Dollybird

by Anne Lazurko

  “I know,” said Aileen. She seemed only mildly apologetic, mostly impatient, fidgeting with her hands.

  “At first I was disappointed. But then I thought Father must be busy. Or Mother was demanding all his time again. I knew what you were doing. I guess not much changes.” She looked up sharply at that, but I forged on. “And my letters. I can’t believe she’d keep them from you.”

  I searched Aileen’s face for any sign the tired excuses were true, that a father could be too busy to write to his own daughter, that a sister could give up trying, that they wouldn’t have fought for even a small connection.

  “She’s crazy, you know.” I nodded vigorously when Aileen started to protest. “It’s true. I can see it now. Being away from her. I’ve thought about it a lot, how she manipulates. I mean really, Aileen, it isn’t normal. She just says and does whatever terrible things she likes and then pretends nothing has happened. And we’re supposed to act like her behaviour is normal, even forgive her.”

  Aileen stared across the table at me. I could see the truth was sinking in, revealing itself to her as I spoke, my words like a light into her dark world. I waited, but still Aileen didn’t move. Of course she hadn’t the benefit of time and distance to reach the same conclusions.

  “I’m not afraid of her any more. Things will be different. I won’t put up with it. And you and Father won’t have to either.”

  Slowly Aileen raised her head, eyes filled with a mixture of pain and pity and something else too – a hint of anger. Her chest expanded with a huge drawing in of breath and I waited, mesmerized by the apparent effort it took for her to speak. Eyes averted, she spoke very slowly as though she was capable of saying this one time and no more.

  “Father doesn’t want you to come home.” She lowered her head and her entire body slumped as though it had been kept upright all this time, not by bones and flesh, but by the responsibility of carrying those few words.

  I didn’t know if I’d heard right. Perhaps she was lying. Aileen hated me as much as Mother did. They had concocted some sort of scheme together, these two sick women. The blood rushed to my head.

  “He sent me to tell you.” Still Aileen didn’t look up. “Not in so many words, but that’s why I’m here. Your accident gave him an excuse to send me.”

  “You’re lying.” I stood, breath coming shallow and fast, looking at my sister’s bowed head and hating her and her stunted, shallow life. “He would never say that.”

  “Why wouldn’t he, Moira?” Slowly, finally, Aileen raised her eyes to meet mine. They were black with contempt, her face suffused with anger. “Because you’re perfect? Because you’re his favourite?” She stood, her face so close to mine I smelled the stale familiarity of her breath. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

  Turning abruptly, she walked quickly to her bag on the floor by the bed and retrieved an envelope from the side pocket. Eyes blazing, she thrust the letter into my hands, turned and walked out the door, leaving it to swing shut behind her. Father’s sloppy cursive rolled across the front of the envelope. When I looked up, Aileen was silhouetted against the pink glow of the horizon. I wanted to call out, to make amends for whatever I’d done to cause her grief and anger. Instead, I opened the letter and sat down next to the lantern at the kitchen table.

  Moira,

  The lack of any endearment tied a knot in my stomach.

  Such a difficult letter to write, though I am sure you will agree with my conclusions once you have read it through.

  You have always been a very practical girl, someone who deals with matters in a reasoned and responsible manner. And so, though it pains me, I will get to the heart of the thing quickly and assume your usual wherewithal to deal with the obvious, and manage as you always have.

  I was very impressed with your ability to learn quickly and was so much looking forward to seeing you thrive as one of the few female physicians in this country. As difficult as your indiscretion was in becoming pregnant, it was not insurmountable. However, your commitment to keeping the child and bringing her home is another matter.

  If you were to bring a baby back to St. John’s, you would have no opportunity to enter a residency or to find employment as a physician. No one will allow an unwed mother to be a serious candidate for either. And, my dear, Evan is not coming back. His father has repeatedly told me so. The boy is staying in Scotland and has given little thought to you or his offspring since he left. If you were anticipating any help from him, there will be none. His father is a bastard – they both are – but I can’t say I blame them for what they’ve done. His career might have been ruined.

  Mother says you are practicing in the small community where you live. Perhaps the people there have already grown accustomed to your situation and are comfortable with what you have to offer. I could send some resources, books and medicines and the like, and maybe over time you could build a reputation and some clientele. It will never happen here. The standards are too high and, frankly, they would never accept you.

  And your mother is very ill.

  You have no idea how she suffers. Her illness has progressed to where she is bedridden most days and medicated to keep away the vile humours that torment her. Still she rants, mostly about you, I’m afraid. So much so, I know the presence of you and your child in our home could only worsen her condition.

  And so I find myself at this crossroads with the impossible task of navigating between two people I love. My wife is far off down one road, a small shadow of the woman I married, our relationship a strange mix of contented familiarity and sometimes unbridled difficulty. Down the other stretch is you, my dear daughter, who stands closer, our history short and so less fraught with pain, your future malleable, full of potential despite this one mistake.

  We will manage somehow, Moira, if you do come home. I only think you should know how difficult it will be. And if you should stay in Saskatchewan, as I suggest, I have confidence in your ability not only to survive, but to flourish. Do you remember, dear, when you were small and asked us why we chose your name, what it meant? Your mother admired the lilt of its sound, but I never liked its Scottish meaning – sorrow and bitterness. Since then I have discovered a Latin interpretation – Moira: Goddess of Fate and Destiny.

  You must have faith now, as I do, that the Latin meaning of your name will find you and guide you. Confidence and hope, my dear. Hang on to them. And to the knowledge of my love.

  Always,

  Your father

  My head sank to my arms, to the table, the room growing dark as night fell. Outside, the brittle fall grasses rubbed together in a shushing sound as though they knew I wanted to shout loud enough to reach Father’s ears. Instead I sat in silence, more exhausted and alone than I’d ever been.

  CHAPTER 36

  i i i

  Aileen had come back and stood now in the doorway, but I ignored her, rushing instead to fuss at great length over Shannon, who was awake and clamouring to be fed. Aileen washed at the tin bowl, removed her clothes and laid them carefully on the bed. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a quick glimpse of her nakedness before she pulled a nightgown down over her head. She was a jumble of angles, thin arms and legs that would be flaccid if they had an ounce of fat on them, hips protruding like the pin bones on a starving cow. Her skeletal ribs were encased in skin translucent as fine parchment. The extent of my sister’s frailty was heartbreaking.

  “You’re barely keeping yourself alive,” I blurted out.

  “Oh.” She quickly pulled down the nightgown and tied the cotton strings at the throat. “I’m fine.”

  Aileen stood by the bed, fingers working at a sore on the side of her mouth, staring at the floor in front of my feet. Her weakness raised something terrible in me.

  “Did you ever, in all your twenty-three years, do anything for yourself?”

  Her lip quivered
and my voice rose.

  “Don’t you want to get married? Have you never thought of a man, what it might be like to touch someone, have him touch you back?”

  “Moira, really.” Aileen held back tears, feigning shock.

  “At least I’ve had that much.” I glanced down at Shannon and lifted her toward Aileen. “And I have this,” I said triumphantly. “If she is all I ever have, at least I can say I have lived. But you...,” I stabbed a finger toward her “Are not living. Your soul is dying, bit by small bit in that house, just like Father’s.”

  Aileen shrunk away from me, helpless in the face of my anger.

  “It’s your own colossal lack of courage that allows a woman who can barely get out of bed to hold sway over you. Both of you. You and Father.”

  Aileen began to weep, sniffling at first, then crying hard. My rage melted into sadness as I watched, puddled into thoughts of what I’d done to survive the past few months in the certainty that I would go home and start again. And I wept, finally, overcome by huge, gulping breaths of sorrow. Because none of it meant anything.

  We cried together for a time, Aileen sitting on the bed while I sat with Shannon in the rocker. I got up, finally, put Shannon in her crib and went to sit beside my sister. Slowly, I put my arm around her, lightly at first, then hard, aching with how much I’d hurt that frail soul, squeezing her fine bones, kissing her soft, fine hair, willing forgiveness from her.

  “I’m not angry with you. I’m sorry.”

  “I know.” Aileen sniffled and leaned into me a little.

  “He shouldn’t have sent you to be his messenger. It wasn’t fair.”

  “He couldn’t come. His patients, and Mother. He takes on too much.”

  “Oh Lord, don’t you go worrying after Father too. Let him worry about himself.”

  “I wish you were home. You could always make him laugh.” Her shoulders slumped. “He doesn’t laugh any more.”

  We didn’t speak for a while. Shannon stirred, whimpered a little and slid back into sleep. Outside the pigs grunted in their pen.

  “It’s okay, Aileen. We’ll all be okay.”

  “You will, anyway. Look at you, Moira,” she said. “You’ve got friends, a beautiful child. You can practice at least some medicine. You have a future. I wonder why you’d even want to come home.”

  I gazed at her then, sister become philosopher. We were silent again, glancing at one another, letting go the occasional heavy sigh. I looked around the sod hut, toward Shannon in her crib. In loving her, I’d determined her future was with me in St. John’s, but Father’s letter and Aileen’s frailty reminded me of the pall cast over our house by Mother’s illness, the darkened windows and hushed voices, the absence of joy. I pictured Shannon in that place and shivered. It was not a home. Aileen gave me a puzzled look.

  She was right; I’d done more than survive. Shannon and I had people in Ibsen who cared about us. Father said I could not doctor with him in St. John’s only because Shannon was too great an embarrassment for his colleagues. And suddenly I was embarrassed for them, their stuffy arrogance, their assumption that because they were men of education and power they were to be respected. The people of the prairie had no such notions; you proved yourself or you didn’t. And I had already proven myself. I was needed here and could gain their respect with my skills. I felt sorry for my father then, for everything he faced. But I couldn’t rescue him from my mother. He’d made his choices. Now I’d have to make mine.

  “I don’t even know where I’ll live,” I said. But the thought wasn’t frightening any more, and the relief of it made me laugh. Aileen looked at me like she thought I was a new kind of crazy.

  “We’re sad. And we’re damn pathetic now,” I said, smiling. “But we will be just fine.”

  “Do you think so?” Aileen wiped tears from her eyes and looked into mine.

  I fingered the embroidered bedspread, recalling the primitive conditions in which I’d started prairie life, remembering what had already been proven.

  “Yes, I do.”

  i i i

  At the train station, Aileen’s cheek glistened under my kiss, her frail body almost crumbling into bits with the force of my arms around it. She couldn’t speak, but looked from myself to Shannon and back again. She turned to take in the station, gazed toward the center of Ibsen, as though she’d become accustomed to it and might miss the people she’d only barely met. She shivered in the late fall breeze.

  “You can still change your mind,” I offered. “Stay here with me.”

  “We’ve been over it, Moira. I can’t.” She brushed at the tears. “But I will take that class, go out once in a while with friends.” She shrugged self-consciously.

  “I know you will.”

  Aileen’s guard had dropped a little the past few days. A smile played around her face; there were small glimmers of the person she might have been in a different life. I desperately hoped she’d find one place of solace back home, one other person who could help her to see how unique she might become. She looked down at Shannon resting in her arms. One by one, she kissed her baby fingers, tiny feet and, finally, her smooth, soft cheek. Her eyes filled with tears as she handed Shannon back.

  “You two take good care of each other,” she whispered.

  Before I could reply, the conductor hollered his all aboard and Aileen was gone, up the steps and swallowed by the steel hulk of the train. I strained to see her shadow move down the aisle through the dark windows and felt a calloused hand touch my arm. Dillan stood at my side. He’d brought us to the station earlier, leaving us to our goodbyes.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, looking after the train.

  “I suppose I have to be.”

  The engine bellowed a last time, huffing thick black smoke, and its massive wheels rolled forward, the beginning of its noisy passage east. Taking one of Shannon’s small hands in my own, I waved it at the receding caboose, and then laid her in her carriage. We were alone on the platform now, everyone else turned back from their farewells and wishes for a safe trip, back to the regularity of their lives. The wood echoed hollow under our shoes as I steered the carriage toward Dillan’s wagon waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

  “You can stay with us, you know. As long as you need,” he said. “Carla’s father is coming around, but it’s going to take some convincing.”

  I smiled at him. It was enough for now.

  “I need a few things at the hardware store,” he said. “It won’t take long.”

  “I’ll wait here.”

  He jumped down to get Casey from the wagon and headed off down the street, comfortable, finally, in his own skin. A man. His offer meant more than he could imagine; it wasn’t made to a dollybird. It was made to a friend.

  I sat down on the hard floor, my legs dangling over the edge of the platform, and gazed at the train’s smoke, a charcoal smudge drifting across the blue sky. That was how I’d arrived, in an unremarkable puff from the east, my fate sealed without my having yet imagined it.

  “Hey there.” And there was Annie, walking heel to toe on the steel track, balancing with her arms outstretched. “I heard your sister was visiting.” She ran up the steps to the platform and went to the carriage to stroke Shannon’s head. “She’s grown. And so beautiful.”

  She looked toward the train in the distance. “She’s gone now?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?” Annie came to sit beside me, her legs swinging in time with my own.

  “She’s gone...and I’m staying.” The finality of the statement caught me by surprise. “I can’t go home, Annie,” I whispered. “Too much has changed. I’ve changed.”

  “That’s not so bad, is it?” She reached over to put her hand on my shoulder, glancing up as Shannon cooed from her carriage. “Most people around here think you are remarkable
. Your doctoring. They have to pretend they’re not impressed by you. But of course they are. You’ve taken your fate and made something of it.”

  “It’s hard to believe there would be so much talk of my small triumphs.”

  Or perhaps it wasn’t. The whole place was built on just such moments of grace, small mercies making up for endless difficulty and disappointment. Maybe Father was right; maybe my path was meant to be more than the maladies my mother’s name choice had offered, to be something else, something exotic and flowing. Goddess of Fate and Destiny. I laughed, deep and real. Shannon gurgled and thrust small fists into the air.

  “I guess I have learned something from all this. I’d rather be a goddess.” I smiled at Annie’s confused face. “Never mind.”

  We watched the train grow smaller until it was a spot on the horizon, and then it was gone, swallowed into the miles of empty blue sky. That big sky. With all its possibilities.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  A heartfelt thank you to:

  My editor, Sandra Birdsell. Your superb skill and insight have made this a better story.

  Mentors Sarah Sheard, Byrna Barclay and Connie Gault. And to my writing friends, Leeann Minogue, Anne McDonald, Shelley Banks, Annette Bower and Linda Biasotto: your commitment to having us all succeed is humbling.

  The Saskatchewan Writers’ Guild for retreat time at St. Peter’s Abbey, an oasis of quiet in a distracting world, and for participation in the Mentorship and Facilitated Retreat programs.

  Geoffrey, Barbara and Nik at Coteau Books, for believing in the story and guiding me through the publishing process.

  My parents, Gerald and Ann Groenen, for their support always, and especially Mom, who lives for good reading and has indeed lived long enough to hold my book in her hands!

  My kids, Sara, Anita, Logan and Maddy, who have become amazing people and are a constant source of inspiration.