Chapter 17

It was the long deep dreamless sleep of recovery. The kind of sleep that takes you after the ravages of a fever and allows you wake up clearheaded and assess the damage. I vaguely remember Sulamith waking me in the morning and moaning to her, “Oh Baby, Mama's so tired,” as she patted my face and made the funny experimental 'neenle neenle' sound she'd been making of late. Then she went for my hair. “Ouch. No no Sulamith. That's my hair. Owie.”

Then Sheila cracked the door, swept in, scooped up Sulamith and told me, “Sleep as long as you need. Don't worry about anything else or force yourself up because you feel obligated. Is she okay with pureed fruits and vegetables?”

“Mm hmm yeah,” I mumbled, but I was already dropping back into that deep deep sleep.

I was somewhat aware of Sheila putting Sulamith back in the bed with me a couple of times but that was it until Sulamith woke me sometime in the wee hours of the next night fussing, and I shifted positions so that she could nurse, then I dropped back off. When I woke in earnest the sun was up and I was alone in the bed. I lay there taking stock. I thought about my night flight and panicked. No. You don't need to worry about that. Think smaller. Think present not past, I told myself and I calmed down. I was hungry, I had to pee, and my breasts felt full meaning Sulamith was probably hungry too. I could cope with those things. I climbed out of bed feeling a bit weak, but not heavy, not tired. I brushed my hair and pulled my cardigan on over my nightgown, then padded down the hall to the bathroom. After I'd washed my hands I twisted my hair behind me and splashed my face, then tiptoed down to the kitchen.

Sheila sat at the table with a pot of tea and a plate of toast with peanut butter and banana. Sulamith was in an old, but sturdy and clean, wooden high chair, pounding on the tray exuberantly and squealing, reaching for the spoonful of mashed banana Sheila was holding. Sheila looked up at me and smiled, then turned to Sulamith who was getting desperate for that mouthful. Sheila inserted it and Sulamith went still, focused and intent as she worked down the mouthful of sweet mush. Sheila looked back at me, “Somebody loves bananas.”

Sulamith started to squeal and pound again.

“Yes, yes it's coming,” Sheila inserted another mouthful.

“She's never had bananas before,” I couldn't help smiling as I sat down at the table and watched.

“Help yourself to the bread, there's sourdough rye and some kind of multi-grain cracked wheat.” Sheila waved a hand towards the bags of bread on the counter next to the toaster.

I cut a thick slice of the sourdough rye and popped it in the old battered toaster, pressing down the lever and feeling that weird crackly feeling that I always felt when I used electric devices. I winced, half afraid of blowing the toaster, but it was alright. I came back to the table with my toast and reached for the almond butter and strawberry jam that Sheila had put out, poured myself a cup of tea, and ate watching the banana shenanigans. I finished my last bite of toast as Sheila was telling Sulamith, “All gone. See?” But Sulamith was still hungry.

“Here I'll take her. I'm going to start leaking if she doesn't nurse soon,” I said to Sheila, and I moved my tea to the side table next to the loveseat at the far end of the kitchen. I took a few sheets of paper towel and folded them to tuck in my nightgown knowing by then that as soon as she latched onto one side and my milk let down, that the other side would leak too, and there was nothing more irritating than a wet patch on my clothes. I crossed my legs, settled with Sulamith lying in my lap and breathed a sigh of relief as the overfull sensation eased off.

Sheila had moved to the wicker armchair nearby and held her tea in her hands.

“How long did I sleep?” I asked her.

“Mmm,” she tilted her head considering. “About thirty hours.”

I nodded.

“Do I dare ask how you feel?” she asked, a mix of concern and caring in her voice and in her warm hazel eyes.

I looked back at Sheila, taking her in properly for the first time since I had returned. She was about five six, curvy, almost plump, with incredible fair olive skin that was blessed with a perfect sprinkling of freckles. She had dark brown hair that turned slightly auburn in the sun. It was greying at the temples but that didn't detract at all. If anything it made her shoulder length waves more elegant. She had all the best of her Scottish/Italian heritage.

I sighed eventually. “I feel . . . lighter, but like a strong wind might blow me away. Conversely, I also feel more grounded. Probably the sleep. Thank you for that, by the way. I must have really needed it,” I paused, “but everything that's happened? The past . . .? I feel so angry, and so . . . ripped off. I think I have a lot more crying to do over that. And the future?” I shook my head and blinked hard a few times. “I'm not even ready to think about that. Overall, I guess . . . I guess I feel . . . less bad.”

Sheila was silent but she smiled. Not exactly a happy smile, but a caring smile. We sat quietly and finished our tea. Sheila puttered around the kitchen clearing away dishes and wiping up toast crumbs while I sat on the love seat with Sulamith who, with a full tummy, was ready to play. I tickled her neck and blew raspberries on her soft skin, then there was the eternally delightful peek-a-boo. I kissed and cuddled and marvelled at how happy she was. I had been under so much pressure and so often sad, worried, or scared during my pregnancy with her that I felt like it was some kind of miracle that she was such a happy baby. It was wonderful to spend the morning with her too. It was her best time, but because I had been expected to attend council meetings in the morning I had so often missed those hours.

“More tea?” Sheila asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yes please.” I passed her my cup, which she filled from her old fat Brown Betty tea pot. Everything in Sheila's house was like that. Old and care worn but high quality. Shabby enough to be comfortable and never uncomfortable. It was a bit of an old, quirky, hippie house that had received a few odd renovations to 'modernize' it in the sixties. Like the kitchen. It was decked out in chrome, harvest gold, and olive green with what Sheila always described as “wretchedly tacky” brown and mustard yellow ceramic floor tiles. I remembered the first time I'd ever been into that kitchen nearly four years earlier and she'd said dryly, “Whoever decorated this kitchen back in nineteen sixty-eight was truly living in the moment, but they did such a darn good job of it that I can't justify renovating. So I just go with the flow and run with it.” She had filled it with sturdy wooden furniture that had a Scandinavian look to it, but not in an Ikea way. There were two wicker armchairs, and the loveseat, which was covered in wild 'Cotswolds go psychedelic' upholstery. I'd always loved Sheila's kitchen.

Sheila sat back down in the arm chair with the tea, placing mine on the side table. She took a few sips then placed hers on the steamer trunk in front of the love seat. “So, I've closed the garden centre for the week and Tanya's able to go in every day and deal with the maintenance duties. I don't want you to worry about anything this week.” Sheila gave me her best 'I mean business' look, “Rest as much as you need to. Sleep as much as you want. I'll do all the cooking and cleaning, you're only allowed to help if you're doing it for the fun of it. I don't want you worrying about the weeks and months to come. The future will take care of itself. At the end of February I will need you at the garden centre but I don't want you worrying about that either because you can bring Sulamith to work with you. When Evan was little I brought him in with me every day. It was never a problem. And as for you staying here, well, I love this house and I don't really want to sell it, but it's just me here, and it's too big for one person so you're welcome to stay as long as you need to.” Sheila picked up her tea and sipped thoughtfully before turning back to me, “I think I've covered everything?”

She said it like a question but I couldn't answer because I was too busy wiping grateful tears off my cheeks.

Sheila smiled and placed a box of tissues beside me.

*

I did as I was told with a relief that brought forth the grieving that I should have been doing for the last six months. I mourned Rowan. I cried for the life we weren't going to live together, and being back in the world of my childhood brought back memories of my parents that had me realizing how little opportunity I'd had to truly register my loss of them. I did as Sheila told me and it was easy because she was my boss and because in this world I wasn't a queen. I think that sometimes I needed to be told what to do because I would get lost in the fog of grief and instructions gave me something to focus on. For that first week I slept whenever Sulamith did and rested and ate. I was, “frighteningly underweight,” as Sheila put it, and she cooked constantly. I would wake from a nap with Sulamith and find a big pot of rice pudding sitting on the stove. Sheila would say, “Give me that baby and get yourself a bowl,” and I would eat. I stopped feeling like I could be blown away by a strong breeze and I must have put enough weight back on to satisfy Sheila, because by the end of the week she slowed down on the cooking a little. I helped Sheila clean out her attic the afternoon before she reopened the garden centre. “I've been meaning to do this for years. I keep stuffing things up here without thinking and I know that I have things buried up here that you could use.”

Sheila had been bringing items down all week. The high chair. A playpen. A box of old sleepers from the late seventies that had been Evan's. A toy box and toys. A little dresser just right for baby clothes. A cradle and a rocking horse. The best was the box of vintage seventies India cotton dresses, wraparound skirts, and blouses. Sheila was too young to have been a true hippie, but she had definitely gone for the aesthetic back in nineteen seventy-seven. “I had this ridiculous fantasy that I would still fit into these after Evan was born,” she told me, pulling a blue Gunne Sax dress out of the box. “The sleeves will be too long on you. Can you sew?”

*

I felt right living with Sheila. I had always felt a kinship to her. She was like the eccentric aunt that I had more in common with than my own mother. We have similar ways of doing things and we're both gardening nuts. I kept busy with Sulamith. A baby is good for that, she kept my hands busy, and I would fix dinner for Sheila and me on the days that Sheila was at the garden centre. I reattached the cuffs to the sleeves of the dresses and blouses I'd cut down. I did any kind of little task to keep myself sane and keep myself in the present. January and February passed. I had my quiet little routine. I slept whenever I got the chance. I would walk around Trout Lake a few times each afternoon with Sulamith in the wrap carrier and the motion always put her to sleep, so I would walk home and we would sleep. When we woke up I would pop her in the highchair with a tray full of finger food to entertain her while I started dinner. I kept the house tidy, had tea with another new mother who lived across the street (Sheila warned her that I was a little . . . odd), and if I was feeling brave I would bundle Sulamith up and head out on the bus to search thrift stores for clothes and other useful necessities.

Mid February we readied Sheila's garden for spring. Getting my hands back into the dirt was like growing new skin over invisible wounds. It was thin and delicate. It could bruise or tear at the slightest touch but it was there and I could feel it. It was at this point that I decided I needed to deal with some of the practical aspects of living in a twenty-first century modern city. Like having I.D., a bank account, and a social insurance number, so Sheila took me downtown to see Flanagan. I'd been declared dead but Flanagan took care of everything, no questions asked, and a few weeks later I had a little stack of cards to put in my wallet and birth certificates for both Sulamith and I. Mine said simply Krista O'Reilly. Sheila told me then, “I never spent the money you gave me. I invested it. I wasn't sure what to do with it so I thought it was better off tucked away. I want to give it back to you.”

I didn't need much then, and I still had some of the cash in my bag. Sheila had insisted that I didn't need to chip in for food or pay her rent, and what with the contributions from Sheila's attic all I'd really needed was clothing for Sulamith and I, and I'd bought a stack of cloth diapers and good covers for her. Cloth is what she was used too and I worried that disposables would give her a rash. I had what I needed for the time being so I asked Sheila, “Is it alright If we leave the money where it is for now?”