Charting the Unknown

by Kim Petersen

  The second week of school, I walked through one of the guys’ dorms and found a foosball table. It was not my intention to set myself up as a foosball hustler, but when I asked the guy running the table if I could play and he smirked, nudged his buddy, and said something like, “next thing you know some girl is gonna want to be Prime Minister” I had no choice.

  Sidling up to grab the handles, I said things like, “What a cute little ball,” and “I think I'll name this little man here in the front row, Hank. Go Hank GO!”

  The foosball junkies who had been hanging around dispersed in disgust until I got quiet and scored several goals in rapid succession. My burly opponent began to look nervous. A vein started to bulge in his neck, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. His friend clapped him on the back and said jovially, “Dude! You're getting smoked by a chick!” If I didn't find the moment so savory, I would have felt sorry for him. How could he have known I spent my Saturdays playing the neighborhood on the foosball table in our basement? I decided to stop toying with him and end his misery, sliding the score counters to 10 on my side and 1 on his. By that time, a lineup of testosterone hopefuls, unable to bear the thought of a woman ruling what was so obviously a guy's domain, had formed to play me. At the end of this line, I noticed a shorter, robust guy in jeans and an untucked, blue, button down shirt. His eyes crinkled when he smiled reminding me of pictures I had seen of Santa Claus.

  When it was finally his turn, he sauntered up to the table and said with cocky confidence, “Care to make it interesting?”

  “Don't see that there's much need of that…” I stated, grinning wryly.

  “How about if I win, you buy me dinner, if you win, I buy you dinner.”

  “Looks like you win no matter what,” I said shrugging nonchalantly.

  “How's that?”

  “Either way you get to have dinner with me.”

  “Exactly,” he said, making the first shot on goal.

  Later that evening, he bought me take-out pizza. We ate it in the girls lounge because neither of us had a car.

  Foosball aside, Mike reminded me of Evil Knievel without the white leather outfit. He jumped his motorcycle over flaming piles of bush, and raced around dirt bike trails. When he wasn't doing that, he climbed rocks and snuck around campus with a posse of guys wreaking havoc. Subsequent impressions led me to imagine him standing in the middle of life like a young Clint Eastwood saying, “Go ahead, make my day.” When he was not climbing, jumping, or shooting things, he was betting.

  “See that boulder down there? The one about 100 yards over this ledge?” he'd ask me as we hiked around Golden Ears in Lower Mainland, BC.

  “A buck says I can peg it with this pebble.”

  Unfamiliar with his impeccable aim, but always up for a bet or two, I countered, “You're on, but then I get a chance to throw.” His pebble would fly gracefully through the air and hit the center of the boulder most every time. Mine would land close. I was incensed but intrigued and continually out a couple of bucks.

  Over the course of years, my childhood love of adventure had largely been tamed. As I neared my twentieth birthday, it was achieved from an overstuffed Lazy Boy. While the snow floated unnoticed across a large picture window, I would sit curled up under a goose down duvet sipping a cup of hot cocoa and allow myself to be transported via the written word through time, circumstance, and geography. It took little effort to superimpose my own image in place of the hero. It was sufficient enough stimulation and created within me the idea that thrill seeking was still part of my nature.

  But backseat gun slinging is quite a stretch from actually grabbing a vine in the middle of a dank, scorching jungle and hurtling yourself over a precipice to elude oncoming tribal head hunters. When I first met Mike, I was unaware of this distinction. I was smitten by his motorcycle riding, skydiving, and rock climbing. It all reminded me of a character in one of my books.

  In a favorite coffee shop one morning, I told Mike with sparkly eyes that I was an adventurer too. He believed me. I said it with such conviction that even I believed me.

  “That's great news,” he said with a mouth full of muffin. “How about going rock climbing with me this Saturday?”

  I had never gone rock climbing in my life, but I figured how bad could it be?

  Half way up a dry waterfall, I looked down 30 feet below and experienced my first bout of vertigo. My head reeled and my toes began to shake. The shaking traveled all the way up my body and reminded me of the cartoon character Wile E Coyote after he had eaten earthquake pills. Even my hands started shaking and I found it difficult to grasp the rocks. I thought I would fall with less fortunate results than the Coyote, who always managed to sit up holding an “oh drat” sign.

  It took all of my reserve control to look over my shoulder and shout down, “I can't move!”

  “How come?” he shouted back up, shielding the sunlight from his eyes with his left hand.

  The jig was up and I would have to admit it. “I guess I'm afraid!”

  “Good!” he yelled back, “that's what adventure is all about! Don't you feel alive?”

  “Yes, but it's because I'm going to die!”

  Mike patiently coached me earthward, and once superglued to terra firma again, my heart thumping in my chest, I nodded meekly as he told me what a great job I did and hadn't this been a fun day? Later I considered that rock climbing was not one of my dreams and told him so. It wasn't that I didn't enjoy rock climbing, it was that I hated the feeling of being out of control. As mile markers proceeded along the highway of our relationship, I noticed that Mike thrived outside his comfort zone and sought out situations that would test the fabric of his endurance. Perhaps this was why he was dating me.

  One Monday night, several months later, we sat in the university cafeteria eating Sunday's leftover roast beef dinner slung together and topped with mashed potatoes quaintly labeled “Shepherd's Pie.” We were discussing dreams of greatness and goals we hoped to accomplish in our lifetime. Every once in awhile, one of us would wave our arms wildly in the air, while the other nodded vigorously. We were invincible Rambos with a million lives. Old enough to think we had the qualities and resources to make life happen with zero responsibilities. The concoction made us bold. In a burst of inspiration, I ripped out a piece notebook paper and offered to write down the top 10 things we hoped to accomplish in our lifetime.

  We gave ourselves complete permission to disregard any constraints, mainly time and money, and to be open to any idea no matter how cockamamie it seemed. The compilation was largely the result of watching too much CNN and Xtreme Sports Videos. Discussed in detail were the fears we had of becoming cogs in a globalized, industrial world. Running around all bug-eyed and stressed. No time for each other, family, life. For what? For money? We scoffed at the thought, which was ironic since earlier we had given ourselves a blank check upon which to dream, and where that money would come from was anyone's guess. Like most youth we were addicted somewhat to experience. Mike suggested bungee jumping in New Zealand.

  “Why go bungee jumping?” I asked.

  “Because it will keep us awake and alive to life. We can do it, say, five years into our marriage, just about the time we get comfortable and it will shock us awake again. Like throwing cold water on someone who has passed out.”

  His unconscious use of the “M” word aside, I considered it. By that time, I was just self actualized enough to suspect that I was a fireside daredevil, but not enough to say “forget it that's not who I am.” I had no desire to go bungee jumping, but I wondered if I could change. He made a good point about “waking up,” and since I still wanted to impress him with my openness to wild ideas, I wrote it down.

  Seeing the seven natural and manmade wonders of the world made the list as well as canoe down the Amazon. We recognized that some of those goals were a little self absorbed and lacking in substance, so out of duty we added: working as peacekeepers in a third world country. As people who cared about the env
ironment, or at least should, we decided that while canoeing in the Amazon we would tie ourselves to some trees and help save the rain forest. After that we could make a pilgrimage to meet Pope John Paul, if possible, and Mother Teresa. Good, we said, pleased with the list so far, we needed to be people of principle.

  At the time, we were reading a book together about a young couple who lived aboard a sailboat and cruised the Hawaiian Islands. One of us brought it up as a potential dream. Here was a lifestyle where you could be free. Free to travel and live creatively. Connect with ourselves and each other. We could write books to earn a living and eat fish cooked over the fire on the beach of a deserted island. Even as the more cautious one in our relationship, I had to admit the idea appealed to me.

  “Look,” I said, “you could live for next to nothing on a boat. We would be living outside of conventional society, and how cool would that be?” Mike thought it was a grand idea.

  “Wouldn't it be amazing if we could cross the ocean?” he said. Enchanted, number 6 became Live on a boat and cross an ocean.

  To round out the list, we added: learn to scuba dive, which, Mike said excitedly, could be combined with the sailboat idea. Moving on, I mentioned Thoreau, and we decided building our own log cabin in the woods next to a pond should be on the list. Simplicity was important. We could live there for a year or two, maybe more. Grow our own organic food. We could eat walleye pike from the pond and I would make stew from the rabbits Mike shot in the forest. Nice. One of us, probably Mike, brought up having a family, and we enthusiastically agreed that having a family and staying together were of the utmost importance and became the last entry.

  As our discussion wound its way to a conclusion, one thing concerned us. How would we remind ourselves of the importance of these goals, these dreams? Didn't life have the potential to drug us and make us forget? We thought of adult workaholic zombies and shuddered. Several options were considered, including tattoos, but in the end Mike suggested that we read our list every year on the anniversary of our first date. Great idea, I said, and so we agreed.

  We looked at each other shyly and beamed. Mike stuck out his hand. I shook it. It was a great list, we said. We knocked our Coke bottles together and said, “Cheers.” I opened my Abnormal Psychology textbook, the class for which I was now running late, unceremoniously folded our now gravy stained manifesto, and stuck it inside the front cover.

  Despite the ensuing differences, our hearts were bound. In a smoke filled shabby diner, we began to speak openly of marriage. Contrarians even then, if the rest of the world said “wait to get married,” we figured it would be wise to do the opposite. What did the world know anyway? We were familiar with the current marital statistics which suggested the stakes were high and the risks great. Just what Mike needed to hear. Plus, we said, marriage would be what we made it. We imagined it similar to climbing Mt. Everest. A fair bit of uphill trudging, but when you got to the top 50 or 60 years later, man, what a view!

  We discussed strategy. Marriage must always be first, we said. If other things took priority, a spouse would become an adversary. A prison warden. At the time, the freshness of our friendship made it impossible to imagine being “trapped” or confined by our relationship, but it might be possible down the road. We wondered if we could craft a marriage in which we were both habitually aware of the freedom such a relationship offered. A marriage would be complete and total freedom to explore the other person, like a country, over the course of a lifetime, in turn allowing a partner, a friend most dear and true, to explore our own depths and heights with absolute trust that they had our very best interests at the foremost of their thoughts.

  We speculated: to be explored in this way, known for who you are and loved unconditionally, wouldn't that bring the greatest peace and joy? How could we ever be bored when there would be some other peak to explore?

  Against the better judgment of numerous elders who believed we should finish school first, we married after our second year of university. I was 20, Mike 21. Everyone said with breathy skepticism that we were young. In between university classes, we held down two jobs each and played house in our tiny nearby apartment. We were interested in building a solid marriage foundation so naturally I bought silly string. I hid two cans away and was patient. While Mike was in the shower, I cracked the curtain aside and opened fire with double barrels. Several days later, while singing in the shower, a bowlful of ice water spilled over the curtain rod rudely interrupting my near perfect interpretation of Whitney Houston's, “I Will Always Love You.” Once I awoke in bed to find myself cocooned like a fly in a silly string web. We packed up club sandwiches and went to the park to study for our World Politics exam. When that got boring we read poetry while sitting on the grass with our backs up against a favorite oak tree. I gave Mike, a high school running back, largely unappreciated pointers in how to throw a football.

  Around that time, a friend asked me how I found married life. I had dreamed of marriage. Once I had dreamed about it in Miss Kahn's math class. The man in the blue suit had turned out to be Mike, who was not keen on Fruit Loops. Real life was better than the dream, and I said so.

  3

  The August before our senior year we rented a basement suite close to the university and began preparations to finish our last year of school. Before classes were to begin, I began to feel sluggish. After throwing up for the third time in one week and oddly craving broccoli, I went to the local pharmacy, and bought a pregnancy test. A white-haired checkout lady, now privy to my most intimate secrets, eyed me speculatively as she waved the test in front of the scanner.

  Back at home, Mike and I bent our faces over the small but omnipotent wand whose half inch square window held the key to our future. Gradually, two neon blue parallel lines emerged, indicating a positive result. The lines continued to increase in intensity until the rays were so powerful we were forced to look away.

  Mother is a common enough word but one I had not thought to associate with myself, at least not before I graduated from university. The word had always been in reference to someone older: my own mother, grandmother, my mother in law. I was only 21. I took the last few days of summer vacation to consider the implications. I had a friend, Ruth, who was several years older than I, and had two small children. She was a Resident Director at the university. I asked her to lunch.

  In between bites of Caesar salad, I told her I was pregnant. She was thrilled for me. It was as if I had won a new car.

  I told her, “Honestly, I'm not sure how to feel. I don't know if I am ready to be a mother. I'm not even through with university. We were supposed to go backpacking through Europe next summer.”

  She got quiet and sighed. Then she brightened. “Okay,” she said, “here's how it is. Being a mother is no different than being a super hero.”

  “Oh brother,” I said, throwing up my hands, “you can do better than that. I have serious problems. I'm not kidding around here, Ruth.”

  “No no, I am serious. Who's that Marvel Comic book guy? Stan Lee, right? He should have animated motherhood. Just like that spider in Spider Man, LIFE has bit you and your very cellular structure is changing. Once the baby comes you'll find you have three superpowers that you didn't have before: super-hearing, super-eyesight, and super-quick reflexes. In addition,” (she sounded like a game show host. I started imagining Bob Barker on The Price is Right saying, “Come stand right over here and take a look and THIS!”) “as time progresses you'll receive the gift of discerning truth from your kids and you don't even need a magic lasso.”

  She saw that I was doubtful. She took my hand in both of hers and said, “Being a mom is the best thing going. I guess I can't describe it in a way that you can relate to; you have to experience it for yourself. Raising them is the most difficult and rewarding thing I've ever done. It is not what I imagined, but it's better in so many ways, and it has made me better person. I know right now you don't think it's possible, but you can do this. The universe has given you nine months to
get ready. Listen to yourself. To God. Once you hold that baby in your arms, you'll be blown away by the amount of strength you have.”

  Back at home, I told Mike I was warming up to the idea of being a mother. While making me pancakes he said, “Hey I thought of something. Remember our list of dreams we wrote down in the cafeteria? We are fulfilling number 10 – having a family. One down, nine to go! Where is that list anyway?”

  I told him it was true that we were fulfilling the dream, but it was not how I had planned it. Then I said I didn't really feel like pancakes so we walked to Dairy Queen, and I ordered two foot long chili cheese dogs. Mike eyed me suspiciously. “So it's come to this, then, has it?”

  “Well,” I said taking a huge bite and continuing with my mouth full, “I am eating for two now.”

  Maybe being pregnant and having a kid would work out okay after all.

  Strangely, for the next two weeks, I seemed to have a violent case of the stomach flu. Friends told me it was morning sickness, but the book I was reading described a morning sickness far easier than what I was experiencing. To be safe, I saw my doctor who told me I might be “one of those women” who goes through a more violent morning sickness.

  “Nothing to worry about,” he said. “It should lessen by the end of the first trimester.”

  I came home depressed thinking I had two more months of throwing up. I told Mike I was likely “one of those women,” a fact which didn't surprise him.

  In the weeks that followed, my body became the host for an extraterrestrial life form that was intent on taking over. I recalled the movie Alien and the disturbing scene of a reptilian-like head pushing its way out the stomach of its human host. My whole system received some subversive message in my recollection and revolted. I was so ill I couldn't even keep down water. I threw up so many times a day I got tired of making the trek back and forth from the bed to the toilet and set up camp in the form of a blanket and pillow right on the tile floor so I could be close to my porcelain altar. Here, I thought, my very life was being sacrificed. I dropped out of classes. I dropped out of life.