A different hurricane, p.5
A Different Hurricane, page 5
In the early days, he and Mother clashed over child-rearing, and he said harsh things to her. When it comes to forgiving, Mother is worse than Yahweh. Yahweh gives the odd second chance; Mother doesn’t. Her favourite saying is: “Hurt me once, shame on you. Hurt me twice, shame on me.” Imagine my surprise when she told me: “Every child would love to have a father like Gordon. But don’t tell him I said so.” But she remains adamant. “He didn’t come back because of you; he came back because of Frida.”
Was Mother right? I’ve asked Gordon this question in all sorts of ways and never been convinced by his answer.
Chapter 4
Gordon scrolls down to find another entry about Maggie, but the date February 18 stops him. He begins to read:
February 18, 2012
The radio is on in the living room. A male caller is berating the prime minister for his litigiousness. “Matthew Thomas shouldn’t pay him a cent.” Lynch agrees, saying he and all radio hosts are personas when they’re on air and shouldn’t be prosecuted for their views. Lynch should ask Gordon about personas. Not sure why Gordon has the radio on this station. He no longer needs to apprise himself of all this political sham. I call out to him on the balcony and tell him to turn the radio off.
I feel energetic today. For almost three weeks I did not want to get out of bed.
My birthday was two days ago. I heard the phone ringing all morning and Gordon telling the callers, “Maureen can’t come to the phone right now.” He made me lentil soup for lunch. He brought a folding tray into the bedroom and sat beside me and drank his. Half sitting in bed, propped up with pillows, a tray on my lap, I drank half a bowl. The answering machine took three calls during this time. I told him to unplug the phone. At supper he brought an almond cake with candles to the bedside. He must have bought it at Allan’s Bakery. Their cakes are as good as those we make at home. “Don’t light the candles,” I said, “or you’ll have to blow them out yourself.” He left the bedroom and returned with a sparkler, put it on the cake, and lit it. I ate a sliver so he wouldn’t feel bad. I reminded him to take a few slices for Theo and Austin. Up to a year ago we’d have sent some to Percival’s boys. Their dog pooped on our lawn recently. Gordon called out to them to come and clean it, and Everett, Percival’s last boy, told him to make soup with it. And when Gordon complained to Percival, his response was: “Loosen up, man. That only mean my boy got a sense o’ humour.” Christine does not have an easy time with them.
Around seven, Allan and Beth came by without warning. Holding a gift bag, Beth came straight into the bedroom. She helped me sit up and arranged the pillows around me. She went into the adjoining bathroom and returned with a hairbrush. She brushed, then braided my hair, went back to the bathroom and brought a damp washrag and wiped my face. She handed me the gift bag. It contained a bottle of perfume, a copy of Toni Morrison’s Love, and a birthday card, one without pre-written text. The message was in her handwriting: “Maureen, you are dear to us, our sister in everything but biology. We wish you were well today and want you to get well soon. We are confident that you will be healthy and happy when we celebrate your many future birthdays.” I told her thanks. The window was open only a sliver. I motioned to Beth to open it wider. The breeze coming uphill from the harbour felt good. She called out to Allan, “You can come now.” I quickly sprayed some of the perfume onto my wrist and inhaled it.
He came in grinning from ear to ear. I don’t think he’ll ever outgrow those dimples. His paunch is getting bigger, though. Beth should go easy on those desserts.
He leaned over and kissed me. “Happy birthday, Maureen. What are you doing in bed on your birthday?”
“You tell me. You are the doctor. Thanks for the gifts.”
“You’re welcome. You’ll like this Morrison novel. I’ve already read my own copy.”
Gordon entered, bringing one of the dining chairs for Allan.
“Bring a chair for yourself too and the rest of the cake,” I told him.
He returned ten minutes later pushing the tea trolley — a gift from Mother — with plates, forks, napkins, glasses, a bottle of wine, and the rest of the cake. We toasted my birthday. Allan winked consent for me to drink my half glass of wine. Gordon looked at him alarmed; Allan gave him a wink too. I drank half of my wine. Gordon took a sip of his and put it on the tray. They left around eight, and I had to admit I felt better afterward.
But that night I dreamed that Claudia, Beth, Allan, Gordon, and I were picnicking at Trinity Falls. The Richmond River came down and swept them downstream. Hearing my screams, Gordon awakened me. I told him the dream.
“What do you make of it?” I eventually asked him.
“I don’t know,” he said.
I looked at the dial on the clock radio. It was 5:26 a.m. Gordon did not go back to sleep. He went into the living room. I remained in bed but couldn’t fall asleep. Instead, I thought about this mask of secrecy that Gordon, Allan, and I have been wearing. I guess if dreams were logical, I, not Beth, would have been among the drowned.
The birthday cards are piled up on the night table. Maybe I’ll open them later — if I have the energy. On days when I write, I feel completely drained afterward. In happier times, I would have already called or sent emails to thank my well-wishers. I have over sixty unopened emails. The voice mail has stopped taking messages. I’m going to have to muster up the energy to clear up this backlog, otherwise everyone will think that Death is at my bedside, poised to strike me with his hammer.
Chapter 5
April 8, 2012, Easter Sunday
All that’s written for February 22 is the date. I remember now. I came here on the morning of Ash Wednesday to record and reflect on a dream I’d had the night before. Instead, I was overcome by a crying fit and became so depressed that I went back to bed. I’m fairly certain that dream was related to a promise Gordon had made that when we retired, we would travel to Trinidad to see the carnival. I dreamed that we were in Trinidad, and I lost Gordon in the crowd. A man came to help me. I told him I was looking for my husband. I mentioned Gordon’s name. The man froze momentarily, then said his name was Trevor and began pushing people out of his way to escape from me.
February 21 was the Mardi Gras. As images from the floats of the Trinidad Carnival flashed on SVG TV, Gordon was sitting on the couch beside me. If he were in Trinidad, he would be witnessing it with Trevor at his side. Thoughts of our marriage as a masquerade came to me as I watched the moving floats. A Primer of Jungian Psychology, required reading for Professor Bolton’s course and now one of my prized texts, states that we all possess a persona: a public, artificial self, that allows us to function harmoniously with society. It serves us well if it doesn’t overwhelm or swallow up the true self. There’s hell to pay if it does. At home, at work, on the street, Gordon has had to be a heterosexual. He couldn’t possibly still have an authentic self. Now I, too, wear the mask of a heterosexual wife and live a life of lies so the news won’t spread that my husband is gay and we both have AIDS. What is this doing to my authentic self?
When, following the AIDS diagnosis and Gordon’s admission that he was gay, my anger dissipated, Eliot’s “Prufrock” and “Preludes” came back to me — that line about creating a face for the thousand faces that we meet, a face that Gordon can only lose when he’s asleep. I suspect that his authentic and fake selves battle for sovereignty when he’s asleep. My “infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering [Gordon].” If ever there was a “soul stretched tight,” it’s his. It’s another reason why I shouldn’t discuss our situation with anyone. My friends won’t understand. Not even Beth, who turns a blind eye to Allan’s infidelity. She’ll say it’s not the same thing. Having sex with men! The parameters aren’t the same, Maureen. He has given you AIDS. That’s indefensible. Leave the bastard. Yes, even Beth will be angry with me, much like many American women have been with Hillary Clinton for not leaving Bill. Allan has assured me that he won’t discuss our situation with her. He invokes professional ethics. In St Vincent, they exist on paper only. But I’ll take him at his word and hope he doesn’t betray me.
* * *
Not sure any of this is what I would have written on February 22. In any event, I was too depressed to be coherent. This is my first trip back here since. Most mornings I haven’t felt like getting out of bed. Gordon sometimes succeeded in coaxing me out. When I do, I don’t go onto the porch. I don’t want the neighbours to see me or talk to me. They know I’m ill. Christine ran into Beth at the supermarket and tried to wheedle information out of her. A week ago, Flossy showed up with a bowl of soup and asked Gordon for me. I heard him say, “She can’t come to the door right now.”
“She sick or something?”
“No, she isn’t sick, just doing something that she can’t leave off now.”
Since her visit in February, Beth has invited us twice for supper. I said no but urged Gordon to go alone. Of course, he didn’t. Beth has visited twice in the interim. I can’t remember which days. Came the first time despite my telling her I wasn’t having visitors, and she scourged rather than comforted me.
“It’s because you retired cold. Yeah, I know you have liver trouble and it leaves you feeling weak. But you retired with no plans for what you’ll do afterward.”
“I’ve started to work on a memoir.”
“Oh! You never told me.”
“I wanted it kept a secret. I thought I’d wait until it’s finished, and I won’t let anyone read it if it’s not to my liking.”
“Why don’t you ask Allan to prescribe something for you? From a mile away I can see that you are depressed.”
“I’ll think about it. I feel so miserable; I don’t want to get better; I want to die.”
“Well, I don’t think Allan can help you with that. Day after tomorrow, I’m going to come and pick you up and take you to Indian Bay. You’ll come with me even if I have to handcuff you, hand and foot, stuff a washrag in your mouth, and toss you into the car. Just the two of us, so we can talk woman stuff.”
Woman stuff. I became alarmed. Did she know?
I went. What day was it? Had to have been a Saturday or Sunday. Saturday. There was a lot of traffic. I relaxed after it became clear that the trip wasn’t about Gordon and my illness. I’ll admit I felt better afterward. Indian Bay’s warm water, the jollity of the children and young people around me, mostly people visiting from abroad, people who’d put their cares on hold and come to enjoy themselves. They distracted me from mine. It helped that I met no one I knew.
Since then, I’ve been on a roller coaster. Beth calls me every day, sometimes twice, and Gordon knows better than to tell her, “Maureen can’t come to the phone.” One day three weeks or a month ago — I’m losing track of time — I made the mistake of telling her that if I had the energy, I would get out of bed and hurl myself over this cliff. She was here within thirty minutes. Brought frozen callaloo soup too that she thawed in the microwave and ordered me to drink to the very last drop.
Not sure what she told Allan when she got back home, but the next day he came too. I heard him and Gordon whispering on the porch. He came into the bedroom and, after asking how I was, held a bottle of pills close enough for me to read the name Zoloft.
I shook my head. “I won’t take them.”
“You have to take this, Maureen. No is not an option.”
I did not answer. I wanted to say, Allan, dear, pills don’t nourish the psyche. Good news does. It makes us euphoric. For almost forty years I watched the glow in my students’ eyes when they received good results, especially when they thought they’d failed. And there was my own joy that came from seeing them happy. Pills, my dear Allan, pills cannot provide that. The soul needs another kind of food.
“Maureen, are you with me?”
“Yes. Just thinking that you don’t have what will make me well.”
“And what will?”
“Good news.”
He sighed, looked away, and seemed annoyed. Facing the window, he said, “You’ll take the Zoloft or I’ll have you admitted for psychiatric observation.”
“Talking to me or to the window?”
He turned to look at me.
“You’re just trying to scare me into taking pills.”
“No. You are being foolhardy and punishing yourself uselessly. I can’t let you go on doing this.”
“What were you and Gordon talking about? I heard you both whispering.”
“About your care.”
“Does he think antidepressants can undo what he’s done?”
He swallowed his saliva. “Are you going to take these or do I have to have you admitted for observation? You told Beth that you would like to hurl yourself over this cliff.”
“Maybe, if you had AIDS, you would too.”
That shut him up for a while. When he spoke next his tone was coaxing. “Be reasonable, Maureen. Don’t you want to feel good? Don’t you want your energy back? We are worried.”
“Okay. I’ll try them.”
Holding a glass of water, Gordon came into the room immediately. He must have been outside the door listening. Allan unscrewed the cap and tapped a pill into it. I sat up. He tossed the pill into my mouth. I took the glass from Gordon and drank.
“You might not feel the effect for a while, but I’m sure you’ll feel better in about a week.”
He was right, except that Zoloft exacerbated the mild diarrhea I get from Atripla. After ten days he put me on Prozac. It’s definitely helping. After all, here I am again writing. My remaining stomach problems are from the ARVs. My appetite has returned somewhat, but I’m still to regain any of the twenty pounds I’ve lost. Allan is confident that most of my weight will return. I hope it does. My eyes are in deep holes, my face is like a rutted landscape, my neck’s wattled. Today I’m accompanying Gordon to May’s place for Sunday dinner. It’s a week now that I haven’t thought of dying.
I must convince Gordon that he should fly to Montreal to attend Frida’s graduation. That girl is restless. Finished a master’s five years ago in human physiology. Taught for three years, then decided to do another master’s, this time in molecular biology.
Simply announced it: “Mom, I’m going back to school.”
“But you have an excellent teaching job.”
“Excellent isn’t how I’ll describe it.”
“When do you plan to stop studying?”
“When it begins to bore me. Right now, my job is doing so, and that’s why I’m leaving it.”
“Can you afford it?”
“I live simply. Don’t worry. I won’t be asking you or Dad for money.”
That conversation was two years ago. I would attend her graduation, but I don’t want Frida to see me looking like this. I’ll delay that encounter for as long as I can. I’m glad that I have been able to persuade Beth, Allan, and Gordon not to tell her about my depression. I don’t want it to affect her studies. She knows nothing about the AIDS diagnosis or that other story about hepatic malfunctioning. I refuse to let anyone photograph me. Of course, there’s the possibility that she could hear about me from her friends or their parents. No, Frida, I don’t want you worrying about me. Am I glad I procrastinated installing Skype.
My dear Frida, because of the field you are in, you are going to want Allan to send samples of my blood for you to analyze. Of course, if you decide to come home for a visit, I won’t know what to tell you. I’ll cross that bridge when I get there. Frida, you certainly won’t find work in St Vincent. There are no chemical industries here. In our chat two days ago, you said you’ve already had interviews with drug companies, and you are hopeful of finding something in Toronto. You’ve been a permanent resident in Canada now for close to ten years. You never told me if you followed up on your plan to get citizenship. It would be a lot easier to travel with a Canadian passport. I want to see you established before I’m gone. I wonder if your romance with that Greek fellow is still on. Where boyfriends are concerned, you’re something of a rolling stone as well. What do they call it? Serial monogamy. Doesn’t sound healthy to me, but, child, it’s your life. I can’t live it for you. It looks like I’ll be dead before grandchildren come along. Maybe none will. You are heading for thirty-three.
Whatever we say about children hampering our careers, we feel a need to have them. We yearn for them. If they turn out all right, we luxuriate in them. When Mother meets people for the first time, she tells them, “You probably know or heard about my daughter. She’s the deputy headmistress of Girls’ High School.” (I wonder how she feels now that is has become was.) And I know there’s a glint in her eye when she says it. I am her accomplishment. While Frida was growing up, Beth and Allan treated her like the daughter they would have liked to have. I’ve never asked Beth why they never had any children. You’d expect her to talk about such things with a close friend. Maybe I’m wrong; maybe not everyone feels a need to have children. Then again, I knew if for some reason I hadn’t been able take care of Frida, she and Allan would have done so. I’ll broach this subject of children with her. Say it in an accusing way? I shouldn’t. The reason might be embarrassing, and she might feel forced to lie, the way I must lie to hide my illness and cover Gordon’s shame.
