Significant Moments in the Life of My Mother
When my mother was very small, someone gave her a basket of baby chicks for Easter. They all died.
“I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to pick them up,” says my mother. “Poor little things. I laid them out in a row on a board, with their little legs sticking out straight as pokers, and wept over them. I’d loved them to death.”
Possibly this story is meant by my mother to illustrate her own stupidity, and also her sentimentality. We are to understand she wouldn’t do such a thing now.
Possibly it’s a commentary on the nature of love; though, knowing my mother, this is unlikely.
My mother’s father was a country doctor. In the days before cars he drove a team of horses and a buggy around his territory, and in the days before snow ploughs he drove a team and a sleigh, through blizzards and rainstorms and in the middle of the night, to arrive at houses lit with oil lamps where water would be boiling on the wood range and flannel sheets warming on the plate rack, to deliver babies who would subsequently be named after him. His office was in the house, and as a child my mother would witness people arriving at the office door, which was reached through the front porch, clutching parts of themselves – thumbs, fingers, toes, ears, noses – which had accidentally been cut off, pressing these severed parts to the raw stumps of their bodies as if they could be stuck there like dough, in the mostly vain hope that my grandfather would be able to sew them back on, heal the gashes made in them by axes, saws, knives, and fate.
My mother and her younger sister would loiter near the closed office door until shooed away. From behind it would come groans, muffled screams, cries for help. For my mother, hospitals have never been glamorous places, and illness offers no respite or holiday. “Never get sick,” she says, and means it. She hardly ever does.
Once, though, she almost died. It was when her appendix burst. My grandfather had to do the operation. He said later that he shouldn’t have been the person to do it: his hands were shaking too much. This is one of the few admissions of weakness on his part that my mother has ever reported. Mostly he is portrayed as severe and in charge of things. “We all respected him, though,” she says. “He was widely respected.” (This is a word which has slipped a little in the scale since my mother’s youth. It used to outrank love)
It was someone else who told me the story of my grandfather’s muskrat farm: how he and one of my mother’s uncles fenced in the swamp at the back of their property and invested my mother’s maiden aunt’s savings in muskrats. The idea was that these muskrats would multiply and eventually be made into muskrat coats, but an adjoining apple farmer washed his spraying equipment upstream, and the muskrats were all killed by the poison, as dead as doornails. This was during the Depression, and it was no joke.
When they were young – this can cover almost anything these days, but I put it at seven or eight – my mother and her sister had a tree house, where they spent some of their time playing dolls’ tea parties and so forth. One day they found a box of sweet little bottles outside my grandfather’s dispensary. The bottles were being thrown out, and my mother (who has always hated waste) appropriated them for use in their dolls’ house. The bottles were full of yellow liquid, which they left in because it looked so pretty. It turned out that these were urine samples.
“We got Hail Columbia for that,” says my mother. “But what did we know?”
My mother’s family lived in a large white house near an apple orchard, in Nova Scotia. There was a barn and a carriage-house; in the kitchen there was a pantry. My mother can remember the days before commercial bakeries, when flour came in barrels and all the bread was made at home. She can remember the first radio broadcast she ever heard, which was a singing commercial about socks.
In this house there were many rooms. Although I have been there, although I have seen the house with my own eyes, I still don’t know how many. Parts of it were closed off, or so it seemed; there were back staircases. Passages led elsewhere. Five children lived in it, two parents, a hired man and a hired girl, whose names and faces kept changing. The structure of the house was hierarchical, with my grandfather at the top, but its secret life – the life of pie crusts, clean sheets, the box of rags in the linen closet, the loaves in the oven – was female. The house, and all the objects in it, crackled with static electricity; undertows washed through it, the air was heavy with things that were known but not spoken. Like a hollow log, a drum, a church, it amplified, so that conversations whispered in it sixty years ago can be half-heard even today.
In this house you had to stay at the table until you had eaten everything on your plate. “ ‘Think of the starving Armenians,’ mother used to say,” says my mother. “I didn’t see how eating my bread crusts was going to help them out one jot.”
It was in this house that I first saw a stalk of oats in a vase, each oat wrapped in the precious silver paper which had been carefully saved from a chocolate box. I thought it was the most wonderful thing I had ever seen, and began saving silver paper myself. But I never got around to wrapping the oats, and in any case I didn’t know how. Like many other art forms of vanished civilizations, the techniques for this one have been lost and cannot quite be duplicated.
“We had oranges at Christmas,” says my mother. “They came all the way from Florida; they were very expensive. That was the big treat: to find an orange in the toe of your stocking. It’s funny to remember how good they tasted, now.”
When she was sixteen, my mother had hair so long she could sit on it. Women were bobbing their hair by then; it was getting to be the twenties. My mother’s hair was giving her headaches, she says, but my grandfather, who was very strict, forbade her to cut it. She waited until one Saturday when she knew he had an appointment with the dentist.
“In those days there was no freezing,” says my mother. “The drill was worked with a foot pedal, and it went grind, grind, grind. The dentist himself had brown teeth: he chewed tobacco, and he would spit the tobacco juice into a spittoon while he was working on your teeth.”
Here my mother, who is a good mimic, imitates the sounds of the drill and the tobacco juice: “Rrrrr! Rrrrr! Rrrrr! Phtt! Rrrrr! Rrrrr! Rrrrr! Phtt! It was always sheer agony. It was a heaven-sent salvation when gas came in.”
My mother went into the dentist’s office, where my grandfather was sitting in the chair, white with pain. She asked him if she could have her hair cut. He said she could do anything in tarnation as long as she would get out of there and stop pestering him.
“So I went out straight away and had it all chopped off,” says my mother jauntily. “He was furious afterwards, but what could he do? He’d given his word.”
My own hair reposes in a cardboard box in a steamer trunk in my mother’s cellar, where I picture it becoming duller and more brittle with each passing year, and possibly moth-eaten; by now it will look like the faded wreaths of hair in Victorian funeral jewellery. Or it may have developed a dry mildew; inside its tissue-paper wrappings it glows faintly, in the darkness of the trunk. I suspect my mother has forgotten it’s in there. It was cut off, much to my relief, when I was twelve and my sister was born. Before that it was in long curls: “Otherwise,” says my mother, “it would have been just one big snarl.” My mother combed it by winding it around her index finger every morning, but when she was in the hospital my father couldn’t cope. “He couldn’t get it around his stubby fingers,” says my mother. My father looks down at his fingers. They are indeed broad compared with my mother’s long elegant ones, which she calls bony. He smiles a pussy-cat smile.
So it was that my hair was sheared off. I sat in the chair in my first beauty parlour and watched it falling, like handfuls of cobwebs, down over my shoulders. From within it my head began to emerge, smaller, denser, my face more angular. I aged five years in fifteen minutes. I knew I could go home now and try out lipstick.
“Your father was upset about it,” says my mother, with an air of collusion. She doesn’t say this when my father is present. We smile, over the odd reactions of men to hair.
I used to think that my mother, in her earlier days, led a life of sustained hilarity and hair-raising adventure. (That was before I realized that she never put in the long stretches of uneventful time that must have made up much of her life: the stories were just the punctuation.) Horses ran away with her, men offered to, she was continually falling out of trees or off the ridgepoles of barns, or nearly being swept out to sea in rip-tides; or, in a more minor vein, suffering acute embarrassment in trying circumstances.
Churches were especially dangerous. “There was a guest preacher one Sunday,” she says. “Of course we had to go to church every Sunday. There he was, in full career, preaching hellfire and damnation” – she pounds an invisible pulpit – “and his full set of false teeth shot out of his mouth – phoop! – just like that. Well, he didn’t miss a stride. He stuck his hand up and caught them and popped them back into his mouth, and he kept right on, condemning us all to eternal torment. The pew was shaking! The tears were rolling down our faces, and the worst of it was, we were in the front pew, he was looking right at us. But of course we couldn’t laugh out loud: father would have given us Hail Columbia.”
Other people’s parlours were booby-trapped for her; so were any and all formal social occasions. Zippers sprang apart on her clothes in strategic places, hats were unreliable. The shortage of real elastic during the war demanded constant alertness: underpants then had buttons, and were more taboo and therefore more significant than they are now. “There you would be,” she says, “right on the street, and before you knew it they’d be down around your galoshes. The way to do was to step out of them with one foot, then kick them up with your other foot and whip them into your purse. I got quite good at it.”
This particular story is told only to a few, but other stories are for general consumption. When she tells them, my mother’s face turns to rubber. She takes all the parts, adds the sound effects, waves her hands around in the air. Her eyes gleam, sometimes a little wickedly, for although my mother is sweet and old and a lady, she avoids being a sweet old lady. When people are in danger of mistaking her for one, she flings in something from left field; she refuses to be taken for granted.
But my mother cannot be duped into telling stories when she doesn’t want to. If you prompt her, she becomes self-conscious and clams up. Or she will laugh and go out into the kitchen, and shortly after that you will hear the whir of the Mixmaster. Long ago I gave up attempting to make her do tricks at parties. In gatherings of unknown people, she merely listens intently, her head tilted a little, smiling a smile of glazed politeness. The secret is to wait and see what she will say afterwards.
At the age of seventeen my mother went to the Normal School in Truro. This name – “Normal School” – once held a certain magic for me. I thought it had something to do with learning to be normal, which possibly it did, because really it was where you used to go to learn how to be a schoolteacher. Subsequently my mother taught in a one-room school house not far from her home. She rode her horse to and from the school house every day, and saved up the money she earned and sent herself to university with it. My grandfather wouldn’t send her: he said she was too frivolous-minded. She liked ice-skating and dancing too much for his taste.
At Normal School my mother boarded with a family that contained several sons in more or less the same age group as the girl boarders. They all ate around a huge dining-room table (which I pictured as being of dark wood, with heavy carved legs, but covered always with a white linen tablecloth), with the mother and father presiding, one at each end. I saw them both as large and pink and beaming.
“The boys were great jokers,” says my mother. “They were always up to something.” This was desirable in boys: to be great jokers, to be always up to something. My mother adds a key sentence: “We had a lot of fun.”
Having fun has always been high on my mother’s agenda. She has as much fun as possible, but what she means by this phrase cannot be understood without making an adjustment, an allowance for the great gulf across which this phrase must travel before it reaches us. It comes from another world, which, like the stars that originally sent out the light we see hesitating in the sky above us these nights, may be or is already gone. It is possible to reconstruct the facts of this world – the furniture, the clothing, the ornaments on the mantelpiece, the jugs and basins and even the chamber pots in the bedrooms, but not the emotions, not with the same exactness. So much that is now known and felt must be excluded.
This was a world in which guileless flirtation was possible, because there were many things that were simply not done by nice girls, and more girls were nice then. To fall from niceness was to fall not only from grace: sexual acts, by girls at any rate, had financial consequences. Life was more joyful and innocent then, and at the same time permeated with guilt and terror, or at least the occasions for them, on the most daily level. It was like the Japanese haiku: a limited form, rigid in its perimeters, within which an astonishing freedom was possible.
There are photographs of my mother at this time, taken with three or four other girls, linked arm in arm or with their arms thrown jestingly around each other’s necks. Behind them, beyond the sea or the hills or whatever is in the background, is a world already hurtling towards ruin, unknown to them: the theory of relativity has been discovered, acid is accumulating at the roots of trees, the bull-frogs are doomed. But they smile with something that from this distance you could almost call gallantry, their right legs thrust forward in parody of a chorus line.
One of the great amusements for the girl boarders and the sons of the family was amateur theatre. Young people – they were called “young people” – frequently performed in plays which were put on in the church basement. My mother was a regular actor. (I have a stack of the scripts somewhere about the house, yellowing little booklets with my mother’s parts checked in pencil. They are all comedies, and all impenetrable.) “There was no television then,” says my mother. “You made your own fun.”
For one of these plays a cat was required, and my mother and one of the sons borrowed the family cat. They put it into a canvas bag and drove to the rehearsal (there were cars by then), with my mother holding the cat on her lap. The cat, which must have been frightened, wet itself copiously, through the canvas bag and all over my mother’s skirt. At the same time it made the most astonishingly bad smell.
“I was ready to sink through the floorboards,” says my mother. “But what could I do? All I could do was sit there. In those days things like that” – she means cat pee, or pee of any sort – “were not mentioned.” She means in mixed company.
I think of my mother driven through the night, skirts dripping, overcome with shame, the young man beside her staring straight ahead, pretending not to notice anything. They both feel that this act of unmentionable urination has been done, not by the cat, but by my mother. And so they continue, in a straight line that takes them over the Atlantic and past the curvature of the earth, out through the moon’s orbit and into the dark reaches beyond.
Meanwhile, back on earth, my mother says: “I had to throw the skirt out. It was a good skirt, too, but nothing could get rid of the smell.”
“I only heard your father swear once,” says my mother. My mother herself never swears. When she comes to a place in a story in which swearing is called for, she says “dad-ratted” or “blankety-blank.”
“It was when he mashed his thumb, when he was sinking the well, for the pump.” This story, I know, takes place before I was born, up north, where there is nothing underneath the trees and their sheddings but sand and bedrock. The well was for a hand pump, which in turn was for the first of the many cabins and houses my parents built together. But since I witnessed later wells being sunk and later hand pumps being installed, I know how it’s done. There’s a pipe with a point at one end. You pound it into the ground with a sledge hammer, and as it goes down you screw other lengths of pipe onto it, until you hit drinkable water. To keep from ruining the thread on the top end, you hold a block of wood between the sledge hammer and the pipe. Better, you get someone else to hold it for you. This is how my father mashed his thumb: he was doing both the holding and the hammering himself.
“It swelled up like a radish,” says my mother. “He had to make a hole in the nail, with his toad-sticker, to ease the pressure. The blood spurted out like pips from a lemon. Later on the whole nail turned purple and black and dropped off. Luckily he grew another one. They say you only get two chances. When he did it though, he turned the air blue for yards around. I didn’t even know he knew those words. I don’t know where he picked them up.” She speaks as if these words are a minor contagious disease, like chicken pox.
Here my father looks modestly down at his plate. For him, there are two worlds: one containing ladies, in which you do not use certain expressions, and another one – consisting of logging camps and other haunts of his youth, and of gatherings of acceptable sorts of men – in which you do. To let the men’s world slip over verbally into the ladies’ would reveal you as a mannerless boor, but to carry the ladies’ world over into the men’s brands you a prig and maybe even a pansy. This is the word for it. All of this is well understood between them.
This story illustrates several things: that my father is no pansy, for one; and that my mother behaved properly by being suitably shocked. But my mother’s eyes shine with delight while she tells this story. Secretly, she thinks it funny that my father got caught out, even if only once. The thumbnail that fell off is, in any significant way, long forgotten.
There are some stories which my mother does not tell when there are men present: never at dinner, never at parties. She tells them to women only, usually in the kitchen, when they or we are helping with the dishes or shelling peas, or taking the tops and tails off the string beans, or husking corn. She tells them in a lowered voice, without moving her hands around in the air, and they contain no sound effects. These are stories of romantic betrayals, unwanted pregnancies, illnesses of various horrible kinds, marital infidelities, mental breakdowns, tragic suicides, unpleasant lingering deaths. They are not rich in detail or embroidered with incident: they are stark and factual. The women, their own hands moving among the dirty dishes or the husks of vegetables, nod solemnly.
Some of these stories, it is understood, are not to be passed on to my father, because they would upset him. It is well known that women can deal with this sort of thing better than men can. Men are not to be told anything they might find too painful; the secret depths of human nature, the sordid physicalities, might overwhelm or damage them. For instance, men often faint at the sight of their own blood, to which they are not accustomed. For this reason you should never stand behind one in the line at the Red Cross donor clinic. Men, for some mysterious reason, find life more difficult than women do. (My mother believes this, despite the female bodies, trapped, diseased, disappearing, or abandoned, that litter her stories.) Men must be allowed to play in the sandbox of their choice, as happily as they can, without disturbance; otherwise they get cranky and won’t eat their dinners. There are all kinds of things that men are simply not equipped to understand, so why expect it of them? Not everyone shares this belief about men; nevertheless, it has its uses.
“She dug up the shrubs from around the house,” says my mother. This story is about a shattered marriage: serious business. My mother’s eyes widen. The other women lean forward. “All she left him were the shower curtains.” There is a collective sigh, an expelling of breath. My father enters the kitchen, wondering when the tea will be ready, and the women close ranks, turning to him their deceptive blankly smiling faces. Soon afterwards, my mother emerges from the kitchen, carrying the tea pot, and sets it down on the table in its ritual place.
“I remember the time we almost died,” says my mother. Many of her stories begin this way. When she is in a certain mood, we are to understand that our lives have been preserved only by a series of amazing coincidences and strokes of luck; otherwise the entire family, individually or collectively, would be dead as doornails. These stories, in addition to producing adrenalin, serve to reinforce our sense of gratitude. There is the time we almost went over a waterfall, in a canoe, in a fog; the time we almost got caught in a forest fire; the time my father almost got squashed, before my mother’s very eyes, by a ridgepole he was lifting into place; the time my brother almost got struck by a bolt of lightning, which went by him so close it knocked him down. “You could hear it sizzle,” says my mother.
This is the story of the hay wagon. “Your father was driving,” says my mother, “at the speed he usually goes.” We read between the lines: too fast. “You kids were in the back.” I can remember this day, so I can remember how old I was, how old my brother was. We were old enough to think it was funny to annoy my father by singing popular songs of a type he disliked, such as “Mockingbird Hill”; or perhaps we were imitating bagpipe music by holding our noses and humming, while hitting our Adam’s apples with the edges of our hands. When we became too irritating my father would say, “Pipe down.” We weren’t old enough to know that his irritation could be real: we thought it was part of the game.
“We were going down a steep hill,” my mother continues, “when a hay wagon pulled out right across the road, at the bottom. Your father put on the brakes, but nothing happened. The brakes were gone! I thought our last moment had come.” Luckily the hay wagon continued across the road, and we shot past it, missing it by at least a foot. “My heart was in my mouth,” says my mother.
I didn’t know until afterwards what had really happened. I was in the back seat, making bagpipe music, oblivious. The scenery was the same as it always was on car trips: my parents’ heads, seen from behind, sticking up above the front seat. My father had his hat on, the one he wore to keep things from falling off the trees into his hair. My mother’s hand was placed lightly on the back of his neck.
“You had such an acute sense of smell when you were younger,” says my mother.
Now we are on more dangerous ground: my mother’s childhood is one thing, my own quite another. This is the moment at which I start rattling the silverware, or ask for another cup of tea. “You used to march into houses that were strange to you, and you would say in a loud voice, ‘What’s that funny smell?’ ” If there are guests present, they shift a little away from me, conscious of their own emanations, trying not to look at my nose.
“I used to be so embarrassed,” says my mother absent-mindedly. Then she shifts gears. “You were such an easy child. You used to get up at six in the morning and play by yourself in the play room, singing away.…” There is a pause. A distant voice, mine, high and silvery, drifts over the space between us. “You used to talk a blue streak. Chatter, chatter, chatter, from morning to night.” My mother sighs imperceptibly, as if wondering why I have become so silent, and gets up to poke the fire.
Hoping to change the subject, I ask whether or not the crocuses have come up yet, but she is not to be diverted. “I never had to spank you,” she says. “A harsh word, and you would be completely reduced.” She looks at me sideways; she isn’t sure what I have turned into, or how. “There were just one or two times. Once, when I had to go out and I left your father in charge.” (This may be the real point of the story: the inability of men to second-guess small children.) “I came back along the street, and there were you and your brother, throwing mud balls at an old man out of the upstairs window.”
We both know whose idea this was. For my mother, the proper construction to be put on this event is that my brother was a hell-raiser and I was his shadow, “easily influenced,” as my mother puts it. “You were just putty in his hands.”
“Of course, I had to punish both of you equally,” she says. Of course. I smile a forgiving smile. The real truth is that I was sneakier than my brother, and got caught less often. No front-line charges into enemy machine-gun nests for me, if they could be at all avoided. My own solitary acts of wickedness were devious and well concealed; it was only in partnership with my brother that I would throw caution to the winds.
“He could wind you around his little finger,” says my mother. “Your father made each of you a toy box, and the rule was –” (my mother is good at the devising of rules) “–the rule was that neither of you could take the toys out of the other one’s toy box without permission. Otherwise he would have got all your toys away from you. But he got them anyway, mind you. He used to talk you into playing house, and he would pretend to be the baby. Then he would pretend to cry, and when you asked what he wanted, he’d demand whatever it was out of your toy box that he wanted to play with at the moment. You always gave it to him.”
I don’t remember this, though I do remember staging World War Two on the living-room floor, with armies of stuffed bears and rabbits; but surely some primal patterns were laid down. Have these early toy-box experiences – and “toy box” itself, as a concept, reeks with implications – have they made me suspicious of men who wish to be mothered, yet susceptible to them at the same time? Have I been conditioned to believe that if I am not solicitous, if I am not forthcoming, if I am not a never-ending cornucopia of entertaining delights, they will take their collections of milk-bottle tops and their mangy one-eared teddy bears and go away into the woods by themselves to play snipers? Probably. What my mother thinks was merely cute may have been lethal.
But this is not her only story about my suckiness and gullibility. She follows up with the coup de grâce, the tale of the bunny-rabbit cookies.
“It was in Ottawa. I was invited to a government tea,” says my mother, and this fact alone should signal an element of horror: my mother hated official functions, to which however she was obliged to go because she was the wife of a civil servant. “I had to drag you kids along; we couldn’t afford a lot of babysitters in those days.” The hostess had made a whole plateful of decorated cookies for whatever children might be present, and my mother proceeds to describe these: wonderful cookies shaped like bunny rabbits, with faces and clothes of coloured icing, little skirts for the little girl bunny rabbits, little pants for the little boy bunny rabbits.
“You chose one,” says my mother. “You went off to a corner with it, by yourself. Mrs. X noticed you and went over. ‘Aren’t you going to eat your cookie?’ she said. ‘Oh, no,’ you said. ‘I’ll just sit here and talk to it.’ And there you sat, as happy as a clam. But someone had made the mistake of leaving the plate near your brother. When they looked again, there wasn’t a single cookie left. He’d eaten every one. He was very sick that night, I can tell you.”
Some of my mother’s stories defy analysis. What is the moral of this one? That I was a simp is clear enough, but on the other hand it was my brother who got the stomach ache. Is it better to eat your food, in a straightforward materialistic way, and as much of it as possible, or go off into the corner and talk to it? This used to be a favourite of my mother’s before I was married, when I would bring what my father referred to as “swains” home for dinner. Along with the dessert, out would come the bunny-rabbit cookie story, and I would cringe and twiddle my spoon while my mother forged blithely on with it. What were the swains supposed to make of it? Were my kindliness and essential femininity being trotted out for their inspection? Were they being told in a roundabout way that I was harmless, that they could expect to be talked to by me, but not devoured? Or was she, in some way, warning them off? Because there is something faintly crazed about my behaviour, some tinge of the kind of person who might be expected to leap up suddenly from the dinner table and shout, “Don’t eat that! It’s alive!”
There is, however, a difference between symbolism and anecdote. Listening to my mother, I sometimes remember this.
“In my next incarnation,” my mother said once, “I’m going to be an archaeologist and go around digging things up.” We were sitting on the bed that had once been my brother’s, then mine, then my sister’s; we were sorting out things from one of the trunks, deciding what could now be given away or thrown out. My mother believes that what you save from the past is mostly a matter of choice.
At that time something wasn’t right in the family; someone wasn’t happy. My mother was angry: her good cheer was not paying off.
This statement of hers startled me. It was the first time I’d ever heard my mother say that she might have wanted to be something other than what she was. I must have been thirty-five at the time, but it was still shocking and slightly offensive to me to learn that my mother might not have been totally contented fulfilling the role in which fate had cast her: that of being my mother. What thumb-suckers we all are, I thought, when it comes to mothers.
Shortly after this I became a mother myself, and this moment altered for me.
While she was combing my next-to-impossible hair, winding it around her long index finger, yanking out the snarls, my mother used to read me stories. Most of them are still in the house somewhere, but one has vanished. It may have been a library book. It was about a little girl who was so poor she had only one potato left for her supper, and while she was roasting it the potato got up and ran away. There was the usual chase, but I can’t remember the ending: a significant lapse.
“That story was one of your favourites,” says my mother. She is probably still under the impression that I identified with the little girl, with her hunger and her sense of loss; whereas in reality I identified with the potato.
Early influences are important. It took that one a while to come out; probably until after I went to university and started wearing black stockings and pulling my hair back into a bun, and having pretensions. Gloom set in. Our next-door neighbour, who was interested in wardrobes, tackled my mother: “ ‘If she would only do something about herself,’ ” my mother quotes, “ ‘she could be quite attractive.’ ”
“You always kept yourself busy,” my mother says charitably, referring to this time. “You always had something cooking. Some project or other.”
It is part of my mother’s mythology that I am as cheerful and productive as she is, though she admits that these qualities may be occasionally and temporarily concealed. I wasn’t allowed much angst around the house. I had to indulge it in the cellar, where my mother wouldn’t come upon me brooding and suggest I should go out for a walk, to improve my circulation. This was her answer to any sign, however slight, of creeping despondency. There wasn’t a lot that a brisk sprint through dead leaves, howling winds, or sleet couldn’t cure.
It was, I knew, the zeitgeist that was afflicting me, and against it such simple remedies were powerless. Like smog I wafted through her days, dankness spreading out from around me. I read modern poetry and histories of Nazi atrocities, and took to drinking coffee. Off in the distance, my mother vacuumed around my feet while I sat in chairs, studying, with car rugs tucked around me, for suddenly I was always cold.
My mother has few stories to tell about these times. What I remember from them is the odd look I would sometimes catch in her eyes. It struck me, for the first time in my life, that my mother might be afraid of me. I could not even reassure her, because I was only dimly aware of the nature of her distress, but there must have been something going on in me that was beyond her: at any time I might open my mouth and out would come a language she had never heard before. I had become a visitant from outer space, a time-traveller come back from the future, bearing news of a great disaster.