Katherine had the kettle boiling. We were in her kitchen, choosing mugs for tea that we had been craving. We chewed through the details of everyday life. Work was good, her family was happy, and Toronto was beautifully blanketed in snow. We carried our mugs of steaming tea into the living room, where a fire was blossoming.
Katherine was a relatively new acquaintance. In fact, we had met only by accident, when she had driven her car into the back of mine. She had emerged from the car, very pregnant and very sorry. She covered the expenses and invited me over for dinner the following night. We had clicked immediately, like a key in the ignition, our friendship accelerated, and my visits to her home increased.
“Cream and sugar?” Katherine held up the two pieces of china.
“No, but thank-you. My mother never… permitted it. She used to say, ‘Wants and needs, Norah. Need not what you want.’” I shuddered at the memory of her saying that. I could almost see her pale face, and the sternness that I would bring out of her.
“You know, Norah.” Kathleen set down her mug on the coffee table that lay between us. “You haven’t really told me anything about your childhood.” I swallowed.
“It’s something I consider done with. It’s the past, and I try not to wallow in yesterday’s sting and sorrow, if you know what I mean.”
“You know, sometimes it’s easy to forget where we came from and the people who made us who we are.”
And so I told her everything. At first, it felt as if I was yanking a knife up my throat, but gradually, the inner wounds began to heal and scab over.
We lived in a small house a couple of kilometers from the nearest highway, in New Brunswick. The house shone - the product of my mother’s daily scrubbing. She didn’t work. She felt it in her way to clean the house, top to bottom, before my father returned each night. I would come home from school and she would be dusting the spotless bookshelves.
“Hi Mum.” I would drop my school bag by the door. “What’s for dinner?”
“Pork chops,” she would reply softly. Pork chops?
“You know Daddy hates pork chops.”
“I know dear, but we can’t have steak every night. He’s just going to have to eat what I put in front of him.” He wouldn’t touch it. He would spit down on his meat, and push his plate away in disgust.
“Have you nothing in that head of yours?” he would rage. “Answer me! Answer me, you bitch! I can’t believe you!” Mum would try to calm him down, or try to make a quick exit. Many a time she wasn’t successful. He would grab her by the wrists and throw her against the dinner table. He’d squeeze her hard and shove pork in her mouth, attempt to wedge it down her throat. She would cry out, wail for mercy, for help. I sat there at the other end of the table, face down, my head in my hands. I was young.
Katherine stared at me in disbelief. “Did you ever try to intervene?” she asked softly.
“Yes.” I dug up the memory. I couldn’t sit there and watch my mother being beaten. Some nights, I would cry, and yell at him to stop. He barely gave me a glance. But one evening, he had picked up a chair and was ready to bring it down on Mum. I stood up and threw myself in front of her. I remember his eyes changing as he just about boiled over with fury.
“Don’t you ever try that again,” he said. Then he slapped me. Tears streamed down my face.
“Why do you do this to her?” I yelled.
“I make the rules in this family. I work hard to bring home the money that feeds you both. And when your mother doesn’t have the decency to treat me with respect, I have to make my point known and understood. She spends my hard earned money on booze, did she ever tell you that?” he boomed.
“No.” I never got anywhere with him.
“Get a fucking job God damn it woman! You have to provide for this family too, and if I hear or see anything about you drinking, you sad old alcoholic, then I’m going to kill you. Don’t think I’m joking around. This is my family, and I will say how it is run.” It would usually end then. I’d help my mother up from wherever she was lying, hug her, and sob into her neck. I would try to pick up the pieces.
After I turned ten, she still didn’t have a job, and she drank excessively. She would be totally smashed by 3 PM, when I’d return from school each day. I’d hide her booze in high places, where she or Dad wouldn’t think of looking, but she always seemed to buy more. She had taken a small job helping out at the copy mart, and she’d spend her savings on alcohol, and drink like mad. Dad found the bottles, and exploded. Well, at least his fists did. I tried talking to her.
“Mum, don’t you think it’s wrong what he does to you? We should call someone. It isn’t right.”
“Oh Norah, it’s me who isn’t right. I… don’t know how to behave. If I didn’t anger him, he wouldn’t do it. Besides, I can’t live on my own. We couldn’t make it without him - you hear what he says. I just have to be a better person.” My mother made me promise not to call the police. Despite all he did, she still loved him.
“I’m so sorry, Norah. I hate to have you bring up all of this. You know, you don’t have to continue, if it’s - hard for you.” Katherine looked almost ghostly. I sighed.
“You know what? I think talking about it is curative. It hurts, but sometimes you have to endure a little pain before everything is okay again.” She nodded.
One day I came home to find her lying like a rock on the carpet. I called 911, and spent the night praying. It was then I realized what a mess my life was. The two of them had taken over my life.
“What did you do?”
“The next morning, I packed my suitcase.”
***
Toronto had been a welcoming city, full of charming people, including my Uncle Glen, who took care of me from then on. I explained everything to him. He made sure I was safe and went to a good school. I refused contact with my parents for many years. I started seeing a therapist. Gradually, I began to try and understand the past. I tried to come to terms with it. Then, one Christmas, my therapist suggested I go out to New Brunswick. I didn’t call before, like you’re supposed to. I took the first flight out there I could find and packed the same old suitcase. It was old and tattered, but I had it fixed up, and it shone like a proud antique. The flight over there felt like days. I stared out the window, contemplating the clouds. They looked so complete. I had someone drive me to my old house, and it took an hour or so, just to get out of the car. I begged the driver to just have five more minutes in the warm limo. Finally, I paid the poor man and I walked up the icy steps to the front door, and knocked, loudly. I was trembling. My life swirled by me in an instant, that short moment, waiting for someone to come to the door. I closed my eyes. The door finally opened slowly. It was my father. He had aged much since I had left.
“Norah?” His eyes filled with tears. Mine didn’t.
“Dad.”
“Why are you here?”
“Where’s Mum?”
“Out. She moved out.”
“When?”
“A couple months after you left. That really tore us apart, kid.”
“Oh I tore you apart?” I could feel my anger lurching up, threatening to rear its ugly head.
“I’m not blaming you for anything,” he said. “It made both of us realize a lot. Now, would you like to stay for dinner?” I looked into his eyes. The eyes I hadn’t seen in years, the eyes I’d yearned to see again, but couldn’t bring myself to trust.
“Sure.” He prepared a chicken Cesar salad, and saddled it with a couple of well-buttered rolls. I carried the food into the dining room and resumed the spot I always had as a kid.
“Oh, come on, Nor. Sit closer to me. So we can see each other more comfortably?” I changed seats. We ate in silence. Breaking ice - not my responsibility.
“Had he changed?” Katherine asked.
“He had, but not completely.” I stopped narrating. I didn’t stop thinking though.
Near the end of the meal, Dad lifted the big bowl of salad. His hands shook wildly, as he brought it up to his chest. He asked me if I wanted another serving. I politely refused. He held on to the bowl though. It was violently shaking all over the place. Before I could get up and out of my seat, he dropped the bowl, and it cracked severely.
“Dad!” He looked up at me. Tears were skiing down his cheeks. “What is it Dad?”
“It’s these hands,” he sobbed. “They shake because of all the harm they caused in the past. I can’t forget. I lost my daughter, and I lost my wife. I had a problem, Norah. I had a problem.” I hugged him long and hard. We both looked to the salad bowl. I helped Dad spoon the wilted lettuce leaves onto our empty plates. Then I helped him pick up the pieces.
« return.