SSC (2012) Adult Onset (18 page)

“Wake up, Daisy, we’re going now.”

Maggie stands and smiles up at her proudly. How could Mary Rose have seen anything but variations on a theme of joy in her child’s smile? A block of sunlight has barged through the back-door window and it softens upon contact with the child, making of staticky stray hairs a halo for her toddler-plump face, shiny red mouth, green lights in her eyes. She has a dimple. The boots are on the wrong feet.

Why can’t Mary Rose enjoy the moment? This is the sweet time. She knows it. Can see it from the outside. Mother and child on the steps.
Look, Mumma, I did it, Me-self
. The mother is healthy, youthful. It is a nice house. It is a nice day. A nice dog. Just add feelings.

The boots will get bigger. The little shoes in the rack will give way to ever-larger shoes. Increments of time marching away to adulthood and beyond, then gone. Know it now. Feel it.

Dead. Flat and grey, like sheet metal pressing against her chest where spongy feelings ought to be. Are other people just pretending to have feelings, she wonders? Or do they really feel them? Everything is fine—shiny ladybug, silky head, mother on the steps. But the mother has a blank look on her face. Smile:
Tick
. Now get behind it. It is only a moment. And the next, and the next, and the next, passing, frame by frame by … Can you catch one of those moments, catch it like the window of a passing train, catch one and get into Time?

But the train disappears, the prairie is empty but for the tracks, silent now, though still hot to the touch. Vibrating.

•

•

They were halfway to the school when Maggie insisted on walking, which was, of course, another good sign, but anyone who has ever walked from A to B with a toddler knows how non-linear it can be, not to mention hard on the back. Now Mary Rose buckles her safely back into the stroller as they wait to cross the speedway that is Spadina Avenue.

She joins the lively scene outside the old rectory that houses Matthew’s Montessori school, and chats with the other parents and nannies milling about. Several, like her, are on foot with dogs and younger siblings, some are on bicycles, others in vans and environmentally sensitive SUVs. There’s Keith—Kevin?—again. He is approaching her, smiling. Mary Rose quickly turns to the mom next to her and asks out of the side of her mouth, “Is it Keith or Kevin?”

“Philip,” says Saleema.

“Mary Rose, sorry I accosted you like that, you must get sick of people asking when the third one’s coming out.”

She smiles back. “Not at all, Philip, it’s … nice to be asked.”

He is a cell biologist.

“Why did I think you were a cartoonist?” she says.

He looks at her oddly. “I wanted to be a cartoonist.”

Philip rides his bike year-round, and Mary Rose is familiar with his nose in every season, sunburnt in summer, frost-nipped and drippy in winter as he hauls his twin girls in a covered kid cart. Maybe he is on sabbatical. Or maybe he is a stay-at-home dad … making snacks, taking whacks, wondering if he’ll ever get any me-time, wishing his wife would pay just a little more attention to him and just a little less to the children when she gets home in the evening … Which of them requires the back rub?

“I can’t wait to read it,” he says. “My whole book club is ready to pounce.”

Mary Rose is speaking with a heterosexual man who is in a book club.
O brave new world that has such people in it!

The glass door to the lower level of the school opens and the pre-elementary “Casa” children begin making their exit, each pausing to shake hands with the teacher before being dismissed. Mary Rose spots Matthew waiting his turn, in animated conversation with Saleema’s son.

“Saleema, can we borrow Youssef this afternoon?”

“That would be awesome,” replies Saleema in her usual tone of urgency—as though she operates at a constant level of orange alert. “But can it be tomorrow? I have to shop with my mother then.” Her mother is seated inside a Toyota Matrix at the curb with its lights flashing. Her chador is black to the ankles, unlike Saleema’s fuchsia head scarf.

“Your mum can come play at our house too.”

Saleema laughs. She is an engineer. She can use the laughs.

The steps are suddenly full of small children clutching artwork and being claimed by caregivers. Several of the little ones surround Daisy, jamming the sidewalk, Mary Rose untangles the leash from the stroller and the children. Maggie cries out for inclusion and control, “You can pat my dog!”—desperation is the mother of syntax. She will be joining her brother here next fall and Mary Rose’s life will change again. Another shoe size.

The teacher looks up between handshakes. “Hi, Mary Rose, how are you?”

Keira is a young woman with a huge smile and in full, pregnant bloom with her first child.

“I’m terrific, Keira, you look great!”

Mary Rose sees what Keira sees, hears what she hears: a happy, energetic mother with two beautiful, healthy children. Keira is sweet,
smart and decent like the rest of the faculty and staff—Mary Rose has often wished she could enrol herself here and start school all over again, peeling carrots, tracing letters, learning grace and courtesy and big bang theory in a sane environment.

“Mumma!”

He still runs to her every day. That will change in a couple of years too. He thrusts his construction paper at her.

“Oh my goodness.”

“It’s a whale.”

“It is beautiful, sweetheart.”

“Maffew!” Maggie has leaned forward and bellowed at ten decibels. A few adults turn and laugh, so does Mary Rose.

Saleema says, “She is so much like you, Mary Rose,” as she hustles her son over to the Matrix.

“Thanks, Saleema. I think.” She turns back to Matthew, catches sight of Keira again and sees a knife slide into her pregnant belly—she blinks reflexively with a sudden intake of breath and turns away. “Matthew, don’t tease your sister, sweetheart.”

He is bobbing and weaving in front of the stroller just out of reach, Mary Rose can hear the scream taking shape inside Maggie’s laughter. He dances in close and Maggie gets a clump of his hair. Now he is screaming. “Maggie, no!” hollers Mary Rose. Eleven decibels—she glances round to see if any of the other parents is looking at her. Does she sound too angry? Sue catches her eye and waves. Did she hear? Mary Rose smiles and ducks on the pretext of untangling Daisy—she has to be feeling really good about herself to feel okay around Sue. With her high blond ponytail, tall Hunter rain boots, down vest and all-round air of private school confidence, Sue is the type of woman Mary Rose would never know if it weren’t for their children. She is like Hilary minus theatre plus student council. Indeed, they both have startling blue eyes and project an aura of command. It would stand to reason that Mary Rose ought to feel at
home around Sue, but she feels plungingly inadequate. Worse: shamefully homosexual. Something in Sue’s demeanour triggers the old self-loathing … the Lisa Snodgrass effect.
Remembered shame
. She has confessed a sanitized version of this to Gigi, “I’m still afraid of WASPs even though I’m married to one.” Daisy barks her high-pitched play bark two inches from Mary Rose’s head—the aural effect of a garden spade to the ear—and she straightens with a wince. Matthew has his hands clapped to the sides of his head.

“Daisy, gentle-speak, you hurt Matthew’s ears.”

“No, you did,” he says.

She chuckles in case anyone is listening.

“Mary Rose MacKinnon, what’s your time like tomorrow afternoon?” Forthright five-foot-ten tones.

“Oh, hi Sue, how are you?”

“I’m taking the boys to Jungle Wall.”

Mary Rose smiles back. “What a brilliant concept, eh? Your kids drive you up the wall so you might climb one with them.”

Sue laughs. “The best part is Steve’s making supper afterwards.”

“Oh Sue, I’d love that, but … I promised Saleema I’d take care of Youssef.”

“Bring him.”

“Oh, you know what? I just—I can’t believe I forgot, tomorrow’s Wednesday, I’m going to see
Water
with my friends Kate and Bridget—” Too much information, she sounds as though she is lying. “After the Youssef play date that is.” Is this her cue to invite Sue’s son Ryan to join Matthew and Youssef?

“
Water
’s amazing,” says Sue. “Let’s try for the weekend, Hil’s still away, right?”

“She’s home next week.”

“How’re you doing on your own?” Sue’s socially appropriate solicitude, her perfectly calibrated degree of sympathetic brow-furrowing are nerve-wracking to Mary Rose.

“Doing great.” Plastic smile. “It’s great sometimes to just, you know, do things your own way without having to check in with your partner?”

Sue smiles back—Calvin Klein laugh lines.

Gigi, in her self-appointed capacity as professional lesbian, has said, “You’ve just got the hots for her.”
That is so not true
—in fact, at this moment Mary Rose feels her smile starting to melt like a tire fire, convinced her face is emitting a bad odour.
Some things really do get batter
.

“Mumma,” announces Maggie. “I will walk now.”

“Cool boots, Maggie,” says Sue, with a wink to Mary Rose in acknowledgement perhaps that they’re on the wrong feet. “I’m going to hold you to the weekend, MacKinnon.”

Sue jogs off, pushing the all-terrain stroller with baby Ben buckled in, five-year-old Ryan riding shotgun on the rumble step and seven-year-old Colin powering his two-wheeler on the sidewalk ahead. Super woman with a tennis diamond. Mary Rose watches and wonders, is Sue making a “special project” out of her? Does Mary Rose seem like that much of a mess? Maybe the wrong-footed boots are a sign.
How’re you doing on your own?
Sue is the last person to whom Mary Rose would admit the slightest maternal misgiving—the type of woman who has no clue what it’s like to go down the rabbit hole.

Around her now, the tide of parents is turning over, older children are being dismissed. Keira has headed back inside the school with a wave. Mary Rose unhooks Daisy’s leash from the wrought iron fence post and takes Matthew’s hand as cars come and go from the curb, pulling in and out of the four lanes of rush hour. The knife thing was a fleeting unpleasantness, another unbidden thought.

“Mumma,” says Matthew, “You’re hurting my hand.”

Though the catastrophic thoughts intruded once or twice when Hil was pregnant, Mary Rose came to believe the magnificent world-blast of Hilary getting down on the floor and giving birth to Maggie had banished them for good, along with so many other demons that fled
like rats in the wake of her new life. Now she sees herself take hold of the stroller with Maggie in it and tip it into the traffic. She banishes the image by unclipping Maggie’s seat belt and swinging her up into her arms. If anyone is watching, they will see that she loves her child.

•

•

They are under way, Matthew pushing Daisy in the stroller, Mary Rose piggybacking Maggie, who rattles with laughter like a packet of Chiclets. They stop at the park, Daisy bolts from the stroller, and Mary Rose catches the leash just in time, nearly dislocating her shoulder in the process—dogs are forbidden in the playground enclosure, and Daisy loves to hang by her jaws from the swing, a simple pleasure that makes her look all too pit-bully. Matthew runs for the swings, Maggie gives chase, falling in that weightless way of toddlers, scrambling to her feet, running, falling again like a ball of wool, getting up, running. Mary Rose hooks Daisy to the gate, leaving her to bark protectively, yearningly, and realizes the vagueness between her ears is hunger. Luckily, she has packed snacks for the children. She upends two boxes of mini-raisins into her mouth and chases them with a handful of spelt animal cookies. Matthew is already swinging, but Maggie has flipped over twice in her effort to mount a big-kid swing. Mary Rose picks her up and stuffs her into a baby swing—her protest turns to glee when she feels the pressure of Mary Rose’s hand at her back. She pushes them in tandem, one on each hand. Maggie kicks off her boots, the left one sailing right, the right one left. Matthew throws his head back, his hat falls off and his hair flies. She delivers
tickles at unpredictable intervals, a squeeze at the knee, snap at the heel; they laugh and their breath bubbles up and out into the air, bits of them, their cosmic signature, the particular way in which a piece of the universe has passed through them and been changed forever just now, indelibly with every breath, propelling the message,
we’re here, we’re here, we’re here!

Mary Rose pushes her sweet so-young children on the swings … A woman pushes her children on the swings while her dog dances and barks.
That woman is happy
.

•

•

Matthew’s whale is pinned to the corkboard next to the foot calendar—April’s watercolour is a tulip. Mary Rose makes supper while he makes construction sounds amid a rising tower of oversized Lego on the kitchen floor—he is more than ready to manipulate smaller shapes, but with his sister not yet three, the household is some months away from stocking toys suitable for choking. Maggie, rather than pursuing her career in demolition, is in the dining room, bent quietly over something at the craft table—Mary Rose’s gaze flicks to the knife block, but the scissors are safely stowed.

She joins her, and looks over her shoulder. “What are you doing, Maggie?”

“Witing.”

Swirls and hieroglyphs … the child is using a real pen—from Mary Rose’s datebook. A mosaic is taking shape beneath her little fist, coiling graphemes embedded in squares and spirals reminiscent of Hundertwasser, if Hundertwasser had decorated Egyptian tombs.
Mary Rose feels her lips part as though to read aloud what is written there, but its meaning remains beneath the surface. She watches, somewhat awed, determining to be more like Hil, who allows the children to go through her purse and play with her phone and lipstick. Mary Rose does not have a “purse.” She has a bag with a different zippered pocket for everything—large enough to accommodate a manuscript should that ever become necessary again. Along with an array of pragmatica, she carries a fountain pen that she keeps meaning to fill. She ought probably to carry a Bic pen, having read it is possible to perform an emergency tracheotomy with one. Hil would scoff, but Mary Rose knows that most serious accidents happen in the home.