Somewhere In-Between (13 page)

Worse yet, is knowing that those thoughts crossed my mother's mind. She refused to return his phone calls, pounding the erase button on the answering machine the moment she heard Levi's voice. I guess like Gram he could have just arrived at their door when they still lived in town, but that's not his style. He would never impose his presence on anyone. After my parents moved away Levi gave up. Now he sits out at his mother's house in NaNeetza Valley watching television and sleeping. Once in a while, childhood friends who never left the reserve come to visit, bringing whiskey or six-packs of beer. So far Levi has endured their good-natured teasing about his abstinence, but his mother is frightened for him. That's why she tried to get a hold of my parents. She knows that the suffering won't stop for any of them until it stops for all of them. She's a smart woman. My mom is too, but right now she is wearing her grief wrapped around her like a cloak and it's choking out all the things she knows to be true. A part of her, the loving, tolerant part, has been dampened down, smothered under her need to blame. Turning her back on Levi is so unlike who she used to be that it's making her sick, and she doesn't see it.

Sometimes, though, when she looks into the mirror, even she doesn't recognize herself. It's more than the physical change, more than the weight loss, the stringy unkempt hair—man, Gram's going to have a field day with that one—more than the not caring about what she wears anymore. There's a permanent hard expression on Mom's face that keeps everyone at a distance.

I've seen that scary expression before. Ironically enough the first time I noticed it was on the face of a First Nations woman in town. I was ten years old the day Mom and I pulled up behind a little red car at the traffic light outside the mall. When she reached around to grab something from the back seat, Mom's foot must have pressed on the gas pedal and our car jerked forward to rear end the vehicle in front of us. While the woman driver climbed out of her car to inspect the damage, Mom grabbed her insurance papers and joined her. The wrinkle in the bumper was totally her fault, Mom admitted. She apologized over and over again, promising to have it fixed, while the woman stood there in stony silence. I shrank back at the expression in her dark eyes. Even then I recognized that it was about more than her car. It was about hate. It was not something Mom could break through, yet she tried, with a constant chatter as she copied out her insurance information. Without a word, the woman snatched the paper, jumped into her car, slammed the door and drove away.

“Wow. Did you see how she looked at you?” I said when Mom was back in the car. “She hated you, just because you're white.”

“Try putting yourself in her shoes,” Mom said. “Imagine encountering that look every day?”

Mom used to be like that. Everything I came to believe about not having an ‘us' and ‘them' attitude toward anyone, I learned from her, without lectures, but just by watching her. But lately a new expression, an expression of intolerance, has hardened her face, something I never believed I would see.

Even now it flashes across her eyes as the heavy car door opens and Gram steps out of the Cadillac. Wearing her attempt at Western clothes, embroidered designer jeans, and a cream silk shirt under a brushed suede jacket, she chirps, “Surprise!” She lifts her arms up and swivels her hips, “Ta-da!”

Sometimes Gram rocks. She says nothing about my mother's neglected hair, which I am sure took a lot since she always has an opinion on Mom's appearance. On the way into the house everyone hides behind polite chatter, holding back what they truly want to say. Gram wants to ask if they are bloody wacko to move all the way out here. Dad wants to ask how long she's staying. And Mom wants to ask what the hell she's doing here.

Mom needs to remember what she always told me. People show up in your life for a reason.

Why is it that whenever her mother's around Julie always ends up feeling like a child again? This time it starts the moment she pastes on a smile and walks down from the deck into her mother's embrace.

As they share a stiff hug, Julie reverts to the little girl who used to sit out on the veranda steps of their Point Grey home, waiting for her parents to return from one of her father's sales trips.

Sometimes she sat there all day, wearing her best dress with ribbons tied in her hair by one of the procession of housekeepers who marked her childhood. The moment the green Oldsmobile that her father called ‘the boat,' turned into the driveway, the passenger door would fly open and her mother would bounce out. Leaving the door wide open, she would rush over and throw her arms around Julie. Smelling of cigarettes and her latest perfume, she would cover Julie's face in lipstick kisses, then rub the red smudges in with her thumbs—checking to assure that both cheeks had an equal amount of ‘blush'—all the while professing how much she missed her sweet girl. Yet over time, Julie began to wonder why her mother couldn't stay home like the mothers of her friends did.

Only after Jessie was born, and it became clear that even a new baby could not keep her from accompanying their father on his monthly business trips, did Julie stop thinking it was her fault. She stopped waiting on the steps whenever her parents were due home. If her mother noticed at all, it was only to remark what a good big sister she was to spend all her time with baby Jessie.

Now, inside the ranch house, her mother marches straight through the mudroom into the living room. Behind her Julie says to Ian, “Why don't you take Mom's suitcases up to the guest room while I show her the house?”

Ian's eyes ask the question,
Where?
Both know that the guest room is full of unpacked boxes.

Julie mouths silently,
My room
.

He raises his eyebrows, then shrugs
Okay
. The deception has begun. Later she can find some excuse to rush upstairs, change the linen and move some of her clothes and personal items into the master suite. She'll do anything rather than let her mother know the state of her and Ian's marriage, including sleeping with him. It has been ten months since they've shared a bed, but surely they can manage in a king-sized one for a few days. God, she hopes it's only a few days, but by the girth of those bulging suitcases, who knows? Despite all her travelling with Julie's father, her mother has never learned to pack light.

Julie tours her through the first floor in realtor mode, pointing out features, while her mother gives the appropriate oohs and ahhs.

“I have to admit that I'm impressed,” she says following Julie into the den. “I don't know exactly what I expected, but except for the nasty drive out here, you have a lovely home.”

“Isn't that just the quaintest picture?” she adds gazing out the window above the computer desk in the den. Julie takes in the scene of the pasture beyond the barn, the four cow ponies and the two Clydesdales standing like statues against a backdrop of green willows down by the creek. Until that moment, she has never truly taken in this view. Suddenly it's another thing she would like to capture on film. Ironic that it took seeing it through her mother's eyes to appreciate it.

“But I must say the house is way too large,” Doreen continues, “for two people to rattle around in. And this is all certainly too isolated for my taste.” There it is. She can't resist. Balancing a positive with a negative—stroke a little, jab a little—it's long been her mother's style. Although this jab is a lot softer than normal. At least she hasn't given an all-out personal critique of Julie's clothes or appearance, which at the moment is probably the worst her mother has ever seen her. She's mentioned nothing about her weight, her lack of communication—yet. The visit's just begun.

“Your office looks cozy,” she says studying the uncluttered desktop, the blank computer screen, the empty bookshelves lining the walls. “Although, it's certainly much smaller that Ian's, isn't it?”

“This is the den. Ian needs a larger space. He still works.”

“You've given up your career completely then?”

“Yes, Mother,” Julie says. “A little hard to sell real estate from here.”

“What do you do all day, then?”

Julie shakes her head. “Come to the kitchen,” she says. “I'll make you a snack. You must be hungry after your drive.”

Ian already has the tea steeping when they enter. Doreen takes the seat at the head of the table as he brings over three mugs.

“Oh, no,” she says pushing hers away as if it's tainted. “A proper china cup and saucer for me, please.”

Julie meets Ian's eye and a well-at-least-she-said-please look passes between them.

Taking a container of carrot muffins from the counter, Julie says, “This is what I do,” in answer to her mother's earlier question. “I bake—,”
muffins and cookies that go stale in the pantry, cakes that never get cut
. Shaking away the nagging inner voice, which sounds a lot like her mother, she concentrates on placing the muffins onto the plate. “I cook, clean. I even garden a little. You know, all those things that homemakers used to do.” She waits for her mother's reaction, but she appears to have missed the sarcasm.

“I do a lot of hiking,” Julie adds turning to face her. “And I'm thinking of—”

“Hiking? Surely not alone out here! What about wild animals?”

“It's fine.” Julie places the platter on the table. “As I was just saying, I'm thinking of taking up photography.”

Ian's eyebrows rise at her words, but he says nothing.

Julie opens the refrigerator door and takes out cheese and grapes. “I was planning on going to town soon to buy a better camera,” she says, giving voice to a thought that has only just now occurred to her. “So perhaps, when you leave, I'll follow you in and pick one up.”

Doreen holds up her teacup and, ignoring Ian as he pours, says, “Well that was about as subtle as a sledgehammer. I just got in the door and you're already fishing for my departure date. Is there a rush?”

Caught, like a kid with her hand in the cookie jar, Julie feels a blush rise to her cheeks. “No, no, of course not,” she says looking helplessly at Ian, who's grinning. If she didn't know better, she'd think that he's enjoying this. She cuts the cheese, arranges it on a glass plate with the grapes. Placing it on the table, she says, “You two have a bite while I run upstairs and get your room ready.”

“Oh, don't fuss, Dear. I'm fine with anything.”

“Not without linen,” Julie throws over her shoulder. “Give me ten minutes.” She glances back quickly and gives Ian a silent apology for leaving him stranded with her mother. Chalk and cheese. Oil and water. She'll have to risk the two of them being alone together.

Twenty minutes later she comes back down to the sound of her mother's laughter. In the kitchen, Ian is sitting with his elbows on the table, his mug cupped in his hands. “Doreen was just telling me about your childhood experience with horses,” he says with a smile. “I didn't know you used to ride.”

Of course he knows. There is nothing about her he doesn't know. During the good years of their marriage they had shared everything. She clearly remembers telling him about the English riding lessons her mother insisted she take when she was a child. In the beginning, unable to master the up and down rhythm of ‘posting' she had slid off her pony again and again, until the instructor threatened to pad her with pillows. Ian hasn't forgotten the story. His expression asks for her indulgence. He's learning to feed her mother's ego.

“Do you ride any of those horses I saw out in the field?” her mother asks. “Surely that would be safer than hiking by yourself.”

“I've never really considered it. It's been so long since I've been on a horse,” Julie says taking her seat. “At any rate I don't have a saddle.”

Ian rises and goes over to the counter to retrieve the teapot. “Actually there's a couple of saddles in the tack room in the barn.”

“I'm sure they must be Western. I only learned English riding.”

“And not too well,” her mother says into her cup.

“As I recall, I got quite good at it.”

“You should try it again.” Ian says as he fills Julie's cup. “How different can it be?”

“I might just do that,” she replies with a shrug. Up until now she has had no desire to ride any of the saddle horses, which, like the Clydesdales, she has always considered as belonging to their tenant anyway, but her mother's barb has found its mark.

“Good,” Ian replies. “I'll ask Virgil about those saddles.”

“No! Don't bother—”

“Virgil?” Doreen asks.

“Our tenant in the old trapper's cabin just down the road,” Ian explains. “He does odd jobs around the ranch. No, that's not true,” he corrects himself. “Virgil runs the place. He's been here forever. We inherited him, I guess you could say.”

“So, you're not all alone out in the wilderness after all,” Doreen says studying Julie's face.

Exhausted from a day of maintaining the illusion that her life is okay, Julie bids her mother goodnight and heads down the hall. In the master bedroom Ian is already in bed. With the duvet turned down, he sits with his back against the oak headboard, wearing a t-shirt and plaid pyjama bottoms. He lowers the book he is reading when she comes into the room. She closes the double doors, then feeling his eyes following her, she goes into the ensuite.

She takes her time brushing her teeth and changing into her nightgown. When she returns to the bedroom, Ian is lying on his back, his eyes closed, his bedside lamp turned off. She slips into her side of the bed and switches off her night-light.

“Goodnight,” Ian says quietly.

“Goodnight.” Settling onto her side, Julie's foot accidentally brushes up against his calf. She jerks it away, mumbling, “Sorry,” and moves closer to the edge.