Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby by Leanne Dyck (Ch 4)

 Chapter three: It's obvious that Aster is not pleased that she ended up on a remote island. How did she get stuck there? Let's go back to the beginning...

photo by ldyck

Chapter four

Before

From the passenger seat, Aster watched her husband weave his way through the ferry’s car deck. As if following a clearly marked path, he worked his way through the maze of boat-sized trucks. Believing that she could simply follow him, Aster pushed the door o—. The neighbouring truck was too close. Crawling out required Aster to move her body in ways more appropriate for Yoga class—bend, stretch, slid, pull. Finally free of the car, she felt a sense of victory but—. Bumpers, side mirrors, trailer hitches blocked her progress in every direction. Balancing on her toes, Aster searched for her husband. There he went past that truck and that one, never looking back. Clearly, he wasn’t worrying about, had no thought of her.

“Not very chivalrous, my dear Kenneth James,” Aster grumbled.

Alone, without any possibility of aid, she squeezed her body past a side mirror and around a trailer hitch. She nearly missed colliding with the corner of a truck’s bed. By the time she caught up to her husband, he was slipping through an automated sliding door. The door closed in Aster’s face. She scanned the wall looking for some way to open the door. She was still searching when she heard a thud. She jumped. A man behind her heaved a heavy sigh and Aster knew he was annoyed at her.

She watched as magically the door began to slowly, ever so slowly, slid open. Aster wanted to thank him but—.

“Tourists!” The man spat, pushing past. A wave of body odor trailed behind him and struck her in the face.

Aster wondered when he had last bathed. She wondered how many other passengers were in a similar state. Concerns about hygiene gave her pause. She opened her purse and pulled out a tissue. After wrapping the tissue around the handrail, she followed the man up the stairs. The tissue slid steadily upward as she ascended the stairs.

Aster had to push, with her arm and shoulder, to open the once-white door that was at the top of the stairs. The door nearly weighed a ton. She almost tripped over a protrusion in the threshold. Its presence and the fact that no one had bothered to mark it—possibly with red tape—annoyed her. How many people had been injured?

To her right, a blue trash can stood against the wall. She used her tissue-wrapped hand to push the lid open. The lid— The entire trash can was in sorry need of a good scrubbing with a disinfectant and a heavy bristled brush. And the thing stank.

A few feet ahead a large window offered a view of the ocean. At least the ocean was better than the gray, greasy cave she’d just left. To the right of the window was a door to the outside deck. She could clearly see that there was no one standing out there. To her left was a row of bolted-together chairs. They didn’t look comfortable. The first row of chairs faced the front of the ferry. A woman sat in the far corner of the first row. She was knitting while reading the magazine open on her lap. Aster watched the needles coil the yarn and longed to inquire as to what the knitting would yield but the woman looked like she didn’t wish to be disturbed. The two middle rows faced each other with a gap of about five feet between them. A gang of adolescents slummed in these chairs. Aster quickly walked passed without giving them much heed. If she ignored them, she hoped they would ignore her. The last rows faced Vancouver’s ferry terminal. These chairs were empty. Kenneth James wasn’t here. Had he vanished? Past the row of chairs, another door offered her her last opportunity to go outside. Her husband had to be somewhere. Aster pushed the door open and this time wasn’t surprised to discover that it was weighed.

A man smoking a cigarette thoughtlessly sent smoke in her direction but the wind blew it back in his face. Aster suppressed a smile and went back inside. Returning, she discovered another set of stairs. She retrieved another tissue, wrapped it around the handrail, and ascended. There was no door and no protrusion at the top of these stairs. This deck seemed brighter and somehow more cheerful than the last until—.

photo by ldyck

Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby

Chapter five

Aster has lost her husband on the ferry? Will she ever find him again? Or is that how she ends up on-- ? (I've said--or written--too much.)

Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby by Leanne Dyck (Ch 3)

Chapter two: Emma, Aster's sister-in-law, thinks Aster is foolish to live on a remote island. She advises Aster to move. She asks Aster to move in with her. Does Aster accept this offer? 

photo by ldyck

Chapter three

And amongst all this bounty, Emma thought of me—her abandoned sister-in-law. How could I turn my back on her generous offer? I had no choice. So I moved in. Sure I did. I was lonely so I was at her mercy. She ordered one of her offspring to help me move. I can’t remember which one—they all look alike, to me. All the boys look like Baldur and all the girls look like Emma. So, I didn’t bother learning their names. He was polite and helpful enough—I suppose. He came with two of his sons—grown men, all. I was surprised. I didn’t think I was that old.

We moved my essentials—TV, radio, clothes, knitting, and even some of your books. It all fit nicely into their van with room left over.

But they weren’t happy. Are you sure that’s all you want to take? They kept asking. We have lots of room.

Oh, yes, I told them, over and over again. This is just a trial run. We’ll see how things go. The stuff won’t go anywhere.

I thought they’d hear me, but when they refused to, I stared at them all dead in the eye and said in a firm voice. Yes, this is enough. I’ll be fine. And after what happened, I’m so glad I did.

I couldn’t wait to leave this place. I knew they were expecting me to, so I locked the door. But what I really wanted to do was strike a match and burn the place to the ground. Out of the ashes, we’d rise—and then we’d be free, you and me, my love. But, I knew, if I’d done that they wouldn’t have stopped at Emma’s condo. Oh, no, they’d have dropped me off in some old age home where I could be watched night and day. So I didn’t give them any provocation. I clammed up, sat up straight, and took my medicine like a good girl.

The first couple of days were fine. Emma acted like she was pleased to see me—like she wanted me there. Then things started to change. Emma and her kids started walking on eggshells. It was like they didn’t know how to act around me—what to say, how to treat me. I thought their true feelings were showing.

You would have told me that I was being too sensitive. Relax and just be yourself, you would have advised. You would have wrapped your big, strong arms around me and said, They’ll come around.

But you weren’t there, now were you. You weren’t there and I was on my own. Still, I tried to follow your advice, the best I could. I tried to make myself useful. I did the dishes. Emma took the clean dishes that were drying on the rack and washed them all again. I cleaned the bathroom—she cleaned it again. I made a meal. She refused to eat it and made something else. Then, then she had the gall to offer it to me.

So, I told her, No, thank you, I’ve just had a delicious meal.

I heard her mumble something. I didn’t ask her to repeat it. It was her house. I didn’t want to start a fight.

But I knew, from day one, that she didn’t approve of me. Do you remember when you took me home for the first time? The minute I met her I knew she didn’t like me. I told you, but you said it was just her way. You said she was shy around strangers. But you know as well as I do, my love, there’s not a shy bone in her body. You promised me that when she got to know me she’d be warmer. I’m still waiting for that miracle. You said I misunderstood her. But you didn’t see her face. If looks could kill, I’d be dead. Nothing, no one, was good enough for her darling baby brother, least of all me.

Aster’s needles flashed in and out of the stitches.

Life with Emma just kept getting worse. She started to grumble and complain. Who took the last of the milk? Who took that last egg?

Um, let me think, I wanted to say. There are only two of us living here. If it wasn’t you who took it, then it must have been me.

I mean, it wasn’t a deep, dark mystery and it certainly wasn’t a big deal. Eggs and milk are staples. Every grocery store has them and they’re not liable to run out of them, either. I wanted so badly to point that out, but I didn’t. Instead, I offered to walk a block—or, no, less, half a block—to the corner convenience store.

She said, Oh, no, you can’t do that. She spoke to me like I was some kind of invalid—which I’m not, or wasn’t then. And she phoned one of her kids. I overheard them talking. She said a lot of she’s and then tittered like a schoolgirl, I knew she was talking about me. It wasn’t polite—and I had half a mind to teach her some manners, but for your sake, I kept my mouth shut and pretended I didn’t care what she said about me.

The next minute, her daughter showed up—with young kids in tow. These ones were, maybe, three or four years old—too young to be in school. I think she just had the two but it seemed like she’d brought an army. They raced around the condo screaming their fool heads off. All the time Emma’s saying, Oh, aren’t they adorable! Aren’t they so cute!

Really? They were about as cute as an infiltration of killer bees. Their favourite song was, mine, mine, mine—which they belted out at the top of their lungs.

When their mother went to get our groceries she left the writhing mass in our care. They climbed all over Emma. I thought they would kill her—crush her death.

And I thought, fine. If that’s the way she wants to go—being mauled to death—that’s just fine.

But then the little darlings went racing around the place and came crashing into me. I nearly went for a loop and could have broken a bone, which at my age isn’t a small thing. But luckily, I was able to catch hold of the back of a chair and steadied myself. Their next run-by I fell forward and visualized impaling myself on the chair. It had sharp tip posts jutting out the back that would have done the job nicely. Well, the thought scared me to death.

So I grabbed the little demons. I didn’t hurt them—they were fine. I was forceful but fair. I told them, This is a home, not a zoo. When you’re here you need to behave like people, not wild animals.

But it was evident that they’d never been given any rules. The minute I tried to talk some sense into them, they started bawling their heads off. Well, then, don’t you know, their mother returned. She walked into the apartment and saw me attached to her horrified babies. They wiggled out of my grasp and ran to her. Save me from the witch! I thought I heard them cry. And that’s how she acted—like I was harming them.

What did you do to my children? She glared at me.

Well, I tried to explain, I told her, I’ve done nothing wrong. I was just trying to teach your children a little restraint. Your mother’s old. I’m old. They race around here like savages. They could hurt us—break a bone. And then we’d have to be hospitalized. That’s what I told her, but I could tell she wasn’t taking it well.

My children aren’t savages, she snarled like a mad dog.

So I turned to Emma. Tell your daughter what happened. Tell her I wasn’t behaving irrationally. Explain how out of control your grandchildren were acting. I pleaded for her to help me. I mean I’d seen the fear in her eyes when they were climbing all over her.

But did she support me? Did she try to help her daughter understand that guidance was necessary?

Emma? No, she didn’t.

Instead, she said—. And this is what still hurts. This is why I will never talk to Emma or any of hers ever again, as long as I live. She said, and I quote, Aster has a history of child abuse. That’s why she was forced to stop teaching.

That’s what she said, that’s what she believes—that I abuse children. And I wonder how many other people think that about me? It’s not true. It’s a mean, hurtful lie. I know the truth—and so do you. Don’t you, my love? Don’t you? You know I would never hurt...

Her voice choked.

You know I never meant to...

She fell silent for a few minutes. When she continued, her voice could have cut metal.

I stood there listening to Emma’s accusation, and I wanted to cry. But I didn’t give her the satisfaction. Instead, I packed my belongings, hired a man with a van, and moved back here. If that’s what the world thinks of me, I don’t need them. It’s been years since I spoke to Emma—years. And I... 

A tear rolled down her cheek.

I don’t miss anyone.

She whispered.

No one but you.

photo by ldyck

Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby
Chapter four

It's obvious that Aster isn't content on a remote island. How did she get there? Let's go back to the beginning...

Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby by Leanne Dyck (Ch 2)

Chapter one: Alone in her home on a remote island, Aster communes with her husband. She clearly dislikes living on the island. Why didn't she move away?

'As I was reading I thought what does this remind me of? The thoughtful choice of words, the realistic conversational tone... Carol Shields! Following in some good prairie writer's shoes!' -Linda Patricia Smith

'Abby and friend' photo by ldyck

Chapter two

Yes, there are a million things I could have done. Everyone always has options, even if they think they don't, that's what you maintained.

She returned the photo to its spot, picked up her knitting, and stabbed her needle into a stitch.

Your sister, Emma, she offered me an option--out of the goodness of her heart. She's next to a saint, is your lovely sister Emma.

Her voice had a firm, commanding tone of the phone. Why do you continue to live on that god-forsaken rock? I don't know how you can stand it. I'd go mad--living like you do, all alone. You could suffer a long, painful death--and no one would even know. You could get sick with cancer or MS. There's no end of accidents an old woman could have. Choking to death on long strings of cheese. Or you could cut a vein while chopping kindling. She painstakingly described the scene--quarts of blood staining the area rug as I lay there in agony, unable to do anything but die. By the way she spoke, I wondered if envisioning my gory end brought her comfort.

Really, Aster, think. Logically, you have no choice. You can't continue to live by yourself. It's too dangerous. I know you think you have no place to go but you could move in with me, I suppose. I do have more than enough room.

She was always a forthright, confident woman. I can tell you, she'd never have ended up here. 

True the home she had with Baldur wasn’t a castle—little more than a cottage by the sea, really. So small, in fact, that I wondered how they squeezed in all those children. But

Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby by Leanne Dyck (Ch 1)

Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby was inspired by remote island life and Canadian history. 

'I would have loved to have learned more about the relationship between Aster and her husband.'

wrote Debra Purdy Kong on Goodreads.

'I could not put it down. Had to read the whole thing immediately. It was gripping.'

-Kathy Barber

photo by ldyck

Chapter one

After

No sound but the crackle of flames as the fire licked a log in the wood stove in the corner of the living room and the clicking of knitting needles. Purl one, knit one it's an ancient dance her needles knew well. She rocked back and forth as she knits--her shoulder-length, spider-web hair swayed.

Thud! Peace was broken.

She jerked her head back in the direction of the noise and stared at the window. Thud! She saw the glass vibrate. Imagination unnerved her. Fighting it, she grew determined to find the source of the sound. She put her knitting in the tall wicker basket that stood beside her chair. Even in the dim light, she easily located it. She lifted one foot off the horsehair footstool and planted it on the floor in front of her. Then the other. Fingers dug into the fabric armrest, she groaned as she pushed herself up to stand. As if on ice, she navigated the short distance from her chair to the window. Peering out, all she saw was night. 

Thud! Inches away from her nose the glass vibrated once again. Balancing herself against the wall, she reached over and grabbed the cord, lowering the blind. 

"Plastic armour against the unknown, just like me, it's less than useless." She cursed the night.

Her vision blurred and felt dizzy.

Old brittle bones break easily. Be careful. Dr. Frank had warned during her last examination. Use your cane.

And she did when she remembered. She looked across the room and saw the cane hooked over the headrest of a chair. "Oh, you silly, old woman. It would serve you right if you fell."

Both hands clung to the windowsill. Her knuckles grew white as her fingertips pressed into the wood. She had fallen more times than most knew. Purple, green, and tan bruises were hidden under her clothing.

Thud!

She exhaled, slowly. Ignore it. It's nothing.

Balance restored, she turned first her shoulders, then her feet, and retraced her journey back to the safety of her easy chair. Within her easy reach, a dark oak end table, adorned by a hand-crocheted doily, held a framed photo, a box of tissues, and a large circular candle that dripped wax into a square ceramic base. 

Thud!

She picked up the chrome-edged frame and cradles it in her hands. Lost in time, he looked at her with confident, friendly eyes. She spoke to his ghost. In this house, he still lived.

Ah, you. You were always happy. I was happy, once--long ago. But happiness isn't easy at any age--especially not here, in this house, on this island.

When I was a few years younger and capable of walking the distance, I'd journey down the old road to the ferry terminal. I'd stand on the sidewalk, hidden by the parked trucks, and peer down at the dock. Concealed, I'd watch as more trucks and cars stopped at the ticket booth and then continued down to park in the ferry lanes. I'd imagine myself walking down to stand in line under the glass-topped canopy, with the other foot passengers. I'd wait for the ferry, and when it came, Id' leave--never to return. I wouldn't look back at the houses that farmed the bay. I won't look back at all. But, I wondered, would I look ahead? And, if I did, what would I see? Where would I work, live? What would my future be off this island, without you? Would I have a future? These questions buzzed in my head like a hornet. I couldn't escape them. I felt like a starfish marooned on the beach, unable to swim away. And so reluctantly, I'd trudge back here to this house--and wait for you to rescue me.

Her index finger outlined the man's face--trailing over his cheeks and chin.

A lifetime full of waiting but you never came back to me.

photo by ldyck

Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby

Chapter two

Aster continues to commune with her husband's ghost. She tells him of his sister's "generous" offer.

Book Review: Flipping Forward Twisting Backward by Alma Fullerton, illustrated by Sarah Mensinga (MG graphic novel)

 Claire Cardin is dedicated, kind-hearted, empathetic, creative, smart, and a problem solver. She excels at gymnastics but she struggles to read and write. Does she have a learning disability?

Flipping Forward Twisting Backward

Alma Fullerton

Illustrated by Sarah Mensinga

Peachtree 

an imprint of Penguin Random House

2022

133 pages

What is it like to be dyslexic? What gifts has our neurodivergence given us? What obstacles do we face? Alma Fullerton tells our story through the eyes of a relatable, likable character.

As a dyslexic, I love the message Alma Fullerton gives the reader--dyslexics are smart; dyslexics are capable. Sometimes we struggle--as everyone does.

Flipping Forward Twisting Backward is an empowering, heart-warming story. I highly recommend this book especially to--but not limited to--striving readers who are 8 to 12 years old.

Beginning next Sunday, January 8...

I introduced readers to Aster in 2009, in my first novel Maynely A Mystery--a mystery set on my island home Mayne Island. Aster was merely a secondary character, still...

'I would have loved to have learned more about the relationship between Aster and her husband.'

wrote Debra Purdy Kong on Goodreads.

And Debra wasn't alone. Many readers wanted me to expand on Aster's story. So, in 2014, when Mayne Island Little Theatre held a playwriting contest, I wrote my play about Aster. And she shone in the spotlight.

Last summer, I visited with Aster once again and she shared even more of her story. In 2023, I plan to share a chapter of Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby on this blog every Sunday--beginning on Sunday, January 8. I'll share the final chapter on Sunday, July 2.

Kathy Barber, an early reader of Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby, writes...

'I could not put it down. Had to read the whole thing immediately. It was gripping.'

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