Dear Claire;

I have my books
and my poetry to protect me.
(“I am a Rock”, Paul Simon)

Dear Claire;

When I think of coming east for the first time, I have such vivid memories. I remember that even the air seemed different in Ontario – I really can’t explain it but I still feel it each time I go back to B.C. I can tell when I’m in Vancouver and I can tell when I’m in Toronto, even blindfolded. It probably has to do with the sea mist and the smell of the mountains.

I remember that I missed Bill and was haunted by the thought that I would never see him again. I suppose that it’s not strange that I never thought much about mom. Looking at the situation with what I know today, I think that I had simply turned off that part of my memory until I was able to handle it without the pain of seeing her the way she was when we left her on Ariel’s floor.

I remember thinking how different Sophie seemed to be right from when we got off the plane. It was the first time that I noticed that she had a habit of chewing on a tip of a strand of her hair when she was upset or nervous. Now that we were in her world, it was strange that she didn’t seem as self-assured as she had been when she was making things right for us in ours.

Sophie’s boyfriend, John, came to meet us at the airport. He tried to be nice when Sophie introduced us but his manner changed when he spoke to her.

“Couldn’t you have gotten a later flight? We’re right in the middle of rush hour,” he snarled, lifting our bags from the carousel. Sophie explained to me that her house was quite far from the airport, and that it would take us at least an hour to get there.

It took much longer. I remember counting twelve lanes of solid traffic as we made our way across the city. It reminded me of the salmon runs that Bill had shown me when we went over to Vancouver Island once, the fish were so tightly packed, all heading in the same direction, glistening like a stream full of gems. Did we look like so many fish heading upstream to someone seeing us from the above?

I remember making up two of my favourite story characters during that trip from the airport: I called them Garry and Gwenny, the seagulls. Do you remember them? They would loose their way and discover the most interesting things, and they would always confuse the meaning of what they saw because of their different perspective, looking down on the world from the sky. I haven’t thought of them in a very long time.

We arrived in Scarborough in the early evening and stopped at McDonald’s before going to Sophie’s home. I remember that we both had a fish filet and orange juice. The lady at the counter made a big deal because I didn’t want pop. I’ve never liked the fizziness of the soda – it always seemed too harsh in my mouth.

Sophie’s house was a duplex. I had never seen two identical houses stuck together – at first I thought that she had the whole building to herself; it seemed enormous. In the setting sun, we could see that her yard was beautifully landscaped and I came to know how much Sophie loved working in her gardens and tending her plants, like she had tended us.

You took in what you could of the trip from the airport, but you were so tired and cranky after the long time on the plane that Sophie brought you right into the house and ran a bath for us before doing anything else. I remember the bathroom being the most perfect room in Sophie’s perfect house. For the longest time after we came to live with her, I remember wiping my wet hands on my jeans, or shaking them to air dry after I had washed them – I didn’t want to mess up her beautiful towels. That first bath was so luxurious, we were surrounded by beauty: lavender scented bubbles, candles, matching towels, a dish of pot pourri, a basket of dried flowers and on the wall were two plaques of delicate pink swans in a pool. We had never seen such a bathroom before.

In those first days with Sophie I remember that it surprised me how much I missed Vancouver. It bothered me to go outside and not to see any mountains in the distance. I hadn’t realized how much the mountains had meant to me: strong, distant, constant. Just knowing that they were close and that I could escape into an imaginary mountain world, away from the city was a comfort that I was stunned to discover, and heartbroken to lose. There were however, so many trees on Sophie’s street that sometimes I would pretend that I really was in Vancouver and that the trees and houses were just hiding the mountains from my view.

It was difficult for all of us at first. The things that define an adult’s life: appointments, responsibilities, relationships, work, were still there waiting for Sophie to pay them attention when she returned to her life in Scarborough, but so were we. Although I did my best to make things easier for her, the way that I had taken care of things at home with mom, it didn’t ever seem like I could do enough or it was never the way that Sophie liked it. At home, I would make us soup and crackers for supper but Sophie now insisted on a “proper” meal. Back home you had spent most of your days in sleepers that I would put on you in the morning when I got you changed, but Sophie had us both outfitted in new wardrobes. I got the feeling that she was trying to make up for something that we had been lacking. She was determined that we weren’t going to be malnourished and poorly dressed while in her care.

All of this made me feel edgy and inadequate. I suppose I knew that we couldn’t live on soup and crackers forever, but I always thought that I had been doing a good job of taking care of us before. Unfortunately all of these extra demands on Sophie robbed her of the thing I cherished most about her. When she was with us in Vancouver she had watched us and had listened to our needs with her heart, yet somehow when she got back to Ontario the stress of caring for two needy kids got in the way, and her heart couldn’t hear us any more.

It wasn’t until these last few years of my life, now that I’m almost at the age that Sophie was when we went to live with her, that I’ve been able to appreciate what it was that she did for us. The idea of having two children come into my care in the wink of an eye is frightening to me beyond all imagining. I know kids. I’m comfortable with them, yet I would be beside myself at the thought of becoming an instant parent. I remember being quite saddened that Sophie wasn’t as easy to be with, nor as fun loving as she had been with us in Vancouver. I didn’t understand what it must have meant to her, having us there. All our lives were turned upside down by the move; we were like lost souls, finding our way blindly each day. But Sophie reassured us by saying we would eventually come to settle in to each other, by taking it day by day, one step after the other, believing in each other, and knowing that there was really nothing else for us to do but to love each other.

Sophie took a few extra days off from work, until the Labour Day weekend, to get us settled. We visited my new school, Centennial Park, just a few blocks from her place. I remember that I immediately liked the big, modern building in its emptiness; the gleam of the polished floors and the smell of wax made everything seem fresh and comforting.

We went shopping for new clothes at the mall. I’m not sure how to explain that first experience of shopping in a mega mall. I was overwhelmed with the feeling that this was a perfect bustling city in itself: each shop so neat and tidy in appearance, orderly, clean, bright and rich in colours, yet protected from the unpredictability of the weather and the world outside. No matter what was happening out there, the mall never changed; you always knew what to expect. I liked that.

Through a connection at her work, Sophie found Molly to look after you. We had looked at a few daycare centres but they weren’t willing to take you because you were still in diapers then. Molly looked after two other kids all day, and three more before and after school. I had been so concerned about what would happen to you while Sophie and I were away each day, but when I met Molly I knew that she would be good for you. She seemed to know instinctively what you needed. You trusted her. Right from the first time we went to her house you would allow Molly to be close to you – wiping your face and brushing your hair – you let her do things for you that you fought off from the rest of us.

Do you remember Sophie’s dog, Boots? Boots the cockapoo was our treasure. She loved us from the moment we met her, when we picked her up at the kennel where Sophie had left her during her trip. Boots’s attachment to us probably came from the fact that she often got to clean the floor of a good portion of whatever you had to eat, and that I loved to play ball with her in the backyard. Once I started going to school, I would often eat my lunch there, then I would run home and let myself into the backyard to play with Boots until it was time for the bell to ring. What a sanctuary she offered me in those first few months; it meant that I didn’t have to spend the whole recess standing up against the cold brick wall of the school, pretending that I didn’t mind being alone.

Strangely enough, I don’t remember much about my first day of school at Centennial Park. In fact the first few weeks are a kind of a blur: feeling overwhelmed and nauseous most of the time, surrounded by too many people, too much noise, too many smells, not enough air. Now, whenever I have a new student who has just started in our school, I remember how it feels to be lost when everyone around you seems to know where they are.

When Sophie went back to work at the records department in the hospital, you started going to Molly’s every morning. I know that Sophie was worried about leaving you, as you hadn’t been feeling well since the plane trip. Molly was great at comforting people and she promised Sophie that she‘d call if there was any problem at all. I remember when we left you that first morning; you looked relaxed in Molly’s arms when she lifted you up at the living room window. She raised your hand and waved it at us to say goodbye. I was so glad that we had found her.

Molly became Sophie’s parenting coach. Never having had children around her, Sophie had no way of knowing what was normal in a child’s development. It was Molly’s experience with so many different types of kids that made her recognize that there was something wrong with you and that you should see a doctor.

Sophie made an appointment and when you were sent for hearing tests, they discovered that the infection that had put you in the hospital the year before had left with you with serious hearing loss. The doctor believed that this was probably the reason why you spent so much time within yourself, and why you didn’t try to speak. This diagnosis was upsetting for Sophie. She didn’t know what she should do next, as she wasn’t sure how long we would be with her. The doctor suggested that if we were returning to Vancouver in the near future, it would be better to wait and start you in a program there. They gave us some exercises and literature to help us understand your problem. Molly already had some experience with deaf children and was able to help us too.

Looking back, it’s difficult for me to be analytical in what I remember about your behaviour at that time. The hearing diagnosis seemed to be the only explanation of your problems that Sophie and the doctor needed or wanted. They never pursued any psychological testing that I know of. From what I remember, there were symptoms of other conditions, and I still believe there was something more going on with you, but after all these years, I don’t know what’s accurate memory and what has come to me from working with so many children who, in their brokenness, have reminded me of you.

I’ve already mentioned how Sophie was different now that we were living with her, but I haven’t mentioned my own sense of fear that came with the change that I’d seen in her. I think that she was even more worried about the responsibility that she had taken on with us, since learning of your hearing problems. I remember I found her crying at the kitchen table one evening after supper. I felt ashamed that we had brought this burden on her, yet I’d have been terrified at the thought of what would become of us if Sophie hadn’t been there. I had only known tears of rage and fury from mom, Sophie’s tears frightened me: quiet, weary, helpless. I never told her I saw her crying that night, but the image of her lying with her face buried in her arms on the kitchen table stayed with me, fresh and unhealing, for a very long time.

On Friday evenings Sophie would bring us to McDonald’s for supper and she would ask me how school was going, and I’d say fine. And she would say that things seemed to be okay for you at Molly’s, and that the antibiotics that the doctor gave you seemed to be helping. We’d talk but we wouldn’t say much. We were distracted by the commotion going on around us – distracted and relieved not to talk about the difficult things. We didn’t talk about mom, or about how I missed our room back in the apartment, or about how Bill must miss us. We didn’t talk about the fit you threw when the doctor tried to examine you. We didn’t talk about the fact that Sophie’s boyfriend, John, didn’t come around any more. We didn’t talk about the beautiful clothes that I was wearing and had always dreamed of owning, that made me look just like all the other kids in my class, but made me feel like a stranger to myself.

You and I had always shared a bed back home. Our tiny room in the student housing couldn’t hold much more than the double mattress on the floor and shelves – planks and bricks along the wall – for my books and our toys and clothes. It was a jumble but it had been our nest. At Sophie’s place we slept in her guest room, with twin beds, under matching white eyelet comforters, and lace curtains on the windows. There was a night table between the beds with a large ceramic bowl and pitcher covered with tiny blue flowers on a white background. It was all very beautiful, but neither did we speak of how worried I was that you would pee on the lovely covers, or knock over the pitcher. Some nights we would begin each in our own beds, but as you would wake or rock yourself fitfully in your sleep, I’d climb in with you: the warmth of our bodies seemed to quiet your sleep. I never got used to the nylon nighties that Sophie bought us. Sometimes I’d put on Bill’s old T-shirt that I had brought with me, and we would finish the night together – you curled up in a tight little ball, me lying beside you, patting your back.

Molly was so good for you. I wished that I could spend my days, watching how she was helping you to connect with the outside world. She would touch your shoulder or gently turn your head with her finger under your chin when she spoke to you. She taught the other kids to do the same.

The audiologist explained that although you could hear some things, the sounds were distorted and probably seemed to be coming from far away. You couldn’t make the distinction of what sounds were directed to you, so you learned to ignore all sounds except the ones that startled you – then, watch out! – you would react with full force.

The other children at Molly’s couldn’t understand why you didn’t want to wrestle with them, or why you would cry out in that very low, strange rumble that you had whenever they crowded in too close to you. Molly was able to reach you and pull your eyes to focus on her; I envied her for that. I wanted so much for you to look at me.

I was in grade 5 at my school and it took a long time to get to know any of the kids very well. I’d escape to my lunch time rendezvous with Boots as often as I could when the weather was good, but mainly I would keep to myself and do my work. Everything was so strange to me. I think I worried a lot about school. I remember one incident, just a few days after school started when I was bringing a note to the office for my teacher. I heard crying, loud and heartbreaking, in the hallway. There was a little boy who was maybe in grade 2, sitting on a wooden chair just outside the open door of his classroom. He was looking in at the other kids and crying out loud. No one came to him. No one asked him what was wrong.

I was stunned. At Mandala Rising this would never have happened. He would have been cared for and comforted. I recognize now that this little guy was probably in the throws of a very elaborate attention-seeking charade, and that his teacher was probably ignoring it to the best of her ability. At the time, it terrified me to think that a whole school full of people who were supposed to be looking after the children, were leaving this little boy to his very great sorrow.

There were some good things about Centennial Park. I loved to read and the school had a terrific library. I asked if I could help out there and was soon spending all my recess time shelving picture books left by the Kindergarten class. Sometimes I’d wash the little bit of chalk dust from the ledge, and once a week I’d water the plants. I loved being surrounded by books and it was usually bright and quiet in the library at recess. I’d wish that I could stay there all day.

After school, I’d walk over to Molly’s and help her give the kids a snack, and we’d colour or do some other crafts. You were always so serious and concentrated, as if everything in your life had a very specific purpose which had to be fulfilled. I’ve said that sometimes you would “play” with a toy, but really you never played like other kids. You studied your toys more than played with them. It wasn’t until I saw the other kids at Molly’s that I remembered how I used to play. I’d line up anything: spoons, pots, candles, moving them around, creating scenes and stories, as children have done forever. Living your life with you had made me forget what it was like to be a little kid.

In November, you turned three, and you didn’t care or notice. The balloons, the candles on the snowy white cake that Sophie brought to Molly’s, the party hat you wouldn’t wear, the frothy ribbons on Molly’s present all seemed to make you nervous, as if they could hurt or startle you in some way. As it turned out, Molly’s gift was one of the few things that I’d ever seen you accept without reservation. She had made you a knitted blanket, pale lemon colour of brushed yarn that was soft and wonderful. She had trimmed the ends with a quilted border of small patches of different, textured materials. Usually, you would be wary of things that you didn’t recognize – in your world, new meant untested, and untested meant untrustworthy. Molly’s blanket was the exception; the borders fascinated you and you were able to accept its colours and textures without suspicion. It gave you peace, yet it provided a way for you to connect with something outside yourself. How was it that Molly could see into you and know how to reach you? Was it experience or intuition or some kind of psychic connection? So many children had come through her home, and she seemed to know without knowing what each one needed.

I think that she must have fostered children at some point because in addition to the framed pictures on the hallway wall of all the daycare kids that she had cared for, she also had a collection of pictures, arranged in what might have been chronological order, which seemed to be family portraits. This family wall was unusual: each picture had only two people who were consistently present from year to year – Molly and her husband, Bud. From among the three or four children in each picture, sometimes a child would repeat in two consecutive pictures, but then would be gone from the next one. These studio photographs intrigued me. I had never seen this type of picture before and they drew me into their stories, forcing me to compare, by sheer proximity, the smiling polished faces on the wall to your face.

It occurs to me that I seldom saw your face right on. You often sat with your head down, looking at a toy, or just focusing on your hands. I could only see your features clearly when you were asleep. The curved line of your cheek and chin were so smooth; I can still feel the downy softness of your skin as I would trace your outline while you slept. It was the only time that you would let me close enough to you to touch your face. But of course, your eyes were closed. I don’t remember your eyes very well, only that they were dark brown like mine.

I just realized, thinking of the wall of portraits at Molly’s, that there are very few pictures of either of us in our childhood. As a therapeutic exercise, the abused and neglected children that I work with will often produce a memory book of their good life experiences. These books are full of pictures of their babyhood and toddler years. Even the poorest children, or those from the most abusive backgrounds, have pictures taken by someone – usually grandparents or friends who don’t know or are trying to ignore the circumstances in which the kids are living. They dress them up at Christmas or birthdays and take snapshots, or bring them to the portrait studio, using cuddly toys as props. Even those kids have some happy childhood pictures to refer to. We don’t – you and I.

Mom and Bill never had a camera. Mom always felt uncomfortable about having her own picture taken. She had once heard of a native belief that the representation of the person in picture form could steal their soul. This sounded true to her, so she never allowed our pictures to be taken.

One picture that I remember of us is the one that Molly took at your birthday party. Four young kids (I remember that one of them was called Chip) are wearing party hats and smiling squinty, toothy smiles for the camera. In the picture, we see the top of your head bent down; you’re fussing with the pocket of your new jumper. We see the side of my face, mostly hidden by my long hair and I’m patting your hand, trying to soothe you, to tell you that the pocket is okay and not to worry about it. That picture does little more than confirm that we existed. It doesn’t show much of what we looked like.

It would be interesting to see a clear picture of us, of how we would have looked to the camera in those days. Sophie had a camera and did take a few snaps of us, but they are mostly from a distance. I guess if you think about it, people usually take pictures of happy times with children smiling. You never smiled.

While we lived with Sophie, there were so many things that I wanted to ask her about mom and their childhood, about their parents, about why we hadn’t met before. Sophie never seemed to have time to get into it. How strange it was for me to even think that we have something called “grandparents”. It always seemed to me that our universe had produced our parents fully formed and ancestorless. I once asked Sophie right out, about her parents, where they were. She paused a long time, looking for the right words. Finally, she just shrugged and said something like: “Really, Star, it’s very complicated,” as she continued to fold the laundry. I didn’t ask again.

Sophie is the only one who ever called me “Star”. I’m not sure where this came from, but it was like being anointed with something magical that allowed me to live far above the small life that we had. “Star” – it made me feel beautiful when she called me that.

Thanks for being there to share this with me, Claire.
Love, Starla

Copyright 2003