Surfacing - Margaret Atwood [47]
I watched myself grow larger. Mother and father in alternate shots, building the house, walls and then the roof, planting the garden. Around them were borders of blank paper, at each corner a hinge, they were like small grey and white windows opening into a place I could no longer reach. I was in most of the pictures, shut in behind the paper; or not me but the missing part of me.
School pictures, my face lined up with forty others, colossal teachers towering above us. I could find myself always, I was the one smudged with movement or turning the other way. Further on, glossy colour prints, forgotten boys with pimples and carnations, myself in the stiff dresses, crinolines and tulle, layered like store birthday cakes; I was civilized at last, the finished product. She would say “You look very nice, dear,” as though she believed it; but I wasn’t convinced, I knew by then she was no judge of the normal.
“Is that you?” Anna said, putting down The Mystery At Sturbridge. “Christ, how could we ever wear that stuff?”
The last pages of the album were blank, with some loose prints stuck in between the black leaves as though my mother hadn’t wanted to finish. After the formal dresses I disappeared; no wedding pictures, but of course we hadn’t taken any. I closed the cover, straightening the edges.
No hints or facts, I didn’t know when it had happened. I must have been all right then; but after that I’d allowed myself to be cut in two. Woman sawn apart in a wooden crate, wearing a bathing suit, smiling, a trick done with mirrors, I read it in a comic book; only with me there had been an accident and I came apart. The other half, the one locked away, was the only one that could live; I was the wrong half, detached, terminal. I was nothing but a head, or no, something minor like a severed thumb; numb. At school they used to play a joke, they would bring little boxes with cotton wool in them and a hole cut in the bottom; they would poke their finger through the hole and pretend it was a dead finger.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
We pushed off from the dock at ten by David’s watch. The sky was watercolour blue, the cloud bunches white on the backs and grey on the bellies. Wind from the stern, waves overtaking, my arms lifting and swinging, light and automatic as though they knew what to do. I was at the front, figurehead; behind me Joe shoved at the water, the canoe surged forward.
The landmarks passed, unscrolling, one-dimensional map thickening into stone and wood around us: point, cliff, leaning dead tree, heron island with the intricate bird silhouettes, blueberry island sailed by its mast pines, foregrounds. On the next island there was once a trapper’s cabin, logs chinked with grass and a straw mound where the bed had been; I could see nothing left but a muddle of rotting timber.
In the morning we talked, uselessly but in calm rational voices as though discussing the phone bill; which meant it was final. We were still in bed, his feet stuck out at the bottom. I could hardly wait till I was old so I wouldn’t have to do this any more.
“When we get back to the city,” I said, “I’ll move out.”
“I will if you like,” he said generously.
“No, you’ve got all your pots and things there.”
“Have it your way,” he said, “you always do.”
He thought of it as a contest, like the children at school who would twist your arm and say Give in? Give in? until you did; then they would let go. He didn’t love me, it was an idea of himself he loved and he wanted