Chapter 3

Full novel for sale at Lulu.

He smells like barley rained down and left to rot in the fields. He smells like a wounded mole that can’t get underground.

“So, how are you?” Again with that question. Such a simple and unassuming question. It must be a trick. Nothing is ever that simple. The only people who ask you how you are bank tellers and grocery store clerks. And doctors, apparently. People who don’t really care what your answer is because they’re not listening anyway. But here, in this tiny 8x6 pink office, there is an understanding that comes with the click of the door. An asylum where we both pretend you care. You’re not looking at me anymore. You’re not looking at anything. You’re doodling on your yellow notepad, but you don’t even look interested in that. There is an ink stain on your left pinky finger, or rather on the fleshy side of your palm just below your finger. A smudge of blue ink indicating I am not your first patient of the day. You don’t even seem to notice I am watching you. I would like to answer your question, but I’ve been quiet for so long now. Two minutes to be exact. Two minutes wasted because there are too many words in my head and only forty-eight minutes left to tell you everything. The office has no windows and the dark lighting blurs what should be sharp. I wonder if it’s still raining outside. It would be nice if this office at least had windows, since there’s no room for a couch. I could tell you the story of when I was seven years old and I used to stand in the rain for hours because I was beginning to understand that the things those boys did to me when I was younger could make me pregnant, even if I didn’t understand all the biological details. If I stood in the rain long enough, I would get the urge to urinate. I figured if I could make myself go to the bathroom often enough, I could avoid pregnancy. But that is a sad story. Though, you are trained to hear sad stories and it wouldn’t be anything you haven’t heard before. Then again, if you’ve heard it all before, why waste time repeating monotonous stories? The rabbit is still here, but it has moved. It’s sitting now on the blue chair in the other corner of the office. Both of us, me and the rabbit, sit facing you. It’s comforting, like he’s your ambassador, telling me I’m safe here. I have come from a land far, far away and only speak the basics of your language, but the rabbit is my translator, removing the confusion of spoken words. He is more than a simple translator superficially exchanging word for word, he is a poet who understands the content of words, who sees more than letters, who…has no mouth or vocal cords or moving parts. I have to say something...anything...just make a sound. What was the question again?
“Things are moving.”
“What things?”
“Flowers.”
“Where are they moving to?”
“They’re just moving, changing places.”
“Are these flowers in the office?”
“No. You don’t have flowers. They’re in my yard.”
“And who is moving them?”
“I don’t know. Someone comes at night, I think, digs them up and moves them.”
“I could see how that would be discomforting. Although, gardening can be very therapeutic so you and your flowers are providing a source of healthful activity to a person who is probably in need of it.”
“I think that might be pushing it.”
“There are actually quite a few studies regarding the discipline of horticultural therapy as a way to increase self-esteem, as a distraction for injurious behaviour and emotional states, and as a means of improving social interaction. It’s been shown to have positive effects in people of all ages. Maybe there’s a little old lady living on your block who simply loves to garden and doesn’t have access to a space, so she sneaks into your yard at night to satiate her gardening fix.” This is hilarious. You’re a psych geek. I’ve known many a math geek, but none of them were nearly as playfully excited in their geekdom. You’re may not interested in me, but at least you’re interested in something.
“You haven’t asked me about my parents.”
“Would you like me to?”
“It just seems strange is all. Aren’t you supposed to ask so you can blame everything on them?” You laugh your small laugh, enjoying my sarcasm.
“Well then, tell me about your parents.”
“I lived with my father for a while when I was young, but grew up mostly on a farm on the prairies.”
“You lived with your mother?”
“It was my aunt and uncle’s place.”
“Where were your parents?”
“My mom died when I was five. My dad died when I was seventeen.”
“That’s a traumatic loss for a child. And a young adult.”
“Not really.”
“It didn’t upset you to lose both your parents?”
“No. When my mother died, I was too young to understand. I didn’t even really notice she was gone. When my father died, I guess I felt like something had been lost. I was sad, but I don’t think it was his death that made me sad. I was used to being without him. There was no emotional attachment and so no emotion when he died.”
“You may not have understood the events of your mother’s passing when you were a child, but this type of trauma does have a lasting effect on children, often carrying through into their adult years. Your mother’s death might be why you described being emotionally empty when your father passed. Early separation of a child from a parent often results in the inability to form healthy attachments later on in life.”
“I guess.”
“What else do you remember from your childhood?”
“I remember when I first started university, there was an English class I was in and on the first day we were asked to write an essay, in order to assess our english skills, and the topic was ‘Describe Your First Memory.’ Everyone else probably made stuff up, or maybe they didn’t have to, but I was still young and idealistic and rebellious so I told the truth.”
“What was your first memory?”
“I was very young, about four or five, maybe six. It was after my mother died. And I was at a neighbour’s house. Somebody was babysitting me, but I don’t know who. I was in their parent’s bed since it was past my bedtime and a young boy, a teenager maybe, came in and did something. I don’t remember. And then he told me to take my panties off, so I did. That’s all I remember.”
“Were there any other events like this?”
“At around the same age, I was at a neighbour’s house again. It was a different place, I think. There were a group of boys. I think there were three or four. Maybe five. One of them, he was sitting on the couch, he unzipped his pants and told me to, with my mouth. So I did. It’s very dark, the memory, in colour I mean. I can’t really remember. They were laughing. It’s possible it didn’t happen, or happened differently. I don’t know.”
“You’ve described a lot of negative events occurring at a very young age.”
“I don’t remember most of what happened to me as a child. I don’t want to remember. I spent years training myself to forget. For all I know, that stuff never happened. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was all in my head, some story I made up somewhere along the way. And it wasn’t as bad as what most kids go through. It certainly doesn’t warrant any compassion.”
“I think that your memories are real and the compassion you were denied as a child is exactly what you need.”
“Well, I’m not going to get it and it doesn’t matter because I already dealt with the whole thing a long time ago.”
“Childhood events can have important effects later in life. Young children need to feel protected and safe. When they are not given such parental necessities, it can lead to distrust and unstable, often abusive, relationships later in life.”
“I took care of myself. And I’m not a child anymore.”
“So tell me about your adult relationships.”
“I haven’t really had any.”
“Everybody has all types of relationships with the people they come into contact with. Some relationships are more meaningful than others, but there are always interactions in day to day life.”
“I had a boyfriend in high school. At least, I was in high school, senior year. He was twenty-seven. He was my first non-imaginary love.” He loved me more than anyone I’ve ever met. As a little girl, I would dream of my true-love knowing me so well that he would always be able to give me what I wanted without me asking for it. People said it was unreasonable, but with this man I never needed to tell him when to stroke my head or when to put his hand on my knee. One time, we had been fighting and I walked out of the house. Once I was outside, I wished I had taken the time to bring along a knife. I wanted to hurt myself. I walked to a park where there was a public outdoor pool. It wasn’t summer anymore so the pool was closed, but it was still full of water. I wondered if I could drown myself just by jumping in. I wanted him to find me, to save me, but I knew he couldn’t. It had been twenty minutes since I had left the house and there was no way he could have known where I had gone. Only, he did. I don’t know how, but he found me. I thought it was love.
“What was it about this person that captured your attention?”
“He touched me. And he told me he loved me.” I had never had that before. It was enough.
“What else?”
“He understood me, really understood me. He was crazy too, so I think that helped.” Never once did he reprimand me for my behaviour, not when I destroyed his favourite book, or told him I hated him, or tried to kill myself by overdosing on Tylenol. He never said there was anything wrong with me. He never asked me to change.
“What do you mean by crazy?” It wasn’t unusual for either one of us to be absorbed in misery and tears or hiding under a table or trying to put a hole in the wall with our fist.
“Emotional disturbances.” I was eighteen when I made my first suicide attempt. I wasn’t trying to kill myself. Everybody says that, I know, but after another fight with my boyfriend and the tears and headache that followed, all I wanted was to take a couple of Tylenol to relieve the pain. Relieve the pain. Somehow, I interpreted that as taking more Tylenol. So, I took a few more. Then I read the instructions on the bottle which said not to exceed eight tablets per day. This I interpreted as meaning eight tablets taken together would be enough to kill me. But I didn’t take them right away. I remembered how phone books had the numbers for crisis lines on the first page and I was going to call for help, but when I opened the phone book, that particular page had been torn out. So, I swallowed a few more pills to make up the eight I thought I would need. And then a few more, just to be sure. It seems so juvenile to me now. How could I have believed eleven pills would be enough to kill me when it is so obviously insufficient?
“What kind of emotional disturbances?”
“The usual, crying and fighting and such.”
“Did you cry and fight a lot?”
“We both did. Like I said, we were a little unwell.”
“So, all in all, it was a good relationship for you?”
“I thought so. Everybody else didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“They didn’t like him because he was older, I was seventeen and he was twenty-six when we met. And married.”
“Well I could see how that would cause your friends to be concerned. Though it’s not atypical for someone with your history to form an attachment to a long desired companion, particularly one who is unattainable.”
“My friends didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know what?”
“Sometimes he hit me. Not hard. There were never any bruises or anything. Once, he tried to kill me. He had a gun and he put it against my head and told me he would kill us both. It was only so we could be together. It wasn’t like he wanted to hurt me.” The thing I never told anyone was that I wanted him to kill me. I wasn’t afraid. I liked the way the hard metal pressed against the skin on my skull. I wish he had pulled the trigger. It would have saved me nine more years of suffering.
“What did you do then?” One afternoon, I took his gun out of its case, hiding underneath the bed. He was in the shower. I remember how heavy it felt in my hand, for something so small. I removed the safety, the way I had seen in movies, put the barrel in my mouth, and pulled the trigger. Unfortunately, the gun jammed because it wasn’t loaded. I searched under the bed for the bullets, but while I was looking he came back into the bedroom. He knew what I was doing, but he didn’t hit me or scold me. All he did was take the gun gently away from me and ushered me into the shower so I could calm down.
“Nothing. He didn’t kill me. Eventually, we broke up. The wife thing was causing him confusion I think.”
“Maybe it was for the best.” I’m not so sure. “I guess we need to stop for now. Have a good week.”
“Thanks.”

……….

When I was ten years old, I was sent away to spend the summer with my aunt and uncle and cousin on a farm in Manitoba. My father had been unwell since my mother died. He never said anything on the topic, but people were always commenting on how I was growing up to be just like my mother, in both form and function. I think having me around, watching me grow and resemble her a little bit more each day, was too painful of a memory for him and he needed to send me away because I was making him sad.
For the most part, my time on the farm was enjoyable. It was my first experience out of the city. Expecting to be bored, I was delighted to discover that fetching eggs for breakfast and watching cows chew cud was intoxicatingly placid. Even the first time I was witness to the decapitation of a chicken that would become my dinner, I was devoid of perfidity. After the axe sliced through its slender neck and the body and head fell to opposite sides of the chopping block, the headless bird made a fugacious attempt to reconnect itself with its dissociated head while blood still pushed into that now empty space and splattered on its white feathers.
What most caught my attention was the blood. It was beautiful. It arced from the bird’s neck in perfect Newtonian fashion. The colour was brilliant, especially when contrasted by the white feathers. What my aunt declared as disgusting while later cleaning the chicken for cooking, I interpreted as a rural Jackson Pollack.
One dry and sunny afternoon, my cousin, who was four years older than me, and I were chasing chickens when, during a restful lull of tormenting the birds, she asked me why my mother had killed herself.
Just like that, ‘Why did your mom kill herself?’ as if she were asking why my favourite colour was red, or why I like broccoli but not potatoes.
In my next breath, the air I sucked in thickened and pushed against the inside of my mouth and down my throat until it was solid, preventing the oxygen from reaching my lungs. I saw the chicken closest to me transform into hazy lines, like a picture on an old, cheap television with poor reception. Then I passed out.
I woke in my aunt and uncle’s bed. The blankets on their bed were heavy and warm. Adult. It was a grown up bed large enough for two people and too large for my small body.
My aunt’s movements resonated from the kitchen to the upstairs bedroom while she prepared, lunch? dinner? I had no idea how long I had been out. For a moment, I thought it was my mother I was hearing, that I was back home and she had never died but was downstairs preparing dinner for when my father returned home from work.
But that was only a moment. In the next instant, the memory of my mother’s death forced itself back into my consciousness. At first, there were no pictures or sounds, just an instantaneous recollection of something I had always known, but forgotten.
It was me who had found her. Thinking she was taking one of her special baths as she often did after work, I left her undisturbed when I went to use to toilet and saw her reclined in a tub of red water. I didn’t know. I apologised for disturbing her and closed the bathroom door behind me and went instead to use the downstairs bathroom (there were always spiders in there so I typically avoided using that toilet).
Shortly after, I heard my father scream. Not a scream. A catastrophic, sorrowful exhalation at the terror of having lost something precious and having his soul viciously torn from his body in the instant of that discovery.
When he found her, I was downstairs at the kitchen table coloring a picture of a rabbit in the moon from a colouring book designed to educate children on ancient myths. The story was about a rabbit who sacrificed himself in a fire to satiate a hungry Buddha and for this altruistic act, was accorded a place on the heavenly moon.
I had forgotten that story, along with everything else from that day, and now the most mundane details (the colour of the crayon I was using was green) of that moment were magnified with such intensity they overwhelmed all of my other senses. I had been put back in that day. I could even feel the waxy paper of the crayon I was holding.
Time recoiled back into the present and I heard myself screaming with the same abysmal anguish I had heard in my father the day he found my mother dead. My aunt came upstairs to check on me. I never told her what happened, what I had remembered, just that I had had a bad dream.
When the summer came to an end, I didn’t return home and I never saw my father again. He died when I was 17 and still angry, still blaming him for what had happened because someone had to be blamed.
It was a brain aneurism that killed him. A little bomb went off inside his head. They found him in his office at home, his head resting on the dark wood of his oak desk, as if he were taking a nap.
The discovery of my father’s body was made four days after his death, according to the coroner. If he hadn’t been in the habit of leaving his office window open while he worked, even in the winter, the neighbour who lived in the house next to him might never have noticed the rotting smell of his flesh wafting in the air and his death might have gone unnoticed for weeks.
I cried then, at the thought that a life could be lived and passed unknown, unwitnessed. I should have known. It should have been me that found him.
My high school allowed me to graduate, based on previous outstanding academic work, even though I refused to write my finals. I came back to Vancouver for the funeral and never returned to Manitoba.
After two months of living off my father’s inheritance in a motel on Kingsway where they never bothered to refresh the instant coffee pack, and not doing anything more productive than wandering to the corner to get coffee, I reached the conclusion I needed something distracting to occupy my mind and to extirpate the lingering memories of my parent’s deaths. So I sold my father’s house, which had been left empty since his passing, and enrolled in university.