I nodded. It looked to me like she was right, just as she usually was.
Another day passed and Daddy didn't return for his things. But sometime during the night, he did. I heard his truck and I heard the truck door slam. I waited, expecting to hear the sound of the screen door, but all I heard were his footsteps on the galerie. After a few moments, he shouted.
'You'll all be sorry! Hear! I ain't coming begging to live in my own home, no! You'll beg me to come back. You'll see!'
His voice reverberated. It sent shivers through me. Mama didn't get up or say anything. I heard the truck door slam shut and then I heard him drive away.
The darkness seemed thicker, the silence deeper. I took a deep breath and waited.
My eyes were still open when the first rays of sunlight peeked through the moss-draped trees, but Daddy was gone. It had a sense of finality to it. Mama sensed it, too. There was a funereal air about our home. More than once that day, both of us gazed at where Daddy's clothes had been, but neither of us mentioned his coming and going. Mama finally picked up one of his socks he had missed. She crushed it in her hand and dropped it in the garbage.
Her eyes were frosted with tears when she looked at me this time.
'Mama?'
She shook her head. 'I've really been a widow for a long time, Gabrielle. It's just that now, I'm mourning.'
I cried a lot that day. I cried for the daddy I never really had as much as the daddy who had left. I cried over the memories of the good times. I cried thinking about Mama's smile and the sound of her laughter. I cried for the sunshine and the warm breeze, the fiddle music and the steaming hot gumbos we once all shared. I remembered holding Daddy's hand when I was a little girl and looking up at him and thinking he was so big and so strong, nothing in the world could ever hurt me. I trusted his embrace when he carried me over the swamp and I had faith in everything he told me about the water and the animals.
He was a different man then. That which was good in him had its day, and maybe, because I was more like a boy than a little girl sometimes, he saw himself again and it made him feel good to reach back and be younger.
It's the death of a precious childhood faith when you become old enough to understand that the man you call Daddy isn't perfect after all. Then, desperate and afraid, you look elsewhere for your prince, for the magic.
He had come to me, just like in the Cajun fairy tale. One day he was there in the canoe, smiling, handsome, full of promises and hope, turning cloudy days to sunny ones and making every breeze warm and gentle. The world was once again filled with kisses and hugs, and once again I felt safe.
But now that was gone too.
Darkness came thundering over the swamp, rolling, seeping, thick and deep. We were drowning in it. I clawed out a little space for myself and curled up in bed, wondering what sort of a world awaited the child of love inside me. Being born was probably our greatest act of trust, our greatest faith. As we let go of the precious, safe world inside our mothers, we entered this one hopeful.
It's not really the mother who's expecting; it's the child, I thought.
I began to wish I could keep him or her forever inside me. That way there would be no disappointments.
I started to turn the corner, just as Mama had told me to do.
And I trembled.
And I was afraid.
And I had every reason to be.
15
Gone but Not Forgotten
Time dripped by like molasses. Sometimes the sun looked like a wafer pasted on the sky, barely moving toward the horizon. Everything began to irritate me: the days without the slightest breeze, the overcast nights shutting away the stars and the moon, mosquitoes and dragonflies circling madly over the water or the tall grass, the screech of a night owl. Things that I had barely noticed before or even enjoyed were suddenly oppressive.
Mama was right about my swelling up faster than I had during my previous pregnancy. I saw the bloatedness in my face and felt it in my legs. I tried to eat less and Mama bawled me out for that.
'It's not food that's doing this to you, Gabrielle. You can't diet like some lady worried about fashions. You need to keep up your strength,' she warned.
But it wasn't just worry about my plumpness that stopped me from eating the way I should. These days I had little interest in anything that had interested me before, and that included food as well. Mama did her best. She made all my favorite things. Most of the time I ate more than I wanted to eat just to please her. She knew it and shook her head sadly as I moved mechanically at the table and around the shack.
I couldn't shake off this shawl of depression, no matter how I tried. With the feud between Mama and Daddy growing worse and worse every passing day, and with every day passing without my hearing a word from Pierre, the world turned gray, the flowers dull. Even when the stars were out, they lost their twinkle and resembled nothing more than flat white dots staining a shroud of sable. All the songs of birds became dirges. The swamps never looked as gloomy, the Spanish moss draped like curtains closing off the light. My precious canal world had turned into a maze of loneliness and melancholy.
I spent my days working beside Mama and listening to her stories about people she treated for this or for that. She rattled on and on, trying to fill the deep silences that fell between us. To cheer me up she would talk about things we would do in the future. She even began to describe how we would change the shack to accommodate the baby.
