Throughout my twenties we continued to go on trips together. I visited her again that year in Switzerland, where we took an overnight train to Italy to see Venice and Florence. I joined her on one of her stays in San Miguel de Allende in Mexico, where we went to art openings, attended talks at the Biblioteca, and ate churros con chocolate at a café owned by a famous telenovela actress. Mom took me to the nearby Monarch Butterfly Biosphere Reserve, the winter home of the butterflies that fly down each year from Canada (or rather, their great-great-grandchildren that complete the journey). Mom and I rode into the pine forest on horseback toward the orange-winged colony high up in the middle of the mountains. I’m not sure whether it was the altitude or the tequila I’d drunk the night before, but as soon as we arrived I fainted. When I came to, I was lying on the forest floor with my head resting on Mom’s lap, surrounded by thousands of butterflies swirling around me. I was in heaven.
But on the trip to Spain I started questioning my decision right from the minute we got on the plane. I watched as Mom teetered down the aisle in front of me, hitting the seated passengers on either side of her, one by one, with the dangling hip-straps of her backpack. “Mom, watch out for your bag!” I scolded. She’d always been a head-in-the-clouds sort of person, often unaware of her surroundings, but now I’d lost my patience for her daydreamer ways.
I wasn’t allowed to get angry at her for what I was really angry about, so instead I got angry at her for everything else: the hotel she booked outside of town, her snoring, her slow walking, the way she took her sweet time to wrap her scarf just right. I felt like I was always on the verge of blowing up. It didn’t take much to set me off. I was constantly criticizing her, and I know I hurt her feelings. But as much as I’d vowed to appreciate our time together, it was proving to be more of a challenge than I’d thought.
So, before we started out from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port in France, I told Mom that I preferred to walk at my own pace and that we could meet up in few days. Mom was totally fine with this plan; she didn’t make me feel guilty. She was probably relieved to have a break from my constant chiding. We arranged to stay in touch and meet up in a few days in Pamplona.
When three days went by and I hadn’t heard from her, I started to worry. I even called Teddy. I decided to wait one more day before calling the Spanish police. When I tried calling her again, Mom finally picked up. She explained that she’d been having such a fabulous time with her new Camino friends that she simply forgot. “I turned off my phone,” she said, sounding like an oblivious teenager. I couldn’t believe it—she had literally disconnected herself.
We ended up walking the nine days separately. We both preferred our own pace, our own paths. But when we finally reunited at Cafè Colonny in the town of Logroño, we were genuinely excited to see each other again. I remember spotting her sitting on the patio with a glass of white wine, reading a book. “Mom!” I called out. “Rachie!” she called back. We gave each other a big hug.
Before flying home we spent a lovely last day at Frank Gehry’s Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao. As we took in the spectacular metallic exterior from the riverside walkway, we came upon a massive thirty-foot steel spider sculpture by Louise Bourgeois. Mom immediately recognized it. “It’s called Maman!” she announced. The towering spider was a tribute to Bourgeois’s beloved mother, a tapestry maker, who died when she was just twenty-one. It was said to be an ode to her mother’s strength, with its metaphors of weaving and nurturing, as well as the ambiguous nature of motherhood: the spider as both protector and predator.
As I walked underneath the creature’s belly and looked up from below, Mom crept toward me with her hands formed into claws. “Maman! Maman!” she taunted playfully. I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help smiling. Mom was a freak, but she was my freak. I loved her so much, but she also irritated me to no end. She was my mother and my tormentor—a powerful, larger-than-life presence spinning her own web of distortion. Was I trapped?
9
THE SKY HADN’T FALLEN
I could definitely see the upside of denial. Mom was cheerful and optimistic. She wondered whether the rolfing had freed frozen energy in her shoulders. Or if the reflexology, Japanese acupuncture, reiki, qigong, and yoga had released the lonely memories held in her cells. “Did the shaman spit out the resident evil spirit?” she asked (rhetorically, I hoped). “Whatever. I feel lighter. I’m walking through the world with more ease,” she said.
I had to admit that being complacent was much more enjoyable than being freaked out all the time. And, honestly, as much as I desperately wanted Mom to get treatment, a part of me was relieved she wasn’t going under the knife. Surgery scared me, too. Mom’s way, we didn’t have to deal with anything. Avoidance was pretty awesome.
Three years turned into four, and the sky still hadn’t fallen. Mom and I were hanging out, going to restaurants and films as usual. She was back to eating biscotti every morning and drinking a variety of wine grapes. Now she was mostly focused on teaching, travelling, and finding true love.
The more that time trudged along without catastrophe, the more I began to doubt myself. Maybe things would be fine, just as they appeared to be. Maybe Mom was right. Maybe my calculations were off. It was difficult to maintain my view of reality, to anchor myself in what I knew. I was so inside Mom’s labyrinth that I’d lost all perspective. Mom was more confident than I was. She was one hundred percent positive that she was making the best possible decision for herself, while I was only, say, ninety-seven percent sure she was making a fatal mistake.
Had Mom’s magical thinking rubbed off on me? Or was it all just too bizarre to process? I mean, I may have been intellectually aware of the consequences, but I think the sheer implausibility of the situation had edged me into denial. “My mom’s trying to cure herself with herbs!” was what I’d told my friends, as if it were just another of my funny Mom stories. The strange and terrifying reality—that Mom was letting her cancer run wild—was almost too crazy to comprehend. In the existential words of David After Dentist, Is this real life?
* * *
—
SINCE WALKING THE Camino with Mom (er, without Mom), I’d become obsessed with long-distance hiking. I did a five-day trek to Machu Picchu that same summer. I was definitely going into the red with vacation days (and my bank account), but I felt I needed to get away for the sake of my mental health. I craved the simplicity of the hiking life. I didn’t have to worry about saving Mom or navigating Jian’s moods. My only job was to walk from Point A to Point B every day.
Mom and I had loved our respective Camino experiences so much that, a year later, we both set out to hike more of it—officially separately this time. I’d just completed the final twelve-day stretch and was heading home the next morning. Mom had just arrived with plans to hike for a week and then meet up with her sister to travel around more of Spain. We had one overlapping day together in Barcelona, and we were making the most of it. Mom and I spent the morning wandering the Gaudí pathways of Park Güell and the early afternoon ambling through the narrow cobblestone streets of the old Gothic quarter. We were getting along well. I’d made a conscious decision to not let myself get irritated, regretful of how critical I’d been the year before. Surely I could get through twenty-four hours without feeling annoyed.
Later that afternoon we drank cava in the sunshine at a little tapas restaurant outside the Boqueria Market. Our little bistro table was crowded with tiny plates of vinegared anchovies, artichokes, and green olives. We raised our flutes and toasted to the wonderful day we were having together. But as we caught up, it became apparent that Mom hadn’t planned her hiking trip. She didn’t know what route she was taking or even how she’d get to the trail from Barcelona. Back at our Airbnb I found her a cheap plane ticket online, but Mom had left her credit card at home. On purpose. She was afraid of losing it, so she’d brought only her bank card. I was concerned for her. Who goes travelling without their credit
card? Or a plan? I insisted that we call Visa to retrieve her number in case of emergency.
I’d booked dinner for us that evening at a private supper club, hosted by a Michelin-trained chef—a belated seventieth birthday gift. Mom was jetlagged and wanted to have a nap beforehand, so I went to meet an old friend for a drink. A couple of hours later, as I turned the key to open the door, I could hear Mom cry out, “Oh good! You’re back.”
My eyes followed a trail of blood from the floor at my feet to the living area where Mom was lying on the couch, writhing in pain, holding her left elbow with her right hand. “I fell down the stairs. I think my arm is broken,” she cried, trying to steady her rapid breathing. “I’m sorry about dinner.”
I rushed over and sat by her side. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Let’s get you fixed up.” It was shocking. I’d never seen Mom in such pain, so vulnerable, but I needed to remain cool and calm. She was shivering, so I covered her with a blanket. I fed her a couple of painkillers, cleaned the open gashes on her forehead and knee, and grabbed a silk scarf out of her bag to fashion a makeshift sling for her arm. Then I ran outside to hail a taxi.
It was a good thing we had Mom’s credit card number.
The private hospital we were taken to was sleek and modern. I was surprised that no one on staff seemed to speak English fluently. I knew a little Spanish, but as proficient as I was at ordering jamón ibérico and pulpo gallego, I had no idea how to ask for an X-ray. “Fotografía?” I said to the nurse, pretending to snap a picture with my finger and pointing to Mom’s arm.
“Ahh, una radiografía!” she finally guessed with all the glee of a charades enthusiast. “Si!”
The doctor confirmed that Mom’s elbow was broken. He wanted to book her in for surgery, but together we decided it would be best for her to return to Toronto with me. He’d stabilize her arm until she got to a hospital back home. Mom eyed him as he went about preparing plaster for her arm and butterfly bandages for her cuts.
“Did you wash your hands?” she asked.
“Not now!” I shushed her. The doctor continued shuffling around behind us. I was really hoping he hadn’t heard her or understood enough English to be offended.
“What?” she sneered. “I read that a large percentage of doctors don’t wash their hands.”
“Zip it.” I felt bad for her—I could see she was scared—but I was in no mood for any of her anti-medical drama. “You’re going to have to be a passive patient,” I hissed.
There was a lot going on. While I was on the phone with Visa trying to sort out Mom’s insurance and flight home I was also trying to communicate with the hospital staff in my drunken-baby Spanish. So much for going twenty-four hours without her annoying me. I tried.
While the doctor wrapped up Mom’s arm I went into the waiting room to call Teddy. Sometimes he felt like my co-parent. He would pick us both up at the airport the next day. The following morning I wrote to our Airbnb host to apologize for the bloody towels (I didn’t want to tarnish my five-star rating) before heading to the airport. I dropped Mom off at her terminal and got her wheelchair assistance before dashing off to catch my own flight. As we said goodbye, my heart sank at the sight of her. There she was, arm in a cast, still wearing her blood-splattered T-shirt from the day before. I couldn’t deny what I was seeing with my own eyes: Mom wasn’t invincible. The cracks in her perfect glowing facade were beginning to appear.
* * *
—
BACK IN TORONTO, Mom delayed getting surgery for twelve days. “Elbow surgery is the most painful surgery there is,” she was telling everyone. She didn’t like her surgeon and didn’t think he knew what he was doing. “He doesn’t like me either,” Mom admitted. I can’t imagine why.
Finally Mom relented. “Michael says his herbs can’t heal a broken elbow,” she told me.
But he thinks they can cure rectal cancer?
That July I started dating Molly, a beautiful activist with dark wavy hair and big caring eyes. Molly worked in the labour movement, organizing union workers and writing equity policy, and was extremely strident in her beliefs. I’d playfully call her a “terrorist” and she’d not-so-playfully call me a “Liberal.” (I wasn’t, but to a lefty like her, there was no greater insult.) In my family she was known as “Big Molly” so as not to be confused with my niece.
I loved Molly’s family. Her Jewish mom and Irish dad were revolutionary political types who subscribed to the New Left Review. Molly’s parents still lived in the same old Edwardian house she’d grown up in, and she regularly went home for dinner. Her parents cooked delicious meals in their farmhouse-style kitchen, including homemade apple crumble served with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Pictures of Molly and her older brother were displayed around the house. They even had one of those walls dedicated to measuring everyone’s height. (On my first visit, Molly got out a pencil and put me up against the wall, marking the top of my head and adding my initials.) They were a perfect progressive TV family.
Molly was feminine, and a fighter. She liked that I was boyish—“masculine of centre,” as the young queer folk would say—and even-keeled. We had shared values, but in many ways we were a case of opposites attract. I was irreverent and funny (at least to myself); she was earnest and sincere. She was a self-described “feminist killjoy” and appreciated how I brought her over to the lighter side. Molly wore her emotions on her sleeve—“I feel ALL THE FEELINGS,” she told me—whereas I was only just learning how to express my emojis.
From our first date onward, we spent a lot of time together. I was happy and smitten. It was a welcome distraction from Mom and from work—especially in light of the distressing news I’d just gotten about Jian.
That spring, Jian’s mood swings had gotten worse. A few of us had sensed he was more irritable, restless, and agitated than usual, and no one seemed to know why. By early July, when I got back from Spain, a trusted friend told me that Jian was being investigated by reporters over multiple allegations that he’d beaten women. I was shocked, but somehow not surprised.
Jian was in his late forties but dated women half his age. He’d often bring a young date to screenings and performances we’d attend together for work. A year earlier, a disturbing essay had been published on the website xoJane by a woman who’d accidentally found herself on a date with him in which he aggressively touched her body without invitation. Jian was a bully at work, so it wasn’t a stretch to imagine that his cruel behaviour could carry over to his private life. Over the years he’d alluded to liking rough sex. I assumed it had something to do with that. But I didn’t know what exactly was being alleged. I had little information to go on.
When I told my co-worker Brian what I’d heard, he revealed that he and Sean had already gone to management with the news a few days earlier. Apparently Jian had been questioned about the rumours, but he’d denied any wrongdoing. “They said they’ll pull him off the air if they find any evidence he’s lying to them,” Brian told me. I was rattled, but I felt reassured that management was on it. I assumed they’d investigate the matter further and keep an eye on us to make sure we were okay. In the meantime I’d hang tight.
I didn’t tell anyone else about this, not even Molly. Once again, I stuffed my feelings down into my emotional compression sack (you can fit a surprising amount in it). When Molly’s parents asked me what it was like working with Jian, I recited my stock phrase: “He’s good at what he does.” Once we were alone, Molly asked me if I was okay—she’d noticed how pale and panic-stricken I’d looked at the mention of Jian’s name. “Oh, I just don’t like the guy,” I said, waving it off.
That summer, my office felt more chilling than the HBO dramas I screened for work. Jian was covertly trying to put the kibosh on any stories having to do with sexual assault or violence against women. After another in-the-know producer suggested a segment about NFL player Ray Rice, who’d been charged with aggravated assault for
punching his fiancée, Jian yelled at him: “Are you trying to throw me under?!” His extra-erratic behaviour was confusing for the majority of producers who were still in the dark. When I finally filled a fellow producer in on why Jian was acting strangely, she was relieved to hear it wasn’t all in her head. “I thought I was going crazy,” she admitted.
A small group of us started going for coffee and informal group therapy every morning next door at the Ritz. We’d talk about Jian’s latest power moves and try to calm one another down. His behaviour was making it extremely difficult for us to do our job. There was a lot of whispering about the elephant in the office. Brian took over directing after Sean left to work on another show—he could no longer in good conscience keep writing Jian’s opening essays—but no one was told the real reason why.
By early August I was fed up with all the secrecy and confusion. My anxiety was at an all-time high. I walked into my boss’s office. “You have to do something,” I said.
“What do you think I should do?” he replied.
I resented him for turning the question on me. I didn’t want to have to do his job for him. “I don’t know, but things can’t continue the way they are. He’s driving us all crazy. You have to do something,” I pleaded.
“Rachel, you have to remember that he’s innocent until proven guilty,” he said condescendingly, as if I’d never seen an episode of Law & Order. I could feel my veins pulsing. We weren’t in a court of law; we were at work. As far as I could see he was using the presumption of innocence as an excuse to disregard the fact that Jian was already guilty—beyond a reasonable doubt—of making us all fucking miserable. It was a familiar feeling. There I was, sounding the alarm, but I was just seen as the kid who cried wolf. When really, there was a big bad fucking wolf.
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