Exit, Pursued by a Bear

by E. K. Johnston

  We head down the stairs without talking, and Mum leaves us in the parking lot. Polly and I head out, not particularly quickly. It’s a nice fall day, and we’re not in a hurry. We’re halfway through the cemetery before I realize that we’ve taken the usual shortcut, and then I grab Polly’s hand, and lead her off down one of the side rows, to a grave I haven’t visited since sixth grade.

  We couldn’t bury Clara Abbey when she died, because the ground was frozen. I mean, they could have rented a backhoe for the job, but the graves in Palermo were always dug by Sal Harkney, and his machinery was strictly summer only. Clara spent the first four months of her death in the receiving vault, where she was joined by Tabitha Joiner, 87, cancer, and Joseph MacNamarra, 65, heart attack. Clara was finally buried in April, and my mother took me out of school to see it because Clara had been my friend. I missed a math test, so I didn’t complain.

  Clara’s gravestone is white, like the really old ones at the back under the pine trees, but the writing is easier to read. It looks old and stately. Two things Clara Abbey didn’t grow up enough to be. There’s a new flower there, just one, nestled in the grass. I wonder who has been visiting. Her parents moved after the accident.

  “Hermione,” Polly says. “I’m not sure this is healthy.”

  “I just have to tell her,” I say. I can’t explain why. “She has to know.”

  For the first time, Polly looks at me like she thinks I’m broken. It’s awful, and I want her to stop. But I also need to do this, so I turn back to the stone.

  “Clara, I’m sorry I don’t ever come here,” I say. “I know that’s stupid, because you’re dead and I’m not sure why you’d care, but I haven’t forgotten you. I do my best to make sure that no one forgets you.”

  The cemetery is very quiet. Even though more people use it for shortcuts than burials, we’re alone. Just the four of us.

  “That’s the thing about curses,” I say. “They make sure everyone remembers. You’ll always be the girl that died by a drunk driver. The check mark for our graduating class. And that really sucks. You should be with us. Or we should forget you and move on. We shouldn’t set you up as something that makes us special. That’s not fair to anyone, even though you’re dead.”

  Polly has realized why I came here, why I am talking to a dead person. She takes my hand.

  “I’m not going to be the other check mark, Clara,” I say. “I refuse. You didn’t get a choice, but I do, and I’m making it. I will not be the class pregnancy. And if that ends the curse and makes everyone forget you, well, I’m not sorry about it.”

  Clara doesn’t say anything, and I don’t get struck by lightning. I figure that means we’re good.

  “Okay,” I say, turning back to Polly. “Crazy moment over. Let’s go see what’s for lunch.”

  “I’m very proud of you,” she says, and links her fingers with mine.

  “Hey,” I say, “if I can’t justify my decision to a dead person, how the hell do you think I’m going to live with it?”

  “I’m still very proud of you,” she says, and we walk the rest of the way home without saying anything.

  —

  After lunch, we go up to my room and I get the phone. I’m holding Officer Plummer’s card in my other hand.

  “Do you want me to call?” Polly asks.

  “No,” I say. “I just need to think about it.”

  “What’s to think about?” she asks.

  “If I call, they’re going to round up all the guys from camp and make them take a test,” I say. “I mean, one of them did it, but most of them didn’t. Am I being fair?”

  “You listen to me.” Polly puts her hands on my elbows and squeezes hard. “Nothing about this is fair. He has ruined your life. I don’t care who you have to upset or inconvenience, you are doing this, and you know it is the right thing to do. Dion asked every day for a whole week when it would be time to give his sample. He just wants you to know, and know for sure, that it wasn’t him. The only boy who is going to be put out by this is the bastard who did it. So you are going to make him as uncomfortable as you can.”

  I dial the phone. Officer Plummer picks up, and as quickly as possible, I tell her the result and my decision.

  “Miss Winters, you have my well wishes, as always,” she says when I’m done. “If you call me back after your appointment is booked, I will ensure that the sample is collected in such a way that the chain of evidence is airtight. If possible, I will do it myself.”

  “Thank you, Officer,” I say. That’s a long drive for her.

  “In the meantime, the OPP will start working with Camp Manitouwabing and the schools involved to gather samples from the male students and coaches for comparison,” she says. “If all goes well we’ll have the comparison results in a couple of weeks.”

  “Okay,” I say. And then because I can’t think of anything else to say, I say it again. “Okay.”

  “My phone is always on me, Miss Winters,” Officer Plummer reminds me. “You can call whenever you need to. I’ll answer any questions you have about our protocols, and I’m also available if you need someone to talk to.”

  “Thank you, Officer,” Polly says, taking the phone when it becomes apparent that I am completely out of things to say. “She’ll call you if she needs you.”

  They exchange good-byes, and then Polly hangs up. She leans forward—right in my face—all teeth and ferocity, and takes me by the shoulders. “Bastard left a sample after all,” she says. And then she starts to cry.

  CHAPTER 16

  ON MONDAY MORNING WHEN MY father drops me off before school for practice, there is an OPP car parked out front. For the first time since I made my decision, I’m a little bit scared. Everyone knows that there weren’t any biological samples. It’s practically the first thing Polly told me when I woke up. If all of a sudden the police announce they have something, someone is bound to do the math, and then the rumour mill will start up again. I’m not sure I can deal with that. Polly can somehow tell this as soon as she sees me. Her silent appraisal is enough to give me my spine back. I nod, and we get changed in silence.

  “Come on in, everyone,” Caledon says when we go out into the gym, and we sit down in front of her instead of starting our warm-up. “You all know Constable Forrest,” she says, and indicates the uniformed officer. He’s either on duty early or this is a special occasion.

  “Good morning, guys,” Forrest says casually. “I know you’re all busy with practice, so I wanted to get right into it. You all know that one of your teammates was attacked and sexually assaulted a couple weeks ago at Camp Manitouwabing.”

  Everyone in the room, except for Polly, flinches at that. Well, it looks like I’m flinching. I’m actually startled, more than anything. No one ever comes right out and says it. It’s refreshing.

  “You also know,” the constable continues, “that no biological samples were collected. However, I am pleased to tell you that one of our secondary samples has yielded testable results, which means we now have a comparison sample we can use to test against the perpetrator.”

  He looks right at the boys, all of whom are looking at their shoes. Then Dion stands up.

  “What do you need?” he asks. The other boys stand beside him in varying states of discomfort. I’m a little bit proud of them.

  “Just some cheek cells,” Constable Forrest says. “I’d prefer if you volunteer them, but if for some reason you think you need a parent or a lawyer, you are, of course entitled to decline.”

  None of the boys decline. They line up, swabs are produced, and before much time has passed, Constable Forrest has a collection of sealed tubes, each with a DNA sample contained therein. I am almost positive that none of them will match. Dion and Cameron both looked relieved once their sample has been collected. Clarence hands his over, chewing on his bottom lip. Eric turns bright red. Tig and Leo are straight-faced,
but I don’t think it’s guilt. Tig probably isn’t fully awake yet, and Leo is still looking at his shoes. For the first time, I force myself to really consider that it was him. I brace for the nausea I’m sure will follow, but it doesn’t come. I’ve known Leo for too long, kept too many of his secrets, even though I wasn’t sure what I’d done to earn them in the first place. We were a series of miscommunications, but not that far. I don’t know how I’m so sure—all I can remember is a boy’s voice—but I know it wasn’t him.

  “Thank you all very much,” he says, and then he heads towards the gym door. When he leaves, he walks right under the row of banners, dating to the mid-seventies, from when Palermo Heights was good at sports instead of being good at cheerleading. The banner above the middle of the doorway is senior boys’ basketball, and Constable Forrest was a starting forward the year it was won. He left town, of course, for police college, but he came back. A lot of people do. I have decided that I am not going to be one of them.

  “On your feet, girls,” Caledon says. “Warm-up time.”

  We start to run. Caledon is watching me closely. I feel exactly the same as I did on Friday, the same as I did before. I don’t feel like my body is doing something of evolutionary importance. But she can tell. The police officer might have been obtuse enough for the boys, but Caledon has figured it out. I hope not too many other people are as insightful as she is.

  We run and stretch, and then it’s all choreography until Caledon dismisses us for school. Everyone makes for the showers, but I cross the floor in the opposite direction, to where Caledon is collecting the cones we used to mark the floor for formation.

  “Polly and I are going to miss practice a week from Friday,” I tell her. I don’t ask. Missing practice does not usually go over well with Caledon. But here we are.

  “I’ll work around you,” she says. Yeah, she definitely knows. And she knows what I am going to do.

  “After that, I should be back full-time, though,” I say. I wonder whether some part of me will always try to be that healthy, well-adjusted person who got on a school bus three weeks ago. I wonder whether that’s part of healing. I should definitely call that therapist as soon as possible.

  “Don’t push too hard,” she says. I am almost positive she means the exact opposite, though.

  “Can I ask a ridiculously personal question?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says. The smile on her face is kind, and unlike anything I’ve ever seen from her before. “And no, Florry’s father has never been part of her life. I knew he wasn’t going to be, right from the start, and I knew what my options were. It was hard, but I did it, and I’m glad I did.”

  I freeze. She seems so sure. She never talks about herself, though she puts up with a tremendous amount of chatter from self-involved high school students. I know her degree is in health sciences, and I know she went to teachers’ college, because she’s a teacher, but aside from that, our coach is a mystery, one who’s spent the better part of a decade pushing me to be what I am today.

  “It’s not the same.” She holds the stack of cones in her hand and leans back against the stage looking at me with a serious face. “You and I, we’re not the same. Not even close. I said yes, and you didn’t even get asked the question. A lot of people are going to say some truly stupid things to you in the near future, and if you happen to punch any of them in the face in front of me, I’m not going to do anything about it.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “And I’ll do my best to make sure Friday is the last practice I miss.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Now you better book it, or I’ll be writing you a late slip.”

  I make it to history just before the bell, and we’re neck deep in whether the War of 1812 was a British victory or an unfortunate draw for the next hour. Usually I would love this back and forth. The teacher plays devil’s advocate and keeps asking questions designed to side with the Americans, but her heart’s not really in it, and we never get much past “if you attack and don’t gain anything, you’ve lost.”

  We’ve got a lab day in chemistry, which I had totally forgotten about, and somehow I end up working with Tig, both of us knocking heads over the Bunsen burner while we try not to spill anything or explode.

  “So, are we allowed to be friends still, or what?” I ask, when he goes more than twenty minutes without making a sarcastic comment about the fact that since I forgot it was lab day, I had to tie my hair back with string.

  “You mean since I voluntarily gave the DNA sample that will clear me for sure?” he asks.

  “No, God, no,” I say. “I meant since your best friend and I kind of dumped each other very publicly the other day at lunch.”

  “Oh, that,” Tig says. “Boys are a bit different from girls when it comes to that, I think.”

  “In that Leo’s not going to break up with you if you talk with me?” I ask.

  “Our relationship is very stable,” he says, sounding like himself again. “We can survive a little divergence of social groups. And hey, I picked you to be my lab partner, didn’t I?”

  “I think that was more a case of ‘both of us got here at the same time,’” I say, but I feel better anyway. Tig being an ass is one of the most important foundation pieces in my life, at least at school.

  “You say tomato, I say tomato,” he says, pronouncing both a’s the long way. “Do you want to talk about our feelings now? Because I should put down the acid if I’m going to cry.”

  “Don’t be a jerk,” I say. Except I really do want to talk about my feelings. I’m pretty sure no one will overhear us. Everyone is busy and chatting with their lab partners. Unlike grade nine chemistry, where we were packed in like sardines, this class is actually spaced out on the lab benches. As long as I keep it together, we could probably talk about anything. “Okay, be a jerk,” I say. “But just tell me: Does Leo honestly think that I wasn’t raped?”

  “I would punch him in his face.” Tig’s whole body goes still when he says it, which is not usual for him, and I know that he is more serious than I have ever seen him in my entire life. “In his face. But he does have a jealous streak, and he’s kind of upset about how much time you spent with other guys those weeks. How you always seemed to make time for Polly, but not him. Like, he feels that had you been dancing with him like you were supposed to, none of this would have happened.”

  “Like I was supposed to?” I drop my voice to a whisper to avoid squeaking, and a couple students look our way. I glare, and they turn back to their own workspace.

  “Calm down,” Tig says, which only makes me more angry, but he’s got a point. “I’m not saying he’s right, and frankly I think that’s kind of an assholish stance to take, but that’s where his head’s at, and you did ask.”

  I turn the gas on and light the burner. We set the beaker on the mesh to boil, and take half a step back to wait. I check the thermometer, and realize that when he got supplies Tig got one with the wrong range.

  “Watch the beaker,” I say, and head for the supply cabinet.

  Leo is there. He must have had the same issue. He looks at me, and all the anger and helplessness I felt in the doctor’s office, in the cemetery, in my bedroom, in the change room, and everywhere else I’ve been since I got back to Palermo bubbles over. He thinks I brought it on myself. And he thinks that’s a good reason to turn on me.

  He starts to look away, and I reach out to grab the cabinet door. And then, without meaning to, I slap him across the face as hard as I can, and stalk out of the room.

  CHAPTER 17

  THE CLINIC I’VE BOOKED MY abortion at in the hopes of avoiding local scrutiny requires me to be four weeks’ pregnant when I show up for the procedure. This means I have to spend another week in purgatory, waiting for my body to catch up with the rest of the world. It’s rapidly becoming my least favourite thing. Well, that and the feeling I have every morning when I wake up and remember what’s
happened to me in the first place.

  So I start running after school. I don’t wear my practice uniform or any Palermo Heights gear. And I’m glad it’s cool enough now that sleeves and tights aren’t unreasonable. As the four weeks wind down, I run all over Palermo’s streets, but I feel like I’m running in place; waiting for my body to catch up and the light to change.

  —

  When I ask Reverend Rob not to pray for me, I’m not exactly sure what I’m doing or what I expect. It doesn’t seem to faze him.

  “You don’t think it will help?” he asks. His tone is completely nonjudgmental. I am very impressed.

  “Oh, I’m sure it does,” I say in a rush. “But—and I’m not sure if this will make sense—but I can’t deal with being a public figure of pity. If you ask them to pray, they’ll pray, and they’ll keep remembering. I’d like to be able to walk down Main Street and look people in the eye. And I don’t think that’s going to happen as long as they’re being reminded every week.”

  “I understand,” he says. “I did mention you in our prayer requests these past few weeks, but I’ll stop.” He pauses and watches me. His face is still calm. “And you had another question, yes? What’s the other favour?”

  “I’m hoping you will pray for me,” I say. “I’m not sure what for. Holding it together, I guess? Or maybe falling apart at the right time?”

  “I’ll leave the specifics to God, and pray for your peace of mind,” he says.

  That seems fair. “In the interest of full disclosure, and because I don’t think people should intentionally misrepresent themselves to God, I’m having an abortion.” Saying it out loud gets weirdly easier and more difficult every time I do it. “If that changes anything.”

  He says nothing for a long time, appreciating that there’s really nothing he can say. He can’t say “Yes, good for you,” because that’s not nice. He can’t say “No, don’t do that,” because that wouldn’t be nice either. There’s simply nothing nice about it. He hasn’t stopped looking at me, though, which is more than I can say for most people. His face is empty of both judgement and pity. Lots of compassion, of course, but that I can cope with. Also, it’s kind of what he gets paid for.