odak Image

 [First Published in Wordscape 3 Anthology]

I can’t remember how I met him, my French Canadian boyfriend—Pierre was his name—but oh, how I loved him. At the time, I lived in Sechelt, British Columbia, a small coastal town north of Vancouver.
Pierre had been assigned to the region for six months, some contract position or other, I believe. It’s a little vague in my mind. He was lonely, I can see that now, away from his family and friends as well as his French Canadian roots. He was looking for companionship. As for me, I was looking for love and was sure I had found my life’s partner.
I must have worked that summer, but my memory is only of the time I spent with him. We went to the Rockwood Centre for the Story Telling Festival, visited the Sechelt Nation's Museum, whiled away evenings on the town and savoured picnics on the beach. I shared everything with him. What had once appeared to me mundane now piqued my curiosity. I witnessed Pierre’s appreciation of the things I had taken for granted. In his company I started to notice them too—the soft grittiness of the wet sand between my toes as we walked on the beach, the tang of the salt-filled air as I breathed, the sound of the waves in the seashells Pierre gathered and pressed against my ear.
I was beginning to live. Then, abruptly, the six months were over. It was time for Pierre to leave.
That last morning, he brought me a present wrapped in glorious blue and gold paper, adorned with a wild and wanton red bow. I held the package reverently, thinking of the hours it must have taken to achieve the perfection in my hands. I wanted this moment to last forever but Pierre was anxious to get going. He took the parcel from my hands and impatiently tore off the wrappings.
It was an extravagant box of cosmetics. A faint pleasant perfume rose to my nostrils. There were eye shadows of blues and greens, some with gold or silver glitters; lipsticks of pale pink and bold red; foundation, blush and powder; ink-black mascara—I had never received such a magnificent gift in my whole life.
How much this man loves me, I thought as I placed a full and wanting kiss on his lips.
I lamented for long weeks after his departure. Each time I smelled the subtle aroma of my make-up, memories of Pierre returned. His smoky grey eyes, his dark brown hair, tamed by a crew cut, his full, almost feminine, lips. My heart ached with longing for his physical presence. The photograph of him, kept in my wallet, was poor substitution.
I wrote daily letters to this love of my life. Pierre never replied. He didn’t phone either, although he always seemed pleased to talk to me when I called. When I could no longer stand this distance between us I applied for a job in Ottawa. Imagine, I thought that the mining town of Rouyn-Noranda in northern Quebec was close to Ottawa. Well, it was a lot closer than Sechelt.
I packed my bags and travelled across Canada in my lonely way, through the vastness of the land and the changes of scenery. I hardly noticed. In the throes of my first romance I only had thoughts for Pierre, and I saw each step of my journey as a stone paving my way to him and my perceived destiny. When I started working at Ottawa General Hospital, I was surprised to find that it was run by the Grey Nuns. I was touched by the tragedy of these women who gave up their lives to God and lived this celibacy thing. I thought they would never do that if they had known the warmth of a man’s arms or felt the inner stirrings from his kiss. Little did I know then…but I’m getting ahead of myself.
Settling into my new life in Canada’s capital city wasn’t easy. I felt stifled in the inland province of Ontario, away from the sea air that had been my environment since the day of my birth. I missed the easy conversations and silences with my family and friends, but I was undaunted. I knew this sacrifice would be worthwhile once I renewed my relationship with Pierre and at last the day dawned when I was to drive to Rouyn-Noranda to see my beloved.
I was wined, dined and danced off my feet by Pierre in what seemed to me like short interludes between great, gaping hours of time spent alone in my room. It doesn’t mean anything, I told myself. He's just busy, that’s all. I smothered all my errant thoughts of another woman in his life with great determination.
As we made the social rounds that weekend, I became aware of the total Frenchness of this man and his world, a world in which I was a foreigner able to speak only a little of the language. The French-Canadian women had a different style—a flair almost—and though I had bought a new wardrobe for the trip, I felt trapped by my dowdiness and was quite insecure in their presence.
The sex we experienced that last night we spent together was more complete than any we had ever shared before and I gorged myself like a condemned prisoner eating her last meal. I clung to him. With every thrust he made, I drew him deep into my being. I yearned to be totally one with him so that we would never again be separated.
I returned to Ottawa the following day with a sad heart. The crisp clear air of northern Quebec with its deep blue skies which had greeted me on my arrival had turned to grey. I had discovered that Pierre didn't love me, but I wasn’t ready to let him go. I thought that maybe he could learn to love me or perhaps if I became pregnant, he would agree to marry me. These were faint hopes, mind games, feeble attempts to grasp for straws. I didn’t pursue him, although I never stopped loving him.
I have never been sure whether I entered the convent in response to God’s call or to run away from unrequited love. Perhaps my unrequited love was the means God used to get me to hear his call. I have to admit that I avoided any exploration of these questions. I do know that thoughts of Pierre filled my mind more often than they should have.
From time to time, during my novitiate, I wondered what would happen if Pierre decided that he loved me after all. I entertained thoughts of his searching for me and discovering that I was locked away in a nunnery. I envisioned him gaining entry to the convent and carrying me off against the outcries of the nuns and their pleas for my virginity.
Some nights, I was sure I saw Pierre's moonlit shadow under the large Crucifix in the enclosed garden outside my window, or heard his voice calling me softly from the protection of the unwieldy hollyhocks.
The longer I was in the convent, the less often these daydreams occurred and I gradually replaced my love of Pierre with what I envisioned to be a higher love—the love of God. Only rarely did I look at Pierre’s photograph, carefully hidden deep in the drawer amongst my white cotton night-dresses. I kept it there away from the eyes of the Novice Mistress, whose unheralded forays through my room left me trembling with fear. I knew that if she found Pierre’s picture, my penance would be far greater than any I might receive from the Priest after my mandatory weekly visit to the confessional. I thought I was content. Then, in the wake of Vatican Two, when many rituals and trappings of the Religious Life were removed, I realized that it was these outward signs of the inner and spiritual life that had been the object of my love, not God. When they were taken away my life became jaded. After twenty years, I walked out the front door, leaving behind the polished wood floors of the enclosure, the memories of the long flowing black habit, the scent of incense, the ordered existence of life under the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience.
I returned to Sechelt and got a job in the same doctor’s office where I had worked so many years before, when I had first met Pierre.
Pierre and God—the two loves of my life. And now love has come to me again. Today is my wedding day. At the end of this morning's ceremony I will not only be Dr. Davies’ nurse, but also his wife. I have come full circle and arrived at the place of my beginning. In the honeymoon paradise of Hawaii, I will begin a new chapter in my life under a new name.
I touch my lips to the two-dimensional Kodak image of Pierre in a goodbye gesture. I hold the faded and worn picture over the wastebasket for a moment and then slip it quietly between the pages of my book. I cannot throw my first love away. Maybe I’ll never be ready for that. I wonder if he ever thinks of me.

 © Judith Lawrence