How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it is the pleasantest thing,
Ever a child can do.
(“The Swing,” R.L. Stevenson)
Dear Claire;
I’ve been looking forward to writing about Sophie – our angel – and how she came to us that summer. It’s hard to imagine that two sisters who looked as much alike as mom and Sophie could be so different.
When we saw Sophie through the window for the first time, as she got out of the taxi in front of our apartment on that hot clear day in August with her matched luggage (I had never known anyone who used suitcases before, only backpacks and duffel bags) I wondered what you thought. Were you confused by the similarities? Sophie was like an air brushed photograph of mom, emphasizing everything that was beautiful, minimizing the distortions that sadness and anger had etched into mom’s face. Even their voices were similar. Did this bother you I wonder? Did you think it was some kind of weird transformation until you saw them together? Did you notice?
I knew that Bill’s family lived in the States – Kansas I think, and when he came to Canada to escape the draft, he cut off his ties to them. Mom had never spoken of her family back east. I just took it for granted that we didn’t have an extended family. Then Sophie arrived. I never knew how or why she came to be with us. I suspect that Bill contacted her as things got worse with mom; I never knew for sure.
I remember that first night as I was putting you to bed; I explained that Sophie was mom’s big sister just like I was your big sister. I told you a story of the two little girls, Sarah and Sophie, running in a lovely field of daisies and soft tall grasses where they could play tag and be good friends.
Sophie was two years older than mom. They had the same long chestnut hair that Sophie sometimes wore in a braid down her back, but more often tied loosely in a ponytail to the side of her face, draping over her shoulder where it looked more like a scarf, a fashion accessory. Her eyes were that same rich brown that you and I have, and her cheeks were high and delicate. Her complexion reminded me of the Royal Doulton figurines that I’d seen in jewelry store windows, polished and perfect. She dressed like the ladies that I’d sometimes see on the bus, with her matching outfits and accessories – so different from the drapes of Indian print cotton that mom wore.
When Sophie first came to us mom was furious. She screamed at Bill and Sophie, accusing them of trying to trick her, of playing with her head. She stormed into her room and stayed there. We didn’t see much of her until just before Sophie left.
Sophie became my role model for me. She was always so full of energy, always on the move – probably because there was so much to do when she first arrived. She mobilized me as her aide and we cleaned the apartment from top to bottom. I had such a sense of comfort and satisfaction, looking at all that we had done together. As we worked Sophie would ask questions like: Who did the laundry? What did mom usually make for supper? Were we allowed to have friends over to play? I must have seemed dull witted to Sophie at first because I really didn’t know how to answer these questions. Each was as foreign and as complex as if she were asking where we stabled our camel.
Part of me wanted to build and maintain a façade of what I thought would be considered normal in Sophie’s world. I would have liked to tell her that our family went together on weekly trips to the laundromat, where you and I would sit by the window watching the students passing by while mom folded our fresh, clean clothes. But the reality was that sometimes Bill would leave the apartment in the morning with a duffel bag of laundry, and he may or may not remember to bring it back with him at night. If he forgot the laundry in the machine, he’d usually find it the next day piled on the counter by the sink, cold and hard on the outside, wet and moulding in the center. Sometimes it wasn’t there at all; it wasn’t important. Clothes were not a big deal for us. About once a month, Bill would go to the Goodwill shop or the Sally Ann and come back with a bag full of T-shirts, jeans, socks, whatever. We had lots of clothes – they just weren’t very good.
As for Sophie’s concept of supper, that wasn’t something that I was too familiar with either. Even when mom was well we never ate three meals a day at regular times; we would eat when we were hungry. When mom was baking and cooking for the collective, she would do so much tasting that she wasn’t ever hungry for a meal. There was always lots of food: crackers and cheese, bread, fruit, yogurt – so if we were hungry we ate what we felt like eating. Sophie wanted to make shepherd’s pie and lasagna.
When it came to having friends over I was confused by the question. My first reaction was “Why?” There was no one that I hung around with in the neighbourhood and the kids from school lived all over the city – it wasn’t something that we did, hanging out together in each other’s house. Besides I had you.
I found Sophie’s questions strange but not judgmental. I was glad to have this window into her view of what was normal and important for kids.
Once we got the apartment clean and organized, Sophie started taking us out. Sometimes we would just walk to the park down the street and get a treat from the teenager who sold frozen Space Bars and Popsicles from his bicycle cart. I remember that you liked to go on the slide. I would climb with you up the ladder and hold you at the top, stretching my body halfway down the slide before letting you go. You would slide down on your back and Sophie would catch you at the bottom. I could tell when you liked something; your body would relax a little and you seemed to be more aware of what was happening. That was your way of being happy: you would leave your world for a while and quietly join us in ours.
A couple of times, we went to Stanley Park. Bill used to bring me there to feed the ducks when I was little – only lettuce leaves, not bread crumbs that are hard to digest, he would tell me. Sophie would put you in the stroller and we would walk around the sea wall, letting the wind whip our faces and the sun toast our skin. We would always make a stop at the swings where, because of their amazing height, I would have to pump very hard to get up any speed at all, but once I was going it was the closest thing to flying that I could imagine. I would close my eyes and lay back as the swing went forward, the wind rushing over me like ripples of water. At the end I would open my eyes and see nothing but sky. I would lean forward on the return path, pushing with all of my might. I was so high, it was easy to imagine that I was sailing through the sky with all the seagulls.
How peaceful and inviting their life seemed. I remember when I read mom’s book "Jonathan Livingston Seagull" and wanting to fly away to live with him, but I could never leave you. I knew that I would just have to wait until you were strong enough to pump yourself on the swings too; then we would work our way up to the highest point where we would fly away together with our new seagull friends.
Sophie brought us to places where we could dream such dreams.
Sometimes at the park or just around our apartment, I would watch Sophie watching you. It bothered me when I would see her face become puzzled when she would work so hard without success to make you laugh, or when she tried to teach you new words and you wouldn’t speak. Until I saw Sophie’s concern you had just seemed like a quiet kid to me. You were two and a half years old, and I never realized that children usually speak by this age. You were silent and I had no idea what that meant.
You had rules that guided your life and I had instinctively learned and followed them. Your rules included not to leave you alone in a room, not to startle you by touching you when you didn’t expect it, and not to hug you too tightly or get too close to your face. And there were others too. If these rules were followed, you were content and could sit quietly for hours losing yourself in the world of a stuffed toy or any strangely shaped object – you could focus on these things forever, seeing in them wonders that were lost to me.
It took Sophie some time to understand your rules and to predict your reactions to certain situations. One of the first places that Sophie took us was to Chinatown with all of its smells and exotic treats to taste and see. Sophie let me choose a pair of black silky slippers whose toes were covered with embroidered flowers of every brilliant colour. (I still have them in a chest at the foot of my bed.) For you she chose a fabulous red satin jacket, with delicate paintings of children climbing what looked like a rock face. It was the kind of thing that Chinese children wear in drawings on all of the calendars in Chinatown but, beautiful as you were in that jacket, you didn’t look anything like those kids with all of your red curls.
Sophie picked you up to show you how nice you looked in the mirror that was too high for you to see from where you were standing. While you were both looking in the mirror, Sophie pressed her cheek to yours giving you a squeeze which made you wriggle. Then an old Chinese man came up to you and spoke in his choppy, strident voice, reaching out to pinch your cheek, to touch your face – and you let go.
It’s difficult to describe how you would react during these times of overload. This was the first time it happened in public and to this extent, but later on these episodes became more common whenever you were under stress. It was as if once the wire had been tripped it was easier to set it off each time. You would open your mouth full wide and scream: it wasn’t crying or anything that sounded as if it were coming from fear, it was more like a roar, a warning to stay away from you, demanding your space.
You beat and yelled and thrashed at Sophie’s back so violently that she was afraid that you would hurt yourself if she put you down. She hadn’t paid for our things yet, so she game me her wallet and sent me to the counter to pay for the shoes and jacket while she took you outside – still madly wailing and thrashing. After your usual silence, it was frightening to hear such volume coming from you. When we were on the sidewalk and your punches became slower and less forceful, and your voice was still strong but less insistent, Sophie tried to ask me if this happened very often. I told her that you didn’t like people being too close to your face.
Sophie was afraid to put you down, concerned that you would run onto the street or down an alley. We walked a few blocks, Sophie desperately clutching your squirming body until we found a bench. All the while passers-by were turning to look at us. Their eyes followed us, probably trying to assess what the situation was: an abduction or a tantrum.
At the bench Sophie told me to stand by one end of it as she put you down on your stomach at the other, opening her arms then positioning herself in case you should try to run away. We made a wall around you, but it was obvious that you weren’t going anywhere. You brought your knees up under you and lay there with your face down on the bench, your little fists delivering last tiny punches on the worn wooden slats. Your cries had slowed to low rocking moans like kids make after they’ve been crying hard – small, tired wimpers that come from very deep inside. I watched Sophie as she sat down beside you on the bench, resting her palm on your back.
“She’ll be okay now, Sophie,” I said putting my own hand on Sophie’s shoulder, sitting on the iron arm of the bench. She gave me a sad smile as she shook her head. We sat on that bench as streams of hurried people parted around us like a water around a capsized boat.
Although I saw Sophie as my guide and my salvation, she also brought with her the unsettling realization that we needed to be saved. Through her eyes, I could see how sick mom had become and how out of step you were in your development. Part of me resented the intrusion of her reality. Why couldn’t we just be like we were before?
Sometimes Sophie would try to coax mom to come and join us for meals or walks; mom usually responded by screaming at us through the door. She never did eat with us while Sophie was there. Occasionally she would come out to go to the bathroom or the kitchen, her long hair messed and mirroring the disarray inside her, but it was never for long, and her anger and sadness were always obviously simmering, letting a noxious steam into the room.
Once Sophie took us to the mall where she bought us each an outfit: matching shorts and top – nothing fancy but I loved the look and feel of the new material. When mom saw us in our new clothes, she looked confused at first, as if she didn’t recognize us or couldn’t pinpoint what was different about us. Then she marched across the room and picked you up and pulled at your new T-shirt, trying to rip it off of you. You cried and Sophie ran to you.
Mom screamed: “Get this shit off of her. She’s mine.” Sophie managed to help mom get the shirt over your head. They continued to struggle with you for a moment; then without warning, mom let go and everything suddenly relaxed in her. We sat there, watching mom – waiting to see what she would do. Suddenly, with a defiant expression, she stood up letting you fall into Sophie’s lap as if she didn’t realize that you were still there. She turned and walked back into her room and with one last burst of energy she slammed the door behind her, screaming at us through the wall: “She’s mine!” Then everything was still.
When Bill heard of the scene with the new clothes, he was at a loss. I think that up until then he had convinced himself, as I had, that mom was just tired and that she would snap out of it eventually. But it had been nine months since you had been in the hospital and mom and started acting this way – it wasn’t going to change. Also Bill wasn’t around you enough during the day to see the things that Sophie was telling him about you. I think that he wanted to brush it away, to believe that you were just a quiet baby who needed her space. Sophie saw it differently. But what was the value of this new awareness? What could he do? He had no way of knowing how to deal with any of it.
I was beginning to see us through Sophie’s eyes too. I saw mom, wandering through the days, lost and bitter. I saw Bill, flying from one task and commitment to the next, blinders keeping his focus on the goal ahead, and never allowing him to take in what was really happening to us. I saw you, with a level of suffering that was so deep that the somberness of your little face could only hint at its depth – I finally realized how unusual it was for a two year old never to laugh. I had simply gotten used to it all. Now, seeing us through Sophie’s eyes, I was frightened and unsure of what would become of us.
Sophie and Bill spoke for many hours in the evenings, usually over a bottle of beer on the little patio outside the apartment. As darkness fell and I went to our room, they would come indoors and I would sit on the floor, by the bedroom door, my knees up against my chest and my elbows resting on top. Sometimes I would cup my hands over my ears to keep out their words; sometimes I would let my hands fall so I could hear what they were saying. I sat there in the shadows of the hallway sending out my own telepathic messages for Bill to listen, hoping that talking with Sophie would help him find some solutions to our lives.
A few days before Sophie was going to leave to go back east, she and mom had it out. Mom was calling Sophie a bitch that had come to take her children. Sophie was screaming that mom wasn’t capable of caring for her children. Mom was wild. The next day Sophie and Bill went to see the doctor together, probably because they couldn’t get mom to go herself. You and I went with them and waited in the reception area playing with the toys. Through the office walls, I could hear Bill’s voice getting louder and more desperate until the door finally flew open with a crash and Bill came out in a fury. He marched over to us and picked you up, walking out without looking left or right. Sophie came and helped me quickly put your blocks away and we went out after you.
Bill was shaking when he got behind the wheel. He went to start the car and Sophie put a hand on his shoulder; he turned the key and it revved but the car wouldn’t start. The palm of Bill’s hand smashed over and over on the steering wheel where he finally rested his head, choking on sobs that heaved his back and shoulders. As we sat there, I looked over at you on the seat beside me: you were looking out the window, rocking your head against the back of the seat in short, tense pulses in time to Bill’s choppy breaths – it was one of those few times that I knew that you were aware that something was happening. Bill lifted his head and sat back, slowly turning the key in the ignition. The car started on the first try. He let the engine run for a few seconds, then looking straight ahead, out through the windshield he said: “I can’t go back home – not just yet…”
We drove a long time, over the Lion’s Gate Bridge and headed up the coast until we came to a beach. We got out and walked along the shore. Sophie carried you and sat on one of the logs that had washed up on the rocks, looking out at the sailboats. Bill and I threw stones into the ocean – it was the first time in over a year that we had done something like this together. Difficult as that day was, I was so grateful for the chance to throw rocks with Bill.
When we did get back to the apartment, Bill knew that something was wrong as soon as he saw that the door was half-open. He ran inside and went from room to room, looking for mom and taking in the upturned furniture and emptied drawers whose contents lay everywhere. He was frantic. Mom hadn’t left the apartment in months and none of us could imagine why she would leave so unexpectedly now. Sophie wanted to call the police but Bill just paced the tiny space of the living room, saying over and over to himself: “Where would she go? Who would take her?” He went on questioning, no answers coming to him, until Sophie asked him for the telephone number at the collective.
When Carly answered the phone in the store, Sophie told her who she was. Carly told her that mom was there, upstairs with Ariel. She explained that they had come around to our place in the morning and mom insisted on leaving with them. Bill and Sophie were so relieved to have found her that they never anticipated what would happen when they went to pick her up.
When we got there, Bill was the first one up the back stairs at the collective. He went right into the apartment without stopping to knock at the door or calling out. The sudden noise of his entry startled mom and made her cringe, burying her face in the large cushion on the floor where she was sitting. She began to scream into the pillow, curling herself into a ball, rocking on her shoulder. Ariel, who was sitting beside her, glared at Bill with a look of defiance and protectiveness, and held on firmly to mom’s hand that she had been massaging when we came in. Mom pulled her hand away, the better to clutch at her pillow and continued to rock and scream. Bill stood over the two of them, bewildered, his hands alternately reaching out and pulling back from where mom was lying on the floor. He had no idea what to do.
Sophie stayed back in the doorway, holding you in one arm and hugging me with the other. Together we stood as what we knew of family disintegrated in front of us, like watching a home going up in flames. Sophie told me later that this was one of the most difficult moments of her life. While she held us in the doorway, she had come to terms with what was possible in our lives, and what wasn’t. She realized that she couldn’t simply leave us – after all, she had come to help us, and everything had fallen apart during her stay. How could she return to her own life when she felt so responsible for us? How could she leave us like this?
As she watched Bill helplessly reaching out, and mom thrashing and rolling on the floor, it was obvious to her that our lives had now changed probably forever. She began creating order in the chaos of our situation, in the same way that I had seen her put our apartment together when she first came to us.
Her plan was that you and I would go back to Toronto with her for a while, maybe until Christmas – at least until the crisis was over and mom could look after us. At first Bill acted furious at the thought of us leaving, but there were so few options. He also knew how much Sophie cared for us. I think that he was probably relieved that she suggested it.
Bill was lost as we packed to leave for Toronto. He seemed to be embarrassed by the state of the clothes that we had, as if discovering an area of responsibility that he had not lived up to. He would hold up the strangest things and ask me if I wanted to bring them with me: a dictionary, a candle half burned, my collection of shells. I said that I would leave them with him until we came back, to remind him of us. He nodded each time but kept looking for other things we might need.
On the morning of the day we left, he came into our room. I felt his fingers on my cheek, brushing the hair away from my face as I woke up. His sadness had even changed the colour of his skin: a dull greyness had replaced his usual tone. He kissed me on the top of the head and said that it was time to get up. I couldn’t remember the last time that he had kissed me – even when we were playmates, we would wrestle and tumble, but he probably hadn’t kissed me since I was a baby.
After breakfast, we packed the car and Bill drove us to the airport. I remember feeling so torn between the excitement of going on a plane, and guilt at the thought of leaving Bill alone. Mom was staying at the collective with Ariel and the others. She said she thought that Bill and Sophie had been controlling her with some kind of evil mind games and that staying with Ariel would give her the period of “detoxification” that she needed. I don’t think that mom ever tried to contact us, you and I, in the months after we left her at the collective. She may not have noticed we were gone. I remember that she kept screaming at all of us as we left, that we were stealing her children. She didn’t seem to know or care that you and I were her children.
At the airport, we waited in line to check our bags. Sophie pushed you to the counter in the stroller while Bill parked the car. He found us in the waiting lounge and we sat together until they called us for boarding. Bill saw me looking at the gift shop, so inviting with all of its toys and souvenirs. He asked me if I wanted to check it out. As we crossed the lounge, he took my hand and leading me to the section of the boutique with stuffed animals, he asked me if I thought that I was too old for a teddy bear – I shook my head. He chose a beautiful white bear with a maple leaf stitched in red on its chest. This bear was more grown up than a regular teddy but not so realistic as to be un-cute. I loved him (Sophie saved him for me and he too is in my trunk.) Bill brought down a toy puppy for you from among the other animals; I smiled my approval and we went to pay for the toys.
We said good-bye. Bill, Sophie and I were wiping our tears; you were uninterested and a bit sleepy. Sophie rolled you through the tunnel onto the plane. I followed, balancing Sophie’s shoulder bag and the diaper bag of things you’d need.
I was mesmerized by the interior of the plane; it was like a huge, well-lit movie theatre. I had thought that I would be able to wave at Bill from the window but Sophie explained that our seats were in the middle section, and that Bill wouldn’t be able to see us through the small windows anyway.
I was crushed. I had saved my last waves for this window goodbye, and I was overwhelmed by a sense that I might never see him again. I lay my head on Sophie’s arm as we sat there, surrounded by the noise and the bustle of the other passengers settling in. You were nervous and fidgety in your seat so Sophie took out the puppy for you to play with. There we were, you and I on either side of Sophie, clutching our new plush friends as the plane started its engines. The noise was deafening and we both buried our faces in Sophie’s sweater as they vibrated to a terrifying pitch.
It wasn’t until later that I understood why I hadn’t predicted your violent reaction to the take off. Before Sophie came to be with us, I was so aware of your needs, I had come to anticipate so many of the things that would cause you stress. But since Sophie had taken over much of your care I had let go of some of that awareness, and the constant anticipation of how you might react to a situation. Your shaking under Sophie’s arm was more violent than the vibration of the plane would ever have caused as it taxied on the runway. When it took off the cabin pressure changed, you clutched your head and began to scream in pain.
I could tell, as could Sophie, that this was not the same sort of episode that had taken place in Chinatown. It was not your usual cushion of space that you were fighting to preserve; this was severe pain in your ears that probably brought back many memories from when you were sick in the hospital. No one could do anything for you until the seat belt light had gone out. Sophie was frantic, trying to coax you to suck on a hard candy that someone had offered, but your cries kept you from understanding that it would help you. When we were in the air, the stewardess brought a bottle of juice with a nipple on it. For some reason, you accepted it, and the sucking eased the pressure enough to calm you a bit.
The whole trip was so difficult for you. There was little space to move around and little to do. Your ears were bothering you enough throughout the flight that you only dozed for short periods before you would roll your head, back and forth on Sophie’s arm, your hands slapping at your ears. I had never felt such a sense of helplessness towards you – I had always been able to change your environment, or soothe you in some way when you were upset. I remember feeling very frightened by this inability to find a way to touch you.
I long to touch you now, Claire. I miss you.
Love, Starla.
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it is the pleasantest thing,
Ever a child can do.
(“The Swing,” R.L. Stevenson)
Dear Claire;
I’ve been looking forward to writing about Sophie – our angel – and how she came to us that summer. It’s hard to imagine that two sisters who looked as much alike as mom and Sophie could be so different.
When we saw Sophie through the window for the first time, as she got out of the taxi in front of our apartment on that hot clear day in August with her matched luggage (I had never known anyone who used suitcases before, only backpacks and duffel bags) I wondered what you thought. Were you confused by the similarities? Sophie was like an air brushed photograph of mom, emphasizing everything that was beautiful, minimizing the distortions that sadness and anger had etched into mom’s face. Even their voices were similar. Did this bother you I wonder? Did you think it was some kind of weird transformation until you saw them together? Did you notice?
I knew that Bill’s family lived in the States – Kansas I think, and when he came to Canada to escape the draft, he cut off his ties to them. Mom had never spoken of her family back east. I just took it for granted that we didn’t have an extended family. Then Sophie arrived. I never knew how or why she came to be with us. I suspect that Bill contacted her as things got worse with mom; I never knew for sure.
I remember that first night as I was putting you to bed; I explained that Sophie was mom’s big sister just like I was your big sister. I told you a story of the two little girls, Sarah and Sophie, running in a lovely field of daisies and soft tall grasses where they could play tag and be good friends.
Sophie was two years older than mom. They had the same long chestnut hair that Sophie sometimes wore in a braid down her back, but more often tied loosely in a ponytail to the side of her face, draping over her shoulder where it looked more like a scarf, a fashion accessory. Her eyes were that same rich brown that you and I have, and her cheeks were high and delicate. Her complexion reminded me of the Royal Doulton figurines that I’d seen in jewelry store windows, polished and perfect. She dressed like the ladies that I’d sometimes see on the bus, with her matching outfits and accessories – so different from the drapes of Indian print cotton that mom wore.
When Sophie first came to us mom was furious. She screamed at Bill and Sophie, accusing them of trying to trick her, of playing with her head. She stormed into her room and stayed there. We didn’t see much of her until just before Sophie left.
Sophie became my role model for me. She was always so full of energy, always on the move – probably because there was so much to do when she first arrived. She mobilized me as her aide and we cleaned the apartment from top to bottom. I had such a sense of comfort and satisfaction, looking at all that we had done together. As we worked Sophie would ask questions like: Who did the laundry? What did mom usually make for supper? Were we allowed to have friends over to play? I must have seemed dull witted to Sophie at first because I really didn’t know how to answer these questions. Each was as foreign and as complex as if she were asking where we stabled our camel.
Part of me wanted to build and maintain a façade of what I thought would be considered normal in Sophie’s world. I would have liked to tell her that our family went together on weekly trips to the laundromat, where you and I would sit by the window watching the students passing by while mom folded our fresh, clean clothes. But the reality was that sometimes Bill would leave the apartment in the morning with a duffel bag of laundry, and he may or may not remember to bring it back with him at night. If he forgot the laundry in the machine, he’d usually find it the next day piled on the counter by the sink, cold and hard on the outside, wet and moulding in the center. Sometimes it wasn’t there at all; it wasn’t important. Clothes were not a big deal for us. About once a month, Bill would go to the Goodwill shop or the Sally Ann and come back with a bag full of T-shirts, jeans, socks, whatever. We had lots of clothes – they just weren’t very good.
As for Sophie’s concept of supper, that wasn’t something that I was too familiar with either. Even when mom was well we never ate three meals a day at regular times; we would eat when we were hungry. When mom was baking and cooking for the collective, she would do so much tasting that she wasn’t ever hungry for a meal. There was always lots of food: crackers and cheese, bread, fruit, yogurt – so if we were hungry we ate what we felt like eating. Sophie wanted to make shepherd’s pie and lasagna.
When it came to having friends over I was confused by the question. My first reaction was “Why?” There was no one that I hung around with in the neighbourhood and the kids from school lived all over the city – it wasn’t something that we did, hanging out together in each other’s house. Besides I had you.
I found Sophie’s questions strange but not judgmental. I was glad to have this window into her view of what was normal and important for kids.
Once we got the apartment clean and organized, Sophie started taking us out. Sometimes we would just walk to the park down the street and get a treat from the teenager who sold frozen Space Bars and Popsicles from his bicycle cart. I remember that you liked to go on the slide. I would climb with you up the ladder and hold you at the top, stretching my body halfway down the slide before letting you go. You would slide down on your back and Sophie would catch you at the bottom. I could tell when you liked something; your body would relax a little and you seemed to be more aware of what was happening. That was your way of being happy: you would leave your world for a while and quietly join us in ours.
A couple of times, we went to Stanley Park. Bill used to bring me there to feed the ducks when I was little – only lettuce leaves, not bread crumbs that are hard to digest, he would tell me. Sophie would put you in the stroller and we would walk around the sea wall, letting the wind whip our faces and the sun toast our skin. We would always make a stop at the swings where, because of their amazing height, I would have to pump very hard to get up any speed at all, but once I was going it was the closest thing to flying that I could imagine. I would close my eyes and lay back as the swing went forward, the wind rushing over me like ripples of water. At the end I would open my eyes and see nothing but sky. I would lean forward on the return path, pushing with all of my might. I was so high, it was easy to imagine that I was sailing through the sky with all the seagulls.
How peaceful and inviting their life seemed. I remember when I read mom’s book "Jonathan Livingston Seagull" and wanting to fly away to live with him, but I could never leave you. I knew that I would just have to wait until you were strong enough to pump yourself on the swings too; then we would work our way up to the highest point where we would fly away together with our new seagull friends.
Sophie brought us to places where we could dream such dreams.
Sometimes at the park or just around our apartment, I would watch Sophie watching you. It bothered me when I would see her face become puzzled when she would work so hard without success to make you laugh, or when she tried to teach you new words and you wouldn’t speak. Until I saw Sophie’s concern you had just seemed like a quiet kid to me. You were two and a half years old, and I never realized that children usually speak by this age. You were silent and I had no idea what that meant.
You had rules that guided your life and I had instinctively learned and followed them. Your rules included not to leave you alone in a room, not to startle you by touching you when you didn’t expect it, and not to hug you too tightly or get too close to your face. And there were others too. If these rules were followed, you were content and could sit quietly for hours losing yourself in the world of a stuffed toy or any strangely shaped object – you could focus on these things forever, seeing in them wonders that were lost to me.
It took Sophie some time to understand your rules and to predict your reactions to certain situations. One of the first places that Sophie took us was to Chinatown with all of its smells and exotic treats to taste and see. Sophie let me choose a pair of black silky slippers whose toes were covered with embroidered flowers of every brilliant colour. (I still have them in a chest at the foot of my bed.) For you she chose a fabulous red satin jacket, with delicate paintings of children climbing what looked like a rock face. It was the kind of thing that Chinese children wear in drawings on all of the calendars in Chinatown but, beautiful as you were in that jacket, you didn’t look anything like those kids with all of your red curls.
Sophie picked you up to show you how nice you looked in the mirror that was too high for you to see from where you were standing. While you were both looking in the mirror, Sophie pressed her cheek to yours giving you a squeeze which made you wriggle. Then an old Chinese man came up to you and spoke in his choppy, strident voice, reaching out to pinch your cheek, to touch your face – and you let go.
It’s difficult to describe how you would react during these times of overload. This was the first time it happened in public and to this extent, but later on these episodes became more common whenever you were under stress. It was as if once the wire had been tripped it was easier to set it off each time. You would open your mouth full wide and scream: it wasn’t crying or anything that sounded as if it were coming from fear, it was more like a roar, a warning to stay away from you, demanding your space.
You beat and yelled and thrashed at Sophie’s back so violently that she was afraid that you would hurt yourself if she put you down. She hadn’t paid for our things yet, so she game me her wallet and sent me to the counter to pay for the shoes and jacket while she took you outside – still madly wailing and thrashing. After your usual silence, it was frightening to hear such volume coming from you. When we were on the sidewalk and your punches became slower and less forceful, and your voice was still strong but less insistent, Sophie tried to ask me if this happened very often. I told her that you didn’t like people being too close to your face.
Sophie was afraid to put you down, concerned that you would run onto the street or down an alley. We walked a few blocks, Sophie desperately clutching your squirming body until we found a bench. All the while passers-by were turning to look at us. Their eyes followed us, probably trying to assess what the situation was: an abduction or a tantrum.
At the bench Sophie told me to stand by one end of it as she put you down on your stomach at the other, opening her arms then positioning herself in case you should try to run away. We made a wall around you, but it was obvious that you weren’t going anywhere. You brought your knees up under you and lay there with your face down on the bench, your little fists delivering last tiny punches on the worn wooden slats. Your cries had slowed to low rocking moans like kids make after they’ve been crying hard – small, tired wimpers that come from very deep inside. I watched Sophie as she sat down beside you on the bench, resting her palm on your back.
“She’ll be okay now, Sophie,” I said putting my own hand on Sophie’s shoulder, sitting on the iron arm of the bench. She gave me a sad smile as she shook her head. We sat on that bench as streams of hurried people parted around us like a water around a capsized boat.
Although I saw Sophie as my guide and my salvation, she also brought with her the unsettling realization that we needed to be saved. Through her eyes, I could see how sick mom had become and how out of step you were in your development. Part of me resented the intrusion of her reality. Why couldn’t we just be like we were before?
Sometimes Sophie would try to coax mom to come and join us for meals or walks; mom usually responded by screaming at us through the door. She never did eat with us while Sophie was there. Occasionally she would come out to go to the bathroom or the kitchen, her long hair messed and mirroring the disarray inside her, but it was never for long, and her anger and sadness were always obviously simmering, letting a noxious steam into the room.
Once Sophie took us to the mall where she bought us each an outfit: matching shorts and top – nothing fancy but I loved the look and feel of the new material. When mom saw us in our new clothes, she looked confused at first, as if she didn’t recognize us or couldn’t pinpoint what was different about us. Then she marched across the room and picked you up and pulled at your new T-shirt, trying to rip it off of you. You cried and Sophie ran to you.
Mom screamed: “Get this shit off of her. She’s mine.” Sophie managed to help mom get the shirt over your head. They continued to struggle with you for a moment; then without warning, mom let go and everything suddenly relaxed in her. We sat there, watching mom – waiting to see what she would do. Suddenly, with a defiant expression, she stood up letting you fall into Sophie’s lap as if she didn’t realize that you were still there. She turned and walked back into her room and with one last burst of energy she slammed the door behind her, screaming at us through the wall: “She’s mine!” Then everything was still.
When Bill heard of the scene with the new clothes, he was at a loss. I think that up until then he had convinced himself, as I had, that mom was just tired and that she would snap out of it eventually. But it had been nine months since you had been in the hospital and mom and started acting this way – it wasn’t going to change. Also Bill wasn’t around you enough during the day to see the things that Sophie was telling him about you. I think that he wanted to brush it away, to believe that you were just a quiet baby who needed her space. Sophie saw it differently. But what was the value of this new awareness? What could he do? He had no way of knowing how to deal with any of it.
I was beginning to see us through Sophie’s eyes too. I saw mom, wandering through the days, lost and bitter. I saw Bill, flying from one task and commitment to the next, blinders keeping his focus on the goal ahead, and never allowing him to take in what was really happening to us. I saw you, with a level of suffering that was so deep that the somberness of your little face could only hint at its depth – I finally realized how unusual it was for a two year old never to laugh. I had simply gotten used to it all. Now, seeing us through Sophie’s eyes, I was frightened and unsure of what would become of us.
Sophie and Bill spoke for many hours in the evenings, usually over a bottle of beer on the little patio outside the apartment. As darkness fell and I went to our room, they would come indoors and I would sit on the floor, by the bedroom door, my knees up against my chest and my elbows resting on top. Sometimes I would cup my hands over my ears to keep out their words; sometimes I would let my hands fall so I could hear what they were saying. I sat there in the shadows of the hallway sending out my own telepathic messages for Bill to listen, hoping that talking with Sophie would help him find some solutions to our lives.
A few days before Sophie was going to leave to go back east, she and mom had it out. Mom was calling Sophie a bitch that had come to take her children. Sophie was screaming that mom wasn’t capable of caring for her children. Mom was wild. The next day Sophie and Bill went to see the doctor together, probably because they couldn’t get mom to go herself. You and I went with them and waited in the reception area playing with the toys. Through the office walls, I could hear Bill’s voice getting louder and more desperate until the door finally flew open with a crash and Bill came out in a fury. He marched over to us and picked you up, walking out without looking left or right. Sophie came and helped me quickly put your blocks away and we went out after you.
Bill was shaking when he got behind the wheel. He went to start the car and Sophie put a hand on his shoulder; he turned the key and it revved but the car wouldn’t start. The palm of Bill’s hand smashed over and over on the steering wheel where he finally rested his head, choking on sobs that heaved his back and shoulders. As we sat there, I looked over at you on the seat beside me: you were looking out the window, rocking your head against the back of the seat in short, tense pulses in time to Bill’s choppy breaths – it was one of those few times that I knew that you were aware that something was happening. Bill lifted his head and sat back, slowly turning the key in the ignition. The car started on the first try. He let the engine run for a few seconds, then looking straight ahead, out through the windshield he said: “I can’t go back home – not just yet…”
We drove a long time, over the Lion’s Gate Bridge and headed up the coast until we came to a beach. We got out and walked along the shore. Sophie carried you and sat on one of the logs that had washed up on the rocks, looking out at the sailboats. Bill and I threw stones into the ocean – it was the first time in over a year that we had done something like this together. Difficult as that day was, I was so grateful for the chance to throw rocks with Bill.
When we did get back to the apartment, Bill knew that something was wrong as soon as he saw that the door was half-open. He ran inside and went from room to room, looking for mom and taking in the upturned furniture and emptied drawers whose contents lay everywhere. He was frantic. Mom hadn’t left the apartment in months and none of us could imagine why she would leave so unexpectedly now. Sophie wanted to call the police but Bill just paced the tiny space of the living room, saying over and over to himself: “Where would she go? Who would take her?” He went on questioning, no answers coming to him, until Sophie asked him for the telephone number at the collective.
When Carly answered the phone in the store, Sophie told her who she was. Carly told her that mom was there, upstairs with Ariel. She explained that they had come around to our place in the morning and mom insisted on leaving with them. Bill and Sophie were so relieved to have found her that they never anticipated what would happen when they went to pick her up.
When we got there, Bill was the first one up the back stairs at the collective. He went right into the apartment without stopping to knock at the door or calling out. The sudden noise of his entry startled mom and made her cringe, burying her face in the large cushion on the floor where she was sitting. She began to scream into the pillow, curling herself into a ball, rocking on her shoulder. Ariel, who was sitting beside her, glared at Bill with a look of defiance and protectiveness, and held on firmly to mom’s hand that she had been massaging when we came in. Mom pulled her hand away, the better to clutch at her pillow and continued to rock and scream. Bill stood over the two of them, bewildered, his hands alternately reaching out and pulling back from where mom was lying on the floor. He had no idea what to do.
Sophie stayed back in the doorway, holding you in one arm and hugging me with the other. Together we stood as what we knew of family disintegrated in front of us, like watching a home going up in flames. Sophie told me later that this was one of the most difficult moments of her life. While she held us in the doorway, she had come to terms with what was possible in our lives, and what wasn’t. She realized that she couldn’t simply leave us – after all, she had come to help us, and everything had fallen apart during her stay. How could she return to her own life when she felt so responsible for us? How could she leave us like this?
As she watched Bill helplessly reaching out, and mom thrashing and rolling on the floor, it was obvious to her that our lives had now changed probably forever. She began creating order in the chaos of our situation, in the same way that I had seen her put our apartment together when she first came to us.
Her plan was that you and I would go back to Toronto with her for a while, maybe until Christmas – at least until the crisis was over and mom could look after us. At first Bill acted furious at the thought of us leaving, but there were so few options. He also knew how much Sophie cared for us. I think that he was probably relieved that she suggested it.
Bill was lost as we packed to leave for Toronto. He seemed to be embarrassed by the state of the clothes that we had, as if discovering an area of responsibility that he had not lived up to. He would hold up the strangest things and ask me if I wanted to bring them with me: a dictionary, a candle half burned, my collection of shells. I said that I would leave them with him until we came back, to remind him of us. He nodded each time but kept looking for other things we might need.
On the morning of the day we left, he came into our room. I felt his fingers on my cheek, brushing the hair away from my face as I woke up. His sadness had even changed the colour of his skin: a dull greyness had replaced his usual tone. He kissed me on the top of the head and said that it was time to get up. I couldn’t remember the last time that he had kissed me – even when we were playmates, we would wrestle and tumble, but he probably hadn’t kissed me since I was a baby.
After breakfast, we packed the car and Bill drove us to the airport. I remember feeling so torn between the excitement of going on a plane, and guilt at the thought of leaving Bill alone. Mom was staying at the collective with Ariel and the others. She said she thought that Bill and Sophie had been controlling her with some kind of evil mind games and that staying with Ariel would give her the period of “detoxification” that she needed. I don’t think that mom ever tried to contact us, you and I, in the months after we left her at the collective. She may not have noticed we were gone. I remember that she kept screaming at all of us as we left, that we were stealing her children. She didn’t seem to know or care that you and I were her children.
At the airport, we waited in line to check our bags. Sophie pushed you to the counter in the stroller while Bill parked the car. He found us in the waiting lounge and we sat together until they called us for boarding. Bill saw me looking at the gift shop, so inviting with all of its toys and souvenirs. He asked me if I wanted to check it out. As we crossed the lounge, he took my hand and leading me to the section of the boutique with stuffed animals, he asked me if I thought that I was too old for a teddy bear – I shook my head. He chose a beautiful white bear with a maple leaf stitched in red on its chest. This bear was more grown up than a regular teddy but not so realistic as to be un-cute. I loved him (Sophie saved him for me and he too is in my trunk.) Bill brought down a toy puppy for you from among the other animals; I smiled my approval and we went to pay for the toys.
We said good-bye. Bill, Sophie and I were wiping our tears; you were uninterested and a bit sleepy. Sophie rolled you through the tunnel onto the plane. I followed, balancing Sophie’s shoulder bag and the diaper bag of things you’d need.
I was mesmerized by the interior of the plane; it was like a huge, well-lit movie theatre. I had thought that I would be able to wave at Bill from the window but Sophie explained that our seats were in the middle section, and that Bill wouldn’t be able to see us through the small windows anyway.
I was crushed. I had saved my last waves for this window goodbye, and I was overwhelmed by a sense that I might never see him again. I lay my head on Sophie’s arm as we sat there, surrounded by the noise and the bustle of the other passengers settling in. You were nervous and fidgety in your seat so Sophie took out the puppy for you to play with. There we were, you and I on either side of Sophie, clutching our new plush friends as the plane started its engines. The noise was deafening and we both buried our faces in Sophie’s sweater as they vibrated to a terrifying pitch.
It wasn’t until later that I understood why I hadn’t predicted your violent reaction to the take off. Before Sophie came to be with us, I was so aware of your needs, I had come to anticipate so many of the things that would cause you stress. But since Sophie had taken over much of your care I had let go of some of that awareness, and the constant anticipation of how you might react to a situation. Your shaking under Sophie’s arm was more violent than the vibration of the plane would ever have caused as it taxied on the runway. When it took off the cabin pressure changed, you clutched your head and began to scream in pain.
I could tell, as could Sophie, that this was not the same sort of episode that had taken place in Chinatown. It was not your usual cushion of space that you were fighting to preserve; this was severe pain in your ears that probably brought back many memories from when you were sick in the hospital. No one could do anything for you until the seat belt light had gone out. Sophie was frantic, trying to coax you to suck on a hard candy that someone had offered, but your cries kept you from understanding that it would help you. When we were in the air, the stewardess brought a bottle of juice with a nipple on it. For some reason, you accepted it, and the sucking eased the pressure enough to calm you a bit.
The whole trip was so difficult for you. There was little space to move around and little to do. Your ears were bothering you enough throughout the flight that you only dozed for short periods before you would roll your head, back and forth on Sophie’s arm, your hands slapping at your ears. I had never felt such a sense of helplessness towards you – I had always been able to change your environment, or soothe you in some way when you were upset. I remember feeling very frightened by this inability to find a way to touch you.
I long to touch you now, Claire. I miss you.
Love, Starla.
Copyright 2003
