REPRODUCTION
PART 1
XX + XY
LATE SEVENTIES
XX
1.
Both of their mothers were dying in the background.
XY
1.
Both of their mothers were still alive in the background.
XX
2.
Before she died her mother was prickly. Before her mother died she was. One more time. Before her mother died she, her mother, was prickly. One more time. Before her mother died she, her mother, prickled her, Felicia.
In the days before she died, her mother flew into unpredictable rages over the littlest things. Felicia said sardines instead of tuna when passing the tin and her mother blasted her.
Why you working yourself up so? Felicia asked.
Because a tuna is a big fish and a sardines is a small fish. A sardinesâyou hear the nonsense you have me saying?
Her hands vibrated so badly she couldnât open the tin, the can, the tin.
At the next meal, Felicia didnât pour tomato sauce quickly enough into a pot, a sauce pan, thereby essentially, judging from her motherâs reaction, assassinating the Archduke.
All the nutrients done gone already, her mother said. We might as well eat hair. You happy with yourself?
Later that evening, up in the room they rented from a Christian lady, a retired British-trained nurse, who stored her medical equipment in two trunks under the window, Felicia took her motherâs blood pressure. It was 190 over 110.
See. You provoking me. You provoking me, man.
Two days later it was 205 over 115. Her mother said it was because she had climbed the stairs. Or it was because because because the machine was broken. But when Felicia measured her own pressure, it was 110 over 60, which, instead of confirming the sphygmomanometerâs reliability, caused her mother to worry and divert the conversation to Feliciaâs iron levels. She demanded menstruation details, when, how long, how heavy, what colour. Where could she get good beef? West Indian beef, not from these anemic snow-eating cows. The cast iron potâthe soap Felicia used had wrecked it. Nutrients, her mother said that a lot before she turned into a seahorse and drifted off.
And then over the weekend, her pressure went down to 146 over 90. They both laughed.
I telling you I know what I doing. Donât feel I donât know.
Her mother had taken to eating two cloves of garlic at each meal.
Sunday night, after the women wrapped their hair for bed, they leaned against the headboard in their rented room in the Christian womanâs house and excoriated the choir director for favouring the tenors. When her mother fell asleep, Felicia read a little Great Expectations for school. Three pages and she was out.
Her mother woke up and took the bus from Brampton to work in Toronto before she died. Obviously. When else would she take it?
+
Point taken. Yes, and then the office buzzed Felicia during period 4, Home Economics, and told her to bring her things with her, there had been an emergency.
But her mother was not in Emergency at St. Xavier hospital. In fact, Emergency was taped closed. Felicia imagined the worst, that her mother wasnât simply dead but that a grenade had gone off in her chest and destroyed a section of the hospital. A police officer directed Felicia and a couple with a baby to an alternate entrance.
Felicia found her mother in Palliative, sharing a room with an elderly woman. It was strange to see her mother sleeping in public. She was normally a vigilant woman with chameleon eyes that seemed to move independently from one point of suspicion to another. Now, although they were both closed, she seemed uneasy, perhaps with the fact that her bra had been removed by strangers and her breasts splayed unflatteringly sideways.
Between the two beds, a man stood holding his wrists like the Escher print of hands drawing themselves. It would become his characteristic position. From forehead to jaw, his head was the same width as his neck. From shoulders to feet, he seemed constrained in a tight magic box, ready to be sawed in two. Put together, he comprised two rectangles stacked on each otherâa tall, abstract snowman. His pants were wet from the knee down. Despite that, Felicia presumed he was the doctor because he was a man, a white man, a middle-aged white man, wearing a pinstriped shirt, but it turned out he was only a man, a white man, a middle-aged white man, wearing stripes and gripping his wrists.
Unconscious, Edgar said.
Unconscious or sleeping? Felicia asked.
Unconscious, he repeated. He presented the woman in the other bed as proof of his medical expertise. My mother. Sheâs sleeping.
His motherâs mouth was open. There was brown industrial paper towel on her chest to catch the leaking saliva. She gave the impression of needing to be laced upâas if by pulling the strings of a corset one could restore her mouth, her skin, her posture, to their former attentiveness.
Sheâs not going to make it, Edgar said. He flicked the bag of intravenous solution with his middle finger, then looked for some change to register in his mother. Seconds later, she began coughing. Her cheeks filled with thick liquid as Edgar searched for a cup, her spittoon. Felicia happened to swallow at the same time as his mother and while looking at the lump go down the womanâs throat, she felt the phlegm go down her own. She pulled the collar of her coat tight around her neck.
Felicia turned back to her mother. Her mo...