Cooper With My Back to the World

1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-1-989496-19-0
Verlag: Wolsak and Wynn Publishers Ltd
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 376 Seiten

In an ambitious, yet intimate novel set in Taos, New Mexico, and Hamilton, Ontario, Sally Cooper explores unexpected motherhood, creativity, race, love and faith. With My Back to the World tells the stories of three women: Rudie, who is editing a documentary in Hamilton in 2010; historical artist Agnes Martin, who decides in 1974 after seven years' exile in New Mexico to begin painting again; and Ellen, a black woman burying her husband in 1870 on an Ontario homestead. Each of these women is waiting for the arrival of an unexpected child and their interconnected stories explore how society's, and our own, ideas of what it means to be a woman, a mother and an artist change over time. Evocative and introspective, With My Back to the World tells the complicated stories of how different women find faith in themselves in extraordinary circumstances.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Cooper, Sally

Leseproben

RUDIE

She was becoming a mother tonight, six months ahead of schedule. January instead of June. Under a dirty dawn sky, Rudie thumped the bundle buggy against the salted, icy steps as she descended to the sidewalk. She could use the car, but her legs needed to move. No skateboarders rolled past today. A white Scottie dog studied her from a bay window. Rudie headed toward the lake – north, not south like when she lived in Toronto. It seemed unreasonable that the world around her hadn’t changed.

A pigeon cooed as she turned onto James Street. In a couple of days, she’d walk Roselore here, pointing out the café’s mirrored windows and the barbershop’s ceramic clowns. They would pass neon stickers plastered on street signs that read Sex Workers are Members of Our Community. Look at the tomato and meat mincers! Rudie would say. What pretty white communion dresses and shiny gold crosses! Look at the bright yellow safety vests! Cigarette butts and pats of gum littered the snow-dusted sidewalk. Farther down, buildings wearing cupolas and intricate brickwork screamed potential – she thought of Toronto’s Queen Street, what it had been and what it was now, wondering if Hamilton’s James Street could be the same. She was practised at visually altering what stood in front of her, at seeing restored versions of decrepit structures. A rat ran along the wall, but Rudie’s glimpse of the naked street didn’t last. Potential could become real. She had proof. And it could happen without any pushing or cajoling. The rat turned a corner. He would run to the lake, swim to the railway yard, some place away from people. He’d do fine. Rudie could distract her daughter when that happened, teach Roselore to see the pleasures that drew her mommy and daddy to this place. Mommy and Daddy! Rudie lingered in the sweet custard scent outside Delicioso, the Portuguese bakery – she’d buy Roselore a tart and they’d sit at the round table in the window – and held her breath past a cluster of smokers outside the Men’s Club, packed although it wasn’t yet 8:00 a.m. It was too late to cancel Dylan. Her daughter was coming home. She didn’t plan to tell him about the adoption, but she didn’t want to miss the chance to see him, either. More men stood outside a crowded billiards room. Taran Yang Gallery was showing sculpted cupcakes decorated with beads and satin ribbons. Each hid one flaw, like a worm or mould spot. The fish market smell, with its note of sewage, hit her. Two RCAF corporals in blue serge forage caps and parkas passed as the wind rose, and her eyes teared up. This evening, she’d board a plane bound for Ottawa. The first chance she got, she’d scoop Roselore into her arms and ask her forgiveness for this unrealized street.

Rudie had been adding chipotle to a chili almost two weeks ago when the radio reported an earthquake in Haiti. The burner flame crackled with spilled pepper as she fumbled for her phone.

A month earlier, Ann Hepner from Forever Families Agency had called with a match for Leo and Rudie: a daughter, Roselore, who had spent twenty-two of her twenty-eight months in the Angels’ Wings Crèche in Port-au-Prince. Ann explained it would take time to push through the Haitian and Canadian paperwork. Leo could finish shooting the season of Down East Gran in Nova Scotia, and Rudie could edit her film about abstract painter Agnes Martin. “Plan for June,” Ann had said. They’d been planning for June.

Rudie opened up Twitter, heart thudding as she scrolled through reports of the Presidential Palace collapsing, people flooding the streets in distress.

The phone vibrated. Leo.

“Ann left a message,” he said. “She’s doing everything she can to get through.”

“How is Roselore? I can hardly breathe.”

“All the power’s out. I’ll keep phoning.”

“What if it happened right where …”

“Don’t. What about Makenly?”

“Oh God! I wonder how he is?” She hung up and flipped off the gas. She, Leo and Makenly Saintil had all met years ago at an artists’ residency. When they decided to adopt from Haiti, she’d contacted Makenly in New York and again before Christmas when the agency matched them with Roselore. He taught in Haiti now, in Pétion-Ville, near Port-au-Prince.

She checked his Facebook page. He’d grown a goatee, trimmed his hair, his smile rakish, his glasses dark-framed. His background photo showed a sunlit, turquoise lagoon fronting a low, treed mountain and storm-rocked sky. He hadn’t posted since the weekend.

The next day, Rudie had read all the newspapers, kept the TV on CP24, the kitchen radio tuned to CBC. Images of rubble and reports of devastation rolled over her, often with the same wording repeated. Was Roselore with someone safe, who knew her? Where was Makenly in all the chaos? That evening, Makenly posted a fifty-second video on a global charity’s YouTube channel. The camera scanned what appeared to be a collapsed bridge, people in sagging T-shirts and shorts walking in circles, perching on the ruined concrete – children, men, women. Upended trees. Holes. Rubble. Rebar.

Ann had phoned the following morning. Less than forty-eight hours had passed since the quake.

“Sorry I was out of touch,” she said. “I lost your number.” Did Ann not have call display? “Everyone at Angels’ Wings made it, though the building’s cracked. The children are sleeping in tents in the driveway but are unharmed. We’re planning to go down there, bring aid.”

“How is Roselore?” Rudie cleared her throat. “Who’s taking care of her?”

Ann’s voice softened, slowed. “Reports are good, Rudie. The nannies are with the children. I’ll tell you as soon as I know.”

Ann flew down on the Saturday, four days after the quake. Rudie studied images of the Presidential Palace crumbled in on itself, its dome askew. She read about dust from collapsed buildings and hoped her daughter and her friend could breathe. When Ann called again last Monday, Rudie’s throat tingled and tightened. “Roselore is safe,” Ann had said then. “Very safe, you’ll be happy to know.” Rudie’s chest filled with a rush of energy so intense she forgot to ask for more details, instead repeating, “Thank you,” over and over.

“I meant to bring down pictures,” Ann added. “But I forgot. We can try mailing when things get sorted.” She hung up before Rudie could respond.

Makenly posted again: Helping my buddy Clifford at Muncheez, getting the manje to the people.

Rudie emailed him: Do you remember me from Taos? My daughter is at Angels’ Wings Crèche. Can you find her for me? Her name is Roselore. Rudie paused. Ann had never told them Roselore’s surname.

From the first night of the earthquake, Leo and Rudie spent hours on the phone when he wasn’t shooting. Should they charter a plane? Fly down themselves?

Rudie studied the papers, watched the news. Nine days after the earthquake, the US military airlifted fifty-three Haitian children to Pittsburgh, then offered humanitarian parole to orphans already placed with parents prior to the earthquake. She read that authorities had caught Baptists from Idaho smuggling Haitian children to the Dominican Republic with plans to adopt them out. Many of those children were not orphans. The missionaries had kidnapped the children. “Roselore isn’t an orphan either,” Leo pointed out when Rudie told him her worries about losing track of their daughter. He was right. The agency had matched her with Rudie and Leo before the earthquake struck. Still, she worried.

This morning, Makenly had written back:

I do remember you, Rudie.

I am spending my days helping my zanmi, who set up his restaurant as a soup kitchen. My house is intact, most of my street. My parents flew to Fort Myers last week, but I’m sticking it out. Our pantry is stocked with tomato sauce and pasta!

I need more information to find your daughter. All sorts of people down here are coming forward, saying children belong to them, claiming to do God’s work. Be wary of this. The offer is still open for you and Leo to stay here when you come.

Fondly,

Makenly

Rudie trembled, but assured herself that Ann would watch out for Roselore. She remembered Makenly’s honesty when she’d told him their plan to adopt from Haiti. He’d said he supported them but confessed to wishing all children could stay safe in Haiti with their families. He did agree with them, however, that children thrived in families rather than orphanages. Rudie replied to his email, telling Makenly that she admired him for staying.

She’d been asleep for only a few hours when Terry Sommerville from Canadian Immigration called. It was five fifteen.

“We’ve arranged a temporary resident permit and waived the processing fees,” he said. “Your child …” papers shuffled “… Roselore is arriving in Ottawa at six o’clock tonight on Air Canada Flight 1252.”

Rudie held her breath. She turned on a lamp and sat up against the headboard. The...