Chapter Eight Excerpt From "Hard Things & Humour" by Leah Marguerite

Please enjoy this excerpt from Chapter Eight of "Hard Things & Humour" I write this to you.

Nova is screaming bloody murder as I wind my way up and down the aisles in Wal-Mart. She always does this, I don't know if it's because of the echo in here with the tall ceilings, or because she hates being strapped into the seat in the cart. Either way, it's nerve-racking. People are looking at me like I'm pinching her chubby little leg. I smile at them apologetically. Izzy is trying to help, giving Nova her soother, a cracker, and making faces at her. It works for a minute, but soon she's back to screaming. She has no tears, so I know this is just more of an 'I don't like this' kind of scream.

We finish our shopping in record time, as I run through the grocery store like one of those game shows, sweeping items off the shelf into my cart as fast as I can. I get the kids back into the car and head home exhausted already. I'm driving another vehicle today, a BMW with a dashboard like a commercial airplane. I like this car, and I asked Joe if maybe I could keep it for a while, at least. He told me no, that he's going to make good money off of it. As I'm driving toward home, I see red and blue flashing lights in my rear-view mirror. Panic wells up in my throat. It's the cops, Jesus Christ, I curse under my breath. I pull into a parking lot so I'm not on the main road, and he follows me in.

“License and registration, please.” The bald officer says when he finally approaches my window. I'm so nervous my hands are shaking. “We have a dealer plate officer, here's my paperwork.” I hand it to him through the open window. “Why did you pull me over? I wasn't speeding, was I?”

“You have tinted windows on your front sides, and that's illegal in Alberta,” he explains. “I'm sorry officer, I'm just driving this vehicle today as my husband sells cars. It's not actually mine.” Nova has started wailing in the back seat, probably hungry by now, but the officer doesn't even flinch. He takes my papers back to his car and gets in. I reach back and try to soothe Nova. I give her a cracker, but she slaps it away from her mouth and screams louder. Goddamn Joe, he knew these tinted windows were illegal. He should have taken it off before he sent me off with it, but of course, he would never think of anything like that. After an eternity, the officer comes back to the window and hands me back my papers.

“You're going to have to remove the tint.” He says to me. Shocked, I say, “Right now?” Nova is now shrieking from her car seat, and I look back at her and back to the officer for effect. “Right now, Ma’am, get out and remove the tint.” Oh, my god, I think, I really don't need this right now! Cursing Joe in my mind, I get out of the car and start to tediously peel off the tint with the razor blade the officer has handed me. He stands back and watches. The sound of my crying baby is killing me. This time it’s a real cry with fat soggy tears running down her cheeks. I try to work fast, but the tint is coming off in tiny bits and cracked pieces. I'm now cursing this heartless prick of a cop with his smug face and crossed arms, looking down at me while I rush to finish.

I'm finally done and he lets me go, no ticket, thank goodness. I get back in my car and make the rest of the way home, Nova's cries tearing at my mama’s heart. “I'm so sorry buddy, it's ok, we'll be home soon,” I say to her over and over until we pull into our driveway.

Gord, Sandy and my mom are coming for dinner tonight. It’s a bit late, but I wanted to make dinner for them for Mother’s Day, and today’s the day they could come. I clean the house as best I can for the rest of the day until it's time to start cooking. Sandy always comments on my imperfect home. “You just don't enjoy keeping house the way I do,” she’ll say, scanning the room. No, no, I fucking don't. I do it as best I can, but I get very little satisfaction from it. I would be a trillion times happier if I had a cleaning lady, all the satisfaction and none of the work. I'm anxious because I always feel a lot of pressure when I'm hosting. I just want everything to be nice, and everyone to have a good time. I'm perpetually worried I won't make enough food, so I end up cooking enough to feed the Russian Army, as my mom would say.

My mom. I love her, but these dinners are different when she’s here. I hate to say it, but it’s embarrassing. Gord and Sandy are so kind to her, and she barely says a thing to them. She’s passably polite, but she doesn’t ask them anything about themselves. She just doesn’t even really talk, listen, or engage with anyone. I don’t think she really likes Gord and Sandy all that much. Most of the time she spends in her own personal haze, avoiding eye contact and staring into a distance no one else can see. I'm looking forward to them coming over, though. It's always a nice distraction from the tenseness when Joe and I are alone. We are both so good at pretending everything is fine. Him more than me. I think that people can see my sadness in my eyes or feel the intensity when I get upset with him. I try so hard to act like everything is fine, but he deserves a goddamn Academy Award.

I get dinner ready, and Sandy and Gord are here before Joe gets home, what a relief. Gord calls out as they open the front door, “Well, hello, how are you doin’?” I listen to Sandy talk about every minutia of her day, her week, right down to what she made for every meal and bought out shopping. It's tedious sometimes, listening to her. I try to stay focused and not let it show when my mind wanders. She really doesn't have a lot to say, I think, so that's why she talks about people and things. I get her a glass of wine and pour one for myself. Gord is playing with Izzy and Nova on the floor, still wearing his work shirt with his name embroidered on the front. He is like a child himself, in the good ways, and he's giving the girls raspberries on their bellies and making them laugh so hard it turns into silent convulsions.

Joe walks in the front door, and Izzy goes running for him as always. He comes in and starts to pour himself a whiskey, pecking me dutifully on my mouth. He joins Gord in the living room with the kids. Sandy has barely taken a breath since she got here. In a lot of ways, she and Joe are very alike. They are both pretty wrapped up in themselves. I notice they very rarely ask anyone else about themselves. Most of the time, neither of them even thinks to ask me how my day was. I guess I never have much to say, the constant rotation of poopy diapers and feeding times isn't that interesting. Gord gets up off the floor as Sandy starts chatting with Joe. He comes over to me as I’m getting the dishes ready and quietly asks, “How was your day, Leah?” I smile at him while his blue eyes patiently wait for my response. He cares about me, I think. I tell him it was good. Then I humorously relay getting pulled over by the cop, and he is both amused and horrified.

My mom pulls up and calls me on her flip phone from the driver’s seat of her car. We know the drill. Both Joe and I go out to help her and her oxygen machine into the house. By the time she’s climbed the front porch and come into the entryway, she’s exhausted and sits on the steps leading upstairs to catch her breath. She doesn’t look well; my stomach is twisting up again. I stand with her while she sits huffing. She’s wearing a thick but faded cable-knit sweater to hide her tiny frame. I notice there are some holes worn around the cuffs. I feel guilty for her not having nice clothes, and I make a mental note to add sweaters to her Mother’s Day/birthday/Christmas list. Even when she was healthy, she would cover herself from head to toe. She said her skinny arms and legs were ugly and no one wanted to see them. I loved the softness of her permanently tanned arms. I thought she was elegant and beautiful. I anxiously ask her if she’s okay, but she can’t answer. After a long while, she speaks in her ragged whisper, “I…just need…a few more minutes.” “Okay, mom. I’m just going to go check on supper.” I rush back into the kitchen, and Gord and Sandy give me concerned looks. They’ve seen her deterioration only in brief snippets over longer periods of time at these family dinners. I can imagine they notice it even more than I do.

When my mom finally gets an enormous plate of roast beef, potatoes, gravy, and Yorkshire pudding in front of her at the kitchen table, she is happy. “I’ve been looking forward to this,” she puffs. Despite her decreasing weight, she loves to eat. She has never been on a diet, and growing up she cooked homemade, hearty meals. We put butter on everything, and nothing was ever ‘low-cal’. I don’t know how she has steadily diminished for the past decade eating like this. After she finishes everything on her plate, she is fatigued again. She’s told me this, how she can barely lift her head after eating. While I know she enjoys my cooking, I also know that when she’s done, she will be even weaker. There will be no board games or gaiety for her. We help her back into her car when she’s too tired to even form words besides gasps. We take many breaks between her seat at the table and the driver’s seat. I tell her to call and let me know when she’s home safe, and she mumbles a response. I know she won’t. I worry constantly I’m not doing enough for her, but I’m at a loss for what more I can do.

Leah Marguerite