by Donna Bishop
~ ~ ~
Moragh bids me along on a journey into her past and conjures up her favourite image of Nicolai — he’s holding their son for the first time, cupping the tiny baby in his strong hands, tears of joy in his sky-blue eyes, his tangled flaxen curls framing his beckoning smile. “I am the most fortunate man in the world,” he says, beaming.
Moragh begins to project episodes of her life with Nicolai, clearly wanting me to understand the depth of their commitment. I see them working together, tilling the soil by hand and trying to coax food from the rocky land. They harvest the stones to build an enclosure for the gentle brown-eyed milk cow Nicolai brought home for his growing son. They acquire a few lambs and some more chickens. Moragh’s meagre living was needfully enhanced by this energetic, hard-working man.
Just watching them, I can see their fascination is mutual and profound.
“Ach, my spirit friend. Our lives were inspired by love. Our bodies seemed to fit together like a puzzle and when he whispered words of love and desire into the hollow of my throat, the real magic began.
“For nearly three years we lived in a state of wonder that such bliss was possible. My fair man loved to tease me and call me his Wild Celt. He praised his good fortune to have found a passionate woman, so unlike the cold, pious women in his home country. He is larger than life and he is my life.
“But all of a sudden, Nicolai was summoned home. It was a matter of family honour — his father was ill and his rivals were luring his crew away and impinging on his whaling and fishing territory.”
~ ~ ~
I see an image of Moragh and Niclolai, with little Nic on his shoulders, standing on a long pier, their hooded garments whipping in the chilly wind. When it’s time to board the ship, Moragh has to wrench the clinging child down into her arms. It’s heartbreaking to see him struggle, his pudgy toddler arms reaching for his father.
A huge part of Nicolai’s heart stayed in Scotland, and an equally huge part of Moragh’s sailed away that day. He stayed true to his promise to Moragh that he would never hunt another whale. He dismantled his father’s whaling business in favour of the herring hunt and cared for his father and supported his mother as was expected of him.
“And what of you, my friend, and the lot of women in your time? I sense your man, the father of your bonnie bairns, is not your match. I fear your safety if you stay with him. I sense a shadow all around him.”
“You’re right Moragh. It’s why I’m here. The lot of women has not improved much in all this time, and even though I feel betrayed and unloved by him, it’s hard for me to break away. I’ve been harmed in this life because I’m a woman and I need to gather my strength to talk about it and to be part of changing it along with others, past and present and future.”
“Break away you must, Mo Cridhe. Have courage.”
“Thank you so much, Moragh. I will leave you here, content that you are safe with your son — although I have a strong sense of foreboding for us both. But I will return another day, if I am welcome.”
“Indeed you are, my spirit friend. Always.”
“Celeste? Are you there?”
“Take my hand, Liv, and I will walk you back.”
11
~ Lemon Balm ~
Sleep would’ve been nice, especially since Liv finally has the bed to herself. But it isn’t meant to be. She is tossing and turning, unable to sleep, when she hears a rustling in the kid’s room around two a.m. She pads downstairs and finds Leah, curled up in bed, determined tears in her eyes, snuggling a little bat, which is moments away from death.
“Oh Leah, who is this little creature?” Liv whispers.
Tearfully, Leah replies, “Mom, it’s a tiny baby bat I found last night and I’ve tried to take care of it but I think it’s really sick.” Liv moves onto the bed and takes the bat, now still and cold, in her hands.
“Somehow this little fellow got really hurt, Leah. But you know what, you kept it warm and safe and comfy for its last hours, and now it isn’t in pain anymore. I’m just going to put him in a special box, and we can bury him in the yard tomorrow.”
“Oh Mom, baby animals shouldn’t die.”
“I know, Sweetheart. It’s not fair. I’m glad you helped him, though.” She strokes Leah’s forehead and she soon falls fast asleep.
Liv lays the dead bat to rest in an empty chocolate box, and no sooner does she get her own tired body back to bed when she hears a loud cry from downstairs. She thinks at first it’s Leah, upset about the bat, but soon realizes it’s Molly having one of her night terrors. She finds her standing beside her bed, staring at the bookshelf, her eyes wide and her forehead sweaty despite the chill in the room.
“The books are falling. I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it.” Her voice is panicked and she’s shaking. Liv reaches out to embrace and comfort her, but she stiffens and pulls away.
Liv speaks softly, “It’s okay, Molly, the books are okay. See? There they are on the shelves.” No response. Molly’s eyes seem to stare blindly, as if she’s in a trance. This isn’t the first time this had happened. Molly has been having episodes of night terrors since she was about five. Dr. Mo says they can be caused by stress or lack of sleep.
God knows poor Molly has been through enough lately.
But what to do with her poor scared, unresponsive daughter, stuck in a nightmare?
“Lemon balm and lavender to ease the nerves and bring on slumber,” she hears Moragh’s advice echoing softly in her mind. Fortunately, both happen to be in a vase with wild roses she’d made into a fragrant bouquet in the kitchen. Liv wraps the herbs in a facecloth and wets it with tepid water and coaxes her sobbing daughter to lie down. She snuggles beside her and places the soothing poultice on her forehead. Instantly she’s cooled and calmed.
Crowded but cozy on the single bed with the Care Bear quilt that Grandma Hazel made for her Christmas gift last year, Liv and Molly fall asleep before they’re able to name all of the Care Bears: Love-a-Lot Bear, Cheer Bear, Friend Bear, Good Luck Bear, Bedtime Bear… they sleep curled into each other until the dastardly rooster crows at 5:30 a.m.
Liv manages to organize breakfast: granola with milk, toast, jam and strawberries. Everyone but Micah is sleepy and quiet. Micah is in full form, taking baking soda out of the cupboard and adding vinegar, to try to make an explosion. All he makes is a gigantic mess.
Ross comes home in the mid-morning, looking haggard after a week of sleeping on Mel’s sofa bed. His attitude is apologetic and he seems sober.
“Liv, I’m sorry. I should have called. I know you’ve been left holding the bag here, looking after everybody.”
“Does this mean you’re ready to talk about our marriage, Ross? Are you ready to see a psychiatrist?”
“I don’t think I can survive this life without you and the kids, Liv. I did see the doctor — he gave me some new painkillers for this interminable headache.”
“What about Anya?”
“That was a mistake. It’s run its course.”
“I need to know that you’re willing to work to repair our marriage, and to get help. And you need to stay off the booze, Ross. I can’t have you here if you upset the kids.”
“I just need to rest.”
She doesn’t have the heart to send him away.
The following day when she finally has a chance to call Celeste, she tells her, “I think he’s trying to get back on track. He was cheerful and fun with the kids this morning and left for work in good spirits. He says he went to see his doctor in Twin Rivers and got some new painkillers, but I think he’s doubled the dose and he still complains of terrible migraine pain. He hasn’t seen a psychiatrist.”
“Do you feel safe when he’s there, Liv?”
“I’m OK. He’s been pleasant and attentive for the most part. He told the kids he wants to take all of us to Disneyland — including my mom, and he doesn’t even like her! I don't know what he's thinking. We can’t afford a trip. It seems destined to be a broken promise to the k
ids and that makes me mad. He is still sidestepping any talk about our marriage or his mental health.”
“Sounds like you’re both reverting to your patterns in some ways, but at least you’re setting some clear boundaries and able to speak your mind.”
“Yes, I am, but I also realize it’s just a matter of time before there’s another incident. Who needs Disneyland when your life is such a rollercoaster? I feel like one day I want to help him through this, and the next I don’t. I’m getting stronger and more confident, but I feel I need to go deeper to figure out why I have made the choices I have in this life. I really hope we can revisit Moragh’s story today.”
“I suspect we will. One never knows exactly where hypnosis will take you, if anywhere,” her friend replies. “But together, we seem to have found a way to manoeuvre very well within it.”
“See you in an hour!”
Just as Liv arrives at Celeste’s, the phone rings. It’s her daughter Rebecca, who has some urgent issue regarding her application for Master’s studies. Celeste signals to Liv to make herself at home and attends to the call.
Liv pours two cups of rose-hip tea and hands one to Celeste at the kitchen table with a smile of understanding. She’s looking forward to the day when her own children are grown and successful and seeking her advice on such important life decisions. Liv takes her own tea and moves to the living room, where she relaxes into the serenity of her surroundings. She pauses once again to admire the rich jewel colours of the stained-glass Buddha and then reclines on the sofa and closes her eyes. She’s so tired from her sleepless night and she can hear Celeste’s animated voice and laughter in the next room, and it lulls her into a pleasant, meditative state.
An iridescent fog passes across her eyelids and she has the sensation of utter weightlessness now so familiar to her from her sessions in this room. She directs her thoughts to a question: What did I see in him in the beginning?
A memory comes to her — the moment nine years ago when she first saw Ross. She was a student sitting in one of the cramped desks in her first Sociology 101 class, waiting for the professor to appear. On the whiteboard in bold red letters someone had written: GOD IS DEAD.
Liv and the students around her were shocked that anyone would have the nerve to walk up to the board and write that. One girl who was particularly offended had just risen to go up and erase it when Ross sauntered in, looking amused and confident. He was handsome in a distinguished way, sort of like Donald Sutherland with a touch of George Carlin. His greying hair was pulled back in a ponytail with an accompanying short-styled beard and moustache — a look reserved only for the very cool in the ’70s. His grey eyes sparkled with amusement as he observed his students’ reactions to the words on the board.
“I just committed a taboo by trashing a powerful social belief. Even those of you who don’t believe in God were outraged by this statement.”
His voice was as compelling as his words. It was deep, mellow and commanding — she found out later that he put himself through university by working as a radio news announcer.
He challenged the class to acknowledge what had just happened re: the God is dead supposition. From there he segued into a discussion of how the colonizing Europeans had destroyed the indigenous people they encountered. The introduction of new technology and food, coupled with devastating epidemics and an aggressive campaign of assimilation, violence and abuse, decimated their population and undermined their cultural beliefs. He listed other countries where this had happened — was still happening.
“Really bad shit happens when you deny people the things that hold their culture together,” he said, now leaning back in his chair with his feet crossed on the desk, lighting up his second cigarette. Liv was fascinated at his ability to look so elegant while smoking and ranting. Throughout his lecture, he’d been blowing smoke rings and drinking coffee — or more likely something even more potent — from a large red mug.
He concluded the class by saying he would prefer to teach only those bold enough and tough enough to learn some truths and have a good hard look at themselves as part of a really fucked-up society.
“And, by the way, I’m happy to lose the Christian zealots and the Barbie and Ken dolls who just signed up for this class thinking it would be an easy A.”
Some of her fellow students were rapt with interest and enthused by this performance, while others were outraged. None walked out, though.
Liv was definitely in the first category. She emerged determined to show this brilliant, intimidating, arrogant man that she was absolutely not one of the Barbie dolls.
She smiles to herself in her semi-hypnotic state and allows Ross’ seductive smoke rings to summon memories from the early months of their relationship — images that bring a blush to her face.
Dancing to a slow country song, deliberately brushing against him and brazenly gazing into his eyes.
She was drawn to him in a way she had never experienced before and she pursued him without shame. She gained access to the group of student activist types he hung out with. A few weeks after classes began, she contrived to join them at Joe’s Cabaret on a Friday night. She drank way too much. She enticed him onto the dance floor and held him close as they waltzed to Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue. Later, in the parking lot, she kissed him for so long she nearly fainted, breathless. They left together that night in his little Alpha Romeo sports car, to drive to his rustic cabin on a lake, twenty kilometres out of town.
With Ross she felt exceptional, as if she were somehow endowed with some of his brilliance. She was entranced by his intelligence and insight into things she had never even thought about.
She didn’t give the negatives a thought — the age difference of nineteen years, his brash self-confidence, his drinking, chain-smoking, the fact he’d been married three times previously. None of that mattered to her. Not then. He wrote eloquent love poems and painted extraordinary watercolours expressing his love and admiration of her.
She got pregnant accidently, spurring a shotgun wedding. Her unimpressed parents and her bewildered brothers attended the tiny event at city hall. Liv smiles as she recalls the family photo taken that day — the entourage are all trying to look happy, but the only joyous ones are she and Ross, beaming in the centre of the shot.
They lived in the city for a while, their lives full of friends, parties, romantic dinners, picnics, holidays to Tofino, California, Ottawa, and Mexico — memories of their enviable, fulfilling life ripple through Liv’s mind. It feels good to remember this part of her marriage. In all the turmoil, she’d forgotten the love that started it all and the immense pride she felt whenever she was with Ross. She’d felt like a better person for being with him. She felt in control and safe. What changed?
Celeste wraps up her phone call with her daughter and enters the room, rousing Liv from her reverie.
“Did you and Rebecca get everything sorted out?”
“Yeah, she just needed someone to go over her research hypothesis with her. Sorry to make you wait.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I occupied myself by reminiscing about when Ross and I met — how attracted I was to his mind and his incredible charisma in the classroom. His unconventional techniques and the joy he took in pushing the boundaries made him pretty irresistible to me then because I trusted his judgement. But now...”
“I can see how you’d be concerned his mental illness might cause him to jeopardize his teaching career, let alone your marriage,” says Celeste.
“For sure! The guy is pretty well always in shit with the dean for something! He revels in pushing the boundaries. And there have been a few really dicey episodes in the past. About five years ago, he had a really outstanding seminar group — these students were really brilliant, in fact, three of them went on to do grad studies.
“Anyway, in one of their seminar sessions, Ross challenged them to consider what it would take for them to revolt. One of them said the parking situation at the college made them want to
take up arms and they laughed, but then they started riffing on that idea. One of them came up with the name for their guerrilla group — the Parking Liberation Organization, or PLO.”
“Oh, that’s too funny,” Celeste says, chuckling.
“Celeste, they actually went through with it. One night, under the cover of darkness, they removed all the signs on the college grounds that designated where students could park. The next morning, they showed up at all the road entrances in masks and told the students driving in they could park anywhere they wanted — so they parked in staff parking, on the sidewalk in front of the administration building, even on the lawns.”
“Parking pandemonium!”
“No kidding. And even though Ross had told them he couldn’t have anything to do with it, the word got out that his seminar group was responsible and he very nearly lost his job.”
“What about the students?”
“Oh, the administration crushed them. Within hours they’d identified them and threatened immediate expulsion if the signs weren’t returned by a certain deadline. They gave in immediately and dug up the signs, which they’d buried in the bark mulch in the gardens. They didn’t get expelled, but each one had a nasty letter on their file.”
“I see what you mean — that was a pretty risky thing to put in motion with the whole PLO terrorist craze at the time! Hard to see the point of it.”
“Well, that’s the irony of the whole thing. Just last spring, I ran into one of those students — she has her PhD now and she’s working as a sessional with Ross’ department. She told me the PLO incident was a defining moment for her — it taught her never to pursue a cause she isn’t ready to die for; to choose her comrades carefully; and that for any act of rebellion, one should expect a swift, decisive and devastating overreaction from the status quo.”