Charting the Unknown

by Kim Petersen

  Except for the slight tremor in my voice I felt like the new me was coming off as fairly composed. Across the foyer, I watched a friend glance in my direction and then turn away, pretending not to have seen me. She went in the opposite direction, across the sanctuary, and sat down. I thought nothing of it. I hardly knew what to say to myself and often wished I could leave me on the other side of the room.

  I sat in a pew and looked around at all the lives that had been lived out the past month. Everything was oddly the same and I wondered how this could be when only a month ago a wrecking ball passed through my life with a crash, the reverberations of which must have registered on the Richter Scale. Hadn't they felt it? Wasn't anyone concerned with all this rubble? Shouldn't we be searching for survivors? Looking for building plans? Surely there were architectural blueprints kicking around somewhere with which we could rebuild?

  The service began with a hymn, Be Still and Know. It was a simple chorus. One I knew by heart. “Be still and know that I am God. Be still and know that I am God.” Repeat twice. I closed my eyes and begged for an oozing comfort. It would be nice to manufacture it with this song that I had sung a thousand times. I realized I was looking desperately for a painkiller. I couldn't be still. And I couldn't know. The song, the whole service, lacked the usual anesthesia. Maybe, I thought, this was why people who had lost a loved one left the church and ended up drunk and divorced.

  En masse the congregation sat down and after announcements, the sermon began. The pastor was speaking on miracles. Healings. Faith. We must have faith. Faith of a mustard seed would move mountains. Mountains, he said, when I would have settled for moving the much smaller-by-comparison frame of my daughter back into this world.

  The pastor then related several stories of those who had experienced healing. It was obvious that he had the faith required to produce miracles because many healings had happened through him.

  “What was wrong with my faith?” I wondered.

  He invited a woman up to the podium who proceeded to give her testimony. She had prayed recently and her cancer was gone. The doctors couldn't explain it. She had figured out the magic recipe. I found myself squirming uncharacteristically in my seat. I broke out into a cold sweat. I saw myself standing over Bethany's small form in the ER. Leaning over her I had whispered this prayer in what I thought to be utter faithfulness: “Even now, God, you could change this. Bring her back to life. You did it with Lazarus, why not Bethany?”

  But the exact measurements of will and faith, shaken not stirred, eluded me. Sitting in the pew, I felt my stomach lurch. I put my hand to my mouth, stood up and made my way down the aisle and out the swinging doors into the foyer where I kept right on walking, past the ushers and out the front doors into the cold December air, which I sucked in like a bellows.

  During all that time, I watched the channel 8 evening news. I only watched the news on channel 8 for two reasons. For starters they had a segment on good news. Usually it was local happenings: “Boy rescues puppy from sewer drain,” or “Local woman raises funds for homeless shelter.” After reports of death, famine, war, and rapes, I was hungry for good news. I let the events soak into my dry, crumbling, soul, and felt some relief.

  The second reason was that the guy who did the sports on Sundays and Wednesdays always had a “blooper of the week” at the end of the broadcast. I would tough out the whole news hour for the bloopers alone. A guy tumbling end over end during a football game, or getting smashed into the boards playing hockey, was a tonic for my soul. Sometimes, a tall basketball player careened out of control and nailed a photographer. There was something cleansing, something purgative, about watching a local kid get confused during the pandemonium of a soccer game and run, kicking the ball in the wrong direction toward his own goal line, oblivious to people yelling at him and his coach in stitches, waving, at the sideline.

  One night, I watched two outfielders collide and found myself smiling an authentic, instinctual smile. The muscles I used to smile had atrophied. They were weak from lack of use, so it came out tentatively, tottering, like a baby's first steps. I was not sure how to feel about this amused betrayal of my grief. Had I moved on without knowing it? Was it okay to do so? Despite my hesitations, the next day I found myself smiling at a kid in the grocery line. Little more than a year later, I smiled after giving birth to a son.

  7

  Over the course of the next six years, I pulled myself up by the bootstraps and hunkered down. Life, I realized, was a lot easier when I was busy. I wondered why I had ever scoffed at the idea. When our son, Stefan, was in the first grade and Lauren in the fourth, Mike got promoted at the money management company he was working for. We bought a big house on a hill just outside of town in a prestigious area. A two minute drive from the main road took us through rolling green farmland complete with grazing sheep. The house was a large colonial with four white pillars at the front and a long, wide front porch with a porch swing. Imperceptibly, we allowed ourselves to be drawn in by the enormous gravity emitted from the core of our pulsing culture. There were cars whose seats warmed up. Lengthy vacations in sandy countries. We filled our days with Kodak moments. Everything was okay, I thought to myself. A thick layer of dust formed on the porch swing.

  For the next four years, I took on the role of soccer mom, only this was Canada where hockey was king. At 6am, I sat on the hard, cold bleachers of the ice arena sipping hot steaming coffee watching 15 would-be NHLer’s bump into each other à la The Three Stooges. I considered the future of my current Saturday: return home from present practice and subsequent game by 9:30, drop Lauren off and remind her to do her homework, pick up my own hockey bag and return to the rink for my weekly Beginning Adult Hockey class, afterwards, catch a quick shower, change, and attempt to make the kids’ school fundraising event at noon at which I was manning the froggy ring toss booth. If all went well, the event would be over by 4 p.m., whereupon I would race home to make supper. Re-dress for about the 4th time. Inform the babysitter of rules and regs. Hold Mike's hand as we left for a dinner party. Stay later than anticipated. Maybe kiss Mike goodnight. Maybe not. Fall into bed.

  Every day was a repeat performance of rotating events. To combat it, Mike and I dusted off the porch swing, sat down, and held hands, but the extent of our conversations centered around where to have dinner, what chores needed to be accomplished on the weekend, and who was picking up what kid at which club. Our relationship entered survival mode. Instead of feeling like we were lost together, I began to feel lost and alone. We discussed this. Mike felt it too. We blamed it on the busy stage of life and planned a date night to combat it, but at the last minute we had to cancel it due to an impromptu business meeting for Mike.

  In the southwestern United States there is a rest area off Hwy 160 called Four Corners. It is the only place in the US where you can technically place an appendage in four different states at one time. An arm in Colorado, one in New Mexico, a leg in Arizona, and, now looking like you are doing the bear walk in a childhood relay race, a leg in Utah. In this spot, you are in the magical world of in between marked first back in 1868 by E.N. Darling. In 1992 a more permanent granite marker was placed, a tribute to our cultures interest in the novelty of being several places at once; pieces of the body in four states but not fully existing anywhere.

  In the middle of a four corners day in May, I met a friend for coffee. While sipping lattes she declared with some satisfaction that she was “simplifying” her life. She had spent the morning going through all her cupboards and closets, getting rid of junk and organizing.

  “Too much clutter creates stress…when in doubt, throw it out,” she said with conviction.

  Simplifying, I thought. What a novel idea. I could use some simplicity. I was inspired. Back at home, I put on old clothes, tied my hair back with a pink scarf and decided to tackle the basement. ‘Go big, or go home,’ I thought as I descended the stairs.

  In an unfinished storage room we had boxes as old as the pyramids. I was
Indiana Jones in the Well of Souls blowing away years of dust. I was curious as any good archaeologist should be. I cut open the tape on a box whose contents were vaguely identified with faded black magic marker, opened the flaps and found old maternity clothes. I divided the room into two sections: stuff to keep and stuff to give away. I placed the maternity clothes in the “give away” section. There were a couple boxes of toys the kids played with when they were younger and they followed. Several mundane boxes later, I found a stash of old yearbooks. While reading through one, the kids came home from school and wondered where I was. I yelled up to them that I was downstairs cleaning the basement.

  “What are you doing that for?” Lauren wondered aloud at the top of the stairs.

  “I am simplifying,” I announced.

  “Ohhh kaaaay,” she said, and in my mind I saw her shrug her shoulders at her brother.

  Seeking to place as much distance from themselves and such a task, they told me they were going down the street to play with friends, which was just as well because “Simplifying is hard work and I don't need any distractions!” I yelled up.

  Sensing an opportunity, Lauren said, “Maybe we should order pizza tonight since you've been working so hard?”

  “Great idea,” I said. If Indiana Jones got the Ark of the Covenant, I should at least get a pizza.

  As they left I heard Stefan say, “Whoohooo, pizza for dinner! Hey, Mom, you should clean the basement more often.”

  By early evening, the side of the room stacked with things to give away was decidedly smaller than anticipated, but I had swept up all the dust, dead spiders and other bugs that were dried and crumbled like old leaves on contact with my broom. There remained one large box at the back. It was heavy and unmarked. I examined the outside but had no recollection of packing it or moving it there. With considerable effort, I half-hauled and half-shoved it into the middle of the room. Under a hanging light bulb, I cut open the tape, yellowed and frayed at the edges, and pulled back the flaps.

  On top was Norton's Anthology of Literature, and just below it several spiral notebooks, mine and Mike's, full of class notes from university. I remembered this box of books. It had been packed by some other woman, a younger version of me, right after university on her way to a new apartment. I thumbed through my notebook from Philosophy 101. Despite the fact that the class was at 9a.m., it had been a favorite course. Mike and I, having recently begun dating, had sat together yawning. On the corner of one page containing notes on Plato's theory of dualism I made out in Mike's handwriting, “Care for a Plate-O muffins after class?” Directly under that was written in my own script, “A sad attempt, but yes” and after that, a smiley face. I was into smiley faces then.

  I set the notebooks aside and lifted away several textbooks. At the bottom I recognized another favorite text, Abnormal Psychology, and heaved it into the lamplight. Upon lifting the cover, a folded piece of spiral notebook paper fell out, and landed on the newly swept floor. Its memory was initially lost to me. The edges were jagged on one side and it was spotted with what looked like grease. I bent over to pick it up and even as I turned it over, I began remembering my younger self sitting in the cafeteria discussing dreams with Mike.

  I read through it, smiling, and then on impulse, I brought the paper up to my nose and breathed in. I sniffed the grease spots left by the Shepherd's Pie, but there was only the musty smell of aged paper. I remembered that we had meant to read this list every year on the anniversary of our first date, but we never had. Somewhere along the way, we had forgotten all about it.

  Later, over pizza at the kitchen table, I said to Mike smiling, “Check out what I found while cleaning the basement today.”

  “You cleaned the basement?” he said in shock.

  “Yes, but that's not the point. Look at this.” I handed Mike the piece of paper.

  He flipped open the page with little reverence, like he would a bill or the front page of a newspaper. I was watching. Waiting for the moment. It was coming.

  “Hey…What is this? Where did you find this?” He was incredulous and had started rubbing the tip of the page softly with his thumb. “This is our list!” he said, exuberant, eyebrows raised. “Do you remember this? Sitting in the cafeteria! Boy, were we young then. Check it out,” he said pointing and grinning up at me: “Bungee jump, are you kidding me?” He harrumphed in mockery.

  “I know,” I said, “and tie ourselves to trees in the Amazon? What the heck is that?”

  He was suddenly earnest, “But look here, some of these are good. Like, have a family. CHECK. See the seven wonders. Meet the Pope and Mother Teresa. Build our own cabin in the woods and live there. That doesn't sound half bad. Check out this one: live on a boat and cross the ocean. You know…we could actually do that someday. Maybe when we retire.”

  “I know. Seeing that list after, what, 15 years? It moved me.”

  “I love who we are now, and in many ways, I do not have any desire to go back and be that person I was so long ago. But I love the passion of those early days, when we believed that we could make anything happen.”

  “I think we should keep that list around for awhile. Who knows, maybe our former selves will inspire us to do something wild and crazy?” I said grinning, patting his shoulder affectionately.

  “Hmmm,” he said, but I could tell he hadn't really heard me. He had refolded the paper and inadvertently raised it to his nose and was breathing in.

  8

  Dreams come full circle when we gaze at our own children and wonder what the future will hold for them. One day during the hot summer Stefan was four, we sat together on the back porch reading a Richard Scarry book on careers. The book covered all the usual professions that might capture a child's imagination: policeman, fireman, astronaut.

  “What do you think you'd like to be when you grow up?” I asked.

  He shrugged his shoulders. I looked deep into his eyes like they were crystal balls, with a heart full of a million hopes, trying to decipher his future. After discussing the pros and cons of several honorable choices and receiving little enthusiasm from him, I assumed he wasn't interested and we moved on to other books. Unknown to me was that he had taken the question seriously.

  Several nights later, I learned of this firsthand at a rather formal dinner party we hosted with some of Mike's co-workers and their spouses. When Stefan came in to say goodnight, our friends made much of him. One of them asked, “So young man, what would you like to be when you grow up?”

  Without hesitating, he smiled broadly and said decidedly, “I want to be a garbage man when I grow up!”

  Fortunately, he took their laughter and applause as approval, made a gallant bow, and tumbled off to bed. While grinning at some good natured ribbing, I thought about his response and tried to figure out where it had come from.

  The next morning, he climbed into my lap, and I asked him why he wanted to be a garbage man. He had it all worked out: “For one thing they drive the coolest truck. It is loud and you can hear it coming from a long way off. I would be the guy hanging off the back of the truck. The one who hops off the end and grabs the garbage cans. That guy always has big muscles. I think it would be the greatest to hang off the back of that truck and go fast and loud down the street.”

  In a moment of comprehension, I remembered that anytime the garbage was being picked up, Stefan was at the window watching with envious eyes. I wondered how those men would have felt to know that someone was watching and admiring them. I told him it was a fantastic dream and that I would do anything in my power to help him accomplish it.

  Years later, I supportively told him as he trudged out the door to take out the trash, “Just think, you're only nine years old and already you have accomplished your dream of being a garbage man.”

  He was not amused. He told me it certainly wasn't what he expected, nor did he think a career as a garbage man was in his future.

  ~Part Two~

  Come about : to tack, to change direction relative to the
wind.

  9

  The dream list I had excavated in our basement floated around the family room for a few weeks before Mike brought home several boating magazines. At first, I read them with casual interest, but the idea of living on a boat was subversive. It morphed into a small, brown field mouse that left droppings all over my mind when I wasn't looking. Of course, I set traps. I put an aromatic havarti on the small trigger plate, and carefully laid the traps in every nook and cranny I could think of. The mouse was clever, I'll give him that. Not only did he eat the cheese, he avoided being snapped under the bar. After some time, he became comfortable in his new digs, and I saw him brazenly cross the hearth of my brain. He looked right at me, his little nose wriggling, his whiskers shaking, brown eyes alert and mischievous, and I thought how cute he was. I agreed to let him stay if he didn't wreak too much havoc. Never make a deal with a mouse.

  While I toyed with a couple of boating articles on exotic ports, I kept a wary eye on Mike, who was gulping down several periodicals in a single sitting. In between bites of verbiage, he would cast furtive sideline glances in my direction as if sizing up prey. After fifteen years of marriage, we were well familiar with each other's subtle techniques in the ways of manipulation. In a mental ballroom, we clasped hands, the music started, and we danced: he tried to hide the fact that the idea of living on a boat had captured him. I told him I was not interested in living on a boat, although secretly I was, at least from an armchair perspective. He purposefully came across as nonchalant even while he lobbed this grenade into the middle of the family room, “Hon? Living on a boat would be a great adventure, don't you think? Maybe after we're retired we could pick up a little something and cruise around the Caribbean together? You know, just island hop. Nothing too serious.”