Winter Child

by Virginia Pésémapéo Bordeleau

He wrapped his arms around her, she left hers at her side, and the intensity of emotion emanating from him hit her full in the chest, robbing her of speech and breath.

  Back from Dakota, a wonderful dream one night at Hélène’s in Montreal: she walked with her father, younger by a few years, along a path lined with trees in full leaf. A man in his thirties worked in a garden, he approached them; she sensed that he and she were lovers. Then she saw other horticulturalists, all good-looking, all in their prime, cultivating dazzling flowers of all colours, all kinds. Her young fiancé pulled her to a sheltered spot hidden from view and bared her top, smiled, “Your breasts even now are enough to take my breath away!”

  Beneath his caress, she woke to the moist warmth of her libido.

  That morning, she rode the commuter train to clear her head, find a new angle on her story, rid her mind of clichés. Of course, she could always tell the tale as it had happened, mourn what could have been and relegate it to the past; impossible, however, since life got in the way.

  There he stood in Central Station, the mystery man waiting for the same train. She’d pushed back her trip by an hour, not knowing that he would be waiting on the same platform; he had no idea that she had spotted him earlier on the crowded street and that she had hidden from view. She avoided him because of the longing he sparked in her, a burning, all-consuming desire, she didn’t have the strength to look in his eyes and feel his touch, she felt like a moth singed once already by a candle’s flame, knowing the fire could annihilate her. She fled, but he caught up to her anyway. They shared a seat, he spoke, asked how she’d been, whether she was handling her grief, if she was still painting, writing. Yes, yes, yes. Just a few simple words.

  “How do you know that I write and paint?”

  “Anouk told me.”

  He’d just returned from the North Shore and a stint as a stand-in doctor. He liked to get out of the city on exchanges with the regions, took public transit for the sake of the environment and because he was tired of driving and would rather be ferried around so he could work and not worry.

  His eyes on hers shone, intense, dark, irresistible, like blazing stars, too bright, drawing her to him, a metal shard to his magnet. She felt both right and wrong in this inviolate space, wild and pure despite the men she and her body had known, struck by the realization that she had never loved with her entire being, no lover had ever penetrated the place she’d kept under lock since the actions of her father and brother. Until now, she had let love come to her unbidden, then said either yes or no.

  He took her hand in his and held it there long enough for her to understand that their story would play out in the visible world. It was obvious to both of them, a certainty planted, an acknowledgement, she knew that when their time came, she would never leave him, when the stars and chance aligned to open the golden trail being traced at her back, she would turn to see him and walk with him to the end of their lifetime.

  She decided to look on it as a feel-good story, a lifeline sent to her by the Mother of all creatures because it was not yet her time, a tasty carrot floated out front to keep her from falling or looking down into the mesmerizing, ever-tempting velvet of darkness.

  He got off the train before her, her destination the end of the line, near a park she had strolled through one day with her grown child; they’d brought a picnic and a small ball they threw back and forth as they advanced, her son surprisingly agile, the two of them glad to be moving in unison.

  She bade the church man good-bye with a chaste kiss, her lips barely pressed against his, no future encounter planned, no expectations, only grateful for their chance meeting. Two days later, she walked to the bookstore in her friend Hélène’s neighbourhood to buy a dictionary of homonyms, her own left behind in Abitibi, when she spotted him chatting with the owner. She swore, then cried, “Ben là?” in her thickest Québécois accent, their laughter so infectious even the bookseller joined in, without knowing the reason for the moment’s madness. He took her in his arms, gave her a big hug and invited her out for coffee. For the first time since her son’s death, she was truly happy, there was so much joy in their meeting, such innocence that she let herself be won over and stopped resisting the call. He said, “This is what your son wants, for us to love each other, he’s pulling the strings to his mother’s happiness.”

  She recoiled, unwilling to involve her son’s love in that of the mysterious stranger straight out of her dreams. He noticed and apologized for his blunder. Curious about his hard-to-place origins, she asked, “Where do you come from? Who are you?”

  He gave a teasing smile, “I come from a Lakota grandmother — or Sioux if you prefer, she’s who I got my crooked knife-edge of a nose from — who married a Franco-Manitoban. My other grandfather was Québécois, he met my grandmother on a beach in Florida; she was Afro-American, which explains the frizz in my hair! In other words, my parents are mixed blood, both part-American and part-Canadian. They met out in front of the White House, demonstrating against the Vietnam War, they were part of the beat generation …”

  Worried, she asked, “Is there someone else in your life?” His teasing air again, “Uh-huh, all kinds of people, but no one special woman. I’ve been divorced for too long and have never met the person who could make me fall for her … no children either. But since Dakota not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought of you … The feeling that I know you somehow is so profound, it’s very strange.”

  He added that he was as much a Lakota medicine man as a doctor.

  His hand lay on her thigh, he leaned in; his breath on her neck, he inhaled deeply, his desire visible through the fabric of his pants.

  They made their way to a small, quaint hotel surrounded by flowering trees. Their room opened onto the back courtyard, the decor tasteful and discreet. Intimidated, she became aware of the years separating the two of them, she on the cusp of her older years, he in the prime of his life. As she sat, she crossed her arms over her chest, trying without thinking to hide her age even though she was fully clothed. He came up to her and held out his hand, drew her toward the bed, invited her to lie down beside him, still dressed, so they could hold each other, feel the other’s rhythm, each beating heart, the openness. All at once, she understood that this would be what she had always wanted for a first time; he held her gaze until he read total acceptance there, no longer the fear of not being good enough. He covered her face with gentle kisses, bringing a smile of consent to her lips. Then he kissed her, open-mouthed, his taste pleasing her, sweet like the mango juice he’d had in the café; she felt in a daze, in a dream. He undid the buttons on her blouse one by one, slowly, a ritual, unhooked her bra releasing her heavy breasts, brought his lips to her nipples, with his tongue drew gentle moans, then his voice sounded, “I love the fullness of your breasts, their shape, their softness …”

  They undressed, his skin darker than hers, and she took pleasure in the dark-brown hand exploring her folds, her mature woman’s curves, in love, yes, in love with her generous body greedy for more. He first tasting then entering her, their eyes locked. She lost herself in the long shimmering wave of an orgasm that propelled her past earthbound reality, heard from a distance his voice calling, worried and urgent, then her own sobs, like a tsunami, uncontrollable. He held her tight, his forehead cradled in the hollow of her shoulder shaken with spasms, wrapped his arms and legs around her. She knew he understood, was with her in the hurricane, her friend, her brother, her lover: death, suffering, the long, dreadful days of loneliness, life, love, joy, all were part of the whole, a full force explosion. Unbearable.

  An artist friend invited her to accompany him to his opening. His art was representational but with a twist, splashes of red added to huge black-and-white drawings, a bloodstain on objects and figures. They got to the gallery early, he needed to speak to the owner before the guests arrived; she took her time walking through the exhibit to understand the reality underlying the artwork’s seeming simplicity. He had ended with a paintball expl
osion. She suspected her friend had made no attempt to aim the gun, he must have worn a blindfold and shot as blind fate does, with no target, no emotion and, above all, no reason. Shooting for shooting’s sake.

  Glancing outside, she saw guests starting to park around the building then, from behind, caught sight of the church man studying a menu in the window of the restaurant across the street. He had been away for several weeks, travelling through northern communities and never knowing exactly when he’d return. Stunned, dazed, trembling, she found the only chair in the art gallery and lowered herself onto it, never losing sight of her lover’s dark hair. Occasionally, passersby hid him from view for too long so she’d stand; she mustn’t lose sight of him. Finally, he seemed to see what he wanted and stepped inside the restaurant. The artist emerged from the director’s office and, seeing her approach him, asked what was wrong.

  “I’m in love and I’ve just spotted my lover, I have to go.”

  He smiled. “Go then! You can introduce me!”

  She ran down the sidewalk, clutching her purse to her belly, crossed the street, stepped into the restaurant and made her way slowly to his table. His face was half-hidden by the menu, which he seemed to be reading intently with a furrowed brow, ignoring the woman standing over him. When he finally looked up, he blanched, his dark skin turning grey, then joy flitted across his lips, dimples dug into his cheeks, his teeth shone in the dark of his face and his laughter swirled over the nape of her neck as he pulled her to him. Barely breathing in his embrace, she felt a flood of unexpected bliss and a moment’s perfect happiness.

  After that first intimate encounter, she’d written poetry, words consigned to pages she kept folded in a pocket of her purse. During the meal, they shared a rich, full-bodied bottle of wine; slightly tipsy she flitted from one subject to the next, as giddy as a fledgling in the sunshine of his presence. She said, “I have some poems for you … would you like to read them?”

  Touched by his warmth, she unfolded the pages on the table. Unsure what he would think, she watched the pedestrians rushing past the window and caught an occasional glimpse of the art gallery full of guests with their raised wineglasses, talking and joking too by the way they threw back their heads and laughed. No sign of the artist. He had disappeared behind his crowd-studded success. The church man’s voice cut through the momentary distraction, “Thank you … they’re truly magnificent!”

  He leaned over the plates and kissed her full on the mouth. Then clasped her hands in his. “I want to live with you, share your passions, your dreams …”

  Caught off guard, she struggled to regain her balance: a quivering deep inside, the certainty of having reached a safe harbour after centuries of storms, of doubt about the meaning of it all, of suffering unspooling in private isolation that seemed to be life’s lot, an awareness of the futility of this forced appearance on earth in such a fragile form. Flustered, it took her some time to pronounce the only words that made sense in this blessed moment, “I feel the same way. When the time is right, we’ll be together.”

  She chose not to follow him home that night, too overwhelmed, succumbing to an urgent need for solitude and the warmth of the comforter in her room at Hélène’s. Curled in the fetal position, exhausted, terrified by such a clear declaration of love, one she had thought not only inaccessible but, above all, incapable of existing, sheer wish fulfillment. But not only was the declaration real, he saw a future, a haven of peace in her, his partner in body, in heart, in spirit. He offered her the one thing she had ceased believing in, the one thing she no longer expected: the strength to continue on the path to the infinite with another.

  The night was a sweltering greenhouse on this solstice, marking a summer so long delayed that young shoots froze underground until its abrupt appearance in compensation for its tardiness.

  She had waited for the stillness of night to wend her way to the lake, the near full moon reflected in its dark mirror at the hour when earth’s female spirits rose from the water for the time-honoured fertility ceremony.

  Light lingered in a pale stain on the sky’s western front; the day had been long, blistering, alive with rustling: in the wild grasses where crickets sang, in the forest where aspen trembled, their leaves mimicking the babbling of a joyous brook, and in the bushes where sparrows called to each other in unbridled trills, drunk with joy at heat’s return.

  That life could be so magnanimous after the cruelty of her descent into an inner, polar abyss astounded her; during that winter after her son’s departure, she would often start trembling for no reason, grappling with a Siberian murmur in her lungs, shivering uncontrollably, brittle almost to the point of breaking with all the icicles hanging from the roof of her soul. Once, that spring after his departure, between two trips to the city, she traipsed down a path one rainy day, black mud clinging to her boots, letting the wind fray her fog of tears. No one within earshot to hear her cries. “Come get me! COME GET ME! I’VE HAD ENOUGH … enough … please!”

  A flock of geese took wing from a pond hidden behind the trees and flew a few metres overhead in a gentle whoosh of wings and piercing cries. Then a hummingbird collided with her shoulder — not a simple brushing up against her, but a blow being struck — then hovered in front of her face, long enough to awaken wonder and amazement: the child loved hummingbirds.

  A gift from her child whose arms of light wound round her on this day celebrating all mothers, even those who were mothers no longer, telling her to live.

  She’d felt strong in body ever since the visit from her Italian friend whose golden hands had lain along her muscles, her nerves, her bones. She had succeeded where the best chiropractor had failed. Her back no longer ached, nor her head, she no longer bore her suffering in her flesh, it had been torn from her by the hands of the woman life had placed along her path to ward off the sacrifice she had believed must be made: that of carrying out an act of liberation, entering the water to never return on that most sacred night of nights, when darkness was trounced by daylight; a night once devoted to love and procreation in pagan times when sowing and the heat of the sun were linked to the deities of fertility, but one she had targeted to usher in another birth, hers, into the invisible, to be with her luminous child once more.

  Not long after, the church man had glided across her skin.

  So on that night when the women of earth remembered the goddess within, she no longer dreamed of dying but of giving thanks to the winter child, to his silence and presence among the birds and woods ringing with song and the joyful hum emanating from all things living and stirring still within the silken flesh of the world. She threw away the doctor’s pills she had been saving for this special day chosen to join her child in a place she imagined so full of peace that she would no longer remember her sojourn among humankind. Crouched on that rock plunging deep into the water, her numbed body would have plummeted to the end of the slope and sunk into the depths among the fish.

  his voice

  Live in peace, ma mère. You sleep next to the fragments of my bones. You have planted a tree on my ashes to watch over your dreams and to know I still live close by, the guardian of your lands; but can’t you feel me here, as near as can be, in spirit but in your genes as well, interwoven with your innermost self. I am your blood, your heart, intimately linked to your hopes and dreams.

  Live, ma mère, live with the wisdom passed down from your ancestors. You feel guilt over my fate, I know, but I had a choice as to which road to take, I alone am responsible for the choice I made; to believe otherwise would be to strip me of the clarity and intelligence I embodied while still alive. The time spent in our bodies is only one experience, ma mère, love is what we truly are; I am able — even though time has ceased to exist in my essence, in the space I inhabit — to tell you that much in words so you can free yourself of us, of what we were for each other, none of which counts anymore.

  The wood is stacked, fire warms the house, from now on I am moulded by the orb of your shadow, where was
I, my son, as you lay dying, coughing up blood?

  Everything is alive: you would like to see sorrow suffer, howl in disgust at delighting in the wounds it inflicts on you, shoulder shame for the harm it is obliged to inflict on you; you lash out at the infinite nature of my disappearance, but you too belong to the infinite, from which we all come, and if you can find the strength to accept that I am gone without cursing creation, you will see your way to receiving the joy in store for you. When I come to you at night, I am real, more so than when I was alive for there are no barriers left, no bonds to protect, no secrets to keep, no hurt feelings enveloped in reason; I am light, freedom, no longer a being, I am life’s essence, the breath of the universe. So no more tears, go and live.

  I heard your suffering from behind a door I could not open, such sorrow still, my son.

  I know what we shared, what you gave and what you took from us, your children. When you left us, your family, hiding the violence of your gesture behind the semblance of a parting on good terms with our father, you hurt me beyond words, beyond comprehension; you were my womb, the light at the heart of my daily questions about life, my outer limit when I rushed headlong toward forbidden cliffs, my trust in others. You betrayed me. Yes, you left our world broken so naturally I, too, could leave my world broken, giving into my sometimes stormy nature or unaware of the need to dial down my frustration. But you knew how bothered and embarrassed I was after every misplaced bout of anger, blowing in from I didn’t know where … You had your reasons, maybe you missed out on childhood or adolescence, or didn’t feel loved enough and sought the star that guides love’s adventurers to the non-existent skies of utopia; or maybe you were simply tired of us fighting, shouting and shrieking, racing through the house and driving you mad, you who loves silence so much. Even as a child, I was strong enough to rip a door off its hinges, making you, my parents, wonder what kind of little monster you’d brought into the world …