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I Packed My Suitcase
Katherine had the kettle boiling. We were in her kitchen, choosing mugs for tea that we had been craving. We chewed through the details of everyday life. Work was good, her family was happy, and Toronto was beautifully blanketed in snow. We carried our mugs of steaming tea into the living room, where a fire was blossoming.
Katherine was a relatively new acquaintance. In fact, we had met only by accident, when she had driven her car into the back of mine. She had emerged from the car, very pregnant and very sorry. She covered the expenses and invited me over for dinner the following night. We had clicked immediately, like a key in the ignition, our friendship accelerated, and my visits to her home increased.
“Cream and sugar?” Katherine held up the two pieces of china.
“No, but thank-you. My mother never… permitted it. She used to say, ‘Wants and needs, Norah. Need not what you want.’” I shuddered at the memory of her saying that. I could almost see her pale face, and the sternness that I would bring out of her.
“You know, Norah.” Kathleen set down her mug on the coffee table that lay between us. “You haven’t really told me anything about your childhood.” I swallowed.
“It’s something I consider done with. It’s the past, and I try not to wallow in yesterday’s sting and sorrow, if you know what I mean.”
“You know, sometimes it’s easy to forget where we came from and the people who made us who we are.”
And so I told her everything. At first, it felt as if I was yanking a knife up my throat, but gradually, the inner wounds began to heal and scab over.
We lived in a small house a couple of kilometers from the nearest highway, in New Brunswick. The house shone - the product of my mother’s daily scrubbing. She didn’t work. She felt it in her way to clean the house, top to bottom, before my father returned each night. I would come home from school and she would be dusting the spotless bookshelves.
“Hi Mum.” I would drop my school bag by the door. “What’s for dinner?”
“Pork chops,” she would reply softly. Pork chops?
“You know Daddy hates pork chops.”
“I know dear, but we can’t have steak every night. He’s just going to have to eat what I put in front of him.” He wouldn’t touch it. He would spit down on his meat, and push his plate away in disgust.
“Have you nothing in that head of yours?” he would rage. “Answer me! Answer me, you bitch! I can’t believe you!” Mum would try to calm him down, or try to make a quick exit. Many a time she wasn’t successful. He would grab her by the wrists and throw her against the dinner table. He’d squeeze her hard and shove pork in her mouth, attempt to wedge it down her throat. She would cry out, wail for mercy, for help. I sat there at the other end of the table, face down, my head in my hands. I was young.
Katherine stared at me in disbelief. “Did you ever try to intervene?” she asked softly.
“Yes.” I dug up the memory. I couldn’t sit there and watch my mother being beaten. Some nights, I would cry, and yell at him to stop. He barely gave me a glance. But one evening, he had picked up a chair and was ready to bring it down on Mum. I stood up and threw myself in front of her. I remember his eyes changing as he just about boiled over with fury.
“Don’t you ever try that again,” he said. Then he slapped me. Tears streamed down my face.
“Why do you do this to her?” I yelled.
“I make the rules in this family. I work hard to bring home the money that feeds you both. And when your mother doesn’t have the decency to treat me with respect, I have to make my point known and understood. She spends my hard earned money on booze, did she ever tell you that?” he boomed.
“No.” I never got anywhere with him.
“Get a fucking job God damn it woman! You have to provide for this family too, and if I hear or see anything about you drinking, you sad old alcoholic, then I’m going to kill you. Don’t think I’m joking around. This is my family, and I will say how it is run.” It would usually end then. I’d help my mother up from wherever she was lying, hug her, and sob into her neck. I would try to pick up the pieces.
After I turned ten, she still didn’t have a job, and she drank excessively. She would be totally smashed by 3 PM, when I’d return from school each day. I’d hide her booze in high places, where she or Dad wouldn’t think of looking, but she always seemed to buy more. She had taken a small job helping out at the copy mart, and she’d spend her savings on alcohol, and drink like mad. Dad found the bottles, and exploded. Well, at least his fists did. I tried talking to her.
“Mum, don’t you think it’s wrong what he does to you? We should call someone. It isn’t right.”
“Oh Norah, it’s me who isn’t right. I… don’t know how to behave. If I didn’t anger him, he wouldn’t do it. Besides, I can’t live on my own. We couldn’t make it without him - you hear what he says. I just have to be a better person.” My mother made me promise not to call the police. Despite all he did, she still loved him.
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Madeleine
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