Lance held her and rocked her gently. “Because I didn’t know I’d meet you, okay? I didn’t know. How could I know?”
“Why do they get to have a family and we don’t?” she’d asked and started crying again. “It’s not fair, Lance. I want a family for us. It’s all I want now.”
“Me too, baby,” he said and cried with her. “Me too.”
And that was when Shari had started wearing pyjamas to bed. They’d stopped making love. That was when she stayed out later with Juanita. They had found a women’s circle that involved sweats and spiritual retreats. Juanita and Shari had gone together. Often, she would come home smelling of cedar and sweet grass, but she would not talk about where she had been for the weekend or what they were doing. Shari would return strong for a few days but then she would get this look, this sadness, and move slowly again. She had also started sleepwalking. Lance found her a few mornings sleeping in the nursery room that they had prepared together. She’d be on the floor, wrapped in a blanket she had made for the baby. That was by far the worst for Lance: to see the pain he had brought to someone who had earned the right to a beautiful life. He hated himself for what he had done to Shari. And that was when he’d stopped trying to feel. He’d lose himself in movies, video games, online porn. Anything to feel like a man.
He held onto something he’d read at the urologist’s clinic: that a man needed to ejaculate every three days to create and maintain healthy sperm. The word virility had never mattered to him before, but it was his mantra all the time now. Virility, virility, virility. He hated himself and his decision to burn the bridge, to cauterize the tubes that could give them what they both wanted now: a family.
She’s biding her time to leave, he thought. I have failed her. And she’s rejected me. And there’s nothing more I can do. He remembered words that their couples counsellor, Wanda, had said: “The number one reason marriages and partnerships fail is failed expectations. When a life-changing event like infertility comes up like this, you can either fall apart or you can fall together. It will always come down to communication.” Lance bristled at how hard the past six months had been. “I’m a eunuch,” he said.
Juanita burst out laughing. “What?”
“I’m a eunuch,” he repeated and the room fell quiet. He never wanted to open his eyes again.
“Easy,” Duane said.
“And now my orgasms are strongest in doorways,” he confessed.
“What?” Shari asked, alarmed.
It was true. Whenever he had to ejaculate for a sperm count or to maintain virility or just to feel magnificent for as long as he could, he got down on all fours and discovered that any time he came halfway through a door that his orgasms were beyond physical. They were metaphysical, loud in the soul.
“And I’m not a chronic masturbator. A man should ejaculate every two to three days to maintain a healthy sperm count.”
The group laughed. Even Shari.
This felt good. He could feel waves of weight leave his body. He wanted to reach for more hash brownies and chase it down with his beloved coffee. He knew there were two brownies and half a cooling cup of coffee left, but he could not move. He started to drift around the room, as if he were having an out of body experience. The throbbing pain between his legs now hummed to a dull buzz.
“Did I tell you,” Shari said, “that my old soccer ball contacted me today on Facebook?”
“What?” Duane and Juanita asked.
“What?” Lance echoed, delayed in his response time.
Shari sat up. “When we were kids, my mom brought us home a soccer ball she’d found one day. On it in huge letters was the name Nelson Crummy. We fell in love with this soccer ball. We took it everywhere—to the lake, out to restaurants. And we’d all say, ‘Hey, where’s Nelson Crummy? Has anyone seen Nelson Crummy?’ Even my parents got into it. ‘Well, Nelson Crummy,’ my father would say, ‘what do you feel like for supper tonight?’ ‘I think Nelson Crummy wants barbeque chicken with corn on the cob and baked potatoes,’ Mom would say.”
She stopped to take a sip of water. Lance felt something lift inside of him. As Shari had started this story, he got a glimpse of her family when they were younger, running in black and white, laughing together, not kicking the ball but running and passing it to each other in a field of tall grass. Her muddy hands, her marvelous feet in little shoes.
“Holy shit!” Duane yelled. “That’s like that Tom Hanks movie—what was it called….”
“Castaway!” Juanita said. And they started laughing.
“What?” Shari asked.
“The ball that Tom Hanks has as a best friend. Wasn’t his name—Wilson?”
“Yeah,” Juanita said. “Holy cow, this is just like that.”
“Did we see that movie?” she asked Lance.
Lance frowned. He had watched it with Larissa. “I don’t think so. Go on, sweetie.”
She looked at him with surprise. He hadn’t called her that in months. She continued. “And it went on and on. We couldn’t leave the house without Nelson Crummy. We played with Nelson Crummy and the thing is he kept leaking, so we had to keep pulling over to every gas station we came across and my dad didn’t mind. My mom didn’t mind. Nobody minded. And we loved it. We loved it all. Then one day my mom came home and Nelson Crummy was gone. She’d met Nelson Crummy—the boy. The one whose ball it was. He was in her class. She’d noticed his name on her class list and confessed to him that his ball, his name, his very spirit had traveled with us across Canada all summer. He seemed unimpressed. All he cared about was getting his soccer ball back, so she gave it back—though we were all pretty sad about it. Even my dad.”
“Cheap,” Duane said. “So what happened?”
“Well, it was right after that that we had the fire and lost everything.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Juanita said. “Did you add him as a friend?”
“I did,” she said and Lance tried to frown about this. He tried to frown but wasn’t sure he could move his face anymore. He was really stoned. But he had seen her. He’d seen Shari’s life.
“Well, that’s a sad story,” Juanita piped. “Who needs water?”
“All of us, sweetie, please,” Duane said.
Lance listened with everything inside of him and he opened his eyes. His eyelids felt thick and sticky. There was Shari curled on the couch. She’d taken her socks off and he could see her feet. Her beautiful Dene feet. It was her feet that had closed the deal for him when they started dating but he’d never told her. Her toes were delicately shaped, each one a jewel to massage. Like amber beads. Her ankles, her feet, her toes, the muscles and perfection of her feet revealed themselves to him every time they used to go out because the night would truly begin with Shari asking for a foot massage. He’d gladly oblige and he remarked once that she used a certain red polish that drove him crazy. She’d apply it for him every Friday and they’d never make it out the door for supper or a night on the town. He hadn’t massaged her feet or toes in weeks now.
She hadn’t painted them either. She’d also taken off the silver toe ring Lance had given her after their six-month anniversary. She’d taken off her ankle bracelet that she used to wear. Lance came home to find them gone and, just like the haircut and the locked nursery, he knew not to ask about it. He and Shari were becoming strangers, but in this story about the soccer ball, there she was—that girl he adored. She’d lost her family photo albums in a house fire and he’d spent hours—days really—trying to imagine her as a girl, as a young lady, as a teenager. There were no pictures of her that he’d ever seen and this was magic because when she’d told this story, he could see flashes of her life: her brother, her sister, her parents. For some reason, they were all wearing suits in this story. For some reason, this story was in black and white. For some reason, their hair was matted down with something. And he saw Shari with bad perms, awkward dresses, friends
who’d moved on, sleepovers. He’d seen the memory of birthday cakes and pizza parties. He’d glimpsed a movie reel of Shari growing up.
“I love that story,” Lance said, fascinated. “What was his name?”
“What?” Shari asked.
He sat up slowly. “What was the soccer ball’s name?”
“Nelson Crummy.”
He felt a heat spread between his legs as he imagined her tanning, learning how to dance, laughing, kissing for the first time.
“What?” Lance asked again.
Shari looked at him with suspicion. “Nelson. Crummy.”
Lance felt something more: he felt the heat spread within his thighs through his balls.
“One more time,” he said.
“Why?” She asked.
“Please,” he said and motioned with his eyes towards his lap. “Baby. Please. Say it one more time.”
“No!” Shari said, but she said it playfully.
“What’s going on over there?” Juanita asked.
“You okay, buddy?” Duane asked.
“Yeah,” Lance said and looked at the group. He was looking at Shari and Shari was looking at him.
“Do you need more peas?” Duane asked. “We have more.”
“No,” Lance said. “I just want to hear his name again.”
“Nelson Crummy!” the group bellowed and everyone burst out laughing. Lance looked at Shari and smiled. “I feel like a broken horse, but I love that name.” And he exploded into laughter.
“You are so stoned,” Juanita said.
Lance nodded and smiled. He looked at Shari and sent her love through his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of this.”
Duane and Juanita stopped. Shari froze. Lance was surprised he’d spoken his thoughts.
“Sweetie,” she said and moved towards him.
As stoned as he was, he heard himself speaking. “I’m so sorry I’ve done this to you.” Hot tears started to fall. “I’m sorry you might never get to be a mother with me. I’ve shown up wounded. And I did it all to myself for the wrong person and it hurts you now. You’re sleepwalking now, baby, and it just kills me.”
She came towards him and their tears started to fall together. He held out his hands and took hers. All the words he had wanted to say those nights as he waited for her to come home poured out. “I hate myself and what we’ve become. I never even got to see pictures of you when you were a little girl or when you were growing up, and, uh, I,” he swallowed hard. “I hate that because the truth is I want to have a little girl with you so she can look just like you did growing up and … and … she can have your hair and your little hands and feet. I want to hear how you laughed when you were little and, uh, I want all of us to sleep on our bed together in each other’s arms and I just don’t feel like a man anymore. I’m so scared you’re going to leave me and take your love away and we’ll never have what you want … I just want….” It felt like he was trying to swallow his own Adam’s apple.
“I want to protect you but I did this to you before we even met. I feel like a ghost. I just don’t know what to do with what I’ve, uh, what I’ve done.” He wiped his eyes. “I’m just so fucking lost right now, you know? I really need you to know how sorry I am.” Then he looked at her. “I feel worse than your ex who broke your jaw.”
Duane and Juanita bowed their heads at this.
“I feel like I’ve hurt you worse than he did.” Lance’s tears stopped and his body racked itself with sobs. She sat down beside him and rocked him in her arms. The bag of peas was soft now, and he was stoned but he meant it. He meant it all.
She kissed his face. She kissed his tears. “I know, sweetie. I know. I know how sorry you are. But you’ve got to get well, okay? Whatever this infection is, you’ve got to get well. Why didn’t you say this before? This is what I’ve been needing you to say.”
He nodded. And she kissed his forehead. She wiped her tears away and reached for a paper towel and handed it to him. He wiped his tears and blew his nose and realized that it was the paper towel that held his former hash brownie. His nose was filled with chocolate and fudge. It was lovely. He looked to the kitchen. Juanita and Duane were hugging, rocking themselves together gently. They’re beautiful together, he thought.
“Sorry, you guys,” Lance said. “I feel like such a shit.”
“It’s cool, you guys. Spend the night if you want.”
“No,” Shari said, wiping her eyes. “I want him home.” She stood and reached for Lance. “Let’s go, hon.”
As he reached for her hand, Lance looked up and saw her glowing. She smiled at him. And in her eyes was pride. Pride for him and what he had just said. “This,” he could hear their counsellor say, “is what a courageous conversation feels like.”
• • •
In the car, Lance slept for most of the way. The T3s knocked him out. He’d popped two for the pain and three ibuprofens for the swelling before they left. As he woke, they’d passed Steveston, the Massey tunnel, the Oak Street Bridge, and they were now on Marine Drive. They had a few minutes down Main Street and then they’d be at the apartment. There was no music or radio, and Lance woke to the peace that he would sleep without any arguments or silent treatment. He felt good. He felt lighter, somehow. He leaned his head against the cold window and inhaled the aroma of leftovers that Juanita insisted they take. Shari was quiet. He wasn’t sure if it was because he’d finally cried or if it was because he’d finally said what he’d needed to say or if it was the hash, but he was exhausted emotionally. He leaned his head against the cold window and drifted. “What was his
name again?”
Shari stared straight ahead. “Who?”
“The ball.”
“Ah you. Nelson Crummy,” she said and dragged the y out with her beautiful northern accent. “You like that, hey?”
“I do.” He grinned, pleased that they were connecting again. “You know how much I love your voice.”
That was another thing about Shari he’d noticed the first time he had met her: she had the most soothing voice. He loved to talk to her on the phone. It was kind, generous. A voice that was up for anything. When they had first met, she told him a story about a friend of hers who was half Ojibwa and half black. The term she explained, and the way she pronounced it drove him crazy with desire. She over-enunciated so it sounded like, “Muck-a-day-wee-ah” with a quick break at the end. He had grown immediately and fully fascinated with the way she said it. Even though her jaw had healed correctly, there were still words she could not pronounce fully. Lance had always had a weakness for anyone with a lisp, but the way she said, “Muck-a-day-wee-ah” was his Kryptonite. He’d get weak and shivery the way she said it and, one night, as they made love, he asked her to whisper the word into his ear over and over. She loved it as much as he did, and, here, this enchantment was back.
Lance looked at the eagle feather hanging from Shari’s rear view mirror. He remembered their first night together, cuddling on his bed, falling asleep together. She’d fallen asleep first and turned towards him. He’d listened to her breathe, thanking his lucky stars because his wish to hold her had come true and that morning, after she left, that very morning, he’d found an eagle feather on the beach when he walked alone thinking about her and he’d given it to her on their one-month anniversary. How she treasured it, how she’d held it over her heart in astonishment. Lance had beaded a sheath of yellow, red, black and white beads for the stem.
Shari was Dene; he was Dogrib. Two hundred years ago, they would have been traditional enemies led by the Chipewyan leader, Akaitcho, and the Dogrib headman, Edzo. Lance dragged his teeth gently up Shari’s back and recounted that he had betrayed the Dogribs by kidnapping her and falling in love with her, and she loved to listen to him tell elaborate stories about the love affair in their previous life together. He’d whisper as he breathed lightly into the lu
nar orbits in the small of her back that she was once Akaitcho’s daughter and that he was Edzo’s son. And as the Dogrib and Chipewyan tribes fought, they’d sneak away from each other’s camps at night to make love. He whispered that they could not help themselves and that their spirit helpers, two white wolves, would warn them when scouts were approaching.
She placed her hand on his lap. “Thank you for saying what you said at the party. I really needed that, you know?” She grew quiet. “Can we talk about this in the morning? We need to talk about this.”
“I want to give you everything you’re asking for. You know that, hey?” He wanted to reach for her hand but his body still felt so heavy.
“I know,” she squeezed his knee softly. “I know this is very hard for you.” She paused. “I’ve been pretty hard on you, hey?”
Lance sniffled. “I’ve just felt so rejected. And I am scared that this is what the rest of our life together is going to be like, and you don’t deserve this, sweetie. You don’t. I love you so much and you’ve never sleepwalked before and it’s because of me, you know? I keep praying those tests are wrong. I keep praying that this infection is my body’s way of fighting … or—clearing the tubes.”
She nodded and sighed. “You’ve done all you can physically. But you did stop talking to me, Lance. I really needed to hear those words tonight.” She raised and kissed the back of his hand.
Lance looked at her and saw how tired she looked. “Did you get stoned tonight?”
She shook her head. “No. I didn’t take anything.”
“Why?”
“I just didn’t feel like it.”
“Duane and Juanita didn’t have any either, hey?”
“No. They had wine, but that was it.”
The hash brownie party, he realized, had been for him—to bring relief, to relax him. He was humbled. Lance nodded. He could feel her sorrow. “Remember how I asked before I left if there was any chance of the reversal taking care of itself, and he said that it was one in a million?”
The Moon of Letting Go Page 18