Grief Transformed

Lisa Moore’s second novel, February, has been undeservedly singled out, in a recent and rancorous round of critical debate over the alleged unreadability of some Canadian literature, as a narrative more concerned with the expression of mood and memory than the conventional rendering of plot. This is hardly a new debate. Nevertheless, Barbara Kay of the National Post ruffled the feathers of reviewers, authors and readers alike when she referred unflatteringly to Moore’s book, which she had not actually read at the time, as an example of the “unrelenting self-regard of CanLit, where it’s all about nobly suffering women or feminized men.”

In Kay’s estimation, February, told from the perspective of a woman widowed by the real-life sinking of the Ocean Ranger oil rig off the coast of Newfoundland in 1982, should have been predominantly the brawny tale of the suffering and courage of all the men who died in the disaster. Moore’s decision to ground the story in the painful, surreal aftermath of the loss of one husband and father seems, to Kay, to be a waste of a “treasure-trove of thematic bullion.”

Twice short-listed for the Scotiabank Giller Prize—first for her short story collection Open, and then for her 2005 debut novel, Alligator—Moore has established with her second novel a distinctive voice in Canadian literature. Language in Moore’s capable hands is often deceptively spare, revealing for the careful reader layers of acute insight. Her writing in February is characterized by a raw, stream-of-consciousness intensity that conveys the feelings of disorientation and emptiness Helen O’Mara experiences in the days and even years after her beloved husband Cal dies:

The novel begins in the present with Helen now a grandmother in her late fifties, but the story is largely told through her many memories of Cal and their life together as a young family before his death close to 30 years ago. Grief such as Helen experiences may lessen in severity over time, but does not disappear; rather, it informs almost every aspect of her life. Moore’s substantial and at times tedious use of flashback suggests Helen’s difficulty in moving on from the past as she easily slips out of the present to remember and obsess over the details of Cal’s last moments, their brief and passionate courtship, the jeans Cal wore, the way they made love, the dog Cal was devoted to, how Cal came to work on the Ocean Ranger and all the unspoken agreements they made about love and how it should be: “That must be part of what they decided: If Cal died out there on the rig, Helen would never forget him. That was the promise. She would never forget him.”

In her recurrent dreams of Cal she feels beckoned by him to join him in death and to know what really happened the night of the disaster, but Helen’s is a resilient spirit and something “life-loving and unwilling to cave in takes over.” It is Moore’s portrayal of Helen as a pragmatic woman, left to raise four children alone (she is pregnant with the fourth when the Ocean Ranger sinks) with little money and a desire to maintain some semblance of normality for her family, that is most poignant. Helen grieves quietly and in private, only occasionally showing her vulnerability to her sister Louise, whose steady and reliable presence becomes essential to the welfare of Helen and her children.

One of the more moving and revealing aspects of February is the description of John, Helen’s eldest child and only son. Perhaps the most influenced of the children by his father’s death, John attempts in his own small way, at the age of ten and despite suffering from nightmares and anxiety, to assume the role and responsibilities of an adult to help his mother and sisters. A lasting bond is formed between Helen and John when she goes into labour with her fourth child, and John accompanies her, in place of Cal, on a terrifying taxi ride to the hospital. Upon arrival, Helen is whisked away to give birth and John is left traumatized believing that his mother has died:

The notion of being unequal to a situation seems to haunt John as he matures into adulthood. He is soon to be, unexpectedly, a father. Having made every effort to avoid commitment to an intimate relationship, likely because he fears the risk of loving and losing someone in the same traumatic manner his parents did—John is overwhelmed at the thought of becoming a parent himself. At this crucial point in his life, at the age of 35, he calls his mother from Singapore asking, “Have you ever tried to figure out the difference between what you are … and what you have to become?” This question is meaningful for both mother and son whose lives are about to transform in remarkable ways.

The birth of John’s child signifies a new beginning not only for him, but also for Helen. By the end of the novel, both mother and son have found some measure of healing and reconciliation with the past. For Helen, approaching her sixties, the arrival of her grandchild in the world coincides with her own rebirth into a life less lonely and a new and unanticipated love for which she realizes she has been yearning. After so many years of grieving for what she used to be, she has figured out what she has to become. In a final scene, replete with symbolism, Barry, Helen’s new husband, emerges from the ocean while they are on their honeymoon and returns, as Cal could not, to Helen as she lies on the beach.

The specifics of the sinking of the Ocean Ranger, while not quite incidental to the story, are not the focus of the novel, but clearly they are not meant to be. As with any of our most admired works of literature set against the backdrop of historical happenings (War and Peace, Fugitive Pieces or Doctor Zhivago, for example), the real story lies in the impact that these events have on individual lives and the human response.

The spirited defence of Moore’s novel by reviewers and readers alike suggests not surprisingly that there are still readers out there who, perhaps disenchanted with living their own action-packed, plot-driven lives, are craving and finding value in unhurried, more contemplative narratives that quietly explore complex themes of loss, grief and resurrection. Compelling stories surrounding events as tragic as the sinking of the Ocean Ranger are ones that leave the reader with a sense of the courage of the human spirit in seeking meaning in what seems senseless and unbearable. Moore’s February is just such a story.