Nine February 1968 #4
The house was dark, and the fire had almost gone out.
I went out to the woodshed and grabbed a few logs to last us the night while she sliced a few pieces of homemade bread and buttered them, sprinkling cinnamon sugar on them for a treat.
The fire restored, she made tea and we talked about the woman’s face and the shock that had quieted the entire audience.
We stayed up late that night, and she told me stories about my mother, stories she’d told so many times I could mouth the words along with her, but I listened, and I pretended to be surprised and saddened at all the right places.
How she and Big Ben, back then known only as Ben, had stolen the bicycle of a boy who was mean to her and threw it in the river on the other side of town and how the police brought my mother home.
About the time where she jumped rope for 796 consecutive jumps without tripping.
About the comfort she provided when my grandfather died, even though she herself was too young to understand.
“And when she was expecting you, she would sit in that chair by the fire and rub her belly and sing to you. Not the traditional songs, but the new kind of music. She just loved Frank Sinatra. I’m surprised you can’t hear her voice, she sang so much to you.”
That night, I dreamt of the birthing tree.
In my dream, the woman with the shape of Kiju’s hand imprinted on her cheek was using a hatchet, slamming it into the trunk over and over again, her neatly coiffed hair loose and knotted.
Each time she struck the tree, a woman cried and blood seeped out of the bark.
I was running to stop her, but each time I got close, the tree moved farther away.
I screamed for her to stop, but she wouldn’t listen.
In the sky, black birds shrieked and dove at the woman, but, like me, each time they came close, she moved farther away.
We watched as she slammed the hatchet into the trunk, but the tree wouldn’t fall.
The leaves shook and the branches swayed, but the tree stood.
I woke up to the dull light of dawn, my head aching from clenching my teeth, my eyes and pillow wet from crying.
Kiju snored in her room, unaware of the battle I’d fought in my sleep.
I got up and stretched the tension from my body and walked out into the cold.
The ground was covered in a thick layer of frost that crunched under my feet as I made my way to the outhouse.
The cold wrapped itself around me as I gathered logs to start the fire.
Inside was almost as cold as outside; what the house had in charm, it lacked in insulation.
I snuck around quietly, lighting the fire in the stove, and set the kettle on to boil.
While an indoor toilet wasn’t something she thought we needed, a tap in the kitchen delighted her.
It was cold water and we had to boil water for dishes, but it was a welcome addition.
I stood and watched the steam start to rise out of the little whistle hole on the kettle, determined to get to it before it whistled and woke her.
I was watching so intently that I didn’t hear her come up behind me.
“A watched pot never boils.”
I jumped as the kettle whistled and I moved out of her way, letting her begin her day.
“It’s a simple life with me, Aliet. I hope you don’t feel that you are missing out on anything. If your mother were alive, I imagine you would be off on some great adventure.”
“I have lots of time for adventure,” I replied.
When I got to school, I noticed everyone looking at me. Apparently, word had gotten around about Kiju’s slap. Susan pulled me into an empty classroom just before the bell rang for third period. We only had English together and that wasn’t until the afternoon.
“Did Kiju really punch Mrs. Brown?” Her eyes were wide with pure joy. “Please tell me she did. I wish I could have seen it. That woman never minds her own business.”
“She did. I was so shocked I almost started laughing, but I held it together. She, Mrs. Brown, blamed Kiju for my mother’s death.”
Susan’s face went cold. “What a bitch.”
“Yup. She deserved it.”
“I guess so.”
The bell rang and we went our separate ways, her to the left and me to the right. I was left to wade through the crowded halls, listening to the whispers and catching the odd glance. Some were nasty and some, I swear, held admiration.
A month later, an envelope arrived in the mail.
A new bylaw had been passed making any medical procedure illegal unless conducted by a qualified medical practitioner in a proper medical facility.
Monetary fines and other penalties would be issued if the illegal activity was discovered.
Kiju handed me the notice, and as I read, I turned up my nose as if the message itself reeked of decay.
I had just finished when Kiju snapped it out of my hands and threw it into the fire.
We never spoke of it again until the night we met Paulina.