Bear Cubs is a story I wrote before I had traced my birth family. It is about trying to figure out who you are, and where you came from, and about fitting in/not fitting in. Whilst it is based on my own experiences of being adopted, I must stress that it is NOT a reflection on my parents, or my relationship with them. I have to say this because I wouldn't want my parents, who are wonderful, to be misjudged due to my writing. The story is just that, a story, and I have therefore used a judicious amount of fiction in order to make my points. An auto-biography would read quite differently!!!
I hope you like it.
Bear Cubs
Suspended in a poster blue sky are clouds like newborn lambs in mid gambol. The maples on Fifth Street have laid a red carpet on the sidewalk for you, and the Rockies are wearing white. You are walking towards a building. There is a cross above the arched doorway. You have waited a lifetime for this moment. You ring the bell. The door opens. Like static, anticipation hangs in the crisp fall air.
You walk down the hall, following the grey haired woman who wears rosary beads at her waist. She was expecting you both. A second door is opened, a second chance at happiness. Ribbons of light weave their way through half shuttered dusty windows. Silver motes dance and play above the long row of cribs. Tiny angels. Your eyes light on the last crib; the container of all your hopes and dreams.
Funny the things you remember when driving at night. My mother told me that story like a nativity every year without fail when her secrets were unlocked by Christmas Martinis. I watch the cat’s eyes in the distance leading me home down narrow lanes I seem to travel less each year. I cross the single track bridge and it strikes me as strange how much safer it is after dark, how accidents are easier in the clear light of day, but even in the darkness, the road still leads back to them.
‘You must be shattered!’ says mum opening the door. ‘Such a long drive. I’ll put the kettle on.’ My mum’s answer to everything is a cup of tea. She takes my coat and looks me up and down, frowning at my ripped jeans and bare waist.
‘I’m fine.’
‘She never said you wasn’t!’ Dad sits in his armchair, neck craned but he does not get up. I force a smile and follow mum through to the kitchen. My nostrils are attacked by the smell of cabbage and boiled ham. I suppress the urge to retch, chasing away the memories of childhood which insist on living in this house. I lay the table as though I have never been away.
‘Good wholesome food,’ says dad patting his rounded stomach, and sniffing the air. ‘None of that cosmopolitan crap you get down South!’
I am still trying to think of something to say when grandma appears in the doorway, making me jump.
‘Oh it’s you! Thought you’d pay us a visit did you?’
‘I’m on my way up to Edinburgh.’ I flinch as she squeezes past me into the small dining area, ‘for the festival.’
‘You still busking then?’ she asks.
‘Yes, it’s going well—’
‘Not one of mine ever asked anyone for anything! Busking’s just another name for begging if you ask me,’ and I want to say, no, I didn’t ask you, but I say nothing. Who am I to question her?
‘Well there’s no telling her, mam. God knows I’ve tried,’ says dad.
‘Dinner’s ready,’ says mum, taking her seat opposite dad. Grandma glares at me over the mashed potato.
‘I saw Jennifer last week,’ says mum.
‘Who?’
‘Jennifer Smith. You were at school with her. She was doing the shopping with her mum.’
‘Oh.’
‘Wasn’t she in your class?’ asks dad.
‘I don’t remember,’ I lie.
‘She remembers you,’ says mum.
‘I’m sure she does.’ I try to look relaxed. ‘I’d rather not talk about school.’
‘But she seems such a lovely girl. She got her degree and she’s teaching now.’
I pick at the fluffy mass on my plate still avoiding her gaze. Her disappointment hangs heavily in the air alongside her expectations, but she shrugs and smiles.
‘Good job, teaching,’ she says.
‘I wonder how she’ll deal with school bullies now there’s a government policy on it?’ I say, and the bitterness in my voice surprises me.
‘She wasn’t one of them that picked on you was she?’ says dad. ‘I wish you could have made more of an effort to fit in.’
I want to say it wasn’t my fault, that it wasn’t anyone’s fault but the words are blocked by the lump in my throat.
‘All that’s in the past now,’ says mum, as though the past can be buried by simply ignoring it, ‘I’m sure Jennifer would love to see you.’
Her voice drifts away like the steam from the gravy, in slow spirals, dispersing into nothing. She never did know when to give up. I nod and smile on cue as she tells me how the cousins always ask how I am, about the savings she has made on ‘Buy One Get One Free’ offers at the supermarket. Grandma retires to the sofa in the front room.
I stay in the kitchen wondering how many more memories I can take. I wash the same dishes I washed as a teenager whilst mum makes tea. She has even kept that odd little mug I used to love so much. It still stands out proud on the tray with the fine bone china, unafraid of its difference.
‘Your cousin got nicked you know,’ says dad.
‘Again?’
‘He’s going to jail this time though,’ says mum shaking her head.
‘It’s awful. Friggin’ disgusting!’ His glasses straddle the arm of his chair and it suddenly occurs to me how much older he looks, how like his mother he is.
‘I know,’ I say, ‘you’d have thought he’d have given up after last time.’
Three sets of pale blue eyes glare at me.
‘It is disgusting,’ says dad, pacing his temper, ‘that he’s going down for trying to make ends meet.’
‘He was signing on with three jobs,’ I protest, but the damage has been done, such is the ease with which I can break their hearts.
‘I just don’t know who you take after, but it certainly isn’t me,’ he says. ‘You have no idea of family loyalty!’ Grandma nods in agreement. ‘I’ve always said, blood is thicker than water.’
‘Mam, there’s no need for that.’
‘I’m going to bed,’ she says, ‘Margaret! Bring me my tablets.’
Mum follows her reluctantly into the hallway leaving dad and me alone.
‘Take no notice of your gran love, she’s old,’ he says quietly.
‘It’s okay,’ I mouth, and I want to say she’s never been any different, that I understand, but I cannot speak because if I do it will all pour out.
Unavoidable silence fills the room as we drift off into separate worlds. I look around at the photographs on the walls; me at five playing on the shores of Lake Louise, a picture of happiness. There’s that awful class picture I hate and one of me taken on my third Christmas, our first as a family. There’s me on the boat, sailing to England for the first time, and one of me at ‘Sweet Sixteen’, the year before I fled the nest and shattered their dreams.
‘Do you still see that lad from college?’ asks dad breaking the silence.
‘Martin? He’s fine. He just finished his Masters at Manchester University.’
‘You could’ve done that,’ he says, shaking his head. Two years of bitterness eats at his bald patch. ‘Such a shame the way you dropped out and threw your life away.’
‘I haven’t… look... there’s still time to do it,’ I blink back the tears, ‘and anyway, you don’t need a degree to be a musician.’
‘Or on the dole,’ he says more softly, ‘I just thought you’d turn out different, that’s all.’
‘I’m thinking of going over to Calgary in the summer,’ I say.
‘What do you want to go there for? Crap place. I hated it.’
How do I explain that I long to go? That I need answers? ‘I just wanted to see where I grew up.’
‘You still miss it?’ he asks, not waiting for an answer. ‘We only brought you back because we thought it would be good for you. We wanted you to be happy.’ It occurs to me how tired he looks. We are forever going round in circles.
‘I am happy,’ I say smiling, and his love gives me the confidence I need to go on, a bridge which spans the differences between us. He tries to understand but how can he? In his mother’s face he sees his own reflection where I see nothing but questions to which there are no answers.
Later, in the kitchen, mum folds up the tea towel and adds more water to the kettle.
‘Another cuppa?’ she asks.
‘No thanks mum, it’s a long drive up to Edinburgh.’
‘You’ll stop by on the way back won’t you?’ asks dad.
‘I’ll call you... let you know.’
‘I wish you lived closer,’ mum says, her eyes growing red.
‘I know, but I’m fine,’ I say, hugging them tightly, and we all know there is nothing else to say except ‘see you next time’.
I am back on the road and there is only the light from my own car headlamps and the beckoning cat’s eyes to guide me onwards. There are voices on the radio, intermingled and jostling for position...’ I switch it off and let my heart curl around every bend, embracing the road, the journey.
At the front of the house the streets were wide and lined with Maples. The children were sitting in the garden where the mountains could reach the sky. It was bear cub season and the youngest were filled with questions.
‘Where do the mommy bears get the baby bears from?’ asked the little boy with the blonde hair.
‘They grow in their mom’s tummy,’ said his sister after a moments thought. ‘Did we all grow inside mommy’s tummy?!’
‘Sure did!’
‘Did I come out of my mommy’s tummy too?’ asked the little girl, her eyes as black as Indian ink.
‘No,’ they said, ‘Your mom and dad got you from somewhere else.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know! You’re adopted,’ they said, and when the little girl asked what the word meant she was told it did not matter. She was loved the same, they said, so she pushed her questions into a corner of her heart and ran off to play in the garden with the long grass which would not be home for very much longer.
End
I hope you like it.
Bear Cubs
Suspended in a poster blue sky are clouds like newborn lambs in mid gambol. The maples on Fifth Street have laid a red carpet on the sidewalk for you, and the Rockies are wearing white. You are walking towards a building. There is a cross above the arched doorway. You have waited a lifetime for this moment. You ring the bell. The door opens. Like static, anticipation hangs in the crisp fall air.
You walk down the hall, following the grey haired woman who wears rosary beads at her waist. She was expecting you both. A second door is opened, a second chance at happiness. Ribbons of light weave their way through half shuttered dusty windows. Silver motes dance and play above the long row of cribs. Tiny angels. Your eyes light on the last crib; the container of all your hopes and dreams.
Funny the things you remember when driving at night. My mother told me that story like a nativity every year without fail when her secrets were unlocked by Christmas Martinis. I watch the cat’s eyes in the distance leading me home down narrow lanes I seem to travel less each year. I cross the single track bridge and it strikes me as strange how much safer it is after dark, how accidents are easier in the clear light of day, but even in the darkness, the road still leads back to them.
‘You must be shattered!’ says mum opening the door. ‘Such a long drive. I’ll put the kettle on.’ My mum’s answer to everything is a cup of tea. She takes my coat and looks me up and down, frowning at my ripped jeans and bare waist.
‘I’m fine.’
‘She never said you wasn’t!’ Dad sits in his armchair, neck craned but he does not get up. I force a smile and follow mum through to the kitchen. My nostrils are attacked by the smell of cabbage and boiled ham. I suppress the urge to retch, chasing away the memories of childhood which insist on living in this house. I lay the table as though I have never been away.
‘Good wholesome food,’ says dad patting his rounded stomach, and sniffing the air. ‘None of that cosmopolitan crap you get down South!’
I am still trying to think of something to say when grandma appears in the doorway, making me jump.
‘Oh it’s you! Thought you’d pay us a visit did you?’
‘I’m on my way up to Edinburgh.’ I flinch as she squeezes past me into the small dining area, ‘for the festival.’
‘You still busking then?’ she asks.
‘Yes, it’s going well—’
‘Not one of mine ever asked anyone for anything! Busking’s just another name for begging if you ask me,’ and I want to say, no, I didn’t ask you, but I say nothing. Who am I to question her?
‘Well there’s no telling her, mam. God knows I’ve tried,’ says dad.
‘Dinner’s ready,’ says mum, taking her seat opposite dad. Grandma glares at me over the mashed potato.
‘I saw Jennifer last week,’ says mum.
‘Who?’
‘Jennifer Smith. You were at school with her. She was doing the shopping with her mum.’
‘Oh.’
‘Wasn’t she in your class?’ asks dad.
‘I don’t remember,’ I lie.
‘She remembers you,’ says mum.
‘I’m sure she does.’ I try to look relaxed. ‘I’d rather not talk about school.’
‘But she seems such a lovely girl. She got her degree and she’s teaching now.’
I pick at the fluffy mass on my plate still avoiding her gaze. Her disappointment hangs heavily in the air alongside her expectations, but she shrugs and smiles.
‘Good job, teaching,’ she says.
‘I wonder how she’ll deal with school bullies now there’s a government policy on it?’ I say, and the bitterness in my voice surprises me.
‘She wasn’t one of them that picked on you was she?’ says dad. ‘I wish you could have made more of an effort to fit in.’
I want to say it wasn’t my fault, that it wasn’t anyone’s fault but the words are blocked by the lump in my throat.
‘All that’s in the past now,’ says mum, as though the past can be buried by simply ignoring it, ‘I’m sure Jennifer would love to see you.’
Her voice drifts away like the steam from the gravy, in slow spirals, dispersing into nothing. She never did know when to give up. I nod and smile on cue as she tells me how the cousins always ask how I am, about the savings she has made on ‘Buy One Get One Free’ offers at the supermarket. Grandma retires to the sofa in the front room.
I stay in the kitchen wondering how many more memories I can take. I wash the same dishes I washed as a teenager whilst mum makes tea. She has even kept that odd little mug I used to love so much. It still stands out proud on the tray with the fine bone china, unafraid of its difference.
‘Your cousin got nicked you know,’ says dad.
‘Again?’
‘He’s going to jail this time though,’ says mum shaking her head.
‘It’s awful. Friggin’ disgusting!’ His glasses straddle the arm of his chair and it suddenly occurs to me how much older he looks, how like his mother he is.
‘I know,’ I say, ‘you’d have thought he’d have given up after last time.’
Three sets of pale blue eyes glare at me.
‘It is disgusting,’ says dad, pacing his temper, ‘that he’s going down for trying to make ends meet.’
‘He was signing on with three jobs,’ I protest, but the damage has been done, such is the ease with which I can break their hearts.
‘I just don’t know who you take after, but it certainly isn’t me,’ he says. ‘You have no idea of family loyalty!’ Grandma nods in agreement. ‘I’ve always said, blood is thicker than water.’
‘Mam, there’s no need for that.’
‘I’m going to bed,’ she says, ‘Margaret! Bring me my tablets.’
Mum follows her reluctantly into the hallway leaving dad and me alone.
‘Take no notice of your gran love, she’s old,’ he says quietly.
‘It’s okay,’ I mouth, and I want to say she’s never been any different, that I understand, but I cannot speak because if I do it will all pour out.
Unavoidable silence fills the room as we drift off into separate worlds. I look around at the photographs on the walls; me at five playing on the shores of Lake Louise, a picture of happiness. There’s that awful class picture I hate and one of me taken on my third Christmas, our first as a family. There’s me on the boat, sailing to England for the first time, and one of me at ‘Sweet Sixteen’, the year before I fled the nest and shattered their dreams.
‘Do you still see that lad from college?’ asks dad breaking the silence.
‘Martin? He’s fine. He just finished his Masters at Manchester University.’
‘You could’ve done that,’ he says, shaking his head. Two years of bitterness eats at his bald patch. ‘Such a shame the way you dropped out and threw your life away.’
‘I haven’t… look... there’s still time to do it,’ I blink back the tears, ‘and anyway, you don’t need a degree to be a musician.’
‘Or on the dole,’ he says more softly, ‘I just thought you’d turn out different, that’s all.’
‘I’m thinking of going over to Calgary in the summer,’ I say.
‘What do you want to go there for? Crap place. I hated it.’
How do I explain that I long to go? That I need answers? ‘I just wanted to see where I grew up.’
‘You still miss it?’ he asks, not waiting for an answer. ‘We only brought you back because we thought it would be good for you. We wanted you to be happy.’ It occurs to me how tired he looks. We are forever going round in circles.
‘I am happy,’ I say smiling, and his love gives me the confidence I need to go on, a bridge which spans the differences between us. He tries to understand but how can he? In his mother’s face he sees his own reflection where I see nothing but questions to which there are no answers.
Later, in the kitchen, mum folds up the tea towel and adds more water to the kettle.
‘Another cuppa?’ she asks.
‘No thanks mum, it’s a long drive up to Edinburgh.’
‘You’ll stop by on the way back won’t you?’ asks dad.
‘I’ll call you... let you know.’
‘I wish you lived closer,’ mum says, her eyes growing red.
‘I know, but I’m fine,’ I say, hugging them tightly, and we all know there is nothing else to say except ‘see you next time’.
I am back on the road and there is only the light from my own car headlamps and the beckoning cat’s eyes to guide me onwards. There are voices on the radio, intermingled and jostling for position...’ I switch it off and let my heart curl around every bend, embracing the road, the journey.
At the front of the house the streets were wide and lined with Maples. The children were sitting in the garden where the mountains could reach the sky. It was bear cub season and the youngest were filled with questions.
‘Where do the mommy bears get the baby bears from?’ asked the little boy with the blonde hair.
‘They grow in their mom’s tummy,’ said his sister after a moments thought. ‘Did we all grow inside mommy’s tummy?!’
‘Sure did!’
‘Did I come out of my mommy’s tummy too?’ asked the little girl, her eyes as black as Indian ink.
‘No,’ they said, ‘Your mom and dad got you from somewhere else.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know! You’re adopted,’ they said, and when the little girl asked what the word meant she was told it did not matter. She was loved the same, they said, so she pushed her questions into a corner of her heart and ran off to play in the garden with the long grass which would not be home for very much longer.
End
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