Melt

by Heidi Wicks

  Those moments in time move slowly and tenderly through her body and mind, a dense silver and gold constellation warming her insides—like locomotion in space.

  She picks up the phone.

  the bannerman rebound

  2016

  The rubbery surface of the Bannerman Park playground puts an extra spring in Cait’s step as she chases Maisie, who makes a beeline to the monkey bars. Maisie always bolts directly to the section at the end of the park that has the contemporary, safe version of a merry-go-round. Merry-go-rounds have been deemed unsafe by new playground standards, as children can fly off if they aren’t holding on tight enough. Now it’s a tall, skinny merry-go-round, which can fit four kids, max, so the radius is shorter and not as dangerous. Plus, the kids can’t help but hold on tightly to the spinning contraption, because if they don’t, they’ll just be gone right off ‘er, right from the get-go. The challenge of the skinny merry-go-round is to hold on with all your might, even when it seems difficult, and don’t throw up if you get too dizzy. Get as dizzy as you can, and hold on as tight as you can, and still stay on board. A metaphor for life.

  Maisie is a master at the tall skinny merry-go-round. An inspiration. Cait sits on the rock wall about ten feet away, watching her daughter. Maisie likes to rule the roost, but Cait is proud because she’s inviting other kids on board.

  “I’m five.” She hears Maisie say it to the boy who has just joined her.

  “I’m six.” The boy responds, and Cait can see Maisie’s face fall, just a bit, because turning five is a big deal. You can’t feel much more superior than when you turn five, unless you meet someone who’s six.

  “My name’s Maisie.”

  “I’m Luke.”

  And just like that, they’re best friends. Joined at the hip. Kindred spirits. But only for the duration of that particular visit to the park. Kids are fascinating that way. Making and releasing connections so easily. Relishing their time together, and then completely at peace with letting go. An exemplary model of the Buddhist relationship mantra—independence through non-attachment. Savour the experience while you have it. When it’s time to let go, it’s time to let go. Cait wishes she could be more like that. She will strive to be like that, she decides it right then and there.

  August is the best time in Newfoundland. St. John’s is in the height of festival season. The crew is currently setting up for the Folk Festival. The Busker Festival is happening just down over the hill on Water Street. Performers from around the world leap through fire, flip twenty feet into the air, enacting dazzling feats. It’s the most reliable month for weather, and the city is abuzz with tourists and cheer and peace and contentment.

  “Mommy!” Maisie has leapt off of the tall skinny merry-go-round, and wants to be lifted up to the zip line. “Up!” Cait walks over, crouches, hoists Maisie up to grab the handle. My God she’s getting heavy, Cait thinks.

  “Okay, let go now!” Maisie calls, and Cait pushes her across and her legs dangle and wiggle and the bar bumps against the other end and she hoists herself so she goes back in the other direction and then falls off.

  “I can do it better!” Luke waits to be lifted up. He goes faster, jumps further.

  “No, I can do it better! Again, Mommy. Again!”

  “Okay,” Cait lifts her again. “But then you give this other boy a chance. Go Maisie!” She cheers her on. “You’re a superhero!”

  “Mine is better than yours.” Luke is next to Maisie, looking down on her. Maisie holds his glare. Squints her eyes. Turns on her heel and bolts for the spider-web climbing structure—all ropes in the shape of a teepee. Luke runs after her, but Maisie has no time for him anymore. The relationship has gone toxic. When it’s time to let go, it’s time to let go. Cait could never stay on there for as long as Maisie can. She’d step off it right away.

  “Mommy!” Maisie yells, as Cait moseys to another spot, further down the rock wall. Maisie is right at the top of the spider’s web. “I’m right at the top, Mommy, just look at me!”

  Cait holds her hand above her eyes, like she’s trying to see a far distance. “Oh my goodness, how’s the weather way up there? I can hardly see you, you’re so far away!” Some parents would be frightened to death to let their child go to the top. But Cait doesn’t worry about Maisie. She is sturdy, she is careful, she is smart. She is an inspiration. Kids, in many ways, represent what the world should be.

  “Caitlyn?” Cait turns her head right. From the direction of the splash pad, a petite woman slinks towards her. Her fingers spread wide, her arms splayed to the sides in oh-my-goodness surprise and delight. Her hair, a purr of big, bold, bouncy brown curls, cascades around a doll-like face and brushes her freckled shoulders, from which her flowery, flowing camisole hangs. Her oversized sunglasses, her bangle bracelets, her stride, which floats and pops like tiny bubbles in a glass of champagne. Melody Angel: the beautiful hippy filmmaker, who moved to Toronto right after their first two years of university to do film studies at Ryerson and make it big. They’d kept in touch on social media, but hadn’t seen each other in at least a decade. Cait drools over Melody’s Instagram feed. All of the different sets she’s on, the location shoots. The glamour, the freedom, the worldliness.

  “Melody? Holy crap!” They hug, and it’s long and happy and she’s one of those friends who is always familiar. “Amazing to see you!”

  “And you!” They release their hug. “I’m here on a shoot, and to see the fam, of course. My nieces are right over there on the swings.” She points towards them. Two little twin girls, Cait guesses they’re four. They’re slight, like Melody. Bird bones. Olive-tinted skin. Melody’s sister, Isabel, looks Brazilian, and her husband is from Guatemala.

  Cait strolls with Melody as she meanders towards her nieces on the swings. “So Cait,” she lifts one up in each baby swing, and Cait steps in to push one of them, “you were at CBC, yeah? Are you still there?”

  “Well, actually…nope. I got laid off two months ago.” She’s probably looking for some press.

  “Oh, shit. I’m so sorry, Cait, that is horrendous. So, are you working now at all?”

  Cait shakes her head and tries not to feel like a loser.

  They push the kids in silence, until Maisie realizes her mother is paying attention to someone new and bounds over.

  “I’m five!” Maisie stands, hands on hips, beaming.

  “You are?!” Melody smiles back. “Well, these two are just four. Do you think you could help take care of them?” The lilt of her voice is musical.

  “Sure!” She ambles around to the other side of the swings, next to Caitlyn. “Mommy, you move, I can push her.”

  “Sure thing, and thank you for being so helpful, my angel.” Cait leans over and kisses Maisie’s chubby cheek. Gives it a slight chew. She must kiss her little girl’s cheeks twenty times a day, at least.

  “You never know when kids will make connections that’ll affect them for life. You know?”

  “It really is so awesome how they make friends so easily.”

  Melody’s eyes light up as she prepares to astonish with her alluring storytelling performance style. “Listen to this crazy story. So, when Izzy and I were kids, we were at Northern Bay Sands one weekend. She remembers that we met this girl, and her name was Eunice, which is kind of a strange name for a girl around our age. But anyway, we got along with her really well, Isabel especially, and our parents were talking to her parents for quite a while. She remembers it much better. Anyway, it was just that one day that we knew Eunice. After that, we all went our separate ways. But then, get this—the twins started at pre-school, and they got along really well and seemed to have this special connection with their new teacher. When Isabel learned what her name was, it was Eunice, and she couldn’t imagine it was the same person, except that Mom went to pick up the girls one day, and it was! It was the same. Freaking. Person.”

  Caitlyn’s jaw drops. “You’re shitting me.”

  “I’m serious. Isn’t that magical
?”

  “It really is. How gorgeous.” Since her divorce, Cait has put more of a focus on Maisie. Maisie’s wonder and purity of things, and her appreciation for newness. It has been a coping mechanism, of sorts. But in doing so, she believes she has not only become a better, more attentive parent, but the experience of being cracked open has forced her to be softer. And especially over the past couple of months, since her fight with Jess. Since they haven’t been speaking, she has settled more and more into the importance of being kind and open to possibilities, and open to love.

  “It could be anyone we encounter, you know. Special connections pop up everywhere, when you least expect it. And they don’t even have to be in our lives a lot, or even be an especially significant connection in some ways…I don’t know… I just love those little moments of…shimmer.” She rubs her fingerstogether and squints her eyes, as if she’s finding the words to describe a fine wine. She further awakens the affection for openness and forgiveness that has been blooming within Cait.

  They stand there for a few moments. Watching the girls swing. “So,” the sun warms Cait’s shoulders, “you’re working on something new here? What is it?”

  “Oh,” Melody pushes the swing, “it’s a documentary about post-colonial personality disorder in Newfoundland.”

  “Ha! That’s amazing. That’s not what I was expecting you to say! A departure from your more romantic work, for sure. You are one brave soul for tackling that beast.”

  “Yeah. Just this bizarre blend of pride and attachment to the things of the Old World and our motherland, but yet maybe it’s a toxic or abusive relationship. Our motherland might be what has held us back all these years. All of that shit, you know? And who knows—it may have shimmer yet. I haven’t finished my interviews.” She winks. “That’s part of the fun of making documentaries versus scripted fiction. The people tell the story for you. Which I suppose…,” she puts her fingers on her chin in reflection, drifting off, “I suppose people also tell the story when you’re writing fiction, too…but you know,” she comes back into the moment, “more directly with documentary.”

  “Oh yeah. The fierce pride, zero-confidence conundrum. We want to be independent, but always end up depending on handouts.”

  “You know what, Cait?” Melody keeps pushing the swing, “Our second AD just had to quit the project because she got called to jury duty. It’s not a paid gig, unfortunately, but you’d make a ton of connections and who knows what could come of it. You could totally have the job, if you want it.”

  “Seriously? I haven’t done anything in film since I was twenty, and my experience is limited.”

  “Yes, I always felt bad that I ended up making that music film at Ryerson. I wanted you to work on it. Your storytelling ability is obvious—and I know your editing skills are tight. So—to quote Warhol—’Isn’t life a series of images that change as they repeat themselves?’ And you’re out of work,” she touches Cait on the shoulder and stares soulfully into her eyes, “you need something.”

  “Yes, I can’t argue with any of that.”

  “Honestly, you could just have a meeting with the first AD, he’ll fill you in. You’d be his assistant. Do you know Scott Taylor by any chance?”

  “I’ve encountered him once or twice, yep.” Cait had met him at press conferences and always sensed a down-to-earth, friendly warmth about him. He’s also a writer with an independent newspaper in town.

  “Do you have him on Facebook or anything? Do you want to drop him a line? I can also email and connect you two.”

  “Yes, email would be better. I do have him on Facebook, but it’d be better if you connect us, I think.”

  “Consider it done.” She pulls out her phone and bangs out the message. “Oh,” she’s still flittering her thumbs around the screen, “so I’m having a pre-shoot party at my parents’ place on Forest Road tomorrow night. You should totally come. Bring your husband…what’s his name?”

  “Oh—we’ve split up, actually. Jake.”

  She drops her phone down by her side and looks at Cait and puts a hand on her shoulder. “Shit. I’m so sorry, Cait. Jesus, you’ve had a rough go, eh?” She pulls her into another hug.

  Now Cait definitely feels like a loser. “Meh. Life.”

  “Well…come. Definitely. Remember—there’s shimmer.”

  It was true. In the same way people lamented that summer was ending, there would still be the real possibility of a twenty-degree day in October. The splash pad blasts water.

  “Mommy!” Maisie is suddenly gob smacked, even though the splash pad has been in full force since they arrived. “The water! The water is on!”

  “I know, Maisie, but we didn’t bring a swimming suit!”

  “Mommy, but it’s summer, how could you not bring a swimming suit?”

  “I didn’t know, sweetheart. I’m sorry.” This kid is something, she thinks. “Jump in with your clothes on!”

  “Momm-y, that’s silly!” But Cait can tell Maisie is tempted. She suddenly bolts into the splash pad and soaks herself, squealing with glee. And it’s hot enough that she can just dry off afterwards. Glorious.

  Maisie is a true Aquarius and can spend hours in water, or playing with water.

  “Ok,” Cait waves to Melody, “I gotta run after her.”

  “See you tomorrow night then?”

  “For sure.” Maisie is with Jake tomorrow night, so it’s perfect.

  Melody leans in for a hug. “I’m so glad our paths crossed again.”

  “Me too.” Cait gives her an extra squeeze, and suddenly, surprisingly, she sees Jess’s face in her mind. She misses her. “See you tomorrow.” She feels excitement and melancholy in one swoop.

  Cait sits by the splash pad, watching Maisie, the sun warm on her shoulders, Maisie’s face, pure glee, pure bliss, pure sunshine. Cait could watch her there, completely carefree, completely jubilant, giggling with giddy lunacy, for hours.

  She scans the crowd. Bannerman is packed to the gills. A woman about her mother’s age standing next to her hauls the t-shirt off of her grandchild. “Another gorgeous day, isn’t it?” Newfoundlanders can’t resist talking about the weather. Always feeling blessed by a consecutive string of nice days. “Hot, though.” But you’ll always find a contingent who complain about the heat, as soon as it comes.

  “It’s glorious. You won’t hear me complain about the heat.” She smiles, though her eyes are still on Maisie, who is holding hands with another little girl, running through the water tunnel. The air is full of kids laughing.

  Across the street, next to Government House, on the road, she sees her. Stacey. Running. In her hot-pink Lululemon Capri pants. Seemingly floating over the pavement.

  “Stacey’s training for a marathon,” Jake said, so smug, on the phone one day, “so she can’t watch Maisie tonight. Can you?”

  This woman does not get dibs on her child. Despite her relatively newfound openness, Stacey is a person who still causes Cait’s heart to stall, and to harden. Jake, too. Cait wishes it wasn’t this way, and hopes it falls away at some point, but her heart still hurts. This too shall pass—she remembers Jess’s mom saying it, after school sometimes, when the girls would sit at her kitchen tables eating cookies and complaining about something that happened at either of their schools that day.

  “Jake, you are supposed to ask me first if Maisie needs watching,” she had said. “It’s right there in our separation agreement. You should’ve asked me first. Not Stacey.”

  “Don’t be like that. I’m sorry, okay? Anyway you don’t need to be jealous of Stacey. She’s good to Maisie, but Maisie knows who her parents are.”

  “So are you and Stacey serious or something?”

  “I…don’t know.”

  “Well, should she be spending time around Maisie if you’re not serious? Is it a good idea to get some woman attached to Maisie who you don’t even know will be around or not?” The anticipation, the anxiety of possibly having to share Maisie slices into her heart. She has
no idea how long Stacey will be around or whether she will be in her life, but it doesn’t matter. This too shall pass, this too shall pass…

  But then, sitting there, from nowhere, watching Stacey stride by the perimeter of the park, without even trying, possibly even resisting the melt, she feels a tiny dip in the envy and jealousy. It melts away, just the littlest bit. There’s a self-assurance, or confidence, maybe because of the new film possibility. But there’s also a compassion for Stacey: she’ll always be the outsider, in a way. She’ll never be Maisie’s mother. Maisie does know who her mother is. Stacey can never take her place. Daughters have a bond with their mothers. She knows Maisie loves her and she thinks maybe they’ll be even closer now that it’s just the two of them. Cait doesn’t know Stacey well. She has reservations about what kind of an influence she’ll have on Maisie, if it comes to that, if she sticks around. Because that is what matters. Not her own insecurities—it’s about Maisie’s happiness and wellbeing, and Maisie seems to like Stacey.

  Her gaze drifts back to her daughter, still laughing in the splash pad, and there is a rainbow, stretching from Maisie towards the sky.

  retch and release

  2016

  “Do you want to meet up?” Jess’s words warble into the phone receiver, and a dark melancholy has been added to the warm mixture, the love and happiness of the shortbread. “I need to talk to you.”

  From a few rooms away, she hears that Dan has just flicked off a documentary about Joy Division, and “Love Will Tear Us Apart” reverberates deep in her skull and throat. Dan brushes his teeth and returns to his vinyl room, as he calls it. He goes to sleep on the couch.