Corridor Nine

by Sophie Stocking

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “You’re not still feeling guilty about the hedgehog, are you? Remember I’m the one who dropped the ball on that one. I’m the mother. You can’t be expected to know everything, and besides Cynthia survived. It all worked out.”

  “No, it’s not that, I mean, I’m fine. I just have a lot of homework.”

  “Okay . . . You sure? Chicken fricassee for dinner tonight.” Bernie goes out and shuts the door.

  On Friday Bernie drops the kids at school and then takes Angus to the dog park. Peter will meet her at the house at ten and drive her to the clinic. The day is clear and beautiful. Fifteen degrees already and by afternoon it will feel like summer. She opens the door and Angus squeezes out behind her back, leaps over the low wire dividing the park from the road, and starts zigzagging through the long grass in search of mice. She turns east to do her habitual loop through the poplars and then down along the river, grateful the park looks deserted this morning.

  In her head she talks to him. Tells him what he needs to know before he goes. First of all, she says, ask before you impose yourself on a woman. She must want you, and you’re a handful, so pick a mind-blowingly maternal woman, okay? You understand it’s not just about you? That’s a twenty-year commitment you’re asking of her, no, it’s a life sentence, and she has to want you desperately.

  Also, don’t do drugs. That didn’t work out so well, did it? There are no shortcuts. You have to feel the pain, just feel it and then it goes away. Don’t be scared, everyone has some, and if you experience it, if you let it run through you like water, eventually you’ll be rinsed clean. You have to be patient and stick with the feeling. I know it’s uncomfortable.

  Fabian listens, floating quietly inside the potent brew of Bernie gearing herself up. A life skills recap. Handling women 101. She’s right of course, and because he feels bad about her distress, he makes an effort to concentrate.

  Also, next lifetime, remember there is a line dividing children and parents. You can’t cross that line. You take care of them; they don’t take care of you. Pick a good enough mother this time, one that can really fill you up. Then you won’t be jealous of your kids when they come along, and if you are a good enough father maybe they’ll even visit you when you’re old. Actually, even if you get a rotten mother next time, be the parent you wished you’d had. It feels better that way; you’ll be proud of yourself, and the kids will definitely thank you.

  Yes, yes, I know. Bune and I went through all of that. Stop rubbing it in. I know how I failed you.

  About women: Look beyond the whole idea of beauty and sex. Remember there is a person under that skin. Love the person, see what she feels, what she thinks, if you do that . . .

  Fabian curls his blastosphere self into an even tighter ball and wishes he could roll under something to muffle the noise. Okay, okay, he shouts. Please just stop talking. Stop talking and I’ll be good.

  Peter and Bernie sit in the parking lot.

  “Are you okay?”

  Bernie exhales. Looks at the stucco wall of the clinic.

  “It’s funny. When I found out I was pregnant with all the babies, even though we hadn’t planned Eben, even when I found out the twins were going to be twins, I felt so happy. I clutched them to my heart. But this time everything just screams ‘no’. This is not my baby, and I cannot keep him. He would be a cuckoo in the nest. He’d hurt our kids.”

  Peter looks down at his feet on the rubber mat. He takes her hand and holds it.

  “You ready then?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Well let’s go.”

  Bernie lies back on the inclined surgical table under the sheet. The nurse, her name tag says Nancy, clips the heart-rate monitor to her finger.

  “How are you feeling? Pretty woozy?”

  “Like I’ve had three glasses of wine, but not sick.” “Lorazepam’s good stuff. Now I’m just going to insert this injection port into your vein and tape it on. That’s what we’ll use for the conscious sedation; I’ll hook you up in a minute. When you’re feeling really happy the doctor will come in and after ten minutes it will all be over.”

  Bernie looks around the surgical suite. It’s so odd, she seems to speak without slurring, but whole sections of the room disappear into black holes in her vision. She looks over at the nurse, a grandmotherly woman in flower print scrubs. She makes her eyes focus. Tulips.

  “Could you tell me something before you go?” asks Bernie.

  “Sure.”

  Later standing over the autoclave in the hallway, Nancy lays out the speculum and dilators on the wire racks.

  Lauren comes up behind her, putting on her coat.

  “Do you want a coffee? I’m going to Tim Horton’s.”

  “Sure. Just cream please.” She closes the hatch and pushes the power button. “Do you ever wonder, I mean . . . That last patient, I don’t know.”

  “Bernadette MacComber?”

  “Yeah. Nice woman. She asked me before I knocked her out to look up the birth date of the baby if she’d have kept it. Not that I haven’t been asked that before.”

  “Mmmhmm, me too.”

  “Well I looked it up on the wheel and told her. April eleventh I think, and the weird thing is she laughed. She said, ‘that’s my father’s birthday!’ and she threw back her head and laughed. It seemed so callous somehow, she didn’t seem the type.”

  “Just the drugs talking, I think. Lorazepam can do funny things. You want a muffin too?”

  “Yes thanks.”

  For six nights now, Bernie hasn’t slept. This morning she calls the counsellor she saw at the clinic.

  “Hi Judith. This is Bernadette MacComber, I talked to you last week.”

  “I remember. How are you?”

  “Fine I think. The bleeding’s stopped, but the problem is I can’t sleep. I get two hours a night max. I’m feeling a bit desperate. I looked on the internet . . . ”

  “Oh, don’t do that! Stay off the internet. You can get all sorts of misinformation. Sleeplessness is a common post-procedure symptom. Your hormones are all out of whack. What day is it?”

  “Six, I think.”

  “You’re almost there. Hold on. In a few more days you’ll be back to normal.”

  “That’s all it is?”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  “That’s a relief. Thank you.”

  “No worries. Call any time.”

  Bernie slips her phone back into her vest pocket and downs the last of her cold coffee. She turns to her painting, the sun streams in the studio window. The big canvas she stretched to the frame yesterday measures four-feet square. She had roughed out the shapes already, very simple in this case, just one massive sphere hurtling through space. A cannonball of intention. She squeezes out some raw umber and alizarin red on her pallet, adds some black, then dumps her water jar at the sink and fills it again. She returns to the painting and starts shading. She works the sphere up, making the planet more and more three-dimensional. So round, it looks ready to blow through the canvas.

  This time Fabian goes through the arrivals gate. He stands on the whispering conveyor belt with big eyes, but the white walls slipping past him offer nothing in way of explanation. Finally, he stops before the frosted doors. They slide open with a hiss. The conveyor belt delivers him, and the doors shut behind. Fabian starts to shake. A grey and smoky place. A horde of beings stand, all watching him. Silent throngs of them. Some have wings; some tails and funny heads like gorgons. A few look distinctly furry but with human faces. Others make quick flights around him like birds, but then settle back into the crowd whispering. Fabian presses his lips together, so he won’t cry; he looks behind him but can’t see the doors anymore. The feather mangled and crushed in the palm of his hand is all he has to hold onto.

  Nothing happens. None of the beings approach him. What are they waiting for? They just stand patiently and watch. Finally, a murmur begins somewhere at the back. It ripples and grows in volume. He ca
n make out words now.

  “He’s coming! The Maestro! Genius! The Great Trickster!”

  The words rise to a crescendo of bird-like squawking and growls, and just when Fabian thinks he can’t possibly stand anymore, the crowd parts. Fabian squints down the aisle as the beings all pull back. And he sees him. Like thunder he comes striding, the cloud gown billowing behind him. His legs a churning wave, his face an island of certainty. Fabian ducks his head and starts to run. He runs, and runs, until at last he hits him. So solid. So warm.

  “There you are!” Bune picks up Fabian and hoists him to his shoulder. The crowd erupts in a roar and Fabian hides his face against the angel’s hair. “We’ll go in a moment.” Bune turns toward the crowd and Fabian feels him waving. “Maestro! Magician!” they chant. As he walks the roar diminishes and suddenly, as if they have passed through more doors, all is quiet. Fabian lifts his face and looks around. They stand in a meadow of long windswept grass. Above them a blue and sunny sky. Bune sets him on his feet.

  “Where are we?”

  “Corridor Eight!” Bune unfolds his wings, flexes them fully and smiles down at Fabian. “Much better for flying!” He holds Fabian out at arm’s length. “Let’s have a look at you. You’ve grown! You look about six now, and you’re much more proportionate.”

  Fabian pats himself down. Head not so big, little boy testicles.

  “Hey! They reduced my equipment!”

  “Do you mind? How does you new body feel compared to the old one?”

  Fabian grips his little package, tilts his head from side to side, considering. He breathes a big sigh.

  “Actually, the old equipment weighed me down.”

  “Excellent, our work on Corridor Nine must have registered. In your last assignment you achieved some balance.”

  “Assignment? You mean lifetime? How can you call that a lifetime? I never got bigger than a lima bean!”

  “Ah yes, but finally you completed an assignment that you didn’t end by your own hand, and thus here we are, on Corridor Eight!” Fabian stares at the fragrant rustling grasses surrounding them, bending to the wind like waves. “By the way, could I have my feather back?” The towhead boy looks up slowly, extends his hand and opens it. He grins. Bune takes the mangled, sweaty scrap. “Thank you.”

  “All those creatures back there. They were chanting “Maestro, Magician . . . ”

  “Let’s just say, Fabian MacComber has become something of legend. All bets were out, if I would succeed or fail,” Bune’s calloused face wrinkles into a smile. He looks into Fabian’s eyes. The two other heads pop out of his shoulders. “Take your pick. Eeny meany miney mo.”

  “The dog please,” says Fabian, and soon he sinks his fingers into the thick ruff of fur.

  “And now we’ll walk.”

  Eben stands at his bedroom window and looks at the first wet flakes of winter falling lazy in the dark. Through the snow the light still burns in his mother’s studio. He checks the time on his phone, then goes down the stairs to the kitchen, and boils the kettle.

  Bernie finishes the surrounding space, working the paint into the canvas, sweeping and grinding it into weather systems. The planet floats, bobs buoyantly. Now she will start laying down the biosphere. It needs to be completely forested and she decides on deciduous trees. Poplars. She jumps. The door opens and snow blows in.

  Eben stands barefoot in his boxer shorts and a hoody, two mugs steam in his hands.

  “What are you doing? You’ll freeze!”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Well then, we’re good company.” His hands are full, so Bernie walks over and shuts the door. Then she goes to the back wall and unearths a folding chaise lounge and drags it close to the Franklin stove. She grabs a sleeping bag and pulls it out of its stuff sack. His full-grown man feet are wet and red with cold. Surprisingly he sits and lets her dry them with a clean rag, then takes the sleeping bag from her, crawls in and pulls it up to his armpits. When he’s reclining on the chaise, she hands him his tea.

  “Why couldn’t you sleep?” Silence. Bernie turns and goes back to putting in the trees. Soon the grayish groves of bare branches radiate out into space.

  “It’s a very small planet.”

  “Yes.”

  “What will you call this one?”

  “Whole.”

  “Hole? I wouldn’t call it ‘Hole’. It’s the opposite.”

  “No, ‘Whole.’ Complete, intact, healed, all of a piece.”

  “Oh, that makes sense. What season will you choose?”

  “Mmm, I’m thinking fall. I’ll start putting in the leaves soon.” She stands back and squints, returns to her work. “What time is it?”

  “Twelve thirty.”

  “Why couldn’t you sleep?”

  Silence.

  “Do you ever wonder, Mom, what’s better. I mean, have you ever been in a situation where you have to choose between everyone hating you, or you hating yourself?”

  “Oh yes. That’s happened all my life. And which did you pick?”

  “The lonely choice.”

  “Not as lonely as the alternative. Who hates you?”

  “Every girl in the school.” Bernie studies him for a minute, goes back to painting.

  “It started when Madison Harding got into Jake’s Gmail . . . ”

  “What?”

  “They were working on a group project, and he didn’t sign out of his Gmail when he went to talk to someone. She thought she was being funny, and she sent this stupid email to everyone on his contact list.”

  “Good Lord! That’s terrible! What did she write?”

  “Oh, something like; ‘I’m gay and like to wear women’s lingerie,’ I forget all the details, but really dumb. The problem was the email went to this guy who interviewed him for a job at Sport Chek. The guy must think he’s an idiot. Jake thinks he won’t get the job now.”

  Bernie opens a tube of cadmium yellow and squeezes it onto her palette.

  “So where do you come in? I don’t understand?” She mixes the yellow with a little umber, some white.

  “I’m Jake’s best friend. Madison thinks I should talk to him. He says he’s going to tell the principal if he doesn’t get the job. I don’t blame him, but Madison told her friends, told Leanne. They’re all saying we’re being too hard on her, that we’ll ruin her life, it was just a joke . . . ”

  She starts applying the leaves, some golden, some darker. Some white as if turning in the wind.

  “Aren’t you going to put any leaves on the ground?”

  “Nah, I figure they can just blow out into space.”

  “That won’t work. If there’s no atmosphere on this planet, how can there be a water cycle? There’d be no way to support plant growth.”

  “Hmm, I guess you’re right. I’ll leaf up the forest floor a bit.” She turns to reload her brush, “and I think this mess should stay between Madison and Jake. It has nothing to do with you. You were right not to get involved, and Jake’s your best friend. Who is this Leanne?”

  “A girl.”

  “Well, you made the right choice. You have to trust your gut. They’ll come around eventually. At least the good ones will.” Outside the big, wet flakes fall soft on the lawn. They land and melt away until the ground gets cold enough, and then they begin to pile up.

  “I didn’t want to tell you this.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “I bombed my chemistry test.”

  Outside the snow keeps falling with increasing certainty. The white starts to blanket every hump in the grass, a herd of Moira’s plastic cows in the sandbox, Angus’s gnawed bone, an elastic-band ball forgotten by Louis. Eben talks and Bernie listens. She works, and he talks into the new day.

  At seven, Peter wakes. He listens to the silence and wonders at the different quality of light, looks out the window and surveys the first snowfall. Rolling over he sees Bernie’s vacant pillow. Putting on his bathrobe he walks to the kitchen to find her. Maybe she’s in th
e laundry room? No. He checks the kids’ bedrooms and finds Eben missing too. But her van still sits parked in the garage. He pulls on his boots and steps out the back door. A thread of smoke rises out of the studio chimney as the sky turns to pink. He walks, each step revealing a green footprint in the snow, until he reaches the studio.

  Peter turns the handle, pushes the door open, and then he stops. In the small room Eben stretches out in a sleeping bag on a chaise lounge in front of the Franklin stove. His arm dangles to the floor and the auburn hair covers his face. Across from him Bernie curls on another chaise lounge under two winter coats. She drools on the fleece jacket wadded under her head for a pillow. Peter steps in quietly and pulls the door closed. The sunrise bounces off the snow, and the white radiance illuminates the planet on the easel.

  Later in the winter, guests at a dinner party will gather and try to name it. It would make a great ecological logo says one friend. Someone else compares it to a seed pod about to burst. Another thinks of Lola’s hedgehog, curled tight. But a fourth says, no. This is the microscopic view of an ovum at the moment of fertilization, the sperm cells radiating, fighting to be the first to grind their pointy-heads through the tough outer membrane, to hit the mark and set off that genetic chain reaction.

  For awhile Peter stands and studies the painting. He watches Bernie and Eben breathing, and then he steps back outside and softly closes the door. It’s Saturday. He’ll let them sleep as long as they need to.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The great E.B. White once said, “I admire anyone who has the guts to write anything at all.” Writing a book is a frightening business, and it takes a village at your back to keep pen to paper. Thank you to my sister, Ruey Stocking, and my many good friends, for their feedback and encouragement along the way. In particular, thank you to Monica Skrukwa, for her unwavering conviction that I could do this. At many points I would have quit but for her insistence.

  To my mother and father, Laurel Ellison and John Stocking, for a childhood rich in experience. For the art and literature, exposure to many cultures, the nature, food, and pets. I now realize a childhood of this calibre is rare. Thank you to my lovely mother-in-law, Joan Reinhardt, who liked me from the start, and who always shows up when the going gets rough. To my Aunt Liane, writer, professor, and inspiration, thank you for your thoughtful reading of the early draft.