were zooming across the bridge, Stan not giving me a glance. I was expecting his arms to thrust the steering wheel sharply one way at any second. I anticipated the erratic swerve of the car, the crash of metal before the gut-lifting plunge into the Saint John River far below. Trapped in a car, sealed in a tomb and sinking under water. Numb and sinking. Drowning.
“Staaannnn, no, please!”
His eyes were fixed on the windshield, his foot jammed against the accelerator. I watched his strong arms, his hands tight on the wheel, the veins rising. My eyes flitted ahead to a view through the windshield. The end of the bridge wasn’t far away. We were almost across. If I could just make it. Hold on. Keep him from doing it.
“We can be together again,” My eyes flicked from Stan to the road, the end of the bridge only sixty feet in the near distance.
“You get the children,” he said.
“Yes,” I agreed. “Yes, I’ll get them, Stan. Let’s go there now. I’ll get them.”
The car raced out from under the green steel trusses. We had made it across and I felt so relieved, thankful to be alive yet, in a matter of moments, vilely defeated.
“You just get the children,” he said.
“Yes, Stan, yes.”
An hour later, against Mary’s harsh protests, I packed all the children into the back seat.
“Mind your own business,” Stan snapped at her from inside the car. “It’s a sin to come between a husband and a wife. God don’t like that.”
“Well, He don’t like men who beat their wives and molest children, either,” she retorted as he slammed the car door shut. Mary stayed right where she was, with her kids, all of them staring from the steps of the apartment building as we drove away. There was nothing they could do.
When I looked at the frightened faces of my four babies, I couldn’t meet their eyes. In shame I turned away from them, fixing my gaze ahead through the windshield, studying the road and bitterly wishing I’d let Stan kill us both. At least with our deaths the children would be free of us.
ONE LAST ATTEMPT ON NEVERS ROAD
When we arrived at our old apartment in Oromocto West, boxes were stacked inside the door and furniture was sitting outside in the corridor. Entering the kitchen with Jennifer in my arms and the other three toddlers trailing silently behind, I found more boxes. Some of them were half full of dishes or linens. It was as if our lives had been disassembled.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“We’re moving,” Stan replied solemnly. “We’re buying a mobile home. I want us to have our own place.” He watched me with sorry eyes. “We’re going to be happy”
My heart plunged and softened at once. I knew Stan meant what he said. He really did want us to be happy.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, tears streaming down his face. The children started to cry, too, as their father sobbed uncontrollably. I reached out automatically to comfort all of them.
That night we slept on mattresses on the floor. The beds had already been taken apart. When we woke in the morning, we continued packing. Boxing up our belongings and throwing out the garbage gave me great satisfaction. Within a week we were settling in our new mobile home in Avalon Trailer Park on Nevers Road. The park was in Lincoln, not far from the Trans-Canada Highway, halfway between Oromocto and Fredericton.
We were happier than we’d been in years. It was the first time we’d owned our own place, and there was ample room for everyone. Stan seemed proud that he could finally provide an adequate home for us and spent all his spare time fixing it up.
The children were looking forward to Christmas that year. Stan was tranquil, seldom even raising his voice. He was trying hard to make things work out for us, trying not to contaminate the sanctity of our new home. He’d built shelves in the shed to store our extra belongings. And he was working on a large wooden play box for the children. Even though he was drinking again and seldom attended church, he appeared to be at peace.
In 1972 baby Jennifer had her first Christmas. Jody turned three. Heather was four, Sonya nineteen months. I had recently celebrated my twenty-second birthday on December 14. Mom had invited us for supper—her special homemade chicken pie. As Dad snapped a picture of me blowing out the candles on the carrot cake Mom had baked, Stan and the children sang “Happy Birthday.”
Christmas morning was a whirlwind of excitement for everyone. Our Christmas tree was covered with silver tinsel and red and white bulbs that were plentiful mostly at the bottom. The children helped with the decorating, and I didn’t have the heart to change a single thing.
Trucks, cars, teddy bears, sleds, colouring books, pajamas, nuts, and candies—the living-room floor was carpeted with treasures to delight any child. That year Stan had gone out of his way to make sure the kids received special gifts. Stan’s mom had sent a large parcel from Ontario: dolls dressed in Native costumes for all the girls and a bow-and-arrow set for Jody. Because it was his birthday, Jody received another gift, a toy tool set he used later to try to saw the legs off his bed.
After a large turkey dinner, I ventured outside with the three oldest children so they could try out their new sleds. I even went for a downhill ride. Stan stayed in with Jennifer while she had a nap. By evening I was exhausted in a pleasant way.
Although I usually woke early, around 7:30 a.m., I slept in on Boxing Day. It was almost nine o’clock when I woke to the sounds of children laughing. Usually the children jumped in bed with me as soon as they awakened. They must be enjoying their toys, I thought, grateful for an extra hour of sleep. Stan was still sound asleep beside me. I lay on my back, making a mental list of the chores to take care of that day. I knew I needed to do a wash for certain.
Eventually I got up and made my way to the bathroom on the other side of the master bedroom, carrying my eyeglasses with me. When I stepped onto the cool linoleum, my bare toes touched down on a powdery substance. Quickly I fitted on my glasses.
Flour! What was flour doing on the bathroom floor? I spun around, moving rapidly through the bathroom door that led into our hallway. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was flour everywhere.
I paused and listened to hear giggling coming from Jennifer and Sonya’s bedroom. Tiny footprints led in that direction and I followed them.
When I opened the bedroom door, there stood baby Jennifer completely covered in the white powder. Her long curly hair was totally grey. Only her big brown eyes were clearly visible. She laughed with a wide-open mouth as she threw handfuls of the flour into the air. The flour on the floor was at least an inch deep.
“What’s going on?” I yelled. “Who did this?”
There stood my three other children, covered in varying blankets of flour, dark eyes wide with fear, all pointing at their little sister.
“She did it,” Heather said. “Jenny did it. Her.”
By this time Stan had joined us. I felt him come up beside me. “What in heaven’s name?”
I was so angry I couldn’t trust myself to
