Recognizing the Signs

Saturday, February 6, 2016

The day had barely begun, and exhaustion had already defeated me. I hadn’t slept more than two hours in a row in weeks. My brain felt disconnected from my body, as if I had to remind myself how to walk, to blink, to breathe. I shuffled into the nursery wearing a nightshirt crusted with dried breast milk and the new slippers Peter gave me for Christmas—open-toe slip-ons with great poufs of pink faux fur that make no damn sense in a Winnipeg winter. 

The humidifier near the crib sprayed a fine mist into the air. Olivia was snorting softly, revving up to croak her distress. I scooped her from the crib. Her onesie was damp, and her wriggling body radiated heat against my chest. What was a good mother to do? 

The answer was in the morning newspaper spread open on the kitchen table next to Peter’s coffee mug. The headline of the Winnipeg Herald screamed the alert. An unkindness of ravens was blackening the skies over The Health Sciences Centre, where Olivia was born fourteen weeks earlier—a clear sign from my grandfather, who was summoned to Valhalla last fall. He had promised that Odin’s spirit ravens, Huginn and Muninn, would swoop in to protect me and my baby when the time came. 

Peter snuck down the hall into the home office, his iPhone pressed to his ear. He was up to something. Again. I leaned against the door frame, just out of sight. His words were muffled, as if he were hiding his mouth behind his hand. “She hasn’t showered or changed out of her pyjamas in days.” 

He was complaining to his mother. She never liked me. She was probably the one who picked out those stupid slippers, hoping to turn me into a woman she could relate to. After a moment, Peter continued. “Last night I found her in the bathroom, staring in the mirror, muttering to herself.”

Of course, I talked to myself. Nobody else was around to listen to me. Peter returned to work when Olivia was three days old, leaving me to manage a newborn, the house, and Jacob. At thirteen, Jacob was more interested in his friends than his new sister, and he’d been zero help to me. 

“Of course, I’m worried,” said Peter.

If he were worried, he’d have listened to me when I said I was too old to be pregnant and raise another child. I felt like Gríðr, the Norse giantess who tried to warn Loki about impending doom but who was ignored, just as Peter ignored me. The caregiving burden was going to crush me and my baby. 

“We were down this road with Jacob. Only this time she’s worse,” said Peter. 

What a liar. This wasn’t about me. It was about Peter. He wanted a perfect family, and I needed to do better. That’s what he told the marriage counsellor before I got pregnant (which wasn’t part of my plan. Let’s be clear about that.) 

“I don’t think we have a choice.” Peter’s voice cracked. Another Oscar-worthy performance, but I was wary of his tricks. He’d been acting weird for days. This conversation was proof that he and his mother were scheming against me. 

I kissed Olivia’s sweaty crown. Her hair smelled like damp feathers. I stepped away from the door just as our son pounded down the hallway. Roaring into puberty, Jacob’s jaw protruded in a persistent state of insolence. “Why do I have to go to Grandma’s? It’s so boring. Why can’t I go out with my friends?” 

I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t recall any plans to visit Peter’s mother, but I had trouble remembering to eat.

Peter emerged from his office. “Ready to go, little man?” 

Jacob groaned with an exaggerated neck roll. “Dad! Stop calling me that. I’m almost as tall as you.” He trudged into the front hall and yanked on his coat and boots. Was Jacob in on the plan, too? He rarely gave in so easily.

Peter frowned at me. “Olivia’s still in her onesie. Why isn’t she dressed and in her snowsuit? You know my mother is expecting us.” 

Olivia fussed softly as I tightened my hold around her. I tried to sound reasonable. Peter would have no cause to call me crazy. “She’s staying with me. Can’t you see she’s sick? She needs her rest.” 

Peter looked irritated, but his tone remained calm. He stepped forward, his tall frame looming over me. “She’s fine, Annika. It’s just a runny nose. It’s you who needs some rest. Now, let me take her.” He extended his arms, ready to snatch Olivia away. 

“No, you’re not taking her.” My shriek startled Olivia. She whimpered, and her tiny legs kicked my soft belly in protest. 

When I turned to run for the nursery, Peter grabbed my elbow. “What’s gotten into you?” 

I jerked my arm from his grip and punched my fist into his chest. “Get away from us.” I stumbled weak-kneed down the hall, steadying myself against the wall to keep from falling. Once inside Olivia’s room, I leaned, short of breath, against the door, and patted the baby’s bottom. “Mommy’s got you. We’re safe now.”

The front door slammed shut, and I watched from the nursery window as Peter backed our Lexus onto the snowy street. Things made sense now. He’d planned to take Jacob and Olivia to his mother’s. Then he was going to call Dr. Pasloski and have me committed, like after Jacob was born, when I was diagnosed with postpartum depression. But that’s not what’s happening this time. He’s been planning to leave me since before I got pregnant. He would file for custody, and I’d never see my babies again. I’d foiled his grand plan, but I needed to get some sleep so I could plan next steps.

Fear, or maybe it was anger, propelled the old oak rocker back and forth as I cradled Olivia in my arms until my heart stopped hammering against my ribs. I kissed Olivia’s forehead and whispered, “Sleep tight, min lilla böna,” as I lay her in the crib, tucked the white baby blanket under her chin, and left the nursery door ajar. 

After that, my memories are jumbled; some vivid, most murky. I remember an exploding pain in my left temple that felt as though my eyeball was going to extrude from its socket. A rainbow of relief in the medicine cabinet beckoned me. A couple more headache pills. Then some cold medicine—the kind people take at night to help them sleep. I needed to sleep. If one was good, and two were better, then three would do the trick. I slurped cold water from my cupped hands and gulped down the pills. Too tired to count, I shook a few Ativan into my palm. I’m not sure how many I took. If anyone deserved relief from all the chaos Peter created, it was me. I probably turned off the ringer on my iPhone before falling into bed and pulling the duvet over my shoulders. But I can’t be certain. 

---

The late afternoon sun prowled the edges of the window, threatening to gouge my eyes out of my head. The damn drugs parched my mouth, but it wasn’t the usual medication hangover either. Bloody scratches etched my chest and upper arms, like I’d been in a fight with a hawk. 

Other things didn’t make sense. This wasn’t my bed; the sheets were itchy. Where was I? The answer clanged nearby as a rolling metal cart interrupted the institutional hum. The stomach-churning odour of overcooked hospital food wafted past my nose. I opened one eye. A pimply-faced kid wearing a hairnet slid a tray onto my bedside table. “Annika Wallin? Your supper is here.”

Hot bubbles of anger prickled my skin. My limbs were leaden as I pushed myself into a sitting position. “What’s going on? Where’s Olivia?” 

The kid’s face was vacant. “I just bring the meals, ma’am. You’ll have to ask your nurse.” 

“Are you kidding me?” I whipped back the bedsheets. “Get the hell out if you can’t answer a simple question.” I shoved the over-bed table with such force that it tipped over, the plastic wheels spinning. The supper tray lifted into the air, and splattered a gross fusion of hot tea, peas, gravy, and mashed potatoes across the floor. 

The kid backed away, eyes wide, alarm in his voice. “Nurse! Code White.”

“Oh, shit.” When I was in hospital after Jacob was born, I’d witnessed a Code White. I knew the routine, and so, apparently, did my terrified roommate, who scurried from the room in fear of the firestorm about to erupt. I tried to look harmless by holding myself upright and motionless, on the edge of the bed, so they’d ask me why I was upset, and I could tell them about Peter’s deception. Maybe they’d see I hadn’t intended to overreact. 

When three stern-faced brutes burst through the open door, ready to pounce and restrain, I knew that wasn’t gonna happen. The first nurse through the door slipped on the supper slurry, her arms flailing before a second nurse caught her elbow, preventing her fall. The tension in the room escalated. The third nurse issued commands, and the three surrounded my bed. 

My eyes shifted from one nurse to the next, pleading for a moment to speak. I held up my palms. “Wait. Listen. Please. I just want to know what’s going on. How I got here.” The nurses were in no mood to put up with any negative outbursts, no matter how justified I was. One nurse grabbed my hands. “Annika, this is the second time today. Get a handle on yourself.” 

What was she talking about? The second time? I swatted away her hand. “Stop. What are you doing?” When another nurse grabbed my ankles, I yelled, “Don’t touch me!” My shoulders were pushed flat against the mattress. A chorus of voices shouted, “Lie still. Stop kicking. Don’t spit.” My left shoulder and wrist were pinned to the mattress, and fingers pinched my upper arm. Then came a cold swipe and a sharp jab. A whiff of astringent lingered in the air. The nurse’s voice was shrill. “Try to relax.” I smirked. The needle-wielding nurse needed to take some of her own advice. 

There was no sense in fighting. My muscles slackened under the heavy pressure of their stiff-armed clench on my shoulders and ankles. With my head tilted toward the window, I saw the barren tips of tree branches shiver in the winter wind. 

A minute passed. Then two. Then five. My head sank deeper into the pillow. Random thoughts swirled. Was this Muninn, my spirit raven, releasing memory bubbles as he flew over my hospital bed? A diaphanous image rippled into a clear vision. 

I was at home, asleep in my bed. For how long, I didn’t know. Twenty minutes? Thirty, maybe. Olivia’s cries pierced the silence. I staggered toward the nursery; my arms outstretched to grasp for each door frame to maintain my balance. The hallway seemed so long.

Olivia lay red-faced and kicking in her crib. Her mouth was a howling O, like I’d abandoned her. She needed comfort, but I needed sleep. I couldn’t take her to my bed because the doctor said a mother could smother her baby if she fell asleep and rolled over on her. My brain cells were wads of cotton batting. I didn’t know what to do. 

Muninn spoke in a deep gurgle. “Take the child to the family room, Annika. Lie on the sofa. You will be safe there.”

Olivia’s body was a hot coal burning through my nightshirt as I elbowed my way down the hall. One careful step at a time, through the kitchen, past the breakfast dishes, and into the family room, I collapsed on the sofa and cradled Olivia, chest to chest, with her face tucked into the crook of my neck. I rocked side to side, both arms wrapped across her sweaty body, and hummed my grandfather’s favourite Swedish lullaby, Fly little raven into the sky. 

Her wails invaded every cell. The more vigorously I rocked, the more she howled. My body vibrated with each high-pitched cry. Nothing soothed her. 

Huginn and Muninn hovered above me, their wings unfurled, casting a dark shadow over my body. Muninn, with the gift of memory, pecked above my left eye. “Your grandfather knows you have struggled. He sent us and hundreds of others to watch over you and your daughter. We recognize Olivia by her white skin, her golden hair, and the serpent birthmark on her hip.” I stroked my daughter’s leg. “You are a brave giantess, and you must save Olivia, just as Gríðr saved Thor. Help her escape to Valhalla, where your grandfather will protect her.” 

Muninn projected an image behind my eyes: My grandfather in the middle of a vast wheat field near his farm, just as the ravens lifted him into the afterlife. Why was Muninn taunting me with this memory? They had stolen my grandfather before I was ready to say goodbye. “Death isn’t always a gift, Muninn.” 

The raven pecked my eyebrow again. “This is a treacherous world. Peter is planning to steal Olivia away from your protection. You must do what is right.” 

I tightened my embrace. Olivia’s pudgy fingers yanked at my nightshirt. I wondered if something was wrong, but Huginn, with the gift of thought, heard my question and assured me Olivia’s arms were beating like wings preparing to fly to Valhalla. “Tighter, Annika. Hold her tighter,” he urged.

Peace settled over my body as I wedged Olivia’s feet between my thighs and held her snotty nose more firmly into the fleshiness of my neck. Olivia’s bird-like shriek prepared to sing in unison with the ravens. She sucked on my skin and gasped for breath, filling her lungs in preparation for her long flight to the afterlife. “Fly, min lilla böna.” Louder and tighter, I sang and rocked as the last vestiges of fear emptied from my fingertips.

Another shadow appeared. Sharp talons pierced my skin and gouged deep scratches in my shoulders and arms as two hands jerked Olivia from my arms. A baritone voice shouted at me. “What the fuck are you doing, Annika?” 

The boundaries between the soft family room sofa of my memory and the cold hospital bed of my present merged as I sped backwards into a dark tunnel. All I could see before me was what I was leaving behind. Ever faster, the view shrank. A mismatch of sounds followed me into the crevasse. Peter shouting. A nurse soothing. A baby crying. 

Muscles surrendered. Fists relaxed. My brain cells absorbed into a pillow. The edges of my body merged into the mattress. 

I was in free fall. 

Down. And down. And gone.

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Diana L Gustafson is an academic and creative writer. She was born on a farm in the Canadian Midwest and has lived and worked in communities across the country. During her twenty years as a health researcher, she published dozens of articles (and three books), many about mothering and women’s health. She has published flash fiction, speculative fiction, memoir, and cultural criticism.