Mennonites Don't Dance (26 page)

“What have you done?” My mother was stiff with anger when she found me, having discovered what I'd taken. The train was still clamouring past, car after car.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You know very well what I mean.”

I looked over my shoulder at the train before turning back to face her, daring her to yell at me, tell me she cared more about the rug than she did about me.

“You probably wish I'd thrown myself on the tracks instead, don't you?”

My mother lifted her hand as though she was about to slap me. In one movement though, she lowered her hand and closed the space between us, wrapped me up in her arms. When I tried to pull away, she only held on tighter.

A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS
:

T
HESE STORIES WOULD NOT EXIST WITHOUT
my husband, who never asked how much longer it was going to take, nor once brought up the “job” word.

I owe my sister, co-heir to whatever truth is in the fiction, credit for at least a few of my favourite lines. Thank you so much for getting on that October bus.

Sandra Birdsell was my writing instructor through The Humber School for Writers mentorship program. I am grateful to her for expectations so high that I forgot to rinse the conditioner out of my hair.

My writing posse from Humber helped me tread water while always insisting land was in sight. Among them, particular thanks go to Susan Toy, for reading and critiquing early drafts, wedging open doors and pushing me through them. And Vicky Bell, who gave considerable editing advice and asked nothing in return.

Elsie K. Neufeld, editor of
Half In The Sun: Anthology of
Mennonite Writers
, opened an early door and has never closed it.

Thank you to Thistledown for rejecting these stories five years ago, and Antanas Sileka, Director of the Humber School for Writers, for providing such a rare proving ground. To Margaret Hart, my agent from the Humber School for Writers Literary Agency, for saving me from myself more than once. And my amazing editor, Susan Musgrave, for culling commas and not holding back.

Thank you to my Grandma and Grandpa Friesen, for all the love and
varenyky
. To Nancy Tordiffe, for prayers that moved mountains.

And while I hope to never again hear the words, “Why don't you send your stories to Oprah?” I thank my mother for her unswerving belief that Oprah would have called.

D
ARCIE
F
RIESEN
H
OSSACK
is a graduate of the Humber School for Writers. She has been a food writer for the Kelowna Daily Courier and Kamloops This Week for the past six years, and most recently, thepeartree. ca. Her story “Little Lamb” was nominated for the 2008 McClelland & Stewart Journey Prize.