Liv Unravelled

by Donna Bishop

  “Puja…meaning prayer. You are aptly named, and you have answered my prayers by finding me. I can see you are a devout woman who seeks to do what is right. Will you join me in prayer?”

  Puja nods and the two women intone together.

  Asato ma sad gamaya

  tamaso ma jyotir gamaya

  ma amrtam gamayathe

  From what is not, lead me to what is

  From darkness, lead me to light

  From death, lead me to what is undying

  “I have named my daughter Veda. It’s the only thing I can give her,” the young mother says.

  Suraya nods, her eyes full of empathy. “It’s a good name, full of promise.”

  Then little Veda is gently separated from her mother’s rapid heartbeat, only to be held close to another heart that beats with a calm, strong rhythm.

  “What will you do?” the elder woman asks.

  “The woman who attended to me is a good friend. She told my husband’s family that the baby was a sickly girl who died shortly after birth and that, in my shame and grief, I have gone to bury her.”

  Puja tearfully looks down on her child for the last time. She raises her eyes to Suraya’s and the two women stand close together, facing one another, with the child warm between them and the red dirt road beneath their bare feet. Then the young mother turns away and disappears into the throng.

  I feel so loved and so fortunate to witness this piece of my soul’s history. The threads of life are tangled, but not broken, yet I feel suddenly adrift.

  “Come back to your time, Liv. Climb the stairs back to the present…one, two, three, four…returning to safety with me…five, six, seven…feeling rested and calm…eight, nine, ten.”

  Liv and Celeste are both spellbound by this virtual experience of life as a girl in India in the 1920’s.

  “That country holds an exotic magic, while at the same time being horrific and cruel,” Celeste says. “Imagine being cast away for being born a girl.”

  “Ha, yes I sure can now. And it still happens today, apparently,” Liv sadly shakes her head in empathy. “I have to tell you — when I was fourteen, I learned about Gandhi from reading an article in National Geographic and I chose to do a school project about him in grade nine — that was in 1969. I think even my teacher thought I was pretty weird. All the other kids were writing about sports stars or Elvis Presley or the Beatles. I was in love with Gandhi’s belief that it was possible to create change in the world through peaceful protest. His story inspired me to become a bit of an activist. My mother drew the line when I announced that, in solidarity with Gandhi, I would only wear handmade cloth and that I wanted to fast in protest of the slaughter of baby seals.”

  “At least you drew the line at shaving your head and wearing a loincloth!”

  “I compromised by refusing to eat meat and tie-dying my brothers’ old undershirts and sewing long, flowery skirts made from curtains. I joined Greenpeace, marched and collected names on petitions. Armed with my passion, naiveté and good intentions, I worked hard for the sea mammals, old growth forests and against the war in Vietnam. These were my teenage causes and I imagined I was just as impassioned as Gandhi and his followers.”

  “I can see that in you,” Celeste says fondly. “Choosing Gandhi as a guiding mentor in your teens seems a whole lot healthier than what most of us did by choosing Mick Jagger or the Grateful Dead,” she laughs.

  “I’ve never told you about my near claim to fame with the infamous environmental activist Paul Watson?”

  “Well. I'm impressed! Do tell!”

  “I met him at an anti-Vietnam war protest at the Peace Arch border crossing. He was handing out petitions to ban the baby seal slaughter on the east coast.”

  “I remember that era. Didn’t he spray paint the seals green, so their coats would be worthless and they wouldn’t be killed?”

  “Yep, he was my hero. So, a few months later he came to my high school in his funky orange VW bus to pick up my signed petitions. I was giddy and nervous, dressed in my favourite faded bellbottoms and blue peasant blouse. I’d even ironed by curly locks, in an effort to look more like Joni Mitchell and less like the Sunbeam bread girl everyone always said I looked like.”

  Celeste laughs as she imagines this scene.

  “I was so inspired by his passion for the cause and somewhat convinced he would fall instantly in love with me and scoop me up and away from my mundane life, to join his band of ocean saving pirates.

  “What he saw was a grade nine girl, star-struck, wordless and sweaty. He took the paper from my outstretched hand and said, ‘I thank you and the seals thank you.’ And with that he flashed a peace sign to me and the other students who were gathering nearby, handed some new petitions to all of us, and beetled off in his bus.”

  “Awwh, what a let-down, but I’m glad to hear he didn’t take advantage of you. Imagine if you had gone off with him!”

  “I eventually lost my crush on my favourite celebrity activist.” Liv demurs.

  “But you never lost your passion for environmental and social justice causes,” Celeste says, then adds with a laugh, “Not too shabby for a near claim to fame, Liv. Would you like to return to Veda next time? There’s sure to be a lot more to her story.”

  “Absolutely. I’m curious to see whether Gandhi played any kind of role in her life and I’m spellbound, yet not entirely surprised, to see that my spirit once resided in a South Asian child.

  “Oh, and before I forget I wanted to tell you this weird thing that happened yesterday afternoon. I took the kids to the thrift store — they love poking around looking for treasures and I thought I might find something to spark an idea for our Halloween costumes. So Micah was sifting through the bins of children’s toys and games, and he found an old wooden abacus. Its red, blue and yellow counting beads were very faded and the metal rods a little rusted in spots, but Micah smiled and shouted ‘This is mine from when I had brown skin! I helped my dad in a store, counting money with this.’

  “I was utterly speechless. He’s five years old — how would he know about an abacus?”

  “That is so cool! I can see Micah as a little Chinese boy! Maybe not a Buddhist, though, since he’s incapable of sitting still. Ha! I believe all of us are born into the world remembering our past lives, and then as time goes by, we slowly forget, or learn to dismiss it as nonsense.”

  “Hmmm, kind of like me having little memory flashes from Hannah and Moragh’s lives. I guess that makes sense if one believes in reincarnation, which apparently I do now.”

  Celeste jumps up and scans the massive cornucopia of books on her lending shelf in the corner of the living room. She finds the one she was looking for and hands it to Liv.

  “It’s all about a team of Tibetan monks who go around trying to find the reincarnated souls of Buddhist monks to initiate them as candidates for becoming lamas. They have a series of tests and questions they ask young children who have shown signs of remembering past lives. They’ve recorded some amazing answers and test results.”

  “So, they’re building a record of solid evidence that past lives exist. Can I borrow this?”

  “For sure, Liv.”

  15

  ~ Grounding ~

  The October sun shines brightly on the fading green hayfield. Clumps of dried yellow sunflowers stand rakishly against the fence. Liv throws the chickens their wheat scratch and takes a moment to breathe in the cool fresh air. She spies four jiggly pink pig bottoms, curly tails up and waddling past the barn. Snorting in their piggy way, they stop to chomp on the fallen crab apples under the ancient tree. Liv runs to shut the driveway gate so they can’t get out to the highway. Later she will have to find a way to entice them back into their rickety pen. For now, she lets them enjoy their freedom. She gathers a few apples and rolls them through the fence to Majic, who whinnies in appreciation. His coat is getting furry like a teddy bear, ready for winter. God, I wish I was ready for winter, she thinks. He sidles over to the timber
frame barn and saws himself back and forth, scratching an itch.

  Distant laughter alerts Liv to her children’s approach. She can see Ruby’s black tail wagging as she herds her pack of kids. The quintessential family dog, Ruby is her children’s guardian and enthusiastic playmate — they have as endless an ability to throw sticks as she does to retrieve them.

  They’ve been for a picnic to Leah Mountain (a hill on their farm, named by Leah when she was three years old), and now here they come home again, happily chattering with their lunch pails in hand — getting along, thankfully. Her children’s solo hikes usually involve a short, meandering walk before they scarf down their snacks of cheese and crackers, ants on a log (celery sticks spread with peanut butter with raisins on top), dill pickles and chocolate chip cookies. Then they come home.

  Watching them, Liv realizes she hasn’t been there for them of late. She’s been so into the drama of her marriage and her past life explorations, she hasn’t been in the present moment with her kids. She’s been there physically, but she’s just been going through the motions making food, cleaning, reading stories and putting Band-Aids on knees.

  At least I’m here, which is more than Ross can say.

  This weekend Ross’ excuse for not being home was that he was going to help their friend campaign for the provincial election, but she doesn’t believe him.

  He just wants to keep on with the crazy life he’s living, and not even try to make changes or keep our family together. It feels like we’re already leading separate lives.

  She hopes her children can be resilient and have the ability to forgive. That moment when children realize their parents aren’t perfect is bound to come soon, if it hasn’t already.

  She plunks herself down on the front porch step and watches them drop their lunch pails and begin chasing each other, playing tag. Poor Micah is always “It” — he hasn’t a chance of keeping up with his sisters. But one day, she suspects, he’ll surpass them in strength, stamina and maybe even stubbornness. Liv smiles, imagining her daughters’ dismay the day he outruns and out-jumps them. Molly and Leah tell Micah he is now the monster and he has to catch them to turn them into monsters. “Don’t make Micah always be the monster,” Liv shouts at them, secretly worried that a monster can be created that way.

  It’s a perfect, crisp autumn Sunday. Liv has always had an issue with Sundays. It’s no wonder. Growing up with an alcoholic father, Sunday was the day he was either really hungover, sick, nasty and out of booze. Or he'd get his hands on some moonshine and become a crazed drunk, wreaking havoc and varied abuses on the family. As an adult, without being aware of it, Liv need to have plans that take her out of the home on Sundays, some kind of fun activity.

  Restlessly looking around her, Liv has to acknowledge how much she loves her beautiful home on the river, her prolific vegetable garden, her animals. This is the life she wanted. She’s most comfortable in her faded denim overalls and gumboots. It all seems so tenuous now.

  What would my life be like without this place? My god, I’d miss the people, so much.

  They’re the kind of people who are there for you through everything. Fun, smart, down-to-earth, creative, inspiring people. Some are back-to-the-landers, some forever ranchers whose families homesteaded here a hundred and fifty years ago. There are the right-wing, gun-toting rednecks; the draft dodgers who never left even when they could have; pot-growers; urban professionals, like Ross, who want to live two lives and are willing to commute 100 kilometres each way. Then there are the people who don’t fit in anywhere else, who live here for the cheap rent and to stay off the radar. It’s an odd mix, but it has its magic. Someone’s barn burns down and the town not only raises money to replace it, but everybody pitches in to rebuild it. If one of your neighbours is sick, people drop by with casseroles to fill their fridge until they’re well again. When the little school needed a playground, the whole town, young and old, came together and built one. Nobody bothers to gripe that the government should make things happen — people around here just get things done.

  This is my town. I don’t want to think about leaving it. But I am.

  Her children have chased each other to exhaustion and now lie in the tall, golden grass, gazing at the clouds above and trying to spot animals in their wispy shapes. Liv calls them over and wraps them up together in a hug. It’s far too nice a day to go inside or do chores.

  “Let’s go play at the river!” Liv exclaims with such enthusiasm Micah jumps up and down and screams, “Yes, yes, yes!” Molly rolls her eyes at him and Leah runs to gather up the buckets and shovels from the sandbox.

  Towels and lemonade in a rainbow-striped beach bag, they’re off down the grassy hill, past the grazing cows and through the golden poplars to the river’s edge. The silver sand beach is expansive, as it’s been a long, hot summer and the water level is low. Soon, an elaborate miniature water system is under construction. A series of ponds and channels lead to the river’s edge where the children have dug a lake, which they call Pirate Lake. The sand is fine — dry and white on top, moist and brown underneath, perfect for digging. There are fine flakes of mica in the mix that glitter in the sun. Molly investigates and declares them to be genuine flakes of gold and runs to Liv for confirmation.

  “They do look like something precious, don’t they? But I think it’s mica. It’s a mineral, sweetie.”

  “Micah? Did you name Micah after a mineral?”

  Liv laughs. “No! I just thought of it and your dad and I both liked the sound of it. It was different.”

  Molly prances over and dances around Micah, who is engineering a driftwood bridge over one of the rivers. “You are a mineral! You are a mineral!”

  He tries to ignore her but is soon flinging sand in her direction.

  “Mom!”

  “Hey, Molly, don’t you think the sparkly bits would be perfect pirate treasure? We can bring down a tin to use as a treasure chest.”

  All three kids get down on their hands and knees and search for larger flakes. Liv strolls along the shore, looking for the glint of mica in the shallows. The water is crystal clear — which only happens in the fall and winter in this river. The rest of the year it’s milky with silt. Today it’s a shiny, jade green — a smooth, gliding surface. The beach is littered with bright yellow poplar leaves and the occasional scarlet maple leaf.

  There is a certainty to fall, Liv thinks. Things will die, winter will come. Everything will lie dormant, resting. And in the spring, the river will be swollen with melting snow. All will be a tangle of growth and change. Opening to the inevitability of change in her own life, Liv feels a bit of joy bubbling up inside her heart as she watches her kids at the river.

  The following morning, Liv bids farewell to her giggling horde. Ross has spent the night in Twin Rivers again. He seems to be back to his new normal and able to maintain a sleep and work routine, even though his alcohol and prescription drug use seems really excessive to Liv. He has an appointment with a psychiatrist in two months and has promised her he will keep it. He seems to have an amazing ability to control his mood when he feels he must. But Liv has a sense that he is hanging on by his fingernails, for her benefit, to prove he doesn’t need psychiatric help.

  Liv reflects on the fact that mornings are much easier when Ross isn’t there as she pops into the barn, determined to hop onto Majic’s back and ride over to Celeste’s so she can continue her past life adventures with Veda. She ladles a scoop of oats into a bucket and drizzles molasses over them. She rattles the bucket temptingly as she walks toward the paddock. She’s thrilled when Majic falls for her ploy — he perks his ears and trots right to her. She lets him enjoy the oats as she saddles him up.

  As Liv hoists herself up and over Majic’s back, he turns his head and gives her the horse’s version of a mischievous look, then dances sideways out of the barn into the green field. Pulling him back sternly, Liv tells him to mind his manners. She bids him to go around in small circles to remind him to listen. On the seve
nth turn, he begins to settle down and submit to her pace, so, with a gentle pressure of the reins, she steers him toward the river and they trot along the river trail. Her view of the jade green river is truncated by silver birch trunks, their brilliant yellow leaves spectacular with a blue-sky backdrop. Majic’s hooves crunch through drying poplar leaves that give scent to the air. They reach their destination far too quickly.

  “Hi Celeste. Can I tether him in the clover patch here?” she calls to her friend, who is crouched in the garden harvesting carrots.

  “Sure! He’s looking so furry and fine!” she says as she feeds a handful of fresh, crunchy carrots into the horse's velvet muzzle.

  16

  ~ Salt ~

  Session No. 8 transcript, Oct. 26, 1987

  Veda Part 2, 1918

  I fall into step beside Suraya once more. The procession has been walking long days and into the night. We make our way through dusty villages and vast wasteland, dotted with the odd signs of human and animal life. I can hear Suraya speaking about the salt tax imposed by the British Government and how it’s causing so much poverty and death for the Indian people. She says softly, as if to me, “Gandhi is leading us to the sea in Dandi where we will show the people that we can make our own salt from the sea and the British won’t be able to tax it. We can share the wealth with the people who need it.”

  Veda is still an infant but a little rounder in the face. She’s bound to Suraya’s chest with the faded blue and red paisley scarf from Puja. Suraya has mended the torn bits with white thread. Veda dozes with the rocking movement of Suraya’s body, but soon wakes and cries — her stomach is clenching with hunger.

  The procession stops by a farmer’s field and Suraya appeals to him for some yak milk for the child. He mutters something about hateful rebels and says he has no milk to spare, so they move on. Little Veda begins to cry frantically now. Suraya sways her as she walks and murmurs comforting words into her tiny ear.

  The next farmer is friendly. He smiles and admits to Suraya that he secretly admires Gandhi and his mission to reclaim India from the British. He goes into his small mud and straw hut and returns with not only a small clay jug of yak milk, but also some lentils wrapped in fresh naan bread, which Suraya gladly accepts, blessing him humbly. Using a hollow reed like a straw, she dribbles milk into Veda’s mouth. She eats a bit of the food and shares some with her fellow walkers. She takes the last piece of naan all the way to the front of the line to Gandhi and offers it to him. Gandhi gently refuses the nourishment — he is not taking food as part of his protest. He thanks Suraya and he asks if he can see the child she’s carrying. Her face glows with pride as she lifts the scarf. Gandhi looks at the child and says that she is perfect, with a peaceful nature and an old soul. He touches her forehead.