October 31, 1972
It’s snowing outside. I feel sorry for the kids out tonight, in their pirate costumes and such, dragging themselves from house to house. Idiots. Mother is knocking on my bedroom door, telling me Steven is on the phone. Take a message, I have just told her, because I have to get this stuff down. She thinks it’s important I take his call. How the hell could she know that? She needs to find her own man to take some of the pressure off.
What I have to write is this: this afternoon I had a proper conversation with Amar. Nothing profound, but we could probably now be considered acquaintances. He was in the same spot, under the tree, wearing the same baggy pants and striped shirt, with beads hanging round his neck and flopping against his muscular chest. I had on my suede jacket, the one with the fake fur around the collar, tickling my chin, making me sweat around the neck.
I asked him if he taught at Trent or something, and he said no, he wasn’t a part of the university or even from Peterborough. Oh I see, I said, continuing to leaf through the Elements of Style in my hands and raising my eyebrows to fake interesting passages. So why are you here then?
He said he just liked sitting among the students, around those who were searching for answers to questions.
Of course, I said, like I knew what he meant.
I’m in town to see my mother, he continued. She lives out of town, past Douro, in a cabin on the river. But she’s sick, so I go visit her at St. Joseph’s.
Bummer, I said. What is she sick with?
She had a brain aneurism last week, he told me.
I’m sorry, I said. (I wanted to walk away then, but I stayed.) It must be hard for you?
I don’t really want to talk about it right now, if you don’t mind. He was stroking his own arm and looking into my lap.
Gosh, sorry.
He spread his fingers and combed them through his long hair, and then smoothed down a faint mustache with his pointer and thumb.
I freaked out then, like what if he was some sort of assassin, plotting to poison me with a graciously offered herbal tea? Or stab me with a pocket knife? I said goodbye and ran home, like some sort of chicken shit. Found Mother saying the rosary in the living room when I got here, by herself, with the drapes drawn, with not even the television on. She’s so lame.
I just want to stay in my room all night, even though it’s Halloween. I hear the knocks at the door downstairs, but I’ll let Mother hand out the candy apples and popcorn balls she made. I’ll let her talk to Steven. I just want to disappear.
November 5, 1972
It’s November and he hasn’t been under the tree. Besides, the wind off the water makes it too cold for anyone to stand out there.
So I went to the hospital to look for him.
I know it sounds ridiculous, especially since I had class, but I couldn’t stop myself from going. I wanted to see him again, plus, I couldn’t think of anything else to snap me out of this depression.
I hate hospitals. Fuck do I ever hate hospitals, sickness all over the damn place. Funny how I went there to try and perk myself up. I generally try to avoid the smell of death when I can.
I walked up and down every floor. Saw babies sleeping in windows, kids screaming for their mothers, old people gasping for breath. Yuck. Finally I asked a nurse if someone had a brain aneurysm, where would they be? She said probably in intensive care, but that I wouldn’t be allowed in unless I was a family member. I said (kind of rudely) that I was a family member and could she please direct me to the goddamn room. She looked stunned when I told her that, like I had just burped up a pumpkin or something.
I found him sitting on a blue plastic chair in a waiting room. Outside the part I couldn’t get into.
Hello, I said and he looked up, surprised. How is your mother?
She’s gone, he said.
They moved her?
No. (He looked annoyed with me.) She passed away this morning if you must know. His words had a sort of evil snap to them, but his eyes looked intriguing and handsome when he said it.
The door opened and they wheeled a stretcher out. A stretcher with a body on it, covered by a white sheet.
Is that her? He shook his head no. At the sight of the random dead body, I felt like I wanted to make the sign of the cross, but didn’t. He bowed his head and stood up. I walked to the elevator with him.
Sorry about your loss, I said and he nodded again.
He turned his face towards me: Can I buy you a cup of coffee? His teeth danced bright against his toasted skin, he tucked a piece of his hair behind his ear and ran his thin finger over the string of beads around his neck.
Thanks, but I can’t. I’m here to see a friend. She fell down and broke her arm.
Sorry to hear that.
Oh well, I said and he actually laughed, a gruff laugh, like the years had attached themselves to his voice.
You can call me, though, I said as the elevator door opened. If you need someone to talk to about your mother.
That’s very nice of you.
He held the elevator with his sandalled foot while I ran to the desk and scribbled my number on a pink slip that said “While You Were Out” on the top. He took it between his palms and bowed.
Namaste, he said and winked at me as the elevator door closed.
The knocks at my door have finally stopped and my mother’s bedroom light has gone out.
November 12, 1972
He hasn’t called, which makes sense considering he must be almost ten years older than me. And he’s a different race, not that it should matter. I have a few Chinese friends from my classes — that’s something.
But I thought he would call.
I don’t really know why I want to hear from him. Or what I would do afterwards. It’s just that his energy invites me in. I think I have what you call sexual infatuation. That, or we were destined to be together forever (laugh, laugh).
Steven has stopped calling too. He wrote me a letter, which he slid between the front door and the screen. In it he said: I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I’m going to give you the space you need, because I love you.
My mother opened the letter before giving it to me, and handed me the page with an “I told you so” kind of look on her face.
He’s a wonderful boy, she said. You would be lucky to have a man like that as your husband.
Just give me the paper, Mother. I grabbed it out of her hand. Just because she’s desperate since Father died, doesn’t mean I have to become all needy too. It’s not my fault he smoked until his lungs gave out.
November 19, 1972
Saw Steven on campus today. I tried to be nice because well, he looked so goddamn pathetic. Jesus Christ. You’d think I was the only girl who ever let him feel her up.
November 21, 1972
I can hardly write this, my fingers won’t stop twitching.
He just called.
Mother said, There’s some man on the phone for you (I told her later it was my professor), and I picked up the receiver in the living room to hear his voice.
Hello, Marigold.
Amar?
Are you surprised?
How’s your mother?
She died, Marigold. You know that.
I’m sorry, I meant to say, how are you dealing with the loss of your mother? (Oh Christ, I thought. Man, I was nervous.)
As well as can be expected, I guess. Things change.
Yes, they do I guess, I said. Then nothing but breathing, for almost a minute. And then him: Some people are uncomfortable with silence, not me.
No?
Silence is invigorating. Especially between two people.
I guess.
How old are you, Marigold? His voice came out chalky but soothing.
Twenty-five. (I lied.)
Would you like to g
et together sometime?
Yes.
Just to talk.
Yeah.
I hope you don’t find it weird of me to ask. It’s just that I don’t know many people around here. And now with my mother gone, no one.
I said, yes.
Great then, we could meet tomorrow. Around 5:00, at Trent, on that same bench by the river?
Okay.
So now I am wondering what I’ve done. And why? And the worse part is I told Steven I would study with him tomorrow afternoon — a kind of reconciliation. I’ll have to tell him I’m sick. I think I might be. I just keep thinking about tomorrow, that’s the best part.
November 22, 1972
I could hardly wait to write in this book today. God, I hope Mother doesn’t find it. I’ll hide it under the mattress, she’ll never look there.
We had a picnic.
Yes, you heard me right. In November, a picnic! He brought the basket, packed with bread, salami, and garlic pickles. He had a thermos with gin and tonic in it. Can you believe it — gin and tonic! The wind was blowing a bit, but we sat behind a tree to shield ourselves.
I’m sorry, he said. I had no idea it was going to be so chilly. (It’s November, I thought. Of course it’s chilly.) I hope this is okay, Marigold.
It’s fine, I said and he stared at me. He had pulled his hair back in a ponytail and his chest hairs were peeking out from under his V-neck sweater. (I’m embarrassed to say, but I wanted to lick them.) I wore my paisley shirt underneath my suede jacket. My hair down. And blue eye shadow.
We were not sure what to say at first — fuck, fuck, fuck is what I was saying inside my head as I scrunched up my toes in my platforms (totally impractical shoes of course — so like me). He asked me if I thought they should have cancelled the Olympics after what happened to all those people in Germany. I said that I didn’t really follow sports, but they probably should have — that the organizers were all a bunch of idiots.
He responded by saying that things weren’t always as they seemed.
I guess, I shrugged. (Who cares though, really?)
How are your studies going? he asked.
Pretty good, I guess. I’m taking English.
Ah, good for you. My mother studied English as well. And I took some courses when I was in university — I never graduated though, it wasn’t for me. He spoke without opening his mouth very wide, which was strange but somehow relaxing. And during one of the pauses, he reached his arm up and placed it on the ground behind my back, and kind of stroked my shoulder with his finger.
What do you do, Amar? I was trying to ignore him, and kind of hoping no one walked by.
Nothing right now. (Oh great, I thought.) I’m been up from Toronto, staying with my mother. She had been living up here for a few years. His eyes were getting teary, and he took his arm away from behind my back, which was a bit of a relief.
Right, I said, nodding like an artsy type at a dinner party.
I’m staying in the cabin where she was living before she died. You should visit sometime. Though lacking in amenities, it’s a cool place to find your centre.
I can imagine, I said, though I really couldn’t. What about your father?
He went back to India when my parents split up. My mother’s from Peterborough, so she came here. The cabin used to belong to her parents — they’re gone now as well.
So you’re half Canadian then? (A stupid thing to say now that I’ve thought about it.)
Yes, my father came from India to teach and met my mother in Toronto, where I grew up.
Then the wind pushed over the thermos on top of the loaf of bread we were breaking off with our fingers. He only laughed and commented, Ah the wind, he makes himself known.
Who says the wind is a man? I said.
You make a good point, Marigold, you do. (A pause.) You have beautiful hair, you know that? Like fall leaves. And a beautiful colour around you — crimson streaks like a sunset.
What can a girl say to that — oh thank you, I know I’m gorgeous in every way (laugh)!
I don’t know if I will see Amar again. After lunch, he asked me if I would like to get to know each other a bit better by meeting again. He leaned forward a bit when he said it. I turned my head away and sighed, my cheeks stinging red. Why would he ever take a girl like me seriously? Should I let him?
Amar gave me the picnic basket to keep before he walked away. (I’ve hidden it in the back of my closet.) He touched the top of my hand when he handed it to me, and his fingertips sent up a jolt reaching all corners of my body at once. Every corner.
I should be studying right now. I have a mid-term tomorrow — Canadian Literature — essay questions covering three different texts: Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town, Who Has Seen the Wind, and Roughing it in the Bush. How can I bring narratives together that don’t seem to match at all? That’s what I need to figure out.
I am staring at a spot of chipped paint beside my bed and wondering where he is right now. Where he is and what he’s thinking.
Chapter Sixteen
After days in her bedroom — sleeping, reading the Bhagavad Gita, and basically staring at the backs of her hands in a darkened room — my mother appeared in the kitchen. “How’s this for magic!” she said manically, reaching her frail arms towards the ceiling. She was dressed in her tank top, with no bra, and denim shorts. “What’s the date?”
I told her it was July 17th and she cocked her head towards me and swung it back and forth. “Guess I should try to get up for a while. How has the weather been?”
“Mainly sunny to partly cloudy, 31 degrees, ten percent chance of rain,” my father said, reading from his newspaper but not looking up at her.
“Fuck,” she said in a shrill voice that popped and startled me. Father looked up at her with a grimace.
“Sorry, I meant to say, wow, still hot. Maya, you and me are going to the market, for groceries and razors. I need to shave this head down again. Then I guess I’ll move back out to the teepee.”
“I’ve kept it clean for you,” I said to her. “I swept it every day.”
“Go get your market purse, we have vegetables to buy.” She was trying at least. She was giving life one more shot.
I jumped up then and ran up to my bedroom. On the way back down, I heard her talking to my father.
“Steven, I’m just trying to say that I’m sorry. I should never have acted that way.” My father was chewing on the end of a pencil and spitting tiny bits onto the table. When she saw me she added, “Maya, I was just telling your father that I am going to do all I can to last as long as I can. A positive attitude can go a long way.”
“Jesus, Mari, enough with the inspirational quotes. Soon you’ll be giving out pamphlets again. They’re just words, you know.”
“I beg to differ,” said my mother, and we headed towards the door. On the way across the threshold she tripped and had to wait a few moments to recover from what she called “dizzy stars.” While we waited, she bent down and whispered in my ear, “Sometimes you fall off of life, but you get back on.”
I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, be on her side, let her cry on my shoulder — every cliché I could think of, I wanted to give it to her. I reached up and held her hand as we headed off through the door.
We stopped at the Roughens’ house before the market. We went right up the cement steps, knocked on the door, waited. Mrs. Roughen opened the door in a huff.
“Marigold, you’re up.”
“Trudie, I’m here to apologize.” I was still holding my mother’s hand while she spoke. “I was not very nice to you, and I really do feel bad about it.” My mother’s white tank top was a bit yellow, and it was drooping down around the neck. The hair on her head looked like red moss on the north side of a tree. And around her, a grey murkiness seemed like it didn’t want to let her go.
“Mari, don’t worry, come in.” Mrs. Roughen’s wrinkled mouth had shaped itself into a grotesque pout. We walk through the door.
Mrs. Roughen’s house was decorated entirely in bright colours. An orange couch with yellow cushions and a coffee table made entirely of glass. Blood-red curtains with tiny stars blocked out any light from the street. Our bare toes stuck to hardwood floor. The air smelled of cinnamon, another red, but not like something was baking in the oven, more like a candle had been lit. My mother walked in and sat herself down on the orange couch before Mrs. Roughen had time to suggest it.
“Of course, sit, sit,” Mrs. Roughen said. Her hair was now dyed the colour of a clean fire engine and she had started wearing makeup again, blue eye shadow covered her lids and her burgundy lips matched the air around her body. Air that I tried to avoid.
“Trudie, as I was saying, as you can understand, I have been going through a hard patch and, well, I let it take me over. It became way too real to me, and I know it isn’t. At least soon it won’t be.”
“Mari, don’t you talk like that, you need to have faith.”
“And I do have faith, really.” A pause. We sat, the three of us, not speaking. I looked at my mother, from my mother to Mrs. Roughen. Which is when I heard it. With all the commotion at my house and with my mother’s sadness, I had not heard anything extra for a while. But I heard what Mrs. Roughen was thinking then, and it made me mad.
“That dirty creep!” I yelled out.
“What?” from Mrs. Roughen and my mother.
“He told you . . .”
“Told me what, dear, and who?”
“Elijah, he told you about the baby.”
Mrs. Roughen stood up then and started to wring her hands like she was washing them, obsessively. “Oh Mari, I’m sorry.”
My mother closed her eyes then and puckered her lips as if she was trying to keep something out, keep something from arising in her. She looked out the window.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That you’re going to have a baby, Mother! Elijah told Mrs. Roughen that you are going to have a baby.”
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