In the Field

by Claire Tacon

  My mother emerges after barely ten minutes. She’s beaming as she struts out of the office, not waiting for me to replace the magazine I was reading. I catch up to her by the car. Once we’re inside she says, “I think I’d like to go to the mall after all.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “How did it go?”

  She’s triumphant. “Perfectly. A good clean bill of health. Maybe a touch of high blood pressure.”

  “Don’t you need to do any blood work?”

  She shuffles to buckle herself in. “Dr. Archibald doesn’t think there’s any need to worry.”

  “You did have a physical, didn’t you?”

  “Just start the car and we’ll talk about it later.”

  I start the engine and roll down the window for some air.

  “Why don’t you turn on the a/c if you’re stuffy?”

  “Because it’s better for the environment this way.”

  She looks at me pointedly. “Then why buy a car with it?”

  “Richard wanted this model.”

  She rolls her window down and stares at the passing houses. “Very sensible.”

  At the County Fair Mall, my mother decides on a pretzel for lunch. “One of the ones with all that cinnamon and sugar.” We eat on a bench in front of the pretzel store as I try to balance my coffee on the wood slats and restrain myself from interrogating her. The mall is quiet, but there’s a small congregation of senior citizens on the various benches closer to the Zellers.

  My mother licks the sugar off her fingers and gestures towards the sidewalk-sale displays. “Maybe we can find some clothes for the boys.”

  Not likely. Stephen’s gotten particular about his attire—if it doesn’t have a team crest and isn’t several sizes too big, he’s not interested.

  “So what did the doctor say?”

  “You know, Ellie, I don’t have to tell you anything.” The corner of her mouth tilts up into a half-smile. “Dr. Archibald says that everything seems normal and that I probably got a bit overworked. She thinks it’s good that you’re here.”

  “What about the high blood pressure?”

  “People get nervous at the doctor. I’m supposed to go down to the Wolfville Shoppers and put my arm in the blow-up contraption a few times a week.”

  I lower my voice. “Did you get a Pap smear?”

  “I haven’t been active in that way for almost thirty years. I’m not going to ask the doctor to hook me up to the stirrups.”

  My mother crumples up her wrapper and dabs her mouth with the napkin, finished with both her snack and the conversation.

  “Why don’t you wander down and look for things for Stephen? I’ll catch up in a minute.”

  She’s not fooled. “You’re going to call the doctor.”

  “I just want to check on the boys.”

  My mother waits for me to back down.

  I start to dial the house line, angling the cell so she can see the number.

  “I’ll be over at the Northern Reflections.”

  I hustle to the nearest entrance, waiting for Stephen to pick up. As the phone rings, I stare at the candy dispensers with their myriad trinkets and plastic capsules, shocked that they take toonies. I can remember when it was nickels. Stephen’s annoyed that I’m checking up—we’ve only been gone an hour and a half. He’s fine. Luke’s fine. It takes twenty-three seconds.

  Just in case she’s still watching, I dial facing the parking lot.

  The receptionist picks up on the second ring.

  “Dr. Archibald, please.”

  “She’s with a patient now. I’ll have to take a message.”

  “This is Ellie Bascom. My mother, Lynne Lucan, was just in. I have a question about her prescription. I can hold.”

  “You don’t want to leave a message?”

  “We’re going out of town for a few days. It’s a quick question about the dose.”

  “Hold on.”

  Dr. Archibald doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “Yes.”

  “This is Ellie Bascom, my mother was just in.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m just calling because she was supposed to be going in for a physical and she didn’t have a Pap or any blood work taken.”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss your mother’s medical history with you.”

  “Don’t you think that after the exhaustion she’s been experiencing, it would be good for her to have a full workup?”

  “We had her down for a consultation.” Dr. Archibald sighs, her interest already lost. She’s flipping through papers.

  “Look, we found a pair of shoes in the fridge.”

  “You are staying at your mother’s place for the summer, right?”

  “Right.”

  “With your two sons.”

  “Yes.”

  “If I were staying at my mother’s house and a pair of shoes turned up in the fridge, I’d blame the six-year-old.”

  I glance towards the mall. My mother is ten yards away and quickly closing the distance, her scowl clearing the way like a cattle guard.

  “I think she’s run off her feet and needs a rest.”

  I whisper quickly, “I’ve been cleaning for a week.”

  “Mrs. Bascom, I am not a mediator. If your mother has concerns about her health, she’s welcome at the clinic. Please don’t lie to my receptionist again.”

  My mother isn’t gentle when she opens the door and the arc almost clips my foot. “You called the doctor.”

  I flip the phone shut and strain to hide my seething. “I called Stephen.”

  “And?”

  “I think I’m going to take the boys to Grand Pré tomorrow.”

  “That’s nice, I haven’t been there in years.”

  “I thought you might like the day off to rest. I don’t want you run off your feet.”

  After the boys go to bed, the house noises settle in for the night like parrots under a blanket. It’s impossible to get used to this quiet. The only sounds are the metronome of the alarm clock and the periodic whine of the refrigerator motor. There’s no streetlight, no porch light, none of the perpetual orange glow polluting the city. It’s a moment tailor-made for reflection, which is what I should be doing; contemplating the fight, my future in academia, all the other explanations I gave Richard. Instead, it’s like a Valentine’s dinner where everything points to the inevitable coitus, from the three-course menu to the lingerie, but no one’s in the mood.

  It’s only seven in Alberta and a slim chance that Richard will pick up. When the hotel receptionist connects me to the room, I huddle against the far wall, my hand cupped over the mouthpiece, ready to leave a message.

  The phone clatters off the receiver and Richard’s hello is so startled that I lose my train of thought. “You’re there.”

  “Just woke up.”

  “How long have you been sleeping?”

  “Since five. It was supposed to be a power nap.” His voice cracks, sending him into a coughing fit.

  “Did you pick up a bug on the plane?”

  He mumbles a denial while swallowing water, his gulp amplified.

  “How’s the conference going?”

  “No complaints.”

  “You present tomorrow, right?”

  “Ten a.m. sharp. But they’ve also got me pinch-hitting on a panel. Someone’s brother died.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “Car accident—died instantly. The rumour is plywood blew off the back of a pickup and crashed through the windshield.”

  It’s easy to picture the impact, the plywood guillotine. The story temporarily unites us in the shared, shameful frisson bad news gives to those lucky enough to not be involved.

  “I think I screwed-up with my mother.” I describe the visit to the doctor and the subsequent disaster. It feels good confiding in him. Before the job squabble, Richard never failed to comfort me simply by listening.

  Halfway through detailing the tiff at the mall, ho
wever, I only get the vaguest notion that he’s paying attention. There are rhythmic clicks on the other end. I pause for a moment and the noises come to a halt a split-second later. “Are you typing?”

  “If you’re sorry, tell her you’re sorry.” A comparison to the earlier tragedy hangs in his response. Richard splutters into another coughing fit. His throat never gets like that except when he’s sick or hungover.

  When I ask, he laughs out a mea culpa, the embarrassment pure show.

  “Open bar.”

  I didn’t realize it would be so raucous.

  “I was out with Rashid and Ewan—they sent me the rock. I’m meeting them again for dinner. I should have showered by now actually.”

  “Another hard night?” I know the rebuke isn’t entirely fair but I’m irritated that he’s out enjoying himself while I’m struggling with my mother and the boys. I’m the one who wanted time to myself.

  “Tonight’s wild game fondue.” His voice sharpens into a hard edge, daring me to push the point. “At least it’ll be a better base.”

  “Just don’t spill any drinks on your laptop. I won’t be there to help you make another slide show.” PowerPoint’s about the only area of academia where my expertise surpasses Richard’s.

  “Any word on a soccer league?”

  For the first time since the fight, we sign off with “I love you” but we both say it so cold that it’s worse than the omission.

  Breakfast is donuts and hot chocolate out on the dykes. The tide’s out, and as we eat, the hardest thing is restraining Stephen from running down the mudflats. I understand the impulse—summers when I was younger, we’d throw on our bathing suits and hurl ourselves down the ridges. If you launched yourself properly, you could get a decent run, way longer than the Slip ‘n Slides they advertised on TV. We had to stop after a kid sliced his thigh and needed a blood transfusion at the Kentville hospital. At speed, a shell is basically a razor.

  I pitch a rock in to show Stephen that the surface isn’t as solid as it looks. As soon as the stone lands, it disappears under a skim of water drawn from the surrounding clay. It’s just the three of us this morning. The humidity’s finally lifted and for the first time since being here it feels like there’s space to breathe. Even the boys are impressed by the scenery, the colours saturated by today’s cloud cover. Until now, I hadn’t realized this is something I’ve wanted them to see.

  Farther down, the sandpipers are needling their beaks into the beach, fishing for shrimp. Luke’s fascinated by them, the way their flight looks like a rising dust cloud. He asks how they know which one to follow. Most of the bird migration he’s seen has been in the “V” pattern of geese and ducks. Having never studied ornithology, I’m as baffled as he is.

  Stephen’s less mystified by the fauna and wants to know why we have to go to the Grand Pré heritage site.

  “You two like the ROM.”

  “Does this place have a bat cave?”

  Spit flies out of my mouth as I laugh. I’m not sure why I’m forcing the edutainment on them either.

  When we went to Grand Pré on school field trips, all there was to see were the gardens and stone church. Now there’s a huge interpretation centre and an admission fee. As we wander into the multimedia room, Stephen almost knocks over a stanchion because his backpack is bulging with his hoodie and soccer ball. I told him it’s not the kind of place for playing, but the ball’s become a mix of security blanket and rebellion.

  There’s a busload of German tourists already in the theatre, their guide vigorously ushering them into the front two rows. The room is built like a ship, with buttressed wooden planks that curve towards the front screen. The stage is bare except for a lantern and stack of barrels.

  We just get our headsets on as the lights dim.

  The screen lights up with a woman screaming in pain as she gives birth in the hold of a ship. It isn’t graphic, but the actress milks the agony and Luke grabs onto me, terrified. The scene brightens and pictures of the valley are projected throughout the theatre. People pop up on screens at the side and comment on the action—a genial farmer dressed in spotless period attire, an arrogant British General and a full-hipped Acadian mother each put their two cents in. It’s way too cheesy. Stephen lowers his chin and looks over at me, halfway to barfing. He has to bite his fist to stop himself from laughing as a MicMac warrior explains in stilted English that MicMac side only with MicMac.

  He lifts up Luke’s headphone and whispers, “Lukemac sides only with Lukemac.” Then he burps in his brother’s ear. Lukemac makes a big show of wiping the belch off.

  Stephen gets a bit more excited when the war scenes begin with gunshots and munitions explosions. The British are setting fire to the Acadian homes. They show a map of the Diaspora and I point out Trinidad when we see the Caribbean countries that have Acadian descendants. Not that it’s likely that Richard’s parents had any Acadian ancestors, but it’s nice to think about a possible connection. Then we’re back to the woman with the school children. She reminds me of Mrs. Harrison, our fifth grade teacher—same pat speech about this history belonging to all of us. Even then, I had doubts about its relevance to my life. Some of the kids in the class, the ones who lived closer to Port Williams in nicer estate homes, did have French names and made a big deal of it during the unit on Acadia. They might have been Acadian or they might have moved here from Quebec, but for that month it was as if their own blood had been sprayed over the dykes.

  The focus of the exhibit hall is a plaster-cast Acadian stooped over a life-size dyke. The boys are pretty interested in the mechanics of the drainage structure, especially since there are several hands-on activities. I try to demonstrate the concept of valves using my arm vein, pressing down to stop the blood flow, drawing the blood away then releasing. It proves too popular an experiment. The boys lose interest in the sod clumps and take turns prodding each other’s arms.

  I shepherd them over to the rest of the exhibits, but they basically restate the film script. Stephen stands in front of each one, performing his impressions of the various pop-up characters. At the display for le Gran Dérangement, he plugs his nose and gives his best falsetto. “What will become of us? We all have a great derangement.”

  “What’s a derangement?” Luke asks.

  “It means you’re crazy.”

  I’m impressed with Stephen’s vocabulary, but am worried his voice is carrying over to the Parks Canada guides.

  “Be careful, Lukemac, you’ll be the next derangement.”

  “Will not.”

  “You will—you’re a great derangement.”

  “Is that why the woman was screaming at the beginning?” Luke asks.

  Stephen starts to laugh—he’s already been through sex-ed at school—and says, “Yeah, that’s exactly why. Mom had a big derangement when she had you too.”

  Enough history for one day. I steer them over to the exit to the gardens. “The woman was having a baby, but she didn’t want to have the baby on the ship.”

  “Was she crazy?”

  “No.”

  “Why was she screaming?”

  “Sometimes giving birth can hurt.”

  “Did it hurt when you had me?”

  “Yes, but it was worth it afterwards.” Good textbook answer.

  “Mom was having a bigger derangement than that woman,” Stephen says, “She screamed for two hours.”

  “You weren’t there.”

  “Dad told me.”

  “Your father is exaggerating.”

  “What’s that?” Luke asks.

  “It means that he was lying,” Stephen answers.

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “That’s what the word means. It means you’re not telling the truth.”

  “It means you’re making something seem bigger than it was, like saying you’ve caught a fish as big as a house.”

  “Or that Luke was as big as a car when he was born and that’s why you had the derangement.”
/>   “Stephen!”

  “Can I play soccer?”

  “Fine.”

  The bus tour is exiting the church at the end of the garden walkway, so I hang back with Luke and point out some of the flowers on the path. Luke likes to take pictures with my camera and I let him, hovering to make sure he’s not going to drop it. Stephen is on the other side of the flowerbeds practicing knee kicks.

  There’s a statue of Evangeline in the middle of the park and I hoist Luke onto my shoulders so he can touch the bronze. He’s getting too heavy for me now—it’ll probably only be another few years that I can pick him up at all and then he’ll shoot up like Stephen and Richard and I’ll be the shortest person in the family again. Luke and I take a few more flower pictures and I surreptitiously pinch off a small rosebud and put it in a Ziploc in my purse to press later. As I’m zipping up my satchel, I hear a Parks Canada employee behind me calling out, “Miss, miss!”

  She’s in her late forties, a face like butter left out in the heat. Her shorts bunch up over her waist, perspiration marks under the armpits of her taupe blouse. She probably saw me clip the vegetation and I’m going to be ejected from a public park in front of my children. “Miss.” She pants a bit from the exertion.

  She points to Stephen. “Does he belong to you?”

  We’re the only people in the park.

  “Is he yours?”

  I haven’t been asked that kind of question in a long time. She squints at me as if she thinks she already knows something about the kind of person I am.

  “That’s my son.”

  She still doesn’t address Stephen directly. “He can’t do that here.”

  Stephen’s stopped his knee kicks and is holding his soccer ball in front of his stomach, eyes downcast.

  “He might ruin the flowers,” she says. “This is a national heritage site. We can’t allow any kind of recreation sports.”