Dear Claire;

I’ve been cut by the beauty of jagged mountains.
(“Northern Lights”, Bruce Cockburn)


The time sequence of my memory is strange. I remember the day that mom and Ariel came to Sophie’s as if it were in real time: I can describe every movement, recall every word, reconnect with every feeling more clearly today than I could when it happened. Yet the trip with them back to British Columbia comes to me in shattered fragments, like scenes from a Bergman movie I studied years later. Some scenes are stark and vivid, the attention focused on the characters and dialogue; other scenes are more surreal, highlighting details: sights, sounds, feelings. All the scenes are in black and white.

Scene I
Setting: A highway where the edges of farm fields are invaded by mini marts and truck stops. Late afternoon.

In the front seat of the old car, the friend looks out the window as she drives. She takes her hand from the wheel and playfully backhands the shoulder of the mother sitting beside her. “Hey,” she says. No response. She tries again: “Hey, guess what?”

“What?” the mother answers, dozing as the sunshine caresses the right side of her face.

“Hey,” the friend says, pausing one more time to taste the wonder of her thought. “We did it, didn’t we?” she says. A triumphant grin.

The mother opens her eyes, lifts herself from her semi prone position and looks at the friend. “My God, you’re right,” she says, nodding at the realization. A smile melts over the mother’s sun-freckled face. “We sure as hell did,” she hoots. They give each other a high-five salute in front of the rear view mirror.

The mother allows the reality of their situation to sink in for a few seconds then turns to the open window beside her. Triumphant, she lunges through the opening of the window almost to the waist, arms outstretched as if to embrace the fields and mailboxes as they fly by. “We bloody well did it!” she whoops, calling to the cows, her mouth wide open to the wind. She turns her body around to the front, to the direction in which they are headed and allows the wind to wash over her as the car flies down the highway. The friend, watching the road through eyes filled with tears of laughter, pulls at her through the window across the seat: ”Get back in here, you nut.” The mother lets herself fall back laughing into the car; she rolls a victory joint and hugs the friend across the seat. They laugh and sing a song about Jeremiah being a bullfrog.

In the back seat the girl rests her head on the baby seat where her little sister sits motionless beside her. She too lets the reality of their situation settle over her and she wonders.

The girl closes her eyes and lifts her fingers, delicately, to touch the memories of the life that is being taken from them. Those memories form like long, slow drops of water on the tip of a branch, building, stretching, then letting go to give way to another memory of yet another aspect of the life that she leaves behind.

She makes an effort not to think of everything all at once. She lines up every detail, every hope, every person who has come into her life, and considers them one by one – like the beads on a rosary – and cherishes them in turn: the feel of her books and toys, the smell of Sophie’s couch, the promise of camp, the wonder of swimming lessons, they all disappear like so many bubbles, popping with the touch of her finger. Sophie, Molly, new friends at school, Boots – they parade before her. She says good-bye.




Scene II
Setting: The parking lot of a general store in a northern Ontario town. Dusk.

They park the car around the side of the store, out of sight. The two women go in to get something for them to eat. The girl is sore and tired and wants to stretch her legs. She gets out of the car, walks past the phone booth and out to the road to see if she can tell which town they’re in. Along the road she sees another girl about her own age, she’s riding a bike – exactly like bike that Bill had given her for Christmas.

The sky falls in. She cries out. The sharp pain of recognition and separation cuts through her: her bike is against the wall in Sophie’s garage, and she’s being torn away – torn apart.

Her body begins to heave with the panic. She can’t breathe. There’s a choking sense of terror clutching at her throat, her heart, her lungs. She feels like a mountain climber desperately grasping at anything to freeze the fall. She lowers herself down on the curb beside a pop machine. Gasping, her body floods with a cold, clammy film that covers her skin. Her ears are pounding.

She clasps her arms in a death grip around her legs folded against her chest, her closed eyes pressed tightly against her knees: she’s trying to hang on. She feels like every good thing that she’s ever known has been blown away from her, like the images of Dorothy’s life, blown by the twister in the Wizard of Oz. She can’t bear the thought of losing anything else so she holds on to herself – she holds on for dear life.

As she rocks herself, moaning to drown out the waves rushing in her head, she’s suddenly overcome by such a strange image of her little sister and what it means to be Claire. She realizes how good it must be to be far away from the rest of the world, as Claire is, where nothing comes in that is not let in.

Then, as if an angel of mercy has come to release me from whatever it is that binds me to the little girl’s terror, I’m torn from the moment, from the panic. I’m removed. It reminds me of what people describe in a near death or out of body experience. I’m now standing away from the scene of the trembling little girl, watching her. I feel none of her wretchedness but I’m sad that I have no way to comfort her.

I see mom and Ariel come out of the store and notice that you, Claire, are sitting in the car by yourself. I see them quickly look around the parking lot for Starla; when they notice her over behind the Coke machine, crouched and rocking on the ground, mom scrambles to put down the bags that she’s carrying. She runs to Starla.

Ariel opens the trunk and deposits the packages then hurries over. Mom is patting Starla’s back, desperate to console her, to keep her quiet and normal. Starla rocks harder, harder, like the handle of a pump: priming and gathering the strength to bring out the poison from inside. Mom calls Starla’s name again; Ariel tears her away from the girl, telling her in an angry whisper to keep things quiet, reminding her not to call Starla by name – someone might hear.

Starla rocks. Starla hangs on. She peeks over her knees at her jelly shoes then quickly clamps her eyes to shut out the world of sharp stones at her feet. She tries to close it all out, to run deeper, deeper inside herself towards the place where she knows Claire is waiting for her. She must force herself to run to that place where no one can touch her, where nothing enters that she doesn’t allow in. She must be like Claire. She can see that place now; she’s nearly there.

Suddenly a band of fire seers her cheek, tears spring from the pump that was propelling her. It has betrayed her; it has ripped her from her path and has sent her back to the reality of gravel at her feet, and has left her holding the cheek where Ariel has slapped her.

Mom guides Starla to the car and helps her into the back seat. Ariel looks around the parking lot to assess any damage control that may be required. She sees an old man packing his groceries into the trunk of his car and watching the scene. Ariel smiles to him and indicates Starla with her head: “Car sickness,” she chuckles confidentially to the man. “The joys of traveling with kids, eh?” Ariel shrugs and waves to him as she gets into the car. The man stands immobile, his last bag of groceries in his arms, his gaze follows them as they drive out of the parking lot and down the highway.



Scene III
Setting: A grey prairie morning.

Starla looks into the small Dixie cup of Cheerios that she has been feeding you, one at a time, depositing them individually on your tongue, like communion wafers, until they melt and are absorbed into you. The swirls of waxed colour on the cup seem as lifeless and grey as the morning drizzle that shoots diagonal streaks along the window beside her.

The radio delivers a bland mixture of country music and farm reports that sound foreign in their meaninglessness. If a hog price falls on the prairie and no one cares to listen to it, does it make a sound?

She stares at the back of the seat in front of her, gazing at the constellations of holes where the vinyl has flaked away from the black fabric backing, creating a sort of negative sky of black stars on a golden background. A group of holes come together to create what looks to Starla like a black poodle. She calls him Fred because it rhymes with dead.

The smell of the joint, its smoke snaking seductively between the two women in the front seat, seeps into her awareness now and is accompanied by laughing, singing and caressing. Starla remembers a time when marijuana had no more significance in her life than the sweet smell of incense or scented candles. But her mother was well then and few demons had yet come to stay with them. The more her mother sank into her madness, the more marijuana invaded Starla’s world. Now she registers the smell of grass with resentment and the profound disappointment that comes when the bully returns to the playground after a prolonged absence. Starla opens the window a crack and doesn’t feel the drops of rain that flick her face.

She senses a dull pressure in her thigh and backside that reminds her of what she used to call pain. She changes her position only to let the sensation flow into the other hip.

Her stomach rumbles with something that she used to call hunger and thirst. She takes another pinch of Cheerios between her forefinger and thumb, drops a few into her mouth then saves the last one for you. She takes a drink from the sipping cup then reaches over to put it to your lips, holding a napkin under your chin to catch the dribbles that escape from the corners of your mouth.

She feels the stickiness of her fingers, the mat of her uncombed hair, the itch from her unchanged clothes and smells your dirty diaper with what would have been indignation, although she wouldn’t have known to call it so. Starla sits and no longer cares to wonder.

Scene IV
Setting: The city at rush hour.

It’s no longer easy for Starla to block out all of the stimuli that are prodding her senses. The greatest traitor in her commitment to isolation is her curiosity. She wants to see the city.

She wants to see the cowboys: she remembers seeing a poster of the Stampede in the library, and she’d like to see the cowboys.

She wants to see the dinosaurs: she remembers that they discovered dinosaur bones near here and she heard that there was a museum or something. She’d like to see the dinosaurs.

She looks out the window and sees nothing different at all that is worthy of the days they’ve spent on the road. It looks just like any other city: lanes of cars lined up on the highway, heading into town, across town, out of town.

She cranes her neck to see over the rails along the overpass into the neighbourhoods. Nothing western, nothing different. Her disappointment is added to the mound of betrayals that she’s accumulated over the last few days.

She sees the golden arches of a McDonald’s in the distance. A tiny flicker of pain lights in her longing, in her memories. It’s almost a welcome sensation: it gives warmth to her sadness. Her eyes are fixed on the sign as the car approaches the exit. In her mind she sees the window of the restaurant as they drive by, imagining the happy families eating their Happy Meals. She turns in her seat to watch the golden M grow smaller and fainter in the distance. The flicker is extinguished. She rests her head against your seat and tries to sleep.

Scene V
Setting: On a mountain roadside in the darkness of night.

The rhythm of the car changes; it slows down and the sound of gravel under the tires wakes Starla as Ariel pulls over to the side of the road.

Starla sits up, stretching her cramped spine and rolling her head on her shoulders and back, to ease the stiffness. She looks outside and sees nothing but the blackness held back by the wash of their headlights directly in front of the car. As her eyes adjust, she notices the rock face across the road and trees stretching their limbs down and out from the rock face.

There’s movement. Starla peers across the back seat, across the pavement, across the gravel on the other side of the road to where she sees a pair of big horn sheep standing just below the embankment, looking away from the car. Starla thinks that they’re posing for her. She wants the moment to freeze but of course, her wishes are of little consequence: Ariel opens the car door to go around to the passenger’s side. The sheep bolt.

Starla continues to look at the spot where they were, willing them back, embarrassed this human intrusion has caused the animals to fear.


Scene VI
Setting: Dawn in the mountains.

I remember opening my eyes that morning to a wall of uncontrasted greyness: sky, rock, road, field, mist, all different values of grey melting one into the other in the early hours. I sat up and leaned against the front seat. I said that I had to go to the bathroom and that I wanted pancakes for breakfast.

Mom was driving; she jerked the wheel in surprise when she heard my voice. I realized that it was the first time I had spoken throughout the trip. Mom looked relieved.

She pulled over on to the gravel and I got out. I walked a little way off the side of the road, toilet paper in hand, and squatted, turning my back to the car. The mist rising from the field covered the grass at my feet; I could imagine that I was sitting on a cloud that had lowered itself to earth just for me.

The light was coming up a bit more and the outlines of the mountains were visible now all around me. I felt tiny, in the hand of an infinite giant, majestic yet gentle in the dawn light. I felt as if the mountains were gathering around me, welcoming me back: I was soothed. I didn’t want to get up, I didn’t want this time to end so I stayed on my misty cloud in the grass long after I had finished peeing, just to be there, still and awakening to the dawn. I watched slow, arching bands of colour form long before the sun could be seen over the mountains. I listened to the moist songs of birds, like sopranos singing above the chorus of the waking world.

Scene VII
Setting: A playground in Hope, British Columbia. Late afternoon.

I remember sitting on the grass with my back up against the trunk of a tree. You were sitting between my legs, Claire, and I was running my fingers through your matted hair, smoothing my thoughts into some kind of order.

I looked across the playground to the soccer field where mom and Ariel were throwing a Frisbee, and I wondered what it meant that this trip that had seemed so driven by a need to arrive somewhere, had so suddenly come to a halt without really being over. I tried to make sense of the conversation that they had had in the front seat, discussing ferry schedules and darkness.

I could smell the cedar that had fallen on the ground where we sat – what are they called, the bits that fall from cedar trees, not leaves, not needles, what? It reminded me of when we first arrived in Ontario and I was sure that the air smelled different. This was the smell that I remembered from the west, the smell of cedar and moist air that had wrapped itself around me for most of my life. The quality of the breeze was gentle yet touched by a need for watchfulness. I wrapped my arms around your shoulders and chest like a shawl. The warmth of your body, your weight against me as you leaned back on my chest, the almost imperceptible rhythm of your breathing that drew me in, these things kept me focused. I could always think better when I was holding you.

It occurred to me that we should clean ourselves up. I knew that because we were back in B.C. we had to be arriving in Vancouver before long, and we hadn’t had the chance to wash properly since we left Toronto. I pushed you up and away from me so that I could move. You were so lifeless, barely holding yourself up; I had to support you as I stood or I think you would have simply fallen over. I took your hands and pulled you to me. I wasn’t sure if I would have to carry you, but you walked, blindly following where I was leading you.

We went into the change house of the park’s pool. There were showers but it seemed too complicated to figure out how we could make use of them: we had no towels, no soap and no bathing suits. I sat you on the vanity counter beside the sink and used moistened toilet paper to wipe away some of the stickiness that had built up on your face. The rough brown paper toweling felt like a dull blade on my cheek as I wiped my own face. I remember standing in front of the mirror for a long time, holding your face next to mine, trying to find in the image before us some clue as to how we had come to be here, alone, feeling too weary to be worried, yet thinking that it would somehow be appropriate.

When we got back to the park mom and Ariel were heading toward the car. I remember watching them as they crossed the parking lot: they were so wrapped up in each other that for a moment I had the slightest feeling – was it a hope or a fear? – that they were going to leave without us. Then mom turned to me (they must have seen us going to the change house) and waved us to her. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was sticking out from her kerchief. Her happiness made me feel tired.

When we got in the car and were on our way, I wanted to believe that this was the last leg of our journey. “What time will we be in Vancouver?” I asked.

“It’ll be quite late.” Mom answered. “Just in time to get the last ferry over to the island.”

I don’t know exactly at what point I realized that we wouldn’t be seeing Bill. I might have guessed from mom’s glare, when Sophie had assured us that she would let him know that we were coming. It may have been a growing awareness that took form during the hours of easy and playful intimacy acted out before me in the front seat of the car. But I refused to acknowledge the truth of yet another loss until I made her say it. “Is Bill coming with us? Will we pick him up on our way to the ferry?” I finally asked, forcing the answer that I knew was coming.

“No,” she said as we got back on the highway.


Scene VIII
Setting: A Husky service center in Vancouver. Late.

We pulled into the gas station and the flood of lights in the night hurt my eyes. Mom took you from your car seat, covering you with Molly’s blanket as if you were asleep, she went off to the restroom. I went to go too but mom called back for me to wait in the car, saying that I could go to the bathroom when she got back.

When the gas tank was filled and the clerk was paid, Ariel moved the car around to the back of the station. She came into the back seat and removed your safety seat, placing it in the trunk. She brought a pillow with her and lay it on the floor behind the driver’s seat. When mom came back with you, she put you on the pillow on the floor and covered you with the blanket. I took note of all these things without understanding what I was seeing, like a scientist making observations, unable yet to analyze their meaning. I remember I wanted to ask why mom was putting you on the floor, but I think I was afraid of having to work to understand the answer.

She looked up at me just before backing out of the car and commented simply that they didn’t want to pay your fare onto the ferry. She told me to make sure that you stayed covered up until we were on board.

One thing that struck me as particularly odd is that although you had seemed so far away from us during the whole trip, you seldom slept. Whenever I looked at you your eyes were half opened, letting nothing in, nothing out. Yet when mom laid you on the pillow in the back seat the sound of your deep, slow breathing told me that you were sleeping now.

We drove to the terminal and parked in the grid of cars waiting for the next ferry. When we were in position, Ariel got out and took her bag from the trunk. She came around to the passenger’s side to give mom’s arm a meaningful pat as it rested on the open window frame. Mom watched her walk away for a few minutes until Ariel was lost behind the line of transport trucks.

“Where’s Ariel going?” I asked. I wanted the secrecy to stop. I wanted her to explain what was happening.

“She’ll meet us in Nanaimo,” mom said. “She’ll be alright.” I had no doubt that Ariel would be alright. I was hoping that she was gone.

Mom slid over to the driver’s side and turned to me, patting the seat beside her. “Come on, Starla,” she said. “You sit up here with me. I opened the door and got into the passenger’s seat, still warm from her body heat. We sat there together, watching the cars coming off the docked ferry. Mom told me about her community of new friends on Saltspring Island where we would be living. She said that they had a wonderful farm with lots of animals and children to play with. I asked when we would get to see Bill. She looked out the windshield, straight, unwavering; she went on describing the community, saying that they were to be our new family, and how we would all be so happy there. She never answered my question.

She was very gentle when she spoke to me that night. I could almost remember the way she was when I was little and she would rock me – or maybe I was remembering how she would rock you. She turned and held out her arms to me; I moved into their embrace. I hugged mom, though I no longer saw her as the parent I had longed for. In our vulnerability I saw her as someone with whom I had to form an alliance for you and me to survive. It was need that brought me into her arms; as newborns are instinctively drawn to the source of their nourishment, I was drawn to her as our source of shelter, warmth, food.

I understood that the one constant that meant anything to me was still intact: you and I were together. I knew that so long as I could take care of you and be with you, then we could live anywhere.

How I wish that I could have cared better for you, Claire.
Forgive me.
Starla

Copyright 2003