The Return of Midwifery

Georgia is filled with aches – her left shoulder, her knees, and truth be told, her heart.

Her shoulder acts up more in the winter – a mix of tightness, cold weather, and other monstrosities she is sure.  She is left-handed so she figures that contributes to it all.  Lifting up her dead microwave and dumping it in the alley certainly didn’t help things.  Her knees she figures is just an aging situation – creak, creak, creak.  She discovered the other day that she can no longer squat not that she needs or wants to.  But still, not being able to squat is a thing.

Aging is not for the young, her father was wont to say.  Her mother had taken a more practical approach – you either die or you get old, she often said.  True, Georgia thinks now. True.  She hobbles to the kitchen for half of a cinnamon bun and brings it back into the living room.  She turns on the TV.  It is time for the news. 

President Trump, says the anchorwoman, has had his prison term reduced by two years and with time served, he should be out before Christmas 2020.

“What?! thinks Georgia.  She knew he’d wiggle out of it all somehow. 

Her heart actually hurt.  Not the hurt of a heart attack, she doesn’t think, but more the hurt of a deep and abiding sadness.  There is no getting around it – Georgia misses her mom, her sister, and even her niece.  And David, she misses David.  The last time she’d talked to him he was going to break up with John-John. 

“I’m just not happy,” he told Georgia over a muffin-doughnut at the Wacko World of Coffee on W. 4^th.  “I mean I love him but I don’t think I love love him anymore, you know?”

Georgia did know.  In 1987, she’d broken up with Ringo Eric Matthew (Matthew was his last name, a fact that seemed to confuse almost everyone) because in addition to his penchant for yodelling, something that had once been endearing, she found herself liking him less and less.  She loved him, the idea of him, had even entertained marrying again and taking his last name, but realized that she was more in love with love than in love with Ringo Eric Matthew.  After she dumped him, he’d taken up diving to deep depths of water without oxygen.  She’d gone to watch him once one summer afternoon out in the middle of Locarno Beach.  It was quite something to see but it also had stressed her out.  Recently she had tried to find him on Facebook and sure enough there he was, his profile picture showing a much older man with deep tan lines wearing a wetsuit.  His Facebook settings were pretty tight but she was able to see pictures of him on a horse and with a monkey.  A month later she received a friend request from him but quickly deleted it.

Georgia likes Etheline well enough but ever since Etheline had taken up ping pong, she had hardly been around.  Georgia enjoyed her alone time but somehow, it has been becoming a bit too much.

“In other news,” the anchorwoman said, “President Pence has denied responsibility for a wall being built between Winnipeg and Minot, North Dakota.”

Georgia stares at the TV.  She realizes that she wants there to be a wall separating Canada and the U.S.  That would be fine, she thinks.  That would suit me well.

She wonders if David might like to move back in.  It would be a bit of a squeeze, sure, but he could have a bed in her closet or sleep in the living room.  She doesn’t know if John-John will move out of their downtown apartment or David will.  She feels herself begin to smile and feels a bit lighter.  She opens her laptop and heads over to David’s page on Facebook.  She scrolls down. 

“Anyone looking for a roommate?” is his latest status. “Hit me up.”

La la la la la, Georgia thinks.  La la la!

She takes out her phone and dials his cell.

“Hey, Georgia,” David says.  “How’s it going?”

“Hi, David.  Hi, hi.  Hi.  Hi.  Look, I was just looking at your Facebook page.  Are you still looking to be a roommate?”

“Kind of, yeah.  I’ve looked at a few places but they’ve been expensive.  I need to move out before the 1^st of next month.”

“Well, gee, David, would you like to maybe move back in here?  I mean I have Etheline here but she is hardly ever here and it would be cheap for all of us.  And you know we can squish so many more people in here!”

“Really?” says David. “But you had told me that you were enjoying the quiet.  Something about never again with so many roommates.”

“Well, yeah, I did feel that way for a while.  But now I’m kind of, I don’t know, lonely.  You could sleep in the living room or you could sleep in my closet like my niece did.”

“Oh, well.  Let me think.  Well, maybe, yeah why not.  I don’t have much furniture really and your place is closer to my work.”

“Yes!  Much closer to your doula office.  And the SkyTrain so close too.”

“Hmmm.  This might work out!  I have kind of missed you too.”

“Great!  I can’t imagine that Etheline will mind but I will check.  She’d love the cheaper rent and as I say she’s not here very often.  I will ask her when she gets home tonight and get back to you.”

“Perfect, Georgia.  And I promise I won’t use my saw after 10 pm like I used to!”

“Well, okay then.  That settles it I think.”

“Hurray!” says David.

“Hurrah!” says Georgia.

That evening, Etheline puts a kibosh on the whole thing.

“I think it would be a bit too squishy, Georgia.”

“Not really. You are never here and David would probably be in my closet or else reading quietly out here.  He takes quick showers and is quite neat really.  He’ll do our dishes usually.”

“Oh?” says Etheline, her interest peaked.

“Yes, yes,” says Georgia, “And he’ll do yoga with you too.  He actually likes that kind of a thing.  He also knows CPR.”

“Oh?” says Etheline.

Georgia is sensing that Etheline is softening.

“He makes a mean trifle with soy beans.  It is really, really good.”

“Does he now?”

“He does now and in the future.  He is very generous food wise. And I promise – we won’t feel squished at all.  I’ve lived in this basement suite with up to six people in the past.  Now that was squishy.  David is quite compact.  Look, how about we just try it out for a month or two?  He’d be paying some of the rent so that would be so helpful, especially since your work has decreased and your ping pong tournaments have been increasing so dramatically.”

“Yes, at my level of play things do start to get a bit pricy tournament wise.”

“Exactly.”

Etheline invites Georgia to yoga

  Okay, continuing my out of order trend.  This is a very recent piece but it is before Etheline loses her job at YADM - Yoga and Drinking Don't Mix.  Etheline and Georgia are new roommates as Etheline has only recently moved into Georgia's basement suite (that she rents, not owns of course).

“Etheline?”  Georgia calls out to in the direction of the bathroom.

“Georgia?” comes a muffled response.

“Have you seen my latest New Yorker?”

“What?”

“My New Yorker.  It is the fiction issue and I was in the middle of a really really good story and now I can’t seem to find it.”

“No.”

“No, you haven’t seen it?”

“No, I haven’t seen it.”

The toilet flushes and Georgia instinctively recoils.

Etheline opens the bathroom door.

“Did you wash your hands?” Georgia instinctively asks.

“Of course.”

“Well that’s good.”

“I mean I used my anti-bacterial gel.”

“Oh, do we have that?”

“Well, I do.  I bring it everywhere I go.”  Etheline holds up a small bottle.

“So you don’t wash your hands?”

“I mainly use this.  I have to say, I haven’t had diarrhea in years and years.”

“Wow,” says Georgia, “That is truly remarkable.  I remember you told me that when I interviewed you about living here.  That is quite amazing.”  Georgia has the desire to pat Etheline on the back.  She resists.

“I attribute it to good clean living, yoga, and anti-bacterial lotion.  She holds up the bottle again and unexpectedly throws it at Georgia.  It hits her on the arm.

“Sorry, I thought you might want to see it.”

“I know what anti-bacterial soap is.”

“Oh, yes of course.  I know that.  Sorry, I thought you might catch it.”

“I wasn’t expecting it.”

“No, true.  That’s true.  Anyway, there is some of that vegan coffee cake in the fridge if you would like a piece.”

Georgia has already had several pieces, most small, off of the end so it wouldn’t be noticeable, that kind of thing.

“What was I saying?” asks Georgia.

“Something about …”

“About …”

“About…”

“The New Yorker.  Have you seen my New Yorker I was saying.”

“Oh that is right.  And I said no, no I hadn’t.”

“Ok.  Hmmm.  I hope I find it.  I was reading a great short story about a woman who makes little coffee cakes for a living.”

“Cute.”

“No, that’s just it.  I wouldn’t think that kind of story would be my thing but the character is so interesting and introspective.  She really knows herself.  And I was just at the part with the twist about the doctor having been wrong about her brain tumour.”

“Wow.”

“Yes she was at the doctor with her sister there for support and the doctor has just begun to tell her that she doesn’t in fact have a tumour.”

“Well, that must be a relief for her and her sister.”

“And that is the thing. The sister does not seem happy about this.  She seems to take it as an affront. At least that is how the main character observes it.”

“Well, where were you when you were last reading it?”

“I think, I’m pretty sure I was taking a bath.  Last night. You were out and so I was taking a long and enjoyable bath.”

“You were taking a long and enjoyable bath because I was out?”

“Well, I don’t like to do that when you are here because I don’t want to hog the bathroom.”

“Oh that is so nice.”

“Yup.  Okay, what were we talking about?”

“The New Yorker.  The bath.”

“Right, yes. Well, the last time I remember I was in the bath. Gosh, I was so relaxed.   No matter how poor, unemployed, fat, lonely, and/or distressed I am, oh also bored, a good New Yorker puts me right in the relaxation zone.”

“I feel that way about yoga of course and also being inside during a thunderstorm, especially at night.”

“Oh I like that too,” says Georgia.

Georgia and Etheline smile at each other. Georgia feels like it is a moment.

“I can’t seem to lose weight,” says Georgia, apropos of nothing.

“What? “Says Etheline.

“Sorry, I was just thinking aloud.”

“Well, that can happen” says Etheline. “At our early morning class especially people often randomly speak aloud.

“Really? “Says Georgia, “In yoga?”

“Yes we encourage that in certain classes. We call it flow with yoga. It is a chance to decompress and let out whatever is on your mind, within reason.”

“Within reason?”

“Yes. No swearing, racist, sexist or homophobic comments or attempts at converting anyone to your religion.”

“Wow. Does that happen?”

“You would be surprised. One fellow last year went on virulently about the coming apocalypse and the four horsemen, I believe it was.”

“Geez.”

“Yes, so we have a few rules in place. Also, no screaming. Inside voices we say.”

“Do you ever take this class?”

“Well, I’m usually busy either at the front desk or overseeing the bannock workshop but I have, yes.  It was very refreshing.  The unconscious mind brings a lot forward.  I spoke of a tree that was in the yard of the home I shared with my first husband.”

“Your first?”
“Yes.  Gosh, he has been dead now for what is it, 17 years? Yes 17 the month after next.”

“Oh, sorry you never said – “

“Well, no.  I mean we had been divorced for years when he feel off the trampoline. It was so random but isn’t that the way of life.”

“Wait a minute.  Was that in Vancouver – I seem to remember –“

“Well, there were two tramp accidents that year. His was in North –“

“North Vancouver!  Yes, of course!  He was the man who –“

“Fell off the trampoline onto the highway at the top of the cut.  Yes, that was Bob.”

“Oh my god – “

“It was quite the thing.  Laws were brought in after that. Bob’s Law – no more trampolines within so many metres of a highway or by way.”

“I remember this!  What a small world.”

“It really is, isn’t it?”

Georgia and Etheline smile at each other again.

“Well, I guess – I’m going to scour the bathroom again for my magazine.”

“I didn’t see it but you never know.”

“And then I will check my room again. It is a mystery.”

“A true mystery.”

“Etheline?”

“Georgia?”

“I really enjoyed our conversation.  It is nice to get to know each other better.”

“It is. You should come to our yoga and flow.  It’s a bit early at 5 am but since it is within walking distance …”

“Jesus,” says Georgia.

“Yes, a bit early.”

“If I have to get up for 5 am then I will wake up at 3 am in anticipation.”

“Oh, can you set your alarm?”

“It won’t make a difference.  My body will just wake up.  I guess I could just stay up but that seems a little – “

“Drastic .Do you have this class at any other time?”

“Yes 11:30 pm on every second Tuesday night and every full moon at 7:30.”

“

Take another little piece of my heart

 I just re-discovered this piece on an old flash drive.  Surprisingly, I didn't have to do much editing to it.  I like the tone and Georgia-ness of it.  Also so very true of what happens in the ESL teaching world.  Here is Georgia and Rick the one-legged surgeon.  Rick is a bit of a jerk in this one.  I never followed up on her encounter with the other man but perhaps I will.

Tonight is the night, Georgia says to the photocopier as she prepares her lessons for the next day.  After six months of unemployment, she has found a part-time job at one of the vaguely less shoddy English as a Second Language schools downtown.  She can make this shoddy judgment because she has now worked for a grand total of nine ESL  ‘colleges’, including one that shutdown two weeks after it opened. She never found out the exact reason behind the closure, she just knew that one afternoon, as she was teaching vocabulary of items in the house, the lights went out and an announcement was made over the loud speaker about a fire and a need to get out and bring all of their belongings.  By the time she had counted all of her students to make sure they were all there, the owners had locked up the building, put a note on the door and fled. 

Georgia only works two and a half hours a day now but is mildly hopeful that more work will come up.  One of the long term teachers may or may not have a tumour on his lip and Georgia figures he  very well have to take time off.

“Tonight, tonight, to – night,” Georgia sings, pumping her courage.

Rick, the one-legged surgeon she has been seeing for two months, has not made one move on Georgia, not a kiss on the mouth, not a peck on the cheek, not a hand on the small of her back.  Georgia is so attracted to him that she feels the hairs on her arms rise up whenever he stands close to her.  They are both still taking yoga – they’ve been promoted to pre-intermediate; well, Claudia, the instructor had suggested that Georgia might want to stay a fifth session in beginner but Georgia had balked, out of pride and out of wanting to see Rick more.    She doesn’t really enjoy the classes at all anymore but she loves the tea time she has with Rick in her basement suite after.  They also usually go out at least one time on the weekends – to a movie or dinner or to a pub concert on Commercial Drive.  Rick pays every time, saying he can claim her as a business expense.  “Huh?” Georgia asked the first time he made that quip.  Georgia doesn’t feel guilty because as a one-legged surgeon, Rick makes at least 10 times Georgia’s annual net income.  She knows that if she were still living in the United States, she would be eligible for food stamps.

Georgia has been patient waiting for Rick to initiate some physical contact.  She’s not, of course, a hundred per cent certain that he is interested in her that way but his sustained eye contact and generous compliments – he told her the other day that he liked her new haircut, when in fact she hadn’t done a thing to her short, dyed red head, nothing but forgotten to comb it – leads her to believe that he must want to be with her in some way.

He’s confident but so gentle that she decides that he is simply shy in this area.  She thinks if she kick-starts him, that he’ll take the ball and run with it.

“Balls,” says Georgia.  “Tonight we’ll have balls.”  With that she finishes her copying, goes into the teachers’ room to get her purse and says goodbye to a couple of the late Friday afternoon stragglers.

“Have a good weekend,” she says to Norm.

“You too,” he calls back, as he rolls a homemade cigarette.

“Oh my god I so will,” Georgia says and in a move surprising even to her, throws her hat in the air and catches it before it falls to the floor.

“To life!” she shouts, as she walks out the door.

“I’m going to ask him straight out,” Georgia says to herself in the mirror as she runs her fingers through her hair, trying to give it a little life.

“Rick, do you or do you not want to have sex?”

Maybe not have sex.

Make love.

Yes, that is better.

It is so the time.  There had been some speculation by Georgia’s cousin George, on his visit last month that Rick was gay.

“Or maybe,’ he added, “He’s just not that into you.”

But George is an idiot, thinks Georgia.  A former drug dealer turned former drug addict turned into his present incarnation, assistant head of a missionary Christian bike gang in Bellingham.  She knows that Rick is not gay as well as she knows that she is in love with him.  Not only has Rick been married before, for six years before his wife left him for a blind American veteran of the first Iraq invasion, but he has told her a few times that he finds women older than himself very attractive.

 “I mean, look at Sophia Loren or Helen Mirren.  Those are hot women and they really came into their hotness in their 50s.” 

Rick has been dropping hints for weeks, Georgia thinks, about his attraction to her.  The older women comments, telling her she has amazing eyes, complimenting her knowledge of left wing political heroes and her reading material.

“He just needs a little push,” she says and walks out into the living room where her roommate is watching TV.

“So, um, Rick is going to pick me up and we are going to go out to the Rime restaurant to hear Sarah Jane Morris.”

“Uh huh,” says her roommate, flipping channels.

“Okay, yeah, she’s an amazing folk singer from England that I’ve never heard but that Rick really likes so that is where we will be and we might come back here or I’m not sure we might go to his place.  Well, the show might go a bit late so I’m not really sure when I’ll be back.”

“Alright, Georgia,” says Richard, who has yet to turn away from the TV.

She has already figured out the logistics, loud sex wise.  While their basement suite is small, the two bedrooms are on opposite sides, Richard’s right by the kitchen and Georgia’s by the door.  She has never heard anything from Richard’s room and in a test last week; she taped herself screaming and played it in her room while she ran over to Richard’s.  She could hear it pretty well without any music on, but when she put on a CD at volume level 6 and above on her player, her screaming was almost completely muffled.  And that was loud shouting. If she and Rick were to have sex, she would force herself to keep it down.  And Rick was such a gentleman that she knew he would be considerate as well.  Or, better still, they could go to his place.  But he lived quite far away in West Van and the Rime was only two blocks from Georgia’s.  Tea at her house was a much more natural next step.

Rime is packed by the time Georgia and Rick get there, but they manage to find a cozy table for two in the corner.

“This is a cozy table for two,” Georgia says, and looks Rick in the eyes.  Then, feeling embarrassed by her brazenness, shifts her gaze to his artificial leg.  It’s a hot summer night, so Rick is wearing a pair of walking shorts.  Georgia is fascinated by the fact that he has no problem letting the world see his fake limb.

“Does your leg hurt tonight?” she asks him. “I mean, I mean, your stump?  Did you stand a lot today?”

“Nope, no surgeries.  So a lot of sitting in my office.”

“Oh good.  I don’t mean oh good you didn’t have any surgeries.  You are a surgeon, I’m sure you get off on surgery, like I get off on teaching.”

Oh god. 

“Anyway,” Georgia inhales.

“Would you like some wine?”

“Huh, oh yes, yes, good, yes wine please.”

By the time Sarah Jane Morris gets to the stage, Georgia has had three glasses of wine and shared a small plate of French fries with Rick.  She’s more thirsty than hungry and finds that, as always, the wine is making her feel more relaxed, even a bit sleepy.  If not for the hard pounding her heart is doing as she decides when would be a good time to talk to Rick about sex, she would be nodding off.

“Here she comes,” says Rick and starts to clap.

Sarah Jane Morris plays for an hour and Georgia finds that she loves the music.  The singer sounds like a latter day Janis Joplin and even throws in Take Another Little Piece of My Heart.

‘Baby, baby, baby!” Georgia sings along, getting louder and louder until the last baby is more of a shriek.  A man behind her taps her on the shoulder and Georgia turns to look at him.

“You are a good singer!” he tells her and even over the mania of the crowd she can hear that he has a thick Spanish accent.  No one has ever told her that she is a good singer before.

 “Thanks!” she smiles back, feeling emboldened.  She notices he is a good looking young man with strong cheekbones and deep brown eyes.

She looks at Rick but sees that he is enthralled by Sarah.  They haven’t talked much during the show because it is too loud and Rime is a small venue and no one is really chatting. Still, Georgia tried to engage Rick, her theory being that if she keeps his attention through the evening, her real question would be easier to ask.

“Georgia,” Rick finally said, “I really love this singer.  She’s so great, don’t you think?  Would you mind if we just listened for awhile?”

“Oh,” Georgia said, feeling tired suddenly. “Of course.”

She tells herself to not take that personally, Rick simply wants to listen to the music.  But the wine and her nervousness gets in the way of everything else in her brain and so when the waitress comes around, she orders a beer. 

She watches Rick watching Sarah Jane Morris, who is 55 if she is a day.  Her bright red hair whip along with her head whenever she moves, which is a lot.

Rick is in love with Sarah Jane Morris, Georgia thinks to herself.  Oh god.

 “You sing a lot?” the Spanish man asks her, leaning into her a bit.

“Oh, well, no, no,” she smiles and looks over for Rick, who has now gone up to the stage because the concert has ended and Sarah Jane Morris is preparing to leave.  There are other fans milling about but it is Rick who has her attention.

“Oh,” says Georgia, her insecurity from earlier in the evening returning.

She looks back at the youthful Spanish man.

“Where are you from?  I mean, I hear an accent.  Spain?”

“Huh?  No, no, Dominican Republic.  I moved here last year.”

“A bit different here for you?” she asks him, becoming enthralled with his eyes.  For his part, he is still smiling, his perfect white teeth bright against his brown face.

“Oh, it’s nice here for sure.  I like it.”

“Are you here alone?” he asks her.

“Huh,” says Georgia. “No, no not at all.  I’m here with, well over there with Sarah Jane Morris is my, um, my, with Rick, I’m here with Rick.  We are here together.”

“Oh,” says the Dominican Republic man. “Maybe that is too bad.”

“Really?” says Georgia, “Well, huh, well.”  She is blushing and noticing that she is making sounds similar to a girl giggling in the school yard.

“Who are you, you know, here with?”

“Oh, my brother, his wife, and her boyfriend.”
Oh, huh?  Her boyfriend?”
“I make a little joke there.  Actually, he is my cousin.”

“I see.  I see.”  Georgia is almost repulsed at how sexy she is finding the Dominican Republic man.  He’s at least ten years younger than Rick and 20 years younger than she is.  She has always, always loved Latin men and in her youth went to Cuba for three weeks.  When she returned, she was bruised from the wild times she’d had with a man named Eduardo.  She remembers that he had a dog named Donatella and a short round mother whose name she was never told.

It has been so long, years, since I’ve had male attention, she thinks, and now –

“If you live around here.” The man continues, “I would love to see you again.  We could talk about music and our lives.  We could meet for a drink do you think?”
Georgia actually pinches her leg, half-convinced she will wake up on the beach, having fallen asleep in the sun.  No such awakening happens and she is startled at the red mark she has left.

“We could,” she says, looking at the stage, seeing that Rick is making his way back to the table.

“Here,” she scrawls out her name and number on a napkin. “Call me if you like.”

The man takes the note. “I will, Georgia.  I am called Danny.”

“Okay then,” Georgia stands and looks at Rick who is completely back. 

“Well, should we go, Rick?”