by Donna Bishop
“Thank you, Celeste. But something tells me I have at least one very dark past life left to explore.”
They both laugh, but for Liv, it’s a bit forced.
17
~ Unmasked ~
“Hey Liv, my witchy friend. You look fabulous — in spite of your green, warty skin and blacked-out teeth!” Faces glowing in the fire-light, Celeste and Liv have found each other at the Halloween bonfire at the Community Hall, coffee mugs in hand, watching the children gather around to see the fireworks display that's about to happen.
“Yeah, a witch for the third year running. This year I was tempted to be a beautiful witch like Moragh but for some reason I prefer the scary, ugly costumes for myself.”
“It’s good to take a break from being so gorgeous once in a while, I guess,” Celeste laughs. She waves happily at some of their other friends, who are making their way toward them.
“Isn’t Deanna hilarious in her belly dancing costume, with Ed following her around strapped to that skateboard as a legless beggar! And there’s Mustang Sally in her cowgirl getup, with her long-awaited baby bump.”
Liv sighs, “I’ve been so preoccupied, I’ve forgotten how much I need my circle of female friends.”
Just then, Ross shows up and puts his arm around Liv. She isn’t even sure it’s him at first, but who else has a Ronald Reagan mask? He’d told her earlier in the day he probably couldn’t make it to the bonfire, so she is taken aback.
Maybe it’s her witch persona or Moragh’s influence, but Liv suddenly feels an urgent need to be very clear with Ross.
She turns to him and says firmly, “Unless you can admit you are really not well and you follow through with seeing that psychiatrist, don’t pretend we’re a happy couple.”
He takes his arm away, but stays pressed beside her. “Sure, Liv, if that’s what you want.”
He moves off and she can see him putting on the charm, entertaining their friends around the fire. Rob enlists him to help out with the fireworks.
Celeste has overheard their exchange and after Ross walks away she says, “Wow, sounds like he is still putting it all on you — like he doesn’t even have a problem! Good for you for taking a stand, Liv. It must feel better to know you can.”
“Yeah, I’m not going to pretend everything is normal anymore. I’m telling him it’s his turn to sleep on the couch. I'm getting sick of not getting a decent sleep.”
“Good for you, Liv.”
Later that evening, when the kids are finally coming down off their sugar highs from all the Halloween candy and tucked into bed, Oliva hears Ross roar down the driveway to their home, in his fancy, new pig of a car. Still feeling irked about how he acted at the bonfire, she braces herself for an argument but hopes he will simply pass out.
He enters bright-eyed and animated, high as a kite on something, maybe just his own racing mind. He’s carrying the ridiculous mask under his arm. Liv flashes back to a time in her childhood when she believed all adults wore masks — they might look happy and smiling but the face underneath could be angry, growling, hateful, dangerous. It occurs to her that in her life, alcohol, drugs, depression and insanity have been both the mask and the unmasking.
I won’t be like my Mom and stick my head in the sand, she firmly tells herself. I’ve seen the best and the worst masks and now I only want to see what’s real.
“Hey Liv, you’ll never guess what.” Ross is gesticulating wildly. “Those crazy fucking rocks were talking to me again. I had to pull over when I was right under Indian Head bluff. A rock fell down onto the hood of my car — nearly smashed the window.”
“Really? Tell me about it.”
“I don’t know, Liv, you’ll probably tell me I’m crazy. I’m not sure I can trust you anymore.”
“I want to know what’s going on with you, Ross. I can see you’re struggling. I know the things you’re seeing are real to you. Let me in on it, please?”
“Okay, so remember how I told you a while ago about how Chief Dan told me about what happened to him in the residential school.”
“Yes, I remember. Horrific sexual and physical abuse.”
“Criminal, and none of those bastards responsible — the church or the government — have had to account for any of it. Well, that’s the message I got tonight at the bluff. There are dozens of stories like Dan’s and that’s just on their little reserve. Nobody’s heard them. It’s time for them to rise up and tell their stories. It’s time to protest. We’ll set tipis up at the city hall, bang drums, speak on loudspeakers, camp out for as long as it takes to get them heard and to get something done.”
Ross’ voice gets louder and faster as he carries on. “Do you know how many First Nations kids have graduated from Twin Rivers College? Exactly none! I’ll set up a camp there too!”
Liv listens and agrees in principal with everything Ross is saying, but is alarmed at his assumption of leadership.
“Don’t you think it’d be better if the people from the community did the leading, Ross? I know you want to do it for the right reasons and you’re great at inspiring protests — I’ve seen that first hand. But are you just another white guy trying to speak for the native people? Might it be better to help from the sidelines?” Liv says, aware that she’s challenging Ross’ grandiose scheme.
“You don’t believe in me anymore, Liv. I may as well give up. You’re against everything I’m trying to do.”
“No, Ross, I do believe in you and I believe it’s time for you to help yourself instead of trying to save the world.”
She has succeeded in derailing the plan. Suddenly he looks defeated. Moved by empathy, Liv tries to comfort him, but he waves her away, ashamed and embarrassed, and reaches for the liquor cabinet instead.
Wild November winds and freezing rain can’t keep Liv from her session with Celeste the next morning. Somehow, Ross has managed to get himself up and off to work, even though she’s pretty sure he didn’t sleep, eat or shower.
She puts on her bright yellow raincoat, her hat and her black rubber gumboots and rushes through the farm chores. She arrives at Celeste’s dripping wet with mucky boots. Shedding her gear just inside the door, she’s thrilled to see Celeste meeting her with her usual smile and two cups of aromatically sensational Turkish coffee.
Celeste hands her one of the small cups. “There has to be something to look forward to, as the days get colder and shorter and bleak as hell. May as well be strong, expensive coffee!”
“I’ve been thinking, Celeste. Can we focus on my present life today? Veda’s story has made me think a lot about the year I turned twenty. I don’t need to be hypnotized to go back to that time, but I do feel I need to tell you about the changes I went through that year.”
“Of course! I’m more than honoured to hear your stories, Liv. Do you want to record this?”
“Sure. We may as well.”
Session No. 8 transcript, Nov. 3rd, 1987
That experience with Veda’s death took me back to the period after high school when I was nineteen and travelling the world. It was a time when lots of young people were doing that, and the appeal for me was very strong. It was an excuse to get away from my family, to see amazing new places, cultures I’d only dreamed about, and most of all, to make friends and meet people who wouldn’t know me as the shy girl from the poor family. I wanted to recreate myself and be a young free-spirited woman without the albatross of childhood poverty and abuse tying me down, making me feel confused and worthless. I wanted to find my voice.
So I quit my job as a letter carrier, broke up with my sweet, somewhat possessive boyfriend, and gathered up enough money and gear to backpack around the world. I planned to be gone for at least a year. I was oblivious to my parent’s concerns for my safety. Seemed to me their concern was too little and too late — I was blissfully confident, aside from being a bit nervous about flying in an airplane.
When I look at the photos of my trip, I’m amused at what I captured through the lens of my camera. My
first stop was Israel, where I worked on a kibbutz for a few weeks, then toured around the country. I was fascinated by the culture, extremely excited to be there, but shy at first. My first photos were of camels, children, shepherds and temples — all from a great distance, barely discernable. As my confidence grew, my photographs became closer up. I became bold enough to ask people for permission to take their photos. By the time I’d been travelling for a few weeks, my photos became more intimate — the timeworn face of an elderly rabbi, an Arabic man with his camel towering behind him, lovers embracing beneath a tree, even my own naked body lying in the warm golden sand on the shores of the Red Sea.
That photo was from a camping trip I went on with people from the kibbutz where I was staying. It was positively idyllic. People were playing flutes, guitars and drums. I remember watching my friend Maya dancing, with her sumptuous brown body and glistening black hair swirling down her back. She exuded the kind of sensual confidence I could only dream of and I wanted to be like her. The brilliant, painful burn I got reminded me that I wasn’t like her in so many ways — I was naïve and tender and needed to find out what worked for me.
We drank wine and talked and danced and swam all day. At night, we watched the stars come out — totally different stars than we see in our northern sky. Our tents were full of sand by the end of the day and so we would have to shake them out before crawling into bed in the small hours of the morning.
It may sound cliché, but I really found myself on that trip. I met amazing people, immersed myself in totally unfamiliar situations and saw astounding things. I was free, uninhibited by my culture or my family.
When I went to India, it was different. I kept my body well covered, and avoided eye contact with men, other than travelers, as I’d been warned by my kibbutz friends in Israel to do so. I lived for two weeks at an ashram and learned a bit about meditation and Hinduism. I was drawn to these spiritual studies but too young and restless to stay longer. I left with a girl from California named Shelley who was also not ready to commit to the strict regime of the ashram.
Looking back, it seems as though it might have been a cult. We were probably very lucky to get out of there when we did. The leader was more than a little frightening, and we both wondered if he had motives beyond his desire to spread his vast spiritual knowledge. We’d noticed some of the young women and men who’d been there longer than us spending one-on-one time with him in his room and it didn’t seem quite right to us. They would emerge with shaven heads and bewildered looks on their faces. Honestly, it had taken me years to grow my hair till it reached my bum and I was not about to let some old guy shave it off, no matter how enlightened he was.
We left to tour around India, and not long afterward I had the experience I told you about, at the well. I began to feel a bit nervous travelling in India. No denying that the soul, history and natural beauty of this country drew me to it, but the poverty was devastating, especially that of its women and children. It awakened my desire to help bring about some kind of change. I think that’s the part of Veda’s story that has really stayed with me through the lifetimes.
Shelley and I went our separate ways then. She headed south and I made my way west to the Greek Isles. I was staying in hostels, meeting other travelers from all over the world. We’d hang out and party and tour around together and they’d be like my new best friends, and then we’d move on. I worked my way up through Europe that way.
It was summer, so I decided to head to the Swiss Alps for some cooler air. Along the way I met a carefree, long-haired, twenty-four-year-old guy from Australia. Ian had the dark brown curls and attentive eyes of a Spaniel and that sexy Aussie accent I love to this day. We spent two glorious weeks hiking and camping, drinking rich coffee, eating homemade bread and cheese in the picturesque, storybook mountains of Switzerland.
I felt like a grown-up Heidi as we ran through fields of flowers with mountain goats and swam in the clearest, bluest, coldest lakes. He was chivalrous, even though that wasn’t cool in the 70s — he carried my pack when my back was tired and wrote me poetry. To feel so cherished was such a new and wonderful experience.
When we mutually agreed to part at the end of two weeks, it was bittersweet for both of us. We felt we had discovered true love — but we were more committed to finding ourselves, and we knew we needed to do so independently. For many years afterward I wondered what ever happened to Ian Brown and what our lives might have been like had we stayed together.
After my time with Ian, I headed to Norway, thinking it would be interesting to visit my paternal ancestral homeland. This was an introspective time. I did a lot of soul searching and fervently wrote in my journal.
I kept to myself, pitching my tent in wild areas and eating simply. It was lonely, chilly and stark, like it seemed to Hannah when she first arrived. But wrapped in my famous blue sweater, I built my own campfires, brewed strong tea and felt stronger than I ever had. One afternoon I hiked to the top of a hill and came upon an abandoned cottage and was immediately overcome with an intense feeling of familiarity. I camped at a public park nearby for four nights, all the while imagining how my ancestors might have lived in that very spot many years before. Of course, it was probably just a creative musing — my family’s ties to Norway had long been severed.
While I was there, I wrote pages and pages in my journal — details of my trip so far, friends and lovers I’d met but also about my relationships with my family. It seemed easier to have a more positive and forgiving perspective separated by such a great distance.
One day, I wandered into the village of Sognefjord, at the base of the green, daisy-dusted hill, and into the local library, hoping to find someone who spoke English who could help me trace my family name, but I had no luck. The librarian spoke only Norwegian.
I’d like to return to Norway when I’ve landed on my feet and the kids are older, now that historic records are more easily available. Maybe I can get more details about where and how they lived.
I was just getting ready to move on to Germany when I got a message to call home. My grandmother was in the hospital — she’d had a stroke. So, I returned after six months, instead of a year. I was out of money anyway, and Norway had been making me homesick.
“This was your mother’s mom, Olive? You were so attached to her. Of course you needed to be there.”
Celeste thinks a moment, then adds, “Isn’t it fascinating where our choices lead us? Imagine if you’d stayed with Ian — you wouldn’t even know Little Mountain existed! I’m just so impressed at your moxie to travel the world solo at such a young age. I’d love to see your photos.”
“Yeah, well, they’re stored away in a box, just like the ones from my childhood. And the journal is long gone — destroyed by a jealous boyfriend. He called it my ‘book of zipless fucks,’ like the Erica Jong book, Fear of Flying, which he also found so reprehensible and disgusting.”
“You’re doing great at opening these compartments in your mind, Liv. I know it isn’t easy. But there are so many beautiful moments as well as the ones you’ve tried so hard to forget. Speaking of which, I’m wondering what happened when you got home from Norway?”
“A lot,” Liv is suddenly flustered. “But I think I’d rather wait until next time for that. It’s been fun to reminisce, though. Besides, I have to head out pretty quick to meet the school bus.”
Outside, the rain has stopped and the world is cast in shades of grey — the bare branches of trees stand black in contrast to the sky, which looks like the inside of a clam shell — pure white, broken by whorls of grey and silver, lit from within. Lacking light to reflect, the river has lost its green hue. It slides by like a shiny black snake. Dry leaves crackle underfoot as Liv makes her way along the path. Even the ground is rigid and unyielding, beginning to freeze, but not yet covered with snow.
Despite the gloomy day, Liv feels uplifted as she walks home. She can see how it’s cathartic for her to revisit the hard times in her life, just as the doldrums of
winter are essential to the renewal of spring.
The only way I can dispel the shadows is to shed light on them. The more honest and open I can be about my feelings and my history, the stronger I am and ready to move forward.
Ross won’t come home tonight, she thinks.
He’s punishing me. But the truth is, I’m challenging that state of denial he’s clinging to so desperately. He has no intention of changing.
There’s nothing she can do about that. All she can do is look after her own welfare and that of her kids. She’ll light a fire tonight — she’ll create her own warmth, gather her children close and show them that, no matter what, she will always be there for them. Even without him, they are a family.
18
~ #MeToo ~
“So, Liv,” Celeste begins at their next session, “The last time we talked, you told me you came home from Norway early because your grandmother was ill. Do you want to pick up where you left off? Was that when she passed away?”
“In some ways it would have been easier for her if she had died right then. It was so sad, Celeste. The stroke was severe. By the time I got home she was stable, but she was never really the same. She lost her ability to communicate. I could see in her eyes that she had things she desperately wanted to say.
“I visited her often, especially during the first few weeks. She’d been moved to a care facility. I’d take her hand and tell her stories about my travels or my day, and her eyes would fill with tears — so I know she heard me. She lived like that for two years.
“I got a job delivering mail that summer so I’d visit after work sometimes. In the fall I moved to Twin Rivers with my boyfriend, Vince, and started going to college. He was an elementary school teacher and got a job there.”