Tree Fever. Karen Hood-Caddy
Читать онлайн книгу.
stocked the craft stores with their wares. For those brief, few months, the movie theatre showed films I actually wanted to see.
I liked the fact that the town had seasons. Like an undergarment, the winter population gave the town its supportive foundation, but it was the summer crowd that dressed it up with flamboyant fashions and startling colours, giving it life and sophistication. The summer people were, after all, on holiday and committed to having a good time. And the town, despite the occasional grumble about the annual invasion, was just as committed to providing it.
The cottagers were offered every opportunity to spend their money. And spend they did. They bought liquor by the case, loading the clinking boxes into mahogany launches that waited at docks built for their convenience. They bought corkscrews with fish heads, raccoon oven mitts and pine-scented toilet paper. They consumed thousands of cones of frozen yogurt, as they acquired hundreds of neon-coloured sail boards and dozens of jet skis. After their buying expeditions, they refreshed themselves in one of the waterside cafes which offered cold beer and jazz.
Muskoka became the playground of Ontario, and cottage property prices, as if wanting to be part of the fun, shot up like fireworks over the bay on the first of July.
“Hows it going with the kids? Ted still doing all right?” Madge asked. “You’ve got to admire him, eh? Ever hear from Luke’s mother?”
I shook my head. “Not since the day she propped the note on the washing machine saying she was leaving. Luke was what, five months then?”
“Strange – women are so different now. No matter how bad things were with Ed, when the kids were young, I never could have walked out.”
I had liked Luke’s mom and wished she could have stayed. “That poor woman, she didn’t have a clue who she was or what she wanted. It’s hard to give to others when your own barrel is empty.” I knew all about that one. So I understood. Besides, I was grateful to have a grandson.
“How old’s Luke now? Eight?”
I nodded. “I’m taking him to a powwow in a few weeks. Want to come?”
“A powwow? Isn’t that something out of the movies? Like when the natives meet and decide whether or not to go to war?”
“Maybe on television. This one’s on the reserve down in Orillia. I don’t know much about it, only that they dress up and do ceremonial dances. I’ve got Luke for the day and thought he might like it.”
“You know me, I’m always good for something different. Count me in – unless Boydie-boy wants me.”
Anger lurched into my throat at my second place position, but I said nothing.
“Speaking of different,” Madge said. “What’s it like having Robyn back? She doing ok?”
I swallowed my resentment and carried on. “Hard to tell. If I ask her anything, I get that invaded look. If I don’t ask, I don’t know.” I made myself breathe out the tension in my neck. “Meanwhile she’s leaving her laundry everywhere. I feel like I’m living with a teenager again, not a twenty-two year old woman.”
“Kids! My son still brings me his sweaters to wash. I never taught him how to do it because I thought his wife would do it when he got married. I tell that to Jeremy, John’s current lover, and we all get a good chuckle out of it.”
“It’s crazy. I couldn’t wait to have her back and now I can hardly stand it.” A soggy wetness gathered in my chest. “She just seems so angry all the time.” And here you are, a psychotherapist and you can’t understand your own daughter. “Maybe I shouldn’t have sold the house.”
“Hey, hold your horses. Things change. She can’t expect to be away all those years and have you run that huge old house alone. You did write and tell her you were moving. It’s not your fault that she was all over the place and didn’t get her mail.”
“I guess she had to go where the work was,” I heard myself say, even though I knew this was a poor explanation.
“What exactly did she do over there for all those years:
“It sounds awful, but I don’t really know. She didn’t write much and when she did, they were just postcards. I know she was a mother’s helper a few times. And she worked doing children’s programs at resorts.”
“Whatever. But it’s not as if you didn’t have a place for her to stay when she finally decided to come back.”
“That’s the reason I bought the house I did. With the basement room, the kids can visit and I can carry on with clients.” My breath was coming in short, anxious bursts. “God, I sound defensive.”
“You don’t have to defend yourself with me.” Madge swatted the air. “Kids always want their parents to stay the same. But life goes on.”
I slowed my pace so I could catch my breath. “I guess it’s hard for Robyn. When she left, her father was still alive and I was still a frumpy, old housewife, ever willing to do what the family wanted.”
“And what does Robyn find when she comes back?” Madge chuckled. “A powerhouse of a mother who’s making a damned good life for herself.”
“Having a therapist for a mother must be Robyn’s worst nightmare.”
“Remember, she’s the one who left,” Madge reminded me. “Speaking of nightmares, I had a dream about you the other night. You’re the dream lady, want to hear it?”
“I’d love to.”
“I’m not sure I remember it all, but some Indian was packing up your things. As if you were moving away. Weird, eh?”
I nodded and speculated about what the Indian might symbolize. Going back to nature? Being more in touch with instincts? Was some primal part of me going to send me off in some new direction?
“The natives are getting restless,” I heard myself say.
“You’re not thinking about moving, are you?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You’re so unsettled lately …“
“I know – I’m putting it down to menopause.”
“As long as you’re not going anywhere.”
“No,” I answered, wishing I could share her relief. I knew that even when people lived right beside each other, emotional changes could create distances as wide as oceans.
“Hey! A craft fair!” Madge jogged across the street. I followed reluctantly. I didn’t like to stop once we’d started moving, but I’d never been able to hold back Madge from a fair.
In the little park a dozen craft tables were set up, displaying hand-painted shirts, pottery, blown glass and other craft items. While Madge went over to look at some basket weaving, I wove my way through the clumps of people.
Feeling someone’s eyes on me, I turned. A man’s face met mine, a full-lipped, dark-skinned face that held itself openly towards me. His eyes pulled away from mine and returned to the drawing he was etching on some leather. He drew freehand, effortlessly, as if the design were already in the leather and all he had to do was trace it out.
Fascinated, I watched the way his hands worked the leather, touching it in a way that made it an intimate act. Sensing my gaze, he glanced up and smiled. His black eyes entered mine. Heat stung my face.
“Breathe!” a voice hissed.
Madge! I half turned, grinned.
“Nice stuff, eh?”
“His work is beautiful.”
“I wasn’t admiring his work,” Madge chortled. “I don’t think you were either.”
I elbowed Madge, but she carried on.
“Look at that hair!”
As