And that was before I was rushed to the hospital.
Because I am an only child, there is not even a sibling to take the pressure off me. My mom has Aunty Jillian to compare herself to for all her life—and that must be terrible, since Jillian was perfect, except for the teeny, tiny fact that she was a homosexual—a cardinal sin in the eyes of our Trinidad community. Worse yet, my mom is the cheap knockoff version of Jillian. Younger by two years, she doesn’t consider herself as pretty, as smart, nor as ambitious. Jillian left Trinidad at twenty to study in Canada and never moved back home home. By Canadian standards she isn’t a great success, just average, but by island standards anything one does “away” is made that much more special and exciting and extraordinary. My mom, on the other hand, became a primary school clerk after my Granny Rose died. Being a clerk was a job Cynthia could do as a single mother, not a vocation. She has a comfortable, boring life—nothing like Jillian’s. As a magazine writer Jillian was always jetting around Canada and the US for stories, getting to meet lots and lots of people. My mom leaves for work at eight in the morning, comes home at five in the afternoon, goes to church on Sundays, and lives a quiet, dull life.
Jillian didn’t tell my mom that she had to struggle to do all that jetting around because she didn’t have a steady job and she lived hand-to-mouth. “I woke at thirty with no savings, no insurance, and no backup plan for retirement. Thank God for socialism, eh?” Jillian told me ruefully, winking, in one of our first conversations when I got to Canada.
She said she envied my mom’s stability. “If she only knew how much I wish I had a kid and a pension. Oy vey!” she said with a laugh. “I’d do anything to know that when I’m sixty I can sit back if I want. Cynthia doesn’t know how good she has it.”
One of the reasons she and Julie had set up the publishing company was so that they could get more stability. And Jillian had given up her magazine work. They want to start a family. I know this because one night when I was going to the bathroom really late, I overheard them having an argument. I felt like a creep, sneaking as close to their door as I could without being obvious, just to listen. Jillian was crying, saying, “You don’t know what it’s like to want a baby, Julie, you don’t.”
Julie’s voice was low and sweet, but firm. “I know what it feels like. Come on, you know I want a baby as much as you do. But I don’t see how we can have a child together right now!”
I didn’t see how either. Same-sex couples were a thing, of course I knew that; I’d seen it on TV and, like, a ton of videos. But I didn’t actually know any kids with gay parents. How would it work? I wondered.
Jillian wasn’t done, though, and I barely heard her last words through her sobs. “Every time I think of what Cynthia must have put that poor child through…Why wasn’t she my daughter? Why wasn’t she my little girl?”
It didn’t make sense how she was talking about me.
I tiptoed back to my bedroom in confusion mixed with an unfamiliar but pleasing feeling. I guess up until that point I had never considered myself such a prize. Imagine that someone wanted me. Me!
I haven’t spoken to my aunt about what I overheard, because I don’t want her to know I listened to their private conversation, but it’s stuck in my mind. It was the first time I realized that someone in my family could want me in their life.
My mother certainly never behaves like that. She doesn’t mistreat me. She is a decent mother and I wouldn’t call her abusive or anything. I got the normal one or two slaps most Caribbean kids got from their mothers for bad behavior. But neither by word nor deed has she showed she really wants me around. She’s done what she had to do. I am a chore, a responsibility, but not a pleasure and certainly not a privilege.
Now that I am in exile, every week, like clockwork, my mom either phones on the landline or Skypes me. She asks the same questions, carefully avoiding any mention of my illness. We don’t talk about it anymore, after her first recriminations and attempts to blame me for my craziness. Now she pretends I am on holiday. My troubles have somehow turned into an extended vacay.
The first time I went to the West Edmonton Mall I had the overwhelming impression of, well, being overwhelmed. It was huge. It was literally the biggest mall on this continent and was as big as my hometown. It had its own waterpark and ice rink. There was a pirate ship, for crying out loud. Arcades. Amusement parks. A roller coaster. Shops. Shops for shoes, books, clothes, household goods, electronics, teddy bears, jewelry, art, you name it. Of course, we had malls in Trinidad. But this was not a regular mall. You could walk for days and never reach the end. After the Apocalypse, all the survivors in Edmonton could probably just pack up and move into the mall. I had never seen so much stuff in one place.
Jet-lagged and still half dozing from my long trip the day before, I stumbled through dozens of shops behind Jillian and Julie, who were trying to get me to look excited instead of scared. “Try this,” they kept saying, as they put items in my hand and walked me to changing room after changing room. Honestly, all I remember is a blur of color and movement. I didn’t speak much because I was biting my lips, holding back my panic.
This trip couldn’t be as bad—even if walking toward the entrance was like preparing to enter a new country, one that was bright and noisy and full of decisions for me to make. I took a deep breath and exhaled. I felt like that afternoon’s misfortune was behind me. I could do this. We were on a clock, too, so Julie took charge and went straight to the first sports-gear place we came to. Jillian followed and my energy abruptly dipped. I trailed behind them, dragging my feet. Inside I was still kind of excited. Who wouldn’t want to replace beat-up old sneakers with new kicks? But that was tangled with my shame. Shame that I was completely dependent on my aunt. Shame that I was a strain on her limited resources. Which started me thinking about the reasons I was in Canada in the first place. Which reminded me of my panic attack that afternoon. I felt miserable.
Julie pointed out a few styles on the shelves and I shrugged ambivalently. She was patient, though. “What about this? I think it’s a good brand. They look comfortable,” she said, picking up a white tennis shoe with glow-in-the-dark pink stripes. A bright orange sticker indicated it was marked down.
I shrugged again. I didn’t love them, but they were on sale. Less expense for my aunts. A salesman came over and Julie asked him for my size. We sat on the chairs waiting for him to return with a pair for me to try on. I toed off my shoes and huddled my socked feet together, glued my eyes to the display wall of shelves and shelves of sneakers, and tried to shrink into my oversized plaid shirt and shapeless jeans. Julie checked her phone while we waited.
“Try these,” the guy said, coming back holding a box and sitting in front of my chair. He handed me the shoes one at a time.
I eased in my feet. The shoes were comfy. The thick padding inside made my toes and insteps feel as snug as a bug in a rug. Standing, I bounced a little to test the springy soles. The shoes were ugly, but boy, did they fit. I gave Julie two thumbs-up and a brief smile.