Read Remembering the Bones Online
Authors: Frances Itani
H
ave I slept? I feel as if a ‘weight has been implanted in my side.
I ‘wonder if my body has left tracks ‘where I’ve dragged myself, like the wake of a ship, earth parting.
You’ve had plenty of chance to lay down tracks.
I don’t want followers. I don’t mean that. I’ve tried not to be trapped in repetitive furrows of my own.
Who are you to escape life’s patterns?
My limbs are swollen, so tender, it’s hard to think of a reply. Admittedly, I dare not add up the hours and days I sat at my kitchen table and stared into space after Matt, and then, years later, after Harry died. Grief does that. It can’t be warded off. It strikes like a steel arrow embedded in the bowels. One that can never be removed.
I did stare into space, yes, but that didn’t add up to my whole life. After Harry died, I kept thinking about how I’d never become anything. The thought is still lodged in my head, a bone stuck crosswise in a shallow pit. Harry was a jeweller, a
good one; everyone said so. Case owns a theatre; she has taken charge of her life and I am so proud of her. Rice is a musician; he makes my daughter happy and I love him for that. Ally is a painter and has a gallery called Snow. Trick looks after the villa. Phil was a seamstress. Grand Dan a midwife. Lilibet got to be Queen. The Pope has a job—he hasn’t been in it that long. Verna and Arman will run the craft shop until they drop. Only Gordo stands at the window, staring out. But even he was a draftsman, before he retired.
And what contribution have I made? What is a life worth? I might as well ask. Have I learned anything?
Reciter of bones, lover of poems—memory has always been my long suit. Shelver of books. I once drew better-than-average lungs and a superior vena cava. A drawing that wasn’t mailed. I created checkerboard sandwiches for family gatherings. I was daughter to Phil and Mr. Holmes, granddaughter to Grand Dan and my unmet grandfather, wife of Harry, mother of Case, my child, and for a short time, little Matt.
That is a good and worthy occupation. Raising a child.
And losing one? Did I wrap him too tightly? Did the blanket cover his face? Oh, I’ll never get over it. Every detail of his little body lies cold behind my eyes.
What’s done cannot be undone.
I threw the glass-leafed tree. I flung it against the wall and was glad it flew from my palm.
But you raised Case; look at the bright and compassionate woman she has become; you raised her well.
Then why is that period—the one when I was caring for her—why are those years so blurred when I try to recall? Events clump together; I can’t single them out.
Maybe that’s when you were busiest. Did you think of that?
I did not. But I loved those years. I feel a heavy weight of joy and sadness when I think of them. Joy because I lived them. Sadness because they’re gone.
I have the right to stay alive, don’t I? Don’t I qualify? I tried not to throw my time away. What was I supposed to do with it?
I made good scalloped potatoes.
Don’t depress yourself, Georgie. Think of the people who were nourished by those potatoes.
Maybe I didn’t have enough determination. It’s possible I attended to the wrong things. Think of Lilibet. After the abdication, after her father’s death, her work was cut out for her. She was thrown into the arena, whether she wanted the job or not. But the job was already there; she didn’t have to decide.
You could have been a doctor, like your Grandfather Danforth.
Don’t taunt me. There was no money for medical school. I met Harry and became a wife. And being Harry’s wife was, in its own way—it was at the time—a job. Until Case and Matt were born. And then the job became bigger, somehow. More important. But what was the job about? I need to tell myself.
I taught Case to love language; I chanted nursery rhymes; I sang, explained words, encouraged her to walk, try, run. And there were diapers strung on the line, rompers to smock, Harry’s cuffs and collars to starch, tea towels to fold, Sunday roasts to cook, cheese biscuits to bake, layer cakes to cool on racks, school concerts to attend. Someone had to do those things.
Oh, stop. I amount to my own story. I am what I am.
I have to stretch my body. I must have dozed. I’m dim-witted. I dreamed I reached out a hand and touched something soft. I’m losing my marbles. Mistress of sequential disarray. An unnamed beast came into my dream and began to ravage the room I was in.
Shelves were knocked over. The tree fell; its glass leaves, its silk limbs lay on the floor. The beast could not be stopped.
I looked into the dark eye of the crow.
Death, you invade me. If I had any energy left at all, I’d tell you to put up your dukes.
Does the body give up all at once? Does it happen quickly? Maybe I really won’t mind. I’ve never felt old inside, but the joints get stiffer, the bones do age. What is this I’m touching? Orange paper that isn’t very orange any more, collapsed into dampness like something rotting. But something I can pull towards me. I’ve reached the lump, the package that rolled from the car when the door was sprung. Case’s gift. She placed it on the passenger seat when she came up the hill to say goodbye. With my one good hand I can pull the paper away and see what’s inside.
A shawl. A new one to replace Grand Dan’s, which I’ve worn to a thread. I wasn’t to open the gift until I was on the plane. It’s indigo, thick and soft, will match the pale blue of my dress to perfection. Case, you wanted me to wear this to the palace. And here’s your note on cardboard, buried in the folds of cloth, nothing fancy, done in a hurry—you’re always in a hurry. You’ll have to learn to slow down. I don’t need my glasses to read this; it’s bold, printed in black felt-tip:
DEAREST MOM—YOU CAN PULL THIS OVER YOUR HEAD WHILE YOU’RE HOLDING THE PLANE UP OVER THE OCEAN. GIVE MY LOVE TO THE QUEEN. XXX CASE
Oh, my darling daughter. I can’t keep from crying. I’ve got the dry heaves. It’s the best gift I’ve ever received. I can pull it over my head, keep the wind from shrilling in my ear.
Structure determines function
, Grandfather. You’d appreciate that.
Start strumming, Django, something about the day is done.
I’ll hear you, even with my ears covered. Can you feel the rhythm of my heartbeat, Matt? Oh, my loves, Case and Matt and Harry and Ally and Grand Dan and Phil. How we’ve cared for one another—in life and in death. And Rice and Trick and Mr. Holmes. Aunt and Uncle Fred. Verna and Ourman. Gordo and Tall Ronnie. The Carrot Man, Miss Grinfeld, Anonymous-she. It’s easy to love everyone when you’re on the way out.
What if Harry isn’t there? What if Anonymous-she has arrived before me? I tried not to bear a grudge. I tried to make use of my chances, though I’ve squandered some. I did my best not to lie to myself, not to be ignorant in matters great and small.
I’ve missed my chance to meet Lilibet in person, though she did wave from the back seat of her limo. I hear my rescuers now. Haven’t they been there all along—stick figures up above? Mouths moving as if they’re shouting, arms waving over the railing. Figuring out the best way to get a stretcher down the path.
I can go, now. I know my skeleton won’t rot in the ravine. Are you listening, God? I can’t alter my compass. There’s no use bluffing. I’m still not sure. I’ve had my life and it’s been a privilege. It’s a miracle anyone gets through.
Move over, Harry.
Case, my darling, don’t be sad. Care for the people you love. Take back the shawl, pull it over your head when you…
Ideas, interviews & features
FRANCES ITANI
, Canadian novelist, poet and essayist, was born in Belleville, Ontario, and from age four grew up in a village in Quebec. A member of the Order of Canada, she has a B.A. in psychology and English from the University of Alberta and an M.A. in English literature from the University of New Brunswick. She studied with the late W. O. Mitchell and with Rudy Wiebe. Before becoming a writer, she pursued nursing at Montreal General Hospital, with graduate courses at Duke University and a year of graduate studies at McGill University. She practised and taught nursing for eight years.
Itani has written eleven books, including the novel
Deafening
, which won the 2004 Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for Best Book (Canada and Caribbean region) and was shortlisted for the 2005 IMPAC Dublin International Literary Award and the 2005 William Saroyan International Prize.
Deafening
also won the 2003 Drummer General’s Award and the 2007 Kingston Reads Award, and was named 2004–05 College Book of the Year by Grant MacEwan College (Edmonton). It was chosen for CBC’s “2006 Canada Reads” as well as for Radio-Canada’s “2006 Combat des Livres.” In 2004, it was shortlisted by the Canadian Booksellers Association for Book of the Year, and Itani was shortlisted for Author of the Year. Translated and sold in seventeen countries,
Deafening
has been optioned for film by the producer of
The Shawshank Redemption. Remembering the Bones
was shortlisted for the 2008 Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for Best Book
(Canada and Caribbean region). It has been published in Canada, the United States and the United Kingdom, and is forthcoming in Germany.
Itani’s collection of stories
Poached Egg on Toast
won the 2005 Ottawa Book Award for fiction and the CAA Jubilee Award for Best Book of Short Stories. A novel in ten stories,
Leaning, Leaning Over Water
was published in Canada and the United Kingdom—where it was chosen for
The Times
Book Group—and is forthcoming in Germany. Other story collections by Itani include
Man Without Face
, which won the 1995 Ottawa–Carleton Fiction Award,
Truth or Lies
and
Pack Ice.
Itani has published three books of poetry, illustrated by Molly Bobak and Shizuye Takashima, and a children’s book,
Linger by the Sea
, also illustrated by Bobak.
She is a three-time winner of the CBC Literary Award and was awarded the Annual Contributor’s Prize for Best Short Story in
Canadian Fiction Magazine.
She has written for journals and newspapers across North America. Itani is a member of PEN International, The Writers’ Union of Canada and Access Copyright Canada. Her literary papers are held by the Literary Manuscripts Division of Library and Archives Canada.
Frances Itani lives in Ottawa and reviews for
The Washington Post.
She is currently at work on her next novel.
Twelve years prior to writing
Remembering the Bones
, you began collecting newspaper clippings about car accidents in which people had been injured and had fallen into ravines. What was it about this scenario that intrigued you?
“I was interested in a person’s will to survive…”
At first I thought I would create a short story about a woman who loses control of her car and drives over the edge of a cliff. After that, I had thoughts about writing a play. Finally, I began to see that this could be a novel. I was interested in a person’s will to survive, the measures one might take and the highs and lows one might experience while desperately trying to stay alive. I wanted to create a person’s mind and memory under such conditions, and I became interested in the challenges of writing an entire novel while staying in the head of one character, in this instance, seventy-nine-year-old Georgie.
Structurally, what was the most challenging aspect of writing this novel?
The biggest challenge was that the story had to be told from Georgie’s point of view while she was trying to inch her way into the open, hoping for rescue, hoping to be seen from the road above. As she couldn’t do much for herself, physically, I had to create strong internal conversations. Georgie belts out songs; she recites; she rhymes; she talks to the living and to the dead; she talks to crows; she talks to herself. She also begins to wend her way
through family history. All of this may or may not be taking place within a very short time: seconds, minutes—or is it days? I also had to open up scenes in order to provide variety for the reader. I was aware of the necessity to create dialogue, too, including the dialogue Georgie was having with her inner self.
Before pursuing a literary career you were a registered nurse. Was there a history in your family, as in your protagonist Georgie’s family, of people in medicine?
No one else in the family studied medicine, but I did have a great-grandmother who was a midwife. She died when I was a young child. All my life I’ve listened to my mother’s stories about my great-grandmother and her remedies practised during the first half of the twentieth century in eastern Ontario.
“I loved the work I did as a nurse. My days and nights were filled with infinite variety.”
As for my own early profession, I loved the work I did as a nurse. My days and nights were filled with infinite variety. I am fortunate enough to have studied at some of the great medical institutions and universities in North America. (Nursing education, residence life, et cetera, were free at the time, and though students were not paid for hospital work, the “free” education had much to do with choices of profession for young women.) During the years I taught and practised nursing, I continued to attend university and gradually moved on to other fields, but the nursing years were important beginnings for me. As part of a medical team, I felt capable of offering some measure of real help. I should say, too, that the knowledge and skills have helped me in every other area of my life.
In what way did your nursing education come into play in writing
Remembering the Bones
?
Every field and profession has its own language, and because I am comfortable with the language of medicine, I sometimes like to include characters with medical backgrounds in my fiction. In
Deafening
, I wrote about a stretcher bearer. Among the many documents and books that I used while researching First World War medicine,
History of No. 1 Canadian General Hospital
,
Canadian Expeditionary Force, 1914–1919
was invaluable, and I read it in its entirety. This was very moving for me as the book was, essentially, the early history of the hospital and university where I had trained and studied (Montreal General Hospital and McGill University). It was like reading about an extended family.