Shortlist Saturdays: The Black Pill by Nina Trifan

After Dad left, Mom took a black pill every day. Before she drank her morning coffee, she went into the bathroom, took the pill, and came out smiling. She thought I didn’t know. No need to lock the door, I wanted to tell her. We both pretended. She, that she was happy, and I, that I didn’t notice.

They had a fight the night he left. Screaming, throwing stuff around, slamming doors, going in and out of the room, like two lunatics chasing each other through a maze.

“Jenna, do you think you’re the only woman dealing with depression?” My dad’s yelling still echoed in the empty room that he left behind.

He cleaned it out when Mom took Arlette to the vet. He took everything. The grey leather couch chewed by our Cavalier King Charles Spaniel when she was a puppy. The white and chrome chairs that we were never allowed to sit on. The mango drum-shaped coffee table that Dad used to put his feet on when he watched TV, which made my mom go berserk, “Take your feet off the table, Mitch. That’s fucking disgusting.” He took the wool rug, the family photos, and the Tiffany style lamps inherited from my grandma. Even my naive self-portrait, The Two Alanas, my tribute to Frieda Kahlo. Two almost identical me sitting on a bench, one dressed in black, like peysuföt, the old Icelandic national costume, and the other dressed in gym clothes, united by a vein that connected the two hearts. He took everything. When I made new friends at school, I told them my dad died in a car accident.

“He was coming from a golf tournament at Harbour View Golf Course in Winnipeg. A multi-car crash on Highway 8 close to Clandeboye. He died on the spot.”

Every time I told the story, I kept adding little embellishments, white lies that didn’t hurt anyone. I didn’t feel bad. Especially when other kids showed so much sympathy that they forgot to judge me for my weight, my dull hair, my nerdiness. His absence was my opportunity to shine. I was the storyteller, the popular girl in grade four that everyone felt sorry for.

“Oh, that’s a-w-w-w-fully n-i-i-ce of you,” I gave them my best Queen’s English accent, pouring out the flask as they call it. No one in my school was able to separate the vowels from consonants like I did. It made me look posh.

“Stop with the fake British accent, will you? You sound like a cretin,” my Mom said.

I loved the little black pill that she took. It made her smile, it made her human. I was worried when she went for a long period without it. I was grateful for the Chinese doctor that she had found at an acupuncture clinic at The Forks Market. He knew right away what was wrong with her, my mom said. What was wrong with her? I always wondered, but she never told me.

“You’re not old enough to understand,” she dismissed me. “These are things that you shouldn’t worry about at your age.”

In between long bouts of sadness spent in bed, she would resurface and cook for us. Like breeding king penguins who know when to return for hatching, she planned her arrival into the civilized world at times when normal families would gather around the dinner table to share stories about their day. I loved those brief moments of apparent normalcy when I even wished I could invite friends over, maybe have someone sleeping over.

“No sleepovers, Alana. Stop asking. Why do kids in your generation think it’s fun?”

“Because it is, mom. It’s like having a sibling for one night.”

“Why would you want a sibling? You are enough.”

I didn’t know if she meant no one could be better than I, or I was enough trouble for her.

I loved the little black pill. When I felt sad, I promised myself I would go to the Chinese doctor at The Forks Market, but not now. I would go when I grew up, an adult, old enough to feel entitled, to complain about life, and kids, and a spouse who forgot I existed. When I grew up, I didn’t want to be like her, but I hoped I would find a way to take that pill, to feel what she felt.

She promised she would walk me to school. First day of grade five. I sat on the kitchen bench and waited for her to take her pill. When she came out of the bathroom, she smiled. She was even wearing makeup. She looked like any other mom. I didn’t understand why she thought there was something wrong with her.

“Alana, stop staring at me and pick up your bag. You’ll be late for school.”

“But, Mom, I’m hungry.”

“What do you want me to do? Cook breakfast for you until you turn eighteen?”

I grabbed a pack of Bear Paws cookies and stood by the door.

“What? What are you waiting for? Just go. I’ll make you a strawberry strudel tonight.”

“But, Mom…”

“No buts, just go.”

She forgot. I wasn’t mad at her. It happened before. Maybe the little black pill wasn’t helping her after all.

It was a short walk to school. Our street was a crescent, attached at both ends to the schoolyard. Blue River Public School in Gimli, Manitoba, twin town to Akureyri, nicknamed the Capital of North Iceland. I learned about the history of our town and its sister city from my teacher, Mr. Loftsson, who showed us pictures of the Icelandic town, its Botanical Gardens, a folk-dance group, a book written by Jón Sveinsson, “Lost in the Fjord: The Adventures of Two Icelandic Boys”. He told us he grew up with Nonni and Manni, Jón Sveinsson’s beloved characters who were popular a long time ago, when my grandma was young. Mr. Loftsson was seventy-five, older than my grandma. He retired and then he came back, because he was bored. And he loved children and books. He read to us from many books, some of them for grown-ups, I didn’t quite understand them, like “The Deer Park” by a writer called Norman Mailer whose name sounded funny, or “The Sun Also Rises” by another American writer, I didn’t remember his name, but Mr. Loftsson told us that it was published under a different name in UK, “Fiesta”, a Spanish word that I didn’t know what it meant, then there was another one that I didn’t understand very well, “Of Mice and Men”, but I liked it because it was about loneliness, and Mr. Loftsson told us that the author placed the action near a town called Soledad, which meant solitude or loneliness in Spanish. Mr. Loftsson was very smart. He told us he read thousands of books. I loved listening to his raspy voice as he was teaching us to flap or double the ‘r’ the Icelandic way. He told us stories about his grandparents who emigrated from Iceland and settled in Gimli in 1875. Some of his relatives moved to L'Anse aux Meadows in Newfoundland and Labrador, but his grandparents and his parents stayed. He was born in Gimli and never left. Sometimes he drove to Winnipeg, less than one hundred kilometres away, to see a show at the Royal Manitoba Theatre or to visit his sister who lived in River Heights where streets were named after trees like oak, elm, and ash. After high school, I wanted to move to Winnipeg, maybe even become an actress, buy a house in River Heights on a street called Birch or Apple Blossom.

“Alana, hey, wait for me!” my friend Solange called from across the street, waking me from my daydreaming.

She ran up to me and hugged me: her usual bone-crushing grip that made me fight for air.

“Stop it, Solange. You’re hurting me.”

“I’m so sorry. I do that all the time, don’t I? I just missed you.”

“Okay, okay.”

Dressed in a pair of skinny jeans and a pink tank top, she looked much older. Solange was my only true friend. I knew many kids at school, but I didn’t get too close to any of them. I knew Solange from grade one.

We walked in silence. That’s what I liked about her. She wasn’t like other girls in my class, chatting non-stop about boys, sports, and movies.

When we reached the school, she took out a book from her bag and gave it to me.

“Here, this is for you. Put it in your bag, you don’t want anyone to see it.”

I took it and looked at the cover. “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” by Mark Twain. It was one of the books that Mr. Loftsson told us about. I couldn’t wait for school to be over, to get home and start reading it. And eat strawberry strudel.

I went to my classroom and sat in the front row. I didn’t mind being so close to the teacher; I was able to see better. My classroom was on the second floor, facing the main road. From where I sat, I could see cars driving by, people walking their dogs, moms with babies in strollers. I wondered what Mom was doing. If the black pill helped with her sadness. Sometimes it didn’t, and she forgot to cook dinner or even shower. I hoped she wouldn’t forget today, because I was starving. When I was like that, I dreamed of big meals with my favourite dishes spread on the kitchen island: baked potatoes with sour cream and green onion, chicken wings dipped in barbecue sauce, spaghetti with roasted squash, and of course strawberry strudel.

“Alana, are you listening?” my Science teacher interrupted my reverie.

“Yes, Miss Robinson. I am.”

After the last period I went to look for Solange, but she was already gone. I didn’t mind walking home alone.

I could feel the weight of the book she gave me when my schoolbag moved from side to side as I was swaying my hips like my mom taught me. “That’s how women walk,” she said. It was so quiet. All I could hear was mockingbirds singing, like pucker whistling: clack-cluck, clack-cluck. Mr. Loftsson told us that mockingbirds can mimic the sound of crickets, frogs, cats, and even barking dogs, but I didn’t believe him. I was sure he was making fun of us because we all laughed, and then he laughed too.

A few more minutes and I would be home. I was hoping that our next-door neighbour, Mrs. Jennings, wasn’t outside to ask about Mom. She was so gossipy. When I reached the front door, I glanced at her porch and saw the swing moving. She must have gone inside just as I arrived.

As soon as I went in, Arlette came to me barking. Then she ran to the patio door and back to me.

“Arlette, what’s up, girl? Who’s a happy girl?”

I followed her, opened the door, and went into the backyard. Mom was lying on the reclining chair by the maple tree.

“Hi Mom. I’m home.”

She didn’t answer. She must still be sad, I thought. Or mad at me. Arlette ran to her and licked her left hand.

When I came closer, I saw her lying awkwardly on her side, her head turned, her eyes open, looking at the sky, and her right hand holding a black pill. I touched her hand and jumped back. It was so cold. Arlette reached for the pill, and I pulled her away.

“Drop it, drop it. Good girl,” I said and picked her up.

I went inside and grabbed the phone. I dialed the number how Mom had taught me.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

Arlette’s whimpering was drowning my crying.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

I dropped to my knees and let Arlette lick my cheeks as burning tears pierced my skin.

Born and raised in Romania, Nina Trifan has called Canada home since 2001.  Marketer by day and writer by night, Nina graduated from the Creative Writing Program at University of Toronto, School of Continuing Studies (SCS).​​ She's the author of the novel "The Country That Lives Within Me" that was translated into Romanian, and the illustrated children's book "Where Do Ideas Come From?". 

In her writing, Nina explores themes of identity, belonging, resilience, and mental health. Her children’s book encourages young readers to embrace their own creativity.  

Nina is fascinated by words, flamenco, and white-sand beaches. She lives in Toronto with her husband, her son, and her English Springer Spaniel.

ninatrifan.com