From Chapter 1 of A Sharp Intake of Breath (January 2007, The Dundurn Group).

Small sculptures

My first word was the subject of spirited debate; the cleft in my palate made it hard to make out. Aside from my sister Lil, who was too little to care, each relative was certain I'd said something different. My father, whose hearing wasn't good, thought I'd said "coat." My mother declared I was saying "Ma!", and she stood her ground, hopefully. A cousin was sure I wanted "up" to her eager, childless arms, and my grandmother, always critical of Ma's housekeeping, insisted I was pointing to the mop.

          My other sister, Bessie, was only seven, but she was already looking out for me. She said I was asking for help.

For a long time, a simple breath could pack terror into the spongy expanse of my lungs, because I couldn't hold it forever, and so much depended on what happened next. They said that cleft lip and cleft palate didn't always afflict the same child, but I had the bad luck to be born with a split that wasn't satisfied remaining either outside or in - it ran down my upper lip and all the way to the back of my mouth's roof.
          If I simply exhaled, if I allowed that breath to flow freely, barely a sound was made. That was the perilous decision I had to make as a boy: having no voice or using the one I was given. If, on the other hand, the air I exhaled passed by the vocal cords, and if those cords were allowed to vibrate, voicing was produced.
          Voice isn't really what I'm talking about, of course, except metaphorically. Voicing is animalistic, feral, instinctive. It's what chimpanzees, or hyenas, or even small infants do: they groan, they screech, they cry. It's saying "ahhhh," when the doctor prods with his tongue depressor.
          Speech, on the other hand, is a phenomenon not as much produced as it is shaped. Each word is a small sculpture.
          Any person can squish a lump of clay through his fingers (provided he has fingers to begin with) and produce a random form, determined only by grunting pressure, how much or how little, and what oozes out here and there. Fashioning that shape into something recognizable or useful requires more than a haphazard neural impulse and a contraction of the muscles.
          When a word is spoken, air first travels up the vocal tract, but then it must be directed, through either the nose or the mouth, depending on the action of the soft palate and the velopharyngeal valve. By the time the word reaches our ears, many instruments have had their chance with it: cords, valves, palates, tongue, teeth, lips. Obviously then, having good tools is essential to proper enunciation. I can work soft clay free of the spinning wheel if I apply strength, and temper that force with measured restraint, but it'll take me time, and in the process of dislodging, I'll squash the bowl I've worked on. A wire passed underneath will do it swiftly and cleanly each time.
          Problem was, I was handed defective tools.

          Hare-lip   n.

          1. A separation of the skin of the upper lip running right up to the nose, making the child's face look like a bunny rabbit.  Meant to be adorable.  Mildly offensive.

          I had only a partial separation of the skin, slightly to the right of centre as you took in my face, and the nostril on that side was a little flattened and askew. In that respect, I was luckier than some, who had a double cleft, or whose deformity was bad enough that their nose was a piece of cauliflower. In my case, "hare" didn't quite fit me. I had an indent rather than a split, making my upper lip a bracket tipped over. A pointed, grammatical bracket calling attention to the tip of my tongue, which just sat there because I hadn't grown teeth yet and my tongue had nowhere to hide:

          Here!  Just down here is the tip of Herman 's tongue!

          A neighbour told my mother that if there was any animal to compare me to, it might be a serpent. She said she hoped for my sake that my teeth grew in properly because everyone knew from the story of Adam and Eve that a serpent wasn't to be trusted.

          Serpent-tongue n.

          1. The child's tongue, resting there in the opening of the malformed mouth, appearing ready to dart out at any moment and test the air to see if the climate is right for treachery.

          When I was six years old, Ma decided I needed speech lessons. Toronto's Hospital for Sick Children had one therapist then, but her time was stretched thin and she worked mostly with kids who had lisps or stutters. There was a long waiting list and my parents were advised that time was slipping by. Fearing that if I didn't soon have lessons, I might never speak properly, they hired an elocutionist who had experience with cleft palate children.
          She had a body that was thin and extremely long from bottom to top, which is how I first took her in. Our house consisted of a kitchen, a stockroom at the back of the store, and a dining room stuck on the rump end of the living room. Also, there were three bedrooms and the bathroom above. I was chasing after Lil, playing a game of tag, and we'd just thundered down the wooden stairs and turned the corner through the dining room/living room. Lil had darted past the new obstacle, but as I rounded the corner into the kitchen, I ran smack into it, right into its long, scratchy wool skirt. I stared up. The lady's perfume made my nostrils twitch, and her face reminded me of a prune. Did people make fun of her too? Did she have older sisters who teased her, called her prune-face when her mother wasn't looking?
          "Hello," she said. Lil bolted outside, eager to avoid the company, and I made a move to follow her, but Ma came back into the kitchen from hanging the lady's coat near the back door and thwarted my escape with a scoop of her arm. She stilled my kicking legs by putting me down in front of the prune-lady.
          "This is Mrs. Debardeleben, darling. She's going to help you learn to speak normally."
          Debardeleben. I couldn't believe it. Two sets of alternating ds and bs - it was a cruel joke. The measure of a successful student must have been one who could finally pronounce her name.
          Mrs. Debardeleben said, "I need a pitcher of water, a glass, and a wash basin," and when Ma produced these for her, she took me into the living room. She moved the lamp onto the floor and placed the pitcher, glass, and basin on the small table beside us. I glanced to see if Ma was watching, but she'd returned to the kitchen. You rearranged furniture at your peril.
          Mrs. Debardeleben sat in Pop's wingback chair and propped me upright on the ottoman. She poured a glass of water and said, "Gargle for thirty seconds and then spit into the basin. This will exercise the throat muscles."
          I took the water into my mouth and tried to gargle, but it wouldn't stay in the back of my throat. Some of it dribbled out my nose and the rest of it seeped back down my air passages. I started coughing and choking until I hacked and spewed into the basin and onto Mrs. Debardeleben's scratchy skirt. Her lips pursed.
          After a few attempts that produced much the same result, she declared, "We will leave that exercise for now. Next, I want you to concentrate on the back of your throat and make it move without making any sound at all."
          This was a feat I could no more do than wiggle my ears. Neither Lil nor I could wiggle our ears, but Bessie could. I thought if Bessie had a cleft palate, she would manage it better. That was the first time I remember questioning why I'd been born the way I was. It was also the first time I wished that my sisters had been born that way instead of me. This thought came with surprisingly little guilt and even carried a syrupy satisfaction that coated my tongue. I imagined what it might be like to tease Bessie, who fooled Ma and Pop into thinking she was a goody two-shoes, or Lil, who was hot and cold, one minute my best buddy, the next my tormentor.
          After a few weeks, Mrs. Debardeleben decided we'd try different exercises.
          "Place your fingers in your mouth to stretch the muscles of your palate."
          I tried, but when it was clear my fingers were too short to reach far enough back, she drew from her bag a scary metal instrument that she said should do the trick. She prodded it into my big, gaping maw.
          Those were the words she used. "Open up, now. I want to see a big, gaping maw!"
          The first time she said it, I stared at her goggle-eyed until she explained that my maw was not the same thing as my mother.
          "A maw - m-a-w - is an animal's mouth," she said, with a slight smile. "Learning to speak like a proper human being is what distinguishes us from the animals." The implication was clear, even to a six-year-old. Which was I, though: a hare or a serpent? Maybe it depended on my mood.
          She gave me breathing exercises to ensure air would be expelled through the proper channels and with appropriate force. These I was good at, as long as I didn't get distracted by Mrs. Debardeleben when she exercised along with me. She was a gaunt woman of advanced age, and when she pronounced an o, all the lines on her prune-face travelled from every direction towards the edges of her mouth, stopping cold at her lipstick. A few times, I couldn't keep a laugh from escaping.
          "Stop it!" she would shout. "Focus and pay attention!"
          Of course, she also had me repeat sentences, giving me drills in what she called "the sounds of the body's own alphabet" - b and d (for these she used her own name: "Debra Debardeleben deliberated daily!"), and also s, k, g, and ch.
          "Give Gary the chocolate cake!" she'd say, adopting a scolding tone I felt wasn't entirely make-believe. It was as though she could see into my heart and knew that, had I really been in possession of chocolate cake, and had there actually been a Gary, I wouldn't have given him squat.
          "Ib 'ary the 'oclate 'ake!" is how it came out when I tried. I can't even approximate what I made of "Debra Debardeleben," but it was unrecognizable to her, and she made no bones about telling me so.
          My improvement was slow, and I could tell she was frustrated.
          "It's Susie, not Oozie! You must listen! And you must force yourself to stop grimacing every time. Practise in the mirror when I'm not here - you look like an ape."
          I'd been wrong, then, about which animal.

          Ape-cheeks  n.

          1.  The child's lips curling outwards, causing his cheeks to bunch up around the nostrils in an attempt to form a word, making his maw appear ready to emit a simian screech, and giving him the appearance of being a retard.

          I stood in front of the mirror and practised - "Five frogs flipped and flopped!" - but I couldn't control my cheeks, no matter how hard I tried.
          After several weeks of gargling and poking and breathing and repetition, Mrs. Debardeleben brought out the last weapon in her arsenal. It was yet another scary instrument, but this one she gave a name: the obturator.
          The obturator was a rubber device to be inserted and pressed flat against the roof of my mouth, with a tail-piece that extended back farther, against the soft palate. Even though, by then, my palate had been surgically closed, it was still too short and didn't quite block the air at the back. Like the metal instrument she'd used earlier, this contraption was to help train and exercise my disobedient muscles, but this one was also designed to prevent the air from escaping into my nose. I had to concentrate in order not to choke on the obturator and I was nervous.
          "Let's call him Ozzie Obturator! Think of Ozzie as your friend!"
          "My friend?" I scowled, taking in Ozzie's full malevolence.
          "Yes, or like a friendly houseguest who helps you with your chores," Mrs. Debardeleben crowed, with a strained smile, "and stays for afternoon tea," she added, puzzlingly. Who had time for tea in the middle of the afternoon? Certainly not families that ran a store.
          I looked at the device and felt a panic I didn't understand until Ma came in briefly and said, "You'll get used to it, darling. It's a bit like the special bottle I used when you were little." Many cleft palate babies die because the gap in the roof of their mouth prevents them from building up the suction needed to get enough milk down their throats. Their mother's breasts become squishy annoyances, milk-engorged menaces that clog the air passages. Ma's midwife was able to find her an ingenious nipple for the top of the bottle. It had a special flange that she inserted into my misshapen mouth and held firm against its roof.
          Like any good houseguest, Ozzie didn't overstay his welcome. A few days after giving him to me, Mrs. Debardeleben asked me where he'd gone.
          "Home," I said, which earned me a slap across the face.
          After that, Mrs. Debardeleben didn't overstay her welcome, either. Ma had witnessed the slap, and even though she later cuffed me herself for losing Ozzie, she didn't take kindly to others hitting her children. Besides, I'd improved a bit, and any lingering speech impediments were characterized by Mrs. Debardeleben as wilful failure on my part, an obstinacy out of which I might or might not grow.
          For losing Ozzie, I had to sit in the store with Ma for a whole week on a chair by the cash register while the other kids were outside playing. I concentrated on my bottom lip, the more reliable of the two, and tried to make it quiver every time she looked my way.
          Ozzie's new home was a secret hiding place behind Mr. Rothbart's International Pharmacy. Ma had trusted Mr. Rothbart implicitly ever since the influenza epidemic of 1918, when he'd slept above his store to dole out capsules, emulsions, decoctions, and infusions in the middle of the night to distressed customers. Ma had gone to him several times to try to save my sister Fannie, born just after me. Fannie died anyway, but the herbs he prepared seemed to help Pop and Lil pull through.
          A row of red brick buildings formed a defensive line on the north side of St. Patrick Street, blocking access to the Ward everywhere except beside Mr. Rothbart's front door, where there was a narrow laneway. Lil and I first discovered this lane one day, the year before, when Ma was picking up eardrops for an infection Bessie was whimpering about at home in bed. I'd never had an ear infection, but I couldn't imagine it hurt more than the operation I'd just had five months back to repair the cleft in my palate. Ma told us to play outside until she picked up the medication. As soon as the door closed behind her, Lil said, "C'mon," and pulled me past the garbage can that blocked the opening of the lane.
          We ran the length of the building towards a small backyard filled with clutter, dragging our hands all the way along the wall, saying "aaaaaaaaaaah" as our fingers bounced against the knobbly brick. Lil's ponytail flopped about in front of me.
          At the end of the alley, there was a fence. We could've easily climbed it, except that we were intrigued by the discarded old chairs and crates with strange writing on the sides.
          "That's Chinese," said Lil.
          "Chinese?" I didn't even wonder how, at six years old, she might know this. She was my older sister, and it didn't occur to me that she might make things up.
          She soon lost interest in the supposedly Chinese writing and moved on to one of several piles of wet sawdust beside the crates. "Let's look for treasure!" She dropped to her knees, and I started into a pile beside hers, my heart pounding with the awesome possibilities.
          Lil found two bottle caps and three pennies: a fortune to us. When I plunged both hands into the damp lumpiness, it felt like the mixture of ground almonds, flour and egg for making mandelbroyt cookies. My pinky grazed something slender and pointy. I pulled it out. A fountain pen! This was much better than bottle caps, even better than pennies, and Lil knew it.
          "Lemme see that. It looks expensive. I bet it belongs to Mr. Rothbart and he threw it out by accident."
          "Too bad, it's mine," I said. I knew what she was up to.
          "Itsh mine! Itsh mine!" she taunted, making an ugly face. In addition to my muddy-sounding ds and bs, I couldn't do ss at all. "You don't even know how to write - what are you gonna do with it?"
          "Shut up!"
          "Okay, I'm serious, I really am." Now she made her best adult-giving-a-lecture voice. "If Ma finds you with that, she'll take it away and give it back to Mr. Rothbart. So the best thing is to give it here."
          "No way." I squinted. I held the pen more tightly in my fist and put my hands behind my back.
          "Suit yourself. I'm tired of this game, anyway," she said, and started back along the wall. She'd hardly gone more than a foot when she paused and crouched down to look closely at one of the bricks.
          "What?"
          "This one's loose." She pushed with one finger and it sank slightly in. She turned and announced, slowly, like I was an idiot, "I'm going … to try … to pull it out." She often talked to me like that. Pretty much everyone did, and not just because I was five.
          She picked at it with her fingernails, gingerly, but they weren't long enough. She pulled two barrettes from her hair and inserted them into the crevices - it worked. She dropped the brick on the ground, then stuck her hand inside. "It's perfect!" she said. "This can be our secret hiding place. Only you and me will know about it. Swear not to tell. Cross your heart, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye."
          "I swear," I said, full of wonder and excitement, not only at the hiding place, but also at a shared secret.
          She placed her found pennies and bottle caps in there, and then stuck her hand out. "Gimme the pen."
          "No! I wanna take it home and show Bessie!"
          "You can't show it to her - she'll tell."
          Just then, we heard our names called from the street.
          Lil put the brick back and grabbed my hand, pulling me up the lane to where Ma was waiting, arms crossed, expression stern.
          "What have you two been up to back there?"
          "Nothing, just looking around," said Lil.
          "And what've you got behind your back, young man?"
          "My barrette," said Lil, before I could think of an answer. "I've been trying to get him to give it back, but he won't." Lil grabbed the pen, smothering it with her hand so Ma didn't see it, and she stuffed it in her dress pocket. "He got cooties all over it - I have to clean it off at home."
          I frowned at Lil. She'd gotten her way, again, and managed to make me look bad too. I wished I were as smart as she was. How did she think of things so quickly? As we walked home, she whispered, "I just did you a favour. I told you Ma would've taken it away."
          I wasn't sure about Lil's true motivation. I hardly ever was. Had she been helping me or just seizing an opportunity? She did give the pen back, but only a few days later, and only briefly once we'd returned to the alley behind Rothbart's. Then Lil took it again and put it in our new secret hiding place, where she would have access to it whenever she wanted.
          From then on, the wall behind the pharmacy harboured all sorts of found objects Lil and I didn't want our parents to know about - an extra stash of marbles, a shiny gold crucifix we discovered behind a church and would never have dared to bring home, a box of matches, and countless stray pennies we saved up to buy ribbon candy.
          The next year, when Mrs. Debardeleben was torturing me with the obturator, I went to Lil for help. One morning after my therapy session, we grabbed Ozzie and took off early to St. Patrick Street. We scanned the sidewalks as we always did, to see if anyone was watching, then ran to the end of the alley. Lil counted ten columns in from the back and five rows up. She picked at the brick, worked it out, and stuck her arm in the hole to pull out our accumulated loot. We sat with legs splayed in front of us, scattered the treasure, and started counting. When Lil declared that nothing was missing, she popped everything back and I crammed Ozzie in last. Lil placed the brick into its slot and off we shot, out of the alley and home again.