Waves

By Diane Girard

Diane Girard writes short stories, longer fiction, poetry and essays. Her short fiction has appeared in Ten Stories High and the Plum Ruby Review and her essays have been published on Senior Women Web. Her non-fiction, pen-for-hire work focussed on seniors housing issues. She lives in Kitchener, Ontario.

 

"Threads of empathy and quiet observation run through Diane Girard's stories. In them, we meet men and women who are marginalized, alone, and struggling. Girard explores their lives with kindness, with humour, and always with respect. Waves is a thought-provoking and memorable collection."

-- Lori Hahnel, author of Vermin: Stories.

 

Excerpt from Waves

Rose went to the living room and stopped in front of the easel. She didn't know if the shapes on the canvas were waves, or trees. Vague almost threatening blue and grey-green forms overwhelmed the small square space. They spilled into each other and over the edges. She couldn't figure them out. When she returned to the kitchen, she said. "Your pictures, your paintings I mean, they tell me stories. But I'm not sure about that one."

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Diane Girard
• Release date: May 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201903831

Book preview

WAVES

Stories

––––––––

Diane Girard

Copyright © 2021 Diane Girard

All rights reserved.

Contents

Thirty-Day Wonder

Unlocked

Peach Fuzz and Sunflowers

The Brush

Keeping Nathaniel

The Prevalence of Chocolate

Dream Shards

Stay A While

Smaller

Waves

Sylph

Acknowledgements

I have a sense of these buried lives striving to come out through me to express themselves.

Marge Piercy

To Lori Hahnel, Nancy Mulhall, and

Sharon Snitman with profound thanks.

Thirty-Day Wonder

Fern had the jitters bad. Her gaunt body vibrated as she hovered near the subway turnstiles and watched the evening rush-hour crowd buzz past her into the Spadina station. She needed a token but couldn’t beg for one—she didn’t look the part. Her tan leather handbag had no wear marks. Her black denim jacket and jeans were clean but too thin for the early spring evening. With her trendy clothes and her long, frizzy blond hair, she could be mistaken for a University student, but her huge dark-blue eyes were no longer innocent. It was day 26. She had to get to a meeting or she would use, or jump off the Bloor viaduct.

The subway guard had been watching her and now he approached her. She should leave but where could she go? She tried to think but her body said, I want, I want.

Are you okay Miss? You don’t look well. He sounded concerned.

Fern kept her head down and her voice low. I have to get to a meeting.

What meeting?

She could feel his eyes on her but he didn’t move closer. Be honest, there’s nothing to lose. Narcotics Anonymous.

I don’t know where they meet but there’s an A.A. group by Convocation Hall. It starts at seven. My shift is almost over.  If you can hold on a few minutes, I’ll buy you a coffee and walk with you.

Fern stared at him. He was probably sixty and on the heavy side. She could smell his aftershave, the same brand her father used before he learned it was passé. The man seemed harmless, but she could be wrong. She had been wrong too often.

Why would you do that?

Because, like the kids say—been there, done that. He grinned like a plump friendly seal. His gray whiskers twitched and he patted her arm. You hang tight, I’ll sign out and be back in ten minutes.

Her arms trembled and she hugged herself for warmth, for some little comfort. She wiped her nose with her last tissue. The people at the hospital’s detox unit said she was lucky. Lucky the cocaine hadn’t blown a big hole in her septum. Lucky she still had her teeth. Just plain lucky all around for someone who had started by snorting cocaine and when she couldn’t afford it had sunk to smoking adulterated crack. Fern stopped believing in much after she had the stroke. A small one, sure, but she had trouble reading and trouble remembering things, but only some things. She could recall pawning Gran’s jewellery, writing cheques on her father’s bank account and a long, ludicrous list of petty crimes unworthy of a girl raised in Rosedale and meant to live the good life.

That’s how her father had referred to it. I want you to have a good life, the life I couldn’t have when I was young. The mountain of her father’s expectations had pressed on her until she cracked under the weight of it and ran.  Now, she could sense she was slipping down and down, far too close to ‘poor me’ territory. She looked around frantically for the guard. A minute later he returned and escorted her to the coffee shop. When they were seated he added four sugars and three creamers to his cup as Fern gawked at the amount.

I have a sweet tooth, he said. Lots of alcoholics do.

I guess.

It’s not easy, is it?

No. That whole take-it-easy crap gets on my last nerve.

Sure. I remember when all those damn slogans made me want to puke. His eyes twinkled.

Fern almost smiled, almost, but instead she sipped her coffee and asked his name.

Stan.

I’m Fern.

Pleased to meet you, Fern.

How long have you been clean? she asked.

I celebrated my twenty-five year sobriety anniversary last Tuesday.

Wow!

It’s just a number and some days are still harder than others. What about you?

Twenty-six days, five hours, and, she looked at her watch, sixteen minutes.

You know the saying.

Yeah sure, but for me it’s one minute at a time nearly all the damn time. It’s different when you’ve done coke.

Is that so? I don’t know exactly what coke does to you; but I know what alcohol did to me. My wife left me when I couldn’t stop drinking and my kids wouldn’t see me. I spent some time in the Don jail too, but that’s probably small potatoes. I have scars and they slow me down some. All I know is what helps me.

Can’t argue with that, Fern said.

Sure you can. Go right ahead if it’ll make you feel better. Stan’s smile got wider and further under her skin.

Sorry.

Don’t be. You’re pissed at the world, right?

Fern began to cry then, out of frustration and anger. I keep trying but it’s getting harder, not easier.

Stan handed her a clean handkerchief. Better than dying, isn’t it?

That’s a helluva a way to put it, Fern thought. Yeah maybe.

We should go now, if you want to be on time, he said.

When they reached the door of the building he said, The meeting’s in Room 204.

Aren’t you coming in?

I have to see one of the people I sponsor tonight.

Oh. She wanted to ask him to stay but she couldn’t.

One more thing. He took her hand, gently pressed five subway tokens into her palm and closed her fingers over them. Put these in your pocket.

She almost refused; but it dawned on her through the fog of her longing that he had withheld the tokens to make sure she would go to the meeting.

Thanks.

It’s nothing. I work afternoons at Spadina station. If you want to have coffee and a chat, stop by.

* * * *

The Alcoholics Anonymous meeting was what she expected. A few zoned-out students, some men who looked like professors and a couple of street people she recognized. She knew if she needed to talk she could, but no one pushed her into conversation. She took in little of what the speaker said and tried to stay sane. At the end of the meeting, the group recited the Lord’s Prayer. Fern said ‘Our Father,’ thought of hers and wished for some magic that would change her world. She felt unconnected to her higher power, whatever it might be, but she mumbled the rest of the prayer along with everyone else.

She needed to save her subway tokens for the next day, so she started the walk home to her shabby rented room on the eastern edge of the Annex. When her father first heard about her stroke, he tried to give her an apartment in one of the buildings he owned but she had refused it. He accused her of unjustified pride. Too ashamed was more like it.

The wind sliced through her jacket and chilled her. It made her want oblivion. She took a shortcut through the alley and was halfway home when she heard heavy footsteps behind her. Hands grabbed her throat. The man pressed himself against her back as he choked her. She could hardly breathe but instinct made her try to turn to face him. She got partway around, then jerked her knee up and hit him in the groin. He let go with a howl. Fern ran three blocks then fell to the icy pavement. She was out of breath and her heart pounded as if she had run a three-minute mile.

When she could breathe without gasping she struggled to