by Sophia Henry
“Get the fuck out of here.” I point to the door.
I don’t want to talk more about growing up in Downtown Eastside. And I don’t want it to be my fault he’s late because I scheduled our meeting so close to wheels up for the Giants road trip.
It’s been an emotional week, but I’m still riding high from breakfast with Bree. I’m glad I had time with her as a buffer, because Owen didn’t need me preaching at him about having a clear head while I was so fucked-up. Talk about the biggest hypocrite ever.
I’d take the fact that she said yes as a victory during an otherwise shitty time in my life. No doubt Jack is looking down on me and smiling. He once made a comment about me spending so much time at the hospital that I should find a girlfriend there.
I’m trying to clean up my table, but my thoughts keep veering back to Bree. It’s no surprise that I wanted to fuck her the first time I saw her, but those purely physical thoughts quickly morphed into enjoying everything about her. Her company, her sense of humor, her optimism. I knew there was more between us than just a physical connection before Jack’s funeral, but I’m well aware that it took her a bit longer.
Which still cracks me up, because I’ve never been the chaser in a relationship before. It had always been the other way around. While most people will assume that’s because I’m a playboy hockey player, there’s a much deeper reason.
It’s a deeper need now. The need to get in her head and figure out what makes her tick. I want to know what makes her happy. I want to reciprocate the thoughtfulness she showed me. I know she’ll love the Whitewater Center, which is a huge facility dedicated to outdoor activities like whitewater rafting, kayaking, and hiking. I can’t wait to take her there when I get back.
Having something, and more importantly, someone to look forward to is an amazing feeling. One I haven’t had much recently.
Owen’s been gone about ten minutes when I finally finish packing up my stuff to leave Purebread and meet up with my mom.
I feel like the shittiest son ever because of what I’m about to do. I still haven’t completely bought into the idea, but I know I have to let her go. I have to tell her I can’t go on like this.
Over the last few years, I’ve done everything I possibly can to help her out of this life. She hasn’t changed. I know everything that comes out of her mouth is bullshit and I can’t watch her kill herself any longer.
I texted last night to let her know I was in town and I hadn’t heard back. As I walk to the door, I send another her text, hoping she’ll respond and confirm she’ll actually meet with me.
Just finished up my meeting. Where can I meet you?
Her response is immediate, which gives me false hope that she’s excited to see me this time. Not just to ask me for money.
Hastings Market.
On my way.
I take a deep breath, open the door and head for my old neighborhood. Walking east on Hastings Street from Purebread is sadly nostalgic. I lived in this general area my entire childhood, but specifically in the Downtown Eastside neighborhood, known as DTES to locals, from the ages of eleven to sixteen. They were the absolute worst years for a kid to be subjected to this kind of life, but it wasn’t like I had a choice.
When my dad died suddenly in a car accident, Mom lost her mind. She started taking drugs, or maybe she just increased her intake—I can’t be sure since there was no one around to ask. Within months of Dad’s death, we lost everything: house, job, car, friends. Without hockey, I probably would’ve fallen into the same type of life. Instead, it gave me motivation. I guess it toughened me up and made me work harder to get out.
While Gastown is hipster heaven—artsy and trendy, up and coming—DTES is where people go to die, literally.
A large, hairy guy with weathered skin bumps me with his elbow as we pass each other on the street. We both glance over our shoulders, each giving the other a cold, hard stare. No apologies. No smiles. Though most of the people here won’t give anyone a hard time, there are some that will. In the States, there’s an ongoing joke about stereotypical Canadian politeness. But they don’t know anything about this place.
Holding my head high, I keep trudging through the streets as if I know exactly where I’m going and what I’m doing. I do, but that would be my general advice for anyone walking in DTES—or any other rough neighborhood. Keep your head up and exude confidence. If you look like you can’t be intimidated, you won’t be—in theory. But it’s a theory that’s worked for me since I was eleven, so I stick with it. You never want to look weak in DTES.
As I walk, I sidestep garbage, used syringes, and other discarded drug paraphernalia littering the streets. Addicts shoot up here, dropping the needle on the spot. Homeless people line the sidewalks and live in neighborhood parks. Junk is everywhere, a sad parallel to the people who make up the neighborhood and what goes on every day.
This is the place Vancouver sends the junkies, mentally ill, poor, and abused—among others. People can do whatever they want here. The city feeds them, gives them housing and medical attention, and cleans up after them. It’s the harm-reduction model of dealing with the poor, mentally ill, and addicted.
Some people claim that it’s helping the homeless population keep their dignity, but I don’t know if I agree. It’s corralling them like fucking cattle into one area so that every neighborhood doesn’t have a pocket of hell. You can’t charge ridiculous real estate prices if you have junkies and hookers on the streets, right?
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I stop to pull it out and check the screen.
Hey brother! I saw Rayburn post on Instagram about meeting you at Purebread. Why didn’t you tell me you were in town?
The text is from my best friend, Nicholas Carbonneau, the closest thing I’ll ever have to a brother. My thumbs fly across the screen.
Quick trip. In last night. Out tonight.
Where you at?
DTES.
My phone rings immediately, as I knew it would. I’ve always had amazing relationships with my teammates through the years, but Nick is the one person who knows everything about me and my past. He looks after me like a big brother would.
“Hey,” I answer.
“How’s Kat?” Nick asks as soon as I pick up.
“Haven’t seen her yet. I’m just passing the Regent now.”
My feet pound the pavement, harder and faster, as if by escaping the shadow of the hundred-year-old building looming over me, I’ll escape the memories of living in it.
A short time after Dad died, Mom and I moved into a relatively nice place that housed women who had children and were trying to get back on their feet. But Mom couldn’t play by the rules, so she got kicked out. After two weeks of sleeping in a tent in Oppenheimer Park, she moved us into the Regent, which is an SRO, which stands for single-room occupancy housing.
An SRO is similar to a hostel that you can live in, except the rooms are dirty and roach-infested and have broken plumbing. Maybe all SROs aren’t like that, but that’s how the Regent was when we lived there. My neighbors consisted of prostitutes, pimps, drug dealers, and junkies. Mom fit right in. I didn’t.
“Fucking A, Luke,” Nick says.
“I’m just walking down Hastings, man,” I explain. “She said to meet her at the flea market.”
Nick didn’t have to worry. There was no way in hell that I was ever setting foot in the Regent again. Not unless someone called to tell me to pick up Mom’s dead body there.
“Why don’t you cab her to Yaletown or something? You don’t need to keep going back there, Luke.”
“Yeah,” I say dryly. “I’m sure Mom is gonna fit right in at Yaletown. That wouldn’t be uncomfortable for either of us.”
Yaletown is one of the ritzy neighborhoods in Vancouver. It’s the area I’d take the boys to hang out when we were in town playing the Canucks. Lots of high-profile people shop and eat there. It’s not a place I would take my junkie mom.
“Bad suggestion,” Nick concedes. “You
got time for an early dinner before your flight?”
“I should. I’ll text you when I’m done.”
“Call if you need me, brother.”
“I will. Thanks, man.” I hang up and slide the phone back into my pocket. Talking to Nick always gives me a sense of calm. It’s not like he shares any big pearls of wisdom, it’s more about the comfort of that person who knows everything about you—and still loves you in spite of it.
The way I hope Bree will feel about me someday.
A kid pops up out of nowhere and grabs my forearm, jolting me from my thoughts. “She’s upstairs,” he says. He can’t be more than fifteen or sixteen. His jeans are ripped and covered with blood, dirt, and other things I don’t even want to think about.
I shake his hand off of my arm. I have no clue who he’s talking about.
“She needs you, man. Help her. She’s upstairs.”
Our eyes meet for a split second and I freeze. I could’ve been this kid. Track marks in my arms, wearing the same filthy clothes for days on end, shooting up in the street, stopping strangers because my girl either OD’d or was going through withdrawal. I’ve seen it all. Hell, I’d imagined every life scenario that could’ve happened if I hadn’t put every ounce of my effort into hockey—and been talented enough to ride it through.
Instead I think about how far I’ve come. After my surgery, it would have been easy to come back here, get mixed up in this mess, and become an addict myself. Where there’s nothing to do but get drunk and high, or try to become friends with the only people who make money there—drug dealers.
But hockey saved me. Hockey and Nick’s dad, who was my dad’s best friend. They were both professors in the pharmacology program at the University of British Columbia. After Dad died, Mr. Carbonneau paid for me to play hockey in the North Shore Winter Club, the same program Nick played in. He called it a scholarship. I called it a lifesaver.
“What can I do?” I ask the kid. Junkies are people. I’m the odd man here, invading the streets they call home. The least I can do is try to help, right?
“She needs a hit,” he pleads as his vacant, brown eyes look through me.
My stomach sinks, even though I knew what he’d say before he said it. Part of me had hoped it was something I would be willing to help with. “Sorry, man. Take her to Insite,” I tell the kid, and keep on walking.
If he really wanted help for his girl, he would take her to Insite, the legal supervised drug injection facility. Not only does the program assist in helping people shoot up safely, they also provide resources like first aid for overdoses, addiction treatment, and mental health services. Every junkie in DTES knows about Insite.
At the corner of Hastings and Columbia, I cross over to Hastings Market.
I weave through tables of goods ranging from clothes to electronics and everything in between. Some of it’s stolen, some of it’s junk straight from dumpsters, and the rest, handmade goods from people who actually have talent. I pick up an iPhone and turn it over, looking for signs of wear. Not that signs of wear meant it was stolen, but that’s a pretty good guess. Behind the table is a burly Native man with thick gray hair tied into two long braids; a quick nod tells him that I’m setting it down without purchasing.
Being in DTES doesn’t scare me; on the contrary, I still feel at home. I wandered these streets for five years looking for my mom, or walking to school, or trying to catch a bus to the rink.
I don’t remember much about the years before Dad died, but I remember every moment afterward. It’s almost like I subconsciously blocked any memories of happy times to make myself hungrier to get out. If I loved hockey before Dad passed, I was obsessed after. Hockey was my ticket out of this living hell.
My phone buzzes, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I see you.
Katherine “Kat” Daniels wins the award for creepiest fucking text ever. Well played.
I lift my head and scan the faces of the people at the tables surrounding me. Hers is not one of them. My phone buzzes again.
I’m across Columbia. In front of the Mini Mart.
Taking a deep breath as I tuck my phone away, I steel myself to see her. It doesn’t get easier as the years pass, because she looks less and less like herself every time. I want to lift my eyes and see the warm smile, tanned face, and the “Rachel” haircut she rocked fifteen years ago.
When I finally look across the street, I catch a glimpse of a skeleton with straw hair against the backdrop of a mustard-yellow building with thick, black bars covering the windows. An old-school Canucks sweatshirt and ripped skinny jeans hang off her bones. The sight brings tears to my eyes and I bite my lip to keep from breaking down. The sweatshirt used to be mine. My parents bought it for me at one of the last Canucks games we attended as a family.
In a normal world, I’d assume Mom wore it because she knew she’d be seeing me today. That’s what any kid wants to believe, right? That deep down there’s some sentiment in her apparel choice today. Too bad I know better.
Because DTES isn’t a normal world. It’s not cold today. She’s probably hiding track marks and multicolored bruises, from both needles and “boyfriends.”
My stomach tightens at the thought of getting closer. I’m an asshole, because I want to spin around and run back down Hastings instead of crossing the street toward her, run back to Purebread, back to the life I’ve worked hard to create for myself.
“Hey, Ma,” I say when I reach her. I don’t quite know what to do, but she’s still my mom, so I extend my arms and offer her a hug.
“Luke.” She steps into them and wraps her thin arms around me. She’s so fucking frail, I feel like if I tighten my grip I might break her ribs.
“You wanna grab a bite to eat?” My protective instincts kick in immediately. I need to save her. Get her out of here. Get her off these streets. At the very least, get her a decent meal.
I’ve attempted to help her on multiple occasions. The first time, I gave her money to get herself a safe place to stay. It didn’t take me long to realize that was the wrong way to go about it. But I was young, and thought the issue was more about having money to get her out of the streets than getting her help for her addiction.
The next time I tried, I convinced her to go to rehab. I spent the entire summer living in Nick’s spare bedroom so I could be close to her in case she needed me. I even stayed an extra few weeks after her program ended to make sure she stayed sober. She did—until two days before I was scheduled to return to Detroit.
I couldn’t just leave her, so I took her with me. I thought living with her son, having family back in her life, would help her stay stable and clean. But Mom isn’t just an addict. She also has mental health issues, which is the real root of her problem. I don’t know if they’ve been there all the time, or if they were brought on by Dad’s death or whatever the fuck she smokes.
Instead of staying away from drugs and the streets, she found new “friends” who were just like her old ones. I can handle myself in the neighborhood I grew up in, but when Mom started hanging out in parts of Detroit I didn’t even want to drive near, let alone pick her up from, I knew I couldn’t help her.
The final straw was when I got an anonymous call telling me where I could find her. The address brought me to an abandoned house on Detroit’s East Side. When I went in, I found her crumpled in a corner of an empty, burned-out room. I thought she was dead, but I should have known better. Kat has nine lives. I’d already found her OD’d once back home. Who knows how many more lives she has left?
Fucking East Side. It’s not just a place. It’s a way of life. And we can’t seem to break away.
“I’m good. Just ate,” she lies, scratching the sleeve covering her right forearm. I doubt she’s eaten in days.
“Where are you staying now?” My voice is gentle, though I want to grab her and shake her and tell her to look at me. Really look at me.
She shifts her weight from foot to foot. “Up the road.” She points back towar
d the Regent, though I’m not sure if that’s where she means. Then she rubs her neck. Her short, dirty nails leave faint red lines behind.
This was my fucking life at one time. Standing on a nasty street in Vancouver trying to have some sort of conversation with my junkie mom. I’ll always be grateful to my dad for getting me involved in hockey. I can’t imagine what my life would be like if I’d grown up hanging out on the streets. By the time Mom dumped us here, I already had a clear vision of how I wanted my life to go. Even as a kid, I wasn’t about to let Mom’s addiction and all the problems it brought us get in the way of that.
Mom finally looks at me. Except she’s not looking at me. Her bloodshot eyes stare through me. She takes a ragged breath and wraps her arms around herself.
“How’ve you been, Luke?” she asks, looking down the street.
“I’m good. Just met with a kid who plays for the Giants.”
“You playing yet?”
“No, Ma. I can’t play anymore. Doctor’s orders.” My voice is low, somber, and dead as Mom’s eyes.
“Why do you listen to them? You should be on the ice.” She raises her hands, then jerks them to her sides, as if trying to control her motions. “Are you in pain, baby? You need something? ’Cuz George can get—”
Gotta give her credit for trying to find common ground to talk to me about. I reach out and take one of her hands in mine. “I don’t need anything, Ma.”
Instead of releasing it right away, I hold on, hoping she feels some sort of comfort from my touch.
She looks at our joined hands, then back down the street as if she’s waiting for someone.
She probably is. Our visits are never very long. Being back home is always a jumble of fucked-up feelings, but this time it’s even worse. Last time I saw her was a few months after she sold the house I’d bought for her. She said she didn’t have any money left.
The windfall lasted longer than I expected. I had my concerns when I bought it, but I’d wanted her to have a place to go to every night—in a safer neighborhood than the one she raised me in. I didn’t have any rules about what she did there or who she brought home. I just wanted the peace of mind that came from knowing she had a roof over her head that wasn’t a pay-by-the-hour hotel room.