by Anne Carter
Cindy cried loudly, “Mommy! I want my mommy!”
That did it. Witch Wilson took the crib brakes off and wheeled Cindy down to the far end of the room.
“The longer you wail, the longer you stay in there.”
And then she closed the doors of the big closet and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
I got dressed and shuffled over to the table. It was impossible to eat. Bernardo, Mary and I stared at the Cream of Wheat in our bowls. It was cold and jellied, and we stirred it glumly, listening to Cindy’s crying go on and on.
And then someone opened the door to our ward. The sunlight shone behind her and I could have sworn it was Glinda, the Good Witch of the East, arriving in her magical glitter.
It was Tante Marie.
She saw me and swept over to the table, bringing the light with her, surrounding the three of us where we sat, amazed, with the fresh scent of lavender.
“Oh, Paulie. C’est toi, chérie? Is it you?” She knelt beside me and wrapped her arms around me.
“I came as soon as I could. It’s so good to see you.”
I was dazzled. Overwhelmed. I didn’t speak. But I sure held on tight. I rubbed my nose against her soft cheek, breathing in the sweet smell of her. Tante Marie … here.
“There’s an awful nurse down the hall,” she said. “Dreadful woman. Don’t tell me she’s yours? She didn’t want to let me in. She told me I’d have to wait until Sunday, like the other visitors. Can you believe that? After coming all the way from Paris to see you?”
“Mother Mary and the Holy Ghost,” B stammered, staring at her with enormous eyes. “That must be Witch Wilson. She’s our nurse all right. She’s the head nurse. You’re going to get thrown out – even if you are an angel.”
“Witch Wilson?” Tante Marie repeated thoughtfully. “I have no intention of being thrown out by Witch Wilson.”
She stared at our breakfast. The cereal looked like white cement. Witch Wilson never gave us milk or sugar – she said we’d just spill it if she put it on the table for us.
Then Tante Marie heard the whimpering. She stood up.
“What’s that I hear? Someone crying?”
I nodded. So did Bernardo and Mary. But none of us were speaking.
She scrunched her eyebrows, perplexed. She began to walk around the room, going from crib to crib. She smiled warmly at Frank, Stan and Philip on the boys’ side, then Lorna on the girls’ side. There were two empty cribs where Mary and I slept, and a big empty space between them where Cindy’s crib should have been.
Tante Marie stared at the empty space. Then she walked in the direction of the crying.
She stood in front of the closed closet. I thought my heart was going to jump right out of my chest. Would she dare open it? Someone should warn her. She wasn’t allowed to do that. Witch Wilson would …
Tante Marie flung the closet door open wide. I could only see her back, which seemed to stiffen with horror for a moment. And then she went inside, close to Cindy. She knelt over and put her head near Cindy’s. I could hear the calm, soft murmur of Tante Marie’s voice, soothing, reassuring.
Gradually Cindy’s crying turned to whimpering and then even that stopped. Tante Marie stood up again and – I couldn’t believe it – she pushed Cindy’s bed out of the closet.
Oh boy! There was going to be trouble!
I heard Tante Marie’s voice, clear as a bell. I bet the whole hospital could. “What a strange thing, putting you in the closet. The nurse made a terrible mistake. But it won’t happen again, I promise you. Never, ever again. Now let me put you right back where your bed belongs beside the other children. I’ll get you cleaned up and then something good to eat.”
That’s just what she did. She hummed that song all my aunts and Grand-mère sang when they got together. I had no idea what it meant. It was one of those French songs they were always singing and it sounded pretty.
Cindy’s face was brightening with Tante Marie beside her. She wasn’t exactly happy, but she didn’t look scared anymore.
Next, Tante Marie went over to Philip. Philip was the youngest, only four. He lay paralyzed in his crib opposite Cindy. He’d been here seven months already, but could only wriggle his toes.
“I’m Pauline’s aunt,” Tante Marie introduced herself. “You can call me Tante Marie. Now I want you to tell me what I can do for you.”
“Can you find my teddy?” Philip asked in a hopeful voice.
Philip’s teddy had fallen out of his crib during the night and lay on the floor.
“He’s right here,” Tante Marie said, picking him up, pretending she was whispering something in the teddy’s ear before tucking him in tight beside Philip.
“Teddy told me he was wondering where you were all night.”
Philip laughed.
Tante Marie went around the room, introducing herself to everyone, asking what they needed. Part of me was getting mad, having to wait so long for my turn. But then I told myself to wait. She was like Christmas, coming for everybody. And I was lucky to have her for the rest of my life. I could share her a little bit with my friends.
B gave her a daring look and asked her if she could get some milk and sugar for our cereal.
“I’d be happy to,” she said.
She must have seen the look of longing in my eyes. I didn’t know how much longer I could wait. She knelt down beside me and whispered in my ear, “I’ll be right back, ma belle. Then it will be you and me, don’t worry.”
She left the door open. We heard her heels, clicking down the hallway. Then we heard voices beginning to argue. Tante Marie’s was firm and insistent.
I looked at B. He had a huge smile. “I like your Tante Marie,” he said. “I’m going to marry her when I grow up.”
If she ever comes back! I thought. What if they threw her out? It was taking too long. What was happening?
Before I could worry more, I heard her clicking heels again, and Tante Marie was back, carrying a sugar bowl and a pitcher of milk. She put them on the table for us and knelt once more between B and me. “Et voilà. I got them to heat the milk for you. It’s much better hot, don’t you think?”
I swear B’s eyes melted. He leaned over and gave her a big, smacking kiss. “You said it, Tante Marie!”
We heard the unmistakable sound of feet stomping down the hallway. Witch Wilson’s feet.
Sure enough, Witch Wilson appeared in the door way. Her eyes blazed and she pointed an accusing finger at Tante Marie. Behind her she had the doctor in tow.
“That’s her. That’s the one. Barged right in here when we’re trying to work. She’s going to make someone sick …”
Cindy let out a piercing, hysterical scream. “No! No! Don’t lock me in the closet again. Please don’t put me back in there.”
Quickly Tante Marie walked over and released the side of Cindy’s crib. It came down with a crash. She scooped Cindy into her arms, cradling the sobbing girl with her protective warmth. “There, there. No one’s ever going to lock you in the closet again, are they?”
She fired a look at Witch Wilson, a look that said everything.
The doctor was watching quietly, taking it all in.
Then B pretended to cry too. “Oh, Nurse Wilson. You won’t lock me in the closet again, will you? Or take my meals away? Please, please.”
“Nurse Wilson,” the doctor said grimly, pointing to the hallway. “I’d like to see you in my office, now.”
Witch Wilson left. In disbelief, I watched her turn and leave our ward. It was like having a nightmare leave. Morning sunlight brightened the room. Yes! She was gone. In the seconds following her departure, the room gradually filled with the normal, safe sounds of our breathing – then our grumbling, hungry stomachs, all mixed with the smells of breakfast, our unwashed bodies and the dreamy scent of lavender that accompanied my Tante Marie.
B got up from the table, walked to the doorway and peered down the hallway after the doctor and Witch Wilson.
> He came back into the room, shut the door and raised his hands over his head triumphantly. “Boy, is she getting it good!”
We cheered, banging our cribs or tables with cups, spoons or leg braces, whatever we could manage.
B sat down at the table again. “Am I ever hungry. Nothing like a fight to work up an appetite,” he said and poured the entire bowl of sugar, then the pitcher of hot milk, over our three small bowls of cereal.
I couldn’t eat. I was watching Tante Marie, waiting. She tucked Cindy comfortably back in her bed and then, finally, finally walked toward me.
My turn.
Tante Marie knelt beside me, close, and I looked into her deep brown eyes, now only a few inches from mine.
With her fingertips, she brushed my bangs out of my eyes and whispered in my ear words that were only meant for me. “Ma belle. My beautiful, special one, Pauline. I had to save you for last. I knew I could count on you to wait so patiently. What can I do for you, chérie?”
That’s when my voice finally came out of hiding. It crawled up from some place deep inside me. For the first time in ten months I spoke.
“Please, Tante Marie. Can you take me home?”
17.
THE FINAL PLAYOFFS, 1961
Tante Marie and I arrange ourselves at opposite ends of the window seat for the playoffs.
My blue Maple Leafs are ready for a face-off at center. The Canadiens get the puck and there’s a shot on goal. Johnny Bower makes a brilliant save.
It dawns on me that my parents and new sister could be home any minute. The week – my private time with Tante Marie – will end as soon as they arrive. “I wish you could stay a few weeks longer,” I say.
“Me too,” she nods.
“It’s so different when you’re here. We’re happier.”
“We? Do you think your maman is happier too?” she laughs, mocking me gently.
“Sometimes I wonder if you two are really sisters,” I say, whacking the puck down the miniature rink.
“What’s she got against you?”
“What’s with you tonight? So many questions!”
“No one around here talks to me. I don’t understand this family. And …” All my worry rushes to the surface, freeing itself. “I’m about to be a sister. What if we fight like you and my mother?”
Tante Marie looks sad. “Oh, Pauline. I hope not. What do you want to know? You want to understand your maman?”
I nod.
“The first thing to understand about her is that she always loved books. Just like you with your hockey. Grand-mère used to say Agathe was born with a book in her hand. And I remember, when I was eight, she won a scholarship to study English literature here in Toronto. You’d think she’d won a million dollars. It meant the world to her.”
“Why isn’t she teaching at the university anymore if she loves it so much?”
A pained look comes over Tante Marie. I’ve never seen her hesitate like this.
“The summer you became sick with polio,” she says slowly, choosing her words, “she was about to become a professor at the université. She was French. She was a woman. You can’t imagine how hard she’d worked to get there.”
“I spoiled her life … is that what you’re trying to say?”
“No!” She shakes her head emphatically. “She loved you more than all the books in the world, and all the students. I can only imagine how she felt watching you. You were very, very sick. They nearly lost you. They were at the mercy of the iron lung and the doctors and the hospitals.”
She shudders, remembering. I do too.
“It was such a miracle that you got better and walked again. Surely you can understand that after all that helpless, anxious waiting, there was nothing more important than that?”
I don’t say anything.
“Right or wrong, Agathe gave up her life at the université because you’d had too much hurt. And in the beginning, it made sense. You needed exercising and home-schooling. She wanted to protect you.”
My mother gave up her life for me. She sacrificed herself. If only she hadn’t. How different these last years would have been if she’d let me go to school. But still, something doesn’t make sense. “Why didn’t she protect me in the hospitals?”
Tante Marie groans. “Oh. Those hospitals.” She hugs me for a long minute. She wipes a tear from her eye. “How did you survive them, chérie? You and your friends.” She lets out a deep breath. “You can’t blame your maman. The hospital was taking care of you and your parents had to trust them. You were all at their mercy. Every week you got stronger. And remember …” She pauses. “You didn’t speak. They came every visiting day. You seemed to be getting better and you didn’t tell them what was going on.”
“But why was it you … you!”
She throws her hand up as if to God. “Oh, Pauline! You sound like Agathe. Just thank God it was someone! I happened to come that morning. I’d been so far away and felt so desperate to see you. I happened to see what the horrible woman was doing. You know what’s crazy? I was the best person, and the worst person, to save you. At first your maman was grateful. But later, she turned it against me. As if I’d done it on purpose. She wished it had been her to save you. I stole that from her.”
She shakes her head and looks sadly out the window. “It’s strange how things happen in life. Grand-mère once told me that Agathe resented me the moment I was born.”
She squeezes my hand. “Grand-mère. She was such a wise woman. I miss talking to her. I used to ask her, why do people get the problems they do? Why did Pauline get polio? Why did I get Agathe for my older sister? You know what Grand-mère used to say?”
I shake my head, remembering Grand-mère as I saw her on Christmas Eve, with a crown of red velvet ribbons against her white hair. “She said that we get what we can handle. It’s like hanging our wash out on the laundry line in the backyard. If we all looked outside and saw each other’s problems hanging out on their lines, we would each choose our own line, and reel it back in.”
Out the window, I see that the pools of water on my backyard rink are shrinking as they freeze. I wonder suddenly what Henry’s problems would look like on a laundry line, or Stuart’s or Billy’s. Or my mother’s.
“Hey! Let’s finish our match before they get home,” Tante Marie says.
We throw ourselves into the game. It’s a tied game, and in the last minute, Tante Marie knocks over one of my forwards and I make a buzzing sound. “Penalty!” I holler.
For the last minute, I tell her, she has to play sitting on one hand. Somehow she manages to score immediately from the face-off, and this seems hilarious to both of us.
“With one hand! I beat Toronto with one hand!” she hoots.
She scoops me up and swings me around, my left leg flapping wildly.
“Maudits anglais! Those damn Englishmen!” we laugh and scream.
We don’t hear my parents come in.
“Arrêt, Marie! That’s enough.” The brittle voice of my mother stops us.
My parents stand in the doorway, watching. My mother’s holding a small bundle that must be a baby. Her face is drawn and upset. A chill has entered the room with her – a glacier is moving over us. My feet slide awkwardly to the floor and I stand, holding onto Tante Marie. If only we’d heard them come in.
“What are you doing now, Marie? Trying to turn her against the English? Do you forget this is Toronto, our home?”
“Agatha. They’re playing, having fun,” my father pleads.
Everything about my mother seems to be cracking: her face, her hands. Afraid, I watch her thrust the small bundle – my sister – toward my father. In a shattered voice, my mother says, “You always take Marie’s side, Will. But I know she wants to divide us, to cause trouble. I want her to leave.”
She turns abruptly and runs up the stairs. We hear the click of her door.
A strange feeling comes over me, as if I’m looking in one of those curved mirrors at a circus. We are turning
into skinny giants, fat midgets, an unrecognizable family.
My dad breaks the awkward silence. His voice comes from far away and he sounds tired. “You’ll have to forgive her. It’s been a long week and she’s not herself. She was up all last night with the baby and she’s exhausted. We should all get to bed. Things will look better in the morning.”
The baby fusses. She sounds strange, like a little cat meowing. Tante Marie gives me my crutches and goes to stand beside my father. She pulls back the blanket gently.
“You have another beautiful daughter. Let me hold her, Will. Just for a minute. I won’t get a chance tomorrow in front of Agathe.”
Tante Marie sways from side to side, admiring what’s in the bundle.
“Did you pick a name yet?”
“Céline,” he answers.
“A good French name,” she says approvingly. She rubs her cheek gently against the baby’s, whispering Céline, then gives her back to my dad.
“Things will never change between us,” Marie says quietly. Dad shakes his head, starting to protest.
“You know I’m right, Will. I’ll leave early in the morning. She’ll find it too hard to have me here. You’ll take me to the train station and I’ll get the first train back to Montréal. Having a new baby is a big adjustment. It will be easier for everybody with me gone.”
Not for me, I want to say. Only for my mother.
Dad sighs like he’s too tired to argue, and switches off the light.
“Bonne nuit,” Tante Marie says, in the dark. “You look tired too. Go up to bed and I’ll say goodnight to Pauline.”
“I know Agatha appreciates your coming, even if she can’t say it. Thank you, Marie,” he says. He looks over at me. “Sleep well, Pauline. Goodnight.” And before I can stop him, he too disappears up the stairs.
The house is so suddenly quiet, I hear the furnace click on in the basement and the air come whooshing up the vents. For a second, I feel like I’m back in the iron lung and it is pressing, pressing on me, forcing me to breathe.
Adults are so complicated. I wish I could cry like a baby.
But then I look at Tante Marie’s face. In the moonlight, years of hurt are reflected in her eyes, though she tries to blink it away, and I want only one thing: to cheer her up.