Born Weird

Besnard sat in the driver’s seat, trying to restart the engine. The car behind him began to honk. He sighed, deeply. The impending birth of his fourth child failed to excite him. He’d begun to see his children as some kind of venereal disease, direct results of copulation. At home he already had three children, all under the age of five. He loved all of them. He knew he would love this child too. This was the problem. As he continued trying to restart the engine, his wife opened the passenger door.

Nicola got out of the Maserati and walked the last two hundred yards on her own. The doors to emergency slid open automatically. The admitting nurse dropped her paperwork and rushed over. Nicola was put on a gurney and wheeled through the swinging doors before Besnard had a chance to park. Nicola screamed as she felt Angie’s head start to crown. It was her fourth birthing experience and she knew that the worst was, or at least soon would be, over. They had almost reached the delivery room when a doctor ran up and stopped the gurney, examining Nicola right in the corridor.

“Do not push anymore! Stop!” he said.

“What are you talking about?” Nicola yelled.

“Stop pushing right now!” the doctor said, firmly. He looked into her eyes and held her hand, gestures that Nicola never forgot. She stopped pushing. She breathed as deeply as she could. She concentrated on these things, which is why she didn’t notice how quiet everyone had become.

“Can I push now?”

“You cannot,” the doctor replied. “The cord’s around the baby’s neck.”

Nicola gritted her teeth. She did not push. So much pressure built up inside her that her nose started to bleed.

“Almost got it,” the doctor said.

“My goddamn head is going to goddamn explode!”

“Got it!”

“Now?”

“Now!”

The cord unwound, Nicola pushed and Angelika Weird, quite literally, popped into the world.

Angie never doubted that any part of this story was true. The question she asked herself was: did it really have the deep character-forming significance that her grandmother claimed it had? Angie didn’t believe it had any greater impact on her personality than the fact that she was born in early May, making her a Taurus. She would, however, admit that she had never been able to wear necklaces or turtlenecks. Nor had she ever been able to make herself do up the top button on any shirt.

It was with a nosebleed that Grandmother Weird got herself admitted into Vancouver and District General Hospital, eight days before she wrote her phone number on Angie’s forearm. She finished her lunch and washed her dishes and then she took a taxi to the emergency room. It was 2:30 p.m. when she stepped into the line. Fifteen minutes later, when she got to the front of it, Annie told the triage nurse that she was terminally ill.

“Could you be more specific?” the nurse asked.

“My death will occur at 7:39 p.m. on April 20.”

“That is very specific.”

“Twenty-one days from today.”

“Maybe you could come back on the nineteenth?”

“Maybe you should watch your tone.”

“Maybe you should take a seat.”

The nurse looked down at her paperwork. She did not look back up. Annie took a seat beside a woman whose skin had taken on a yellowish hue. She folded her hands in her lap. She stared straight ahead. She set herself an impossible task: she would not move until her name was called.

A parade of broken limbs, troubling coughs and exaggerated parental fears came and went. Just after 4:30 in the morning, after sitting still for fourteen hours, Annie was alone in the waiting room for the first time.

“Angela Weirs?” a nurse called.

“Close enough,” Annie said. She stood. Her joints were stiff. She took small jerky steps. The nurse led her into a room with curtains for walls. The thin brown paper crinkled as Annie sat on it. Her feet were a long way from the floor. She swung them. She waited for quite some time and then a doctor arrived. He was yawning, stubbled, and a third her age.

“So. You are dying?” he asked. He looked at her and then down at his clipboard. “Slowly.”

The doctor put in the earpieces of his stethoscope. He placed the chestpiece on Annie’s chest. He listened to her heart. He took the instrument off her skin and blew into it. Then he put it back on her chest and listened again.

“That is the loudest heartbeat I’ve ever heard.”

“I have a very large heart.”

“It does, however, sound like it’s working perfectly.”

“I’m not here because I’m sick.”

“Okay. Then why are you here?”

“It is imperative that I stay alive until 7:39 p.m. on April 20.”

“Well, you see, that’s a problem,” the doctor said. He gave a small laugh and then he sat down beside her. “That’s not really what we do here. We help sick people get better and you, I guess unfortunately, aren’t exhibiting any symptoms.”

“What sort of things are you looking for?”

“Difficulty breathing? Dizziness? Sustained aches and pains. Loss of consciousness. You know, things like that. We work best with symptoms.”

“Bleeding nose?”

“That would be a start,” he said. He signed the bottom of the page. When he looked back up he saw thin but strengthening lines of blood running from both of Annie’s nostrils. As her eyes rolled back in her head the doctor rushed to catch her.

AT THE EXACT MOMENT THE WHEELS of Angie’s plane touched the runway, Lucy Weird, the second oldest, straddled a stranger on the second floor of the Millennium Library in Winnipeg. She was in the stacks, by the 813s. It was the library’s least frequented area. Lucy’s shirt was buttoned to the top. Her grey wool skirt fanned out in a circle. The library patron lay on the floor, on his back, wearing nothing.

Lucy slid down. She waited for the sound of his voice.

“Forty-nine,” he said. Lucy pushed up. She slid back down. “Forty-eight,” he said.

Lucy took a deep breath. She repeated the cycle. She closed her eyes. Her eyes remained closed as Beth, her least favourite co-worker, pushed a book cart towards the 800s. Beth looked up and took in the scene. Leaving the book cart behind, she scurried away.

Unaware, Lucy continued. “Twenty-six,” the man beneath her said. Lucy focused on keeping a steady, yet building, rhythm. It wasn’t long before she heard footsteps. The footsteps came closer. When the footsteps stopped, so did she. Lucy leaned backwards and put her hand over the young man’s mouth. She kept her eyes closed.

“Amanda?” Lucy asked.

“Yes. It’s me.”

“And who? There’s someone else. Is it Beth?”

“Hello.”

“At least I’ve made someone happy today.”