pictures of Alfred and Joe taken throughout the years. Alfred and Joe, her linchpins.
She awakens hours later, sunlight flooding the bedroom’s west-facing window. When she stretches to ease the tension in her body, the heat and movement releases the odour of their lovemaking from the sheets. She realizes she’s hungry. Avocado and Melba toast. All the necessary building blocks her cells need for healthy and normal reproduction. Yes! she says, in the unlikely event that cells respond favourably to a positive frame of mind. Divide and conquer. Ha, she says, and grins.
But when she gets up and sees the plastic bag lying on the floor, she groans, then grabs it by the bottom and upends it, her folly dropping in a crumpled heap. What possessed her to buy the clothes? And where will she putthem? The closet and drawer under the bed are already jammed; some of the clothes have never been worn, a blazer, blouses she’d bought on sale at Jones New York still have the price tags attached. Sell them. Take them to Clara’s Boutique. The idea, at first startling, begins to grow. Of course. She could end up with more money than what she’d spent.
The silver fox, she thinks, as she rifles through the closet. She hasn’t worn the fur jacket for years, given that fur is fur, and it makes her look like a bloated marshmallow. It was one of Joe’s first real gifts, followed by the blue leather parka he paid too much for in an Edmonton leather store, and which she has also seldom worn because it’s too heavy, like lugging a pregnant walrus around on her back.
In her search she comes across the fern-printed sundress and remembers the bolero she bought. She takes the dress out and drapes it across the bed, then quickly strips. When she reaches for the bolero on the floor, she sees herself in the mirror closet door.
She straightens, runs her fingers across the scar, the silver ridge on the bronze geography of her abdomen, silky smooth to the touch. What kind of mother would she have been? She thinks of the three shoppers in the second-hand store, the forbearance and generosity of the two older women toward the youngest. She remembers Joe standing at the foot of her hospital bed, white-faced, his lips moving as he prayed silently while Pastor Ken and Maryanne prayed aloud that her hemorrhaging would stop. They read from the Bible of the miracles performed by Jesus, including the one of the woman who had bled for twelve years, and who believed that if she only touched the hem of hisgarment, she would be healed.
Thy faith has made thee whole
, Jesus told her, and she was.
But Laurie’s bleeding didn’t stop and they lost their baby. And soon after that she lost her uterus, and the question: What kind of mother would she have been, had been answered for her. Oh ye of little faith. The Lewises were a constant reminder of her failure, and she was relieved when they left Winnipeg.
She returns the sundress to the closet without trying it on, then slips into a sweater and jeans, thinking that they’ll soon need to find a laundromat. When she goes into the bathroom, the air is heavy with the incriminating smell of hair colour. She’d meant to take out the garbage after clearing it from the bed, and forgot. She reminds herself to do so now as she fills the sink with water, then dabs gingerly at her face, yearning for a stream of hot water against her skin. She’s craving protein; perhaps if Joe is on to more lucrative work, dinner tonight will be more substantial. Seafood, or a thick rare steak at Montana’s. Perhaps they’ll celebrate with a bottle of their house wine, the Australian shiraz.
She unhooks the key lanyard from the drawer knob in the kitchen and loops it about her neck, carries the garbage can outside, weaving among the parked vehicles and over to the barrel set against the light standard. The lot is almost full now and like a circus the way people hurry toward the mall as though afraid they’ll miss something. She takes the
She awakens hours later, sunlight flooding the bedroom’s west-facing window. When she stretches to ease the tension in her body, the heat and movement releases the odour of their lovemaking from the sheets. She realizes she’s hungry. Avocado and Melba toast. All the necessary building blocks her cells need for healthy and normal reproduction. Yes! she says, in the unlikely event that cells respond favourably to a positive frame of mind. Divide and conquer. Ha, she says, and grins.
But when she gets up and sees the plastic bag lying on the floor, she groans, then grabs it by the bottom and upends it, her folly dropping in a crumpled heap. What possessed her to buy the clothes? And where will she putthem? The closet and drawer under the bed are already jammed; some of the clothes have never been worn, a blazer, blouses she’d bought on sale at Jones New York still have the price tags attached. Sell them. Take them to Clara’s Boutique. The idea, at first startling, begins to grow. Of course. She could end up with more money than what she’d spent.
The silver fox, she thinks, as she rifles through the closet. She hasn’t worn the fur jacket for years, given that fur is fur, and it makes her look like a bloated marshmallow. It was one of Joe’s first real gifts, followed by the blue leather parka he paid too much for in an Edmonton leather store, and which she has also seldom worn because it’s too heavy, like lugging a pregnant walrus around on her back.
In her search she comes across the fern-printed sundress and remembers the bolero she bought. She takes the dress out and drapes it across the bed, then quickly strips. When she reaches for the bolero on the floor, she sees herself in the mirror closet door.
She straightens, runs her fingers across the scar, the silver ridge on the bronze geography of her abdomen, silky smooth to the touch. What kind of mother would she have been? She thinks of the three shoppers in the second-hand store, the forbearance and generosity of the two older women toward the youngest. She remembers Joe standing at the foot of her hospital bed, white-faced, his lips moving as he prayed silently while Pastor Ken and Maryanne prayed aloud that her hemorrhaging would stop. They read from the Bible of the miracles performed by Jesus, including the one of the woman who had bled for twelve years, and who believed that if she only touched the hem of hisgarment, she would be healed.
Thy faith has made thee whole
, Jesus told her, and she was.
But Laurie’s bleeding didn’t stop and they lost their baby. And soon after that she lost her uterus, and the question: What kind of mother would she have been, had been answered for her. Oh ye of little faith. The Lewises were a constant reminder of her failure, and she was relieved when they left Winnipeg.
She returns the sundress to the closet without trying it on, then slips into a sweater and jeans, thinking that they’ll soon need to find a laundromat. When she goes into the bathroom, the air is heavy with the incriminating smell of hair colour. She’d meant to take out the garbage after clearing it from the bed, and forgot. She reminds herself to do so now as she fills the sink with water, then dabs gingerly at her face, yearning for a stream of hot water against her skin. She’s craving protein; perhaps if Joe is on to more lucrative work, dinner tonight will be more substantial. Seafood, or a thick rare steak at Montana’s. Perhaps they’ll celebrate with a bottle of their house wine, the Australian shiraz.
She unhooks the key lanyard from the drawer knob in the kitchen and loops it about her neck, carries the garbage can outside, weaving among the parked vehicles and over to the barrel set against the light standard. The lot is almost full now and like a circus the way people hurry toward the mall as though afraid they’ll miss something. She takes the
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