craving City
NC: This is probably not the right time to tell you this, but just the fact that you could conceive in the first place, well, that’s a good thing. You’ll have more chances, you will. Take good care.
– Straight Shooter
New Country: You should crank your old music – as loud as possible – until the neighbours make 911 calls. Then you should beat on things – your own breast, tabletops, the fridge door. Do not stop until you are entirely spent. Once you’ve had a rest, turn up the volume again.
– Wings
It is not fair that your baby died. It happens more than people like to admit or talk about, but it is in no way fair. DO NOT let anybody tell you any differently. Stay away from parks and avoid schoolyards. Maybe take a vacation.
– Straight Shooter
PS Table Reserved?!?
Thanks, everybody, for all your props and kind words. I know that you are all speaking from your own truth, and that’s what’s important, even if it is difficult for me to absorb. I am writing to say goodbye as I don’t quite fit in around these parts anymore. I wish you all the very best with your challenges, your joys, your wonderful tumult, the times when your faces are not lit by these crass, compelling, miraculous screens. Remember to talk to and touch each other whenever you can. As Faith would sing: ‘The secret of life is there ain’t no secret/And you don’t get your money back.’
Peace and Punk Rock,
– NC
New Country – I’m guessing you are in Toronto ... If you are, would you like to meet me for tea (or something stronger) one of these days? That is, if you’re still listening …
– Wings
Wings: I’m still here. I tried but I can’t turn off my laptop. I don’t want to believe ... I just don’t want to. So Wings, I want you to keep doing your crazy-assed, lyrical, love-me-or-leave-me thing, I really do, but I don’t want to meet you. I don’t want to know you. It’s just that – even though we’re networked, connected, I guess – you’re really NOT my family, are you? I don’t even know what you look like, or what your voice sounds like or what hair products you use … And, to be honest, I’m just not sure I could deal with it – with you and your, well, your CONDITION, I guess, and by that I mean no offence I really don’t –
– New Country
New Country: I know I am probably the last person you want to hear from – but I don’t judge you, I don’t! Gosh, just saying that makes me sound so sanctimonious, doesn’t it? I am so sorry for your loss. I’ve been praying for you. I didn’t want to jump into the fray before, with all those loony-tunes giving us God-fearers a bad name. I don’t know what God wants us to do, or why He might have chosen your baby, or why He’d want to ‘redact’ anyone’s post. I just believe in Him, and His Great Good Grace is all. I just have to believe in Him. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you, before you left, in case you didn’t know, that I am also a Faith Hill fan!!! Especially the songs ‘A Baby Changes Everything’ which is totally not about what you might think – it’s Jesus who is the baby! – and also ‘You Bring Out the Elvis in Me’ (not sure if you’re really into Elvis ... ). Take care of yourself, and God Bless.
– Christian Mom!
Drowning Doesn't Look
Like Drowning
FOR A LONG TIME MY FATHER refused to talk about the accident. That he considered me at fault was obvious and how to integrate this feeling seemed puzzling to him – although, of course, not to me. I had lost him as surely as I lost my mother, lost him to a recklessness that had been mere frivolity in the past. My mother’s risk-taking had always been extravagant but well-ordered, but my father grabbed at dangerous opportunities as if at bullets zinging past him. He had dropped out of the Superior trip because a gig had come up, a friend who needed help moving some ‘cargo.’ Drugs? Maybe. Not weaponry, that was not his style. But that there was a hard edge, a large possibility of capture or injury, was a given. Sometimes wilderness trekking was too purely animalistic for him. Too distant from the intricacies of human infrastructures. Was my mother angry that he had cancelled – last minute – a trip that was meant to be my initiation into this type of adventuring? If so, she never showed it. In the days leading up to our departure, the expedition became ours alone – we gathered supplies, rolled and cubed clothes and gear into knapsacks built expressly for this purpose. She was a winker, my mother, and in those days she winked at me often, while reaching for a canister of propane, smoothing out a map, pointing out a buckle or clasp. Hugging me, the two of us wearing only our underwear and neon-orange life preservers.
I do not wink at my own children, or at other children, no matter how urgently the gesture seems called for. A slyness, a secret, an apology, an invitation, a harmless salaciousness, an embrace from
a distance – I do understand it, its appeal, its charm. I wanted to wink at Nathalie, my first, the moment I laid eyes on her, such was my understanding of the great and serious joke we had shared, but I had broken blood vessels in my cheeks, torn my perineum in two places, my eyes were dry, Bruce was holding my hand too tightly. I could not seem to muster the necessary combination of muscle coordination, will and lightness of spirit required. I felt so sure she would have winked back. And then the moment passed. The little cub was on my chest, her oily face tipped up fiercely towards mine, then latched on to one of my nipples, attached.
If I tell you my mother winked at me while the plane was going down, would you believe me? Could you? It’s not real, it’s not serious, the wink said. I love and loathe my mother for that wink, a wink I may myself have imagined.
Yesterday was a hot day, the type that can only happen on the edge of the Great Lakes here in Toronto, the humidity a heavy canopy over the city, tamping down energy, smog, aspirations. I took the kids to the indoor pool, frightened of the soaring UV index, and I guess the combination of airborne moisture, nasty pollutants, the fumes from the chlorine – all were too much for James’s little bronchioles to bear. I saw it coming: the too-deliberate breaths. A seven-year-old child paying attention to how he breathes is rare and wrong. The slowing of his physical movement and the slow turning inwards, the strange soul-quiet that follows ... But before he got in the water he fished his puffer from his bag and sucked on it like a pro, and I thought, The cool water will help. I thought, He can handle this; modern medicine can handle this; I can handle this. It is the mother’s pendulum that swings constantly between sheer panic and willed competence. But then he was dog-paddling weakly to the side while Nathalie and Sarah took turns dunking each other, emerging with bangs plastered over eyes like monsters or pop stars, pretending the bubbles they blew were farts, lifting ballerina legs to the sky.
Mad Hope Page 17
