Don’t it always seem to go,
That you don’t know what you’ve got ‘till it’s gone.
(“Big Yellow Taxi”, Joni Mitchell)
Before I started writing these letters about my life, if anyone had asked me what the most pivotal experience of my childhood had been, I would probably have said that it was when we left Scarborough to come back out West. I wouldn’t have said that my mother had abducted us, or that we had been taken from a loving, stable home to a world of danger and uncertainty. I would have looked at it simply: once we were there, then we came here…I never wanted to acknowledge that crisis played a part in my life. I wanted to believe that my existence was even, predictable.
But I realize now what I couldn’t admit for so long: that it was the crisis of Claire’s death that has most coloured how I saw myself, and the world. I’m sure that this fact would have been apparent to any sensible observer but for many reasons, most of them having to do with pain and guilt, I didn't see it.
When I left the farm on the night of Claire’s death I was not quite twelve-years old, yet I remember feeling a power within that made me unstoppable. Certainty abides in the soul of those who can focus on something as precise and concrete as putting one foot before the other. They see nothing but the road before them and in that cloistered assurance, they don’t recognize the necessity for anything as intrusive as a plan. I walked without hesitation or anxiety along the road, focusing on the light coming from John Ross’s workshop. I remember thinking of the star of metallic paper and cardboard that I had made for the Christmas mural at my school in Scarborough, and the wise men that followed a star to someone or something that might offer peace.
I remember individual scenes of what happened during the next few days; they’re clear and identifiable memories, but disconnected from each other by the minutes and hours of emptiness that were stretched out between them.
. . . In the darkness of night I lifted the latch on the gate from the road to the path that led to their front porch. I walked up the steps to the wicker settee that Dorrie usually occupied when we had our tea and lemonade in the afternoon. The crickets were pulsing and a few birds called in the still, dark morning. I curled my feet up under me on the settee and tucked Claire's blanket around my shoulders and legs. I lay my head on the pillow of the armrest, and slept.
. . . Through the fog of my sleep, in the grey stillness of the early dawn, I heard the side door open then close. Soon after I felt Toby’s soft hair under my hand as he nuzzled me to scratch him behind the ears. He laid his head on the padded cushion beside me and I think we slept like this for some time.
. . . The sun was bright and warm on my face, though filtered through the leaves of the trees. I heard Dorrie calling Toby but he didn’t move; neither did I. I wouldn’t have known what to say so I lay there until Dorrie came around to the front of the house looking for Toby. She gave a small cry when she saw me, as you would when coming upon an animal that’s injured and can’t move to scurry for cover. “Oh, my Dear. Oh, Starla!” she said, making her way up the stairs. She opened the front door on the way past and called in to John Ross to come quickly. She came to me and knelt, looking into my face as I lay with my head on the armrest; she had such worry and compassion in her eyes that it startled me. She brushed my hair back with her fingertips and said my name in the gentlest of tones. John Ross came onto the porch and I sat up, keeping the blanket close around my shoulders.
“Starla, what has happened?” Dorrie asked, taking my hand in hers and holding it as one would hold an injured bird.
I hadn’t put any thought into how I would explain my presence on their porch. I had assumed that somehow everything would be obvious, and that I wouldn’t have to say the words. But it wasn’t obvious and I did have to say them, so I spoke in the most measured and rational voice that I could find: “My sister is dead. Could you please call my father to come and get me?” I remember these words so clearly, the simplicity and rawness of their delivery has been echoed back to me so many times in the work that I do: sometimes children are so weary of living the story that is their life, they have no energy left for anything but the raw and unadorned truth.
To their credit, Dorrie and John Ross didn’t cry out or respond explosively in any way. They just sat there looking at me for some time then Dorrie asked: “Could you tell us what happened, Dear?”
I liked her way of calling me Dear. It was always said without affectation or condescension and, unlike with some people, it wasn’t used to cover up the fact that the speaker has forgotten your name. With Dorrie it was a habit, she called everyone Dear, but I liked that it made me feel cherished.
I began by telling them about the search in the woods and finished by saying: “They told me that my sister drowned in the creek. My mother’s not a strong person, I can’t stay there anymore.” Dorrie motioned to John Ross to get the afghan from the couch inside. She draped it over me, tucking it in around me with great care. I lay my head down and closed my eyes, clutching the blankets around me for warmth and protection, though I imagine that Dorrie’s intention was more to guard from shock than cold. Now and then I would open my eyes and watch the bees and the hummingbirds moving at their frenetic pace. I was reassured by such movement, it told me that the whole world had not stopped turning, and that I could just lay where I was and let it spin on without me.
. . . I sensed Dorrie’s footsteps coming across the porch; I opened my eyes. The sun had displaced the shade where I lay and I was hot under the blankets. I could hear the haunting sounds of a piano coming through the window from the stereo – I didn’t know the simple, mystical piano music of Eric Satie then, but it stayed with me for many years as Claire’s theme and always makes me think of her.
Dorrie came over to the settee. Raising myself, I made a space where she could sit beside me. I noticed that she was wearing her straw hat and was warm and moist from sun and exertion.
“Starla, I’ve been to see your mother’s friends,” she said. I was ashamed that Dorrie had been exposed to the Family. I had wanted to protect her and John Ross from any contact with that other side of my life. “I’ve told them that you are here and that you’ve asked that we call your father to come and get you.” I could hear a hummingbird by the rose trellis in front of the porch. “They said that they thought that would be a good idea.”
She paused for a long time before she went on to say that she hadn’t seen my mother. I never knew if they told her what happened to Claire or what was wrong with my mother that she couldn’t meet with her. I can only guess that no matter what the details, it was Dorrie’s judgment that I’d be better off away from the farm. As no one seemed to object to Bill coming for me, I guess she decided that was the most sensible course to follow.
We went into the house and I stretched out on the couch without being invited; it was a lying down kind of day, as if everything that was happening was within the context of a dream. John Ross brought me a glass of cold orange juice and I remember thinking as it trickled down my throat, that its rich taste was misplaced; it was like swatch of colour in my colourless world. I felt no pain, sadness, anger nor fear; I was an empty being lying in an empty world.
I couldn’t remember our phone number in Vancouver but I gave John Ross our address and Bill’s name and he went off to use the bedroom phone. When he returned, he took up his station in one of the big sitting room chairs. Seldom in my life have I had such an experience of being so unaware and uninterested in the passage of time. I remember, as if through a fever, Dorrie sitting in her chair beside the couch, her fingers gently brushing through my hair; I remember John Ross whose large body was usually in perpetual motion, watching mindless television, waiting for life to unfold.
. . . Sometime between the soaps and cartoons on T.V., Dorrie brought the familiar tray of cookies, fruit, tea and lemonade. She must have been trying to coax me to have some food by triggering the memories of happy afternoons together. I was relieved to sit up and shake off some of the layers of the emotional weight that I’d been wrapped in all day. Dorrie asked how I was feeling. I answered with sincere gratefulness: “Thank you for helping me.” Dorrie’s hand flew to her lips to hold back a cry. She put down her delicate teacup, the one with the sweetheart roses and the lily of the valley painted on it. She lowered her head and came over to sit beside me on the couch. Her arms scooped around my shoulders and she brought me to her, saying over and over as she rocked me back and forth: “Oh, my Dear. Oh, my Dear.”
. . . I felt the evening move in with the change of how the light filtered through the lace curtains on the windows and how the game shows took over from the news on T.V. Distantly, I heard a car pull up in front of the house without registering its meaning; I remember feeling that my brain was too heavy to think. John Ross went to the door and when I looked up, I was confused, knowing that this person who had come in was familiar to me, yet as I saw Carly standing in the doorway, I didn’t recognize her as the friend who had come to rescue me from the hospital when Claire was so sick, and with whom I’d spent many wonderful hours in mom’s kitchen at the collective. I didn’t move. John Ross introduced himself to her; Dorrie went over and clasped her hands in a double handshake. “You are most welcome here, my Dear,” she said. I still didn’t move and continued to stare at the television screen, but as recognition worked its way through the layers of lethargy and shock, I was glad that Carly had come and that she was sitting beside me now on the couch.
I wanted to move, truly I did, but something held me there, immobile, focused on on the T.V.
My body was frozen but my mind was racing. I was replaying the scene of Carly’s arrival over and over, each time recognizing her immediately and changing my reaction to her presence. I could see myself running out of the house and into her arms as she got out of the car, throwing myself into her pool of comfort. Then I replayed the scene, watching myself getting up in surprise as I see her through the window, going over to the door but waiting for her to come into the house before offering her a warm handshake, as Dorrie did. Another time, I could see myself wrapping my arm around her shoulder (we looked to be nearly the same height now) and quietly telling Carly that Claire was gone, and comforting her as the news sank in. Each of these scenes, I could replay in my mind but all I could do in reality was sit on Dorrie’s couch and look at the T.V. screen, clutching the small yellow blanket around my shoulders.
Then from somewhere on the evening breeze came a memory of Oreos and their crunchy sweetness that we had shared, and of Carly who took care of me before when I was alone. I turned my head and looked at her; I asked if she could take me home to see Bill. “Of course,” she said, her voice gentle and unhurried as she took my hand in hers.
. . . We spent the night in Dorrie and John Ross’s guest room.
You hear of people who wake the morning after a shocking experience and have forgotten that their world has been changed forever. On waking, when they realize where they are and what has happened, it’s like reliving the trauma in a telescoped time sequence that leaves them even more vulnerable for having suffered the experience all over again. That’s what happened to me. When I woke early the next morning, at first I was pleased to be surrounded by the lovely morning scent of the garden coming in through the window and the feeling of soft cotton against my cheek; then the look of my new world slowly took shape and I lay frozen in the fear that comes with shadows in a strange room and the realization that life can never be trusted again.
And as those who have lost too much will do, I began to worry about losing the tattered bits of my life that were left to me. Laying in the bed beside Carly, staring at the flowers on the wallpaper across the bedroom, I had waking dreams of flying witches pulling me away from Bill and lashing me to clawing trees like those in the Wizard of Oz. I jumped up from the bed and went to the window, gasping for air and willing myself to connect with the reality that was Dorrie’s house, her garden, the grass, and the fields, all in their hazy, pre dawn beauty. I was just catching my breath when the light in the sky came up enough for me to see in the distance the trees from the farm where mom was. In the haze I could see her witch’s face on every tree that surrounded me, reaching out to grasp and hold me and keep me from ever seeing Bill again.
I came back and sat down on the floor beside the bed. I buried my face in the warm cotton of the pillow that I had been laying and began to cry, quietly at first, then as I began to rock myself back and forth against the side of the bed a momentum built up that shook me all over. I closed my eyes to shut out the world, but every time I did the witch faces would come back to me. I kept my eyes open, now wild with panic and I held the pillow over my mouth, shaking in terror. I held onto the pillow as if it were Bill and sobbed into it, redirecting the pain back inside me from where it had come, moist, acknowledged but not diminished. Carly came to me and held me. I remember that she didn’t shush or console me, she didn’t say that it would get better; she just held me as I rocked myself through the sobs and into the daylight, with all my pain and my tears and my visions of witches, where I would learn to live with them.
. . . When it came time to say goodbye, Dorrie had packed us some cookies and juice for the ferry ride from Nanaimo. She handed the bag to Carly and gave me the copy of The Diary of Anne Frank that I’d been reading. She insisted that I keep it, even though it was a book that she had brought from the library; she said that she wanted me to have something with which to remember our afternoons together, and that she would replace the library’s copy. I thanked her and hugged her, holding the book between us.
John Ross kissed me on the top of my head as I wrapped my arms around his waist. His left hand came around and presented me with one of his framed photos of their cottage. He told me to keep in mind how much happiness that there is in life and that such cottages can pop up around any corner. I wrapped their gifts in the yellow blanket and followed Carly to the car. We waved as we backed out of the lane and turned down the road.
. . . On the ferry to Vancouver I stood for a few minutes on the deck, but the breeze was too strong and the sun too brilliant for what my body could tolerate. We went back inside and sat at one of the cafeteria tables where I lay my head on my arms and looked at the pattern of gold speckles on the Formica under my nose. Carly explained that she had received the call from John Ross because she had been staying at Bill’s place while he was in Clayoquot on the other side of Vancouver Island, working with the forest protesters there. She had left a message for him in Tofino and one with the organizers at the head office in the Vancouver, but she wasn’t sure if it had reached him yet. She promised the she would find him.
. . . When we arrived at the apartment, she gave me one of Bill’s t-shirts to wear. I wrapped his scent around me and waited for her to tell me what to do. She made us some popcorn and we sat on the porch curled up side by side, watching the city live its life, like spectators at a show that was only mildly interesting. I didn’t want anything to touch me.
Bill did get the message but didn’t make it to Vancouver for a few days. He had flown to Nanaimo first, where he got a car and drove to Saltspring to find mom. He spent a few days dealing with investigations, reports and arrangements. I assume that Claire is buried somewhere on Saltspring, or perhaps she was cremated. I never knew. We never spoke of what happened.
. . . I remember that I was watching Scooby-Doo on T.V. when Bill walked in. He didn’t wait to gauge my mood or my reactions as others had done during that week. He just put down his bags at the open doorway and fell to his knees. He opened his arms to me and knelt there, like pictures of Jesus in the garden, tears streaming down his cheeks. I ran to him and he wrapped both arms around me, burying his face in my neck as I lay my head against his and we cried together, never saying a word. I held my Dad for a long time; he never spoke Claire’s name.
. . . Sophie arrived a few days later. She had brought the copy of A Child’s Garden of Verses with her, the one that I used to read to Claire. Sometimes she would turn down the T.V. (I never wanted her to turn it off) and she would read to me. If I didn’t say anything about it that would upset her or make her think that I was being weird, I could believe that she was reading to both Claire and me.
For the next few weeks, she read to us for hours each day, the same poems over and over. And with the comfort of their familiar cadences, she lay a foundation on which I was able to cautiously rebuild a sense of ability and timid confidence:
That you don’t know what you’ve got ‘till it’s gone.
(“Big Yellow Taxi”, Joni Mitchell)
Before I started writing these letters about my life, if anyone had asked me what the most pivotal experience of my childhood had been, I would probably have said that it was when we left Scarborough to come back out West. I wouldn’t have said that my mother had abducted us, or that we had been taken from a loving, stable home to a world of danger and uncertainty. I would have looked at it simply: once we were there, then we came here…I never wanted to acknowledge that crisis played a part in my life. I wanted to believe that my existence was even, predictable.
But I realize now what I couldn’t admit for so long: that it was the crisis of Claire’s death that has most coloured how I saw myself, and the world. I’m sure that this fact would have been apparent to any sensible observer but for many reasons, most of them having to do with pain and guilt, I didn't see it.
When I left the farm on the night of Claire’s death I was not quite twelve-years old, yet I remember feeling a power within that made me unstoppable. Certainty abides in the soul of those who can focus on something as precise and concrete as putting one foot before the other. They see nothing but the road before them and in that cloistered assurance, they don’t recognize the necessity for anything as intrusive as a plan. I walked without hesitation or anxiety along the road, focusing on the light coming from John Ross’s workshop. I remember thinking of the star of metallic paper and cardboard that I had made for the Christmas mural at my school in Scarborough, and the wise men that followed a star to someone or something that might offer peace.
I remember individual scenes of what happened during the next few days; they’re clear and identifiable memories, but disconnected from each other by the minutes and hours of emptiness that were stretched out between them.
. . . In the darkness of night I lifted the latch on the gate from the road to the path that led to their front porch. I walked up the steps to the wicker settee that Dorrie usually occupied when we had our tea and lemonade in the afternoon. The crickets were pulsing and a few birds called in the still, dark morning. I curled my feet up under me on the settee and tucked Claire's blanket around my shoulders and legs. I lay my head on the pillow of the armrest, and slept.
. . . Through the fog of my sleep, in the grey stillness of the early dawn, I heard the side door open then close. Soon after I felt Toby’s soft hair under my hand as he nuzzled me to scratch him behind the ears. He laid his head on the padded cushion beside me and I think we slept like this for some time.
. . . The sun was bright and warm on my face, though filtered through the leaves of the trees. I heard Dorrie calling Toby but he didn’t move; neither did I. I wouldn’t have known what to say so I lay there until Dorrie came around to the front of the house looking for Toby. She gave a small cry when she saw me, as you would when coming upon an animal that’s injured and can’t move to scurry for cover. “Oh, my Dear. Oh, Starla!” she said, making her way up the stairs. She opened the front door on the way past and called in to John Ross to come quickly. She came to me and knelt, looking into my face as I lay with my head on the armrest; she had such worry and compassion in her eyes that it startled me. She brushed my hair back with her fingertips and said my name in the gentlest of tones. John Ross came onto the porch and I sat up, keeping the blanket close around my shoulders.
“Starla, what has happened?” Dorrie asked, taking my hand in hers and holding it as one would hold an injured bird.
I hadn’t put any thought into how I would explain my presence on their porch. I had assumed that somehow everything would be obvious, and that I wouldn’t have to say the words. But it wasn’t obvious and I did have to say them, so I spoke in the most measured and rational voice that I could find: “My sister is dead. Could you please call my father to come and get me?” I remember these words so clearly, the simplicity and rawness of their delivery has been echoed back to me so many times in the work that I do: sometimes children are so weary of living the story that is their life, they have no energy left for anything but the raw and unadorned truth.
To their credit, Dorrie and John Ross didn’t cry out or respond explosively in any way. They just sat there looking at me for some time then Dorrie asked: “Could you tell us what happened, Dear?”
I liked her way of calling me Dear. It was always said without affectation or condescension and, unlike with some people, it wasn’t used to cover up the fact that the speaker has forgotten your name. With Dorrie it was a habit, she called everyone Dear, but I liked that it made me feel cherished.
I began by telling them about the search in the woods and finished by saying: “They told me that my sister drowned in the creek. My mother’s not a strong person, I can’t stay there anymore.” Dorrie motioned to John Ross to get the afghan from the couch inside. She draped it over me, tucking it in around me with great care. I lay my head down and closed my eyes, clutching the blankets around me for warmth and protection, though I imagine that Dorrie’s intention was more to guard from shock than cold. Now and then I would open my eyes and watch the bees and the hummingbirds moving at their frenetic pace. I was reassured by such movement, it told me that the whole world had not stopped turning, and that I could just lay where I was and let it spin on without me.
. . . I sensed Dorrie’s footsteps coming across the porch; I opened my eyes. The sun had displaced the shade where I lay and I was hot under the blankets. I could hear the haunting sounds of a piano coming through the window from the stereo – I didn’t know the simple, mystical piano music of Eric Satie then, but it stayed with me for many years as Claire’s theme and always makes me think of her.
Dorrie came over to the settee. Raising myself, I made a space where she could sit beside me. I noticed that she was wearing her straw hat and was warm and moist from sun and exertion.
“Starla, I’ve been to see your mother’s friends,” she said. I was ashamed that Dorrie had been exposed to the Family. I had wanted to protect her and John Ross from any contact with that other side of my life. “I’ve told them that you are here and that you’ve asked that we call your father to come and get you.” I could hear a hummingbird by the rose trellis in front of the porch. “They said that they thought that would be a good idea.”
She paused for a long time before she went on to say that she hadn’t seen my mother. I never knew if they told her what happened to Claire or what was wrong with my mother that she couldn’t meet with her. I can only guess that no matter what the details, it was Dorrie’s judgment that I’d be better off away from the farm. As no one seemed to object to Bill coming for me, I guess she decided that was the most sensible course to follow.
We went into the house and I stretched out on the couch without being invited; it was a lying down kind of day, as if everything that was happening was within the context of a dream. John Ross brought me a glass of cold orange juice and I remember thinking as it trickled down my throat, that its rich taste was misplaced; it was like swatch of colour in my colourless world. I felt no pain, sadness, anger nor fear; I was an empty being lying in an empty world.
I couldn’t remember our phone number in Vancouver but I gave John Ross our address and Bill’s name and he went off to use the bedroom phone. When he returned, he took up his station in one of the big sitting room chairs. Seldom in my life have I had such an experience of being so unaware and uninterested in the passage of time. I remember, as if through a fever, Dorrie sitting in her chair beside the couch, her fingers gently brushing through my hair; I remember John Ross whose large body was usually in perpetual motion, watching mindless television, waiting for life to unfold.
. . . Sometime between the soaps and cartoons on T.V., Dorrie brought the familiar tray of cookies, fruit, tea and lemonade. She must have been trying to coax me to have some food by triggering the memories of happy afternoons together. I was relieved to sit up and shake off some of the layers of the emotional weight that I’d been wrapped in all day. Dorrie asked how I was feeling. I answered with sincere gratefulness: “Thank you for helping me.” Dorrie’s hand flew to her lips to hold back a cry. She put down her delicate teacup, the one with the sweetheart roses and the lily of the valley painted on it. She lowered her head and came over to sit beside me on the couch. Her arms scooped around my shoulders and she brought me to her, saying over and over as she rocked me back and forth: “Oh, my Dear. Oh, my Dear.”
. . . I felt the evening move in with the change of how the light filtered through the lace curtains on the windows and how the game shows took over from the news on T.V. Distantly, I heard a car pull up in front of the house without registering its meaning; I remember feeling that my brain was too heavy to think. John Ross went to the door and when I looked up, I was confused, knowing that this person who had come in was familiar to me, yet as I saw Carly standing in the doorway, I didn’t recognize her as the friend who had come to rescue me from the hospital when Claire was so sick, and with whom I’d spent many wonderful hours in mom’s kitchen at the collective. I didn’t move. John Ross introduced himself to her; Dorrie went over and clasped her hands in a double handshake. “You are most welcome here, my Dear,” she said. I still didn’t move and continued to stare at the television screen, but as recognition worked its way through the layers of lethargy and shock, I was glad that Carly had come and that she was sitting beside me now on the couch.
I wanted to move, truly I did, but something held me there, immobile, focused on on the T.V.
My body was frozen but my mind was racing. I was replaying the scene of Carly’s arrival over and over, each time recognizing her immediately and changing my reaction to her presence. I could see myself running out of the house and into her arms as she got out of the car, throwing myself into her pool of comfort. Then I replayed the scene, watching myself getting up in surprise as I see her through the window, going over to the door but waiting for her to come into the house before offering her a warm handshake, as Dorrie did. Another time, I could see myself wrapping my arm around her shoulder (we looked to be nearly the same height now) and quietly telling Carly that Claire was gone, and comforting her as the news sank in. Each of these scenes, I could replay in my mind but all I could do in reality was sit on Dorrie’s couch and look at the T.V. screen, clutching the small yellow blanket around my shoulders.
Then from somewhere on the evening breeze came a memory of Oreos and their crunchy sweetness that we had shared, and of Carly who took care of me before when I was alone. I turned my head and looked at her; I asked if she could take me home to see Bill. “Of course,” she said, her voice gentle and unhurried as she took my hand in hers.
. . . We spent the night in Dorrie and John Ross’s guest room.
You hear of people who wake the morning after a shocking experience and have forgotten that their world has been changed forever. On waking, when they realize where they are and what has happened, it’s like reliving the trauma in a telescoped time sequence that leaves them even more vulnerable for having suffered the experience all over again. That’s what happened to me. When I woke early the next morning, at first I was pleased to be surrounded by the lovely morning scent of the garden coming in through the window and the feeling of soft cotton against my cheek; then the look of my new world slowly took shape and I lay frozen in the fear that comes with shadows in a strange room and the realization that life can never be trusted again.
And as those who have lost too much will do, I began to worry about losing the tattered bits of my life that were left to me. Laying in the bed beside Carly, staring at the flowers on the wallpaper across the bedroom, I had waking dreams of flying witches pulling me away from Bill and lashing me to clawing trees like those in the Wizard of Oz. I jumped up from the bed and went to the window, gasping for air and willing myself to connect with the reality that was Dorrie’s house, her garden, the grass, and the fields, all in their hazy, pre dawn beauty. I was just catching my breath when the light in the sky came up enough for me to see in the distance the trees from the farm where mom was. In the haze I could see her witch’s face on every tree that surrounded me, reaching out to grasp and hold me and keep me from ever seeing Bill again.
I came back and sat down on the floor beside the bed. I buried my face in the warm cotton of the pillow that I had been laying and began to cry, quietly at first, then as I began to rock myself back and forth against the side of the bed a momentum built up that shook me all over. I closed my eyes to shut out the world, but every time I did the witch faces would come back to me. I kept my eyes open, now wild with panic and I held the pillow over my mouth, shaking in terror. I held onto the pillow as if it were Bill and sobbed into it, redirecting the pain back inside me from where it had come, moist, acknowledged but not diminished. Carly came to me and held me. I remember that she didn’t shush or console me, she didn’t say that it would get better; she just held me as I rocked myself through the sobs and into the daylight, with all my pain and my tears and my visions of witches, where I would learn to live with them.
. . . When it came time to say goodbye, Dorrie had packed us some cookies and juice for the ferry ride from Nanaimo. She handed the bag to Carly and gave me the copy of The Diary of Anne Frank that I’d been reading. She insisted that I keep it, even though it was a book that she had brought from the library; she said that she wanted me to have something with which to remember our afternoons together, and that she would replace the library’s copy. I thanked her and hugged her, holding the book between us.
John Ross kissed me on the top of my head as I wrapped my arms around his waist. His left hand came around and presented me with one of his framed photos of their cottage. He told me to keep in mind how much happiness that there is in life and that such cottages can pop up around any corner. I wrapped their gifts in the yellow blanket and followed Carly to the car. We waved as we backed out of the lane and turned down the road.
. . . On the ferry to Vancouver I stood for a few minutes on the deck, but the breeze was too strong and the sun too brilliant for what my body could tolerate. We went back inside and sat at one of the cafeteria tables where I lay my head on my arms and looked at the pattern of gold speckles on the Formica under my nose. Carly explained that she had received the call from John Ross because she had been staying at Bill’s place while he was in Clayoquot on the other side of Vancouver Island, working with the forest protesters there. She had left a message for him in Tofino and one with the organizers at the head office in the Vancouver, but she wasn’t sure if it had reached him yet. She promised the she would find him.
. . . When we arrived at the apartment, she gave me one of Bill’s t-shirts to wear. I wrapped his scent around me and waited for her to tell me what to do. She made us some popcorn and we sat on the porch curled up side by side, watching the city live its life, like spectators at a show that was only mildly interesting. I didn’t want anything to touch me.
Bill did get the message but didn’t make it to Vancouver for a few days. He had flown to Nanaimo first, where he got a car and drove to Saltspring to find mom. He spent a few days dealing with investigations, reports and arrangements. I assume that Claire is buried somewhere on Saltspring, or perhaps she was cremated. I never knew. We never spoke of what happened.
. . . I remember that I was watching Scooby-Doo on T.V. when Bill walked in. He didn’t wait to gauge my mood or my reactions as others had done during that week. He just put down his bags at the open doorway and fell to his knees. He opened his arms to me and knelt there, like pictures of Jesus in the garden, tears streaming down his cheeks. I ran to him and he wrapped both arms around me, burying his face in my neck as I lay my head against his and we cried together, never saying a word. I held my Dad for a long time; he never spoke Claire’s name.
. . . Sophie arrived a few days later. She had brought the copy of A Child’s Garden of Verses with her, the one that I used to read to Claire. Sometimes she would turn down the T.V. (I never wanted her to turn it off) and she would read to me. If I didn’t say anything about it that would upset her or make her think that I was being weird, I could believe that she was reading to both Claire and me.
For the next few weeks, she read to us for hours each day, the same poems over and over. And with the comfort of their familiar cadences, she lay a foundation on which I was able to cautiously rebuild a sense of ability and timid confidence:
“I called a little pool a sea;
The little hills were big to me
For I am very small.
I made a boat, I made a town,
I searched the caverns up and down,
And named them one and all.”
We slowly reclaimed some sense of direction and came to believe that there were things that we could do, Claire and I; but it was only as “we” that I could face my life.
We slowly reclaimed some sense of direction and came to believe that there were things that we could do, Claire and I; but it was only as “we” that I could face my life.
“We built a ship upon the stairs
All made of the back bedroom chairs,
And filled it full of sofa pillows
To go a-sailing on the billows.”
I remember very little of the rest of that summer. I didn’t speak much and they never pushed me. I suppose that if it were today, I’d have been into counseling, and art or play therapy and survivor groups, but silence was no stranger to our “family”. And I did come back, gradually, to a place that most would call normal; I had nothing to compare it to.
I have a sense that if I had faced some of my confusion and anger at that time, I might have had a different life, but who knows? I’m happy with the life I’ve led and I’m happy that I’ve taken the time and energy to look at it.
I’m doing some research for a paper that I’m writing for my adolescent psychology class and in one of the books, I came across this quote from Sophocles that I found particularly appropriate for my situation: “Examined lives are indeed more worth living.”
Thanks, Jean, for helping me find the way to make my life more worthwhile.
Love,
Starla.
I remember very little of the rest of that summer. I didn’t speak much and they never pushed me. I suppose that if it were today, I’d have been into counseling, and art or play therapy and survivor groups, but silence was no stranger to our “family”. And I did come back, gradually, to a place that most would call normal; I had nothing to compare it to.
I have a sense that if I had faced some of my confusion and anger at that time, I might have had a different life, but who knows? I’m happy with the life I’ve led and I’m happy that I’ve taken the time and energy to look at it.
I’m doing some research for a paper that I’m writing for my adolescent psychology class and in one of the books, I came across this quote from Sophocles that I found particularly appropriate for my situation: “Examined lives are indeed more worth living.”
Thanks, Jean, for helping me find the way to make my life more worthwhile.
Love,
Starla.
Copyright 2003
