Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

SHE HAS FIVE MINUTES before meeting Christine for lunch, then she has an appointment with Shelly to show her material for Stark Raving Madeleine —a mere paragraph, but just add water. She is walking along Harbord in the direction of the university campus and Christine’s office when a title in the window of the Toronto Women’s Bookstore catches her eye. So she makes her way through the usual knot of demonstrators outside the abortion clinic next door, and goes in.

The Pregnant Virgin: A Process of Psychological Transformation . Feminist goddessy take on Jungian healing blah-blah. Nina stuff. She flips through — cocoons, butterflies…. She sighs. Do I have to heal now? Who’s got the time? The whole idea makes her crave a dose of Dirty Harry. But she buys the book and lingers to chat with the cute dreadlocked girl at the cash, not leaving till she has heard the analysis behind every political button pinned to the bib of her denim overalls.

Get your laws off my body! shouts a pin on the girl’s left suspender. Bi now, gay later , muses one on the right. She smiles at Madeleine and says, “Do you like reggae?”

“I love it.” Overstatement.

“I’m at the Cameron House on Thursday.”

“Are you a singer?” Are you even of legal drinking age?

“Yeah.”

“Cool.” What a nerd. Cool . What a maroon!

“I love your show,” says the girl, leaning forward, elbows on the counter.

Madeleine flees. Hit and run, duck and cover.

She picks up a falafel and eats it on the way to meet Shelly — what a gorgeous day. When she gets home, she writes an inscription in the book and, before taking the phone out to the balcony to call Olivia, leaves it on the kitchen table, a gift for Christine. More up her alley. And God knows, if therapy has taught Madeleine anything, it’s that Christine could use a little honest introspection.

Later that same week:

Madeleine stands stranded on her old Persian carpet in her empty living room. Her office is the only fully furnished room remaining, but she is avoiding it — rebuke of the blank computer screen, posters of past triumphs looming a merry reproach from the walls.

“Take the stuff,” said Madeleine.

And Christine did.

Madeleine had forgotten their lunch date. She had had a terrible meeting with Shelly, who believes in her. Her peripheral vision had gone wavy in one eye, and pins and needles had consumed both hands up to her elbows when she was in the Bloor Supersave buying eggs. And Christine left her.

Nyah, what’s up, doc?

She has enough money to continue nervously breaking down for another eighteen months, if she buys bulk. That’s the beauty of television residuals. Soon she will go to Ikea and fill up an oversized cart. Trawl the aisles, along with the other divorcées, and families with young children. Today is Saturday, she could get started this afternoon.

“What about dinner?” she asked stupidly as Christine unlocked her bike from the veranda.

“Cook it yourself.”

That’s not what I meant .

They had been going to go for Vietnamese food with friends. Friends of Madeleine-and-Christine. Christine-and-Madeleine.

“You call them,” said Christine, dragging her bike down the wooden steps. “They were never really my friends anyway. You’re the shiny one, Madeleine.” Then she rode off on her beautiful old Schwinn Glyder with the generous gel-pad Drifter saddle.

She returned the next day, with a U-Haul and an undergrad. Madeleine helped. Now she has no furniture. She has a beach towel. A Melmac plate, bowl and mug; a knife-fork-spoon combination. At least she still has a bed. She has been to Honest Ed’s and bought a complete set of pots and an ironing board. She brought it all home on her bike, having had no need for the car when she nipped in with the intention of buying bagels. She forgot the bagels. She is as pathetic as any deserted husband. More so, having no home-repair skills.

“Why don’t you just go to her, that’s what you’re going to do anyway.”

“Go to who?” asked Madeleine. “Whom?”

Christine just shook her head and went into the bedroom. Madeleine followed like a spaniel. Christine started yanking open drawers.

“What are you doing, Christine?”

“What does it look like?”

Madeleine said robotically, which was how she knew she was in trouble, “I love you, Christine, please don’t leave. Don’t leave, Christine.”

“You’re incapable of feeling, Madeleine.”

The two of them had been drawn together by one another’s sadness. Residue of childhood in the eye. The problem is, neither was particularly compelled by the other’s idea of happiness.

“You hate it when I’m happy, Madeleine. You always choose that moment to stick the knife in.”

That’s not fair. Madeleine can’t bear to hurt her, so she always waits until Christine is up before … raising issues.

“You’re too cowardly to confront me,” said Christine, folding, flinging clothes onto the bed.

Maybe she was right and Madeleine did prefer the sad Christine. The helplessly angry one. The one who strangled.

Christine slammed her drawers shut, eyes flaming. Madeleine wanted to laugh because Christine was so worked up, full face flushed with rage like an angry doll.

“What’s so funny, Madeleine?”

Madeleine formed a serious expression, and Christine turned away in disgust.

Not disgust , says Christine, sadness. I’ve never been so sad in all my life .

Madeleine saw two dark splotches appear on the mauve duvet cover. Don’t cry, Christine —but who the hell is Madeleine to say such a thing?

Why isn’t love enough?

“I hate myself when I’m with you,” said Christine, wiping the corner of her eye, still packing with the simple vigour of a hausfrau.

Madeleine clung to her for seven years because she believed Christine could really see her, right down to the bottom.

“You’re so much fun with everyone else, but with me you’re always in a crappy mood,” said Christine.

With you I am myself, Madeleine would have replied at one time, but that was no longer true. With you I lead a double life. Chuckle and Hide. “Why are you leaving?”

“’Cause you don’t have the guts to leave me.” Christine almost spat it. “What are you waiting for, Madeleine? Go to her.”

Madeleine, honestly stumped, stood — not rooted, but slumped on her strings.

Christine muttered to her gaping drawers, “That bitch.”

What bitch?

Christine said, “She’s been after you from the start, pretending to be my friend too, coming over for dinner. I cooked for her! Now she’s got you in that stupid project and you’re neglecting your own work.”

Olivia .

“You think Olivia and I …? She’s my friend , babe.” Madeleine felt the foolish grin of masculine guilt creep over her features, masking her already unreal face. “It’s not true!” Then why does this feel exactly like a lie?

“I quit, Madeleine. I’m sick of this codependent bullshit.”

But what will I do without you? Now that I am more and more successful and beloved. No one else will ever know how bad I am. No one else can possibly see me as you do.

Madeleine watched, immobilized, while Christine stuffed clothes into a knapsack. “Why don’t you use the suitcase?” asked the robot. “It has wheels.” Christine ignored her. Christine had never understood that when Madeleine was most “real”—feeling most acutely — she turned into a puppet. Painted wood. Christine was tired of sharing a bed with a grown woman who still perched a grimy old Bugs Bunny on the pillows.