Cover
Selected Praise for Priscila Uppal’s Works
Projection: Encounters with My Runaway Mother
“Projection proves to be remarkably free of self-pity … [A] raw, passionate memoir, a fierce exercise in family exorcism.”
— Montreal Gazette
“Uppal is brave … made of sterner stuff than most; an inspiration to messed-up adult children everywhere.”
— Globe and Mail
“[S]uperbly conveyed without any excessive literary artifice … Projection is a book that’s simultaneously cerebral and visceral, and its ardent refusal of any sort of mind-body split — to sacrifice sophistication for sentiment or vice versa — is the sign of an author who has thrown herself wholly into her book.”
— National Post
“Incorporating movie and pop-culture references as storytelling devices is what makes this book truly shine … Above all, Uppal is an impeccable writer, deftly infusing complex scenes and emotions with power and weight … a worthy read.”
— Quill & Quire
“[A] heartbreaking memoir.”
—Toronto Life
“Intimate, sad, probing and self-aware, often very funny logbook of a harrowing encounter.”
— Literary Review of Canada
To Whom It May Concern
“It is to be hoped that Uppal will continue to rival Atwood in productivity and wit. As Shakespeare might have said: Fortune, smile again on lovers of CanLit; grace us with more irresistible stories from Uppal’s unique perspective.”
— Montreal Gazette
“Uppal is a deep thinker, capable of carefully peeling back layer upon layer of the human psyche … makes us laugh and cry long after the last page of the novel has been read.”
— Ottawa Citizen
“Uppal’s writing bursts with humour, plot turns and insights … Uppal should be congratulated for writing one of the most powerful and riskiest scenes in a Canadian novel … [she] reveals herself as a compassionate and perspicacious novelist whose humanity and intelligence cannot be overlooked.”
— Globe and Mail
The Divine Economy of Salvation
“In its confident voice and its unsparing, concisely powerful narrative — like Margaret Laurence at her best — Divine Economy is an impressive debut.”
— Globe and Mail
“A luminous debut … haunting, gripping, and surprisingly nuanced: begins as a simple mystery and turns into a work of great depth and seriousness.”
— Kirkus starred review
Dedication
For Richard Teleky,
who has been here since the beginning
Epigraph
Who, marked for failure, dulled by grief,
Has traded in his wife and friend
For this warm ledge, this alder leaf:
Comfort that does not comprehend.
— Edna St. Vincent Millay, “The Return”
Recipes for Dirty Laundry
Animal Stains: Apply vinegar and baking soda; then scrub.
Rosa knows Teresa is the pretty one: she has more problems. Today it’s the bath. Water running, Rosa knows Teresa will be pouring in some of the red bubble bath that smells like raspberries her sister always finds enough money for when it’s on sale. Sometimes Rosa uses it, too, waiting patiently until all the bubbles disappear before calling for someone to take her out. Then, after Mamma or Teresa help her into a nightdress, she keeps the towel beside her, inhaling the faint scent of the berries on the cloth. Rosa only bathes on Sundays, but Teresa bathes whenever she wants.
Today the bath is a problem, Rosa can tell. Her bedroom is beside the bathroom since it’s easier for her to go in the middle of the night. She can hold on to the walls until she reaches the Virgin Mary in a light blue-and-white frock, eyes and hands pointing to the heavens in prayer. It is a good picture, and Rosa, in the dark of the night, always knows which door is the right one. Today, lying down on her single bed, she can hear a faint sobbing from the Virgin Mary’s direction like the hum from her old radio. She decides to get up, pushing against the guardrail for leverage.
Rosa slides her leg over the end of the bed where the guardrail doesn’t intrude and puts on her brace, attaching the straps across her calves, slipping her fingers through the steel wires. She can tell where the straps should be from the marks over and under her knees, slightly darker than the rest of her skin, pressed like pleats in linen. She tries to be quiet. She doesn’t want Mamma to catch her taking a peek at her sister, which she likes to do when Teresa bathes. If the door is locked, she returns to her own bed, wraps her wool blanket around her shoulders, and looks through one of her picture books, her favourite about a small girl in a red dress who meets a wolf in the forest. Resting the book across her chest, she imagines herself skipping off down a path in a forest to the washroom where Teresa is and pushing her fingers in front of her nose, imagines the smell of bubble bath or leg cream, all flowery and sweet. Then sometimes Rosa pretends to shave her legs, the way she has seen Teresa do it, propping her ankle on the bed board instead of the edge of the tub and scraping against her skin with a hairbrush. She even moans quietly, the way Teresa does once in a while, splashing the water just over her skin, hands hidden and eyes closed, cheeks flushed and breathing heavily, a sound like the soft and quick bursts made when trying to open a stuck can lid.
Rosa has to use both hands to keep her leg straight when she drops it lightly on the carpet to make her way to the washroom. She can already imagine the back of Teresa’s head, her long hair like roots descending into the water, and her long naked body half-covered in bubbles. If Mamma were to come down the hallway, collecting laundry from the hampers placed just outside of each door, it would be easy to pretend she’s just checking to see if she can use the bathroom. She could even hold on to the elastic waistband of her pants and wriggle her upper body a little.
Today the door is locked. Rosa frowns, but then remembers. She has an excuse to go in. Teresa is crying: she has a problem. Rosa might be able to help. She knocks. No sound, not even sobbing. Resting her head against the door, Rosa’s cheeks flatten into the Virgin Mary’s tight hands.
“Get away from the door, Rosa.”
Rosa doesn’t budge. “You’re crying. I can help.”
“Rosa, listen to me. I’m fine. Just get away from the door.” Teresa’s voice is firm, but low.
“You feel sad, Tera?” Rosa wishes she could get on the floor and peek through the crack, but she wouldn’t be able to get up without help.
“Go away, Rosa. Right now!” Rosa recognizes the “I don’t have time for you” voice. Teresa doesn’t use it often, but when she does, Rosa is expected to obey. As she bows her head beneath the Virgin Mary’s chin, her eyes begin to tear.
“Sorry, Tera. I don’t mean it.”
Rosa hears sniffling. “Just go and read and maybe I’ll tuck you in later.” Then guitars and drums, insistent and hard, blare through the door. Rosa’s voice can’t compete, so she ambles back to her room.
After taking off her brace and placing it neatly upright, Rosa crawls back