To Read

Short Story–A woman struggles to do what is in her best interest.

Tuesday

I’ve been lingering on this step far longer than necessary. People who claim the first step is the most difficult can go to hell. Three steps to go. I didn’t notice my descent was slowing until it finally ground to a halt. Over my shoulder, the stairs behind remind me I’m living a metaphor. I take a deep breath and lift one foot then the other until I land safely on the linoleum floor where a set of heavy, swinging double doors prevent me from seeing what lies beyond.

            My head is throbbing, and my breathing is laboured—not from the exertion of descending the stairs, but from the anticipation of what lies ahead: An ultimatum. Standing in a place of in-between, I gather what’s left of my resolve and place my hands against the cold metal door. The warmth of my palms radiates outward in invisible auras; if I were to assign this heat a colour, I would say it is red (orange or yellow are too cheerful—I prefer the gravity of crimson). I lean the weight of my body into my splayed hands.

In a half-stumble, half-burst I enter a basement room where a dozen people have gathered in the early evening hours. Eyes dart to see who has arrived in such a clatter then return to their previous direction as a kind of respect for the anonymity of the situation. A musty smell of underground coupled with the memory of a hundred boiled cabbages hits my face. I step back slightly, hoping my wrinkled nose does not betray what I’m feeling to anyone left looking. My heel contacts the metal door behind me—its hardness signaling a lack of co-operation for a possible retreat.

Church basements are strange places (as are all basements). Their existence is a bit of an afterthought: the place where people gather for fellowship after the main event; the place where all the tired and used-up furnishings reside; the place where the kids are banished so as to not disrupt the more important business of the adults. This basement is large and has an institutional feel. The beige walls are bare, with the exception of the odd dried up, forgotten piece of tape—some still have bits of crepe paper attached, revealing that the mirth of celebrations is not completely foreign in this space.

            On the wall nearest me is a bulletin board with faded letters spelling out Sunday School. The cork is devoid of any décor except for a potluck notice and a photocopied picture of Jesus carrying a lamb, painstakingly coloured by some small hand. I take a few steps closer, look at the unsigned picture with its curled and yellowed corners that indicate its long residence, and muse why it continues to hang there. The crayon is within the lines for the most part, but there doesn’t appear to be anything special about the art. Instead, I wonder if it holds a special place because of the artist. Immediately, my head spins with images of a young child who is perhaps the offspring of the pastor, or maybe a child who is no longer part of the congregation. Dark thoughts overtake me about the fate of this mystery child, and I’m overwhelmed by an all too familiar feeling of loss and longing which I avoid at all costs. Was there an accident? A move? A crime? A disease? A kidnapping? What morbid conclusions—a symptom of my job, I guess.

            I’m shaken out of my contemplation by a man in a brown suit who says, “Welcome. I’m so glad you’ve joined us.” I notice the scuffed toes of his matching brown leather shoes. I open my mouth, but nothing escapes. Instead, I give a small nod.

            “There are refreshments on the table at the back,” he says, gesturing to an imaginary path across the vast hall. “Please help yourself. We’re just about to start.” His stark eyes betray his smile that seems a little too practiced.

            I manage a quiet, “Thanks.” He nods in reply then continues his rounds.

            If the staircase descent and door opening was tough, then this walk across the room is an impossible test. White light from fluorescent tubes overhead hurts my eyes and adds fuel to my headache. I reach instinctively for sunglasses but stop myself—I still have the sense not to put them on in this setting. The table beckons me with a promise of something to do with my hands, so I proceed. Upon arrival, I discover a coffee urn and a pitcher of water. Damn, no tea. This irritates me—mind you, everything puts me on edge these days. I pour water into a #1 Dad mug just as the man in the brown suit asks everyone to find a seat.

I join the motley group seated roughly in a circle. I don’t recognize any faces, and I don’t spend a whole lot of time looking for features that may hold my interest. From quick glances I determine that half are overly happy, the other overly depressed. Great. Gum chewers and nail biters. I wonder how they peg me?

            The man in the brown suit begins his talk with perfunctory words of welcome. Shortly after, I lose interest. The warmth of the room presses down on me, and I fixate on the double-doors which taunt me to escape. They dare me to bolt—to try to force them open on their rough hinges. To make a fool of myself, yet again. The doors are a portal between two worlds that demand “strength” or “courage” as passwords to clear the threshold. I know neither.

Everything around me begins to blur, and my mind is overwhelmed with haunting flashes from the last few months. My litany of mistakes swirls, and tears push against the back of my eyeballs. Not now, I tell myself and bring the mug of tepid water to my lips.

            The gathering drags on with people telling personal facts and fictions that, honestly, I could care less about. I know why I’m here. This meeting is mandatory. My mission is like a bandage that needs to be removed in one quick movement.

I sense a break in the droning conversation and inhale deeply. I place my hands on my thighs and press upward. My chair grates noisily on the linoleum as I slowly stand to make my intentions clear. All eyes turn in my direction. With throbbing temples, a damp brow, and a tremulous voice, I say: “My name is Annie, and I’m an alcoholic.”

            The people in the circle reply in unison, “Welcome, Annie.”

            They leave an opening; I choose not to fill it.

            I settle back into my seat and spend the rest of the meeting in silence, glancing furtively between the doors and the clock on the wall. This is a waste of time.

            That was Tuesday. I should have paid attention.

Personal Essay–a recollection of a childhood fib that resulted in giving the confidence to be a fabulous liar in a time of need (or so I thought).

“The Greatest Liar in the World”

There is something tempting about a frozen puddle.  The thin, crackly skin over a mysterious, dark hole provides both intrigue and adventure and is almost impossible to resist when you are nine years old.

          As a child I was a doddler—I poked along on my daily walk to and from school and was habitually late for everything.  In my small-town, 1970s life, I shied away from the more travelled sidewalk routes in preference of the secluded, twisted back alleys to get me where I needed to go.  I found it magical and almost spy-like to discover the secrets hidden behind houses—all of the piles of disused lumber, broken lawn chairs, rusting lawnmowers and forgotten wheelbarrows that were hidden from view behind the respectable fronts of neighbour’s homes. 

On my walks, I liked to peer over fences and hedges at secret weed-covered gardens and lazy sun-loving cats and would quicken my step when a noisy dog let loose an acknowledgement that I was nearing its territory.  In early spring and late fall, I liked to tread lightly on the water that lay in the deep puddles and gutters that ran along the edges of these dirt alleyways.

It was clear that my mother did not appreciate my sense of wonder and she expressed her displeasure quite vehemently when I would come home late, oftentimes wet or dirt-covered, and traipse around the beige carpeted living room.  The occurrences of my lack of punctuality and hygiene seemed to escalate one particular autumn. 

“Look at the state of yourself.  If you come home filthy and wet one more time, you are going to get a good grounding”, I remember my mom threatening.  (And, I knew there would be a good swat to accompany the punishment as was the custom of the time.)  She could be terrifying in her rage, but the pull of the risk of challenging the thin, crunching ice was too much for me to resist.

          With my mother’s warning lingering in my ears, I did my best to stay the course, but one sunny afternoon I broke on through. The desire to test the thickness of the ice and to listen to the tinkle of the cracking ice that would result from applying just the right amount of pressure was a taunt I could not pass up. I approached the frozen ditch and told myself, “I’ll just test it with the toe of my shoe—surely it’s solid.”  And, to my delight, the ice held fast.  I should have stopped there, but I’ve never been one not to test boundaries.  So, with breath held and arms spread wide for balance, I put my whole 80 pounds on the surface.

Crack!

“Oh, crap.  I’m done for,” I said aloud as I peered down at the tops of my knees that were poking out of the water in the ditch. I pulled myself up to dry ground and set out at a fast pace toward home as my wet jeans were chilling me to the bone.  As I neared my house I slowed when it dawned on me that it would be hard to get out of this scrape.  I knew I had about half an hour to come up with a plan before my mom came home and doled out her promised punishment.

When my mom came through the door at the expected time, I panicked and blurted out: “A group of big kids from the high school were following me home and were teasing me with lots of swears.”  I glanced up to gauge her level of interest and noticed her leaning in for more details.  “A big kid with a brown, plaid jacket grabbed me by the shoulders and shoved me down and I landed in the ditch.”  Tears were now rolling convincingly down my cheeks and I could see a redness spreading up her face, so I continued: “I tried not to cry in front of them, but I was so scared and embarrassed.”

My mom stood there motionless with an odd expression on her face.  For a moment I feared she had not bought it.  “Where and when did all this happen?” she asked.  I stammered a bit in reply as I fabricated more and more plausible details.

 “How dare they pick on a little kid,” she finally concluded.

As her words trailed behind on her way to the kitchen, I realized I had deflected my punishment with a bold-faced lie that had made it past her bullshit detector.  I had the slightest twinge of guilt about my actions and the fate of the imagined perpetrators, but it was fleeting.  By the time dinner rolled around I had all but forgotten my peril from earlier that day.

The gravity of the situation hit home the following night. “Well,” said my mother, “I don’t think that you are going to be bullied by that gang of teens any more.  I called the high school principal and told him what his students have been up to and that he had better do something about it.”  This was an out of character move on the part of my mom who believed in hands-off parenting.  She wanted us to learn from our own mistakes.

The floor suddenly opened and I felt myself teetering precariously on the edge of the truth abyss.  I was overcome with anxiety: would some poor sucker get in trouble for something I had fabricated?  No, that couldn’t happen—how could the principal possibly know which students were the troublemakers? Should I come clean?  No, now I would be caught in an even bigger lie.  So, I did what any child would do, I shrugged my shoulders and headed off to my room to regroup.

          This childhood mis-adventure came and went but left a lasting impression on me.  I lied to my mom and she believed me.  She hadn’t flinched or doubted what I said.  I was a terrific liar.  From this event I gained confidence to bend the truth over and over again.  In time, I became the queen of the untruth—it felt like some kind of super power.  Now, don’t judge me too harshly, I didn’t lie all of the time and I tried not to do it when someone else would be harmed.  Mostly, I lied to get out of a tight spot. And, by some act of fate, I was nearly always successful.  This lie had a life altering effect on me, but hidden deep in my psyche was a twinge of remorse for involving my mom in this whopper.

          Much time and many falsehoods passed until in my mid-30s I took the opportunity to come clean about the lie that had started me on my career as a professional fibber.  Over a family dinner, I confessed in front of all present: “Mom, remember that time when I was a kid and I told you a bunch of high school kids threw me in a ditch and then you called the school principal? Well, that never happened.”  All heads turned in my direction.  “The truth is, I was just scared that you would spank me and ground me for a month.”

My brother let out a long, “Ahh, you big liar!  You always made up stories. What else did you lie about?” I couldn’t tell if he was amused or hurt by my confession.

          My mom set down her fork, looked me in the eye, and smiled. “I know about your big lie.  Do you think I am an idiot? Your guilt was apparent by the wadded-up pants I found under your bed and you squirmed a lot when you told your grand fib.  Your tears on that day were a nice touch, though.”  I stopped mid-chew and reached for my glass of wine.

She continued, “I never called the principal.  You know I was never that kind of parent.”  Why hadn’t I thought of this before?

I was crushed by this news.  My ego was dashed and my view of my mom was tarnished.  My mother had lied to me—the whole incident was one big double-lie.

          As I cleared away the dishes that evening, I pondered the power of believing in things that were not true.  It was her lie, not mine, that gave me the confidence I needed to be the greatest liar in the world.  Apparently, the title belongs to her.

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Personal Essay–A woman returns to university in middle age and discovers truths about herself with the help of some friends

“Lost and Found”

When I was 48, I ran away from my job, town, husband and children. It wasn’t the kind of flight occurring secretly in the middle of the night with suitcases flying out upstairs windows; rather, it was a planned jaunt 1,200 kilometers away to the University of Saskatchewan. The trip, made under the guise of expediting graduate work, on hindsight was a respite from the pressures of my adult life and a chance to discover, or more accurately to remember, who I was.

            When I left for my semester away, I’d been teaching high school for 25 years and been married for 20. My three children were in upper elementary grades, so it seemed like the perfect time to go without my absence having too disastrous an effect. Much of my persona was shaped by my occupation and roles of mother and wife. I was living according to expectations placed on me by my colleagues and family who had grown to see me one-dimensionally. Quite simply, I was stuck in a rut and I had lost sight of my identity.

If I were a man, I suppose this sudden desire for escape would be viewed as a mid-life crisis, but as a woman I’d label it in a more forward-thinking manner as “an embrace of my perimenopausal years”. Leaving home for four months was a decision I did not take lightly, but one I did make freely. When I announced my plan to go back to school, my husband, Roger, met me with an underwhelming “okay”.

            Roger drove me the long, flat distance to Saskatoon along newly harvested fields and then, within a day of arriving, he caught a flight home to get the girls settled in school. I recall kissing him goodbye in the airport loading zone, swapping seats in my car, and then sitting alone behind the wheel with shaky, sweaty hands. I was on my own for the first time in decades without the safety net of my partner. I’ve always thought of myself as a strong-minded, independent person, but quickly learned I had been fooling myself. So much of my life depended on my husband—it was just easier to get him to do the stuff that I really didn’t want to (including the big two: killing spiders and taking out the garbage). Before this move, I deferred all city driving to my husband and now faced the challenge of navigating back to my dorm room alone. I remember an elated sense of accomplishment when I safely parked the car on that first day of being on my own. After that, I lived my days spherically—slowing moving outward bit-by-bit to explore my surroundings. The edges of these rings were both sharp and permeable; they sliced into new situations while allowing me to soak up every aspect of this unique time I had been afforded. I was getting a do-over.

            At this second round of university, I mirrored part of my earlier days by living  in residence. Weirdly, I enjoyed the cloistered feeling of my cinderblock-walled room containing a bed, desk, chair and bookshelf. Life was simple. When the sole chore for the day is making the bed, time is abundant. Besides completing six credits, my personal goal was to take chances. I’ve never been good at making friends, but in this setting, it seemed to come easily—perhaps I was a kind of curiosity to the younger folks. After a few weeks, I had a core of pals who taught me the lay of the university grounds and profs, how the tunnel system kept you dry and warm, where to eat for under five dollars, how to dress for the decade, and why meeting for dessert at 10 p.m. is good for mental health. I began to see myself less as strict English teacher and overworked mother, and more like friend who could do as she pleased. With the word “no” rarely in my vocabulary, my habit of second-guessing diminished with each new opportunity.

            One of the things I enjoyed most was quiet time. I thought I would be lonely and desperate to fill the minutes, but instead I learned to relish the calm that came when the crushing responsibilities of work and home were deferred. I was free to come and go and, unlike my first go-round, I was not a starving student.  Imagine having a whole new city in front of you with finances to spare—endless prospects abounded inside that oyster shell. I treated my friends to a country music concert. I went on a girls’ trip to Moose Jaw to explore the infamous Al Capone tunnels. I listened to Lawrence Hill read from his newest novel. I wandered aimlessly and blissfully around brightly lit galleries. I snuggled into dark corners with time to read the small print on museum display cases. I learned how to prepare a gourmet meal with only a toaster oven at my disposal. I snuck into a packed science threatre to get a glimpse of Dr. David Suzuki. I ate at Japanese, Vietnamese, Ukrainian and Turkish restaurants. Life became about trying something new every day in a kind of rush before the clock ran down. 

            Four months passed in a blink and the next thing I knew I was on my way home to the people I desperately missed. I had a lot of time to reflect on that long, snowy drive back and realized I was no longer the same person. One thing I learned in Saskatoon is you are never too old to re-invent yourself. Appearing amid strangers meant that they, in a round-about way, told me who I was when I stopped to pay attention. I found out I was a risk-taker and an adventurer; a jokester and a comforter; a friend and a mentor. The people I bumped up against for a short while reminded me who I was meant to be.