Mother Love
Page 1
Mother Love
L.R. Wright
FELONY & MAYHEM PRESS • NEW YORK
This book is for my friends
Nancy Hardy and Bill Banting
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Prologue
THE PRESENT
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
1987
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
THE PRESENT
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
1987
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
THE PRESENT
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
1987
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
THE PRESENT
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
1987
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
THE PRESENT
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
1987
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
THE PRESENT
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you, John—for the eleventh time. Greece beckons...
AUTHOR’S NOTE
There is a Sunshine Coast, and its towns and villages are called by the names used here. But all the rest is fiction. The events and the characters are products of the author’s imagination, and geographical and other liberties have been taken in the depiction of the town of Sechelt.
Prologue
IT WAS A FEW DAYS BEFORE Christmas. She woke in the night, shivering with cold, from a fitful sleep. She tried to guess the time without looking at the clock ticking from the orange crate that served as her bedside table. The clock sat in the center of a lace doily she had crocheted herself, in front of the coal-oil lamp and next to a box of wooden matches. She lay on her back, the covers up to her chin, next to her sleeping husband and watched her breath make the air in front of her face visible.
It wasn’t the first night she had awakened. It was the third, maybe the fourth night that week. She carried exhaustion into each day; each morning it was deeper and more profound. She knew where it could lead her, and she was afraid.
Stretched flat on her back, she clutched the bedclothes in both hands and struggled with escalating panic. She focused her mind upon comfortable, comforting things, trying to soothe herself. She thought about the rag rug on the floor beside the bed, and her slippers sitting there, and the chenille robe that was hung over the back of a wooden chair next to the dresser.
She had been advised to take deep, slow breaths on these occasions, and she did this, concentrating on the expansion and contraction of her lungs.
But the tension remained. It was in her limbs, caught there in bone and muscle. And it was in her head, too; it had seized her brain, had taken hold of it like her own fist around an orange, or a child’s hand.
She fought to keep control of her breathing, a tiny island of self-dominance that with concentration she could perhaps make larger, and larger, until her entire physical body would be under her command and she could force herself to sleep, to be calm, to be loving...
Terror scurried through her blood. She found herself sitting upright. She swung her legs out of bed, and in an instant she was out the bedroom door.
She made her way along the hall, touching the walls with outstretched hands, her bare feet cold on the bare floor, passing the bedrooms of her children, and went quickly and soundlessly down the stairs and into the kitchen.
The stove slumbered, banked for the night but still glowing, and in its faint light she saw her breath like tattered fog. She walked back and forth across the braided rug that lay between the stove and the wooden table where the family ate. She was rubbing her palms together and then making washing motions, all the while pacing, pacing. Then she stood still and touched her cheeks, and discovered that she was weeping.
She sat at the table and rested her head on her hands. “Please, please,” she whispered, “help me, please...”
She was aware of the instant of her capitulation. It did indeed feel like the final link breaking. It was like letting go of a tree branch, or ceasing to cling to a rock face: it was acceptance of failure, and with it came a precious instant of relief.
This was followed by utter blankness.
She would not remember, later, the things she did then.
THE PRESENT
Chapter 1
ABBOTSFORD, B.C.
Maria Buscombe’s eyes opened and she looked, unseeing, at the ceiling, cautiously assessing the day. The light coming through the curtain at the small, high window in her bedroom shone with the bright confidence of an unclouded sun. There was an expectant quality to this morning light, a brittle anxiety.
She turned her head to look directly at the window. And in the second it took her to move her gaze, Maria captured the moment, the day—and all traces of slumber vanished. She became rigid. Breathless. It was the twenty-eighth day of September; and she had made a decision in the night.
Maria came from the prairies and remembered from her childhood red geraniums on a kitchen windowsill and a snowy landscape beyond. Maria grew up in Winnipeg, a city in the middle of the province of Manitoba, in the middle of Canada, halfway between the Atlantic and Pacific coasts.
She realized that she had been immersing herself on a regular basis, lately, in childhood memories that were fraudulent yet real; burrowing into a far-off past in the ever more futile hope of continuing to avoid the nearer one.
She threw back the covers and sat on the edge of her bed for a moment. Her left foot was bisected by a sliver of light cast upon the rough, green indoor-outdoor carpeting by the space between the window ledge and the bottom of the curtain. It was a half day of waiting, that was all. There was no cause for anxiety. She had had other days just like it.
But this one was different. This one had made itself significant.
She washed and dressed herself and combed her hair and made some breakfast, which she couldn’t eat.
Maria, waiting, watching the clock, noting the slow rise of tension in her body, remembered summer hollyhocks taller than she and bees drunk with pollen, bumping dizzily in and out of the blossoms.
She lived now in a small, dim apartment in the basement of a house in Abbotsford, a town forty miles east of Vancouver. The house was owned by an elderly woman who, along with her large, kindly dog, occupied the upstairs. Maria liked it that she was elderly and had taken a motherly interest in her tenant—it made her feel young by contrast.
She moved around her apartment, picking things up and putting them down, trying to divest herself of a gathering excitement. She must not allow herself, yet, to think ahead. Once again she nudged the future aside with remembrances.
In Manitoba September was an eye blink. Leaves felt the chill of autumn and turned in confusion, turned red and gold, turned to admire themselves, became detached from their trees, and fluttered to the ground, dead.
And new clothes for school. Maria remembered that about September, too. In Winnipeg in grade two she had had
to wear a uniform. A navy blue jumper, a long-sleeved white shirt, navy blue socks, a navy blue tie—even navy blue bloomers. And a Red River coat, which was navy blue with a red lining and had a hood.
As the morning passed, Maria could almost see the accretion of her anticipation, building upon itself like layers of oil paint upon a canvas or plaster upon a wall.
Sometimes in Manitoba Easter came late enough to coincide with spring, and she could wear her new black patent-leather shoes with buckles to church on Easter Sunday. Then Maria sprang along the street, bootless, her feet light as sparkling dreams, dancing between the puddles and getting not a single spot of mud on her shoes, which her mother had cleaned with Vaseline... That was perhaps not a genuine memory, the Vaseline, but something she had just now invented. It was very difficult, sometimes, to separate real things from events she had partially manufactured, things she had made neat, or meaningful, in retrospect.
Maria’s apartment comprised a long, narrow living room with no windows, the bedroom, and a kitchen with a table and two chairs at one end and stove and refrigerator and counters at the other. The kitchen, like the bedroom, had one small window. A door led from the living room directly outdoors into the backyard, where sidewalks extended from either side of a small patio and curved around the house to the street. The sidewalk that Maria used passed beneath the elderly woman’s bedroom window. A second door in her apartment gave access to the basement laundry room. The elderly woman kept her outside doors locked, but not the one at the top of the basement stairs. Maria kept both of hers locked, always, even when she was at home.
Oh! those geraniums on the windowsill! They had had thick stems and had lived for years in the same pots. Even when they weren’t blooming they were comforting, a familiar presence, a greening, breathing piece of life looking out upon the winter and pronouncing it temporary. They had a smell, too, of earth and cultivation—not a fragrance, but a smell to be inhaled with gusto, like the commonplace aromas of kitchen and dust—life-affirming counterpoints to the dry and foreign odor of winter.
Maria looked at her watch.
She sat down at the desk in her living room, turned on the lamp, and took from a drawer a piece of paper on which was written a list of chores: “dust with feather duster, dust with oiled cloth, dust walls with dry mop, scrub toilet, scrub bathroom sink, scrub kitchen sink, clean out fridge, sweep floors, vacuum carpets, change bed, polish windows,” etc., etc. The idea was to pick one, at random, whenever she found herself with time on her hands.
Today, though, looking at the list only increased her impatience. She folded the piece of paper and put it back in her desk drawer.
In Winnipeg the school playground had been made of cinders. She had fallen there once, while playing a running game and had skidded on her side, badly skinning her left arm and leg. She ran home screaming and her mother put her in a warm bath and gently, gently, squeezed the washcloth over Maria’s damaged flesh, adding hot water whenever the bath cooled, talking, soothing. Gradually all the black cinder-flecks and all the red blood-bubbles disappeared into the water. Maria had believed that day that her mother loved her.
Maria got up from the desk and went into the bedroom, where she knelt before a straight-backed chair that was wedged into the corner nearest the window. On the chair sat a large doll that had been given to Maria on her fifth birthday. She had twice during Maria’s childhood been to the doll hospital. She looked now, at age fifty, almost as good as new.
“It’s over, Bonnie,” Maria whispered to the doll, which had curly brown hair, large blue eyes that swiveled, and pink-painted cheeks. She was wearing blue-and-white-checked overalls and a white blouse.
“I’ve decided,” said Maria, sitting on her heels, examining the doll’s face intently. With two fingers she stroked its cheek, and the upturned nose, and the pink mouth that looked like a rosebud.
The school principal in Winnipeg had had an artificial hand, fist-shaped, that always wore a glove—a leather-covered lump at the end of his arm that was the result of a war injury. The principal wore no expression. Not even when he called for a fire drill. The fire escapes were big round chutes. The teacher sent the children down one by one. It was perfectly dark in there. Maria had wondered, what if somebody behind her were to go too fast and crash into her? What if she went too fast herself and crashed into somebody ahead of her? What if she stalled in the middle and she was the last one down and everybody forgot about her and she had to spend the night in the fire escape? But none of those things ever happened. Sliding fast on her seat in the dark down the fire escape she sometimes felt like she was flying and sometimes like she was plummeting into hell. When she got to the bottom, breathless and triumphant, another teacher hauled her out and she waited with the other children in the cold, in the snow, shivering, until the whole class had caromed out of the fire escape, one by one, like blind docile bats.
Maria stood and looked down at the doll, resting her hand for a moment on its springy brown hair. Then she went into the kitchen to finish her waiting.
It was very quiet upstairs. She heard no murmurings—only silence from the old woman. And the dog, who spent most of his time sleeping, as far as Maria could tell. Her landlady had explained that this was because he was deaf. Maria tried to imagine herself deaf—a terrifying prospect. She was certain she would sleep a great deal less, not more, if she were to become deaf.
The furnace and the refrigerator turned themselves on and off with soothing regularity. The house creaked and groaned a bit, suffering from arthritis in the rafters or rheumatism in the joists: that was soothing, too. Yet Maria’s mouth was dry and her skin prickled with tension.
There was no wind today, and she couldn’t hear any birds. She heard no sounds from the street, either, but then she hardly ever did, since her apartment was at the back of the house.
Maria placed her hands on the tabletop and spread them like fans. Her fingernails were painted with pink polish. She thought about the man who owned the stationery store on Essondale Avenue where she had for the last couple of years been working part-time, the young man with the limp, whose black hair had been invaded by a disfiguring thatch of white. She imagined her hand with the pink nails reaching out, the fingertips resting lightly for just a second on his white hair, imagined his hair turning black again and his limp disappearing.
Someone crunched along the walk at the side of the house, passing the window above her head. Maria got up and went to the door, stood with head bowed until the courier knocked, signed for the envelope, closed the door. She took the envelope back to the table and sat down. Her name and address were typed on the front. She opened it and took out the bank draft. “Pay to the Order of Maria Buscombe,” it read, “Twenty Thousand Dollars.”
Next she took out the photograph. She held it in her two hands, staring at it hungrily. She saw a young woman wearing shorts, standing just outside a shop, looking toward it, shading her eyes from the sun. Dark brown hair fell down her back. Her left leg was supporting most of her weight; the knee of her right leg was bent. Another person stood just inside the shop, a streak of sunlight illuminating trousered legs, the rest of the figure in shadow. Maria kissed the photograph, weeping, and set it down on the table. Then she picked up the check and tore it in half, then quarters, and threw it into the trash.
SECHELT, B.C.
Belinda Hollister went into the bedroom to snatch a sweater from the closet and on her way out of the room glanced through the window. She stopped. Looked. Threw open the sliding glass door that led to the crumbling patio and the backyard and stared in disbelief. Trash littered the weedy lawn. At first Belinda thought a dog must have gotten into their garbage. But Raymond had put out the garbage the previous evening, and it was picked up early in the morning. Besides, she thought, walking hesitantly across the patio, she didn’t recognize anything in this mess. There was an old iron, its cotton-covered cord mangled. A man’s shirt, striped blue and white, with a hole in the elbow. A crumpled orange juice ca
rton, a multitude of eggshells and coffee grounds, several wire hangers, some magazines. Belinda seized a broom from the patio and began poking around in the clutter, looking for ripped-open envelopes. But she found nothing to identify whose garbage it was.
***
Belinda’s father operated an unconventional shop that was actually the front half of a house, a bungalow that had once been his parents’ home. He had rented it out during his years as a teacher, most of which had been spent in Vancouver, and had intended to live in it when he moved back to Sechelt. But a house on the hilltop overlooking Porpoise Bay, at the southern end of Sechelt Inlet, had caught his fancy. Soon he had decided that being retired wasn’t very interesting, and he’d had the idea to turn his parents’ house into a shop.
Behind the store proper was a kitchen, a dining room now furnished as a sitting room, and a bedroom that was used as a storeroom.
Belinda’s father refused to sell lottery tickets, but he did carry tobacco products. “If you’re intent on catering to people’s addictions,” Belinda had once said, exasperated, “you oughtn’t to be selective about them.” He would sell beer and wine, too, he had retorted, if that were allowed, but never lottery tickets.
A sign hung from a rose-covered trellis that arched over the sidewalk by the front gate: “The Jolly Shopper.” There were no signs in the windows, no advertisements plastered on the glass.
The shop had unusual hours, too. It was open from ten in the morning until only four in the afternoon, and it was closed on weekends and holidays.
But Belinda’s father carried, at his customers’ requests, things that were hard to get elsewhere in Sechelt. Bread and milk were available at the Jolly Shopper, but so was caviar. And sun-dried tomatoes packed in oil. And hearts of palm.
Although he wouldn’t accept credit cards, her father did extend credit, keeping track of what people owed him in a spiral-bound notebook. In this respect, he told Belinda, though not in any other, his shop was like a corner store he had worked in during the summers when he was a boy living in Sechelt.