at Centracare. It was an old stone structure on top of a hill beside Reversing Falls in Saint John. Once inside, I was obliged to sign in and a large male nurse led me through a labyrinth of corridors. At the end of each hallway we reached a new unit where people in varying stages of mental illness roamed freely. Two units in, a young woman, not much older than I, stared at me intensely, then walked toward me. “Do you know where my baby is?” she asked before the male nurse brushed her off and we continued on. At various times throughout the years some of these patients had escaped and turned up in the waters of Reversing Falls. Each unit was locked and barred. When we reached the unit holding Stan, I noticed the patients were secured in rooms.
“He’s on suicide watch,” the male nurse told me. “He’s been sedated.”
As I entered the sterile white room bare of everything except a bed, I couldn’t believe the change in Stan. Barely recognizing me, he was unshaven and wore blue pajamas. He gave me a slight smile that made him seem like a child happy to see his mother, but he didn’t move from the bed.
I felt a lump in my throat. Where I had feared for my safety all the way over, I was now overcome by pity. Quietly I sat beside him and put my hand on his shoulder. He tried to say a few words, but they made absolutely no sense.
I stayed for ten minutes, not knowing what to say or do. Then, checking for the male nurse who was watching through the opening in the door, I signalled it was time for me to leave.
Stan was declared sane and sent out of the province, back to Ontario by train. The psychiatric examination revealed a childhood of abuse. Without intense therapy he would never be a safe partner. And I wanted my children to be safe.
Ten years passed before the children and I saw Stan again. The next time it was on my terms.
1975–1990
FIRST TIME IN LOVE
It was the spring of 1975 and I had been hibernating in my trailer in Lincoln after finally freeing myself from Stan’s abusive hold. Although my husband had been shipped back to Ontario, I still feared stepping outside the door, thinking he might show up at any moment seeking revenge.
I was going stir-crazy, growing lonely in front of the television once the kids had been put to bed. The TV shows were getting on my nerves, sitcoms that mirrored nothing of my life, but there was little else to do. I had started to write again, mostly long, dark poems about my struggles with life, but it was a satisfying purge of all that had happened in the past few years. Because I’d taken a stand against my minister’s wishes, my ties with the church were severed, too.
I was twenty-four and craved the companionship of other adults. I hadn’t been out for a social drink in months, and it had been years since I’d kicked up my heels at a dance. I’d never been inside the local Canadian Legion, so when Anne, my baby-sitter, mentioned her parents were members and would love for me to join them at one of the regular Saturday-night dances, I seriously considered it. I had only met Anne’s parents once, but they seemed nice, and so it was decided we would go.
Tonight’s the night. My stomach knotted at the thought of walking into a strange place, of having to endure the scrutiny of people’s gazes.
I called Anne. She was free, but her parents had already left for the Legion. At first I decided to stay home and continue with my usual boring routine. But something was nagging me—a part of me wanted out. So I pulled myself together and decided to go for it. When I called Anne again, I told her I’d changed my mind and she should come over. I was going to have a night out on my own and have a good time even if it killed me.
As soon as Anne arrived, the children ran to her and started climbing into her arms. All except Sonya. She stood sulking in front of me, her Goldilocks and the Three Bears book held out in one chubby hand accusingly. I called a cab, anxious to leave before I changed my mind again. While I was waiting for the taxi, Anne contacted the Legion and asked her mother to watch for me so I could be signed in. Signed in? I didn’t even know what that meant.
The kids were ready for bed, fresh out of their baths. The smell of sweet baby powder soothed my trepidation as I kissed them all good-night. I noticed Sonya still waiting, looking up at me, holding her book.
“Anne will read to you, Sonya,” I told her. “C’mon, don’t do this now. Mommie needs to go out. I’ll bring you back some candy.”
Sonya’s eyes brightened with anticipation and instant forgiveness. Her blond hair glistened in the lamplight as she turned and quietly trotted her book over to Anne without giving me a second glance. As long as treats came her way, Sonya was content. I’d been dismissed.
I watched my children with Anne, off away from me like that, and felt horribly guilty. For some reason deciding to go out and have a good time was akin to abandoning them, betraying them, leaving them unprotected against every measure of ill will that might possibly drift their way.
Geared up for a night of adventure, new faces, possible romance, the touch of a man’s comforting hand, I wore a black cotton belly shirt tied in front with a pair of tight white jeans and black sandals. My hair, shiny and sweet-smelling from the perfume I’d sprayed on my neck, hung over my shoulders and reached my waist in the back. I wore little makeup, just a touch of blue eye shadow and mascara.
“You look great,” Anne said.
Heather reached out to hug me. “Pretty Mommie.”
My ego bolstered, I headed for the door. My bed was a big, lonely place. I craved a simple cuddle. Not sex, just a touch that would revive pleasure, make me feel I was human again.
Arriving at the Legion, I paid the taxi driver and met Anne’s mother, Jean, at the door. The place was packed and there were plenty of approving stares from the men as I walked up a flight of stairs to the dance floor. But my heart sank when I walked into the hall and scanned the crowd. They’re all old people. The throb of music was welcoming and eventually, clutching a cold beer in my hand, I felt a little more at peace with the partyers. I even suspected I might actually be blending in. The people weren’t all that old, I assured myself, taking another big swallow of beer.
Like a prisoner on parole realizing the true extent of her freedom, I enjoyed myself more by the minute. No matter who asked me to dance—young, old, homely, or handsome—I accepted and gave myself fully to the beat of the music Months of tiredness disappeared as I jived, twisted, and waltzed to the sounds of Black Jack, a five-piece country band.
Later in the night a tall, handsome Native man asked me to dance. Nervously I refused. I couldn’t help but think of Stan, of that darkness. I was speechless. Finally, summoning the courage to respond, I shook my head, excused myself, and hurried to the washroom to calm the frantic thumping of my heart.
It wasn’t until the band’s last set of the evening that I recognized someone I actually knew from long ago. During the dance, I’d been seated at the front of the crowded room, close to the band. The man had been sitting toward the rear. But when I went to the back bar for another beer he spotted me and stood, his eyes following my every move.
“Don’t I know you?” he asked, walking up beside me.
I recognized Bob immediately. He was the same small, well-built man with brown hair and cool blue eyes who had dated
