Born That Way

by Susan Ketchen

  Ms. Hackney, the gymnastics instructor, says I can stroll around watching everybody and notice if anything in particular appeals to me. I recognize a few kids from school, but there’s no one from my class. Some people are tumbling on mats, some are walking on the balance beam. There’s a set of uneven parallel bars at the back of the gym that no one is using so I wander over. I feel more comfortable with fewer people around.

  I look up at the tallest of the two bars and stretch, but it’s out of reach. It’s perfect.

  I jump, grab the bar and hold on. My fingers barely make it around the bar. I lift myself up for a few seconds and rest my chin on the bar, adjust my grip then I hang down again until my palms sweat so much I lose my grasp. That’s when my dad comes over, sent by Ms. Hackney, who insists that everyone must have a spotter.

  I look at the lower bar.

  “Hey, Dad, help me up here.”

  “Do you really think? I mean, shouldn’t you be learning by watching the other kids?”

  “No, Dad, really. Help me here, lift me up, I want to hang from my knees.”

  He stuffs his BlackBerry in a pocket and lifts me up so I get my knees hooked over the bar, then he lowers my shoulders until I’m hanging upside down.

  “Now what?” he says.

  “Nothing. It’s perfect.” I can feel my face throbbing from all the blood running to my head. I let my hands hang down and my fingers brush the floor. I look at my dad, who is upside down now and standing on the ceiling.

  Ms. Hackney slides in beside him. “Well, Sylvie, you’ve gravitated to a very challenging apparatus. Do you want to see what else you can do?”

  “No, this is just fine,” I say, because it is.

  “Would you like to try a flip over the bar?” I see her look at Dad who shrugs his shoulders.

  “No. This is all I want to do.”

  “Well maybe next time, no sense rushing things,” says Ms. Hackney.

  “This is all I’ll ever want to do,” I say, to be perfectly clear. I don’t want any misunderstandings. I don’t want anyone getting their hopes up that I’m going to turn into an Olympic gymnast. I want to hang and stretch. If they let me do this, I’ll be fine.

  “There’s a lot more to gymnastics than hanging off a bar,” says Ms.Hackney. She doesn’t sound pleased.

  “Not for me,” I say.

  Ms. Hackney turns to Dad and says, “She’s a strong little thing—girls of her stature can do very well in gymnastics as long as they are sufficiently flexible. And I’d say Sylvie’s as strong as some of the boys.”

  Strong as a boy? Well I don’t mind that as long as I don’t smell like one.

  They turn their backs to me and have a little confab. Ms. Hackney will be saying something like she’ll work on me and I’ll come around. My dad will say no, she won’t come around, because he knows me. He’s known me a long time. He’s known me since I was born, and along with my mom he knows everything about me. Well, almost everything. There’s one thing they don’t know, and even though it’s only one thing it’s a big thing, and I think about it every single day.

  It happened when I was five. I can still remember it crystal clear even though I’m now fourteen. I was in the kitchen at Auntie Sally’s house, the one she rented before the one that she’s in now. I was so short, the countertops were level with my eyeballs. Grandpa was with me, he was visiting from Saskatchewan and I was talking to him about getting a horse because Auntie Sally had acreage.

  “Half an acre isn’t really acreage, Pipsqueak,” he told me.

  “They’ve already got it mostly fenced, we could close in that one bit below the compost pile and there’d be a paddock.”

  “Well you’ve got a good point there. Too bad the city bylaws won’t allow livestock in this neighborhood.”

  “We’d have to tell them?”

  “How long do you think you could hide a horse?”

  The countertop was a sunny yellow colour with pale flecks and black seams at the edges. When I leaned against the lower cupboards the door handles dug into my back. I remember thinking that maybe I’d never have a pony. It was all I wanted, even then.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” said Grandpa. “When you grow up to be as tall as my shoulder, if you’re still interested in horses, I’ll buy you one.”

  I checked his face and he was serious, he wasn’t kidding around. Then I looked at his shoulder. It was a long way up there. A really, really long way. But still.

  “Okay,” I said.

  I didn’t tell Mom or Dad. Any time I hint around about having a horse one day, Dad says where would you keep it, then talks about how expensive horses are and how equestrian sports are elitist, which I thought sounded pretty good until I looked up elitist in the dictionary and saw it meant a “socially superior group” which reminded me of Amber and Topaz. And Mom always makes the same comment about me being in a “horse-crazy stage”, as though it’s another developmental stage and I’ll grow out of it. But I know I won’t. Not in a million years.

  *

  After dinner I try a couple of math problems then work on my pulley diagram for science class, which gives me an idea. I figure I probably won’t be going back to gymnastics, but it has inspired me to investigate new stretching techniques. So I tie my two skipping ropes together, put a loop around my ankles, feed the line around the base of my bureau, across the room and around one of the feet of my bed. Then I lie in the middle of the floor, stretch my hands over my head, grab the loose end of the rope and pull. At first I’m afraid the bureau might topple over and crush me, which would be devastating for my parents, but it moves half an inch, then sticks. I feel the pull on my ankles at one end and a pull on my shoulders at the other and I am trying to figure out how to get the stretch down my back when Mom knocks and immediately pops her head into the room.

  “Oh, hi, Mom,” I say, trying to sound natural.

  For once Mom is stuck for words.

  “I’m doing a science project,” I say. “About pulleys.”

  “Okay,” says Mom. She doesn’t look convinced. “But don’t wrap anything around your neck.”

  My neck! Of course, I should have thought of that, it would be a much better way of stretching my spine without dislocating my shoulders. My neck is pretty short to begin with. Maybe if I put a scarf around it for protection and then the skipping rope on top . . .

  “Sylvia.” She uses her special tone. “Nothing around your neck.”

  “Sure, Mom.”

  Later that night, after I’ve gone to bed, I have to get up to use the bathroom and I see that lights are still on in the kitchen. I figure I might as well get a glass of water while I’m up but then I stop in the hallway when I hear Mom’s and Dad’s voices. They are talking very quietly so I know it has something to do with me. I slide down against the wall and sit on the floor.

  Mom says, “There’s an article in Psychoanalyst Review about girls and horses.”

  “You’re kidding,” says Dad.

  The kitchen door is ajar, and I can see through the louvers if I find the right sight line. I can see Dad’s feet. He’s still wearing his good shoes. They are my favourites with rich red-brown leather that shines even in the shadow under the kitchen table. There are little leather tassels on the top of each shoe. I would love to have shoes like this, but Dad says they are extremely expensive so I have to wait until I am a grownup with a job and money of my own. I told him that I’m old enough to have a part-time job but he snorted like he didn’t believe me, then said there was no reason for me to be in such a hurry.

  “Apparently riding offers ways of fulfilling and working through wishes and fears that are displaced from parents,” says Mom.

  “How do they figure that?” says Dad. His feet slide back under his chair then perch on their toes. Ballerina feet.

 
Mom is wearing her lambskin slippers which are a million years old, all saggy and thin-soled, but I know she loves them—she’ll never throw them out or replace them. She slides them out in front of her and crosses her legs at the ankles.

  “Well, Freud identified a number of developmental stages—”

  “Oh, not this again.”

  Mom starts tapping her toes together. “All right then, I can skip all that, but to put it on a practical level, perhaps she’s afraid we’re going to divorce.”

  Divorce? Why would they divorce? Have I missed something? Fortunately my dad says, “Where would she get that idea?” The tassels on his shoes are vibrating.

  “I run into this issue all the time at work—lots of kids worry that their parents are going to break up.”

  Sure, but not my parents.

  Dad grunts. He doesn’t seem to buy this either.

  “And I know you have no interest in the theoretical background, but it’s also possible that riding is an early adolescent phallic activity.”

  I make a mental note to look up “fallick” in my dictionary. It doesn’t sound like a bad thing, but then I hear Dad say, “Oh give me a break.”

  “And that it’s a substitute for conscious masturbation.”

  Masturbation I don’t have to look up. That was the topic of one of the more embarrassing talks I’ve had with Mom, so it’s burned into my memory forever.

  “She’s thirteen,” says Dad.

  “Fourteen,” Mom corrects him, thank goodness. “She can’t stay your little baby girl forever.”

  Dad’s feet go flat on the floor. “Why would I . . . you’re the one who—”

  “And while we’re talking about this I should also warn you that, according to the article, there’s a correlation between women’s interest in horses and idealized relationships with unavailable fathers. Which is why I thought you taking her to gymnastics would be a good idea.”

  “Gymnastics is not going to work,” says Dad. “All she wants to do is hang from the bars and stretch.”

  “See?” says Mom. “She’s obsessed with becoming taller and growing up. She wants to be an adult. It’s so Jungian. She wants to marry you.”

  “Evelyn,” says Dad, which is not a good sign. Usually he calls her Evie, or when he’s kidding around he says it more like “E.V.” which he says stands for “extra voluble”. I keep meaning to look this up but haven’t done it yet.

  “It’s classic Electra Complex,” says Mom.

  “Oh right,” says Dad. “So she’s going to murder you and marry me, is that how you see it? Hey—isn’t this like one of those Shakespeare plays?”

  Murder my mother? Marry my father? Is this all code for something else? Because straight out it makes no sense to me at all.

  “Well Hamlet of course, though the genders are reversed, but it’s the same idea,” says Mom.

  My dad’s heels are bouncing. “Have you ever considered, Evelyn, that perhaps your relationship with Sylvie could use some work?”

  Oh, no, Dad. Don’t say that. She’s trying too hard already.

  “Work?” says Mom. She can’t believe it either.

  “Well, not exactly work,” says Dad. “You’re already too serious with her. You’re always psychoanalyzing her—”

  “I do no such thing.”

  “Ever since you went back to school and started this new job—”

  “That is so unfair.”

  “Couldn’t you just play with her?”

  “Tony, she is much too old for that.”

  “Well then, female bonding maybe? That way she’d have second thoughts about bumping you off and marrying me.”

  There’s a long silence, then I hear Mom sniff. “Now you’re being ironic,” she says.

  “I am not.”

  “Just once I’d like you to take my career seriously.”

  Dad’s heels bounce some more. “You need to lighten up, Evelyn. You need to leave work at work and stop applying all that psychological stuff to your family.”

  “Well you certainly bring your work home.”

  “Only to the extent that I use my financial skills to manage the family budget.”

  “As I use my psychoanalytic skills to manage the family relationships.” Mom’s slippers move out of my sight beneath her chair. There’s a great long dark gap between her feet and Dad’s feet.

  “There’s no comparison,” says Dad.

  “There certainly is,” says Mom.

  I hate it when they’re like this. I feel sick inside, even though I know they always work it out. It’s worse that they’re arguing about me this time, and not the usual stuff like whether or not to trade in Mom’s car on something newer, or what to say to Dad’s brother next time he asks to borrow money.

  “Listen,” says Dad, “I was only suggesting that you and Sylvie do some things together. I tried the gymnastics thing, now it’s your turn.”

  “Like what?”

  “How should I know? Girl stuff. Go to a spa. Join a gym.”

  A spa? This is getting ridiculous. I could clear it up by telling them that all I want to do is grow as tall as Grandpa’s shoulder. I could stand up right now, walk into the kitchen and explain everything. But what would be the point? They won’t believe me. And if they did believe me they’d disagree with the whole plan, call Grandpa, tell him not to interfere and I’d never ever own a horse.

  “Aren’t you afraid that a spa will be too expensive?” says Mom.

  “Are you being ironic now? Because if you are I think that’s completely not called for.”

  “Oh Honey, of course not,” says Mom. “It’s a good idea. Leave it with me. I’ll think of something.” Her right foot has appeared out of the gloom and snaked its way over to Dad’s shoes. She drops the slipper and slides her toes up under the cuff of his pant leg.

  “Ready for bed?” says Dad.

  “Mmm hmmm,” says Mom.

  I take off for my room and shut my door. They always make up. They would never divorce.

  I can’t find “fallick” in the dictionary.

  CHAPTER THREE

  We are galloping along a beach and into the waves. I’ve never ridden a horse in the water before. I wonder if they can swim, especially if they are wearing metal shoes, though I don’t know if my horse has shoes on or not. I grab the mane and bend to one side but the horse’s feet are moving too fast going in and out of the water and I think hey, I’m riding, and I’m not falling off, and it’s bareback, oh boy! And I have the most amazing thought: since I’m riding, I must be dreaming. I try to keep the thought kind of quiet so it doesn’t wake me up. I pay attention to the dream, to the white mane of the horse, to the sound of the water splashing. And then I think, well, if it’s a dream I’m not going to hurt myself, I’m not going to fall off, so I should have some fun! And we go farther into the water until I’m sure it’s really deep and the horse must be swimming but we’re going along smooth as silk. Suddenly there’s another horse and rider beside us and I think too bad this is a dream, too bad this can’t be reality and that’s when I wake up.

  I must grow taller.

  It’s Saturday. There’s no wake-up alarm, and even though it’s only eight o-clock Mom comes in and sits on the edge of my bed.

  “Hey, Sugarplum,” she says.

  “Morning,” I say. I’m still feeling sad about the dream just being a dream.

  “I thought we should do something special together today,” says Mom.

  “Oh yeah?”

  She reaches over and I think she’s going to straighten my bangs out of my eyes but instead I feel her lift a strand of hair from the top of my head and let it slide through her fingertips. “Do you ever think about putting in hi-lights? They’d make you look very grown-up.”

 
; “Mom, I prefer it plain, and simple.” She knows this, we’ve had this discussion before, but I try not to sound impatient with her. I know she’s had a lot on her mind.

  “Your dad would really like it,” she says, which reminds me of their conversation I overheard last night. Now I see where this is going.

  So I say, “Sure Mom, that sounds like fun.” My day is ruined.

  I’m not even due for a haircut. I was at Magic Cuts only two weeks ago—this is where Dad always takes me, it’s in the mall and they only charge $6 which he says is a sensible price to pay for a trim. Mom wants to take me to Madeleine, who is her own hairdresser. She works in a salon on Fifth Street. But when Mom phones after breakfast she’s told that Madeleine is booked up for the day and no one else is available and I think I have a reprieve, but then the phone rings five minutes later and apparently Madeleine has agreed to fit me in at 11:15 because of Mom being such a special customer, so my day is ruined all over again, and I start to worry that maybe my life is ruined too. What will the kids at school say if I show up next week with a new image?

  I try but I can’t think of an escape, unless I can draw the line at a cut. Maybe Mom would be satisfied with that, a new style, something with spikes that I could comb out on the way to school. I focus on staying calm and don’t say much as we drive to town. Mom says I must be very excited because I’m so quiet.

  I have a moment of hope when Mom can’t find a parking space in the lot behind the salon and she won’t parallel park her car on Fifth Street because she says the spaces are all too small. It’s ten minutes past eleven and I think we might miss the appointment when Mom finds a spot around the corner on Duncan Street, in the angle parking section. We climb out of the car and Mom makes me run down Fifth Street and we’re at the salon right on time.

  I’ve never been inside the place before. Mom always goes on her lunch break, or after work, if her roots need touching up. I’ve walked past a hundred times without being able to see anything because the window glass is so darkly tinted.