Juliette
by Cécile Barlier
On this first day of fall 2022, she walked half a step behind her daughter, Juliette, with a small carry-on that tipped on every crack. Juliette moved fast, in big strides, the wind blowing at her raincoat, her duffle slung over her shoulder, her thick hair whooshed against the flat of her head. It was Juliette who had planned their weekend trip to the Estuary, rented the car on a Canadian car-share app, paid with money saved from her student jobs. When visiting her adult daughter already two years out of the house, she let herself be carried in this way. By the click of Juliette’s heels on the sidewalk. By the mystery of the car, which remained untraceable. By the sky so low and textured it looked like a spring mattress seen from under. By the streets so deserted in that eastern part of Montréal. By her shyness with every reunion.
She had a tiny mint melting on the tip of her tongue – one of those leaf-shaped green tea ones that she brought from her California home. One hand in her pocket because she was looking for an elastic band to tie her hair, but she found none. She remembered when Juliette used to tie her hair above her head like an atomic mushroom and wished she could wear it that way. She lingered on the image of a small hairy mushroom and let it burgeon in her mind. She could not stop the proliferation of flashbacks when in lockstep with Juliette. She was a bit out of breath. To regain her pace, she low-hummed a song by the Beatles called “Now and Then.” It felt natural to have gone around the block twice already but found nothing – the concrete manifestation of her struggle finding her bearings with Juliette after many months of separation.
They found the car in an expansive gravel lot. It had been parked neatly under the Communauto sign – facing forward, small, dark, ready. While she circled to inspect for dings and dents, Juliette fumbled with her phone to open the door and find the key inside the glove box. A downpour started as they dropped their luggage into the hatchback. They took cover under the roof of the tailgate, turned around to face the lot as if they were going to have a picnic. A curtain of water came down and the world blurred before them. In the instant damp and coolness from the rainstorm, she felt the warmth that rose from Juliette’s skin. She raised an arm and wrapped it around her daughter’s shoulder. Juliette took her hand and pressed it.
When the rain stopped, they stepped out to get to their respective seats. The gravel shifted under her feet.
- Do you want me to drive? she asked.
- Sure. This way I’ll take a nap. I didn’t get to sleep a lot this week.
As she sat, she caught a whiff of her own deodorant. Salt and sharp lemon. Then came Juliette’s body lotion, which was milkier, sweeter. She turned the ignition and reached for the stick. Juliette had already synched her phone with the dashboard and a blue line illuminated the path they needed to follow. A song played, which she didn’t recognize. Something French. With a soft bass line in repeat and a male voice that took a lot of care enunciating.
- Do you like this song? Juliette asked.
- I think so.
- You think so?
- Wait, she paused to let the song unfold to the next bass line. I like it, I like it a lot, she said, but she felt the words had rolled out of her too quickly.
- I can never guess what you’ll like or not.
They cracked their windows, letting the air flow in while Montréal moved away in the back. The last of the high rises dropped in the rearview mirror. The forest deployed, unfurling its red-orange flocks. The road signs spun around them: Saint Antoine, Berthierville, Louiseville, Trois Rivières, Julien, Le Petit Village. With that came the impression that they were not moving but that it was the road that rotated from under them.
She pushed her foot into the accelerator; she loved the sensation of being hard-pressed against her seat with forward force. She watched Juliette from the corner of her eye, took in the slow lolling of her head, not so much falling asleep as slipping in and out of reach. Juliette’s mouth was slightly open, letting out grumbles that sounded like Hell-O. That made her want to hear more. She felt a predator of her daughter’s dreams, a thought that was not as upsetting as it should have been.
She had a tiny mint melting on the tip of her tongue – one of those leaf-shaped green tea ones that she brought from her California home. One hand in her pocket because she was looking for an elastic band to tie her hair, but she found none. She remembered when Juliette used to tie her hair above her head like an atomic mushroom and wished she could wear it that way. She lingered on the image of a small hairy mushroom and let it burgeon in her mind. She could not stop the proliferation of flashbacks when in lockstep with Juliette. She was a bit out of breath. To regain her pace, she low-hummed a song by the Beatles called “Now and Then.” It felt natural to have gone around the block twice already but found nothing – the concrete manifestation of her struggle finding her bearings with Juliette after many months of separation.
They found the car in an expansive gravel lot. It had been parked neatly under the Communauto sign – facing forward, small, dark, ready. While she circled to inspect for dings and dents, Juliette fumbled with her phone to open the door and find the key inside the glove box. A downpour started as they dropped their luggage into the hatchback. They took cover under the roof of the tailgate, turned around to face the lot as if they were going to have a picnic. A curtain of water came down and the world blurred before them. In the instant damp and coolness from the rainstorm, she felt the warmth that rose from Juliette’s skin. She raised an arm and wrapped it around her daughter’s shoulder. Juliette took her hand and pressed it.
When the rain stopped, they stepped out to get to their respective seats. The gravel shifted under her feet.
- Do you want me to drive? she asked.
- Sure. This way I’ll take a nap. I didn’t get to sleep a lot this week.
As she sat, she caught a whiff of her own deodorant. Salt and sharp lemon. Then came Juliette’s body lotion, which was milkier, sweeter. She turned the ignition and reached for the stick. Juliette had already synched her phone with the dashboard and a blue line illuminated the path they needed to follow. A song played, which she didn’t recognize. Something French. With a soft bass line in repeat and a male voice that took a lot of care enunciating.
- Do you like this song? Juliette asked.
- I think so.
- You think so?
- Wait, she paused to let the song unfold to the next bass line. I like it, I like it a lot, she said, but she felt the words had rolled out of her too quickly.
- I can never guess what you’ll like or not.
They cracked their windows, letting the air flow in while Montréal moved away in the back. The last of the high rises dropped in the rearview mirror. The forest deployed, unfurling its red-orange flocks. The road signs spun around them: Saint Antoine, Berthierville, Louiseville, Trois Rivières, Julien, Le Petit Village. With that came the impression that they were not moving but that it was the road that rotated from under them.
She pushed her foot into the accelerator; she loved the sensation of being hard-pressed against her seat with forward force. She watched Juliette from the corner of her eye, took in the slow lolling of her head, not so much falling asleep as slipping in and out of reach. Juliette’s mouth was slightly open, letting out grumbles that sounded like Hell-O. That made her want to hear more. She felt a predator of her daughter’s dreams, a thought that was not as upsetting as it should have been.
*
The freeway morphed into a country road, curved along Québécois speed limit signs emphasized by sunbursts. Her eyes darted on and off the dashboard clock looking for reassurance that they were going to make it in time for the last ferry that would take them across the river to their inn. Juliette wiggled her eyes open, cracked her fingers and stretched her arms ahead. An early 2000s Indie song was now playing. A male voice again. More pleading. Less articulate.
- You’re going too fast, Mama.
- Sorry, she said, but she did not slow down.
A spark of light she thought must have been the reflection of the sun setting at their back repeated itself too rhythmically to be a sunset. The idea of sun was replaced by flashing lights on top of a black car, the car into patrol, the head behind the windshield into police.
- Damn, she said.
She made a turn into a dirt road which, although darkness had yet to fall in full, seemed to dissolve into the woods and under the glare of the police car now stopped right behind them.
She grabbed her water bottle from the cup holder, took a small sip and heard the trickle down her throat. Juliette twirled her bangs around one finger. They didn’t look at each other. She glanced in the mirror so she could get a visual of the policeman’s progress. He looked young, maybe Juliette’s age or maybe in his thirties. Pale and blond, with a beard cropped short. Not only had he been standing behind their car for the last two minutes, but he held his posture like a statue. He stood like a cut out silhouette at their back – the dark green outline of a man. He did not wear a hat.
- Damn, she muttered again.
Juliette did not comment and turned the music off. The air in the car drifted into silent depths, since not only did they not make any sound, but their breathing sucked in the very idea of noise. The officer approached. She lowered her window and rummaged in her purse to extract her wallet.
- Bonsoir, he said before taking her license.
- Good evening.
- Do you know what you did wrong?
She conjured her best remorseful smile by way of an answer. Ignoring the smile, he looked into the car and at Juliette. When he started talking again, he was still looking at Juliette.
- This is a fifty kilometers per hour section. You were at eighty-two.
- I am so sorry. I didn’t realize, she lied, and she moved slightly so that her face blocked his view of her daughter.
- Hmm, he said, and he moved a bit forward so he could have them both in sight.
Behind the policeman, a moose emerged from the woods while eating from the ground. Even though she’d never seen a moose before, she could tell from the rack of antlers and the drooping snout. As it got into the clearing, the moose stopped eating, lifted its head. It stood, colossal and quiet. It occupied their entire field of vision, shrinking the forest into a postcard. It looked back at them, the white line in its eyes holding prehistoric thoughts. The antlers holding the sky. The slump of its back drawing the horizon. High as a Sierra. Lush. Furry. Approachable. She clutched Juliette’s arm by instinct. The policeman stood there, his back facing the moose, driver’s license in hand; mouth agape as if about to say something, or perhaps unable to say that thing, or perhaps still in awe of the spectacle of her daughter. The moose slowly whipped its head like a horse, smacked its lips. The policeman turned his head toward the noise.
In the seconds that followed, a scene flashed in her mind. In that scene, the moose lowered its head and walked toward the policeman. The policeman pulled his gun from his belt. The moose stopped a few meters short, puffing a cloud from his dilated nostrils. The cloud ball formed and vanished instantly. The policeman retreated toward the rear of their car, opened it quietly, slipped in and locked the door behind him. Then the rustle of the officer’s jacket against the fake leather of the seats. The scene lingered in that moment: the desire of the policeman for her daughter manifesting in the uncanny swoosh of fabric. Both of them frozen in front. The moose so close now its breath would froth their window.
The whole time this scene played in her head, the moose was looking at the police in the eye, taking its time, its jaws chewing remnants of grass. Curious. Then not. It just walked away in the late afternoon, back toward the woods where it came from.
- Well, the officer said as he handed back her license. That’s lucky.
He used the word chanceux. It was hard to tell whether that applied to him or to her or to the moose. It was also hard to hate him now that he used such an old-fashioned word. He mumbled something about this road being a haven for police and wildlife. Just be careful, he added. After one more look at Juliette, he said goodbye and returned to his car. Then drove off.
- Can you believe this?
- I know, Juliette said. I will drive now, Mama.
- You’re going too fast, Mama.
- Sorry, she said, but she did not slow down.
A spark of light she thought must have been the reflection of the sun setting at their back repeated itself too rhythmically to be a sunset. The idea of sun was replaced by flashing lights on top of a black car, the car into patrol, the head behind the windshield into police.
- Damn, she said.
She made a turn into a dirt road which, although darkness had yet to fall in full, seemed to dissolve into the woods and under the glare of the police car now stopped right behind them.
She grabbed her water bottle from the cup holder, took a small sip and heard the trickle down her throat. Juliette twirled her bangs around one finger. They didn’t look at each other. She glanced in the mirror so she could get a visual of the policeman’s progress. He looked young, maybe Juliette’s age or maybe in his thirties. Pale and blond, with a beard cropped short. Not only had he been standing behind their car for the last two minutes, but he held his posture like a statue. He stood like a cut out silhouette at their back – the dark green outline of a man. He did not wear a hat.
- Damn, she muttered again.
Juliette did not comment and turned the music off. The air in the car drifted into silent depths, since not only did they not make any sound, but their breathing sucked in the very idea of noise. The officer approached. She lowered her window and rummaged in her purse to extract her wallet.
- Bonsoir, he said before taking her license.
- Good evening.
- Do you know what you did wrong?
She conjured her best remorseful smile by way of an answer. Ignoring the smile, he looked into the car and at Juliette. When he started talking again, he was still looking at Juliette.
- This is a fifty kilometers per hour section. You were at eighty-two.
- I am so sorry. I didn’t realize, she lied, and she moved slightly so that her face blocked his view of her daughter.
- Hmm, he said, and he moved a bit forward so he could have them both in sight.
Behind the policeman, a moose emerged from the woods while eating from the ground. Even though she’d never seen a moose before, she could tell from the rack of antlers and the drooping snout. As it got into the clearing, the moose stopped eating, lifted its head. It stood, colossal and quiet. It occupied their entire field of vision, shrinking the forest into a postcard. It looked back at them, the white line in its eyes holding prehistoric thoughts. The antlers holding the sky. The slump of its back drawing the horizon. High as a Sierra. Lush. Furry. Approachable. She clutched Juliette’s arm by instinct. The policeman stood there, his back facing the moose, driver’s license in hand; mouth agape as if about to say something, or perhaps unable to say that thing, or perhaps still in awe of the spectacle of her daughter. The moose slowly whipped its head like a horse, smacked its lips. The policeman turned his head toward the noise.
In the seconds that followed, a scene flashed in her mind. In that scene, the moose lowered its head and walked toward the policeman. The policeman pulled his gun from his belt. The moose stopped a few meters short, puffing a cloud from his dilated nostrils. The cloud ball formed and vanished instantly. The policeman retreated toward the rear of their car, opened it quietly, slipped in and locked the door behind him. Then the rustle of the officer’s jacket against the fake leather of the seats. The scene lingered in that moment: the desire of the policeman for her daughter manifesting in the uncanny swoosh of fabric. Both of them frozen in front. The moose so close now its breath would froth their window.
The whole time this scene played in her head, the moose was looking at the police in the eye, taking its time, its jaws chewing remnants of grass. Curious. Then not. It just walked away in the late afternoon, back toward the woods where it came from.
- Well, the officer said as he handed back her license. That’s lucky.
He used the word chanceux. It was hard to tell whether that applied to him or to her or to the moose. It was also hard to hate him now that he used such an old-fashioned word. He mumbled something about this road being a haven for police and wildlife. Just be careful, he added. After one more look at Juliette, he said goodbye and returned to his car. Then drove off.
- Can you believe this?
- I know, Juliette said. I will drive now, Mama.
*
It took a good hour and a stop for gas for her nerves to settle. With Juliette driving, night falling and Juliette’s playlist unwinding again, she had time to sit at the bottom of what just happened. She frowned and bit the pulp of her fingers, brought them to her nose. Her speeding guilt subsided quickly. Leaving room for how she had tried to shield her child from a man’s desire. Which also meant she now was the solid wall that men walked past without noticing. Sniffing on her fingers, she went back to the last time she had been desired, wanted by a stranger, cat-called on the street. She had to go back a long time. Years away. To where she was surprised by a prolonged look, an excessive proximity, an uncertain smile. That always came as a surprise: the desire she instilled in strangers. Looking at Juliette low-singing along the playlist while holding the wheel provided an antiquated image of self. A power she had lost. A power that surprised her and that she was now surprised to have lost. She sank lower in her seat and back into adolescence. Remembering older men exposing themselves to her as she biked to school. Remembering the semen once found on her winter coat as she exited a crowded bus. Ashamed of thinking about these things but still thinking about them. Shame interrupted by the moose aftershock. She still felt the weight of his chest and the mass of his shape in her head. Inside that enormous vision was the craving to engulf her body in the moose’s body, to return to a place of gigantic warmth and darkness, to be so much bigger than self and to disappear all at once. To not be thinking about anything.
They entered a tunnel. The small space they shared grew quieter. Sharper.
- Can I tell you something, Mama?
- Yes.
- Something pretty intimate.
- Yes.
- I don’t think I love T. anymore.
- Oh, she said, and she tried to keep her “oh” as open as possible, like a door frame without a door.
- You know how you said you felt when you moved in with Dad? Like you knew.
- Hmmm.
- Well, I know I don’t know.
- Hmmm. I think… she had no idea what she thought so she stopped mid-sentence.
- What do you think? Juliette asked.
Perhaps the most remarkable quality of her thinking was how slowly it transformed from wordless blocks into articulable sentences. She should have been a cubist painter instead of a mother. The light of her words often got trapped inside confusing squares of color. It took time to let words out. It took effort. She sat too close to Juliette in this car, too close to Juliette’s question. She had nothing to say. As usual when that happened, she asked a question.
- How long have you been feeling this way?
- Perhaps since the beginning. Sometimes you don’t know how you feel, or you don’t think about it until someone tells you something.
- Like what?
- Like my friends told me I look brighter, lighter when alone. More me, you know?
As if peeking through a blinding hole at the end of the tunnel they were driving through, she knew. How they both shared the same need for space. Alone space. Together space. All one and the same. How without that space they would leave in a hurry, with or without notice, and how it was always better to be the one leaving. How moving away was also moving toward and how much life there was in that motion. How much promise. And how the opposite was true of waving at a back, at a train leaving a station, at a boat on the horizon. How staying behind was an obliteration. How all that remained was a pile of shadows dispersed by the absence of wind.
- I’m afraid, Mama.
- To leave him?
- Yes.
- It’s okay to be afraid. It’s necessary.
She put one hand on Juliette’s neck. Caressed the neck. She watched Juliette’s tears now peppering her cheeks. Handed out a tissue. She offered to take the wheel again, but Juliette said she could cry and drive at the same time, that in fact it felt good to be driving in that moment, with that sadness, that it wasn’t even illegal. That brought a smile to both their lips. And then more tears and more driving. She loved going through this with Juliette – the sadness and the motion – as much as cruising through the small blankets of fog that hovered over the road around the bends.
Later, when the crying stopped, she was closing her eyes on and off – trying to hold onto this moment. She could not detain it inside her brain: both of them in that tiny car. How vexing it was that despite her habit of imagining things, of creating alternate realities, a tiny rental car was much better at containing them than her own mind, her own heart. She thought about naming and how one became what they were called. She thought about being Mama and about being Juliette: a name that destined her to be a prodigious lover. That name had come out of a place in her heart that had no shape or direction, which in her experience was where better names came from. It had taken its pretty time. A full nine months. And then some.
They entered a tunnel. The small space they shared grew quieter. Sharper.
- Can I tell you something, Mama?
- Yes.
- Something pretty intimate.
- Yes.
- I don’t think I love T. anymore.
- Oh, she said, and she tried to keep her “oh” as open as possible, like a door frame without a door.
- You know how you said you felt when you moved in with Dad? Like you knew.
- Hmmm.
- Well, I know I don’t know.
- Hmmm. I think… she had no idea what she thought so she stopped mid-sentence.
- What do you think? Juliette asked.
Perhaps the most remarkable quality of her thinking was how slowly it transformed from wordless blocks into articulable sentences. She should have been a cubist painter instead of a mother. The light of her words often got trapped inside confusing squares of color. It took time to let words out. It took effort. She sat too close to Juliette in this car, too close to Juliette’s question. She had nothing to say. As usual when that happened, she asked a question.
- How long have you been feeling this way?
- Perhaps since the beginning. Sometimes you don’t know how you feel, or you don’t think about it until someone tells you something.
- Like what?
- Like my friends told me I look brighter, lighter when alone. More me, you know?
As if peeking through a blinding hole at the end of the tunnel they were driving through, she knew. How they both shared the same need for space. Alone space. Together space. All one and the same. How without that space they would leave in a hurry, with or without notice, and how it was always better to be the one leaving. How moving away was also moving toward and how much life there was in that motion. How much promise. And how the opposite was true of waving at a back, at a train leaving a station, at a boat on the horizon. How staying behind was an obliteration. How all that remained was a pile of shadows dispersed by the absence of wind.
- I’m afraid, Mama.
- To leave him?
- Yes.
- It’s okay to be afraid. It’s necessary.
She put one hand on Juliette’s neck. Caressed the neck. She watched Juliette’s tears now peppering her cheeks. Handed out a tissue. She offered to take the wheel again, but Juliette said she could cry and drive at the same time, that in fact it felt good to be driving in that moment, with that sadness, that it wasn’t even illegal. That brought a smile to both their lips. And then more tears and more driving. She loved going through this with Juliette – the sadness and the motion – as much as cruising through the small blankets of fog that hovered over the road around the bends.
Later, when the crying stopped, she was closing her eyes on and off – trying to hold onto this moment. She could not detain it inside her brain: both of them in that tiny car. How vexing it was that despite her habit of imagining things, of creating alternate realities, a tiny rental car was much better at containing them than her own mind, her own heart. She thought about naming and how one became what they were called. She thought about being Mama and about being Juliette: a name that destined her to be a prodigious lover. That name had come out of a place in her heart that had no shape or direction, which in her experience was where better names came from. It had taken its pretty time. A full nine months. And then some.
*
The road wound down like a staircase toward the crossing. At the base, the lighting was intense and orange, though narrowly focused. There was one blinking traffic light, an empty glass booth and a sign that read “Attendre ici”. A little further down a fence. No other car besides theirs.
- Do you think I should drive up to the fence? Juliette asked.
- Yes, it looks like this is where the line would start when there’s a line.
As they drove past the booth, a small, agitated man with a beanie appeared in the rearview mirror gesturing for them to back up toward the booth. Of course, she had to be wrong about the beginning of the line. Juliette let out a sigh of aggravation while pulling back. They both lowered their windows at the same time.
- Did we miss the last ferry? she asked, her question intended for the man now back in the booth.
- No, mom, we didn’t. See how it says on the sign that they run all night?
Her speeding now proven pointless, she took her wallet out to pay for the crossing, at least one small thing she could do right, but the sign also said that it was free.
They waited with the engine turned off. After a quiet time that felt long enough to be awkward, she could see a small mound of lights coming in their direction. At first it was low on the horizon, gliding slowly like a three-story house on wheels. Then the boat became visible, cream at the center and blue at the hull, wide, with a flat front that lowered to allow cars to ride onto its deck.
As they waited for the fence to lift, she read on her phone that the crossing was short, that depth was what prevented a bridge from being built here. Reading about the abyss, she pictured a narrow chasm full of water and whales.
During the crossing they stayed in the car and just went out once to use the bathroom. Juliette pulled her seat all the way back and placed her feet on the console to one side of the wheel. Water, land and sky made an indistinct mass of darkness; she could feel the heft of it around them, which was all-encompassing. She found it calming to be in a car on a boat in a night without moon or stars. She heard Juliette yawn multiple times. She yawned too. Some part of her did not want to leave the car. Some part of her could not wait to get out of it. They got to the inn around 10pm and went straight to their room.
- Do you think I should drive up to the fence? Juliette asked.
- Yes, it looks like this is where the line would start when there’s a line.
As they drove past the booth, a small, agitated man with a beanie appeared in the rearview mirror gesturing for them to back up toward the booth. Of course, she had to be wrong about the beginning of the line. Juliette let out a sigh of aggravation while pulling back. They both lowered their windows at the same time.
- Did we miss the last ferry? she asked, her question intended for the man now back in the booth.
- No, mom, we didn’t. See how it says on the sign that they run all night?
Her speeding now proven pointless, she took her wallet out to pay for the crossing, at least one small thing she could do right, but the sign also said that it was free.
They waited with the engine turned off. After a quiet time that felt long enough to be awkward, she could see a small mound of lights coming in their direction. At first it was low on the horizon, gliding slowly like a three-story house on wheels. Then the boat became visible, cream at the center and blue at the hull, wide, with a flat front that lowered to allow cars to ride onto its deck.
As they waited for the fence to lift, she read on her phone that the crossing was short, that depth was what prevented a bridge from being built here. Reading about the abyss, she pictured a narrow chasm full of water and whales.
During the crossing they stayed in the car and just went out once to use the bathroom. Juliette pulled her seat all the way back and placed her feet on the console to one side of the wheel. Water, land and sky made an indistinct mass of darkness; she could feel the heft of it around them, which was all-encompassing. She found it calming to be in a car on a boat in a night without moon or stars. She heard Juliette yawn multiple times. She yawned too. Some part of her did not want to leave the car. Some part of her could not wait to get out of it. They got to the inn around 10pm and went straight to their room.
*
At 4am, she woke up. Juliette’s face turned toward her in the queen bed they shared, breathing slowly. She clung to the comforter, Juliette’s warmth against the side of her body under the covers, her eyes closed, afloat on the mattress. She shifted her head on the pillow, releasing both ears, careful to not move brusquely. The wind had picked up. There was no rain. She freed one arm from under the cover and let her hand dance above them like a small flag at the mast of a ship. She picked up sounds. Far off night sounds. Like dampened mumbles.
In the vortex of her imagination, she got out of bed and sneaked out of the room. She walked to the end of the road that met the beach. She took her PJs off and folded them neatly on a rock, walked the sand and pushed her feet into the glacial water (the moon still hidden by the clouds and the water black), she descended quickly until she had the water at her breasts, started swimming forward toward the mumbles.
In reality, she stayed awake for about an hour and then fell back asleep.
At breakfast, they ate maple scrambled eggs, which was weird but worked.
- Did you sleep well? she asked.
- Super well. You?
- Better than in Montréal, I think it helped to sleep with you.
Juliette was peeling an apple with a knife, the scraping of which hit her as nostalgic, a tribute to the many fruits she had cut for breakfast.
She hesitated then decided to hold off the telling of the nightly mumbles. And that felt good to her – retaining them for herself. Even the tinge of guilt for doing that felt good. She chewed and swallowed her maple eggs, now recalling that the first thing she had wanted to do the minute she had stayed alone with her baby, was to leave her wailing in her crib, and flee.
And she had. Tried to flee. She’d taken the car for a drive and put her baby in the car seat in the back, puffy and red from crying, and headed for the highway. The drive would put her baby to sleep, she thought. She meant for her to sleep in that car seat, away from her own body, so that she could take a stroll, alone, without her child attached to her chest in a sack. She made it to the first rest area, one that was secluded and also the departure point for a hike. Her baby was asleep by then. She managed to wriggle out of the car and shut the door without waking her. The baby lay still and quiet behind the windows. Doors locked. One window rolled down an inch. The air was soft and cool, the sky stubbornly blue. She wanted to go for a short hike. Just a few minutes. Just up to the tree line. She wanted to look at a view that did not include the baby in it. Instead, she sat on a rock next to the car. She made herself wait until she could not anymore. Then she opened the door slowly, took in her baby still sleeping, and let out a wail so sharp that it tore her insides. Her baby woke up at the sound of her sobbing and looked at her face curiously. She faced the smallness of her baby’s face. She faced the smoothness of her head. She faced the quiet wonderment in her baby’s eyes.
She now faced her daughter in her adult version grabbing one perfectly peeled apple wedge. She was holding onto her coffee mug, her hands shaking at the shame of wanting to abandon her baby in a car, but above all in fear of being on the other side of abandonment.
Juliette masticated and must have known. Not of this abandonment but of her old desire to flee, to just be by and with herself, to not have to care and donate her body to another being. Juliette must have known because Juliette had fled too, creating a life for herself as far as possible from home. And so they had been fleeing each other always or at least wanting to flee and at times wanting to be together. Wanting and fleeing. This was the swinging of their love. She was the needy one now. She was at the end of her oscillation. She wanted forgiveness in a hug. She wanted to be held. She was so close to asking.
- What’s wrong? Juliette asked.
She shook her head when the innkeeper approached with a coffee refill. Juliette helped piling the empty plates. She smiled thinly, wiping the last of the crumbs with her napkin.
- Nothing, she said. Shall we go?
In the vortex of her imagination, she got out of bed and sneaked out of the room. She walked to the end of the road that met the beach. She took her PJs off and folded them neatly on a rock, walked the sand and pushed her feet into the glacial water (the moon still hidden by the clouds and the water black), she descended quickly until she had the water at her breasts, started swimming forward toward the mumbles.
In reality, she stayed awake for about an hour and then fell back asleep.
At breakfast, they ate maple scrambled eggs, which was weird but worked.
- Did you sleep well? she asked.
- Super well. You?
- Better than in Montréal, I think it helped to sleep with you.
Juliette was peeling an apple with a knife, the scraping of which hit her as nostalgic, a tribute to the many fruits she had cut for breakfast.
She hesitated then decided to hold off the telling of the nightly mumbles. And that felt good to her – retaining them for herself. Even the tinge of guilt for doing that felt good. She chewed and swallowed her maple eggs, now recalling that the first thing she had wanted to do the minute she had stayed alone with her baby, was to leave her wailing in her crib, and flee.
And she had. Tried to flee. She’d taken the car for a drive and put her baby in the car seat in the back, puffy and red from crying, and headed for the highway. The drive would put her baby to sleep, she thought. She meant for her to sleep in that car seat, away from her own body, so that she could take a stroll, alone, without her child attached to her chest in a sack. She made it to the first rest area, one that was secluded and also the departure point for a hike. Her baby was asleep by then. She managed to wriggle out of the car and shut the door without waking her. The baby lay still and quiet behind the windows. Doors locked. One window rolled down an inch. The air was soft and cool, the sky stubbornly blue. She wanted to go for a short hike. Just a few minutes. Just up to the tree line. She wanted to look at a view that did not include the baby in it. Instead, she sat on a rock next to the car. She made herself wait until she could not anymore. Then she opened the door slowly, took in her baby still sleeping, and let out a wail so sharp that it tore her insides. Her baby woke up at the sound of her sobbing and looked at her face curiously. She faced the smallness of her baby’s face. She faced the smoothness of her head. She faced the quiet wonderment in her baby’s eyes.
She now faced her daughter in her adult version grabbing one perfectly peeled apple wedge. She was holding onto her coffee mug, her hands shaking at the shame of wanting to abandon her baby in a car, but above all in fear of being on the other side of abandonment.
Juliette masticated and must have known. Not of this abandonment but of her old desire to flee, to just be by and with herself, to not have to care and donate her body to another being. Juliette must have known because Juliette had fled too, creating a life for herself as far as possible from home. And so they had been fleeing each other always or at least wanting to flee and at times wanting to be together. Wanting and fleeing. This was the swinging of their love. She was the needy one now. She was at the end of her oscillation. She wanted forgiveness in a hug. She wanted to be held. She was so close to asking.
- What’s wrong? Juliette asked.
She shook her head when the innkeeper approached with a coffee refill. Juliette helped piling the empty plates. She smiled thinly, wiping the last of the crumbs with her napkin.
- Nothing, she said. Shall we go?
*
The Saint Laurent was around five degrees Celsius. They slipped in orange raincoats and pants. They formed part of a group of twenty orange outfitted people. Most of them as young as Juliette, taking pictures of each other. A young woman offered to take a picture of them both.
- Sure. That would be nice, Juliette said.
As usual, she closed her eyes on the shot.
They took two seats at the front of the zodiac. She offered for Juliette to sit closer to the edge so that no one blocked her view. The freezing saltwater hit their faces with the acceleration. Then water ran down their necks and under their clothes through the gaps in their outfits. They couldn’t talk. The zodiac motor was too loud and when it wasn’t, the high-pitched voice of the guide dominated. The guide spoke of how large and deep the estuary was, how the upswelling of lower cold water made krill rise to the surface and how this turned the estuary into a massive food storage for whales and belugas.
By the time they stopped in the middle of the sound, they were sitting in a freezing puddle. Juliette’s lips were blue, and she unrolled her woolen scarf and wrapped it around her daughter’s head and neck. Then they waited. For a long time. The guide commenting on how unpredictable these things were, on how sometimes they had hundreds of sightings and sometimes none. As they were ready to give up, drenched to the bones, she saw a wide, dark expanse of back break through the water, and a few meters away, in a blink, but as precise as a slow-motion film, a head, smaller and darker, drilling out of the surface followed by a body with broad fins that slammed the water as it rotated. That smaller body towered on the water, ecstatic, smooth, and monumental.
She imagined how it felt for a whale to watch their young jumping out of the water, to sense the water swirling in the aftermath of that jump. In her head, she held the distance of how far the whale had traveled, with so little distance from her young, sometimes touching tails. How many strokes, how many breaths. She imagined this not as something she learned or read about, but as something she had lived. In her breasts. The very thing of being a mammal. Of dispensing high-fat milk. For however long. The tyranny of that. The terror of that. The sensual pleasure of that. Of being sucked down to the pith and marrow. Down to the true kernel of self. Of selves. Living not as one but as many. Until that was taken. For it had to be taken. That too she knew. Not in words. In the rediscovered solitude of her body away from her daughter. And even when they were together, the memory of her solitude followed her like a shadow. Letting go as the cruelest and truest act of love.
- Wow, Juliette said. Did you see that? The baby whale jumping? I’m so happy we got to see that, Mama.
- It’s awesome, she said.
- Sure. That would be nice, Juliette said.
As usual, she closed her eyes on the shot.
They took two seats at the front of the zodiac. She offered for Juliette to sit closer to the edge so that no one blocked her view. The freezing saltwater hit their faces with the acceleration. Then water ran down their necks and under their clothes through the gaps in their outfits. They couldn’t talk. The zodiac motor was too loud and when it wasn’t, the high-pitched voice of the guide dominated. The guide spoke of how large and deep the estuary was, how the upswelling of lower cold water made krill rise to the surface and how this turned the estuary into a massive food storage for whales and belugas.
By the time they stopped in the middle of the sound, they were sitting in a freezing puddle. Juliette’s lips were blue, and she unrolled her woolen scarf and wrapped it around her daughter’s head and neck. Then they waited. For a long time. The guide commenting on how unpredictable these things were, on how sometimes they had hundreds of sightings and sometimes none. As they were ready to give up, drenched to the bones, she saw a wide, dark expanse of back break through the water, and a few meters away, in a blink, but as precise as a slow-motion film, a head, smaller and darker, drilling out of the surface followed by a body with broad fins that slammed the water as it rotated. That smaller body towered on the water, ecstatic, smooth, and monumental.
She imagined how it felt for a whale to watch their young jumping out of the water, to sense the water swirling in the aftermath of that jump. In her head, she held the distance of how far the whale had traveled, with so little distance from her young, sometimes touching tails. How many strokes, how many breaths. She imagined this not as something she learned or read about, but as something she had lived. In her breasts. The very thing of being a mammal. Of dispensing high-fat milk. For however long. The tyranny of that. The terror of that. The sensual pleasure of that. Of being sucked down to the pith and marrow. Down to the true kernel of self. Of selves. Living not as one but as many. Until that was taken. For it had to be taken. That too she knew. Not in words. In the rediscovered solitude of her body away from her daughter. And even when they were together, the memory of her solitude followed her like a shadow. Letting go as the cruelest and truest act of love.
- Wow, Juliette said. Did you see that? The baby whale jumping? I’m so happy we got to see that, Mama.
- It’s awesome, she said.