Belinda's Rings

  Mum asked me to leave the room then. She asked me to go out to the backyard and pick the dead heads off the petunias. I left the rag I was using and the carpet cleaner sitting on the floor where they were and went straight out the door.

  Mum had spent a lot of time planting the garden that year, and I hadn’t really noticed how lush it was and how much work it must have been until that day. It was the middle of the summer and all the flowers were in bloom, a quilt of pinks and purples and greens and yellows. There were a lot of shriveled petunia heads to pluck. I started picking at one end of the garden, gathering them in my palm, and every so often I’d catch a snippet of Mum and Wiley’s fight. I heard Mum saying, What do you expect me to do? Wiley yelled back, Support me! Believe in me!

  I didn’t blame Mum for not believing in him. I wouldn’t either. And that got me thinking about how much Mum had resting on her shoulders. When things went wrong in our family, it was always Mum who fixed them. I remember wondering, as I sat on the porch steps and arranged my dead head collection into a neat little pile, how long it would be before Mum got tired of being a mother to everyone.

  XI

  THE MARRIAGE COUNSELLOR HAD asked Belinda about patterns.

  Why do you think you follow these patterns? she had asked, sliding a pen out from the coil of her notebook. She was a petite woman who wore her hair the exact same way every time Belinda saw her: parted down the middle, combed and smoothed immaculately with the stiff, upturned ends hovering just above her shoulders. She insisted that Wiley and Belinda call her Norma. Belinda found this odd; if she were a doctor, she’d want her patients to call her ‘Doctor.’ Dr. Spector sounded quite distinguished, she thought.

  I’m sorry? Belinda said. What patterns?

  Norma’s eyebrows lifted for a brief moment. Well, she said, you had mentioned before that you’ve experienced the same feelings with different people in your life. Suffocation, feeling burdened with responsibility . . .

  Yes, Belinda agreed. She could see what Norma was driving at, but she was determined not to give in.

  Do you think it’s a coincidence that you keep feeling this way with different people? Your mother, Dazhong, Wiley?

  I — I don’t know, Belinda replied, with a firm YES resounding in her mind. Belinda had thought Norma was a good counsellor; in their joint session the week before, she’d coerced Wiley to admit his unhealthy dependency on Belinda. Leeching, Belinda called it, but Norma had deemed that term insensitive. Fair enough. But this sudden attempt to expose Belinda’s faults now that she’d gained her trust seemed unfair. Predatory.

  I don’t see, Belinda said, how you can compare my mother to my husbands. And anyway, since when is this about me?

  Norma slid her pen back into the notebook. Your marriage isn’t about you? she asked plainly.

  That was the last time Belinda visited Norma’s office. She had no use for Norma’s cunning speculations, her cultivated skill for taking Belinda’s words and turning them against her. True, she had used the word suffocation to describe feelings she’d experienced with her mother, her husbands, and her children, but it was only because her vulnerability and apprehension about expressing her feelings to a stranger barred access to a more descriptive vocabulary. It was her mother’s relentless decorum and her false, callous demeanour that Belinda had called suffocating, but afterwards she had thought that suffocating wasn’t the right word. Stifling seemed more fitting. At any rate, she had resolved her issues with her mother long ago. Wiley was the one who needed diagnosing.

  But she had nonetheless considered Norma’s suggestion, reasoning that patterns ought to be something she’d be drawn to. In cereology, patterns were prized like diamonds. The more precise, complete, and calculated the pattern, the more valuable the crop circle. Anomalies and inconsistencies were indications of fraud. But in terms of social behaviour, it was the formulaic aspect of patterns that bothered her; the notion of being bound to a pre-fabricated design seemed dooming. She tried to imagine herself as a pattern, wide and sprawling, made up of thin, needled lines. Hers would be a guilloche pattern like the ones printed on cheques and bank-notes: a swirling mass of ribboned lines threading over and under each other in endless arcs and swoops. The pattern appeared smooth and uniform on first glance, but when examined closely, it revealed many layers of lines turning in unpredictable directions. It occurred to Belinda that it was natural to want to resist seeing herself as symmetrical and invariable. The flawless uniformity of crop circles was proof of their unearthliness. They were too perfect for humans to conjure. To prescribe a pattern for herself was, in a sense, dehumanizing.

  But what would she feel when she stood inside a crop circle and became part of the pattern? During the drive to Sussex, she considered the possibilities. Probably awe. She hoped euphoria, clarity, a sense of harmony with the land, as the eyewitness accounts had led her to expect. Perhaps she would feel nothing, but this was unlikely. Belinda knew the mind had the power to translate faith into feeling. Just moments earlier she’d been transfixed by a dime of light whizzing across the interior of the van, until she realized it was only the reflection of her watch face. She’d wanted it to be a sign.

  Dr. Longfellow had rented a van with enough space for eight people, although the team was only five, including Belinda. She had the middle bench to herself. Two men named Rich and Sampson sat in the back, Dr. Longfellow in the passenger seat, and Monika Treadstone at the wheel. Monika had the long black hair that Belinda had imagined, except streaked with silver filaments and pulled back into a tight bun. She wore a dark blue sweatshirt that said EPCOT in white letters. She was a fairly large woman — larger than Belinda, and giant compared to Dr. Longfellow’s slight frame — though she wasn’t fat. She had scowled at the sight of Belinda’s paisley skirt.

  Rich and Sampson were both American, one from Detroit and the other from somewhere in Florida, but Belinda couldn’t remember which man was from where. They told Belinda they’d visited hundreds of crop circles over the last six years. She had taken out her books at the beginning of the trip and laid them on the seat beside her, and the men had shown little interest. Belinda could feel her limbs vibrating with pent-up energy, as though her seat belt were the only thing keeping her from bursting out of the vehicle and coasting across the vacant fields like vast green roller-skating rinks.

  Sampson and Rich talked amongst themselves, flipping through the curled pages of their tattered notebooks and pointing figures out to each other. In the front of the van, Dr. Longfellow read the paper, the broad grey sheets enclosing him in his own paper room, and Monika focused on the road ahead, her small brown eyes darting to the rear-view mirror every now and then to check the back window, but never the passengers. Belinda considered how like a family road trip it was — the bored and dutiful parents taking their three children on a day trip, and the children boxed into the vehicle’s back seat, anticipation seeping out the cracks around the windows. Belinda had never sat in the back seat on a road trip; her mother had never driven her beyond the town limits, and every road trip she’d taken with her own children followed a strict itinerary which she had designed herself. She’d always sat in the front passenger seat, playing the responsible role of navigator, snack-distributor, and spill-mitigator. And there had always been a clear direction to take towards a definitive end, no surprises. To be chauffeured about England without knowing exactly where she was felt luxurious and self-serving, like taking a midday bubble bath with unsparing dollops of expensive oils and salts.

  And yet, seeing herself in this situation made her feel vital. She was on a scientific expedition, she told herself. She was a member of a research team, a group of brilliant scientists searching for the centre of an imperative mystery. It was up to her in the next few days to become a valuable and respectable member of the team. Belinda listened to Rich and Sampson’s conversation, nodding along and allowing their terminology to fall about her like snow as they spoke of Milk Hill, magnetism levels as high as 4.36, and cent
rifugal deposits.

  In the soil? Belinda cut in, and the two men stared at her and smiled.

  He’s a soil man, Rich replied, pitching his head at Sampson, the one with the handlebar moustache.

  Sampson grinned. Soil is the secret, he said proudly, and Belinda could tell this was something of a mantra that the team joked about. It takes a keen eye, he continued. You have to know what you’re looking for. We’ve been finding these little balls, see. Little metal balls scattered on the surface of the soil.

  What are they? Belinda asked, her eyes growing wide.

  Iron, mostly, Sampson said. But they’re these little balls, see, and that’s the important bit. Sampson cupped his palm and pinched at the air inside with a thumb and forefinger to illustrate the size of the balls. That means, he said, that they were once molten. So we find these once-molten balls of iron inside the crop circle, and what do you think that means?

  They must have melted! Belinda shouted, nearly springing out of her seat. Rich began to chuckle and she blushed, touching two fingers to her open mouth. I mean, she said, it sounds like something must have melted them, some kind of force. Something hot enough to melt metal in the soil. That would be my guess.

  I like her already, Sampson said to Rich. His smug grin displayed large square teeth like Chiclets.

  You said something about centrifugal dispersion, Belinda said. Does that mean the balls are dispersed in some sort of pattern?

  Uh oh! Rich cried, clapping a hand to his knee. Marshall, he called up to the front of the van, Sampson’s doing missionary work back here! He’s got his first follower!

  Dr. Longfellow glanced back and shook his head like a disapproving father, then re-settled himself into his reading.

  As a matter of fact, Sampson said loudly to drown Rich’s chuckling, I would argue that the concentration of the balls increases as you get closer to the formation’s perimeter. Like an explosion, from the centre out. Sampson’s hands mimed an expanding mushroom cloud.

  Is he talking about his balls again? Monika called out. She eyed the three passengers in her rear-view mirror, a sly smile stretching across her face.

  What else? Rich replied.

  Let her make up her own mind, Sam, Monika said, still smiling.

  Oh no, Belinda said, I think it’s fascinating. She was quite certain that Monika was joking, but the team’s constant teasing of Sampson seemed cruel. Monika said nothing in reply, and her smile stayed frozen in place as she turned her eyes back to the road.

  I’m a mathematics nut myself, Rich piped up. Never did too good in grade school but now I got calculations coming out the wazoo. He passed his notebook to Belinda, the pages spread open. The paper was chicken-scratched with numbers and small sketches of circular formations dissected like pies.

  Show her your other one, Sampson said, elbowing Rich in the side.

  Sure, Rich said, I don’t mind sharing. He reached into the backpack tucked under the seat in from of him and pulled out another, smaller notebook which he tossed on top of Belinda’s books. She flipped through dozens of pencil drawings of spiral galaxies, so loose and large that they fell off the pages like the clumsy scribblings of a small child.

  Beautiful, Belinda said. Did you do these?

  They come to me when I’m inside, Rich replied.

  Belinda had begun telling them about her children then, which she hadn’t wanted to do. She didn’t want to come off as a disenchanted mother, trying to escape the sad reality that her children were her world. Belinda’s sense of adventure was informed and legitimate, not escapist. But she had mentioned Sebastian’s interest in crop circles, how he loved to draw circles over and over again and never seemed to bore himself, and then it had seemed unavoidable to talk about Jessica and Grace as well. She resisted the urge to pull photographs out of her purse, but Sampson and Rich still seemed to receive her talk of her children as motherly yearning.

  Ah yes, it’s hard being away from the little rascals, isn’t it? Rich said. Glad I don’t have any to worry about.

  I’ve got a daughter, Sampson said. Nine years old. She’s always expecting presents when I come home after a couple of months of fieldwork. And then there’s the wife — oh, boy.

  You could come home with the Holy Grail and it wouldn’t be enough! Sampson palmed his forehead in mock exasperation. You can consider that a warning, Rich said, and Sampson chuckled in agreement. For a brief instant, Belinda contemplated telling Rich and Sampson that she wasn’t sure she would be going home. The words almost slipped out of her mouth before she decided she didn’t know them well enough yet. She could imagine the judgmental grimaces that might distort their jovial expressions. For all their experience as researchers, it was clear that they considered crop circles a part-time occupation. Going home at the end of the season was never in doubt.

  Belinda had barely spoken to Monika past initial introductions, but she felt certain that Monika did not have children. Her commanding presence put Belinda in mind of a school principal. Belinda always saw principals as people with too much good sense to burden the world with children of their own; instead, they made it their duty to manage those of others. But it was mainly the way Monika was able to joke with the men in that coarse, nonchalant way that gestured her freedom from the grave and wary responsibility of motherhood.

  Monika and Dr. Longfellow had virtually ignored each other for the entire trip, and Belinda wondered if they’d once been lovers and were forced for the sake of their joint research to continue working together despite awkward personal tensions. She had a difficult time imagining Dr. Longfellow’s spindly arms around Monika’s wide and solid girth, but the thought of their ungainly pairing gave her comfort. Belinda was glad that Monika had turned out to be much different — less attractive and graceful — than she had expected. Rather than a shiny charm for Dr. Longfellow to wear, Monika was human and imperfect, with untamable grey hairs and a large, kidney-shaped mole next to her left eye. She wore souvenir sweatshirts and scowled at other women. She was more interesting when Belinda did not have to envy her.

  12 Foreigners

  ROSE HAS THIS PEN PAL named Jesus. He lives in Paraguay. She’s been writing to him since grade five, when everyone in her class got assigned to a pen pal as a language arts project. I think the only reason she still writes to him is ’cause she gets to say: I correspond with Jesus.

  Isn’t that sort of sacrilegious? I asked her. Like, wouldn’t Catholic people find that offensive?

  Whatever, she said. It’s just a joke.

  But I know it wouldn’t be funny to Rose’s parents, considering Rose isn’t even allowed to say God when she’s not praying. Whenever I say Oh my God Rose corrects me, Don’t you mean oh my gosh? I don’t think she actually cares; it’s more like a habit. I accidentally said Oh my God once at the dinner table with her family, and I saw Rose’s eyes look straight at her dad like he was a jack-in-the-box ready to pop. Nobody said anything, but Rose’s mom looked down at her plate and her eyes went wide for a second. I could tell she was thinking that I was going to end up in hell. Rose’s mom is the only person I know who says Oh for Pete’s sake whenever something surprising happens. She even yelled it out one time when she opened the fridge and an open can of tomato juice fell out and spilled all over the floor, and then she laughed and shook her head while she stared at the puddle making its way across the tiles. Mum would’ve screamed Shit, shit, shit, ripped off about ten sheets of paper towel and thrown them on the floor like her whole day was ruined.

  The funny thing is, Rose’s parents actually know all about her pen pal. They see the letters come in the mail. Her mom pronounces Jesus’s name Hay-zoos. You got another letter from Hay-zoos, she told Rose one day when I was over at their house. I must have looked confused ’cause then her mom turned to me and said, That’s how the Latinos pronounce it. Rose’s dad peeked over her shoulder to look at the stamp from Paraguay and said Ooo, that’s a keeper. Rose just rolled her eyes and pressed the envelope to her chest. She
won’t open the letters until she’s alone in her room, and sometimes she won’t even tell me what they say. It’s private, thank you very much, she says.

  I’m pretty sure that Rose’s parents don’t know she sends Jesus pictures of herself with every letter. She once bought a disposable camera and made me take a whole roll of them. Some full-body shots in different poses, with her wearing a spaghettistrap tank-top that shows the tops of her boobs. She also got me to do a bunch of shots zoomed right in on her face with black eyeliner and mascara and pink lipstick all over it. One time, she held the camera out in front of her and made a kissy face. She showed me the letter she got back after she sent it and Jesus had gone on for a whole paragraph about how hot she was, and how he wished he could caress her smooth skin and look into her beautiful eyes and all kinds of sleazebag crap like that.

  Barf, I said when I read it. I laughed through the whole thing and Rose said I was just jealous, which was probably the dumbest thing I’d ever heard. Rose is the one who gets jealous about everything. When I won the Social award in grade nine, she avoided me for a week. I didn’t even care about the award, it was just a stupid plaque with my name on a rectangular piece that had been glued on. They put my Chinese middle name on it without even asking, so it wasn’t like I was going to display it for everyone to see. I told her she could have it and peel off the name part if that would make her happy and she said it wouldn’t. Go figure.

  The other thing Rose gets mad about is copying. She always thinks I’m copying her when I’m just minding my own business. One time, she got mad ’cause I chose the same gummy candies as her at the 7-Eleven. She’d taken three marshmallow frogs, six sour soothers and ten jumbo coke bottles, and I took the same. It just seemed like good proportions.

  What are you doing? she asked. She watched me twirl the plastic baggie and tie it in a knot. She was looking at me like I had a puppy in a chokehold.