Authors: Allison Baggio
I lie on my back looking up at the stars. I think I see the Big Dipper, carved out on top of the dark sky. I close my eyes and feel the sun come out behind my eyelids. Blue sky being overtaken by clouds heavy with rain, rain that lands on my face, coating me with wet. A grumble of thunder, then nothing but sky again. A faded moon I can see in the light. Heaven?
I can smell the skin behind my mother's ear when I hug her, sweet like a puppy's paws.
The air above is getting closer, like a fog coming down. My body is sinking into the earth, back in. Back into nothing. The worms slither over me now, wrapping me up like a present. They are comforting, not gross like I would have expected. I turn my head from inside the dirt and see my mother's face, lifeless, pale, bony, eyes open, lips parted. I scream and the earth fills my mouth. And then, only open space and a brightness that engulfs me.
I land back in my house. My whole house as it was. In my parent's bed with the sheets wrapped around me like I'm a suffocating baby. I open my eyes to my name being spoken.
“Maya.” A man's voice. My father's voice.
“Maya.” My name being sung this time, from downstairs. My name from my mother's warm lips. “Maya, we're down here! We're back.”
I sit up and open my eyes, moving my numb body to the edge of the bed. There are no sounds from outside, only silence and my feet pounding on the carpet, and down the stairs, to find them standing in front of the door. Side by side, my parents, with smiles, holding hands, with pitying eyes. I stand in front of them and they stroke my hair and my face.
“Maya, it was all a dream. It's all over,” my father says. “You shouldn't have believed we would let that happen to you.”
“I was all alone,” I say to them and my mother tells me to “shooosh,” that it's all okay now. We can make it through this all together. That it never happened. They are hugging me, with my mother on the bottom layer and my father on the top. I can't feel their arms around me and then they start to go right through me, like I am made up of nothing. They are hugging me, but I am not really there. Then they vanish too.
“It's all about different levels,” a voice says from behind me. I sob and turn.
“They're gone,” I say to him. It's Elijah, smiling, casual, relaxed, dressed in white, which he would never wear.
“What if you are the one who's gone?”
“I would never leave, Elijah. You know that.”
“I guess you're right.” And we both start to laugh, chuckles that send us to the floor, giggles that rise and fall like waves. Then, poof.
I'm awake for real. My nose is leaking onto my cheeks. What day is it? How long have I been sleeping? A few days perhaps? I'm hungry. Every muscle holding my skeleton together feels like it has been stretched out and shoved back into place. My temples are burning, aching. My jaw wedged closed, I struggle to open it. I think I have been crying because my eyes are crusted up. It must be night time because the air outside the window is black and cold. I drag myself into the washroom, hike up my nightgown, and sit on the toilet to release the pee I have been holding â a long steady stream that goes on for almost a minute. I shiver at the end of it.
I hobble back to my parents' bedroom and open my mother's closet to find a sweater. The closet is almost empty because I have sold most things. There is one sweatshirt folded and placed up top, a green one. It has the word “Trent” written on the front of it. It reminds me that my parents were both going to university there when they met. Maybe she was wearing this when they first kissed â when they fell in love. The thought of it makes me smile, despite my sickness.
I pick the sweatshirt up by the shoulder and put my head through the neck hole, sliding my arms into each of its sleeves. That's when I notice it. There is a small picnic basket on the shelf near the back. Was it always there? Why am I only seeing it now?
I pull it down, rest it on the floor and open the lid. Inside the picnic basket is a blue plaid blanket folded up, just a thin one for sitting on, I imagine. But I lift it up and underneath there are several thin metal bracelets with dangling butterflies, and a small black notebook. I run my palm over all these things and feel a jolt. I slide the bracelets over my fingers and shake my arm so they dance. I pick up the notebook. My mother's name is written on the front cover along with the words “Privacy Please.” I smooth my thumbs over the cover and inhale deeply.
I open the notebook and begin to read the words my mother had written.
October
18
,
1972
I saw him again today. He sat beside me by the river â me reading
Pride and Prejudice
, him only looking out onto the water. I must have been staring, something about his eyes â dark and calm. And the way his raven hair falls to his shoulders. He looked tired as he sat there, with sandalled feet tucked up under him and his loose clothing fluttering a bit with the wind. He looked lonely. I slid closer, towards him on the bench.
And that's when he told me his name â Amar Ghosh. He looked down to my feet and up to my boobs. And then I told him mine, Marigold, I said. Marigold McCann.
After a while of me reading and him sitting, he walked away without saying anything else. Now I'm wondering, who is this strange guy besides his name? He's older that's for sure, maybe even thirty. It's been two years since I've noticed any man besides Steven. Two years since I've come up for air. Shit.
This guy is so unlike anyone I've ever met that I thought I'd keep a record of when I see him â almost like he won't be real otherwise. I don't know what it means. It's not like I'm leading up to something. I'm not. I know how good I have it with Steven â and that can be enough, for now anyway.
October 23
,
1972
Went to the park today to find Amar â under a tree, cross-legged like Gandhi â with a bunch of wasp kids sitting at a picnic table, eating lunch and pointing. And laughing.
Shut the hell up! I yelled at them, though I regretted it afterwards. He didn't flinch. I sat in the grass nearby. I wasn't trying to come on to him or anything. Besides, I told Steven to meet me there. I had to get out of the house, away from Mother and her I-expect-to-see-you-at-church-this-Sunday bullshit. So I was only waiting for Steven in the grass, and reading.
Steven greeted me by kissing me on the top of my head and rubbing his hands over the back of my neck. So gentle, but I jumped.
Do you have to sneak up on me like that? I said to him, real mean like. I regret that too, because he didn't get angry, only dropped to the grass, stretched his corduroy legs out in front of him, and used his straight arms as a backrest.
Who's that freak? he asked when he saw Amar.
I don't know, I said and I was telling the truth. I don't know who he is and I also don't know he's a freak.
He looks a little out of place, don't you think? Steven said.
He seems all right. I myself was freaking inside, hoping Amar didn't decide to talk to me at that moment.
We might as well get going then, honey.
Steven and I stood up. Amar didn't move â but I saw him turn his head and glare at us when we walked away (a good sign!). There's something about this guy. He could definitely be a model if he tried . . . in the Sears catalogue at least. He's got an electricity about him that none of the other guys around here have.
October 31
,
1972
It's snowing outside. I feel sorry for the kids out tonight, in their pirate costumes and such, dragging themselves from house to house. Idiots. Mother is knocking on my bedroom door, telling me Steven is on the phone. Take a message, I have just told her, because I have to get this stuff down. She thinks it's important I take his call. How the hell could she know that? She needs to find her own man to take some of the pressure off.
What I have to write is this: this afternoon I had a proper conversation with Amar. Nothing profound, but we could probably now be considered acquaintances. He was in the same spot, under the tree, wearing the same baggy pants and striped shirt, with beads hanging round his neck and flopping against his muscular chest. I had on my suede jacket, the one with the fake fur around the collar, tickling my chin, making me sweat around the neck.
I asked him if he taught at Trent or something, and he said no, he wasn't a part of the university or even from Peterborough. Oh I see, I said, continuing to leaf through the
Elements of Style
in my hands and raising my eyebrows to fake interesting passages. So why are you here then?
He said he just liked sitting among the students, around those who were searching for answers to questions.
Of course, I said, like I knew what he meant.
I'm in town to see my mother, he continued. She lives out of town, past Douro, in a cabin on the river. But she's sick, so I go visit her at St. Joseph's.
Bummer, I said. What is she sick with?
She had a brain aneurism last week, he told me.
I'm sorry, I said. (I wanted to walk away then, but I stayed.) It must be hard for you?
I don't really want to talk about it right now, if you don't mind. He was stroking his own arm and looking into my lap.
Gosh, sorry.
He spread his fingers and combed them through his long hair, and then smoothed down a faint mustache with his pointer and thumb.
I freaked out then, like what if he was some sort of assassin, plotting to poison me with a graciously offered herbal tea? Or stab me with a pocket knife? I said goodbye and ran home, like some sort of chicken shit. Found Mother saying the rosary in the living room when I got here, by herself, with the drapes drawn, with not even the television on. She's so lame.
I just want to stay in my room all night, even though it's Halloween. I hear the knocks at the door downstairs, but I'll let Mother hand out the candy apples and popcorn balls she made. I'll let her talk to Steven. I just want to disappear.
November 5
,
1972
It's November and he hasn't been under the tree. Besides, the wind off the water makes it too cold for anyone to stand out there.
So I went to the hospital to look for him.
I know it sounds ridiculous, especially since I had class, but I couldn't stop myself from going. I wanted to see him again, plus, I couldn't think of anything else to snap me out of this depression.
I hate hospitals. Fuck do I ever hate hospitals, sickness all over the damn place. Funny how I went there to try and perk myself up. I generally try to avoid the smell of death when I can.
I walked up and down every floor. Saw babies sleeping in windows, kids screaming for their mothers, old people gasping for breath. Yuck. Finally I asked a nurse if someone had a brain aneurysm, where would they be? She said probably in intensive care, but that I wouldn't be allowed in unless I was a family member. I said (kind of rudely) that I was a family member and could she please direct me to the goddamn room. She looked stunned when I told her that, like I had just burped up a pumpkin or something.
I found him sitting on a blue plastic chair in a waiting room. Outside the part I couldn't get into.
Hello, I said and he looked up, surprised. How is your mother?
She's gone, he said.
They moved her?
No. (He looked annoyed with me.) She passed away this morning if you must know. His words had a sort of evil snap to them, but his eyes looked intriguing and handsome when he said it.
The door opened and they wheeled a stretcher out. A stretcher with a body on it, covered by a white sheet.
Is that her? He shook his head no. At the sight of the random dead body, I felt like I wanted to make the sign of the cross, but didn't. He bowed his head and stood up. I walked to the elevator with him.
Sorry about your loss, I said and he nodded again.
He turned his face towards me: Can I buy you a cup of coffee? His teeth danced bright against his toasted skin, he tucked a piece of his hair behind his ear and ran his thin finger over the string of beads around his neck.
Thanks, but I can't. I'm here to see a friend. She fell down and broke her arm.
Sorry to hear that.
Oh well, I said and he actually laughed, a gruff laugh, like the years had attached themselves to his voice.
You can call me, though, I said as the elevator door opened. If you need someone to talk to about your mother.
That's very nice of you.
He held the elevator with his sandalled foot while I ran to the desk and scribbled my number on a pink slip that said “While You Were Out” on the top. He took it between his palms and bowed.
Namaste, he said and winked at me as the elevator door closed.
The knocks at my door have finally stopped and my mother's bedroom light has gone out.
November 12
,
1972
He hasn't called, which makes sense considering he must be almost ten years older than me. And he's a different race, not that it should matter. I have a few Chinese friends from my classes â that's something.
But I thought he would call.
I don't really know why I want to hear from him. Or what I would do afterwards. It's just that his energy invites me in. I think I have what you call sexual infatuation. That, or we were destined to be together forever (laugh, laugh).
Steven has stopped calling too. He wrote me a letter, which he slid between the front door and the screen. In it he said:
I don't know what's going on with you, but I'm going to give you the space you need, because I love you.
My mother opened the letter before giving it to me, and handed me the page with an “I told you so” kind of look on her face.
He's a wonderful boy, she said. You would be lucky to have a man like that as your husband.
Just give me the paper, Mother. I grabbed it out of her hand. Just because she's desperate since Father died, doesn't mean I have to become all needy too. It's not my fault he smoked until his lungs gave out.
November 19
,
1972
Saw Steven on campus today. I tried to be nice because well, he looked so goddamn pathetic. Jesus Christ. You'd think I was the only girl who ever let him feel her up.
November 21
,
1972
I can hardly write this, my fingers won't stop twitching.
He just called.
Mother said, There's some man on the phone for you (I told her later it was my professor), and I picked up the receiver in the living room to hear his voice.
Hello, Marigold.
Amar?
Are you surprised?
How's your mother?
She died, Marigold. You know that.
I'm sorry, I meant to say, how are you dealing with the loss of your mother? (Oh Christ, I thought. Man, I was nervous.)
As well as can be expected, I guess. Things change.
Yes, they do I guess, I said. Then nothing but breathing, for almost a minute. And then him: Some people are uncomfortable with silence, not me.
No?
Silence is invigorating. Especially between two people.
I guess.
How old are you, Marigold? His voice came out chalky but soothing.
Twenty-five. (I lied.)
Would you like to get together sometime?
Yes.
Just to talk.
Yeah.
I hope you don't find it weird of me to ask. It's just that I don't know many people around here. And now with my mother gone, no one.
I said, yes.
Great then, we could meet tomorrow. Around 5:00, at Trent, on that same bench by the river?
Okay.
So now I am wondering what I've done. And why? And the worse part is I told Steven I would study with him tomorrow afternoon â a kind of reconciliation. I'll have to tell him I'm sick. I think I might be. I just keep thinking about tomorrow, that's the best part.
November 22
,
1972
I could hardly wait to write in this book today. God, I hope Mother doesn't find it. I'll hide it under the mattress, she'll never look there.
We had a picnic.
Yes, you heard me right. In November, a picnic! He brought the basket, packed with bread, salami, and garlic pickles. He had a thermos with gin and tonic in it. Can you believe it â gin and tonic! The wind was blowing a bit, but we sat behind a tree to shield ourselves.
I'm sorry, he said. I had no idea it was going to be so chilly. (It's November, I thought. Of course it's chilly.) I hope this is okay, Marigold.
It's fine, I said and he stared at me. He had pulled his hair back in a ponytail and his chest hairs were peeking out from under his V-neck sweater. (I'm embarrassed to say, but I wanted to lick them.) I wore my paisley shirt underneath my suede jacket. My hair down. And blue eye shadow.
We were not sure what to say at first â
fuck, fuck, fuck
is what I was saying inside my head as I scrunched up my toes in my platforms (totally impractical shoes of course â so like me). He asked me if I thought they should have cancelled the Olympics after what happened to all those people in Germany. I said that I didn't really follow sports, but they probably should have â that the organizers were all a bunch of idiots.
He responded by saying that things weren't always as they seemed.
I guess, I shrugged. (Who cares though, really?)
How are your studies going? he asked.
Pretty good, I guess. I'm taking English.
Ah, good for you. My mother studied English as well. And I took some courses when I was in university â I never graduated though, it wasn't for me. He spoke without opening his mouth very wide, which was strange but somehow relaxing. And during one of the pauses, he reached his arm up and placed it on the ground behind my back, and kind of stroked my shoulder with his finger.
What do you do, Amar? I was trying to ignore him, and kind of hoping no one walked by.
Nothing right now. (Oh great, I thought.) I'm been up from Toronto, staying with my mother. She had been living up here for a few years. His eyes were getting teary, and he took his arm away from behind my back, which was a bit of a relief.
Right, I said, nodding like an artsy type at a dinner party.
I'm staying in the cabin where she was living before she died. You should visit sometime. Though lacking in amenities, it's a cool place to find your centre.
I can imagine, I said, though I really couldn't. What about your father?