Small Ceremonies by Carol Shields

Author:Carol Shields [Shields, Carol]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Canadian Literature (English) Women Authors
ISBN: 9780986738845
Publisher: Open Road Media

After ten days I began to stay awake longer. The nights lost their nightmare quality, and the joints in my body tormented me less. I was cheered by a letter from my sister and wryly amused by another from my mother. Martin had phoned to tell her I was sick; she was not to worry if she didn’t get her weekly letter. Her letter to me was a harping scold from beginning to end. I did too much, she wrote. I wore myself out, wore my fingers to the bone. I should get Martin to take over more of the household chores. Meredith should be washing dishes at her age, and there was no reason she couldn’t take over the ironing. Richard could be more helpful too. But basically, I was at fault. I had done too much Christmas entertaining, she accused. Too much shopping, sent too many cards. I shouldn’t have invited Martin’s parents for New Year’s; they had a home of their own, didn’t they? And very comfortable too. And why didn’t Martin’s sister in P.E.I. have them for a change. I should forget about my biographies until the children were older and off my hands.

I read it all, shaking my head. It had always been that way. My sister and I had been scolded for every scraped knee – “I told you you weren’t watching.” There were no bright badges of mercurochrome for us – “Next time you’ll be more careful.” For diarrhea we were rewarded with “Play with the Maddeson children and what do you expect?” Even our childhood illnesses were begrudged us. I thought of Lala spooning aspirin into me on New Year’s night. And I recalled the first time I had met her. Martin had taken me home for a weekend to Montreal, and he had mentioned to his mother that he had a slight rash on the back of his hands. “Oh dear,” she had cried, “what a bother! That can be so irritating. Now let me see. I think I have just the thing. Just squeeze a little of this on, and if that doesn’t work we’ll just pop you over to the doctor.”

I had listened amazed; such acceptance, such outpouring concern. Such willingness to proffer cups of tea, cream soups, poached eggs on toast. Imagine!

And so, although I lie suffering in my arms, legs, stomach, sinus, throat, skin, ears, eyes and kidneys, I am, at least, free of guilt. It is incredible, but no one with the exception of my mother – and she is far away in her multihued bungalow in Scarborough – no one blames me for being sick. Indeed, they almost seem to believe that I am entitled to an illness; that I have earned the right to take to my bed.

I heard Meredith talking to Gwendolyn on the telephone, her voice arched with pride, saying that I had never been sick before. And when Roger dropped in one evening to bring me an armful of magazines, Martin

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