Chapter 25: No Joy in Minnitaki

— Chapters appear as excerpts only. —

— Full chapters will appear in the printed published book. —

In one of our school books, I read the poem “Casey at the Bat.” For some reason, it resonated with me.

Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout

But there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Casey has struck out

There was no joy in Minnitaki either, and I was afraid that mighty Marlene would strike out. I was beginning to lose faith in my ability to continue living like this without sinking into a deep depression from which I could not return.

The daily routine of coming home to an empty, cold and lonely farmhouse was starting to overwhelm me. I was finding it more and more difficult to find any happy moments. I needed someone to love me, and to show they loved me.

Things at home were going from bad to worse. My mother and I rarely spoke to each other. She felt like a stranger to me. When she sat at the kitchen table on Sunday evenings drinking tea, I had no desire to sit with her. That would have been one of the only times I could speak with her, when the beer parlour was closed and she had nowhere else to be.

We could have shared some mother-daughter intimacies and life experiences. But Cliff was always close by and he would have heard everything we said. If I happened to say something that he objected to, which could be basically anything, then things would erupt into a volcano of fury. I didn’t want him to hear my thoughts and I didn’t want his comments. I didn’t want to give him any reason to flare up. When he was quiet, it was best to let sleeping dogs lie.

Harsh loud words were one thing, but it was now also difficult to shake from my head, that sudden and shocking slap in the face. One of my only pleasant memories of living on the farm, Christmas eve, was violently stolen from me, forever.

My mom kept herself occupied playing solitaire, smoking cigarettes, and plucking her chin of wayward hairs. The silent atmosphere was cold and icy, but it could become agitated and fiery very quickly. Both mom and Cliff were so sullen and irritable. Drinking six days a week and getting fewer than six hours of sleep each night, I supposed that would make anyone grumpy. They rarely spoke to each other and when they did, it was usually not very pleasant.

I knew that asking for anything could be enough to provoke. It wouldn’t matter what it was. But occasionally, I got what I asked for, so sometimes I took the risk. About once or twice a year, I asked for a new pair of pants or a shirt from the catalogue, and my mom would order it for me. That was about all I could get away with. Too many requests, too often, might have ended it all. I sometimes got in a short private conversation with my mom if Cliff went to the outhouse, but it was awkward to break the silence with my chatter. I had to be careful how I phrased what I said.

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As I went up the stairs, I looked down at my mother, sitting at the table, immersed in her game of solitaire. She didn’t even look up at me. I was so flabbergasted and frustrated by this. Cliff’s anger was so bizarre. Again, there was no reason behind this, other than to make my life more miserable than it already was. His behaviour was so irrational.

I didn’t feel sorry for myself this time, just annoyed. My mother should have been proud of me. Her words once again echoed in my head, “Quit feeling sorry for yourself.” This time, I felt sorry for her. I would never understand how she could love this man, when I hated him so much.

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So about once a week, before I started walking the long road home, I took a detour to stop at Ed’s Grocery store to check the mail. Maybe there was a letter for me, or a new catalogue, or another edition of the Western Producer. It took me an extra 15 minutes or so to walk to Ed’s store and then back to the corner to walk home, so I didn’t go there every day.

On one bleak January day, Ed said to me, “Sorry, nothing today.” I must have looked disappointed.

“Nothing at all?” I asked.

He checked again. “No, I don’t see anything in your mailbox.”

I stood there for a moment. Ed knew where I lived. Ed knew my mother and Cliff were not home. He might have seen them sometimes, they may have stopped into the store on their way to the beer parlour. Ed knew I had to walk home alone, and then be at home alone. Ed knew that my brothers had all moved out. Raymond probably stopped at the store a couple of times. Ed’s store was the hub of our small rural community, so he knew more about the comings and goings around the area than anyone else.

I could see a very sad look come over Ed’s face. He moved his head in such a way so he could look directly into my eyes, and he made sure I was looking back at him. He said, in a very careful and concerned voice, “Are you okay, Marlene?”

This took me by surprise. Nobody ever asked me if I was okay. Deep down inside, I wanted to scream at him, “Of course, I’m not okay! I am 14 years old, I hate my life. I’m alone most of the time in an empty, deserted farmhouse. I have to walk home alone, I have to stay alone, and I have no one to talk to. How can I possibly be okay?!”

But, of course, I didn’t say that.

What surprised me the most were the feelings that suddenly welled up inside of me. Using just a few words, Ed had just shattered the iron shield I had built around me to protect me in public. Sometimes when I saw the joy that others had, I blocked my thoughts so I would not let myself imagine what that joy might feel like. Because I could never experience that joy. It was out of my reach. I couldn’t let my own emotions become so overwhelming, that I couldn’t contain them.

Now Ed’s concern had burst my bubble and my suppressed sorrow was about to rupture open. I was strong. You could hit me, yell at me, tell me I was a useless, worthless, no-good sinner. I could take all that. But now I realized that someone showing me any compassion could break me. I was about to crumble, but I had to control myself.

I managed to mutter and I stuttered a bit, “Yes, I’m… I’m fine.”

I quickly turned around and covered my face with both my mittens. Another customer was too far away to see my tears welling up. Soon they would spill out. I rushed to the door, opened it, and left. The tears came streaming down, chilled by the winter air, but I wiped them off. I didn’t want them to freeze onto my face.

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I kept a diary since the first year I came to live on the farm. Every night before I went to bed, I wrote something in it about the day and about my feelings. One night, I decided to read through it. I was aghast at what I had written. I didn’t recognize the person who wrote it. Who was this depressed, unhappy girl? Was this me? It couldn’t be me. I couldn’t believe what I had written. The diary was full of vulgar words for Cliff Lewis. I knew it was a sin to be so vitriolic and negative against everything. If Edith ever saw this, she would condemn me forever. One of the inscriptions was, “I am so proud of myself. I did not cry myself to sleep last night.”

I felt ashamed of this diary. I would be so embarrassed if anyone ever read it. This could not be who I was. I would not let myself give in to despair no matter how bad things got. I would be optimistic and set my sights on a better tomorrow. I would not wallow in my sadness. I could not accept this of myself.

I got out of bed and turned on the lights as I made my way to the basement. I ripped the diary all apart and threw it, page by page, into the furnace. I made sure that there was nothing left of it but ashes. I didn’t want to be this girl that was depicted in this diary. This had to be some other girl, this was not me.

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I knew about the children’s aid society, the number was listed in the telephone book. There were a few times I had contemplated calling them during the long, lonely summer days, but I didn’t have the nerve to do it. I thought about it briefly, but dismissed the idea quickly.

However, now things were getting to the point where I worried about my own mental health and whether I could survive much longer. I was thinking more seriously that I should make the call. I was never suicidal, that was not be an option I would consider. In spite of my mistreatment and constant berating at home, I did know I was worth something. My teachers were always encouraging and had good things to say. I always believed I would have a better future, eventually. But that future was looking too far away, and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to hang on to get there. If I had a different place to live, I might be better off.

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During this time, I thought about my dad and what could have been. I was four years older now and I was sure I would have talked to him. Probably more often than he would expect. If only he had more of a desire to live, a desire for a better life, just like I did. If only he hadn’t given up hope so quickly.

If he lived in a decent home, I would have tried to move in with him. He could have rescued me. He could have been my hero. I could never have lived with him and Barney in that shack of a place in Eagle River, however.

But there was no use in dwelling on these thoughts for more than a fleeting second. He was gone forever, and that option in my life did not exist. I knew which dreams were possible and which were not. It was a waste of time to think about a fantasy world that did not exist. I lived in this real world, which was my world. It was the only world I had.

If they were still alive, my grandparents might have helped to support me. I had heard all kinds of nice things about other kids’ grandparents, and all the good things they did for their grandchildren. I knew my grandfather could be mean to me, sticking out his foot to make me trip and fall, but my grandmother, for the very short time I knew her, was loveable and kind. I wished my grandma Freak could have stayed around and lived longer, maybe she would have pampered me a little bit, and showed me some love. Maybe she would have hugged me.

Perhaps, had I called children’s aid much earlier, I could have saved myself from some of the grief.