Mad Hope (17 page)

‘I'm okay, Christine, just tired.'

‘Oh well,' she said. ‘This is a pretty tiring job.' The coiled energy of her stance seemed to suggest the opposite. ‘You hang in there.'

‘Thanks,' Vasile said.

‘Here, let me get your food.' She reached up, opened the door of the microwave and passed the plate down to him. It was lamb and potatoes that Caterina had cooked the night before.

Once again – it was recurring, like a tic or a cough –Vasile realized how much he loved his wife. ‘Thanks,' he said. A wave of general goodwill overtook him. ‘Have a great afternoon!'

On Monday after school, Vasile and Naadiya drove together to the appointment, hurtling silently, like escaped lovers, eastward along the Gardiner Expressway. Just past Sunnyside Beach she began to weep, great soul-shaking sobs that seemed too large, somehow too …
mature
for her delicate frame. Was it the sight of the waves, the great sky, the glinting of the sun, an alchemy of light that prompted the outburst? Or was it Vasile's fatherly profile, intent on the traffic, stationed beside her? How could he ever know? How could anyone ever know anything about anyone? Vasile felt himself sliding into an unboundaried despair.
Fiica mea dragă, my darling daughter. You ask me what I remember of that awful, ill-lit time and perhaps you will be shocked at my answer. But more than anything, I remember the frogs. I dream them in their many incarnations and contortions. I weep for them the way I cannot for the women, for the babies born half-formed or badly loved. The frogs were exhausted, the women pissed more blood than urine, but we did not stop. Not one of us stopped for long enough to look at the frogs or to look at each other. A man in uniform was breathing down my neck and I was so very afraid.

‘Do you want me to turn around?' He spoke into the windshield, quietly.

Naadiya shook her head in the periphery.
No. No, no, no, no, no.

Caterina had been sentenced to six years for the abortion she had procured. It would have been less had she given up the name of the woman who sold her the tubing, the saline solution. She worked like a peasant in the fields as punishment and toed the party line with an admirably authentic meekness.
There is a hole in my heart
, she told him.
I must hold my children again.
They wept together, heads bowed and touching over an unstable metal table, a guard, buttoned snugly into his uniform, peering at them with lustful curiosity and spite. Caterina's sentence was shortened to eighteen months and she returned to them, her body and spirit taut with what she had endured.

Vasile checked for Naadiya in her home form the following morning but she was absent. He searched for her in the hallways superstitiously, as if anticipating an apparition. But she did not appear. His gut clenched in fear. At every bell he hurried to the staff washroom, voided his bowels, then returned to class, empty and shaken.

In the last period of the day Vasile had only to administer a test to his Grade 12 students, a task that required him to look stern and stalk back and forth between rows periodically. He had just begun this invigilating when there was a knock at the door. The knock was authoritative and clear; it frightened him. Irony: to survive Ceauşescu only to be apprehended by the bureaucrats of the Toronto District School Board. His students waited for him to answer the knock. He strode over to the door, his trembling hands hidden in his pockets. It was Naadiya, looking tired but hardy. He stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind him. He heard the deliberate coughing, subtle rustlings as he left. Some students would cheat; it was human nature.

‘Thank you,' said Naadiya, her arms wrapped around herself.

‘You're welcome,' he said. ‘You should be in class.'

She stared at him.

‘I mean, you are all right?'

'Yes,' she said. She reached up to touch her hijab. Then she unclipped the barrette holding it in place.

Vasile had a moment of panic – the scarf would fall! They had already shared too much; he did not want to see her hair. But the scarf did not fall. Naadiya tucked it into place efficiently; the barrette had been insurance only. She held it out to him.

‘Here,' she said. ‘I couldn't think of anything else.'

‘Oh,' Vasile said. ‘Yes. Thank you.' He took the barrette and slipped it into his pocket. ‘My students are writing a test,' he said.

‘Yeah,' she said. ‘I have Ms. Foster. She's totally gonna freak when she books – I mean notices – how long I took. So, bye.'

‘Bye,' said Vasile, and closed the door.

There was a murmur and a subtle rearrangement – of desks and dispositions – when he re-entered the classroom, but it was not long before his presence restored the students' focus. They rotated their wrists like athletes, scratched at their scalps unselfconsciously, looked up – not at him, but at some elusive pattern: scientific etymology, formulae, classifications and recipes designed to help us understand the earth and its organisms. At the back of the classroom, the rabbits rooted around in their cage, nosed the air and each other. Vasile Dinescu was not an observant man, yet there was a residue of religion in him. He took a deep breath and allowed the air to fill his lungs, his abdomen, his limbs and his head. He began to float, his body hoisted aloft by loss and yearning. He began to pray. ‘
Doamne iartă-ne
,' he said. God forgive us! ‘
Broaştele!
' The frogs! He sent the prayer up into the ether, into the atmosphere, the atoms of water that created the clouds ... He exhaled. Then he turned back to his students, some of whom were beginning to crane restlessly away from their concentration. He checked his watch and confirmed with the noisy wall clock. ‘Time's up,' he said.

No One Else Really Wants to Listen

HI ALL YOU MOMS-IN-WAITING
,
I felt the baby move a little, I think, but I'm sort of worried because I'm having some spotting. Not a lot, and it's not bright red, alarm, alarm! But I feel a bit concerned. I'm wondering if anyone has any advice, or suggestions. I have an appointment with my ob-gyn on Wednesday, but I can't sleep right now. It's just on my mind, y'know?
–
New Country Girl

WRT
the bleeding – it could come from sex. I don't know about you chickadees, but since I crossed over into the second trimester I've been crazy-horny. It's like everything is super-ripe, y'know? No offence or anything inquiring about your love life – it's just normal to have a bit of blood from the friction. Sorry again if this is
TMI
.
–
Craving City

No such thing as
TMI
in this forum, my friend. All info is good info. Yeah, ripe is one word for it.
NC
, the blood is likely coming from your cervix which is probably quite swollen and tender at this point. It might also be the result of straining on the toilet. Are you constipated at all?
–
Straight Shooter

Nope, the elimination pipes are clear, and the bleeding continues – not heavy or anything, but it's there. I'm thinking I'll call Tele­Health and see what they say.
–
NC

Good idea,
NC
.
IMHO
, it's totally better to be safe than sorry.
–
Craving

New Country: I wouldn't worry too much – when I got pregnant not only my sense of smell but also my sense of tragedy became more acute. By this I do not mean, as some women exclaim, that I became more sensitive to the plight of others or that I was compelled to turn headlines involving the maiming of children face down on the kitchen table. Quite the opposite. During my first trimester, I devoured stories wherein the unlucky fledgling protagonists were killed – instantly – in a head-on collision; I spent afternoons imagining the last moments of infants left to freeze in some alcoholic father's backyard wasteland. You must understand, none of this was malicious or gratuitous. Perhaps it was a test of my mettle – I wanted to feel the worst, to encompass it. The pregnancy made me feel expansive, as if I had grown new ribs, longer ribs, that my chest cavity and not my uterus were expanding. I felt sure that at my next visit, the doctor would ask to measure my wingspan. Something moving inside me made it imperative that I understand it all – not the week-by-week stirring of the speck that had lodged itself like a grain of sand inside an oyster but instead the bold cacophony of the outside world, which, it appeared, was no longer outside, but instead a country of blood and tenderness and terror and chemicals and a strange softness before dying within the scope of my very own body. The country smelled of cardamom, shit, exhaust fumes and a man's scalp, and if I spread my wings wide enough, I could embrace it all, all of it, my wingtips touching, feathers tickling the dust.
–
Wings

Wings: Whoa! Pregnancy has made you all goth, eh? Which is funny because before I got knocked up I used to listen to a lot of punk and old-school angry hiphop. I loved that shit. Especially
NWA
. Then, it was so weird, as soon as those hormones got pumping, I was flicking the dial to easy listening. You know who I can't get enough of now? Faith Hill! She's this really nice white Barbie who sings about stuff like heartbreak and tractors and Jesus.
WTF
! I guess it's true what they say about pregnancy being ‘miraculous.' Anyway, the nurse at TeleHealth asked me too many questions, then told me, in a super-solemn voice, that I should go to the hospital. But they always say that, right? I'll check in with you guys when I get back. The bleeding seems to have let up a little, so I'm not too worried …
–
New Country Girl

Hey
NC
– let us know what the docs say, eh? We're rooting for you.
–
Straight Shooter

Thanks,
SS
. Can I ask you guys – what does it feel like for you when the baby moves?
–
New Country

When I was a child, my father packed us all into a van and we headed down to Florida, through Ontario, Ohio, then all those friendly-waitress states with the fat people and big brass belt buckles. We stayed in a pink hotel near the beach and I remember my parents as distant figures prone on beach towels. One evening my father showed me a photograph of a diamond-shaped sea creature in a glossy pamphlet. He told me the creature was a stingray and I should beware of stingrays. I had never been told to beware of anything before and I liked the sound of it – I felt I had entered a dark and brambly thicket, a new and exciting chapter of the quest that was my life. The stingray was silver and translucent, a dangerous sea treasure. It could lie quietly, stealthily on the ocean floor. A person could step on a stingray and be in mortal danger. How do they move? I asked my father. They flap, he said, and performed the most amazing and strange movement I have ever seen, his arms fluid from his shoulders, pulsing slowly up and down as if the air were water. It was beautiful and dangerous, and so unlike my father, and I understood immediately why I must beware. When I first felt my baby move I was reminded of that stingray, and of my father. It was the most astounding thing, those dangerous wings undulating in my belly. I will never forget it.
–
Wings

Wings:
GOYHH
! Women have been giving birth to babies for millennia. What's with all the figurative language and self-importance? What makes you so special? I, for one, could do without it.
–
Straight Shooter

Dear Wings: You might want to consult your midwife about these mood swings you are experiencing. It's possible there are deep-breathing techniques or yoga postures that may help you feel more grounded and calm. Maybe even talk to your partner about the feelings you are having – and there are some great resources on the internet, agencies you could talk to. You have a new life growing inside you – how
blessed
is that? Congratulations!
–
Spiral Woman

Spiral: I will not tell my husband about the wings, extra ribs or morbidity of my thoughts – although he, like me, delights in theory and fancy that bucks convention, and it is likely his scalp scent that perfumes my world. As for the internet – we have both been busy with it. The ‘facts,' panic mongering and treacly reassurances I could do without, but I have some interest in the lists of baby names from the 1920s. There is a sense of both giddy optimism and hard-won stoicism following the great war that is reflected in the era's monikers. Who could help but admire an Albert? And could a Ruth be anything but trustworthy? I have told very few people about the pregnancy, which is why I am using this anonymous forum to get some ‘feelings' off my fierce and cavernous chest. You sound like a moron.
–
Wings
PS
Grounded? Isn't that what happens when airplanes get stuck on the tarmac?
PPS
I don't have a midwife.

I know maybe this is off topic or in the wrong thread or whatever, but I wanted to tell everybody that I finally felt it – the baby – sorry, Country Girl, not to make you feel bad or anything – and it didn't feel at all like they said, like ripples or waves. It felt like something with lots of right angles and willpower. It felt like maybe it was angry. Do you think a baby can be angry in uteri?
–
Spiral

Hello, my sisters! I am a member of another forum for new Christian mothers, but I LOVE the openness of these posts. So welcome and *refreshing.* Don't get me wrong; I still love Jesus, but I love the way all you ladies can
connect
, even when it's through a keyboard.
NC
– I'm praying for you!
–
Christian Mom!
PS
I have all of Faith Hill's albums!

Wings: Also – I think you are reading too many serious books. They say when you are pregnant you should skip the evening news and just try to watch fun
TV
shows and read light magazines (like maybe
Cosmo
or that other one that's about shopping). Otherwise it can be overwhelming. Maybe get your husband to run you a bath. But not too hot – you don't want to raise your body temperature. And light some candles – but not too smelly, I know the nose is sensitive! That way you can float away your troubles for a while. (Oh, and I kinda think Buddhism might be more your thing. Christianity is just so
fraught
, y'know?) *Love Your Bump!*
–
spiral

Spiral:
What
can be overwhelming? You sound like you've been watching too many ‘fun' shows. I think I hate you.
–
Wings

Does anybody else think Wings is just a
teensy
bit abusive?
–
Spiral Woman

Hey gals! Just waiting to be seen by the ob-gyn – they have these nifty heavy-duty laptops attached to the waiting room chairs – très Japanese. Spiral: Wings is just telling it like how she sees it. That's okay. We need to have someplace we can do that. And dissent is healthy, even among pregnant chicks. I mean, there is a level of niceness, generosity and solidarity I can appreciate ... But we need to be honest with each other, because no one else really wants to listen, do they?
–
New Country

NC
: You are so right! We can exclaim all we like about equity and gender equality, but when it comes to it, when it comes to this – being a vessel – we've got a lock on the correct (or unlucky)
XY
that allows us to ferry another human around while they form bones, bloom lungs and grow soft, downy hair like strange and darling amphibian monkeys, their tiny eyes squeezed shut, their hiccupping bodies gulping down what they know and stuttering it up again. So it seems strange to me that we would not find a bond, but stranger still that what bonds us is the outer trappings – the teensy bonnets and plastic gadgets, the miniature bits and bobs that clutter up aisles in jumbo stores and infringe on dreams by amplifying them. Isn't it enough that we are colonized by our own bodies?
–
Wings

Wings:
You
are so right! All those products demand sameness instead of discussion, they make us want and want and talk about the same things. It's better, no, that we disagree and tussle with each other once in a while?
OTOH
, I have them at home: onesies with yellow daisies embroidered on the bum, one of those newfangled carrier wraps it would take an origami expert to master. I am far from immune.
–
New Country

Oh,
NC
, I have one of those wraps! I can totally show you how it works! It took me nine hours over three days, but I finally got it! It broke me, though; I cried. I wouldn't want anyone to go through what I went through. I'll email you detailed instructions, some pics and good vibes.
–
Sheila K.

Hi everybody.
NC
here. So, the bleeding has let up a bit, but I've been ordered on bed rest. I'm to stay off my feet, lie on my left side and ‘do nothing.' I've been doing nothing except thinking for the last six hours, lying here while Devoted Husband is at work keeping himself busy. And I'm pretty sure doing nothing is no good for the soul, even if it helps with the leaky womb. Maybe it's not the time or the place for this, but I can't sleep and I can't help wondering if my troubles today are somehow related to some work I did once … if a job, duties of the past, can somehow – like asbestos or mould – seep into a person's bloodstream. I keep thinking of that line Hamlet's mother said when she was feeling all guilty – for some reason it sticks in my head, always has. Spots on her heart that will not leave their
tinct
. I feel like maybe I'm tincted – or tainted. Whatever.

Here's why: I spent some time – seven or eight months I guess – as an escort. Not the kind you might be thinking, although that sort would probably be less offensive to some of you … Oh, gotta go, more later!
DH
home, phone ringing. Must get vertical, but slowly.
–
NC

Girl! I did the escort thing for four months in university. It's the reason I was able to take Anthropology of Sex, Gender and Power and Feminist Perspectives on Pedagogy and Academe. I'll leave you to parse the irony in that. Hey – don't feel tincted! We're humans here; we're allowed to follow our noses, our hearts, our cunts, our convictions. We're even allowed to fuck up. I mean, as long as you're no serial killer, right? Karma doesn't work that way, friend. Actually, I'm not really sure karma works at all.
–
Craving City

Oh, thanks, Craving, for your response! But I was actually a different kind of escort – sometimes I think it would have been better if I was some kind of high-class ho. But I was no fancy hooker, nope.

I worked at a downtown abortion clinic escorting the ‘clients' to their appointments. My woman and I would march from the foot of the path on the sidewalk, through the picketers, up the steps to the clinic's doors. It was a pretty physical job – I kept my elbows cocked like guns at my sides, my strides short and powerful. I had to keep us both steady. Sometimes the path seemed endless, the march forward so relentless. At these times, I looked down at my army boots, with their steel toes and round clown tops, and really felt myself a soldier, disconnected and pure. The enemy was everywhere, lurking in a booby-trapped underbrush. I didn't understand exactly what it was they said as they waved their picket signs. (
CC
: Funny, but not ha-ha, what you said about serial killers, because a couple of protestors had signs like this: ABORTIONISTS = SERIAL KILLERS.) I could read the signs, but for some reason I could never make out the words they spoke; their shouts came at me in angry staccatos, the machine-gun fire of the righteous. So there was only the march forward, my prisoner and charge at my side. You know, I'm not exactly a physically strong person, but my thighs are big in relation to the rest of my body. I've clipped hundreds of articles from magazines, tips on the camouflage and slimming illusions that should be applied to these things. But in this job my thighs were my secret weapons; my pretty haunches gave me a heft I didn't think was possible. They helped me to push through. I thrust them forward, and they carried me.