Her Mother's Daughter

From behind a live oak, Marie watched Maman's shoulders shake, her head in her hands, mucus dripping through her fingertips. Marie's stomach clenched as she felt the prickle at the back of her neck. Maman doesn't cry.

Maman raged, laughed, danced. She scolded. For Marie's courses, Maman taught her to use dried Spanish moss or rags from clothes they could no longer mend. She fed eighteen people from a pound of rice and fish from the Savannah River. Round the night fire outside their makeshift cabin, Maman told stories that filled Marie and her siblings with hope of returning to Acadie, and of finding her younger sister Theotiste who was on Ile St. Jean with her great-aunt Marguerite when the soldiers came. She squeezed Papa's arm and she hugged each child. But she never, ever, cried.

Maman had remained dry-eyed when the French, then the English burned their homes. When she pleaded with the British captain to allow her own elderly parents to board a deportation ship with their children. When she watched as they, instead, were shuttled to another of the eight ships anchored at Baie Verte.

She hadn't even cried on the Jolly Phillip last fall when the Bostonnais soldier ripped her wooden cross from its leather tether around her neck and pummeled it to splinters on deck. Not even when he smirked, eyes blazing, then spat “Papist” in her face, and added, “You'll never live in Nova Scotia again.”

Maman had stared silently at him for what felt like hours. Then she'd said in English: “Some people's children. Your mother would be so proud to see how her son behaves with other mothers.” He'd flushed and raised his musket. An older, British soldier had intervened and commanded him to help load a group of Acadian men. Maman had hissed, “Espèce de bête,”

Yet, here, in a place that felt like summer in early February, Maman sat on a boulder along a river, and she was most assuredly crying.

Marie slapped a mosquito that landed in one of the many holes in her chemise. Oh, Maman. What happened? You said you were going to look for kindling. As the incoming tide lapped river water against Maman's tattered shoes, Marie felt a well of grief flood her chest. She watched her disheveled Maman rise.

Marie shuddered. Now is not the time to mull and ponder. Maman stood and faced the river, her shoulders back, her posture upright, She looks...she looks resolute. A frisson of dread gripped Marie and buckled her knees.

“Maman.” The sound came out as thin as sea breeze through marsh grass. She tried again. “Maman.” Marie had heard bullfrogs croak louder.

Maman stepped into the rising river. She swept her hands forward and lifted her worn and dirty skirt. Then she squatted. Soon her head would submerge.

Marie gulped. From her bowels through her spine past the ache in her throat came the most blood curdling cry she'd ever heard. “Maman!” She ran. Time was as slow as Maman's soldier-stare, as was Maman's turn toward her. “Maman!”

Marie plunged into the river. As she slid beneath the water, Marie saw a Maman she'd never seen, eyes red and face blotched. She felt a hand grasp her bodice. Marie surfaced spluttering and coughing.

“What is wrong with you, ma fille?” Maman said. She looked furtively landward. “You're alone?”

Marie nodded. “Papa said to come help you find kindling.”

Marie slumped as she felt Maman's hands beneath her armpits. She felt safe though the force of the rising current drew her upriver and the weight of sodden clothes pulled her to the riverbed. As Maman hauled her onto land, Marie willed her legs to stand firm.

She turned to face Maman, and held her gaze. “I found you crying. And...”

“And?”

“Trying to drown.”

To Marie's surprise, Maman did not argue or tell her she was behaving like a child, or pretend she was cleaning her clothes or peeing where no one could see.

“Suicide is a mortal sin, ma fille,” Maman said. She looked out on the rising water. “But thinking about it isn't.”

Marie burst into tears.

Maman pulled her down to sit beside her on the sandy bank. “You do have a penchant for learning about life before you're really ready for it, don't you?”

Marie wiped her sleeve below her nose. “Maybe. Watching your village burn can do that to you.” She felt an arm around her shoulders, and noticed how light was its weight.

“That's my saucy girl,” Maman said. “I wouldn't do that, you know, kill myself.”

Marie continued to blubber.

“Remember when you overheard Uncle Jacques and Papa talk about war coming to Beaubassin?”

Marie's sobs abated.

Maman smiled. “You hid behind the charette.” She looked landward. “I take it this time your shelter was that big, ol' oak?”

Marie nodded. “Some things I wish I'd never learned.”

Maman cradled one of Marie's hands. “Me, too.” She kissed the top of Marie's head. “I wish I was preparing a trousseau for you, my beautiful daughter. At 16, you are old enough to be Claude Bourgeois's bride.”

Marie blushed. “He is handsome.” Her tears stopped. “Is that why you were crying, Maman? Alone?”

Maman exhaled deeply. Marie turned into her gaze and felt both its love and fear. She knew she was about to learn something that would forever change her life. “Is this a truth women know more than men?” Marie asked.

Maman nodded.

“Like our courses?”

“Yes and no. With this, you have a choice.”

Marie straightened her chemise and brushed sand from her skirt. “I'm ready.”

“It is a woman's lot to hold her family together – as much as it is a man's to protect it,” Maman said. “At times you will be exhausted, worried, afraid, sure you can't take another step. You will believe it easier to run away or to jump in a river. You may even begin to pack or leap.

“But you will not do it. And you will never let your children worry about you.” Maman paused. “I am truly sorry that you saw me today. This burden is why adult sisters and aunties and cousins gather, and why we shoo children and husbands away when we do.”

“Papa doesn't know this?”

“I pray he doesn't.”

“But why, Maman?”

Shouts erupted from the upland. Marie and Maman turned to see four men and a boy racing towards them. Papa led the charge.

Maman rose. “Stand and smile, Marie. And remember that lying, too, is a sin.”

“Jean-Baptiste, all is right,” Maman shouted.

Papa pointed to the boy now reaching them. “Ti-Jean said he heard a scream and saw Marie plunge into the river.”

Maman leaned into Marie's ear and whispered, “Do you want to tell your Papa or do you want me to?”

Marie remained speechless. She squeezed Maman's hand.

“Our daughter was spooked by something she thought she saw.”

Ti-Jean kicked sand. “Girls.”

Marie thought about boxing his ears. Or she could kick sand. Or explain herself, or tell Papa how afraid she was living in this strange land that didn't welcome them.

She looked at Maman. Maman will not tell me what I should do. The decision is mine. Maman returned the slightest of nods.

“All is right, Papa,” Marie said. “I just need to change my clothes. But first, I need to collect my kindling basket.” She walked upland towards the live oak. She smiled.

Now, I am truly my mother's daughter.

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