by Joan Boswell
“Just which one would you have suggested I marry, Marie?” Janet struggled to steady her voice, glacial ice infusing each successive word. “The one who finally confessed, after six months of dating, that he was already married? Or perhaps Tom, who was blatantly and continuously unfaithful? Probably Larry, right? You both liked him, didn’t believe me when I told you he favoured ending our arguments with his raised fist.”
“Jeesh, Jan, I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that raising kids is so damn hard, and I have John to help me. I can’t imagine doing it alone. It’d be simply impossible.”
“You think I haven’t heard that argument before? Every goddamned, well-meaning parent from here to Kalamazoo has told me that! You know what my answer is to you and the rest of them? You already have your kids! How impossible would your life be without them? Imagine that!” Janet hung up the phone.
Launching herself off the sofa, she padded into the kitchen in search of a nice, soothing cup of herbal tea. The phone rang again, but seeing her sister-in-law’s number on the display panel, Janet refused to answer it. She didn’t want to explain herself to Marie, or anyone else, any more. Sure, she could have married, Marie was right. But a stable, calm environment was important for children. How many of her mother’s friends had languished in acrimonious matrimony? And look how many of her own friends’ marriages had expired before the warranties on their wedding gifts. Janet sighed. More steam was now shooting from the kettle’s spout than from her ears.
She’d really packed on the pounds. A few months ago, her morning snack would have been ice cream and a hand-full of cookies or a box of snack crackers. With the help of a registered dietician and strict adherence to her prescribed food plan, the cravings had subsided. On top of that, Janet’s rising excitement had all but banished thoughts of eating.
Eyeing a frosty carton of Sara Lee cherry cheesecake, Janet was tempted right now. Instead, she firmly closed the refrigerator door with her spreading hips, stopping to admire the ultrasound photo stuck to its front panel. The baby’s position during the procedure had prevented a determination of its sex. She’d always wanted a girl—but at this stage either would be welcome. She traced the shape of the baby’s head from the forehead to the base of the skull and then gently tapped the location of the heart. “See you soon,” she whispered.
Janet took her cup of lightly steeped Lemon Zinger tea into the guest room. This was where she had stored things for the baby. There were neat piles of soft, thin face cloths and receiving blankets. “You can never have enough of these spit-up blankies,” her cousin Diane had advised. She fingered the fuzzy warmth of sleepers in shades of mint and yellow and peach, burying her nose in the scent of the Ivory-laundered fabric. She recounted the number of tiny, white diaper shirts, hoping a dozen would be sufficient. Janet wanted to have the basics on hand, because you never knew about the timing of a baby’s delivery. “Be Prepared” was still a good motto for her life, Janet thought.
A musical mobile of woolly, pastel lambs hung from a ceiling hook above the window where a spider plant had swung in the breeze. Janet twisted the mobile’s mechanism to start the hushed strains of “Rock-a-bye Baby” and angled her grandmother’s rocking chair at the window so she could see the school playground across the street.
Her little house had been a steal ten years ago—not many people, it seemed, enjoyed the squeals of happy children at play the way Janet did. She’d recently sold it, contents and all, at a handsome profit to an engineer arriving from Pakistan. Her baby would be starting out life with all new things, in a brand-new home. So they wouldn’t have to move until after the baby arrived, Janet had negotiated a rent-back agreement with the new owner, who was amenable since he was still waiting for his immigration papers.
Janet propped her feet on the corner of the spare bed, sipped her tea and watched the shenanigans of the afternoon recess crowd. She knew she should rest. All her friends had warned her.
“You think you’re tired now? Ha! Wait till that baby comes.”
“Sleep through the night? We’re still waiting! Start praying for that miracle now, Janet!”
Like the fasting monk petitioning God for the gift of His grace, she knew what the real miracle was. At night, when she was able to quell her elation and anticipation, dropping off into a fitful sleep, Janet saw it in her dreams. She was working diligently and reverently on the day-to-day care of her infant, she smelled its newborn warmth, caressed its downy cap of hair, heard it suckle.
The soft notes of the lullaby and the cooing of the mourning doves on the hydro lines soothed Janet’s busy mind. She had waited so long, had thought perhaps her dream of a child would never materialize. But her delivery day was near.
Shrill ringing jarred Janet from her thoughts. She snatched up the portable phone. It was Michelle, the director of the neighbourhood Youth Centre where she was a volunteer.
“Just wanted to make sure you hadn’t gone off to the hospital yet. I know you’ve started your Mat Leave. How are you feeling?”
“No baby yet, but I’m ready for it to happen,” Janet said. She heard the rolling wheels of a desk chair and the hum of a printer.
“You’ll be in later then? Remember, today’s the day Crystal’s bringing in her special guest.”
Janet flashed on an image of Crystal, a pretty child with mocha-coloured skin, solemn brown eyes and a mane of corkscrewed curls. A Grade Four student, she showed initiative and leadership potential during the Centre’s programs—this undoubtedly because she was the eldest of five. It saddened Janet to see a child whose spirit was so flat and leaden. She appeared to carry the weight of the world on her slight shoulders.
The only time Janet recalled seeing Crystal smile was several months ago. On that day, she had brought in a picture of the new baby in her mommy’s tummy. She had been animated and enthused, hopeful—yet resigned to the heavier responsibilities.
When Janet asked her if she was going to have a baby brother or a baby sister, Crystal had whispered, “We don’t know for sure. But Travis says it better be a boy, he don’t father no bit . . . well, um—girls.”
“I’ve got a few things to do early this afternoon, but I’ll be there in time to set the food out before the kids arrive,” Janet said to Michelle.
Janet’s official role in the After School Program was to feed the kids a snack and help them with their homework. Her greatest contribution, she felt, was as a sounding board, listening to them tell of their day’s accomplishments and troubles—the idealized fifties-style mom waiting with chocolate-chip cookies and milk, a smile and a hug.
“Is there any chance that you could come in a bit early? We have a little something for you,” Michelle said.
Janet smiled. “A little something” she now realized was code for “we want to give you a baby gift.”
“Sure, see you between three and three fifteen?”
It was quiet across the street. Recess was over. Janet struggled out of the low-slung, armless rocker. What to Expect When You’re Expecting and all the other baby bibles urged pregnant women to have their bags packed well in advance of their due dates. Janet checked her list of basic necessities, placed the last few items into the suitcase and zipped it shut. Bumping it down the stairs, Janet wheeled the case into the front hall and parked it beside her black brief case and the brand-new diaper bag.
She pulled on the navy-blue wool coat that barely covered her new girth. Yes, Janet thought as she squeezed behind the steering wheel of her silver Camry, the decision to volunteer at the youth centre had been a fortuitous one. Life was pretty good—when you stopped thinking and hoping and stewing—and set some goals for yourself. Things were working out, with only a few alterations to her long-held plans. Janet’s only regret was that her parents wouldn’t be around to watch this grandchild grow up.
The wait at the doctor’s office wasn’t any longer than usual for an old-style family physician who still insisted on delivering his own patients’ babies. Florence, Weathe
rly’s nurse and wife, directed Janet into the examination room with a kindly pat on the arm after their obligatory trip to the scales and after the “filling of the cup”, as Florence so delicately put it.
“How are you today, dear?” Weatherly shuffled through lab results and pages in her file, not meeting Janet’s eyes. “Any complaints?”
“I’ve been tired and achy. My ankles swell, and the back pain has returned.”
“Well, that’s to be expected. You can try lying on the hard floor, rather than the chesterfield. You still going to those Aquafit classes?” he peered over the top of his half-moon glasses long enough to see Janet shake her head.
“They ended two weeks ago.”
“Keep up the walking then.” Weatherly plopped onto a stainless steel stool and gave Janet his full attention. “Good news, bad news, my dear. Your weight seems to have topped out. That’s a good sign. Did you follow through with the referral to the dietician?”
Janet nodded assent.
“Very good. Important to take control of your carbohydrate and sugar intake at this stage. The bad news is your blood pressure is still slightly elevated, which concerns me. I’d like to see you again in two weeks. I know you’re against the use of drugs, but we may need the meds to get things moving in the right direction. At this juncture, it’s best that you’re off work. See Flo on your way out, she’s got the letter you requested.”
With that, Janet was dismissed, and Weatherly was out the door to his next patient.
She found the Youth Centre’s director sorting craft supplies in the storage cupboard.
“Janet!” Michelle wiped her dusty palms across the seat of her jeans. “We need to talk. Feel like a cup of herbal tea? A cold drink, maybe?”
Uh-oh. Am I in trouble here? Janet scrambled to recall all of her recent contacts with the kids, searching for any incidents that may have given cause for concern. Hand pressed to the small of her back, Janet struggled to keep up with Michelle as she hurried down a short hall to the kitchen. It wasn’t like Michelle to take time out for chats, she was far too busy trying to hold the Centre together on meagre funds and waning volunteer interest. What was going on?
“I’m sorry, I should have made time for your annual review earlier, but . . . you know how it is around here.” Michelle shrugged and smiled, setting out mismatched mugs for tea and plugging in the electric kettle. “Can you tell me how this experience has been for you?”
God, I hate these open-ended questions, she thought. What did Michelle want her to say?
“It’s been great, very rewarding.” Janet ran her index finger, back and forth, in a semicircle along the base of the mug facing her.
“Well, that’s good. I have to admit I have been concerned,” Michelle said.
Janet’s eyes shot up to meet Michelle’s warm hazel ones. “What about?”
“During your application interview, you mentioned how upset you were over the end of your match as a Big Sister, how you wanted this volunteer position to be a less intimate one, more of an arm’s length relationship.”
Janet nodded. She had been matched with a seven-year-old girl, Ashley, and it had been a heart-wrenching experience. The Little Sister had told Janet that people were hurting her. A child welfare investigation uncovered both sexual abuse by an uncle and physical abuse by her mother’s live-in boyfriend. Taken into protective custody, Ashley had eventually been adopted by her foster parents, a couple in their late forties.
“Are you still in touch with your Little Sister?” Michelle’s voice softened, and she reached across the table, covering Janet’s hand in hers.
“No,” Janet slipped her hand away from Michelle’s. Using both damp palms, she batted back the hair that had fallen in her face. The hair was easier to wrangle than the waves of depression that had enveloped her when Ashley had been excised from her life. “The adoption official claimed that she needed a fresh start.”
“That must have been very difficult for you, after all you did to help that child.” Michelle’s tone implied that this was a question, not a statement.
“Well,” Janet forced a short laugh, “that’s when I decided that I could probably do better than a lot of the single mothers out there—like Ashley’s mother, for example.” If she told the truth, Janet would have to admit that she had made the decision to abandon her ideal of a two-parent family in a period of anger and frustration.
“I’ve noticed that you give Crystal a lot of special attention. I’m worried that perhaps you’re being drawn into her family’s difficulties.” Michelle’s steady gaze appraised her.
“She is a great kid, but what more can we do? We’ve sent over food baskets, made sure all the kids have visited the ClothesLine, alerted Children’s Aid.” Janet paused. “I can tell you one thing—it makes me count my blessings, knowing that I’ll be able to provide a better life for my baby.”
Michelle’s face broke into a warm smile. “I think that’s a very healthy attitude, a good sign that you’re moving ahead with your own life. If we’re lucky enough to have you return as a volunteer after your baby’s born, you need to remember that our focus here is on group programs. We all have our favourites, of course, but we need to treat all the children equally. So no more little gifts for Crystal, okay? Besides, it’s against Centre policy.”
“Of course, sorry if I caused a problem. That wasn’t my intention.” Janet wiped a trickle of sweat from her temple. “And I honestly can’t make any promises about returning.”
Michelle stood and went to the cupboard to the right of the sink. “Everyone at the Centre wishes you the very best, Janet, and though it’s not much, we’d like you to have this.” She set a brightly wrapped parcel in front of Janet. Michelle checked the time on her watch, “Well, the kids’ll be arriving soon, guess we’d better get back out there. I’m really grateful for your contribution here, Janet. Thanks again.” Michelle swept out of the kitchen, stopping to confer with another volunteer.
Relieved to have the interview concluded, Janet opened an upper cabinet and started to count out the correct number of plastic juice glasses, setting them in neat rows on a scratched brown tray. That went well, she thought. The baby monitor was an interesting choice for a gift.
Shortly after four o’clock, Crystal lugged her baby sister into the building. The kids clustered around as she set the car seat on one of the plywood tables. Without letting her friends crowd the baby or maul her with their germy fingers, Crystal supervised the infant’s unveiling. She unzipped the worn, soiled bunting bag and slipped off the greyed-white knit cap so the others could admire the baby’s full head of frothy blonde hair.
Crystal’s mother had entered the Centre with them but hung back at the double doors to the gym. She was a fair-haired, child-sized woman, probably younger than Janet, but she looked ancient, malnourished, defeated. A fresh bruise was forming along her left jaw-line. A mottled yellow-green semicircle decorated her lower right eyelid. A black cloud hung over the woman as staunchly as the bouquet of cigarettes, stale laundry and beer that enveloped her. Michelle approached Crystal’s mother, inviting her to join them in the kitchen for a coffee or a juice. Declining, the woman mumbled, “I’ll be outside havin’ a smoke,” and bolted for the front door. The director and Janet exchanged looks. Michelle sighed and returned to her tiny cell of an office. Janet cleared tables of the muffin, milk and banana remnants from the afternoon’s snack, wiping them down in readiness for the crafts volunteer.
The blast of a whistle diverted the group’s attention from the baby. The kids were ready to blow off some steam and clamoured around as Henry, a student from the university, set up the basketball drills. Crystal whispered a reassuring phrase to her dozing sister, popped in the soother and ran to join the game.
Looking around carefully, Janet ensured that all was in order. Her duties were complete, and it was time to head out. With a last look at the happy faces of her flock, she slipped unseen out the back door into the afternoon’s cold, early dusk.
Once the “Fasten Seat Belts” sign had been extinguished, Janet picked the baby up and cradled her in her arms, rocking back and forth.
Their Air Canada tickets were open-ended, so Janet was amazed that the last-minute seat assignments had found them alone in the forward row. Doc Weatherly’s letter confirming her obesity had entitled Janet to a second seat free-of-charge. The infant’s car seat was belted into the third. Most of her anxiety had evaporated once the plane was airborne. Everything would be perfect if only the briefcase containing the bearer bonds, cash and their new identity papers were closer at hand. A helpful flight attendant had stowed it in the overhead compartment during pre-boarding.
Slightly more than an hour ago, Janet had been tossing trash. It had taken no time at all to drive home, change her daughter into her homecoming outfit with the sparkling new snowsuit, and summon a taxi. On impulse, Janet had raced back upstairs, grabbed the mobile from the guest-room window and stuffed it into the outside pocket of the waiting suitcase. She’d left the keys to the house and the Camry on the kitchen counter for the new owner.
Now they were en route to Vancouver, where she had a car waiting to take them over the border into the American Northwest. This was a region with a hundred small, isolated towns accustomed to a steady influx of new residents running from some previous life, starting fresh, vague about their origins.
The baby’s blue-black eyes held her gaze. Janet experienced a jolt of recognition—this same quizzical look had passed between her sister-in-law and nephew in the delivery room. She stroked and snuggled. She pressed her lips against her daughter’s forehead and cheeks. Janet used the pad of her thumb to track a path from the bridge of the infant’s nose up through the tangle of golden silk over the soft tissue of the fontanelle to the nape of the baby’s neck. She manipulated her index finger so the child would clasp it tightly in its tiny fist. Tears leaked out the corners of Janet’s eyes, flowing over fine lines—the foremothers of crows’ feet.