Shameless Woman
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
Fiction
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Moral rights
S.E. Saunders asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
External content
S.E. Saunders has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
Designations
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
Author's Note:
While the assertion above states the stories found in this book are fictional, I will include notes where the stories aren't fiction. This is the case with the following story. The story "Shameless Woman" is based on real-life events.
I started as a headstrong girl whose opinions about life were shaped by my observations of the world around me. I also swore an oath to be the exact opposite of my mother, and I'd like to think this is as normal as breathing.
We strive to be better than those we came from. We put them on pedestals. Then cry foul when we discover they're human too. I was ten when I learned that my mother wasn't the paragon of virtue I had envisioned her to be. I was still unprepared to comprehend her brokenness or the depths of distress she had endured.
I recently thought about how much she would hate that I'm writing these private things about us and her. It's a good thing I don't believe in ghosts.
Psychology teaches us that not everyone needs to hear your story. Stories like these can trap you in rumination. I see it differently. Writing these words feels like confronting a bully. Thoughts can act like bullies, telling you you're not smart, pretty, or talented enough. They mock you, hurling accusations that you're a bad writer and that no one would want to read these words. Exploring the past helps me understand how I ended up the way I am and how I show up in relationships. It also explains why Mom tolerated so many people walking all over her.
Mom was the product of a broken home, a latchkey orphan as her father worked to support their family of six children. My grandfather also served in the Second World War. My mother's mother was spoken of in whispers because she wasn't around to defend herself. Some said she ran off with a doctor and had another child. Others said she was certifiable—the insane kind. Knowing my grandfather terrorized my grandmother with a gun in his later years makes me wonder if the first wife went insane because he drove her there.
All families have stories hidden beneath their surface. It's up to the cycle breakers to bring them to the light so they can dissipate like smoke.
Mom was also a woman whose mother died in front of her after they reconnected when she was twenty-two. She carried these heavy burdens while living in an abusive marriage and battling the emerging symptoms of bipolar disorder. Yet, she kept these things from me. I lived in black and white, oblivious to the thousand shades of grey my mother walked in.
I'm drawn into a memory from my preteen years, and the recollection is a mix of joy and sorrow. One of exploration and first crushes. It's a warm day, and we're working in the backyard. Dad is building a deck off the back of our rented house. I hear my parents discussing a large cleaning job they'll do with my aunt and uncle. I try to conceptualize the extent of the job, but I can hear their exhaustion and thankfulness for the opportunity in their quiet conversation.
After years of living in apartments or a small holiday trailer, we're in a white stucco house. Here, we bought a bag of bad dog food. Weevils crawled up and out of the bag, covering the wall in the pantry. Mom's house was OCD-clean, and she nearly had a meltdown. Somehow, they scratched together enough money for fumigation.
This time in our history, we live next to an interracial family. The husband is Caucasian, and his wife is of Asian descent. I can hear them speaking Cantonese or Mandarin. They have a son about the same age as me. I won't name him for his privacy, but I recall him. I like to think they were a second family who showed me what a real family should look like. Perhaps some things went on behind their closed doors, but they were peaceful and lovely outside. I could feel it radiating off them.
Their memory imprinted on me so firmly I recognized the husband and their son at a bookstore I worked at several years later. The husband had come looking for a special edition magazine and left his name. I wondered if he recalled me running around in a white t-shirt on my front lawn. That house on 52nd Street was where I learned I couldn't run shirtless like the boys. Where I first felt shame, becoming mortified that I didn't know the need for covering in the first place. I was transitioning from a child to a young woman, and the unpleasant feeling stayed with me for a long time, like I didn't fit the skin I was born into.
It's a rare occasion that I'm allowed outside; even rarer, I'm invited to jump on the neighbour's trampoline. Our legs would drive into the mesh to eke out every inch of their strength so we could fly for a moment. I can see my bedroom window as I rise higher. Most of the time, these children are still outdoors laughing while I'm indoors. I play with my dolls and build empires when I'm supposed to be sleeping. I've read all the encyclopedias, using them to create mazes Barbie must traverse.
I'd have killed for Google back then. Knowledge for a curious mind available in milliseconds, curated at the smash of a key, would have been glorious to me. Instead, Barbie shares her first kiss with Ken while I reminisce about the boy across the street who kissed me on that same trampoline. We are both too young to take anything seriously. I remember his name, too, and I was crushed when he and his family moved to Ontario.
Dad and I would drive his Austin Mini down a sidewalk and into the field. It was the first time I saw his funny side.
Later, Mom is looking on in secret while I play with Ken and Barbie. The conversation was straightforward and concise. I am informed of the origin of babies in a brusque and cold manner. It leaves me disturbed and feeling violated. To me, Barbie and Ken are still discovering one another. They have a platonic relationship and exchange innocent kisses, but to my mother, this was the time for me to learn about them. I'm also informed that adults are expected to wait until marriage before engaging in intimate activities with their partners.
My parents would divorce later that year, and we would begin to live some half-life. Mom got a job. Shortly after, I discovered Mom was pregnant by another man. As a child, your parents mustn't be hypocrites. I question how my mother arrived in her current state, given that she wasn't divorced from my dad. How indeed. She has become the epitome of a shameless woman, and I cannot see how she can teach me one thing and do another. It is illogical.