Cardinal Divide

by Nina Newington

  “What?”

  “For them to take you in. To tell the authorities. Can you imagine inviting a social worker into your house when you were sitting on that kind of secret? They must have really wanted you. Did you feel it? Could you feel it, or were you too traumatized? Is this just my shit? I’d love to feel chosen. I always figured my parents loved me because they had to. Because I was their child, not because of who I was. Sorry. I’m putting my foot in it, aren’t I? I should stop before I get the other one all the way in.”

  “No,” I say. “I like it. I hadn’t really thought of it that way. And you’re right. They were scared, the day the social worker came to the house. I remember how stiff Dad was.” I take a deep breath. “I know I just said I want to stop talking about this but there’s something I’d like to run by you. If you’ve got time.”

  “There’s nowhere I’ve got to be,” he says.

  “More coffee?

  “Are you really all right with me talking your ear off like this?”

  “Absolutely.” When he smiles his whole face crinkles. Except there’s a still place in the middle. The crag of his nose. His eyes are hooded, looking back at me. Domed eyelids, high cheekbones. I haven’t really seen the Native in him before. “Go on,” he says.

  “It’s about my last name. Coopworth. Which I thought was Dad’s name. Only I don’t see how it could be, legally.”

  “It’s not the name he—she—was born with?”

  “No. So where did Ben Coopworth come from?”

  “Did you ask him?”

  “Yes but he didn’t really answer. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s got a driver’s license. And a S.I.N. number, all that stuff. He can’t have just invented his name.”

  “He might have, if it was long enough ago. But there are other ways to get a name, meaning an official identity.”

  “Like what?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Well, the easy one first. Did he ever get married?”

  “To my mother. Which would have required a birth certificate, wouldn’t it?”

  “I mean when he was a she.”

  “Oh. Not that I know of. He’s clear he didn’t ... she didn’t want to get married. Which doesn’t ... Shit.”

  “There are other ways. There used to be anyway, before computerized records. The simplest was to find a county where records of births and deaths were kept separately. You went to a cemetery or combed through the obituaries looking for a baby or a child who died. One who, if they had lived, would have been about the same age as you. Then you requested a copy of their birth certificate. Applied for a S.I.N. number. Built up the identity. The hardest part, the one that got people caught, was you had to let go of your old identity completely. That’s pretty hard to do.”

  I stare at him. “Did you do that?”

  “Not for myself. The time I spent in New Mexico, it was during the Vietnam war. There were people who needed new identities.”

  “Who stole them from dead babies. Dead children. Fuck.”

  “What?”

  “Lost children. Stolen children.”

  “What’s happening? Meg?”

  Breathe. Come on. Heart’s racing. Hold my breath. Okay. Okay.

  Fuck. Doug’s looking at me, all crinkly eyed and worried.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I just. You’d better go.”

  “Are you all right?”

  I look at him, about to say something sarcastic but words are gone and I’m just staring into the tunnels of his eyes. Two dark openings. I don’t think anything. I’m just looking. Finally I pull my eyes away. “Sorry,” I say. I want to say, ‘Sorry I’m such a fucking weirdo.’

  He shakes his head. “It’s all right.”

  It’s not but it helps, him sounding so ordinary.

  At the door, when he’s got his boots on, he says, “Thanks for coffee. Thanks for introducing me to Yvonne’s.” He hesitates for a moment then says, “Thanks for talking about real things.”

  I don’t know what to say. I want him to be gone and I don’t. “Thanks for listening, Doug.”

  He nods and turns to go.

  “Wait.”

  I go into the kitchen, stuff the loaf of sunflower seed bread in a bag.

  Chapter Forty Three

  MEG NO SPIRIT

  Meg No Name

  A month ago I was all gung ho to find out where I came from. All that’s happened is I know less and less.

  I’m such a fucking basket case. How am I going to look Doug in the face? You’d better go after he listened to me witter on about my insane fucking life. I practically chased him out of the fucking door. Oh, except for the loaf of bread I have to all of a sudden stuff in his arms right when he thinks he’s going to get away from crazy co-worker lady.

  And he’s on tonight.

  Him and Jay and me.

  Did you ask him? Doug’s calm voice.

  “Dad, I have a question for you.”

  There’s a pause. I hear the chair creak, the one in the hallway by the phone. “Go ahead.”

  “Where did get your name? Coopworth, I mean.”

  “You’ve already asked me that.”

  “And you didn’t answer.”

  There’s another pause then he says, “There are things that aren’t mine to tell.”

  “Keeping dead people’s secrets is more important than what I need?”

  I don’t know where that came from but it hit the mark.

  “I can’t answer that question, Meg. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s my name too. You gave me that name.” I sound like a child.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “You stole it, didn’t you? It wasn’t yours to give. Did you steal me too?”

  “I’m going to hang up now.”

  “Don’t be such a fucking coward.”

  There’s a silence but it isn’t the dead phone sound.

  “You were a gift we accepted with gratitude,” he says at last. Then he hangs up.

  I get out the flour, the bowl, but it’s no good. My heart is thumping. I can’t believe I spoke to Dad like that. Do I really believe they stole me? I keep thinking about the hair. I don’t know why. But it’s there in the willow brake, coiled up like an animal. It’s alive, warm, golden brown. I need to find it. It shouldn’t be forgotten. I know this with the certainty of a dream but I’m not dreaming.

  Winter is here, the river frozen. Beaver in their lodge. Silver bubbles. Silver fur. Moonlight under the water fur. The other. The other belongs to the sun. I thought his hair was like fur. Golden fur. The man on the tractor.

  Did I really just show up at the edge of the field? Or did I make that up, that whole memory?

  Or did they make it up? Mum and Dad. Telling me the same story over and over until I thought I remembered it.

  Jesus. If they stole me ...

  Stole me from where? Someone who didn’t notice a child went missing. Or didn’t care. Or couldn’t afford to report it. Or ...

  This is crazy. I have to be at work in two hours.

  I pull open the drawer of the bedside table. They stare up at me from their black plastic frame. Mum dark, Dad blonde; Mum with shoulder length hair, Dad with his brush cut; Mum’s heart-shaped face, Dad’s oblong, furrowed. Behind them, wind-stunted spruce, spangle of flowers in the close turf. They gaze at the camera, the smallest hint of a smile at the corners of Dad’s eyes, in the compression of Mum’s lips. The wind had pushed Mum’s hair back from her face. I must have taken this one July or another. The place where the waters divide. From one side the rivers flow north to the Arctic. From the other ... I can’t remember. My eyes are locked on the photo.

  What is there to trust if I can’t trust you?

  I want you to be what you seem to be.

  I want it so fiercely my ribs ache.

  A straight forward, hardworking couple.

  What you tried to be.

  What you wante
d to be.

  And weren’t.

  But what were you?

  Two women hiding your love the way the brothers hid theirs. The not-brothers.

  If that were all.

  But it’s not.

  I don’t know what it is but it’s not just that.

  I close them back into the drawer, step into the washroom.

  And you?

  I put my face close to the image. It returns my gaze.

  And you?

  You were a gift we accepted with gratitude.

  Who gave me?

  Gave me up?

  Gave me away?

  Gave up?

  Gave way?

  I ran away. Didn’t I?

  Whoever bore me didn’t want me enough to come looking, did they?

  No amber alerts for little No-Name.

  Chapter Forty Four

  A FANTASTIC WASP in wrap-around mirror shades, James swivels his head from side to side. “Step up, Dreamcatchers ...” He’s almost kissing the mike.

  Doug’s standing over by the windows, listening to Mona. He hasn’t noticed me, or he’s pretending not to. You could hardly blame him.

  The air is greasy with melted cheese, pizza boxes everywhere.

  “Go Ashlei,” someone calls. Knock-kneed on scuffed five inch high platform shoes, she makes her way to the front. The younger clients bang their palms on the tables.

  Coal black ringlets frame a moon pale face. Emerald eye shadow spreads like butterfly wings, reaching to the edges of her cheeks. She takes the mike, licks her lips, then she’s singing the lyrics beneath this snowy mantle cold and clean, The unborn grass lies waiting, her voice pure and tense. She doesn’t make all the notes Anne Murray hits but my throat tightens when she gets to Spread your tiny wings and fly away. At the end there’s a moment of silence then the clapping begins. She wobbles back to her seat, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

  In spite of James’s urging nobody else comes forward so he cues up a hip-hop number and struts and curses his moments on the stage.

  Danielle’s sitting between slab-faced Janice and Warren with the scorpion tattoo. Her new best all-homophobes-together friends? But her face still reminds me of the pansies Mum used to grow, broad velvety petals, bright yellow centres.

  What if they did make it up? The whole story about me showing up at the edge of the field. I close my eyes for a moment but it’s better if I keep them open.

  Sitting behind Danielle, Geoffrey’s got his chair tipped back, legs stretched out, trying to look relaxed. He’s about as relaxed as I am. Tomorrow Danielle goes out on pass. Meets up with Judy. When Judy finds out Danielle didn’t give me the number, she’ll be on the phone. To me? To Brenda, more like. Or Danielle’s counsellor. The lovely Angela, she of the yellow-eyed coyote gaze.

  Shit.

  Everyone is clapping again. James raises the mike high in the air, acknowledging his fans. Geoffrey’s chair thumps forward. He stalks up to the front, holding out a CD. There’s a low buzz of voices. The two consult, backs to the room. James goes to the machine. Geoffrey turns slowly. Facing us, he stands completely still, chin up, eyes on the far wall. Everyone falls silent. Almost everyone.

  Geoffrey opens his mouth and belts out At first I was afraid I was petrified in a strong, clear tenor as the opening bars of Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive sound out. When he hits the chorus a few people sing along. It was the anthem in the gay bars, the years AIDS was cutting the men down in swathes. The second time we hit the chorus, Geoffrey lifts his arms, fingers summoning, and, the whole room joins in. Even Janice. Even Warren.

  Long as I know how to love

  I know I’ll stay alive

  I’ve got all my life to live

  And all my love to give and I’ll survive

  I, I, I will survive

  It rises up in me the way it used to, that longing: Let it be true. Let it be true for them all. Let them survive. Let us survive. Let us go on. Let us heal. The only place I could pray back then, dancing sober in the bars.

  When the music ends the room erupts. Geoffrey stands, tall and still, looking around. They keep cheering. Doug’s watching Geoffrey, a little smile on his lips. Then he looks across at me and the smile widens. “Shall we start on the overview?” Jay announces names as she types them in.

  We have something to say for the performers. Don too. He collected money from some clients but he covered most of the pizza order himself. For the rest we’re scratching our heads as usual.

  “We should make a crib sheet,” I say. “Doing well. Progressing nicely. Engaged. Friendly. Participates ... ”

  “Yeah,” Jay says. “It’s been going so smoothly I hardly know what to do with myself. I count on this place for my drama, my chaos.”

  “Won’t last,” Doug says. “Don’t worry.”

  I suppose his home life’s sane and serene too.

  “Mona,” Jay says.

  “She’s all excited about the karaoke. Thinks Ashlei should have an agent. Maybe she’ll do the job herself.”

  “Mona? We’re talking red-haired, hard as nails, in and out of jail Mona?”

  “The one and only.”

  Jay’s eyebrows go up.

  “Why not? People change. We did.”

  “So what shall I say?”

  “Turned a corner? Committed to recovery?”

  “Good enough. Warren?”

  “Spending quite a bit of time with Shannon.”

  “Now he scares me,” Jay says. “That anger and no impulse control. Another one with FAS. So what’ll it be?” Her fingers are poised above the keyboard.

  “Tense.”

  “And Miss Danielle?” Jay turns to look at me.

  “Other than homophobic?” I return her gaze.

  “Progressing,” she says at last, typing it in.

  Chapter Forty Five

  THE CLIENTS TRICKLE back in chattering groups. Danielle finally shows up, alone, just before supper.

  “I’ll check her bags,” I say. “Come on, let’s go to your room.”

  Sure enough, Julie isn’t there.

  Danielle puts the carrier bags on the bed.

  “How was your Sunday?” I’m peering down into the first bag.

  “Real good.” I look up. “It was real good to see my aunt.” Nothing but sweet in the drawl.

  “Ah. Well, that’s great.” I lift two sweaters out of the first bag.

  “She couldn’t stay that long so I did a little shopping.”

  Not at Value Village either, I see, checking the other bag.

  “I’m real fortunate to have an aunt like Judy.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You like my new shirt?”

  The loudspeaker in the hallway crackles. Tanya’s voice booms out: “Suppertime. It’s suppertime.”

  Danielle’s off the bed and headed for the door in a blink.

  I follow slowly behind, the corridor filling with jostling bodies.

  “The karaoke last night,” Heather says, “I heard it was quite something. Wish I’d heard Ash. They can always surprise you, eh?”

  Tanya’s in ceremony. Shannon and Julie are on the bench.

  It’s just the two of us in the office.

  “How’s your father?”

  Why has everyone taken to asking about my father?

  “Who’s yer father?” I say in a lame imitation of her accent. “What was his name, that client who worked on the rigs?”

  “From New Brunswick? Dale. No, Darrell. It’s true. It is the first thing anyone there asks you.”

  “He was so happy when you opened your mouth.”

  “Homesick,” Heather says. She shakes her head. “You couldn’t pay me enough. Go back, live in a small town where everybody knows your business. Christ, knows your family’s business five, six generations back. ‘Fill yer boots,’ I said to Darrell. ‘Take my share too.’ But it was all he wanted, to get back home. Your mother was from Nova Scotia, wasn’t she?”

  “From some little port
on the Bay of Fundy. Over the North Mountain from the Valley. That’s all I know about the place really. Geography. The Mountain, the Valley, the Bay. A few stories. Mostly about hard times.”

  “You never went to visit?”

  “They weren’t blood family. Anyway, Mum was all about Alberta. I don’t think she ever went back.

  “Amen. Hai hai.”

  The blanket is pulled back and everyone is filing out, hugging the girls on the bench.

  “Good sleep.”

  “Good sleep.”

  When the rush of phone and meds is over I ask Tanya, “How’s your mother?”

  “Doctor says she has lung cancer. She says it’s her time. When she decides something, ooh she’s stubborn. We used to fight.” She shakes her head. “Too much alike, eh?”

  “She’s at home?” Heather asks.

  Tanya nods. “My sisters and me, we’ve been taking turns. Brother too, when he can get time off. I just sit with her. Sing to her. Traditional songs. The others, they want her to go to the hospital. She won’t.” Tanya looks at me. “You lost your mother not too long ago?”

  “It’ll be a year ago in January. She ... It was sudden. An aneurism.”

  Tanya nods. “That’s hard.”

  “It was. It is.”

  “Quick or slow it’s hard,” Heather says.

  “She’s getting lighter.” Tanya holds out her hand, palm up. “Like a leaf drying out.” She spreads her fingers. “She’ll blow away one day soon. We’re both fighters, eh? But now we’re the ones accepting. I can let her go. She knows that.”

  I nod. I’m nowhere near ready but I’ve glimpsed it too, moments he seems so papery, translucent.

  “We never have as much time as we think,” Heather says softly. “My father, he worked building railway cars his whole adult life except when he went to the war. He wasn’t retired a month when he dropped dead. Of a heart attack. That’s why I took early retirement. So I could do something that matters, not just type frigging memos. But speaking of typing ...” She glances at the clock.

  When she’s on, Heather does the overview, fingers flitting over the keys.

  “Danielle?”

  “Enjoyed her pass,” I say.