Horizons

by Violette St. Clair

Inge came from rural Germany, post war rural Germany. Sauer macht lustig rural Germany; a country of dread and drudgery. Crossing the Atlantic, vomiting into buckets, grieving her parents, she had looked towards Canada. She was one of so many. I had seen the pictures as a child. They had entertained and perplexed me. Who was this woman in spread skirts showing off strappy heeled sandals? I had never suspected my mom. This breezy woman had loved pearls and heels and Revlon Red, Louis Armstrong on the radio and Princess Margaret on the front pages. Week-end dancing had stirred her feet and the sound of crinoline had always meant Saturday night. In a house on the Lakeshore with several other young hopefuls, Inge had dreamed of romance, ruby rings, Sunday strolls in High Park and thick Carnation cream in her tea. There were boys in her eyes and dreams of California with lazy palm trees and beaches with bathing beauties. And an ocean; another ocean. 

And then I was born.  

In a two room flat on Crawford, my father had walked away in denial and Inge became Mom in a sort of reverse metamorphosis. The dancing shoes disappeared, and the crinoline was scissored into my first Halloween costume. The dread and drudgery she had fled returned, scrubbing floors and cleaning up the mishaps of the dying at a hospital near Roncesvalles. She would come home smelling of the stuff they wiped on arms before the needle came from behind the doctor’s back. Weeknights she ironed and ironed. There were always bags of clothes to iron. I would look at the photos and wonder. Surely not…Maybe a cousin. While she ironed and folded, I was quietly dazzled and puzzled. The pearl necklace that had crossed an ocean, morphed into bus tickets. And the jaunty music had been replaced by edgy whispers of spiny judgement.  But, in the  

photos Inge was on board the Fairsea, hand up to shield the sun, but not the horizon. Inge had loved horizons. Across the water lay a country of unimaginable length and deliverance. On deck, she is poised, expectant, susceptible. The ironing was joined by sewing and mending. So many rips and holes to stitch and cover. All the while, I quietly clutched the photos and pondered each one. And then they disappeared; into a box, into a trunk, into a memory; a woman in pearls, a smile as soft as a lamb. 

When I turned 16, like any teenager with burgeoning wants, I craved a job. One store filled my tendency to daydream. Kismet. Its’ window displays of blue-tinged gods, tapestried elephants and tempting far awayness fascinated me. When I was hired, a whole new world crested with the sound of the dismissal bell, brimful of sparkling bangles, silver toe rings and skirts from India in scarlet and indigo. I was in heaven.  

My mother less so. Sears had been her preference; useful, respectable, guaranteed security. The furniture department, perhaps. “Toe rings. Such nonsense!” 

Inge would have understood. I wanted dazzle and dangling earrings, not stain-proof fabric and washing machines. I tried again. “I’m going to buy you a jewellery box with mother of pearl designs.” I hesitated. “M-maybe a little pearl necklace.” Her profile was bent over the small sink, soapy water, and discount dishes in garish turquoise. She was vigorous. “Pearls bring tears. You’ve made your choice. Now help me dry the dishes.”  And then I was born. 

For years, I had watched my mother sustain long hours at the hospital, coming home late, red hands, chapped lips, strong disinfectant not quite masking the smell of vomit.  Sweet vomit, sour vomit; every hug smelled. On days off, hot baths, bubbled with a few drops of Joy dish liquid, created the illusion of freshness. A cup of tea graced with a teaspoon of the ever-precious Carnation cream always followed. As I looked at the trunk in my mother’s bedroom, I knew I would not be shopping in any furniture department. I wanted to wipe away every clot of hospital retch and stench. I wanted something for Inge. 

As Christmas caroled its way closer, I scoured the shops. When I saw it, I knew it, a dressing gown. The salesgirl called it a bathrobe. No. It was a dressing gown; the kind Katharine Hepburn might belt on for late evening drinks; flowing, silky, a confection in pink. It was beautiful. It offered itself to my imagination and I hugged all the hoped-for possibilities far from my eyes, but on the horizon. It was like Gatsby’s green light. On Christmas Eve she would sit with the sunrise folds spread out on the worn brown couch enjoying tea with extra cream. And Inge would smile.  

“It’s perfect.” She folded it into a box, then placed it into a bag. Except for a silver bow, I never even wrapped it. The store’s name was wrapping enough. Eaton’s. 

Later that evening, before Mom came home, I arranged her gift under the tree. So many humiliations coveted those glossy folds of rosy pink; my mother’s shame, my rippling guilt, our dreams disquieted, the self-reproach that made us, both, silent; wary. But I had a daughter’s hope; youth; ignorance. I did not yet know that the pictures were all that was left of Inge. 

Christmas Eve arrived with a flurry of flakes. Cars brought an assortment of family and friends to many of our neighbours, but in our tiny home, there was just the two of us. It had always been, just the two of us. Under our tree of tinsel and angel hair, there was one present left. I carefully laid it on her lap, name side up, my heart in every move; this woman who had kept everything together when everything had broken apart. 

“Well, go on. Open it,” I urged. “It won’t bite you.” She seemed so fragile; frightened. 

“It’s from Eaton’s. What if I were to break something? I have nothing for a jewellery box.  I have nothing.” 

My mother. Even on rare trips into the Eaton’s store, she would never touch anything.  She looked; she marvelled; she whispered; but she would never touch anything. I squeezed her hand. “It’s not a jewellery box.” Not this time, anyway.  In the end, I opened it for her; draped it on the couch and patiently waited as she stared and stared.  It would be difficult to say who cried more. Me, for the woman who had sold her pearls for transit tickets or Mom, for the young woman who had rolled with the Atlantic waves carrying her westward in a trim suit. Later that evening, ready for bed, I peeked into the living room. She was still there, on the couch, one hand gently stroking a silky sleeve.  The lights on the tree added a poignancy to the scene. 

“Do you like it, Mom?”   

“Oh yes.” Her voice was dusky. “It looks like water in the light.” 

“Well, I wish you’d try it on.” 

“Oh, I can’t. It’s too good. Maybe one day.” 

Try as I might, I could never get her to change her mind. I feared that I had bought the perfect gift, but to no avail. She would look at it; sometimes lay it on her bed. But she would never wear it. Mom wore flannel and Inge was gone. Time moved on; I moved on. Over the years it remained in her closet. Maybe one day. 

 One day arrived in early 2014. Gazing out over English Bay, my son and I had come to a difficult decision. Our phones rang almost simultaneously. Different contacts, same news. In the pouring rain, I flew home. My son would follow later. As the funeral arrangements were being made, I was asked to drop off her burial clothing. I had no idea where to start. Heart-broken, I opened drawers and checked trunks, a dig that unearthed all the promising gifts that had been bought; all still carefully wrapped and tucked away. I could practically name the Christmas, birthday, celebration when each gift had been bought, every bottle of Chanel, every piece of pinwheel crystal, every pearl necklace. And yes, that jewellery box, too. I had wanted to shower her with little luxuries; to bring back the lady in heels, but it seemed that she had already left long ago. In the heavy silence, surrounded by Christmases long gone, I opened the trunk at the foot of her bed, with the help of a screwdriver, the elusive photos finally freed. I spread them out, all sizes, all black and white, all bent and curled. There she was. Had Mom looked at them? Had she tried to reach out for the lady with the belted waist and turned up collar? I unwrapped the pearls, winding the strands, cream, pink, white around my hands, tangled. All fresh from their velveted boxes. All untouched. Dreams in dime-store Dior fashions. And then I was born. 

I looked into the closet. What on earth do you wear to your own funeral? Did it matter?  Hangar after hangar, no after no, and then, there in the back, still wrapped in plastic four decades later, hung the forgotten gown of sunrise pinks. As I reached for it, reality shifted and I was 16 again, back in Eaton’s reaching out for it, eyes wide with pleasure.  The decision was now in my hands. It did matter. I knew what she would finally wear. 

The day of the funeral, my son, just in from Vancouver, spent a last hour with his grandmother who had always filled the cookie jar for him. When I quietly entered the room, he was gently stroking, with the tip of his finger, one of the sleeves. 

“This is beautiful. Yours?” 

“No, but I did buy it, long ago.” 

“It suits her.” 

I sat down. She was a vision in vintage pink. “I always thought so.” I looked at Mom’s face, the only face I had known all my life. It was already beginning to blur into never more. I had chosen the white pearls to replace the ones that had crossed the ocean, the ones that had morphed into bus tickets.  “I wanted to give her a chance to be more than just Mom.” 

He turned his head and gazed at me pensively. “I never saw her that way. To me she was grandma. The only one I ever had. She was perfect.” He turned his gaze back to his grandmother and squeezed my hand, but my heart had stumbled. I thought of all the love in that sentence. I looked down at her; her lips touched with a pale pink gloss, matching her gown well. She was perfect. I thought of all those times curled up on the couch enjoying a cup of tea and watching Bewitched, marvelling at Endora’s fashions, and laughing at her quips. All those shopping trips to Honest Ed’s buying cheap clip-on earrings and frosted white nail polish. Birthdays were wondrous times of very little, but magically special and Christmas treats were few, but always included German chocolates. Every bill and fee were paid, every cavity was filled and although Mom slept in the livingroom, I always had my own bedroom. Could Inge have done all that? Maybe. Maybe she hadn’t left, only rolled up her sleeves. There was a discreet knock, and a sober-suited man came into the viewing room. “I’m sorry, but it is time.” Yes, I thought. It is. I kissed Mom good-bye and laid Inge to rest. I had loved them both; one and the same. My mother’s horizons had changed over the years. There was the ocean then the future and posterity and now eternity. 

My son was right. She was perfect. 

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Violet is a retired teacher based in Edmonton who took full advantage of her summers off to travel extensively.  She has whispered her mother’s name in every country throughout her travels.  Her writings have been published with CBC, Vancouver Sun, Our Canada and the Globe and Mail.