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Just like you

By Stella Harvey
The Vicious Circle, the Whistler Writers’ Group, in conjunction with Celebration 2010: Whistler Arts Festival 2005, will be hosting Literary Leanings 2005, a literary gala on Feb. 20th and 21st. The gala will be held at Uli’s Flipside. Starting at 8 p.m. each night, local authors will share the stage with a number of professional writers from around British Columbia including Arthur Black, George Bowering, Bill Gaston, and Aislinn Hunter. Food, drink and open mic will be provided.

Whistler writers include Stella Harvey, founder of the Vicious Circle, as well as members Stephen Vogler, Brandi Higgins, Lisa Richardson, Pam Barnsley, Rebecca Wood Barrett and Sara Leach. In anticipation of the gala, the Pique will print the stories (fiction and non-fiction) that will be read by the Whistler based writers during the gala.

Just Like You Mother

By Stella L. Harvey

January 15 th

Mother:

My letters return unopened, Addressee Unknown . Emails bounce back. Your phone number has changed and the operator tells me it’s unlisted. Reminds me of grade 11 at St. Mark, back east when I broke my collarbone in football practice. The principal said they tried all the numbers they had for you, left messages with all your contacts. When you finally called, you told them you couldn’t get away. Instead, you wanted me to know you were thinking about me, assured them I was strong enough to handle it on my own. Anytime I came home–a couple of weeks in the summer, a week each at Christmas, Easter and sometimes Thanksgiving–you’d tell me, Mother is doing what she needs to do. Be strong for her. You were good at drilling a point and I was good at getting your point. The AA program is helping me understand some new points now. The first step assures me we are powerless and life is unmanageable.

Yes, that’s right, I’ve joined AA. Does this news come as a surprise? After all, it’s difficult to know what your son’s been up to when you’ve been out saving other people’s children.

No one knew, not even the guys at the office. They’ve never been able to figure out why I don’t drink. They think a client would never feel comfortable with a guy who couldn’t relax enough to have a drink. I used to want to interrupt, catch them off guard, say, I’m the president of this company. No one is supposed to be comfortable. But, I swallowed hard, ignored their comments, and continued to play the role they expected–good guy, a little boring, intense but likeable.

I drank at home. Nobody around to notice the empties piling up in the basement, the vomit on the kitchen floor, the shit on the jockeys. I’d clean up the mess before my cleaning lady came in. I’m not trying to shock you, but I need to look at all this straight on, stop hiding inside the image I’ve fashioned myself into. This is step number 4 of the program; make a searching and fearless moral inventory. Then write it all down in a letter.

I was one guy in public; another behind everybody’s back and it had its perks. As honour student and star football player I got away with murder. I had the best supply of uppers and downers on campus. Didn’t do the stuff myself. Don’t know why I never did. Too busy killing myself with booze. Made enough money to pay for college, start this company and even donate to some of those relief agencies of yours. How many new graduates do that? Had it all under control until Jeff introduced me to Sophie a few months ago. Sophie. She’s the reason for all this. Jeff’s my neighbour. Can’t say best friend, because I don’t get that close. Just like you Mother. Your job got all your love.

Sophie and I have been out for dinner, saw Rent and Hamlet at the Orpheum and just last week caught the comedy festival. I like having things to do besides running this company, cleaning up my messes. I haven’t told her about the drinking, and when she looks at me with those innocent brown eyes, I can’t hold her gaze. I don’t want to lie to her. That’s a first. When she touches my face, I start to believe she’d understand, forgive anything. Then again, maybe she’d tell me to suck it up, be strong. Maybe she’s falling for the image too, wouldn’t consider getting her hands dirty with the real me. She might be like you Mother. You loved those high school report cards. You used to say, Glad I have such a smart, independent son. Don’t have to worry about him at all.

I couldn’t worry you Mother. I was six the first time I saw you cry after a fight with Dad and was scared shitless. I’d have done anything to fix things. I made you a card, drew a sunflower on the front. When Dad left, you didn’t get out of bed for weeks. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to fix anything again. I went to school, made my lunch, cleaned the toilet, swept the floors, wiped the sinks to a shine and picked flowers for you from our neighbours’ yards. And eventually when you felt better, I’d make macaroni and cheese and Campbell’s soup with toast and we’d have a picnic dinner on your bed. You’d smile and say, My Mr. Fix-it will make a good mother someday. Don’t know where you get your big heart.

When you did get out of bed, you said you wanted to make a difference with your life that it was a good time to get on with things.

What things Mother?

I know I can count on you. You’re a good son, a responsible son.

I loved being those things for you. I said, I’d do anything to help, and didn’t know then that what you really wanted to do was leave. You cried that day, said you’d miss me. Don’t go, I said. You said, Mother will come back a better person one day and you’ll be glad she did this.

When we got together on that first Christmas, I wanted to shout, come home, I need you, but you looked so happy when you talked about those kids you help, the countries you work in, and I just couldn’t.

How’re you doing? you asked. Who are your favorite teachers? What’s happening at school? How’s the football team doing? I’ve missed you so much. You talked fast, didn’t take a breath. You said you had a ton of things to do, and you were excited about spending time with me. We went to a hockey game, movies, visited your friends and ten days later we were back at the airport taking two separate flights. You were crying, holding my arm, but I didn’t know what it meant or what to say. I gave you a set of Canadian coins and said, Don’t forget home. You smiled through your tears and kissed my forehead.

Anyway, that was then and this is now. I want to come clean with Sophie, but first I want to get to Step 5; admit to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs. When I call your agency, they tell me you’re on extended leave. Have you gone to take care of another horde of emaciated cadavers? Will I get a scribbled note on the back of a photo like I did when I was fifteen? The African kid with the tear-stained face and snotty nose, leaning against someone’s chest. This is one of my favourite pictures, you wrote. Reminds me why I do it. Was this supposed to make me feel better? Someone took the picture of us , you wrote, because I’d nursed my little guy back after his mother died . Even though the photographer had cut you off at the neck, I could see you–your proud smile, a strand of grey hair out of its elastic twist and over your eyes–as if you were standing in front of me. I was empty then, and empty now. I can’t remember the last time you called me your little guy. Maybe before Dad left.

I know you’ll surface sometime. At Christmas or around my birthday, you’ll send me a basket or a carved bowl you bought in a market in Africa. I have a whole collection of these artifacts on a bookshelf in my den, a reminder you exist.

I must have been about ten when I started sneaking Dad’s booze. The first sip of rye, Dad’s favourite, stung. I hated the sour smell. At the same time, the burn made me feel cozy. When I got to private school, I couldn’t figure out what was expected. At least at home, I knew when to get out of the way, hole up in my room. I took to the science teacher. After class I’d help him with experiments, or unload a shipment of frogs, or clean flasks. In class, he’d pick me to demonstrate an experiment and praised my homework to the other kids. I liked being someone’s favourite, even though the other kids bugged me about it. When it happened, I felt grimy like some of those kids I saw in the pictures you used to send me–soap and water would never clean–but the swigs of scotch made it easier. In college I switched to gin, vodka and sometimes wine. I couldn’t stand even a whiff of whiskey any more. It reminded me of his breath against the back of my neck, the smell of his sweaty body, his fat fingers.

Does this news disgust you? Do you feel responsible? I know you can’t have much room left to take responsibility for another soul in this world. Okay, I could’ve complained, or I could’ve told someone. I might have even told you. But I handled it the way you’d want me to. I was strong. The booze helped and it wasn’t the best solution but I’m dealing with that now too. In AA, you take a personal inventory to keep things from piling up. I’m rambling. They tell me that’s normal at this stage. I don’t know. I’ve been sober for sixteen days and it’s the first time I’ve been able to write this stuff down. I don’t know if it helps.

Not sure it will help you either. When I picture you reading this letter Mother–forehead creased, smile gone, eyes sad–I think I’d rather continue to be your good son for a little while longer.

Stella L. Harvey is the founder of Whistler Writers’ Group, affectionately referred to as the Vicious Circle. She gave up a business career to pursue her life long dream of writing fiction. She has completed a novel and a series of short stories that have been published in the Question, the Pique, Literary Leanings 2003 and 2004, Emerge Magazine and in the fall of 2005 her story, La Strainiera will appear in the New Orphic Review.



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