The Perils of Pauline (31 page)
Read The Perils of Pauline Online
Authors: Collette Yvonne
Return to Base
Return to Base: An order to proceed to the point indicated by the displayed information or by verbal communication.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms
At dawn, I wake to the sound of a baby crying. For a moment I am disoriented but then I remember. Summer is only one week old and the whole household parades around under her command already. Slipping on my robe, I make my way down the hall to Serenity’s bedroom and knock on the door.
Entering, I find Shae and Serenity facing each other cross-legged on the bed, Summer lying between them, red-faced, kicking her legs and howling.
“Mom, she’s been up nursing, like, every hour, all night long. Now she won’t go to sleep. We’ve changed her and held her and burped her and everything but she won’t settle down. Do you think there’s something wrong?”
“No. She’s fine. Why not let me take her for a while? You two get some sleep.”
They hand her over gratefully and, as I slip out of the room, I see the two of them slide deep under the covers and swiftly wriggle into spoon formation. I’ll miss them when they move to their apartment next month.
I carry Summer downstairs. She continues screaming as I pace around the living room patting her back and murmuring to her. She squirms and writhes and finally, when I’m beginning to wonder if there’s actually something wrong with her, she lets out a healthy belch and immediately settles into a quieter pattern of fussing and wriggling.
At last, Summer relaxes into my shoulder but I don’t want to take her back upstairs quite yet and disturb Shae and Serenity. I can smell coffee brewing so I carry her into the kitchen where I find Donald sitting at the table reading the newspaper. Like he’d never left.
Donald looks up as I enter. “I know what’s the matter with George’s paw.”
“Really?”
“Look at the way he’s lying.”
George is settled in his favorite place beside the back door, one paw tucked neatly underneath him and the other sticking straight out.
“George, come here.” George gets up and slowly, painfully, limps over to Donald.
He sits and holds out his sore paw and Donald rubs it for a few minutes. George looks at Donald and then at me. Donald continues to massage his paw while George thumps his tail happily on the floor. Then, Donald tosses a scrap of toast from his plate to the other side of the kitchen, and George leaps after it, nimbly and happily, without a trace of a limp.
“See? When he lies on his paw like that, he puts it to sleep.”
Unbelievable.
“Plus, I saw him hanging around under the bird feeder this morning eating bird seed. The blue jays dump out all the little stuff trying to get to the sunflower seeds. That explains the grainy bits.”
“George is eating bird seed?” I shake my head and stare out at the seed-spattered snow under the feeder and a solid scattering of paw prints. “How come I never noticed him doing this?”
“You’ve been too busy, I guess. Want some coffee?”
I sit at the kitchen table as Donald fills my favorite mug and adds the exact right amount of milk and sugar.
Then, setting the mug on the table in front of me, he lifts Summer from my arms gently, expertly even, and I can see he’s remembering back when he used to perform this delicate transfer maneuver with Jack and Olympia. Summer’s eyelids flutter briefly as she burps another small burp. A little milky drool escapes from the side of her tiny lips, and is absorbed into the folds of Donald’s shirt. She sighs contentedly, her buttery form nestled warm and protected in the crook of Donald’s arm.
Donald smiles down at her. After a moment his tender gaze passes from Summer’s face to mine. He peers into my eyes as if he’s seeing them for the first time in a long time, and I fasten my eyes to his. It has been a long time. I want to live in this beautiful moment forever. “She looks just like you,” he tells me, “when she burps like that.”
COLLETTE YVONNE
IS A WRITER
, community volunteer, yoga teacher, and freelance journalist. Since graduating with honors from York University’s Creative Writing Program, her short stories, blog posts, reviews, articles, and interviews have appeared in numerous publications ranging from fictional anthologies to articles in national newspapers. Her words have also been produced on stage and in film. Collette lives in Ontario where she is working on perfecting her downward dog and corpse pose, and writing her next book.
Collette maintains her blog at
www.colletteyvonne.ca
Many many thanks…
… To my wonderful agent, Stephany Evans, for her incredible insight, guidance, and perseverance, I am forever grateful. Thanks, also, belong to Robert Astle and Astor+Blue for taking a chance on me. Thanks to editor Jillian Ports for her excellent skills and sharp eyes. To writing group friends Joy Barber, Ellen Case, Maria Cioni, Debi Goodwin, Janet Looker, Ffion Llwd-Jones, Netta Rondinelli, Maria Coletta McLean, Bryna Wasserman, Jamie Zeppa: your critical input has been invaluable. Maria CM: you endlessly kept my spirits up and constantly reminded me where my place was—in the chair, writing. To Evangeline Moffat, who made an early draft of the manuscript much better which is exactly what a good editor is supposed to do. To writing teachers: Bruce Powe who once upon a time said I could write, I’ve dined out on that comment for years, and to Sarah Sheard, Elisabeth Harvor, Don Coles and Susan Swan whose wonderful writing classes gave me many critical tools to think and practice the craft. To Ottawa scribes: Agnes Cadieux, Kelly Lalonde, Jeff Secker and Caroline Wissing, thanks for making Ottawa rock for me. To the members of the Writers Community of Durham Region (WCDR) and Brian Baker, Karen Cole, Kevin Craig, Sherry Hinman, Barbara Hunt, Myrna Marcelline, Susan Statham and Heather Tucker of Works in Progress Group (WIP) for being such an incredible resource of motivation and community, and to friend Shirley Tye: thanks for knocking on my doors so many moons ago. To John Butcher, James Dewar, Frances Horibe, Jessica Outram, and Sue Lynn Reynolds: thanks for your invaluable help shaping my stories over our many wonderful summer writing retreats. To Shelley Macbeth and the staff of the best independent bookstore on the planet, Blue Heron Books of Uxbridge,
for fervently supporting local writers. To Chuck Cross, another fellow traveler, who sent me poems and clippings and talked shop with me. To solid gold friends: Lucy Bondarenko for saying she will wait to read the manuscript when it is published and not before, Catherine McNeill for having a “Collette File,” Jane MacIntosh who always had a encouraging word at every turn, and Linda Zernask who listened and listened and listened. To friends Deb Boyd, Ann Budway, Sherry Craighead, Loretta Harrison, Leslie Kerrivan, Helen Litt, Vera Lohse, Deborah Seager, and Mary Vincent: Thanks for wanting to know what I was writing and applauding every publishing credit along the way. Every woman needs a true blue circle like you. Special thanks go to Irene Greer for her sharp editorial eye and to Debbie Myers: Thank you for opening your cottage to us and for laughing till the tears ran down your cheeks. You have no idea how this has sustained me. To Betty Jo Hakanson who said, at a critical point in this venture, “Own the thought that you deserve to be heard.” So many others helped along the way, I would be remiss not to mention Lisa Argue, Natalie Bondarenko, Brandy Ford, Cindy Revell, and Teresa Willison for their help at critical times. To my sister, Teresa Hannigan, who is quite simply the wind beneath my wings. To my parents, Paul and Sheila Argue, for simply everything. To my aunt, Donna Procher, for the guitar and all the great art supplies when I was a kid—you knew how much these things matter. To my wonderful husband, Peter McKeracher: You never once stopped believing. And to my children: Liam, Colleen, and Alex, you keep me in the real world and show me every day what love is.
