Unbound, page 6
“Good morning!”
Startled, I jumped out of the chair, the heavy book spilling to the floor.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” A store clerk with spiky orange hair and an overwhelming toothy smile leaned down to pick up my book. Glancing at the title, she handed it back to me. I felt my cheeks flush and got to my feet quickly.
“Just wanted to let you know that all of our reference books are 30% off today,” she said enthusiastically.
“Thanks,” I said. Feeling my cheeks flame, I made a hasty retreat to the front door, dropping the book on a display table near the exit. Ridiculous, I chided myself. Did I really think I could find out more about Eaden from a book?
Back outside, I wandered along the streets, content to watch people moving about their lives. Recognizing it was inevitable, I let my thoughts turn to Eaden again. I realized that he had probably spent a good part of his very long life doing just this – watching people live. There was irony here, that we had this in common. For the last five years of my life, I’d been too afraid to participate, content to glimpse the lives of others through books or from the sidelines. Quite the opposite, Eaden was forced to be a passive witness, longing so much for a typical existence that he had secretly shadowed my family just to feel tied in some way to the human condition. It suddenly struck me as wasteful, that I had squandered so many opportunities to be an active participant in my own life, while his demanded a kind of isolation he regretted.
The ringing of my cellphone pulled me away from continuing this line of thinking.
“Rachel! Where are you?” Lacey asked, her usually loud voice louder than ever. “Why aren’t you at work?”
“How do you know I’m not at work?” I silently congratulated myself on avoiding her first question.
“Because I called looking for you and nearly had a coronary when they said that you weren’t there. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I called in sick.”
“You don’t sound sick.”
“Well, I’m not, really,” I said, feeling the guilt and anxiety resurface. My chest tightened.
“Are you kidding me?”
Wincing, I pulled the phone away from my ear.
“This is fantastic! So, what are you doing? Reorganizing your bookshelves?”
“I’m downtown,” I said, slightly annoyed with her insinuation. Was I that predictable?
“You’re downtown,” she repeated, sceptical. A wondering note crept into her voice. “Rachel...did you meet a boy?”
I was glad she couldn’t see the blush I felt colouring my cheeks. She was uncanny.
“Um, no.” Truthfully, no one would ever call Eaden a boy.
“Is it that nice boy Adam?” she asked, her voice a perfect imitation of my mother. Lacey thought Adam was too dull for words. My mother thought Adam was my future husband.
“No, I haven’t spoken to Adam since he left.” After a lukewarm romance last year, we’d broken up before he left for college in September. Truth was, after the nervousness and the newness had subsided, I’d never felt much more than fondness for him. Our goodbye had been friendly rather than tragic. He had thought he was saving me heartache by suggesting our break up; I was relieved I wouldn’t need to make excuses to avoid staying in his dorm room.
“You’re holding out on me, Ray.”
I sighed. “Can we talk about this tonight?” It was Friday, which meant Lacey would be coming over for dinner. My mom always took the evening and overnight shifts at the hospital on the weekend, giving the other nurses with families time with their loved ones.
“Okay, but I’m going to want details.”
“Fine, yes. Later.” Anything to end this conversation before I had time to think about what I was going to say.
Hanging up, I wondered how on earth I was going to hold her off. Eaden had not explicitly asked me not to say anything to anyone, but this certainly wasn’t something I could explain, seeing as I didn’t really understand it myself. Although, I had to admit, Lacey was one of the only people I could think of who would actually believe me if I did tell her.
Without really intending to, I found myself wandering closer and closer to the park, my feet clearly speaking for my heart. It was hard to believe that only yesterday, Eaden and I had spent the morning together. Sensing it was pointless to try to keep him from my thoughts, I gave in, some part of me hoping that I would feel closer to him. Some part of me hoping that despite his announcement that he was leaving, he would be waiting for me there.
Plunking myself down on the same bench we’d sat on yesterday, I watched as two small children ran circles around each other on the grass. Squealing delightedly, they chased each other, only to fall down and start all over again. The bigger child occasionally helped the smaller one to her feet and laughed wildly when she fell down again. Their play seemed so effortless that I was jealous of their uncomplicated friendship. It had always been more difficult for me to feel at ease with people outside of my family. Hopelessly self-conscious, I was too reserved, too afraid to be vulnerable and take risks. Even Lacey had to make a supreme effort to stay connected with me. It was due only to her stubborn and spirited nature that we remained friends. Others would have given up. Others had.
If Jacob had lived, if I’d had a brother to share my life with, would that still have been true? Would he have provided a bridge across the gap that existed between me and the rest of the world? Or was I once again imagining a guardian where none existed, as Alex had suggested? Selfishly, I would have liked the opportunity to find out what his life might have meant for my own. If Jacob’s life might have made me feel less afraid of loss.
My attention was caught by a smiling mother sitting close by on the grass playing pat-a-cake with her baby. The tiny girl sat unsteady and unsupported, her chubby arms and legs waving frantically with glee. She giggled uproariously as her mother tickled her tummy at the end of the rhyme and then caught her smoothly as she toppled over to one side, grinning. It occurred to me that Eaden may have been here, watching my mother and I play, just as I now watched this twosome. Did he sit on this very bench while we played on the grass? Did she play with me at all? I wondered if my mother had ever seemed that happy.
* * * * *
“The training wheels need to come off, Joel,” my mother had announced as my father walked in the front door. I had heard him sigh as set his briefcase down.
Slumping lower in the dining room chair where I did my homework, I glowered at my mother’s back where she prepared dinner in the kitchen. The sounds of my father’s footsteps in the kitchen were followed by a gleeful shriek of protest.
“Cut that out!” My mother swatted him with the dish towel, two pink spots on her cheeks standing out against the olive green scrubs she still wore.
“Hey, Rabbit,” my father said as he leaned down and kissed my cheek. His scratchy beard and moustache made it hard for me to continue to pout; it made me want to giggle.
“How was your day?”
Crossing my arms, I glared at my mother who had come to stand in the door frame. “Bad.”
He raised an eyebrow and my mother threw her hands in the air. “Rachel is sulking because I reminded her she can’t ride her bicycle at the fair unless those training wheels come off.” She emphasized the last two words.
The removal of my training wheels had become a contentious issue last summer when, after a bad fall and a skinned knee, I had begged to have them put back on. Every attempt to remove them this spring had resulted in tears. My mother, ever practical, had suggested we work towards a deadline. That deadline was up last week.
My father pulled a chair up to the table.
“When’s the bike fair, Rabbit?”
“Friday.” I said the word like an accusation.
“That gives us three days to get you riding your bike without those training wheels. That’s a lot of practise, don’t you think?”
“But I can’t.” The tears began building and my throat ached, but I was determined not to let her see me cry.
“Sure you can. Listen, pack up your schoolwork while I go get changed and we’ll practice before dinner.”
My eyes on the table, I nodded as my father left the room.
Sitting in silence, I refused to look up, knowing my mother still stood in the doorway.
“Rachel,” her voice was gentle, “none of the other second graders have training wheels. Don’t you want to be like the other kids?”
Schooling myself to statue- like stillness, I counted by threes in my head.
“Suit yourself,” she sighed and went back into the kitchen.
* * * * *
Almost all of my childhood memories were of my mother in her scrubs. She would come home from her shifts in the ER exhausted, but after a short nap, she would tackle the laundry or housecleaning before showering or changing. She had always seemed grimly efficient, taking little joy in either work or home, but accomplishing the tasks that were required of her.
My father would “help” by taking me outside to play. We built tree forts and splashed in the creek that ran though our backyard while my mother made our beds. My relationship with her had never been easy. Whereas my father was unabashed in his affection, my mother, like me, was more reserved, introverted. She wasn’t cold, only more distant, and as a child, I hadn’t the ability or the awareness to know the difference. When I think of her back then, it was as if some transparent barrier separated her from us, allowing us to see her and hear her, but never truly feel her presence.
Older now, I understood better how deeply my brother’s death affected her. She never truly rejoined my father and me, after he died. What must it have been like for her to be the outsider in our family of three, when instead, there should have been four? Did she imagine that if Jacob had survived, he would have been hers, as I was my father’s? Saddened, I realized that my mother’s life, like my own, had been shaped by death, first by my brother’s, and then by my father’s.
Stomach heavy with guilt, I finally recognized this link between us where I had long assumed none existed. Thinking of her, I dialled her cell, wanting in some way to reach out to her, to feel connected.
She answered on the third ring, sounding harried. “Hi Rachel, what’s up?”
“Nothing...just calling to say hello,” I said, trying to sound casual. It didn’t work.
“Is everything okay?” her tone became worried.
“Everything’s fine, Mom, really. I just haven’t seen you in awhile.”
“Oh, okay then.” The silence stretched. “Any plans for tonight?”
“It’s Friday, Lacey’s coming over.”
“Oh, no dates?” she asked, “Have you spoken to Adam?”
My shoulders tensed. My mother had been pushing Adam on me since the tenth grade after he had called once to ask about homework. Like a dog with a bone, it didn’t seem to register when I tried to tell her we were just friends now.
“No, I haven’t talked to Adam in months.” I tried to keep the exasperation to a minimum.
“Okay, just wondering,” her voice was high with pretended indifference. “He’s really a nice boy, Rachel,” she added lightly, but I could hear her disappointment.
I refused to take the bait. This conversation was very old.
More silence.
“Did you see Alex this week?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said quietly, annoyed now. “I’m still seeing her.”
“Is it working? Are you feeling better?” I suppressed another sigh. My mother had somehow gotten the idea that my therapy was a panacea. I think she imagined that Alex simply knew the right combination of words, like a magic spell, that would make my problems disappear. Not that she understood what my problems were. What she really wanted to know was how soon I would be ready to go to university. She tried to hide it, but I knew she was embarrassed by my anxiety, as well as by my inability to act like a regular teenager.
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Listen Mom, I’ve got to get going.”
“Sure honey,” she sounded distracted again. “I’m working a double and won’t be home until tomorrow morning. Tell Lacey I said hi.”
Hanging up, I pushed down the same vague sense of loss I always felt after talking to my mother. It was as if every conversation only served to remind me that we’d lost all of the people we loved. I had tried to explain this to Alex, tried to describe the tenuous and fragile relationship my mother and I had forged, built upon the graves of others.
Alex had listened empathetically and nodded. “The cupboard is still empty,” she said knowingly.
“The cupboard?”
“Just an analogy.” She shrugged. “You’re like a hungry person who keeps opening up the same empty cupboard, desperately hoping that this time it will be full of food.”
She had looked at me with compassion. “Your mother may never be able to give you the care or comfort you need, the kind of unconditional affection your Dad gave you...the cupboard is empty,” she repeated. “Maybe it’s time to look somewhere else.”
* * * * *
Lacey was not nearly as difficult as I had feared she would be. As we sat on the floor of my bedroom eating Thai, she only raised an eyebrow when I tried, again, to tell her that I had simply wanted to take a day off.
She eyed me doubtfully. “Alright, have it your way. I know that look. But,” she added significantly, “I will be the first person you spill the beans to.”
I flashed her a grateful smile.
Luckily for me, Lacey was easily distracted and she launched into a description of her latest art project, a post-feminist sculpture made entirely out of high-heeled shoes glued together. “I’m calling it No Pain, No Gain,” she said proudly, pulling out her cellphone to show me the pictures she’d taken of it.
Relaxing, I let myself enjoy her company, realizing she was actually going to let it go. For now.
Catching up on each other’s lives over Phad Thai, we fell back easily into the patterns we had created in childhood, until, glancing at her watch, Lacey jumped up and checked herself out in the hallway mirror. Today her hair was red, and her clothes were black. Next week, it would likely be reversed.
“I’ve got to go, Ray. There are a bunch of us heading to Gallagher’s tonight.” She looked hopeful. “I don’t suppose you’ll join us?”
I flashed a wan smile. “No,” I said sincerely, “but thank you.”
Lacey always asked. I almost always declined.
She frowned, but nodded. “Okay, then.” With a quick kiss on my cheek, she left.
Watching her from the window, I wanted to call out to her as she made her way down the path. For one moment I wanted to move as easily through my life as Lacey moved through hers. But the words caught in my throat and died before they made it to my lips.
Not tonight, I promised myself, but soon.
* * * * *
As it turned out, I did end up rearranging my bookshelves. My book collection had expanded beyond the confines of my storage unit once again, and I went through the stacks, separating what I would keep forever from books that could be traded in at the used bookstore down the street. Although I worked in a library, I rarely borrowed books. There was something about the possession of a book that was important to me. Owning it gave me proprietary rights on the story. It meant that I could read as quickly or as slowly as I liked. No expectations, no deadlines, no proscriptions on bent spines or crumpled pages. I was not gentle on my books. I read while I ate, I read in the bathtub. At night, I rolled over on top of my books that had fallen between the covers as I dozed. For me, the worn pages and tattered covers were a sign of devotion. Like the Velveteen Rabbit, the books I read were only real when they were loved. And I understood that love was not always gentle.
Sunday was gloomy. Staring out of my bedroom window at the rain slashing through the trees, a melancholy fugue settled over me. I was actually looking forward to returning to work the next day, eager to be distracted from my thoughts of Eaden, and the doubts that were beginning to cloud my judgment. It had felt exciting and mysterious when his very existence had seemed uncertain, his appearances unpredictable. Knowing that he was real meant that I could really lose him, the same way I had lost the other men in my life.
The morning of my father’s funeral, we had stood outside the church in the pouring rain, watching the men who carried my father’s coffin walk towards the open hatch of the black limousine. The pallbearers were dressed handsomely, long dark coats to protect their suits and fedoras atop their heads. That had been my father’s request. Fedoras.
Rain mixed with my tears as I recognized my Uncle James among them, his stoic face broken with grief, and my cousin Neil, gangly legs marking his transition from boy to man.
Longing for Jacob, I was angry at him for not having to experience this loss. What would he have looked like on this day; bearing the coffin of the man he would have called his father? Needing him, missing him, I mourned, too, for the consolation he would never be able to give me.
Some of the pallbearers were church employees; present to ensure that loved ones did not stumble in their grief and drop the heavy burden they carried. As the men placed my father’s coffin in the long black car, I lost what little control I’d been able to maintain. Wracking sobs punched up from the pit of my stomach to find their way into the world and hunching over to contain them, I wrapped my arms around myself and sobbed desperately for the men in my life to come back to me.
