Pick - Between Gods

Copyright 2014 Alison Pick

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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Pick, Alison, 1975-, author
Between gods : a memoir / Alison Pick.

ISBN 978-0-385-67788-2

eBook ISBN 978-0-385-67789-9

1. Pick, Alison, 1975-. 2. Authors, Canadian (English)21st centuryBiography. I. Title.

PS8581.I2563Z63 2014 C813.6 C2014-903129-7

C2014-903130-0

Cover design: Five Seventeen
Cover image: Patient Ward, Kankakee State Hospital, Kankakee, Illinois, 2007. Christopher Payne

Published in Canada by Doubleday Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, a Penguin Random House company

www.randomhouse.ca

v3.1

For Ayla
and for Lynn

When I looked for light, then came darkness.

Job 30:26

Stand by the roads and consider; inquire about ancient paths: which way is good? Travel it and find rest for your soul.
Jeremiah 6:16

P AIN DISAPPEARS. T HESE YEARS LATER not even so many of themsummoning the details is hard: what exactly it was that made me feel so alone, so outside myself and my life, so lifeless I no longer wanted to be alive. To say I wanted to kill myself implies a will, a volition I certainly didnt have. But to be mercifully dead?

Oh yes.

It was dark that year. All year. I cried when Degan left for work in the mornings, terrified of the solitude I have relished my whole life. In my memory, I see myself standing on our back porch in a perpetual dusk, filling my lungs with smoke as though at the base of some terrible chimney. In fact I know I kept rules for myself, smoking only one cigarette a day, or maybe one a week. Maybe I never smoked at all. But looking back, I remember one long smoking binge and an accompanying desire to be obliterated.

Good things did happen during that time. I landed a big publishing deal; I got married. But what I remember is the way my heart raced when I found myself awake again each awful morning. The panic when Degan ran to catch the streetcar. Jim Bryson on my stereo singing, I got tired of sleeping in Toronto while all around me the temperature plunged, the air so clear and brittle it seemed it might actually shatter. It hurt to move. Was this just a bad case of the blues, as common as a cold in a country where one in four people are diagnosed with depression? Or maybe it was my artistic temperament that did me in. The part of the brain that pumps out art appears predisposed to annihilation through tailpipes and slipknots.

These are just two hypotheses about the roots of depression. There are, of course, many others. For example, theres the idea that it can originate before birth, the unresolved trauma of an ancestor passed down one generation, then down another, like a baton in a relay race. Perhaps my hand was open, ready to receive itthe suffering that had been coming my way for so long.

This wasnt the first time Id found myself in a dark place. Far from it. But something was different now; something more was at stake. Now there were others involved, people I loved; there might even be people ahead of me in time, waiting to be born. But before that could happen, I needed to look deeper, to finally address the ghosts buried beneath me.

As I started tunnelling, I made a desperate attempt to halt the despair, blindly grabbing for therapy, sun lamps, vitamin D. But all the while I was sucked into a vortex that no amount of leafy greens or exercise could touch. There was, I would soon learn, nothing to do but submit. Whoever lived below me, in my shadows, had me. A hand on my ankle, her nails digging in.

PART I

For the things we have to learn before we can do them, we learn by doing them.

Aristotle

one

T HE PLANE DEPOSITS ME , like a wadded-up tissue, at the airport in Toronto. Ive barely slept all week, my eyes puffed up and bleary from crying. I catch a cab downtown and hurry to my appointment with the woman who is sewing my wedding dress. She gets down on one knee to measure me, as though she is the one proposing. Who are you marrying? she asks, speaking around a mouthful of pins.

I can barely remember Degans name.

On my finger is my grandmothers wedding ring, engraved with my grandfathers name and the month and day they were married in 1936.

After the fitting, I lug my suitcase to my hotel. I fall into a heavy slumber and dream of train stations, missed connections. When I wake, the sun is just starting to set. Im supposed to be at the Griffin Poetry Prize gala, the literary event of the season, by 7:00. Its 6:45.

I throw on my little black dress, lipstick and concealera futile attempt to hide the evidence of my tears.

My taxi whisks me south to an enormous warehouse in the heart of the Distillery District. Inside, the building is gussied up to evoke a romantic Tuscan street fair, bright baubles and streamers hanging from the ceiling, crepe paper butterflies hovering over the tables. Im handed a glass of wine at the door, which I down in one swallow. The room is wall-to-wall bodies, a whos who of the literary scene.

I head for the bar.

Mark Blume is ahead of me in line, a writer I know casually among a sea of writers. Curly brown hair, a blue silk necktie. We say our hellos. Youre in town now? he asks.

Were moving back to Toronto.

Youre leaving Newfoundland?

Yes.

Wheres Degan?

Hes coming next week.

And then, for some reason, I tell him, Im wondering about the Jewish I pause, searching for the right word. The community. Here in Toronto.

He looks at me as if Im drunkand its true: I havent eaten and the single glass of wine has gone straight to my head. Its too late to take the question back, though. I relieve the barmaid of a tall frosted glass and lean my elbows on the bar.

He hesitates. I wish I could help you. But I dont really He hesitates again. I dont really do anything Jewish.

Mark is a funny man who likes to hold forth with a stiff drink in his hand. He wants to holler while cleavage bumps against the limbo pole, not to discuss theology. I hiccup softly into the back of my hand. He looks at me more closely. But I know who you should talk to, he says.

We elbow our way through the tangle of guests to an enormous chocolate fountain. Among the writers dunking their strawberries is a poet Mark introduces as Sol Jalon. I know next to nothing about him: not that hes Jewish, certainly not what his wife does as a living. Later in the year, when I learn about