“My Son” by Dana Webster

Dana & Meacham

My son, Meacham, was born on April 1 but it wasn’t until April 2 that I fell into mad mother love.

Three days of labour, twice being sent home from the hospital because my cervix hadn’t yet dilated to the magic 8cm, walking the streets of Toronto in hopes of encouraging more frequent labour contractions, doubling over in the middle of an intersection while I waited one contraction out, my mother and my husband holding me up at the elbows so I wouldn’t fall completely to my knees, imagining that I resembled a bird of prey, wings cocked ready to carry me up, up and away. 

One and a half hours of squinty-eyed, breath-holding bearing down, the epidural wearing off just as the head was crowning. No episiotomy, I had insisted. Would that have helped? The pain of labour previously unknowable. Having, finally, to stop resisting it, stop wishing it were otherwise. Waves of profound clenching and letting go, clenching and letting go, each swell bringing me further and further inward. In my mind’s eye, a tunnel dark, tight and miles long that the baby had to inchworm its way through. Afterward, when I had returned to the here and now, I was puzzled by the reality of my body harbouring no tunnel at all. How in god’s name did the journey to birth take so long for such a short distance?

Meacham

An enormous, squished head, one shoulder, the other shoulder, all slipped through in their own time, my body making way for its exodus. I was never really sure if my efforts of pushing and huffing and crying and swearing had any effect on the process. It felt like the baby was doing its own thing, resisting the journey, biding its time until it was ready and not before. It would be our first battle of wills: I wanted it out; it wanted to stay put.

When the tips of its tiny toes finally emerged, when it was fully born to this world, the baby refused to breathe. Held on to what it knew, to where it felt safe for as long as it could. All the breaths I had in me were expended on the journey of its birth. I held my last breath in. Until it let its first one out.

I awoke a few hours later in a bed of crisp white sheets, a relief to my battle-fatigued and bruised body, my hyper-sensitive skin. My mind basked in the soft place of not quite awake. When my eyes drifted open, I was startled to find the baby lying in a small crib of its own. I’d forgotten where I was. I gazed at it, sleeping and swaddled like a grub in a blue blanket and wondered what happens now? The bundle of blue was hot to the touch. The dark hair on its head soft and dry.

I patted the baby’s bottom, stroked its forehead, and gazed at the long lashes over sleeping eyes. And this wasn’t enough. I felt a sudden longing, a deep calling, an urgency. I wanted all of it, now, next to me. I picked him up and held him under the covers with me. It was his smell that intoxicated me, a scent of which I had no previous experience but was, at the same time, instantly recognizable to me as the scent of love. I was a mother. Nothing would ever be the same again.

 ***

Dana Webster is writing short stories, memoir, a novel (or two) and a regular blog. You can subscribe to Time To Write at https://www.danawebster.com/

See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.

"Honeymoon for One" by Dana Webster

 

Newlywed, Hannah, was peering in the storefront window, her delighted visage reflected back to her through the glass. For the last two hours, she and Lou had visited a dozen stores just like this one and Lou had had enough.

“Oh, honey, look,” exclaimed Hannah, “it’s an old timey boulangerie. Let’s go in.”

Lou hadn’t envisioned his honeymoon being quite like this. Despite the months’ long planning and fervent itinerary-making by his young fiancée, he still hadn’t counted on so much of their time being spent outside of the honeymoon suite. His pleas earlier this morning for a quiet day of rest with promises of touristy resumption tomorrow had fallen on deaf ears. There will be plenty of time for rest tonight, Hannah had said. I only get one honeymoon, she’d pouted. Lou had tried to insist, he’d joked about his advanced years, but Hannah was having none of it. In fact, Lou recalled, her resistance to his insistence bordered on frenzied.

Standing on the sidewalk now, outside the pastry shop, the headache Lou had been fighting off all day was only getting worse. He just wanted to go back to the hotel and take a nap. But he knew that to protest would make things worse for himself. Hannah would put on her petulant child face. The silent treatment would inevitably ensue. So, he simply shrugged and followed Hannah into the shop.

The door jangled as it opened, the wood-planked floors creaked underfoot. Hannah went directly to the showcase where trays of cookies, tarts, and similar sweets were aligned on tiered shelves.

“Oh my god, Lou, look at this. So many things to choose from.” Hannah was entranced. Lou hung back a bit, hoping for somewhere to sit down. A small chair, a window seat. 

The plump middle-aged woman behind the counter approached Hannah. “Bonjour, madame. Ca va?” she enquired.

“Oui, oui, ca va!” responded Hannah with her trademark over-enthusiasm. The pitch of her speech was like a stabbing icepick to Lou’s head.

“Do you speak English? I’m afraid my French isn’t very good,” Hannah explained, eyes downcast in false humility.

“Oui, madame, yes. What may I serve you today?”

Hannah scanned the treats behind the glass and turned to Lou. “Honey? What should we get? I’m thinking chocolate croissants at the very least.”

Before Lou had a chance to respond, Hannah turned back to the server and was pointing out her favourites. Lou noticed that the woman looked inquisitively past Hannah to where he was leaning against the door frame. He really didn’t want anything, and he knew it was pointless to interrupt Hannah once she got going on something. Besides, the headache was getting worse and the thought of putting anything into his stomach brought on a wave of nausea. Still, it was kind of the shopkeeper to include him, so he politely shook his head, no.

As the woman placed items into a paper bag, Hannah made small talk. “That’s my husband, Lou, the shy one,” she giggled. “We just got married. We’re here on our honeymoon.” The woman avoided looking at Hannah as she half-glanced at Lou. She seemed embarrassed and Lou assumed this was on his account. Clearly, Hannah was a woman who was used to getting her own way and perhaps the shopkeeper felt Lou’s discomfiture. Sure, it was old-fashioned to take pity on a seemingly emasculated male but, to be honest, Lou rather appreciated it.

“Your honeymoon?” asked the woman. “Over there, that is your husband?” She looked directly at him only it seemed, also, that she looked past him.

“Yes, that’s right,” responded Hannah, a little puzzled by the woman’s tone. “Oh, I see,” she said, “yes, he is a bit older than me. About twenty years, if you must know, but I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” Hannah’s voice grew quiet. A tell-tale sign that a storm was brewing within.

The woman apologized for having caused any offense, wished Hannah and Lou a bonne journée and quickly made for the back of the store. Lou felt badly for her. He could see that she was only trying to be polite. If he were feeling more like himself, he might have intervened on her behalf. But right now, the urge to lie down was pressing in.

“Well, that was rude,” said Hannah as they exited the store. “Imagine her passing judgement like that.”

Lou didn’t know what to say. Despite the age difference, Hannah had seen something in him and jumped at the chance to marry. He was just so grateful to have such a vibrant woman for his wife that he hadn’t dwelled on the “red flags” his sister, Jean, had been so willing to point out.

“She’s after your money, Lou. Can’t you see that? No offense but you aren’t exactly Tom Cruise. One of these days, you’re going to have to push back.”

Finally, Hannah and Lou were headed back to their hotel. Lou wanted to offer to carry Hannah’s bags. It was the gentlemanly thing to do but the throbbing in his head was worse than ever.

Back at the hotel, Hannah pushed open the door to their honeymoon suite and dropped her bags on the chair. She kicked off her heels and threw her jacket on the bed. On her way to the kitchenette, she stepped over Lou’s inconveniently situated lifeless body, nimbly avoiding the pool of coagulated blood from his open head wound.

“Lou, I’m going to pour us a nice cold drink and maybe we can tuck into one or two of those lovely buns we bought,” Hannah called out. She cracked out some ice cubes from the tray into two tall glasses and filled them with some iced tea.

“Best honeymoon ever, darling,” said Hannah as she raised her glass in Lou’s direction.

 ***

Dana Webster has been writing off and on for most of her life but has only begun to find her stride in the last year and a half. You can subscribe to her observational blog at www.danawebster.com

See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.

“The Hat of Ages” by Dana Webster

 

Once upon a time an old woman named Wedi lived alone high atop a mountain. She was a small, hunched creature clad in a thick black robe and a plain black peaked hat. Bare patches showed that this hat had been brushed too many times. Most of its magic had faded away, too, drained of its power from so many years of use.

Wedi and her hat had been constant companions, keeping each other company from childhood through elderhood. They’d shared adventures and told stories, brewed tea together and enjoyed afternoon naps. Just the two of them, always.

From her front porch, Wedi could see, if the sunlight was just so in the sky, the little village that lay far below. At nighttime, the lights of the village were a mirror image of the star-filled sky, which made Wedi being feel cocooned between two light-filled realms.

One day, curiosity about the inhabitants below caused a yearning to venture down the mountain to see what she could see. Wedi packed some bread and water for the journey. Night had fallen by the time she arrived. She saw that the stars of the village illuminated cozy little homes with hearths around which people gathered to eat, laugh, and bustle.

Peeking through the window, Wedi perceived a familiar feeling. These people felt the same way about each other as she did for her hat. They were rich with companionship. She felt a longing for more, too.

Afraid to make the trek home at night, she found a comfortable nook under a cedar hedge, and fell into a fitful slumber, her hat softly snoring on the ground next to her, blissfully unaware of the new desire in her companion.

Wedi awoke to the sounds of villagers. As they greeted one another with a hearty hello, the hats on their heads also tipped themselves in a good morning gesture. Ignoring the growling in her stomach, Wedi followed the crowd into the centre of town. No one paid her much mind.

The villagers were making their daily pilgrimage to the most magical hat shop of all the hat shops. This shop was brimming with hats of all shapes, sizes, and colours. Hats with feathers. Hats with buttons, bits, and bobs. Hats that sang and hats that danced. Hats that tucked themselves away at the end of the day and hats that calmed even the fussiest of babies.

The most mysterious hat of all was one that sat alone on the highest shelf at the back of the shop. It was here where its home had been made many years ago. So long ago that no one alive at the time could recall its age. This hat alone was not for sale. It was far too precious for just anyone to wear on their head. No one knew why. It had always been thus.

Young children and grown-ups jostled for the best viewing position. Late-comers were disappointed to find no place for them close to the front. Some of them allowed their more modern hats to hover over the crowd and report back. No one noticed the old woman whose nose was pressed curiously against the window.

At precisely one minute before opening time the proprietor of the hat shop ceremoniously flipped the switch on a powerful spotlight, illuminating the extraordinary hat in its solitary position high up on a shelf. The light hit it at just the right angle to showcase its marvellousness. From outside the otherwise darkened shop, a collective gasp escaped the mouths of the spectators, even those who had seen this many times before.

There it was! The Hat of Ages.

The colours of deep purple and golden yellow were adorned with glittering gems and multi-coloured ribbons. Its peak stood as straight and proud as an arrow. Its wide brim tipped sideways at a just-so angle for optimum flattery. Everyone in the crowd imagined themselves with this magnificent hat atop their own head.  

Including the old woman. Wedi stood mesmerized by the hat’s magnificence. She’d never seen anything like it. In that moment, she felt shame for her own plain hat. She saw how the Hat of Ages delighted the villagers. If she wore that hat, would they be delighted with her? Perhaps invite her to stay in this cozy village populated with lively people and unusual hats?

That night, when the shops were closed and the villagers had retired to their homes, Wedi snuck around the back of the hat shop. When she encountered a heavy lock she murmured, “Kindly open the lock,” and her hat happily did, spending the little magic it had left. Remembering the fun of their past adventures, the hat began to feel giddy with expectation.

Stealthily, Wedi entered the darkened store and made her way to where the Hat of Ages sat high above her. She used a nearby footstool to help her reach the hat that she hoped would change everything for her. In the darkness, the hat no longer glittered. It no longer seemed extraordinary. No matter, she thought, in the light of day I shall look splendid with it atop my head.

She took the Hat of Ages in one hand and placed her own plain black hat in its stead. Stepping off the stool, she placed the hat on her head and felt … bereft. At the same time, the spotlight magically turned on and illuminated Wedi’s black hat. It seemed to twinkle with the light of countless stars, even more stars than either above or below her mountain home.

This Hat of Ages was a mere imposter. She removed it and reached for her friend, her constant companion, her plain black hat that she now saw had not only its own beauty, but the love and belonging she mistakenly thought she’d been lacking. Blanketed by stars above, comforted by stars below, Wedi and her hat returned to their cabin on the mountain.

***

Dana Webster has been writing off and on for most of her life but has only begun to find her stride in the last year and a half. You can subscribe to her observational blog at www.danawebster.com

See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.