The Messenger

An unwelcome visitor delivers an unexpected - and most welcome - gift of grace.

Shortly after I became Suddenly Single, the house that I had known and loved for over 30 years seemed determined to turn against me: A basement that had always been as dry as the Gobi began to roil and flood every time it rained. Plumbing disintegrated randomly and caused cloud bursts (inside!) through pot lights in the ceiling, while the fridge, stove and dishwasher arranged a covert suicide pact and caused even more mental anguish as I struggled to pay for their replacements. Three beloved dogs became ill and died in quick succession and a once glorious backyard pond soon featured bloated fish with closed milky eyes bobbing gruesomely amongst the water lilies, all because my husband did not share how to provide oxygen for them during a Canadian winter before he left. Suddenly. I don’t say this to be dramatic or to wallow in self-pity – it’s simply what happened.

I haven’t seen him since.

The point is, it was not surprising in the least to come home late one night, flip on the light switch and notice that there was a small brown bat clinging to the corner of a picture frame. I’d never seen a bat before and I froze when I saw him, door keys still gripped tightly in my hand, heart pounding like a jungle drum. We were close enough to be eye to eye. His wings were folded tightly, like a couture cape that had been skillfully crafted to include the spokes of an umbrella. His face, though, was pinched and sinister and he turned to chitter at me, showing teeth within a broad mouth like a Jack-o-Lantern.

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I heard myself scream involuntarily, a bright, piercing note of genuine terror as my purse tumbled, spilling coins and a lipstick that rolled across the kitchen floor. The bat remained completely still but his gaze slid towards me – back and forth, cartoonishly – and I could see that his tiny chest was ticking with its own frightened pulse, something which moved me greatly, despite my own fear. For some time, we regarded one another in this way as I rapidly reviewed every bit of useless information I’d ever read about bats, from getting them stuck in your hair to not opening a door which could signal to the entire colony (I pictured a cone shaped, swirling black vortex swooping in the back door) to come rescue the missing party. I had no idea what to do. There are only so many favours one can cash in from Other-People’s-Husbands and besides, it was well after 11 PM.

A brief and furtive internet search provided unhelpful advice about guano removal and gentle persuasion techniques involving a tennis racquet and empty spaghetti jar. There were also some graphic images of human rabies.

Slowly shuffling backwards to the bathroom, I grabbed a towel and wrapped my hair up – just in case. I carefully opened the door that led outside where it smelled cool and lilac-sweet after a heavy rain.

Aside from sealing off the area or evacuating till I could get help in the morning, there was only one option. The entire poster frame unhooked from the wall easily, but it was heavy and involved excruciatingly slow, mincing steps and searing biceps as I inched along the wall to the door. The little bat hung on, swaying slightly from side to side as though he was in a hammock, watching our progress.

Once the frame was placed outside, he swivelled his head back to look at me with bulbous, shiny eyes better suited to a chihuahua, and then disconnected himself from the frame with impressive speed. But instead of flying away he began to creep rapidly up the side of the house, hand over bony hand, like a mechanical gargoyle. For some reason, this final image rattled me so much that I almost lost consciousness.

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Back inside, tearful now and shaking badly, I poured myself a glass of brandy and returned to the internet: this time my search led me to the symbolism of having a bat in the house, something I would usually dismiss as ridiculous. But the more I read, the deeper it resonated. Bats represent re-birth in many cultures – and more significantly, their appearance in a house heralds a need to stop clinging to an era that no longer exists.

I read that sentence over and over, marveling at it. How strange that the bat (who had shown no signs of being unwell or lethargic) never once tried to fly away. As I sat there, incredulous, alone and suddenly calm, I felt grateful, understanding that something profound had been relayed to me.

I haven’t seen him since.

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As well as a lengthy career working for public library systems both in Canada and the UK, Sue Sutherland-Wood has written for many publications in print and online. Her short essays have won national awards. Read more from Sue at her Substack, Everyone Else is Taken.

Illustration: Public Domain Review, Catalogue for the Belcher Mosaic Glass Co., 1886