20 Fresh misfortune

Strange to say, all this piety and fervour bore sad fruit. Instead of getting better, the misery increased, augmented by headaches that, after days of angry raging, left my head stiff as a board, and all my senses dulled. About these headaches I said no word. I had a dreadful fear of being taken out of school, where, if I met with much teasing, I also derived the greatest joy. I had jumped to the third standard, and was assured by the optimistic teacher that I should pass into the fourth at Christmas. That would place me among children of my own age, which, at the moment, represented the seventh heaven.

But, as I was to find out in the years ahead, even such a simple dream was not to be realized without obstacles. I went to bed one night feeling oddly limp and dizzy. The bed rocked under me, and the ceiling wavered and wheeling like a rift of clouds. There was a queer, sickening pressure in my chest which, when I drifted towards sleep, had a terrifying effect. It was as though some deeper wisdom inside me were warning me not to lose the reins of consciousness. But at last I dozed off, comforted by the sound of mamma’s even breathing, enheartened that her big bed was no farther away than the opposite wall.

No words can describe the hideous sensation that shook me awake, sending me bolt upright with a strangled cry on my lips and a gush of something hot and crimson spraying my cotton nightdress. My impulse was to reach that other bed, but when I tried to move, the world went black. But not before I had seen mamma, who must have jumped at my scream, peering at me in the white moonlight with helpless fright in her eyes.

Poor mamma! For an otherwise intelligent woman, she was always sorely at sea where illness was concerned. She seemed as incapable of the simplest elements of nursing as father was of acquiring business sense. Her lexicon of healing consisted of stuffing you with food, rubbing you with goose-grease and turpentine, and rolling you in a hot blanket; where, the longer you smothered the better she loved you, and the more certain she felt of eventual recovery. Freely she showered her tenderness, had absolutely no fear of contagious diseases; but, young though I was at this time, I had long ago discovered that the sight of blood threw mamma into utter confusion. So now, fighting the most frightening giddiness, I struggled to slip off my gown—no doubt I was dying, but at least mamma need not touch that dreadful garment.

Somehow, the night passed, and a bright day dawned, clear and cold, and no sign of the golden chariot. I must have slept, for my first thought was that I must have had a nightmare. I was alone in the room, with the usual comforting sounds coming from the kitchen. Cautiously I slipped to the floor, and found, to my vast surprise, that except for a funny sort of hollow feeling in my stomach, I seemed no worse for the trying experience. Then a new fright laid hold of me. I suddenly remembered Jorun Halson, and her disorganized insides. I recalled, with rising agitation, all the muttered whisperings about that poor creature who was less than a woman and only half a wife.

My hateful doom was fixed! I studied my little carcass with apprehensive eyes, trying to find some outward sign of the topsy-turvyness within. So far as I could discern, my small flat chest and little white stomach exhibited no visible marks of villainous treachery. To all intents and purposes, I seemed to be intact; a bit wobbly in the knees, to be sure, and singularly inept with my benumbed fingers as I drew on my clothes, but otherwise unchanged. That was comfort of sorts, and yet I could not escape that room fast enough. I longed, as never before, for the warmth of the kitchen, the reassuring hum of the old copper kettle, and the welcoming purr of my precious cat. Mamma glanced up, startled, when I came stealing into the kitchen and slid my chair by the table.

‘Are you better? Perhaps you shouldn’t have got up,’ said she, eyeing me anxiously, yet speaking harshly. As though, for once, she were weary to death of my ailing capers. Dear me, I had not expected any such reception! Cod-liver oil, and another cat skin, perhaps, but not an implied rebuke. Something cantankerous had come over mamma as well as myself—one of the evil visitations of which both Mrs. Halson and Stina spoke with such deep conviction. It often happened, said they in old families which had a host of sins to their credit.

Yes indeed, cases of sudden madness sometimes broke out in the best of families; fits befell the sturdiest fellows, and pious mortals, who hitherto had lived by faith, and crossed themselves before and after meat, were, all of a twinkling, plunged into riotous iniquity. Cattle sickened; ewes forsook their lambs; the hay whizzed away on a withering blast, and ravens, by twos and threes, appeared upon the roof-tree, croaking doom and damnation. All this, you understand, through the retributive machinations of some drear afturganga who could not rest in holy bliss till judgement day because the evil wrought against it was still unrighted.

That there were more than enough sinners between me and Father Adam I was fully aware: not just the simple, ragtag transgressors whose sins were meanness of mind and mustiness of soul, but lusty brutes, who had cracked skulls as lightly as eggshells, and thought no more of stealing a pretty wench than of turning a nithing-verse against their enemies. Sadder still, there had been women with hearts no softer than flint, whose hands had more often caressed an avenging blade than a baby’s poll. If Stina were half-way right, there must be a sizable company of moping spooks to pinch and pester me and mine for the sins of our fathers.

Quite possibly, I should not have hit upon this plausible explanation of the curse which had pounced upon me in the dead of night if now, in broad daylight, I had not been confronted with such strange behaviour in my parent. Astonishment and the sting of the hurt quickened my perceptions.

For the first time, I saw my mother, not just as my mother, but as a stout little woman with a pale mask of face behind which thoughts and emotions in which I had no part moved with vexed urgency. Standing there, stirring the porridge, a troubled frown knotting her brow, she seemed just as alien and much more remote than Katie’s moon-faced mamma. In one of those lightning flashes that illuminate the darkness of the fumbling mind, I suddenly realized what made her so difficult, engaged in all her vital energies, and made me and everything else a troublesome hindrance. Mamma was going to have another baby again!

Heretofore, I had never thought about it. Some one was always having a baby, or burying a baby. It was a commonplace nuisance, that meant a row of bottles to be scalded, and diapers blowing on the line. It meant a smelly lamp in the bedroom kept burning all night in case the baby needed changing—it meant a hack at the door, and another small cross in the lone green field under the stars. But now, for some inexplicable reason, it meant a cleavage between me and mamma. It set up a kind of quivering horror in my whole being to have suddenly plumbed the alarming possibilities of the female body; to have forced upon me, unsought, the staggering knowledge that all the while that mamma sat quietly knitting and spinning a tale from The Thousand and One Nights for our cheer and amusement, her woman’s body, like a creature apart was pursuing its own creative mysteries.

But the thought terrified me much more than the threat of a legion of ghosts. Had I dared, had my legs not been like water, I should have run back to the chilly solitude of the bedroom, which, only a few months ago I had mistakenly believed was the only haunt of malicious magic. I buried my face in the cat’s furry warmth, tearfully conscious of my own little miseries: that I had a horrid pain in my breast, a dull aching in my head, and was practically orphaned besides.

‘Put the cat down,’ said my strange mother curtly. ‘I sometimes wonder if you don’t get sick messing with those everlasting animals. No telling where they prowl. I declare, I’m at my wit’s end. You’ll have to see a doctor. If you think you can manage it, you’d better go at once to your Aunt Haldora. She will know where to take you. She knows everything—or so your father believes. You’d better eat something first. Would you like a boiled egg?’

Holy Mary! The exclamation dear to Katie flew into my mind, but, happily for me, stayed there. An egg! Of all the foods that soured and sickened my stomach, eggs were the worst.

‘No thank you—I’m not very hungry,’ I whispered.

‘That’s another thing! You won’t eat. Even as a baby, you set yourself against milk and eggs. How do you expect to build up strength that way?’

I said nothing. Somehow, it no longer seemed important to attempt to defend myself; to explain, to no purpose, how violently, and sometimes successfully, my perverse little stomach dealt with those sainted foods. I really scarcely listened to what mamma was saying, for I had unconsciously withdrawn into myself to escape hearing the numbered list of ailments, past and present, which I was supposed to trot out for the doctor’s benefit, so that he would know how to deal with me. I tried to eat, but the bread stuck in my throat, and just to look at the porridge swimming in milk was nauseating. The best I could do was to dig up a spoonful or two under the white sea, and gulp down two cups of coffee.

Yet, I would gladly have devoured a dozen breakfasts to put off the business of starting on an errand that scared me to death. There was nothing to be gained by dawdling, however. Nor the slightest use in telling mamma I was such a coward. As quickly as I could, I put on my things and left the house. The air, cold and sharp, and for once blessedly dry, cleared my head a little, but my feet and legs needed a deal of encouraging. There was a queer, nagging pain under my left breast that increased as I plodded on. Sometimes it caught me unawares, piercing so sharply that I had to stop, frightened because the street, with its familiar lamp-posts and heaps of dirty snow, grew indistinct and wavery, like water stirred with a stick. I was almost glad for these pauses, which furnished an excuse for loitering, holding back the difficult moment when I must show myself in this fresh humiliation to my majestic relative. For, to tell the truth, it was the thought of the coming interview, not the giddy weakness, that tormented me. My aunt had not thought very highly of me heretofore; how much more despicable I must now appear, coming with this fresh tale of peculiar iniquity. Moreover, it struck me as a sort of spiritual insult to both of us that I should have to inflict such an intimate confidence upon her. Why on earth should she be burdened with further details of my weakness? Why must I be driven to bare my shame to the one person whose good opinion I secretly desired above all others? For the first time in my life, I thought of mamma with angry bitterness, and a little seed of doubt and incipient enmity was sown in my heart. Then and there I resolved that, whatever further ills should come upon me, I would keep them to myself—yes, and not only disappointments, but my innermost thoughts, should be hidden, for I was beginning to realize that even a mother could be astonishingly blind to the emotional temper of her child.

But I need not have fretted so foolishly over my aunt’s reception. When I ashamedly crept into her comfortable, quiet house, she looked up sharply from the book she was reading. ‘My dear child!’ she cried rising with amazing spring for one so heavy, and, before I could say a word, had me stowed in a chair by the glowing heater.

Gently, her hand stole over my forehead, my cheek, felt my pulse. ‘Now, sit where you are—sit perfectly still,’ she commanded, and sailed off to the kitchen for a glass of water, into which she put some spirits from her medicine closet. When I had gulped it down, holding the glass with both hands to keep it from shaking, her patience cracked a little.

‘What on earth are you doing out, in your condition? Don’t you know you’re sick? Doesn’t your mother know it?’

Miserable to extinction, I nodded. ‘Mamma sent me. She thought—maybe you would take me to—to the doctor.’

‘Sometimes your mother—’ she began crossly, then checked herself. ‘Well, well, it’s not your fault. But no one with a grain of sense would send a child in such a mess into the street by itself! It’s stupid! It’s heartless! There, there, child, I’m not scolding. I’ll say no more. Now, tell aunty all about it.’

Well, that was not so easy. The tongue clove to the roof of my mouth, and, where before I had been chilled to the marrow, I was suddenly bathed in scalding perspiration. No confession ever came more hardly, or cost more pangs of cutting shame. But at last it was done. After which, it was almost joy to sit huddled in my faded blanket coat, letting the peace of the quiet house pour over me in comforting vibrations, while aunt gave orders to the cook, and then hustled into her wraps.

We were not obliged to wait in the doctor’s outer office, for my aunt had telephoned that she was pressed for time, and must ask an immediate interview. Consequently, we sailed through the waiting-room without so much as a glance at the other patients, my formidable relative a mountain of strength, with me clinging to her might like a fluttering sparrow, fearful of everything and everybody.

Fortunately for my shrinking spirit, Dr. Keys was a softspoken, stoop-shouldered man, with a kind, greyish face, and grave, quiet eyes. Just to meet those eyes had the instant effect of easing my twitching nerves, and, somehow, simplified the business of slipping out of my frock and dropping the top of my petticoat. Then, too, I was spared from speech. My aunt did the talking, making short enough work of the necessary explanations. In conclusion, she charged the doctor:

‘Give her a good going over. But don’t go putting sickly ideas into her head. There’s more than enough trash under her bonnet as it is!’

Dr. Keys, who knew and understood my aunt very well, chuckled, and proceeded with his mysterious tappings. Obediently, I said my ‘Oh’s’ and ‘Ah’s,’ now loud, now whispered, and tried not to anticipate the forthcoming verdict—hoping against hope that Katie’s holy saints would hide from this miracle man the ultimate dark doings of my perverse insides.

‘It’s the heart,’ said Dr. Keys, putting down the stethoscope, and turning to my aunt. ‘Strained. Rather bad—have to be careful.’

‘The heart! But doctor, that haemorrhage? The child has a terrible cough,’ my aunt objected.

‘Bronchial—not the real trouble.’ Dr. Keys, who apparently eschewed unnecessary words, turned to his desk and began writing on a little pad. Then, as in afterthought, he remarked: ‘Violent cough seldom tubercular. Complicates things, though. Here you are, little lady!’ he smiled on me, holding out the bit of paper. ‘Get that filled. Mind now, that you do as I say: no school till spring; no running; never skip; when the queer feeling comes, stand still; count ten; better still, sit down.’

None of which mattered, except that injunction about school. Yet such was my relief at having escaped the fate of Jorun Halson, I dared not complain. No doubt at all but the saints had saved me! At the very first opportunity I must tell Katie, and, if possible, slip her a penny for the Saint Anthony poor-box.

Buoyed up by this glorious thought, which translated my escape into the nature of a miracle, I found the trip back home less difficult, although the street seemed bent upon upsetting me with its mischievous wavering. Then, too, I was rather proud, and vastly comforted to know that I had at last developed a really ladylike ailment. It was so very fashionable to suffer with a delicate heart! Mamma, much to my dismay, was not the least impressed.

‘What next?’ said she. ‘What a country, where even the children get weak hearts! I never heard of such a thing. Never. Well, to bed you better go. I’ll bring you something to eat.’

A cold reception, thought I, slinking up the stairs. Later, I consoled myself with the brilliant assumption that if I were slighted too much I might reasonably expect to go off in a fine burst of emotion, like the poor gentleman whose wife had spurned him for a useless gallant. Such romantic fancies were not of lasting compensation. The weeks dragged slowly by with monotonous weariness. Something vital had gone out of the house. It had the depressing atmosphere of rooms that have been stripped of the homely treasures that give them living personality. No doubt what I missed were those pleasant hours when mamma used to tell her dramatic yarns to the youngsters in Winnipeg. Here there were no youthful contacts, no companionship of the sort that mamma deeply prized.

To make matters worse, my cognizance of her condition had erected a wall of inhibiting reserve between us. However hard I affected to thrust the thought aside, she remained a stranger, in whom it was impossible to recapture the image of the mother I had worshipped as an entity untouchable as the angels. Strange though it may seem, my attachment had not been of the affections, but of the mind. Mamma was my unquestioned voice of authority, my inspiration and source of wisdom. I had not thought of her in terms of human weakness, nor expected from her the kind of easy sympathy I had found in papa. Consequently, I was completely dazed by the shocking realization that even mamma was not exempt from the arbitrary fates. For the same intuition which had quickened my first understanding left me in no doubt as to my mother’s own secret resentment. She had had enough of babies. Yet, here she was, absorbed and utilized in the unwelcome business, and daily more oppressed by the approaching event.

It was all strange beyond believing, and aroused within me no end of confusing speculations. I had the gloomiest forebodings that nothing would ever be quite the same again; that I should never more feel certain of any preconceived idea or eventuality. Having reached such a melancholy solution, I was not particularly upset when I learned that Christmas would not be celebrated in our house this year. Nor was I greatly astonished when even the cat disappeared. Cats, I told myself mournfully, were independent souls, and not to be pressed into conformity with human gloom. No doubt, wise pussy would find herself a more cheery haven.

On Christmas Day, Aunt Haldora made a hurried visit, bringing a blast of icy air and a whirl of snow that feathered to the floor as she shook herself with characteristic vigour.

‘Now then, woman,’ said she addressing mamma. ‘What do you mean by this dawdling? You might have finished with the business before Christmas. Yes, indeed, you might have managed better. Now I suppose there’ll be no getting you to help me eat the stuffed goose.’

Mamma received the banter in good part. Yet, I had a distressing conviction that something sharp as a sword flashed between them. That the air quivered under the shock of clashing temperaments, whose differences were too fixed for words. I could not have explained the why or the wherefore of this sudden notion, but I knew beyond any possibility of doubt that it implied some sort of ancient antagonism, some ineradicable dislike that persisted in spite of their obvious respect for each other.

Mamma put on the kettle for coffee as usual, and I set out the china cups.

‘Foolishness!’ cried my aunt. ‘I don’t need any coffee. And I’ve got to rush. I’m expecting a call from my grocer’s wife any moment. Ja, that’s why I came up here. I’m wondering which of you is going to interrupt my dinner. Well, Lars, what do you say to joining me? If I know my dear brother, you’re not much use around the house. Ingiborg will be just as well off without you.’

Well, papa hemmed and hawed a little. He ought not to leave mother alone, he said. There was no one to send in an emergency alarm. Brother Minty had gone off for the day with a group of boys, and there was no telling when he’d be home. No doubt the whole lot of them would be hanging around the harbour until sunrise—they talked of nothing but ships and the sea.

‘At least, that’s what I gather from Minty’s chatter,’ finished papa, and took a pinch of snuff.

‘Yes, and you encourage him,’ mamma spoke impatiently. ‘You never say a word against all that silly talk of the sea.’

‘Well, what’s the use of talking when a boy gets that kind of idea in his head?’ my aunt interposed defensively. ‘You don’t imagine I wanted Finny to rush off to war? But, at that, you’ve got to let the youngsters find their own legs somehow. One way’s no worse than another. Well, I must be off. I’ll expect you before six, Lars. As for you, my fine woman, if you’ve got any sense, go to bed and get some rest.’