Chapter 5
2007
Halifax
Though the decision to write my memoir seemed to have been made in a moment, it actually developed over decades. When I finally began it, lines and stories I’d held in my mind for years reminded me of their presence, flying from my fingertips as fast as I could type them. I worked in tiny pockets of time stolen between tasks for CeaSwim and caring for Avery, and very quickly writing became a drug I needed each day.
“What are you up to?” James asked once, catching a glimpse of my monitor.
“Just getting a few childhood stories down,” I replied, snapping my laptop closed more forcefully than I’d meant to. “I want to do it before Mom, well, you know . . . dies.”
He nodded. “Good idea. As long as it doesn’t take away from your other focuses.”
I gave him a mollifying smile, but as I looked down at my laptop again, my eyes filled with tears. How had I messed things up so badly? I’d come back to Canada with the intention of healing my relationship with my mother, and it seemed that all I’d succeeded in doing was turning my husband against her. Now that she was deteriorating rapidly, I’d tried switching the gears of communication about her to a more positive note. I kept the right stories ready in my head, just in case I had an opportunity to tell them: the cake she’d made for my sixth birthday when we were squatting in the cottage and not allowed to use the oven. The apple she’d given me, going hungry herself, when we were hitchhiking. The stuffed Garfield cat I’d coveted for months when I was ten that had shown up on Easter morning. The time my mom gave me her last twenty to replace the babysitting money I’d accidentally overpaid the cab driver who drove me home. But James and my relationship was so devoid of intimacy that saying any of this to him at this point would have felt forced. It was simply too late—too late for Mom and James to bond, and too late for it to make any difference to our limping marriage.
James’s reaction to my writing made it clear to me that, as per the terms of our relationship, CeaSwim and caring for my son would continue to be my primary pursuits. I started writing only at night, and a few weeks later, when James saw that I was still serious, he started showing some interest in my book. At first this made me happy, but then I realized something: his questions mostly revolved around the publishing and marketing of the book, not the life I was writing about.
A few weeks into writing my first draft, I received a package in the mail from a friend. I ripped it open and stared at an unfamiliar book. The Secret by Rhonda Byrne. I flipped it over and read the back cover, then scanned the first chapter curiously. By the time I closed the book, I felt like I’d stepped through a portal that reflected my entire life back to me at a new angle. Manifestation: this wasn’t a foreign concept to me. When I was little, my grandfather had preached living in the moment, allowing in thoughts only of the positive reality you wished to create. Never underestimate how quickly your negative thoughts can send you into ruin, he’d say to me and others. He’d also lectured on the evils of television, white sugar and preservatives—truths now accepted as mainstream—far ahead of his time. So was he right about this as well, and was I only ready to accept it because it was now the subject of a book that had sold millions of copies? With my big-box, middle-of-the-road thinking, I truly was the opposite of my family. But maybe it was time for me to admit there had been some value to their teachings, however much I’d tried to shun them.
Excitedly I read the book cover to cover, and the next day, I went out and bought the DVDs. I marvelled at my new awakening, as if overnight I’d gone from blind to sighted. All this time, worry and anxiety had been ruling my life, when success, happiness and wealth had been mine for the taking. And it was so easy—according to The Secret, I could even bring myself money simply by envisioning receiving random cheques in the mail! This was just what I needed, I thought, not only to attract wealth and success but also to mend my marriage. I left the book on James’s desk and was pleased the next night to see him reading it. I felt certain that everything was going to turn around.
Shortly after I discovered The Secret, my father and his wife, Lara, came to visit. Over the past decade, my relationship with my father had been radically transformed. Until then our history would have filled only a few pages of a book—meeting him for the first time when I was two, when I’d apparently sworn at him and screamed whenever he touched me; flying to San Francisco to see him at age eight, when I’d hidden behind his wife, terrified to be alone with him; a few visits during my teens, when I was introduced to his other daughters and tried hard not to be resentful; and several short visits in my twenties, when our attempts to communicate always seemed badly timed. When he wanted to clear the air about the past, I wasn’t receptive, and later, when I was, he seemed closed off. But after a difficult conversation that finally brought our respective walls down, he had become someone I identified with far more than the mother who’d raised me. Our similarities in taste, mindset and mannerisms never ceased to amaze both of us.
I spent the weekend showing Dad and Lara around the city, Dad and me often swinging a laughing Avery by the arms. They offered polite comments about Halifax, and I pretended not to see the question in their eyes: Why here?
On their last evening in town, I snapped photos of Dad and Avery as they worked on a puzzle. When it was finished, Avery snuggled into my lap, tugging lightly at my hair as his eyes grew heavy.
“You’re a great mother,” Dad said suddenly. “And I have nothing to do with it.”
I smiled, caught between gratitude and a resentment that had nothing to do with my father. They were words I needed to hear, but I wished they could have come from my husband. I searched my brain for something I could say that would prove Dad’s second statement wrong.
“That’s not true. You’re still my father, right? And I’m still learning how to be a mom.”
He grinned. Down the hall, I heard James’s office door open, footsteps, water running in the kitchen. He entered the living room.
“Hey,” I said. “All done for the night?”
“Not quite.”
I nodded, wishing desperately—as I did each day—for my husband’s happiness. I could still see the goodness in the person I’d fallen in love with, even if he was completely incompatible with me. The reasons he’d chosen me were as baffling to me as why I’d chosen him, but since we had done so, it seemed tantalizingly possible that we could rediscover what had brought us together in the first place.
James crossed the floor and bent to smile at Avery. “Well. Good night,” he said to us. A few seconds later, we heard the door to his office close again.
Dad caught my eye, and I shrugged. If there was one thing The Secret was teaching me, it was awareness of how my mindset affected everything. I had made my choices in life, and no one but me was responsible for whatever consequences those decisions might bring upon me.
According to the law of attraction touted by The Secret, both positive thinking and creating good karma should become daily practice. The timing seemed perfect for my new attitude, as spring finally broke through Halifax’s winter deep freeze. Buds were forming on the trees, and I put Avery’s snowsuit away and started taking him to the playground again. I avoided talking to James about anything that didn’t involve sunshine and rainbows. I weaned myself off the antidepressants I’d been taking for seven years. Though it seemed difficult to remember a time in my life I hadn’t felt depressed, it wasn’t lost on me that I’d finally resorted to drugs not long after I’d moved in with James. I’d always been a woman of action, except when it came to leaving men that I knew were wrong for me; it seemed I preferred to numb the effects of my resulting misery with alcohol and Celexa. But no more. The new Cea would be ruled by light, manifestation and unsurpassed positive karma.
At least the positive karma part was easy. I cleaned out my closet and donated the clothes to a women’s shelter, helped a man jump his car when his battery died and, though I truly couldn’t afford it, paid
for a woman’s groceries when her credit card was declined. And a few times a week when I passed by him on the same street corner, I handed a homeless man some change through my car window. My resoluteness to stay positive was like a stiff march; I was soldiering forward to an unknown place of salvation.
“How are you doing?” asked my mother, father and back-home friends when they called.
“Really great!” I’d say with a huge smile they couldn’t see, and I’d quickly change the topic because I had nothing else to add. My being really great didn’t come from a feeling within or from changed circumstances; it was my state of being because I’d decided that it was. If people started poking around for details of my greatness, they’d find nothing there. So week after week, I buried myself in my work, wrote down my memories until the screen blurred in front of my eyes, smiled at James when I felt a fight brewing, and held Avery lovingly when he screamed. When I went to bed each night, I would mindlessly recite times tables or try to remember which countries made up the United Arab Emirates. My positive state of being allowed no space for daily reflection.
One day I was shopping at Old Navy with Avery when my phone rang. It was my credit card company, asking when they might be able to expect my missed payment. I hung up, flustered, and tried to banish the anxiety that flooded my body. Given the circumstances, the last place I should have been at that moment was shopping, but I wasn’t actually buying clothes for myself. I was buying them for Avery. Avery. I looked around for him, but he was nowhere to be seen.
“Avery,” I said loudly, sprinting up the aisles, calling his name. Shoppers stared. An employee approached me and asked if she could help.
“Yes,” I replied urgently. “He’s two. Yellow jacket, wavy blond hair.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll lock the store down and find him.”
I nodded, my eyes no doubt wild with fear. Two new employees joined me, and we all spread out in different directions. Even a couple of shoppers moved in to join the cause.
“Check under the racks,” I shouted, moving from one rack of clothing to the next in search of a small pair of legs. Avery loved hiding in the racks, but this time, he was nowhere. My mind was running crazy, writing headlines and imagining the worst. “Please, please, please,” I muttered under my breath as I rushed around, ignoring people’s thank-god-it’s-her-and-not-me pitying glances. What will I do? I thought wildly. What will I do if I never find him? What will I have to live for?
Just then I heard crying, and I turned to see an employee rushing toward me with Avery in her arms. I grabbed him from her and hugged him hard.
“I found him in the parking lot,” she said, a little apologetically. “Just happened to see him wandering around out there. The doors. They’re automatic, so they slide right open. Kind of dangerous for a little guy.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s okay. Thank you, thank you so much.” I stood there holding my son for a long time, waiting for the adrenalin to stop pumping through my limbs. When we were both feeling a little steadier, I carried him to the car and strapped him into his seat. I was immensely relieved, but my nerves were still jangled. I tried to think of something that would calm me down. I would drive home, I decided, and do something I rarely had time for, like drink a cup of tea in the bath or some damn thing. Isn’t that what all those magazine articles about managing stress told you to do?
I was on my way home when I saw the homeless guy. It was the one I gave change to every week, and he was pulling up to an apartment building on his Harley. His Harley. It took me a moment to compute what was wrong with this picture. I hit the brakes hard, pulled up behind him and leaned out my window.
“Hey! Hey, you!” I shrieked indignantly.
He turned toward my voice, his face shocked.
“Yeah, you! What the fuck, dude? You drive a Harley and hang out on street corners begging for change? And I guess this is your cozy little apartment?” Through my fury, I could hear Avery talking to me in a small voice. “Why you scream him, Mommy?”
“Every week I’ve been giving you money, and you know what? I can’t even pay my credit card bill! Get a job! Fuck you, you stupid shithead!” His mouth was still hanging open when I hit the gas and entered traffic again, shaking.
“Mommy? Mommy! Why you scream him?”
“It’s nothing, sweetie, okay? That man just made Mommy really mad. I’m sorry I scared you.” I took a deep breath and tried to relax. My breath was coming out in jagged whooshes. I knew I was cracking, and hard.
When I got home, I bypassed the tea completely and reached for a bottle of wine. Then, instead of taking a bath, I put Avery in front of Cars and sat down to write.
Being positive all the time is just another form of denial, I typed. An edge of negativity is part of my natural personality, and I happen to like it that way.
I sat back and read the words I’d written, already feeling a little better. Fuck this shit. I would not pretend anymore. My history dictated that I would rather face the truth about a situation, no matter how scary it might be, and I would continue to do so. And fuck The Secret too, which was obviously nothing more than a money-grabbing ploy aimed at desperate suckers who wanted to believe they could change their luck with something easier than hard work or talent. How different was that, really, than my mother’s attempts to cure her cancer with herbs and water? For just a second, I hated both myself for being so gullible and my family for setting me up to fall for such garbage. But at least now I was myself again. And just to prove it, I went into the bathroom and popped a Celexa. Yes, I was prone to depression and fear, and who the fuck could blame me? One day—when I had a supportive husband, for example, or a break from trying to raise a child in tandem with running a business, or some friends who lived in the same city as me, or a past that no longer had the power to remind me of how worthless I was—yes, maybe then I would have the strength to kick my happy sidekick to the curb. But right now, I just needed to get through each day, locked and loaded for whatever life might throw at me next. Papa Dick had been wrong about fear being useless; sometimes, it could save your life.
1976
Lake Minnewanka
“I’m scared,” I whispered. Through the mesh window of our tent, I could see the bumpy moon. It spread its shallow white light across my sleeping bag.
“Shh . . . it’s okay. Just stay quiet,” Mom whispered back, brushing my tears away. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll go away soon.”
I held my breath. I was so still that I could hear the beating of my heart, thumpa-thumpa-thumpa in my ears. I felt the butt of Mom’s .22 rifle against my feet, but it wasn’t much comfort. I knew that if there was a big animal out there, this gun didn’t have the power to take it down. For the first time since Mom and I had run away into the forest, I wished we were back at camp with Karl.
The way I saw it, we were here all because of Karl’s limp dick. Until a few weeks ago, the three of us had been living in a wall tent on Lake Minnewanka near another family. But then Mom and Karl had the big fight about the fuzz busting them for pot and Mom’s shrivelling twat and Karl’s limp dick, and Mom had decided to leave. But since she didn’t have any money or way of getting us from the dirt road to the highway, our only option had been to go deeper into the wilderness. For the past month, she and I had been living in a tent, bathing in a creek, and foraging for wild berries and mushrooms and other plants, like dandelion greens, which tasted horrible and bitter. We had brought a few supplies with us, but they were running out fast.
I heard thrashing and twigs snapping again. “Mommy—”
“Shhhh . . .”
I ducked my head into her chest, trying not to think about how hungry I was. Lately I almost never didn’t feel hungry. My tummy let out a loud rumble. I wrapped my arms around it to muffle the sound. Mom reached quietly into her knapsack and took out a plastic bag. Not long ago it had been filled with granola, but now there was only a small handful left in one corner.
“Open your mouth,” M
om whispered, and she poured the cereal onto my tongue.
I crunched it slowly, trying not to make noise.
“We’ll go hunting for a grouse tomorrow, okay? We’ll have plenty of food,” she said softly, and I believed her.
Each time our food supplies were nearly gone, Mom would pull something out of her sleeve—a handful of wild berries or a grouse or a porcupine shot with her .22. I knew she’d never let us starve.
The noise came again, closer this time. “It sounds big. Maybe you should use your gun to scare it,” I whispered.
She shook her head. “Can’t afford the bullets. Only a few left.”
I pressed my body even closer to hers. There was a new noise now, along with the snapping of twigs, and it took me a moment to realize it sounded like breathing. Yes. Whatever was out there was sniffing at our tent. I felt a stab of fear, and Mom must have too, because she placed her hand on her rifle. She leaned toward the mesh opening, trying to catch a glimpse of the animal.
“Stay here,” she whispered. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you—?”
“Shh! I said I’d be right back.” She stood up as far as she could inside the tent. “Roll onto your tummy,” she said, pushing me with her foot. “And stay that way. Whatever happens, don’t come outside. Be as still as you can. Even if it comes after you, play dead. Remember what we talked about. Okay?” Even though she was whispering, her voice sounded panicked.
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