Part 2 / Chapter Four ⥈ The Early 1990's

The wild woman is fluent in the language of dreams, images, passion, and poetry

– Çlarissa Pinkola Estés

From my own journals

Dream #1

I was in a car with a girlfriend, my son, and another person. Mom’s friend Allan was driving. We were on an expressway going very fast when a person appeared before us and fell backwards in front of the car, like sitting down. We drove over him and were dragging him along under the car. With horror, Allan was looking for a place to stop or pull over without causing a pile-up and us getting smushed, but the traffic was so heavy. 

Finally, the car was at a roadside café, and Allan was dealing with the police, witnesses, etc. I tried to phone home, but no one answered. Then I phoned Mom, sobbing as I explained the horrifying event. I wanted her to come and get us. My girlfriend and I then went to a bank to get some cash, but no teller would accept my card until the very last one. I had to fill out a special form and pay $2.00. Suddenly, I remembered I had not seen my son for the last while. So I went looking for him, worried that he would be having difficulty dealing with witnessing the accident. I had to look for him all over, and I climbed up a wooden fire escape to the top of the café, onto the roof. There was a sort of hay loft there, and my son was hiding under some bales of hay. I called out, talking in such a way as to comfort him.

Not two days after this dream, I received a phone call. It was about 8pm and my now fourteen-year-old son was on the line. He sounded distressed, breathing heavily, and speaking in choppy sentences. 

“Mum! You have to come and get me. I can’t find Chad. We got mugged.” He choked on this last word, on the verge of tears but trying to be brave.

“Oh geez - are you hurt? Where are you?”

“By the movie theatres. Glad I had that quarter you gave me for a phone. They didn’t beat me up,” he panted.

“Are you safe there until I get here?”

“…I…don’t know.”

“Well, stay put, don’t go looking for Chad. See if he comes back. I’ll be there in 10 minutes.”

Pulling up in front of the movie theatres, frantically looking for my son, a car unexpectedly pulled out in front of me, cutting me off. I slammed on the brakes, and my daughter, in the back seat, jammed into her seatbelt. 

“Idiot!” I shouted. And then, to my daughter, “Sorry, sweetie. Do you see your brother anywhere?”

“There, Mama, there!”

My eye caught him waving, and as soon as he saw that we’d seen him, he started for the car. He’d grown tall over the summer and become a handsome young man, always particular about the way he dressed and did his hair. My heart thumped for the person he was becoming.

He jumped into the front seat, letting out a breath of relief. 

“Are you okay? Where’s Chad?”

“My shoes are gone.”

I looked down, noticing his feet with socks but no shoes. “What!? The muggers took your shoes? Who steals people’s shoes right off their feet?” I noticed that in my mind, everyone seemed to be idiots today. My son’s shoes were kind of new, but no super brand. He was hard on his shoes, so we seemed to buy new ones often. Not to mention that his feet were growing rapidly right now. I’d never heard of muggers going after shoes, except in the ghettos of New York or something.

“They wanted Chad’s shoes, but he ran, so then they took mine. Mum, they had a knife.” 

My throat tightened as I reflected on the possible scenarios that could have played out. I was feeling annoyed that Chad had left. Splitting up seemed more dangerous and self-serving.

My son knew me well, however, and said, “Mum, don’t be mad at Chad. I think he thought they would chase after him.”

“Who were these mugger idiots?” I asked.

“Probably some older teens who came from across the river on the Skytrain.”

It’s true there had been reports in the news about this, with the new Skytrain having opened up a wider territory for troublemakers. Commuters weren’t the only ones benefitting. As we were debriefing, we’d driven around the neighbourhood a couple of times by now, with no sightings of Chad.

“I think we should go home now and call Chad’s mom.” 

Later that night, at bedtime, my son wanted to talk.

“Mum? Those guys today? Those are the kind I was telling you about. The ones who surrounded me on the bus, coming home from school.” 

He was attending a really good junior high program with both innovative programming and structure. I had begun to suspect that my son had some form of ADHD and saw that he did much better in school programs with some latitude. But it was two bus-rides away from home, across the river. And even though a close friend of his also went there, his friend took a different bus. I actually worked in the same school district, but my schedule didn’t allow me the flexibility to pick him up regularly. I was discovering that the lives of teenage boys are not easy - they were vulnerable to such thugs as he’d encountered today, and on the bus. Society seemed to have a general belief that all teenage boys were hooligans. Many times adults nearby chose to look the other way, likely out of their own discomfort or fear. I felt pain around his susceptibility; this stage of development was scary for both him and me. 

Dream #2

There was a group of people I was with, and somehow we were responsible for the care of a miniature cartoon princess. But it was not an easy job to do, as other people from the criminal element became interested in acquiring her for the purpose of making money. We were on the run and ended up in a hotel with many floors. The elevators in this hotel were special. You can always lose your pursuers. We got into the elevator in the nick of time - the door closed on the criminals, and we zipped down to a lower floor. We arrived at an ongoing banquet, the cartoon princess’s family banquet. There was a table set up at the front with a miniature table on top of it, for her family, and an eight-shaped ice rink. The princess flew out of my arms with cartoon stars and pixie dust, toward the rink. It was spectacular visuals for a dream. She landed on the rink where a cartoon prince of the same size was waiting for her. They clasped hands and danced in ballroom style, with flourishes and dips. But underneath her princess gown, she wore a rainbow-coloured foot cast.

My daughter, in real life, did in fact have a casted ankle - the third bone she’d broken in three years. The second time had been the scariest accident. I’d been in the waiting area at the hospital for a couple of hours as they reset a compound fracture of her left forearm. 

“Ma’am?” A lady in a brown polyester pant suit approached me. I’d been sitting there with tears streaming down my face, holding a now-cold, milky cup of hospital vending machine tea. The lady handed me a package of tissues.

“Thank you,” I blubbered, slightly embarrassed that this stranger was acknowledging my emotional state. 

“My name is Margot,” she said.

I didn’t need anyone to chat with right now. I appreciated the gesture with the tissues, but wished she’d move on.

“I need to ask you some questions about your daughter,” she said.

My muzzy mind tried to make sense of what this trim, polyester woman was saying. “Pardon?” I replied.

“Your daughter is in surgery for a broken arm.”

“Yes.”

“I need to ask you some questions,” she repeated.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “What questions?”  I suddenly felt panic rising. “Is she okay? Is something happening in the surgery?” New tears flowed uncontrollably.

“I’m a social worker,” Margot finally revealed. “We have medical records indicating that your daughter had another broken bone less than a year ago.”

My befuddled self suddenly shifted to Margot’s staid expression, as the penny dropped. She had a notebook and pen in one hand. I was being interviewed by a social worker about possible child abuse. 

“Oh,” was all I managed to reply. My brain was not being very logical in that moment, and between the heavy emotion of my daughter’s accident and now Margot, I could feel a bizarre roaring laughter wanting to burst out of me. I also needed to pee. I was being interviewed for possible child abuse reverberated. “Umm, yeah.” I added, not revealing any details yet as I processed what to say. Admittedly, it could seem questionable that there had been a previous occurrence. It was good to know that hospitals actually do check these things out. For the first break, my daughter had been jumping on a bed with her friend. My girlfriend and I had taken our four kids away for the weekend, to Whistler, a resort community north of Vancouver. The girls were sharing a room and were excited, letting off a little excess energy.  There had been a mid-air collision between the girls, and my daughter bounced off the bed, landing awkwardly on her ankle; just one of those things that kids do. Luckily, being a ski resort, the Whistler Clinic was expert at dealing with people’s broken parts. 

Before Margot could say more, an elderly doctor in scrubs came through a door toward me. “I’m Dr. Dubiensky,” he said. “We’ve finished the reset and casting, and all went well. You’ll be able to see your daughter shortly. She’s just waking up. She’s a little talker, that one. She sure loves her mommy!” The doctor noticed my puzzled look. “A part of the anesthetic acts a bit like a truth serum. Some patients get very chatty. When we told her you were waiting out here, she told us all about you. Anyway, we’re going to keep her in overnight, as I just want to check everything tomorrow. Her body experienced some shock. The nurses will give you the details. You were lucky I was home today when the call came in; I’m technically retired, but I take occasional surgeries like this.” He looked at Margot with his kind eyes. “I think we’re all good here.”

After a few weeks of healing, the orthopedist we’d been referred to lined up several x-rays to show how the bones were repairing themselves. In the first week, granulation tissues filled in the break in the radius; then a soft bridge formed around the jagged ends at each side of the break; this soft callus grew into a hard callus. It was fascinating - I had no idea the body itself was such an expert. The doctor assured me the hard callus would smooth out over the last couple of weeks of healing.

With my help, my daughter wrote a letter to Dr. Dubiensky, thanking him for being such a kind doctor and fixing her broken arm. About three weeks later, a letter arrived in our mailbox, thrillingly addressed to my daughter. 

With this third break, she had bounced off a trampoline at a friend’s birthday party. It was actually only a bone chip this time in her other ankle, but I did wonder myself why this was happening so frequently. With a whimsical sentiment I told her she was never allowed to jump again and that she’d have to wear hight tops for the rest of her life.

◊◊◊◊◊

I’d been meeting with a counsellor for several months. Being a client wasn’t easy, and it was most difficult to manage feelings of vulnerability and regret after disclosing the traumatic secrets I’d been harbouring from a young age. I’d never told anyone these things before. In many ways, I liked my counsellor, but I didn’t feel cared for. He didn’t have the knack of offering any softness or advice on what to do with the aftermath. Was this a part of the process? Or was it just me being defensive? Or was it something to do with having been trained in the field?

“Do you think it’s possible,” the counsellor said, “that it’s you who are driving the custody arrangements?”

“Me?” I wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “I mean, I’d probably prefer to have the kids full-time, but that wouldn’t be fair to their dad. His greatest fear is that I take the kids away from him.”

“Is feeling fair to their dad what’s best for the kids?”

“I think he’s a better dad if he has them half the time. He gets to know their daily ups and downs. He’s actually a better dad now than when I was overcompensating all the time. I’m out of his way.”

“And you? You have a life now?”

I felt a jab in my heart at these words. Was I doing the exact same thing as my mom did when she left my dad? I still had trouble processing the shame I felt about my mother, or the pain I felt for my sister, being the tender, too-young adolescent witness to my mom’s wildness. Yet, a recognition was emerging of the great sacrifices my mom had to make, just to have a life, her life. It wasn’t my dad who stifled her strong life force; he tried his best to encourage her to get out into the world. I, myself, had experienced how little respect women were given anywhere; how our ideas, our thoughts, our feelings, our plans were simply dismissed, sometimes with a superficial ‘thank you for sharing’.

“I have a career, yes. I really enjoy my work, yes. And, as you know, I’m dating a fellow. I do like time off from my kids. But when I’m with them, I try my best to be fully present.” There was an edge to my voice.

“I’ll admit,” the counsellor said, “I don’t think co-parenting works.”

“You don’t think it works.” I repeated. Where was this coming from? I had a sudden sense of sabotage. “You don’t believe in it?” 

“I don’t believe that kids should live out of a suitcase.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, do you have kids?”

“Yes.” he answered.

“And a wife?”

“Yes.”

He looked at me, but stayed quiet. After a minute, he said, “I apologize for getting on the wrong track. I was actually trying to look at your own need to keep some distance from your children. Your experiences with your mother have, perhaps, left gaps that she was unable to nourish. This may fuel your need to have time away from them.”

He had hit a nerve; my inside voice immediately jumped to ‘it’s for their own safety’. There was a fierce anger in me at times, anger toward the kids. I knew instinctively that it had nothing to do with them, and it frightened me. Having time away gave me space to breathe into this rage and defuse it.  

Moreover, I was constantly wondering whether all of us divorced families out there were forging alternative models for family life. Societal beliefs in the wholesomeness of the nuclear family appeared exclusive of people who had faced deviations outside of these norms, or even those from other community-based cultures. The divorce rate was almost 45%. There had to be some reason for this, some change needed in the basic fabric of contractual family life. There was a greater social conscience I was trying to tap into, trying to infuse in my own psyche, and I hoped my children would come to understand this. 

◊◊◊◊◊

As the early 1990s rolled in, my sister turned 30. The family believed that with her having lived through her twenties, she should now have the experience necessary to make something of her life. She regularly made the rounds through all of us, trying to find ways to connect, but ultimately, asking for money. We suspected that she wasn’t using her money for things that moved her forward in life, and to be brutally honest, we were all busy keeping up with our own responsibilities and did not make quality time for her.

Dad did set her up in various housing situations, paying the damage deposit and a couple of months’ rent in basement suites, or apartments, and he even gave her money to furnish these places. She often paid him back some of the money. My sister was a good housekeeper and had a sense of style in the way she pulled her living spaces together. Not extravagant, but always tasteful, well-organized, and clean. However, something dark inside my sister led to one disaster or another, and she seemed unable to find a status quo for herself. As a family, we didn’t know what to do.

“Stop, stop, stop!” I urged, as my sister was about to add a hazelnut-flavoured creamer to the instant coffee she had made for us.

“It’s so good, though! A real treat. You don’t like it? I have vanilla instead.”

“No thanks. I don’t know why, those creamers make me really queasy.” The smell of them produced a churning in my gut, but I held the hot black coffee under my nose, sniffing the toasty aroma until the feeling went away. 

My sister’s friend Dani took a sip as she inhaled the hazelnut creamer bouquet. “I love it,” she affirmed, her shiny greenish eyes and soft, curling red hair glowing. 

“Dani.” I smiled at her. “Do you know that your eyes are almost the same colour as hers?” I nodded toward my sister.

My sister chuckled as she gazed at Dani. “Maybe that’s what made me notice you.”

Dani’s basement suite was one of the places Karen crashed for periods of time after one of her disasters had struck. They had met while working together at the race track. I could tell right away that Dani was a kind person, while at the same time someone who’d likely had to fend for herself from early on. 

“How long have you worked at the race track café?”

“Since I was sixteen.” Dani paused. “I never thought I’d still be there, all these years later.”

At that moment, a sudden, purposeful thumping was heard from upstairs. “Oh,” said Dani. “That’s Len. I forgot. Your sister bought us all smokes when she went out for the creamer, and I never took his up to him.”

“Why don’t we all go up?” my sister said. “I’ll make him a coffee too.”

An overweight, roundish man was sitting in a recliner with his feet up, wearing a singlet, sweatpants, and slippers. He was unshaven, with greasy whitish hair, and he looked older than Karen and my dad. I was intrigued to watch Dani start the cigarette for him and then hand it over, as Karen brought in a coffee and placed it on the side table beside him. The cup was only half full.

After sucking hard on the cigarette a couple of times, he looked at me and said, “You must be the sister.” Holding the smoke in his left hand, he reached for the coffee, and I could see his hand shaking as he brought it to his mouth and sipped, letting out a sigh of pleasure. 

“Thanks, Karen,” he said. “My girls take good care of me.” Len winked at me.

There was a smell in this part of the house, of old carpet. The mid-length curtains were a little tattered, and the walls had obviously not been painted in a very long time. The furnishings were all old, too, yet there was a comfortable feeling.  

Dani broke the silence. “Len took me in after my previous apartment burned down.”

“The timing was right,” Len added. “My renter had trashed the suite and taken off, owing me. Dani’s the best tenant I’ve had.”

“I fixed the suite up, and now with Len’s health problems, I help him out a bit, in exchange for cheaper rent.”

“Yup. Been in this house for almost fifty years.” His cigarette was almost finished, and I could see flecks of ash on his undershirt. 

“Well, I hope my sister has been behaving herself, too.” I winked back at Len as I took the last sip of my coffee. With the three of them smoking, the room had taken on a hazy atmosphere, like in the smoking rooms at bingo halls. 

“Don’t mind having her around at all. She feels like family,” he replied.

◊◊◊◊◊

I dropped in at Dad’s with James. We had news. We had decided to move in together. Although combining households was his idea, James had agreed to my suggestion of a one-year trial, something I felt strongly about. I needed to see how our union would work with my kids and also his kids, even though his were a little older and had already started their young adult lives. I knew we would all need time for adjustments, but I was determined not to sacrifice my and the kids’ relationship over James. 

Dad liked James. James knew how to be ‘a man’s man’ with him, a social convention that was comfortable for both of them. 

After a while, however, the conversation shifted. “Have you heard from your sister?”, Dad asked.

“As a matter of fact, I saw her just a few days ago,” I replied.

“Where is she?”

“With that friend she met while working at the race track.”

“And what’s he like?” Dad’s tone had taken on a distaste. He never remembered any of her friends and seemed to always assume they were lowlifes.

“Dani is one of Karen’s good friends. She’s a very kind person. I really like her.” I decided not to mention Len in my story, as Dad would never accept that he was not nefarious in some way.

“So is Karen living there?”

“I don’t think so, just crashing for now.”

Dad rolled his eyes. “I just wish she’d make better friends. Do you think she’s using drugs again?”

This statement was a trap, one I’d fallen into too many times before. Dad and I had had many debates, even arguments, on ‘the choices’ Karen made around the use of substances. He was certain drug use had perpetrated her psychosis. I thought it was more complicated, involving various factors. I had never disclosed to Dad some of the things Mom had been involved in, and he never seemed to acknowledge the losses my sister experienced with Dad himself being on his third marriage and third set of kids. Both Karen and I agreed, at least, that his current wife and kids were keepers.

I changed the subject. “Karen’s applied to take an eight-month program on working with disabled teens with behavioural challenges.”

“Oh? Well, that sounds useful. What kind of work do you get from that?” he asked.

“It’s through the same society Mom works for. They’ve interviewed Karen and think she would be a good fit for the new program they want to open. She would begin with training disabled teens how to run a coffee shop. They’d pay half her wages as she trains, with the other half paid for by the government. Similar to those programs you’ve been involved in.”

“She will be good at that. Maybe that’ll keep her away from these disasters she keeps running into.” 

I could tell that he was anxious about my sister, yearning for her to settle into a métier. Dad struggled when by a certain age, adults couldn’t find their niche. I’d heard many lectures from him about my kids’ dad, who never seemed to be finished university. But I think also, Dad wasn't used to not knowing what to do. The funny thing was, that in some ways Dad and my sister were very similar. Both rebels and easily able to think outside the box. 

“So how’s your mom?” 

“Um…” I looked at James. He looked back at me, his blue eyes steady. I could tell he was suppressing a snigger. A few weeks ago, we’d helped her move out of her house while her abusive boyfriend was at work. “She’s okay. She’s just moved into a new apartment.”

“Oh, did she lose the house?”

“No, no. They just split up, and she plans to be on her own for now. She’s going on a trip soon, to Scandinavia. Backpacking. By herself.” I couldn’t resist telling Dad this part. Mom had two uncles who never had children and had travelled a lot, sometimes with their wives and sometimes on their own. They were mountaineers, members of the National Geographic Association. “You know, I think she’s starting to see the world, like Great-Uncle Eric and Bob, but not the mountain-climbing part.”

◊◊◊◊◊

A few months into my sister’s training program, she called me, sobbing. Len had died in his sleep. 

“Oh, Karen. I’m so sorry to hear this. He meant a lot to you guys.” 

“Yup, he did.” I could hear her inhaling on a cigarette. 

“Where are you now?” I asked.

“At Dani’s. I’ll help her with the arrangements.” She started sobbing again. “We think his estate will sell the house to pay off his debts.”

“What will Dani do?”

“She’s thinking of moving to Nova Scotia, to finally meet some relatives from her mom’s side of the family.”

“Aye-yai-yai - that’ll be a big change!”

“Yeah”, my sister agreed. “I’ll miss her a lot, but I think it’ll be good for her.”

“So are you taking a few days off from your course?” I asked.

“Well, they gave me three days. We’re opening the café in two weeks.”

“Oh, wow! That’s cool.”

“Yeah, my last two months are on-site, like a practicum. I’m looking forward to being hands-on, finally. Hey, gotta go. Dani’s just back with our dinner. We’re having Chinese. Love you and thanks for listening.” She hung up before I could say ‘love you’ back.