Ann-Marie MacDonald - Adult Onset

“Matthew, it was so kind of you to lend Maggie your unicorn last night.”

She will send flowers to Hil for real — freesia? Something that says “I’m sorry” without saying “I’m only sending you these because I’m sorry.” Daisies?

“I didn’t lend it.”

He is gazing up at her steadily.

“You didn’t?”

How, then, did Maggie get hold of it? There is something uncanny in the question, evoking as it does the spectre of a demonically nimble toddler, dropping to the floor, padding across the hallway …

“I gave it,” says Matthew.

“Matthew, it’s yours. Mumma gave it to you.”

“I know.” He looks down.

“Mine,” states Maggie.

“Do you still feel bad about dropping it?”

Tears flood his eyes. “I pushed it.”

“Oh … Matthew, why?”

He cries.

“Oh sweetheart, it’s okay.” She strokes his head. “Matthew? Matt, honey? It’s all better now, I fixed it.”

“I didn’t want you to fix it!” He smacks away his tears.

“Gentle with yourself, Matt.”

“No!” he roars.

“No!” seconds Maggie.

She has an insurrection on her hands. She crouches before him. “Don’t you like it anymore?”

He is suddenly calm. “I did never like it, Mumma.”

She swallows. Smiles. “That’s okay, sweetheart. It’s a sad song, isn’t it.”

“Maggie likes it.”

“I like it,” says Maggie, in oddly adult tones.

She leaves the porridge pot to soak and they walk Matthew to school. Past Archie’s Variety. “ ‘Archie’s Variety,’ ” she says. The weather has aligned with the season, older children are off to school on bikes, music thumps from the open window of a passing car — Maggie is overdressed in her snowsuit, it is going to be a lovely day. There is a darkness in Mary Rose’s stomach. “ ‘Grapefruit Moon,’ ” she says. It is good that Matthew was able to tell her the truth about the unicorn, she is a good mother. The cute guy from the bike shop is setting out his sandwich board. “ ‘Early bird tune-up special,’ ” she reads aloud. She smiles at him; he is the type of young man she hopes Maggie will bring home one day — although why does she assume her daughter will bring home a boy not a girl? People who hate themselves are dangerous . “ ‘Freeman Real Estate,’ ” she says. Would she know if she had stomach cancer?

“Mumma, why are you saying all the signs?” asks Matthew.

The school bus is waiting when they arrive — the field trip to the Reptile Museum! She had meant to book Candace to babysit Maggie so she could take Matthew up there by car so he wouldn’t be killed in a crash. He boards the bus, overjoyed.

Keira smiles, one hand on her big belly. “We have too many volunteers already, Mary Rose, don’t worry for a second!” She watches the pregnant young woman board and a doom opens within her, surely the vehicle is marked for death. Sue is waving to her from a window — she is seated between Matthew and Ryan. Sue is not the sort of person to be killed in a bus rollover. As long as Sue is on the bus, Matthew will probably not die. Mary Rose breathes out, then smiles and waves with the other parents as the big yellow bus pulls away. Her heart pounds as she watches a multitude of mittened hands in the rear window waving back.

At home, a message from Gigi, “Hi, Mister, offer’s still good, call me.”

What is she talking about? Much as she loves Gigi, her old buddy is among the ranks of those child-free friends who have time to go to movies mid-week and sit around leaving cryptic messages for people. She unbundles Maggie from her sweltering snowsuit and goes about rustling up a healthy snack. The late night is catching up with her, she is dying for a nap. You’re not twenty-five, you know . Twenty minutes is all she needs. She has committed to eliminating the morning nap and she will stick to it. Quit googling and go to bed early tonight.

Craving sleep the way a vampire craves darkness, Mary Rose wills herself to the craft table, where she does a Ravensburger puzzle with Maggie. When claustrophobia becomes acute, she slips away and checks her e-mail.

Hi Rosie,

Mummy and Daddy will be arriving in Toronto on Sunday at 11:00 a.m. They had a wonderful time out here and I think they’re in good shape for the trip. I know they’re looking forward to seeing you. You’re doing such a hard job right now, Rosie-Posie, no one knows unless they’ve been through it … and then they forget! I’ve probably forgotten how hard it was too, but at least I know that I’ve forgotten. How’s that for logic?

How’s Daisy? You can ship her out here if they order her destroyed. I’m serious, we will be a station on the underground pit bull railroad!

Love,

Mo

There is one from Andy-Pat: a link to a site where an elephant is painting a watercolour. He is so far out of the loop, she is going to yank him back in — why should she have to go down to the train station of the cross all by herself this Sunday?

APB all fraternal units: Mum and Dad stopping over by train on seventh at eleven hundred hours. Mustering for coffee and confusion at Union Station.

xomr

On the other hand, why should she facilitate his relationship with her parents? That’s what daughters have always done. What is the point of having lived a brave countercultural life if she is going to do the womany thing now and make her brother look good? The prodigal son: all he has to do is show up and a calf dies.

Delete .

Hi Mo,

Thanks, I’ll keep you posted on Daisy. I’m going postal today to pick up the “mystery package”—I hope it’s there. I can’t bear the thought of Mum finding out that whatever it is she wanted to give me might be lost in the great shuffle called life. Maybe she “mailed” it into the garbage — you know, one of those complicated bins with a different opening for every kind of waste

She deletes the last bit and sends it.

Dear Dad,

I

She did not save the registered letter from her father. It arrived at her basement apartment more than twenty years ago on legal-size foolscap a week after she came out to her parents; she read it once then tore it up, aware of neither anger nor sorrow, only a belief that, while they were merely paper and ink to her, the words might hurt him terribly one day when her real father came back — how sad for Dad should he ever have to know what he had done to his daughter. It strikes her now that if she had spoken this thought aloud to a friend at the time, she might have recognized it as denial. Perhaps that is why we keep certain things to ourselves; so that we may also keep them from ourselves.

One day, a year or so into the fatwa, she phoned him from the home she had recently made with Renée. Renée concurred that, of Mary Rose’s two parents, Duncan was the sane one; she had met them, Mary Rose having smuggled her home as a “friend” in the early days. Mary Rose felt sure that, but for her mother, her father would be able to refer to Renée as her “friend” and turn a bland eye on their shared bedroom. He would visit their home and take them for lovely lunches. He would never need to name — or curse — a thing. After all, he had seen it in her. Groomed her. He nicknamed her Mister and trained her to be better than a boy, never to take a back seat to one. Mary Rose and Duncan were signatories to the secret pact between certain lesbians and their fathers: Notwithstanding her overt feminism, the daughter, in exchange for throwing women under the bus as the inferior sex — along with any competing brothers — is granted honorary-son status. For his part, not only is he seen to be the enlightened father of a high-achieving woman, he gets to keep his throne because his lesbian daughter is neither a man nor in danger of bringing one home. All of this could have continued without anyone ever having to say the L-word. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. Why should father and daughter be kept apart by a cruel, crude mother? So one spring day, she phoned and asked him to come see her … She has not thought about that conversation in many years. She may have torn it up along with the letter. She types …