The Unfinished Child
Page 33
“Can we talk?”
Elizabeth moved to the sink and turned the tap off, then stared out the kitchen window. The clouds in the night sky glowed eerily, backlit by a sliver of moon. No matter the outcome of the call, the sun would rise the following morning. So many things could be counted on. The sweet peas would bloom fragrantly in summer. The tomato plants would bear fruit. The carrots would burrow deep into the earth to grow. Fall was just four months away. What use was suffering? Are you there? Can we talk?
“You didn’t even call,” she said softly. “You didn’t even call.”
Marie opened her eyes. Above her, the hall light shone like a distant star.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how.”
Elizabeth was tired of apologies. Her voice shook with restraint. She measured each word carefully before she spoke. “I want you to know what it’s been like for me. Every day I waited for you to call. I stood in my shop like an idiot, expecting every customer who walked through the door to be you. But you never showed up. I got the news from Frances instead, and only because I called. You didn’t even have the guts to tell me yourself.”
Marie received each word like a blow. She pressed her spine into the wall and braced herself against the hard truth. Elizabeth was right. How many times could she say she was sorry? “I’m sorry.”
Elizabeth felt the anger leave her body as if each word carried its own cargo of rage and resentment. Her shoulders dropped to their usual place and she realized she’d been walking around for weeks with them tucked close to her ears. She heard Marie apologize again and imagined the tears running down her face. Now Marie was the one who was waiting, the one who didn’t know if she’d be forgiven or not. Elizabeth had an entirely new history that Marie knew nothing about. And maybe she never would. Maybe Elizabeth would keep her own secret, holding the memory of the girl tight to her chest, the little girl born with Down syndrome in 1947 who’d been locked away.
Nobody spoke. Neither woman hung up.
Elizabeth heard the television in the other room and knew that Ron was waiting for her to join him. Steady Ron. Her real foundation.
She heard Marie’s soft breath as if a seashell was pressed firmly against her own ear.
Her childhood echoed back to her. The railway bridge and the dolls staring blankly as the current pulled them north. The hours spent aloft in trees, silently watching.
“Are you still there?” Marie asked.
Elizabeth nodded.
The grapes glistened on the counter like dozens of individual planets. She understood now that no matter where she went in life, Marie would always orbit around her. There was no way clear of it.
“Yes,” she sighed.
And again, after a moment, “Yes,” she repeated.
Her voice was firmer now. She had stepped into another part of her life, the after part, and now she meant what she said.
“I’m still here.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many people helped me to write this novel. In no particular order, I wish to thank for their incisive comments and unfaltering enthusiasm: Gloria Sawai, Ruth Krahn, Norm Sacuta, Cathy Condon, Kate Kidd, Hanae Kiyooka, Renie Gross, and Shelagh Wildsmith. Thanks, also, to Tim Bowling for always supporting my need to write, and to my wonderful Mill Creek community.
For financial assistance, I acknowledge the Alberta Foundation for the Arts and the Leighton Colony at the Banff Centre for the Arts. I’d also like to thank the editors of Alberta Views for publishing an excerpt in their magazine.
Thanks, as well, to Ruth Linka at Brindle & Glass for believing in this book. I am especially grateful to Lisa Martin-DeMoor for her generous and insightful editorial comments.
And, finally, I’d like to dedicate this book in memory of my father, Bill Shea (1938–2012), and my dear friend and mentor, Gloria Sawai (1929–2011).
THERESA SHEA has published poetry, fiction, essays, reviews, and articles in a number of Canadian magazines and journals. Born in Maryland and raised throughout the United States, she moved to Canada in 1977 and now lives in Edmonton with her husband and three children. Having come to motherhood relatively late, Shea has always been particularly sensitive to the technological and moral issues surrounding women’s choices regarding childbirth. Follow Theresa on Twitter at @SheaTheresa.
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Copyright © 2013 Theresa Shea
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reprodu
ced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (ACCESS Copyright). For a copyright licence, visit accesscopyright.ca.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Shea, Theresa
The unfinished child [electronic resource] / Theresa Shea.
Electronic monograph issued in various formats.
Also issued in print format.
ISBN 978-1-927366-03-5 (HTML).—ISBN 978-1-927366-04-2 (PDF)
I. Title.
PS8637.H42U54 2013 C813'.6 C2012-907619-8
Editor: Lisa Martin DeMoor
Proofreader: Heather Sangster, Strong Finish
Cover image: Bojan Sokolovic, istockphoto.com
Author photo: Catherine Burgess
Brindle & Glass is pleased to acknowledge the financial support for its publishing program from the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund, Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. However, the material quoted here comes from a real essay published in 1960, entitled “Pregnancy in an Adult Mongoloid Female,” by Donald H. Mullins, MD, William R. Estrada, MD, and T.G. Gready, MD. The quotes here, though based on factual information, come from a fictional work “written” by Dr. Maclean, a fictional character in the book.
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