by Linda Kenyon
“Careful,” my mother would say, when Grandma couldn’t hear her. “Don’t put your fingers near the cutter.”
Grandma would also swear at our dog Tippy, a beagle that never stopped baying.
“Shut up! Damn dog.”
“Mother! The children!”
Grandma would switch to Swedish, let out a long string of words that probably meant something much worse than shut up and may have been directed at my mother.
So no wonder Mom was a little distracted when she came home from the hospital with me to find Grandma there.
But I wasn’t going to let Mom off that easily. She was feeling so bad about the mistake registering my birth that I decided to turn it to my advantage. I announced that from then on I would have two birthdays, and would expect two gifts, two birthday cakes, and most important, two birthday suppers. Mom would make whatever we wanted on our birthday, which made us feel special. I always asked for the same thing: shepherd’s pie.
I don’t think Mom liked cooking. Or maybe it was just hard, with so many children, so little money. Our likes and dislikes were rarely taken into account. I hated fried baloney with a passion, but it always appeared on the table once or twice a week, the slices curled at the edges, cupping a little pool of orange-coloured grease.
But it wasn’t as bad as creamed peas on toast, which she often gave us the day before payday. Or days. I don’t know where she got the recipe, if you can call it that. She’d dump a can of peas in a saucepan — one can for a family of nine — then thicken the juice with a milk and flour mixture. While it bubbled away, getting thicker and thicker, she’d make the toast. It was all I could do to choke it down.
So that year we had shepherd’s pie two nights in a row, though by the time my next birthday rolled around all traces of parental remorse were forgotten. But I still claim two birthdays.
I’m forty-nine today. And tomorrow.
I’m about to go below when the smell of coffee wafts up through the companionway. Clearly Chris is up.
“Hey you. What are you doing up so early?”
“Making your breakfast. Happy birthday!” He climbs up into the cockpit, hands me a cup of steaming coffee and gives me a big kiss. “Your first birthday at sea. Relax. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I’m dreaming of pineapple turnovers from Antigua, but I know that’s not possible. It’s our usual cold cereal with milk, but it tastes so much better when someone else makes it.
“Mmm,” I say, as we sit beside each other on the cockpit bench, munching our muesli flakes. “This is great. Thanks.”
When we’re done, he takes our bowls below and refills our coffee cups, then emerges from below with two presents — gifts my sisters sent with us. I had asked him to hide them from me so I wouldn’t be tempted to open them before my birthday.
The one from my older sister is clearly a book. But I’m as happy with the card, signed by Peggy and her children, as I am with the gift. I gaze at the familiar handwriting, smile. Then I tear open the package. It’s a travel book by Jan Morris, whose writing I greatly admire, a collection of essays about places she has been in the world. I can’t stop myself — I flip to the first one and start reading.
“Not yet,” Chris says. “There’s more.”
He hands me the package from Brenda. I take the card off and tuck it into my new book to read later — I know it will make me cry. Then I open the beautifully wrapped box and inside I find little plastic bottles of my favourite facial products. Brenda knows I’m travelling with the bare minimum — waterless cleanser, moisturizer, sunblock, sunblock, and more sunblock. Now I have exfoliant and toner and special eye cream and a foil envelope containing a “refreshing, lifting facial mask.” It’s a spa visit in a box!
“One more,” says Chris.
“What?” These are the only two gifts that came aboard.
He goes below, comes up with a present wrapped in newspaper.
“Forgot to bring giftwrap,” he says sheepishly.
How has he hidden this from me? It’s a rectangular package about a foot long, six inches wide, a couple of inches thick — not very heavy, so definitely not a book, and anyway, it’s the wrong shape. I tear it open — it’s a print of a barracuda I had admired at a little shop in Antigua.
“Nowhere to put it,” I’d said wistfully. He must have gone back when I was busy doing something.
“Above the fridge in the galley,” he says. “I measured it. It will fit perfectly. Look — Velcro on the back so it stays put.”
“This is the best birthday ever,” I say, giving him a big hug.
“It’s not over yet.”
Around midmorning, the satphone rings. It takes Chris and me a minute to figure out what is making that sound and then another minute to find the phone. This is the first call we’ve received.
“Happy first birthday!” It’s Brenda. I’m so happy to hear her voice.
It’s thirty-one degrees in Canada, hot and sunny, she tells me.
“What’s it like where you are?”
“It’s fifteen here, not hot, not sunny, but the sailing is fine.” I don’t add, for the moment, though I think it.
“We’re back on track. The winds are from the west, which is perfect for us, and the waves are about two feet high with a long interval between them, so it’s very comfortable. We’re sailing along with the main and genoa fully out, making about six knots. It doesn’t get much better than this.”
“Sounds like things are going better than they were a couple days ago.”
“Yes, much better. I’m sorry about the gloomy letter, Beek.”
“Don’t be sorry. I want it all, the good and the bad.”
“Hey, I had an interesting dream about you last night. You were sitting in front of a mirror and Peggy was standing behind you, arranging flowers in your hair. Clearly you were getting married and she was the maid of honour. I looked across the room and there were Sandy and Jenn.
“‘What!’ I cried. ‘You’re bridesmaids too?’ I started crying and ran from the room. You followed, trying to placate me, but I was so angry and hurt. I woke with tears on my cheeks.”
“Hmm, I guess we don’t have to look at that very deeply,” she says.
“I miss you, Beek. Sometimes I think about all the things I left behind. I was in such a hurry to get away.”
“Maybe I’ll come see you in the fall,” she says. “Anna did fine when Chuck and I went away for a week. Let me work on it.”
Then she puts Anna on the phone. It’s such a joy to hear her little voice. She tells me that she has some new barrettes, and that the Funky Mamas are coming to her daycare. I hear Brenda in the background.
“Thank you for the Nemo purse,” she says. Then, “I love you.”
“Did you tell her to say that?” I ask Brenda when she comes back on the line.
“No, she came up with that on her own.”
Maybe she hasn’t forgotten me after all.
I ask Brenda if she’s thinking of joining the Funky Mamas, and she laughs, tells me about her busy life — the psychology clinic is going through some growing pains, she’s been asked to do a television documentary on death and dying, she’s renovating her kitchen. And of course there’s Anna, who is herself a full-time job.
“How’s Mom doing?” I ask her.
“Amazingly well. I took her to a tea party on Sunday, women only. She was waiting for me in the lobby with a big, floppy red hat on her head, wearing bright red lipstick. When I wheeled her into the party room, she was all smiles, greeting people right and left. This is the same woman who wouldn’t leave the house without Dad. I wonder, sometimes, if the stroke broke her open somehow, in a good way. She seems so much happier, just laughs when she slops tea in her saucer or drops cake in her lap.”
“I miss her,” I say. “It’s hard to stay in touch with someone
who can’t speak. But believe me, I still hear her voice — Oh my god, look at those clouds! Get below. Is this safe? What are you doing way out here? What if one of you gets hurt?”
We both laugh. There is so much more I want to say, but I must let her go. The phone call is costing her a fortune.
“Thanks for calling, Beek. I love you.”
After lunch, Chris goes down for a nap — at least that’s what I think he’s doing. I read Brenda’s card and have a good cry, then I heat up some water and grab a fresh towel — it’s spa time. I stretch out on the back deck while the mask cures. Yes, I know it’s wrong to bask in the sun, but it’s my birthday. When I’m finished, I settle in the cockpit with my new book. This is nice. Hmm. I can smell something baking.
Around four, Chris emerges from below, fully washed and cleanly shaven, dressed in the soft white chambray shirt I love and a pair of jeans. He hands me a glass of wine. I raise an eyebrow.
“It’s your birthday,” he says.
We never drink while on a passage, but surely one glass of cold Chablis will do us no harm. I try to sip mine slowly, but it just tastes so good. Chris produces a small round of Brie and cuts me a slice.
“Where did you get this?” I ask, trying not to wolf it down.
“Canned Brie,” he says. “I found it in Antigua. Not bad, eh?”
“Where have you been hiding it?”
He just smiles.
“Relax. Enjoy your wine. Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.”
Next time he comes up, he’s carrying two plates of spicy peanut chicken on a bed of rice.
“Even better than Dinty Moore,” I say as I clean my plate. It’s delicious. “Is there more?”
“Yes, but you need to leave room for dessert.”
He disappears below again, and I smell coffee brewing. He hands two steaming cups up through the companionway, then two plates with slices of fresh-baked birthday cake, icing and all.
We end the day in much the same way we started it, snuggled in on the bench, sipping coffee. It takes forever for the light to fade, which is fine with me. Then the sun slowly disappears into the sea behind us.
Thank you hardly seems like enough.
This has been my first birthday without my family, I think, as I settle in for my night watch. Well, some family, anyway. I haven’t seen my younger sisters Sandy and Jenn in years. They moved out west many years ago and haven’t been home since. My brother Dave lives in Hamilton, an hour’s drive from Waterloo, but he might as well live in Antarctica, our worlds are so far apart. Peggy and Brenda have always celebrated my birthday with me, and Peggy’s daughters, Kathy and Kim. I miss their faces.
I scan for ships, then as quietly as I can, I creep down the companionway, rummage in my drawers until I find the small leather photo album I’ve brought with me. I settle back into the cockpit, switch on a flashlight, open the album.
There’s Peggy, sitting at the table at the farm. She has stopped by for tea and Scrabble, on her way back from the feed mill. She’s holding a tiny raccoon on her lap, Coonie, I called him. Very imaginative. I found him in our woodshed, abandoned by his mother, I guess, was raising him in the house. But he was a wild little thing. Peggy is laughing, her face turned away, as Coonie lunges for her throat. Her long, dark hair is tied back from her face with a red bandana. This is my favourite picture of her. She looks so tanned, so happy. Clearly the picture was taken before the recession hit.
Flip. There’s her daughter Kathy, standing in front of the sink at the farm. She’s about eight, I think. It’s a close-up of her, and you can just see the African violets on the windowsill behind her. Her short brown hair frames her face, her dark green eyes look directly into the camera. She’s smiling defiantly. Oh, yeah? Just watch me.
And there’s her little sister Kim, squatting in the sun porch. I remember that linoleum, something Brad’s grandmother chose, an ugly green and orange and yellow pattern. I hated it. It was worn smooth in front of the door, and the seam in the middle of the room was starting to lift. No matter how much I scrubbed it, it never looked clean.
Kim looks up at the camera warily, she’s brought a cat in from the barn, she knows they’re not supposed to come in the house. But she loves this cat, a mangy-looking orange thing we called Mama — I’d lost track of how many litters of kittens she’d had. Kim is hugging the cat to her chest. The cat is struggling to get away, its ears back. I can’t remember how that scene ended.
Brenda. There’s Brenda. Was she ever that young? She’s in the sheep barn, wearing her work clothes — a pair of rubber boots, jeans, a red plaid shirt. She’s helping us with the chores, bottle feeding a lamb in the straw at her feet. Her black shoulder-length hair is held back from her face with a couple of barrettes. I study her face, so smooth, so soft. She’s smiling gently at the little creature, which can’t be more than a few days old. Mama is rubbing against Brenda’s legs, can I have some milk? Is there any left for me?
There are pictures of my little dog Emily, and of Chester, but no pictures of my parents. The pictures of Mom since she had her stroke are too heartbreaking to look at — she looks so confused, and sad. It didn’t seem right to bring an earlier picture, she’s a different person now. And anyway, I won’t forget what she looks like.
The last time I saw Mom, she was sitting in her room at the nursing home, smiling bravely but wiping away tears. I’m not sure if she was crying because the hairdresser had done such a brutal job on her hair, cut it short and permed it tightly, or because I was leaving. Maybe both. Or maybe she was crying because Dad was going to join us for the first part of our trip down the Erie Canal. He hadn’t spent a night away from her since she had her stroke.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Dad as excited as he was the day Brenda dropped him off at the boatyard in North Tonawanda. He started talking the moment he stepped out of the car and didn’t stop until he went to bed that night. (He may still have been talking, but we couldn’t hear him from the aft cabin.) I wasn’t sure he’d be able to climb from the rickety floating dock onto the boat, a distance of two or three feet. But he just handed Chris his cane and heaved himself up.
“That wooden structure back there is the remains of an old swing bridge,” Dad began as we cast off.
Though there wasn’t much room to manoeuvre in the narrow channel, Chris steered the boat around the structure so Dad could have a good look at it. Dad was explaining the mechanical workings of swing bridges (to Chris, a mechanical engineer) as we circled, but we were more focussed on the modern bridge up ahead. With our mast down, we were sure we’d have no trouble clearing it — we’d measured and remeasured the night before — but we held our breath as we passed beneath it. Even Dad stopped talking for a moment. We cleared the bridge just fine, traffic roaring overhead, water dripping down on us, and passed under the next four bridges in rapid succession. Before we knew it, we were out of the city.
“There are several ways to get to the ocean,” Dad began once the bridges were behind us. “I’ve studied the maps carefully. You can get there by going down the St. Lawrence or the Mississippi, but this is the shortest way, down the Erie Canal to the Hudson River, then into the ocean at New York City.”
Chris looked at me as Dad launched into a discussion of the pros and cons of each of the routes. We both knew that he would come all the way across the ocean with us if he could. But Mom was probably already sitting in her wheelchair by the front door — I think she loses track of the days sometimes — watching every car that pulled up, waiting for him to return to her safe and sound, and with some new stories.
Much of the Erie Canal isn’t actually canal — you travel along creeks and rivers, and across small lakes. For the first couple of hours, we followed the winding Tonawanda Creek. Then we left the creek and entered a long stretch of dug canal. As the waterway widened and straightened out, the overhanging bushes on either bank gave way to open farm
land.
I asked Dad if he wanted to take the helm, told him the boat steers just like a car. Okay, it’s not quite as easy as that. The boat weighs twenty tons and has a six-foot lead keel. It takes a bit more time to respond than a car does, which makes it easy to overcorrect. In no time, Dad had us heading straight for one of the stone banks.
“Back to the left, Dad. Just easy.”
He eased the wheel to the left, then when there was no response, turned it a little more. Suddenly we were heading for the other wall.
“Back to the right, Dad, but just a bit.”
He cranked it to the right.
“No, that’s too much. Ease it back a little.”
Flustered, he turned the wheel even more to the right.
“Here, let me take it for a minute.”
I straightened the boat out, and once we were on a steady course again, I gave him back the wheel. This time I issued a steady stream of directions: “A little to the left. No that’s too much, back a bit. Now to the right. That’s good there. Just wait, it will come back.”
Before long, he got the hang of it, but I was taken aback at how long it took him. I was also secretly pleased that there was something I could do that he couldn’t, that I had taught him something. I was certainly more patient than he was when he was teaching me to drive. I remember him shouting at me as I just about hit a cyclist coming up the hill by the hospital. Which would have been a good place to do it.
We made it as far as Lockport that first day. Dad wanted to take us out for dinner, but it was cold and rainy, and we couldn’t find a restaurant. Many of the stores in the downtown area were boarded up, and the ones that weren’t were closed, except for the pawn shop and the discount bridal store. We decided to eat on board.