John Mark Martin: A Partial Memoir by Ioanna Sahas Martin
2022 Honourable Mention
My mother and father were eager parents. They had three children in quick succession: my brothers, Matthew and Lucas, and my sister, Annabel, all born within three and-a-half years of each other.
“We’re tired, anyway,” my mother would say when people asked how she managed with three. This statement invariably drew a nervous laugh. Was she implying that she regretted having had them? Did she see it as a trial she was bearing, being tired all the time? People looked at Mother quizzically. They couldn’t place her heritage: Mexican? Indian? Iranian? Her dark eyebrows, brown eyes and mocha-latte skin stood out in an otherwise white community. Her body was healthy, her flesh firmly attached to her frame. She liked to colour her nails, and when she held hands with my father, she clasped him with firm intent.
On their first year of marriage Mother shopped for Christmas ornaments – a rocking horse, a nutcracker, a zebra, a sprig of holly – all wooden, less brash than those made of shiny painted glass. Someday their unborn children would think of them as treasures. She bought six velvet stockings, one for herself and Father, and one for each child she expected to deliver. Back at the apartment they decorated a little tree together. They felt lonely and missed the children they did not yet have. Neither one spoke of this emptiness. Instead they listened to it, felt it and simply looked at one another and at the little tree weighed down by the new ornaments, the star on top tilting slightly but not falling, the little white lights casting a soft glow on the room.
On a Sunday morning the following May, Mother announced to Father:
“You should wish me happy Mother's Day.” She was pregnant. Forty weeks and two days later, she had a cesarean section following 28 hours of labour. She felt cheated of the natural childbirth she had planned. Sitting upright on a chair in the living room, attempting to nurse the baby in the wee hours of the night, she looked out the window at the stars, following their trajectory and observing the rotation of the earth by the shifting of the moon across the sky.
By the time my second brother was born, Matthew was growing well and talking incessantly. He was curious about the growth inside Mother’s round belly.
"My baby?" he asked, poking her. When she went into premature labour, he had no understanding of the danger she and the baby might be in. Another C-section. Despite his premature birth and jaundice, Lucas latched on to Mother’s breast quickly, and within three months was well past the average height and weight of a three-month old born at term, sleeping six hours through the night.
My sister Annabel’s birth, on time and without complication save for the inevitable C-section, occurred two years later. Neither premature nor jaundiced. An effective nurser. Mother’s “reward”.
The children growing: The boys, the best of friends, happy to eat, play and sleep together. Walks to the park. Blocks and dinosaurs. Puddles and play dates. Road hockey, snowball fights. Wrestling on the sofa after supper: "Annaaaaaaa! Get off! This is a two-man fight, and you're not even a man!" Annabel organizing her stickers and stuffies, whispering stories to herself of fairies and princesses. She swung from happy to sad to frustrated, sometimes all within a minute or two, leading Mother to cry out in exasperation:
“Is it just ME that upsets you? Were you like this with your other mothers?”
“Yes.”
Mother raised an eyebrow. “And how many other mothers have you had?”
“Eleven,” Annabel replied.
She’s right, too. I know. I’ve met them.
The day Mother named me: Cleaning out a box of photos and letters, she came across a copy of a family tree she had written with a calligraphy pen. Blue ink smeared on the page where a drop of water, or perhaps a tear, had fallen. Running her finger over the lines, across generations and continents, she stopped at the name of her maternal grandfather: John Mark…the same name as her husband’s grandfather.
“John Mark,” she said aloud. “If I ever have another son, his name will be John Mark.”
I knew instantly that it was mine. Such a solid and honest name. There could be no ambiguity, no misunderstanding it, no confusion over spelling or pronunciation, no prejudice against me. John Mark: the bearer of that name could only be confident, successful and secure.
The years passing: Family life took on its own rhythm of activities and birthday parties, sandcastles on beaches, falls off a bike, a series of goldfish and then a dog for a pet. My father hinted at wanting another child: “We’re uneven, don’t you think?” he would tease. “We should have another baby. A girl, company for Annabel.” It pained me to hear that he wanted another girl, for in my very being, I knew I was a boy. Mother would shoot him a glare and rush to pick up a toy or book from the floor, without answering him. She, too, longed for another baby. But the fatigue was not lifting this time. There was a heaviness, a feeling of impending but unspecified doom that she could not shake. She wouldn’t permit her husband to make advances without protection against conception. Another child meant another house, another car, another year off work, another round of diapers and sleepless nights, another year of breastfeeding and loss of control over her body.
The playing of tricks: I pushed against a ball or marble on the floor, delighting as they observed, amazed at how something stationary could start to roll seemingly on its own. I blew a current of air against the dominoes and marveled at their capacity to enjoy the sound and the chaotic tumbling of the tiled pieces over and over again. I hid their favourite stuffed toys and then placed them strategically in plain view on a bed, or in the hallway. When they turned the radio on in the car, I whispered their favourite songs in the ear of the DJ.
Christmastime: The house illuminated with scented candles, and the tree dressed with the colourful ornaments purchased a decade before. Father stringing lights along the eaves troughs. Five stockings hanging at the fireplace, the sixth left folded at the bottom of the storage bin. Annabel liked to string lights around the window in her bedroom, holding them in place with scotch tape and sticky tack, the top left corner drooping with the weight of the cord. Throughout the winter I flew thrillingly close to them as they skated or skied, their breath visible as it condensed in the crisp air, almost giving shape to my presence. I loved to hover behind Lucas’ shoulders as he careened down a toboggan hill, snowflakes flying in his face as he dug in his heel to turn a curve. I steered him away from the trees on more than one occasion, usually with a push on the side of the sled.
“Did you see that Dad?!” he would cry out. “I came this close to hitting that tree and then I turned away at the last second! That was awesome!” Indeed, it was.
When Matthew jumped a mogul, skiing, I soared above and then below to lift him a few inches higher than he could ever do on his own. I felt his own spirit emerge from his body, and in that millisecond, almost eye to eye, I saw fleeting recognition. And then he landed the jump and the moment passed.
Mother’s annual mammogram: An irregularity in her left breast. A nurse directed her to sit in the waiting room. A Buddhist monk sat opposite her, wearing an orange frock and mustard sweater. His bald head glistened under the overhead lights as he filled in a registration form. He smiled at a little girl seated next to him; her hair in pigtails, and her feet in rubber boots with flowers in impossibly bright colours. The woman next to her wore a pink bandana and had no eyebrows. The little girl stared at the monk.
“Est-ce que les hommes peuvent aussi avoir le cancer aux seins maman?”
“Oui, cherie,” the mother responded, smiling apologetically at the monk.
A young man wearing a stethoscope entered the waiting room and called Mother’s name. She rose to follow him. He had curly brown hair, deep brown eyes, a Grecian nose, full and rounded lips. He smiled as he spoke, as if he were about to pay her the loveliest of compliments.
“You have traces of calcium deposits in your left breast. These occur naturally in many women. Once in a while they are a precursor to cancer, but your readings are statistically insignificant.” He handed her a blue pamphlet and asked if she had any questions. She shook her head, mutely. He walked out of the room.
As she emerged into the parking lot, the sunshine beaming and reflecting brightly against the snow, I reached out for her and tried to take her hand. She whirled around and stopped walking just as a car backed out in front of her, missing her by a fraction of a second. She waved the driver on, looked back over her shoulder again, then walked ahead to her car. I had never felt closer to her, nor had I ever wanted more deeply to live, than at that moment. I had almost touched her. She had turned around and looked for me.
Three months after: Mother went to the hospital, alone, without mercy or compassion or thought of anyone other than herself; certainly none for me. Having discussed with her doctor and the obstetrician, but not with her husband, she removed her clothing and put on a blue hospital robe. She tied the tassels at her throat and at her waist, shivering under the flimsy fabric. In the hallway, a nurse motioned her to a gurney. The anesthetist took her name and birthdate and wheeled her into a sterile operating room. Stainless steel. White lights. He administered the drug and, as she slept, two men took from her the very fibers that would have nourished me. They wiped the inside of her womb clean, until it was simply an empty sac, no longer capable of carrying and sustaining life―my life, any life. Mother, now barren, her womb as empty and lifeless as the sandy planets that circle the sun; cold and dry, inhospitable and dark. Me, floating for all eternity; my life over before it had even begun.
After: For a time, I considered abandoning them, as she had abandoned me. I could seek out another family and try again. There were other mothers, other fathers, sisters, brothers. I had a choice, to an extent, in navigating my destiny. But, despite the fact that they did not know me, I was tied to them. We were a family. I could not join another. And so I followed them, watching, listening, witnessing, accompanying, knowing that eventually they would be the ones to join me.
Then: Matthew turned sixteen and began to drive. At eighteen, as had been promised to him, he purchased his first car from the auto ads, putting forward half of the payment from his own savings. Mother and Father paid the rest. He drove it with care and with pride, the cool night air on his face, blowing his hair back as he drove along the parkway, windows down. He didn’t see it coming, the other car, the one that crossed over the line from the opposite direction, with the lights off. In it, a young man and his girlfriend, returning from a party. Windows rolled down, music blaring, love in their hearts burning warmly, or maybe it was the bourbon running through their veins. He didn’t see it coming. But I did. And I froze. In that second, I saw the possibilities that lay before me, yet I was incapable of preventing them. The noise, the crumpling of metal, the shattering of glass, the heat. I took Matthew by the hand and lifted him up. He knew me at once. Together, we saw Mother crumple into Father’s arms when the police arrived to tell them. This pain would be lasting, leaving her wishing not that she hadn’t given birth but rather that she hadn’t been born. I assured him that we would wait for her, that she would see him again in time. And so, we waited. Together.
***
It is evening. The sky is purple and blue and a rainbow extends across the park and over the neighbouring houses after the afternoon rain. It is August and the days are beginning to shorten, though the heat still holds a tight grasp in daylight, and the damp air is only marginally cooler after the rain than before.
I inhale the scents of the garden, so fresh and intense following the late summer downpour. I wipe down my chair and sit, placing a glass of water on the table and holding a book to my heart. It is the evening before my birthday and I feel glad to have made it to my age: tomorrow, I will be 92.
I sigh, closing my eyes momentarily, remembering all those who have gone before me: Father, Mother, Tom – dear Tom – and of course, our beautiful boy. Matthew would be 67 now. Try as I do, I am unable to imagine him as an old man. Matthew is forever eighteen. Blond curls, blue eyes shining, a mischievous smile.
I open my eyes and look beyond the backyard to the soccer field behind the fence. For a moment, my vision blurs. Then, I see them walking towards me, in the distance: Mother, Father, Tom and Matthew! My heart rate quickens and I squint, confused. Someone else is with them, arms outstretched, and he is smiling. Matthew is smiling too and as they come closer he takes the other boy’s elbow and points at me. I see his lips form the words: There she is, it’s Mother.
As I rise and stretch my arms towards them, my spirit emerges and my body sinks back into the chair, going limp. I will be found in an hour by the neighbour. She will think I am sleeping. At first she will hesitate, shake my shoulder. When I don’t move, she will call out for her husband, who will phone 911, but there will be nothing to be done except to call my son and daughter. We will wait for them.
I rush forward, and reach them in what feels like an instant, and I know then who he is: John Mark, my son. I envelop them and we are at once whole, and together, filled with such joy. It is as if we’ve always known each other. It is because we always have.