The Sweater Curse Ch 4 by Leanne Dyck

WARNING: This story contains adult content

Chapter Three: Is reuniting with Mother the task I must perform?

photo by ldyck

Chapter Four

    I examine my surroundings and realize I’m in a lecture hall. All the students are draped over their desks as if they want to get as close as possible to the lecturer. Who has captured their attention?

    Though time has changed her, I would recognize her anywhere. Mother.

    Blah, blah, blah. On she drones, but the young minds sucked it up like sweet honey.

    Now she’s at the bedside of an elderly woman. Starry-eyed, her patient rests easy in her care.

    Accompanying her from one adoring patient to another is a small clutch of students. They hang on her every word.

    I follow Mother down a long corridor to her sterile office. There waiting for her is a pile of paperwork. She attacks the mound—document after document.

    I didn’t notice it before, but there’s a ring on her finger. How did I overlook it? The diamond is enormous. I guess she’s remarried.

    I scan the room and am immediately drawn to a group of photographs decorating a feature wall. There’s one of Mother and her latest victim on their wedding day. It’s a garden shot. The ancient bride and groom have turned to face each other. He towers over her. They look like a couple of sideshow freaks. I wonder if it’s just for the camera, or if they truly mean all they are saying with their eyes.

    The other pictures feature three women as they graduate from university, then marry. The final photo is larger than the rest and includes the entire family. The subjects range in age from toddler to senior. Everyone is carefully arranged on a large wooden deck of a summer cabin. Front and center are Mother and the poor old guy. Clearly Mother is now reaping the benefit of another mother’s devotion.

    Someone knocks.

    “Yes,” Mother calls without looking up from her paperwork.

    The door opens a crack, and a youngish woman fills the gap. “Excuse me, Ms. McNamara. I don’t know if you remember me, but—” 

    Mother beams at the woman. “Of course, I do. Well, hello…”

    “I was one of your students,” the woman supplies. “Joy—” 

    “Of course, Joyce Givings.”

    “Bridgeweight.”

    “Of course, Joyce Bridgeweight.”

    “Well, Lam now.”

    “Class of ’99.”

    “2007,” Joyce corrects yet again.

    It’s clear Mother doesn’t remember this woman.

    “Joyce. Please, do come in.”

    Firmly, in one hand, Joyce grips a baby carrier.

    Mother peeks in. “Who’s this?”

    “This is Hannah.”

    Mother pats a chubby little hand. “Well, hello, Hannah.”

    Baby Hannah responds with a yawn. Apparently, Mother’s charms do have their limits.

    “I named her after you.”

    “Well, I’m… I’m honoured.”

    My visit isn’t over. Mother slips into the leather driver seat of a red convertible Mustang. It’s a cloudless autumn day; she drives with the top down. The car turns onto a long driveway. At the end of this tree-lined lane stands an architect’s masterpiece. The house—should I call it a mansion—dominates the land.

    Young elementary-aged children—three boys and four girls—run all over the manicured lawn. The appearance of the car gives their running direction. “Grandma Hannah,” they cheer.

    Car parked and vacated, she bends to greet the children, and they run into her arms. There's much smiling and even giggling. 

    Merrily, the group parades into the house.

    “Grandma’s home, Grandma’s home,” the children sing to a gaggle of adults.

    One of the adults—the poor, old guy, her new husband—is the first to greet her. “Welcome home, darling. I missed you.” He wears a buttoned-down, baby-blue shirt and beige trousers. His hair is snow-white, and he sports a well-groomed mustache. He draws her close, and they share a kiss.

    “Oh, you two are such lovebirds,” one of the younger women coos.

    Oh, look! She’s pregnant.

    Mother rubs the swollen tummy. “How are you feeling, dear?”

    “Oh, much better. Thank you for your advice.”

    They share a smile.

    Oh, how sweet. I’ve seen enough.

    Mother appears to have changed. She’s mellowed, retracted her claws, and no longer sharpens her fangs by gnawing on young flesh. Her life is full, happy, successful. Well, hurray for her. It makes me sick.

    There isn’t a scrap of evidence of Dad’s and my existence. No pictures in her office or anywhere in her house. I wonder if she’s ever even uttered our names. Does she even think about us? She didn’t mourn. She moved on.

Sunday, November 16 at approximately 4:40 PM PT

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Five

As I drifted from household to household, I brought my knitting needles...

November 

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13 Atwood Gibson Writers' Trust Fiction Prize

My week...

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The Sweater Curse Ch 3 by Leanne Dyck

 WARNING: This story contains adult content

WARNING: Chapter One, Three and Fourteen contains themes of suicide that may be triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

Resources

Befrienders Worldwide

International Association for Suicide Prevention

TherapyRoute.com

Chapter Two: Surprisingly, Mother did allow my aunt to teach me to knit. 

photo by ldyck

Chapter Three

    For many generations, my dad’s ancestors worked the soil of Blondous. The Bjarnsons were one of the pioneer families. Dad was expected to claim his inheritance. When Afi—Grandpa—retired, the deed to the farm was to slip from his hands to his sons’. Steini and Kris would devote their lives to working the Bjarnson’s homestead. They would ensure it survived and prospered.

    However, Afi couldn’t foresee the future. He hadn’t factored in Mother. Like a cobra, she wrapped herself around Kris. She seduced him, gave birth to me and claimed him. To Mother, my dad wasn’t a farmer, merely a beautiful toy she had to have.

    Kris Bjarnson became a devoted father. No matter how hard he worked, he always found time for me. When Mother worked late, which was frequent, I curled up onto his lap, and he would regale me with stories. He always began the same way…

    ”In the land of here and now and right away, lived a little girl named Gwen, or was it Amy?

    “Her hair was golden blonde or black. Does it matter?

    “She was your age? Or was she older? Or a little younger? Oh, you know, it doesn’t really matter.

    “She lived a humdrum life, in a ho-hum way, but one day, one day…”

    He transformed my daily life into a captivating adventure. My dad was a magnificent storyteller. He had a gift for taking the mundane and making it magical. There in his lap, snuggled up close to his flannel shirt, I was rocked to sleep by his words. Soap and water couldn’t hide his farmer’s cologne—a heady blend of sheep, hay, and soil.

    Mother’s fame as a talented doctor grew. It got so I couldn’t go downtown without someone stopping me. “I came too close to losing this finger. Without your mother, it would be gone. She’s a skilled doctor. You should be very proud.” The story was always the same, only the body part varied.

    Soon black limousines drove down our lane. The car parked and a faceless man in an expensive suit knocked on our door. “Is Doctor McNamara at home?” He came to offer Mother a position at his hospital in Winnipeg, Calgary, Edmonton, and eventually, Vancouver.

    I think Grandpapa McNamara’s hand was at work there. The Honourable Doctor Alexander McNamara was all-powerful. Tons of people existed only to grant him favours. He pulled strings to get his darling daughter into med school. He would have moved mountains to bring her home to BC.

   For all I know, Mother could have written him sob stories begging him to rescues her. After all, she did hate the farm.

   We three sat as a family in our living room as the man in the suit informed us, “St. Paul’s in downtown Vancouver is an acute care, teaching and research hospital. Excuse me for saying so, but here your talent is largely wasted. There you’ll be a highly-respected member of our world-class team.”

    The suit left. I sent to bed and eavesdropped as my parents continued to talk.

    “Oh, Kris, don’t you see? I have to go! The offer is just too good to pass up.”

    I know what Afi would have told her. “You are my woman. Your place is here on this farm with me.”

    What did my dad say?

    “Of course, honey, I understand. Wherever you go, I will follow. I love you too much not to.” And so, we left.

    Well, not quite. First we had to say a few good-byes. Most were tearful and heartwarming.

    Mother gave her notice at the hospital. Nurses, staff, and patients organized a potluck dinner to send her off in rural-style. They shook her hand and wished her luck.

    She glowed, her ego swelled, but she didn’t care.

    Tears were shed, hugs were given, but Afi’s eyes were dry. His arms folded in front of his chest. His face was an angry shade of red, and steam came out of his ears. “I knew you were bad news the minute I met you. You have no respect for tradition, for our ways,” he roared.

    Mother roared back. “And you think a woman’s place is in the kitchen, in bed, or under your feet.”

    “Kris, be a man. Control your woman.”

    My dad’s face was white; he gulped, but didn’t say a word. This battle was between Mother and Afi.

    “I knew you wouldn’t act to defend our ways. You’ve never had a backbone. Your mother coddled you, and now look at you, you’re not a man. You’re a mouse. You let this woman walk all over you. You let her rob you of all you have. You don’t stand up to her or teach her to mind.”

    My dad said nothing in his defence, but Mother tried. “Don’t talk that way to him. He respects me.”

    Afi ignored her, didn’t even look at her, simply continued his tirade. “You’ve turned your back on family history, on our way of life, and you’ve endangered the survival of the family farm.” He turned and glared at Mother. “If our ways aren’t good enough for you, then you aren’t good enough for us. Get off my land. Leave. Now!”

    All families operated by a code. Taboos were made clear, if not by words, then by their lack. Afi made the family rules. We’d broken them.

    If we were Mennonite or Hutterites, we would have had a word for it. We would have called it shunned, but Afi was Icelandic-Canadian. We read our fate on his bitter face and quickly left.

    Mother single-handedly destroyed my family, crushed Afi, and callously ripped my dad from the land he loved.

    My dad, the master of animal husbandry, had no avenue for his calling. We didn’t even have a cat, because he couldn’t stand the idea of confining the poor animal. Yet he endured the prison himself.

    In our new home, my dad stood out like a piece of straw on a lace tablecloth. He was a little too friendly, a little too open, and a little too down-homey. He unnerved our neighbours. His attempts to make friends were ridiculously unsuccessful, as was his tendency to just drop by uninvited.

    Soon, he discovered an old solution to his new problem. He turned to the bottle.

    He could have sought professional help. Meet with a therapist, joined Alcoholics Anonymous, but he didn’t. He just couldn’t. Those solutions were too foreign to him. He was raised to rely solely on his family. The only family my dad had was Mother and me.

    “Oh, we are so much happier in this place! We eat out anytime we want to, go to the theatre, go shopping. This is the good life. Don’t you agree, Kris?” Mother asked—it was a rhetorical question. She didn’t need to hear him and she didn’t. “I’ve taken us out of the pig sty into the castle.”

    Mother was in love with our new life. She didn’t see how her success emasculated him. Our neighbours called him “Mr. McNamara”, and Mother never corrected them.

    She spent all her spare time plotting and planning with Grandpapa McNamara. They would stop at nothing to reach their common goal to establish Mother’s dominance in the Canadian health care system.

    And me, I was a self-centered teenager. I only saw how my dad’s behaviour affected me, and I promptly abandoned him for my peers.

    Dad woke up dry and passed out plastered. He became a suburban joke—the tired, old alcoholic. By his actions, he was crying out. Month after month, no one heard. He finally drank himself into an early grave. A neighbour found him behind the steering wheel, the car wrapped around a telephone pole. That was the rumour. I was sheltered from the harsh reality of his demise. What was hidden from me, I created. I was haunted by horrific images night after night. My grief was a subject no one wanted to address.

    Why did he leave me?

    After his funeral, I searched for the answer I hoped I would find. In the attic, I opened an old trunk and dug through its contents. There, hidden away from Mother’s prying eyes, was my dad’s handwritten manuscript, secretly recorded and privately kept. His words comforted me. Not even death silenced his voice.

    The memoir was a prayer of yearning for the life he once knew—long summer days, hayfield hearty lunches, lambing. His stories reawakened my senses to the sights, sounds, smells, and tastes of the farm. He had died of a broken heart. Mother had killed him. And I hated her for it.

    Driven to action by rage, I wrote a carefully crafted note in which I called her a greedy, selfish, old cow and thereby, severed our relationship forever.

    Is reuniting with Mother the task I must perform? Has she been pining away for me all these years, living blinded by a veil of tears? If I go to her, mend her broken heart, will I be free?

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Four

She didn't mourn. She moved on.

Wednesday, November 5 7 PM PT

965 Kings Road Victoria, Vancouver Island, BC

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Thursday, November 6

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