Dropped Threads 2 (4 page)

We walked to Oliveto today. Spectacular views and air that felt like silk. Michael did most of the talking—I have grown relatively silent, I notice. I don’t mind, but I notice. I picked bay leaves from hedges and rosemary, sage and oregano from clusters of green that wriggled out of stone walls. Italians sleep among gardens of herbs
.

I know I should be happy. That I have so much here, so much to delight in, that Michael is wonderful in so many, many ways. I wish, more than anything, that I could see the form of a book in my head. That I could manage to collect my scattered and cat-eared ideas and arrange them in a way that
made sense. Without that, my words are as good as etchings in dust
.

Michael sits, carving into bedrock beside me
.

After we returned to Canada, I began to get ill. Perpetual colds, sore throats, exhaustion that had me sleeping up to twenty hours a day. One morning, a friend called to ask how I was feeling. “I have this tremendous ache around my eyes,” I told her. “It hurts to see.” The next moment is forever chiselled into my memory. I was sitting at Michael’s desk, looking at a small picture of me taped up on the wall, noticing the way my face was almost entirely hidden behind his piles and piles of manuscript papers. “What is it,” my friend asked, “that is so painful for you to see?”

I was diagnosed, in medical terms, with chronic fatigue syndrome; it was either that, I was told, or a parasite. (Uh yes, I almost said to the doctor. He’s standing right over there.) My recovery was slow and difficult. Letting go of Michael was, ironically perhaps, the hardest part of all.

Five years later, I was giving a reading in Michael’s hometown. He sat in the audience, laughed at all the right moments, was the last one to stop clapping, asked a question at the end. Then he bought his own copy of my book and asked me to sign it.

for michael—

“You’re signing on the wrong page,” he interrupted.

I shook my head, and laughed.

with love and gratitude … Alison

In My
                        Mother’s Arms

Mary Jane Copps

The “ordinary” family is capable of inflicting much pain upon its children. Pain which, by necessity, moves inward, creating adults who must either unravel their secrets or perpetuate a legacy of betrayal
.

—Jan Austin, psychotherapist

I am startled awake by the quick, cold hands that hoist me to her shoulder. She impatiently pats away my instinctive cry of distress.

At three, sleep was a place I went to, like going to the playground with my sister, or running in the backyard with Prince, our cocker spaniel. Sleep was even a favoured outing, always surprising me with who, or what, would show up to play.

I loved surprises. I believed in them, saw them as a necessary part of life. My days were filled with looking for them. Head down, I would walk along sidewalks, intent on finding a shiny coin or sparkling jewel. Whenever possible, I would turn over rocks and dig in the earth beneath, sure a treasure was awaiting me. And always, I pulled at the pockets of adults, convinced that the clinking I heard was something they were carrying as a gift, just for me.

So on this night, as the sliver of light slashes across my tumbled crib, and her fragile hands wake me to darkness, I can ignore my siblings’ sudden silence and fill my sleepy head with thoughts of Santa Claus.

In my house, midnight Mass distorted the reality of Christmas morning. My parents and brothers and sister would return home hungry, ready to get on with the opening of gifts, and I would be wakened to join them. I suspect that my mother, faced with the day’s prospects of too many in-laws and the endless details of the holiday meal, simply wanted to get something out of the way and pushed to establish this Christmas-in-the-dark tradition.

But it isn’t snowing. Perhaps the Easter bunny, then, or maybe my birthday. I snuggle deeper into her neck, closing my eyes tightly, for it is bad luck to ruin a surprise.

I’ve inherited my reverence for gift giving from my mother, a devout orchestrator of holidays and celebrations. These hallowed events were staged in one of two places, depending on the occasion. The living room couch, a much-protected piece of furniture, elaborately displayed the wares of Easter, St. Patrick’s Day, Valentine’s and birthdays. Always, I would build up the moment of surprise by walking down the stairs facing the wall, averting my eyes until the last possible second from the splendours that awaited me.

Sweaty from slumber, I cling to her coolness as she carries me down the stairs. Once in the living room, I push myself away from her shelter and look toward the couch in eager anticipation. It is empty. Unsettled, but not deterred, I close my eyes and once again set my drowsy hopes on Santa Claus.

Christmas was truly fantastic. The den, a large addition at the back of the house, became a holiday shrine. In one corner stood the magnificent tree (Scotch pine was her favourite) with lights, fragile decorations, aged tinsel, a golden angel and, of course, a circle of brightly wrapped gifts. Stockings hung from the top of a built-in bookcase, bulging with candy and the unwanted but necessary tangerine. And beneath them, the unwrapped deliveries from the North Pole. All this was held from view by heavy, brown brocade drapes that shut the den off from the dining room. Opening these drapes required her permission.

I feel the presence of my siblings as we reach the dining room and pop my eyes open in delight. All significantly older than I am, my two brothers and my sister are my playmates, my caregivers, and I love them fiercely. They stand huddled together near the kitchen door, looking not at me but at my mother. They do not make a sound. Behind them I see the open drapes and know for certain this is not about Christmas.

I must have seen their terror. I must have sensed her anger. But I had already chosen my role in this house, to remain hopeful long after it was prudent. My desire for a gift would not be quelled. Perhaps it was what saved us.

Once we are in sight of the other children, her voice rings high and loud above my head. This is her never-ending-flurry-of-words, all racing out of her mouth, bumping into one another, falling together and never making any sense—at least not to me. But the others seem to understand. They turn in unison and enter the kitchen. From behind, she shoves each of them toward the stove.

If I had not been struggling against the mist of sleep, I might have seen her eyes, wide with panic and veiled with the glaze of prescription drugs. If I had been a little older, I might have smelled a day’s alcohol on her skin and heard the madness of her demand.

She is asking her children for proof of their loyalty, their unshakeable love. She gathers us around the stove, my brothers on her left, my sister on the right and me still in her arms. She turns the large front element on high, the electricity crackling to life and slowly changing the colour of the black coil.

“If you love me,” she says, “you will move your hand toward this element until I say stop.”

Her voice booms and bounces in the quiet kitchen. My siblings squirm. I remain mesmerized by the brilliant spiral below me.

“You first,” she says, nudging my sister with her elbow.

The shaking hand of my eleven-year-old sister begins a descent from its highest height toward the glowing orange element.

I am annoyed. I know about going first—about opening the first present, being served the first plate, getting the first piece of cake. As the youngest, and very much the baby, going first is my place, my territory in a crowded household. Besides, I have been looking for a surprise and this sun-like object must be it.

With the agility and speed of a three-year-old, I wiggle and lunge, diving toward the burning element.

My sister’s hands catch mine. She pushes me back, toward our mother. My oldest brother moves quickly, stepping between us and the stove, clicking off this evening’s source of pain.

I giggle and laugh. I think we have invented a new game to play together, a type of dance, perhaps. My sister takes me from my mother’s trembling embrace. The speed words have stopped. Tears slide down her face, and she mumbles apologies without pause. My brothers cautiously walk her up the stairs, their footsteps creaking toward her bedroom. I sit with my sister in the kitchen. Held within her tight embrace, I listen to the wild rhythms of her heart.

An Exercise
                    in Fertility

Lisa Majeau Gordon

“You inject the orange like this,” says the nurse, pinching the skin on the orange with one hand and expertly plunging a syringe into it with the other. “Let’s try a few more times.”

We are at the clinic, Andrew and I. We’re learning how to inject me with fertility drugs. It’s autumn, and outside the window I see orange and yellow trees.

“These drugs must be administered subcutaneously. Taken orally, your stomach acids will break them down,” the nurse said after introducing herself a half-hour ago. “I’ll leave you to watch a short video and then we’ll practice on oranges.”

I cannot watch the video. In it, a smiling woman has just pulled up her shirt and plunged a syringe into her belly at a ninety-degree angle. I feel sick. I have to put my head between my knees.

“I can’t do this,” I say to Andrew.

“We’ll do it together,” he says, squeezing my hand. He is trying to be positive for me. Andrew hates needles more than I do.

This is the last step on our medical fertility road. We made our decision last night, over steak and a good bottle of Merlot. Andrew lit candles to mark the solemnity of the occasion. We talked for hours, weighing pros and cons, more like military strategists than a couple desperate for a child, struggling to maintain their sanity. After four years of tests, temperature taking and charting, exploratory surgery, fertility drugs with intrauterine insemination (IUI) and clinically enhanced sperm, a couple of Chinese herbalists and naturopaths on the side and endless counting of days, we’re down to this. Our last shot.

We’re ordering up some high-test fertility drugs to be injected into me daily. Blood testing and vaginal ultrasounds every other day. The grand finale will be a supercharged sperm IUI. For three menstrual cycles, if need be. Our doctor gave us a fifty-fifty chance over the three months, based on statistics, our history—and the fact that they cannot find a single bloody thing wrong with either one of us.

The nurse shows us how to prepare a clean environment. Then, how to snap open the little glass vials of powder and pure water and draw them up into the syringe. And how to flick the syringe to remove air bubbles. Finally, how to pinch my belly below the naval and stab it, straight in. This last part is done on oranges for practice.

I can’t do the injections. I’m unco-ordinated. After several tries, I still cannot hold the orange skin pinched in one hand and stab it with the other. Either I let go of the pinch, or my stab is crooked.

“You have to learn how,” Andrew says gently.

“Why?” I ask. “You’re going to do the injections. I just have to take them. Even-steven.”

“But, Meg, I may not always be there,” he says, talking to me as if I’m four. “The nurse just said they must be administered between 6:00 and 8:00 p.m. daily.”

“That’s right,” she says, coming back into the room. “Actually, most women prefer to give themselves the injections. Once they realize there is a painful burning sensation, they like to do it themselves. Less flinching.”

Like hell.

“You’ll be there,” I say to my husband. “If I have to be there, so do you. We’re a team, remember?”

Two days later, Andrew and I have prepared a clean work space in anticipation of our first injection experience. It’s 6:00 p.m. He informs me that it’s a one-person job. Those little vials and needles break easily. The ones with powder in them are $100 a pop. The fewer cooks the better, as they say. He lines all his materials up in little methodical rows on the island in our kitchen. It feels like a high school science lab. I keep glancing up at the front door, hoping no one rings the doorbell. Anyone happening upon this scene would likely report us to the police.

We move to the living room and I lie down on the floor. Andrew rips open an antiseptic pad and swabs my belly.

“Do you pinch, or do I?” I ask.

“I do,” he says. “The person injecting is the pincher too. For maximum control.”

I look away, out the big window as he pinches me. I feel the sharp needle poke. But I’ve taken anti-flinch precautions. I’m holding a leg of the end table in one fist and a leg of the coffee table in the other. It’s when he pushes the plunger down that I start to holler. “What are you injecting me with, battery acid?” I shriek.

He finishes plunging and pulls the needle out. It burns. I hug my stomach and roll over on my side. My belly is on fire.

“Meg, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He smooths the hair from my forehead with his big hand. I look up at him. His face is twisted in concern. “I don’t know about this,” he says. “This is not right. It’s not natural. What are we doing? Just what in hell are we doing, Meg?”

“Please,” I croak. “Please do this for me. Just this one more try. It’s not that bad now. See? I’m okay. Really. Please don’t quit on me, Andrew.”

“I can’t hurt you like this every day, Meg,” he says, staring at the growing welt on my stomach.

“I’ll be better tomorrow,” I say.

I see the same blond woman every other morning. She’s about my age—twenty-nine. She usually beats me to the Blood Services department of the hospital by five minutes. When I run in at seven forty-five, she is already there waiting for her name to be called.

She usually glances up at me in recognition, then looks down again. We are the only ones there at that time of the morning. We pretend to read the same ragged, year-old magazines that we pretended to read two days ago. I suppose it hasn’t occurred to either of us to bring our own.

We don’t talk.

On this morning, I swing open the clinic door and, without looking, know she is seated in the second chair from the right. We are wearing our matching elbow bandages. I sit two seats over, as I always do. She usually goes in ahead of me. We’re both surprised when the nurse indicates it’s me they want first. When I’m finished, I walk slowly back out. My body aches. She’s still waiting. The clinic opens early for “career girls like us,” as one nurse puts it.

According to my doctor, I should ovulate tomorrow. I won’t see the blond woman again this cycle. I take a deep breath, look directly at her and say, “I guess I’ll see you in a few weeks.” I turn to get my coat from the rack. I don’t expect a response. In the time I’ve been coming here, women in the waiting room look only at their shoes. We are ashamed.

“I hope not,” I hear her say behind me.

I look over my shoulder at her. “I know what you mean,” I say quietly. “I hope not, too.”

December: another Christmas without a baby.

No children in Andrew’s immediate family, and none in mine. Another Christmas with our dogs the centre of attention. Another Christmas tap dancing my way through a barrage of baby questions. Another Christmas of feeling barren.

I want to cancel Christmas. I am not interested in playing along this year. I don’t want a tree shedding needles all over my house. I don’t want to shop.

I want to run away.

But I’m now washing dishes at my parents’ house, and the aunts and cousins start in on me. It’s Christmas Day. Supper is over and the women have crowded into the kitchen. They’re discussing a cousin’s new baby.

“Her labour was short, thank God,” the new grandma says.

“Lots of babies in the extended family lately,” says the cousin nursing her newborn behind a towel, “but only mine in ours. Who’ll play with my little Sarah?”

I scrub the roaster pan harder. I know what comes next.

“Meg, why haven’t you had a baby yet?” asks an aunt.

“Yeah, Meg. What are you waiting for? You are twenty-nine already!”

They’re all looking at me. I’m trapped. “I don’t know,” I mumble. Then I down a half glass of wine that someone placed by the sink and keep scrubbing.

We have gotten used to our injection routine. It’s our last month. I’m trying so hard to stay positive. It’s hard to think about anything else.

A couple of times, I’ve called Andrew on my cellphone as I turn the corner onto our road at six o’clock. He has the syringe ready when I run in the door. All I have to do is throw off my coat and lie down on the floor. It’s becoming funny to us.

Today I go home from work at five. I’m thinking about how good I’ve been, this month especially. Taking care of myself and all that. Little to no alcohol, no caffeine, nine hours of sleep a night, exercise, vitamins. I’m living like a cloistered nun.

5:45. Andrew isn’t home yet. We’ve always done the injections promptly at six. He wants to be very precise. He says it’s a process of elimination of factors, and we don’t want our inconsistencies to play a part in that. I agree.

I call his cellphone. I get his voice mail and leave him a message. I am not worried. His phone has no service in some areas. He’ll be here.

6:01. He’s not here. The nurse said between six and eight every night, I tell myself. That would indicate a range of time is acceptable. Calm down.

7:01. No Andrew. I’ve called his phone eight times. It’s turned off, I think, because it goes right to messaging. What’s going on? I’m panicking.

7:35. I call his best friend’s wife. “Hi, Cheryl,” I say. “Is Dave at home?”

“No,” she replies wearily. “I’m ready to kill him. The kids have the flu and he’s out drinking with his friends.”

“Is Andrew with him?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “He’ll get home safe, Meg. Don’t worry. It’s not like you have kids at home you need help with. Boys will be boys, you know.”

“Give me Dave’s cellphone number,” I say, gritting my teeth.

Dave tells me my husband is on his sixth beer in a little pub in town. He tells me Andrew has been really quiet and depressed lately. That he needs this release.

I am so angry I’m shaking. How dare he. Its not as if I can take a day off from this process whenever I feel like escaping. It’s not as if his belly is full of red welts. It’s not as if he can’t wear short sleeves because the bruising from the ritual bloodletting makes him look like a heroine addict. It’s not as if he has body parts he’ll never get to use.

It’s not as if he’s
barren
. Oh! I catch myself. I’m not supposed to use that word. The clinic people forbid it. I’m supposed to say “child-free.”

It’s dawning on me that I have to give myself the injection. It’s ten to eight. Jesus.

I prepare the syringe. I pull down my pants and swab the small portion of my stomach without a hole already in it. And then I stand there. My legs are wide apart. I’m squatting like a sumo wrestler. Syringe in hand, thumb on the plunger. About an inch of belly flesh pinched up with the other hand.

I look at the clock on the stove. 7:55. I can’t do it. I have to. I try to decide whether to slide it in slowly, or jam it in from about a foot away. I’m clenching my butt. I’m gripping the syringe too hard. My hand feels like drying concrete.

7:59. I’m still hunched over, staring at my pinched skin. Damn you, Andrew. I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth like at yoga class. Then I push the syringe that’s hovering in front of my midsection. Closer. Closer.

The tip pokes my skin by accident. I wasn’t ready yet, but it slides quickly in. I’m surprised. I didn’t expect it to go in so fast. I hold my breath as I push the plunger to the bottom and pull the needle out.

Wow. I feel victorious.