Laura opened the door. The stink from inside made Mrs Kamal cringe. She guided Laura to her apartment across the hallway. Food. The sound of Arabic became the soundtrack to Laura’s survival. When Mrs Kamal found lice in her hair, Laura was shuffled back to her own home, and the door was closed for good.
Some time. Some time passed. Some time, after Laura used the last of the toilet paper. Some time, after she decided to eat the mouldy bread. Some time, after she made piles of lice, which she plucked from her own scalp, her mother walked in.
Jessica’s hips rotated to and fro, making a beeline to her bed. She resumed her last position, face down, chin touching the saliva stain she had made before leaving the last time. Laura took hold of the bedspread and tucked her sleeping mother in. She found gum in her mother’s purse, which she chewed and swallowed to feel weight in her stomach.
One day, after another yellow sheet of paper was slipped underneath the door, Jessica tried to turn the tide. She began to care for neighbourhood kids. They were the kinds of kids with poor brown and Black parents who knew full well that Jessica was unfit to care for their kids, but they had no choice. They couldn’t afford anywhere else.
Laura, still in her stained pyjamas and still feeling her empty stomach, walked over small children on the carpet or eating dried glue off their palms to peruse the empty refrigerator for fantasies.
When some lady in a pantsuit came, Jessica panicked: $2500 per child, per day, was the penalty for not adhering to the Daycare and Nurseries Act. Jessica threw diapers at the woman as she walked away, clipboard in hand. The next day, Laura woke up to find her mother packing her stuffed animals into plastic bags.
“Come on. You’re going to your dad’s.”
Ms Hina’s hijab was not bejewelled like Mrs Kamal’s. It was simple and dusty blue. Laura wondered if the pin near her right ear adhered the hijab to her head like a staple, but she didn’t dare touch it.
“Did you want to help me make the snack?” Ms Hina asked after she saw that Cory was asleep on the couch. Another bender.
Laura watched with wonder at Ms Hina spreading cream cheese between two saltine crackers. Carefully and with graceful brown hands, she angled the sharp knife and peeled the apples. Peeled them the way Laura shaved her body in her mother’s absence.
Ms Hina sat Laura down at the snack table and placed a coffee filter in front of her. She placed the crackers on it, along with cucumbers. Laura did not start eating voraciously, as she usually did. Instead, she sat with her hands in a fist on her lap.
“Did you have something to show me?” Laura nodded. She opened up her fists to show Ms Hina a weathered foam letter u. Laura had picked away at the foam while thinking of words to use. “Oh. My. You really thought about this, didn’t you? What words did you discover?”
“Umbrella?” Laura was unsure.
“You’re right! You got it, miss.” Laura didn’t want to tell her the other u words she learned: “unlucky” and “ugly.”
“Are you ready for the next letter?” Ms Hina went to the cabinet. “This is the letter g. Guh–guh–gorilla. Can you promise me to find more words that start with this letter?” Laura nodded, then began eating.
MS HINA
O Canada! Our home and native land! ...
It was the last morning before Christmas holidays, and the kids stood like penguins listening to the national anthem. This was a particularly painful version of it. I hate Celine Dion. I hate her happy life. But really and truly, I hate her version of the anthem.
The kids seemed equally unimpressed. Toes rubbing against the insides of ankles. Toddlers wobbling under the weight of their huge heads. Noses picked. Heads scratched. I adjusted the pins on my hijab.
One more day before vacation.
“Are we going to sing some Christmas carols?” said Fern, a home daycare provider, while adjusting the Santa hat on her head. Since she was one of the very few moneyed folks at the centre, I always found her questions so off-putting. They were not so much questions as they were passive-aggressive, white lady demands. She briefly looked at my hijab and then flashed a tight-lipped smile.
“I have some songs planned,” I replied, wanting to kick her and her Christian supremacist ass out of the centre.
I blew my wooden train whistle and announced to the children, “It’s cleanup time! Everybody, clean up so we can have story time.” I positioned myself beside three different toy boxes to help the kids with sorting.
“Bing? Are you cleaning up?” Of course he wasn’t. He was still playing dress-up. Much to his chagrin, Edna pointed with her lips toward the hooks where the costumes belonged. He pouted and dragged his feet forward.
Sylvie pushed the broom across the floor to gather bits of playdough before her brother Johnny could eat it. “Thank you, sweet Sylvie. I really appreciate your hard work,” I told her. She smiled.
Laura silently approached me. Besides snack time, cleanup was her favourite. She seemed to enjoy one-on-one time with me to sort dollhouse furniture from train tracks. “Are you ready? Steady, Eddie.” I said to her. She got to work, looking at each object and placing it in the correct box. When she completed her task, I gave Laura a high-five and caught her father looking at me disapprovingly, as per usual. He did not help with cleanup, nor did he supervise it. I was not surprised.
“Is everyone ready for circle time?” The kids moved like robots. They knew to come to the carpet and sit cross-legged. Since they were still, some of the caregivers took this opportunity to wipe snot off noses. One mother did a diaper change in the corner. Everyone winced as an invisible cloud of poop stink rose in the air.
I addressed my audience. “Can I see everyone’s magic guitar?” I pulled from the sky my air guitar and pretended to strum. “You guys can choose what size guitar you want. Maybe you want a small one, like a ukulele, or you may want a big electric guitar. Your choice.” The kids followed suit without question and positioned their arms around their imaginary instruments.
“I have a special friend named Micah, and he’s an alien from outer space. He’s green all over and because he isn’t human, he eats things he’s not supposed to. So, if you hear something that’s gross, can I hear a yucky sound?”
“Eeeew!” “Yucky!” screamed the crowd of children.
“Perfect! Okay, here goes.” I pretend-strummed an introductory banjo riff, then sang.
Micah is my Martian friend.
We’re intergalactic pals until the end.
He likes to eat dirty diapers!
The kids screamed, smelling the actual diaper stink in the garbage can.
And he likes to eat boogers!
A parent hooked her finger around the finger of a toddler digging into his own nostril. “No nose picking, please. No, thank you.” I continued.
Micah is my Martian friend.
We’re intergalactic pals until the end.
He likes to eat playdough!
And he likes to eat pasta!
I paused for effect.
With poop on top.
Micah is my Martian friend!
I held the note while working the neck of my air guitar, my tongue sticking out like I was a member of the band Kiss.
“Big finish, folks! Now, smash your guitar! Smash it!” We all pretended to smash our air guitars à la Jimi Hendrix. It was hilarious. I flashed a naughty smile at Fern in her Santa hat, still waiting for a Christmas carol.
By the end of the day, I was concerned some of the families who relied on the snacks in my program were going to be in need during the two-week hiatus. It wasn’t my imagination that the program’s grocery bill was climbing. I couldn’t keep milk, cereal, or cheese in my pantry long enough. These kids were hungry. I wasn’t sure if they had lunch, let alone dinner. So I served them snacks, willingly, plentifully, and without judgment.
I filled four different boxes with non-perishable items. Spaghetti noodles. Mushroom soup. Kraft Dinner. And I was able to up the grocery order, to ensure these usual food bank
favourites were embellished with “leftovers” from the fridge: fresh milk, butter, bread, sweet potatoes, cucumbers, carrots, and cheese. I wanted to add more, perhaps a chicken or two, but I was sure management would catch on.
“I am not sure who wants to take these boxes home,” I said as a general announcement to the literacy centre’s regulars, knowing full well who was going to take them home. “But they are free for the taking.” As predicted, Sylvie’s family took a box. Anna, the woman who cares for three of her grandchildren while her daughter is in rehab, took one. Lady and her family took a box. She’s the single mom just about to graduate from nursing school. Usually, it’s her mother Pamela who comes in to take care of the kids, so seeing Lady was a pleasant surprise.
The fridge was empty. The toys were played with, then washed and put away.
Once it was quiet, I noticed Laura looking outside at the falling snow. Her hair was greasy as ever, thanks to the recurring lice; however, it was growing in nicely and tied together in a ponytail.
“Are you looking forward to your holidays?” I said to her. Laura nodded and pointed at the snow. “I know. It looks like we are going to get a big dump of snow.” She smiled. Her eyes danced, like she remembered something. She reached into her pocket and showed me the foam letter g I had given her.
“You remembered! Did you come up with any words for me?”
She nodded. “Guh–guh–great. Guh–guh–goodbye.” My stomach turned at that last word. To not see Laura for two weeks hurt my heart. I had grown so accustomed to seeing her and her sweet face at the centre.
I went to the cabinet to retrieve the other letters, then I placed them side by side on the windowsill. H-U-G. “Can you see what this spells? What sound does h make?”
“Huh–huh–huh.” Laura held her hand in front of her mouth the way I had showed her, to feel the exhale of air.
I pointed to the u. “Uh–uh–uh.” I nodded, smiled, then pointed to the g.
“Guh–guh–guh.”
“So, let’s stick these sounds together.”
She obliged as my finger pointed to each letter. “Huh–uh–guh.”
“Hug. Can you see? You read a word all by yourself. It says hug. Is it okay if I give you a hug?”
She smiled the biggest smile I ever saw her make. She reached out her arms. I held her. Her tiny body. My chin rested on her oily hair. She melted into me. I wanted to lift her up but thought better of it. I just was so happy. She let me hug her.
Her eyes met mine with a sudden look of fear. “Are you okay?”
The washroom adjacent to our room made a flushing sound, and out came Cory, adjusting his belt. He looked suspiciously between me and his daughter. “What are you doing to my daughter?”
I gulped. “Laura just spelled the word ‘hug.’ I’m so proud of her.” Laura hung her head low.
“Laura Loo, come here right now.” Laura did as she was told, and they began walking toward the door.
“Wait!” I called out to Cory. “Here. Did you want the last food box? It will go to waste otherwise.”
He looked at the box on the windowsill. “I don’t want your food box. I don’t want you hugging my kid.” He took Laura’s hand and began walking out the door.
“No ... I don’t think you understand. We had just spelled the word ‘hug,’ and I asked her to ...” There was no point. They were out the door. My face was hot with anger, with fear.
Cory glanced back at me, the usual look of disdain on his face. His lip twitched. I waited and hoped Laura would look back too, but Cory shut the door.
My body shuddered at its sound. I suddenly remembered being in grade five, watching a National Geographic film in class. The one with the gorilla mothering the kitten.
In that darkened classroom, I could feel my body releasing urine through my panties, through my Wrangler jeans, on to the plastic seat of my desk. I tried to sit on the heel of my running shoe to make it stop, but the flow was unstoppable. My pants, my shoe, the floor beneath me was soaked in urine. My swollen, inflamed belly informed the nurses that I needed an emergency appendectomy. Despite this being a medical emergency I couldn’t help it, I was so ashamed to have peed my pants in front of my classmates. They thought it was so funny.
On the operating table, I felt the anesthetic drip into me, cold as ice up my arm, and I could feel myself peeing all over myself again as my eyes dimmed.
“Oh, shit!” I heard the surgeon say as I drifted off into dreamland. Even in an emergency, I couldn’t do anything right.
There was something about the way Cory left that day with Laura. Something about it made me remember my subconscious understanding that I was being cut open. I was being dissected. Then I was being sewn up, with something missing inside. Something about that moment. It made me remember the scalpels. The bright lights. The blood.
I watched them leave, knowing I should say something. Anything. But all I did was rub my arms and belly, thinking of blood and knives all over me.
SYLVIE
It was Christmas Eve, and Mama happily prepared whatever we chose to eat from the box that Ms Hina had given us. Instant mashed potatoes. Duncan Hines devil’s food cake. Eggs. We were full to the brim.
“Yes. For the millionth time, I will let you open your gifts tonight, but you have to sit the hell down and eat. You’ve got ants in your pants, Sylvie!”
All of the children had got together to decorate Michelle’s office door. She pretended she was all surprised to see the construction paper disaster. She could barely find her doorknob.
“And who is this?” Michelle pointed at a Picasso version of herself, with shredded newspaper as her dreadlocks. All the kids giggled and rolled on the ground, unable to contain themselves. “Is this supposed to be me? Who made this? Who?” I raised my hand shyly, and we all laughed so hard.
Back in our room, Dad sat on the couch, relaxing after his meds, because the pain was for forever, Mama said. I propped him up with a pillow and played doctor with my new stethoscope.
“Breathe in,” I said, while placing the contraption to his knee. “Breathe out.”
I scribbled on a piece of wrapping paper, making extra sure not to make eye contact with my patient.
“It looks like you are going to be A-okay, Mr Beaudoin.”
“Is that so?” Daddy said through his clenched jaw. It never closed the same after that accident.
“Yup. You just need your meds.”
“That’s what they all tell me.” I wrapped Dad’s head with my scarf, just like the bandage he had on after his accident.
“Pssst.” Dad gestured for me to come closer and whispered in my ear. “When I get better, wanna come with me to the track again?” Woodbine Racetrack was the kind of place where parents looked through the windows at the action but not at their kids. I ran around, made forts out of restaurant tables, and played tag in the lobby with the other unsupervised children. That’s what happens when you’re born a kid and not a horse, I guess. Dad pretended he was helping Mama by taking me for the day. In truth, he was spending his time betting on slim chances. I knew his injuries would never get better, so when he asked me, I pretended too.
“Sure.” I smiled at him.
Johnny hummed and tore wrapping paper for hours, until all that was left was a pile of moist pulp. Mama didn’t mind. It kept him busy.
I played doctor with Daddy until his meds made him drift off to dreamland. After eating my fill of cake, I carefully crawled on to the side of his chest, careful not to knock out his tubes, and fell asleep. I could hear the sounds of his body working. The creaky floor sounds from his tummy. The swish of his blood. The pounding of his heart. It sounded like I was swimming and listening to the sounds of water beneath the surface of my father. This was my dad.
MICHELLE
There were a lot of hugs that Christmas Eve. I’ve been supervising the Galloway Shelter for seven years now. Each year, it’s the time our residents find the hardest to endure. Lots of tears. Lots of calls to th
eir families to say “hello,” when really they want to say “I love you,” and “I am very sorry for everything.” Those cases are the most difficult to watch unfold. The ones who can’t go to their families for the holiday season. It doesn’t matter if you’re Christian, Muslim, or atheist. It doesn’t matter. It is a cold world out there, and it is also the coldest time of year. It feels so very good to walk into a house, one that is warm with so many bodies inside it. To hear people talking and forks clanging over fresh food, glasses clinking over a big table. All of that feels so good.
For whatever reason—and there are so many—these people don’t have that choice. They’re here in the shelter, and so am I. I always take this shift. Moving from suite to suite, I check in on everyone. Lots of hugs.
“I know, I know. I hear everything you’re saying, and that is damn hard.”
“Hey, look at me. You are going to take this one breath at a time. Soon you’ll be lying down, wondering how you’ll get through the night, but you will. You will. And tomorrow is a new day.”
That night, I came to my office and saw what I expected. The kids went and decorated my door. I am always amazed that these families will go through the trouble of going to the dollar store to buy trinkets of all kinds to tape to my door. I could barely find the knob. I have to tell you, even though this happens every single year, I still get misty-eyed. The kids think it’s so funny, especially when I pretend to be surprised.
That Native kid, Sylvie, proudly showed me the paper doll she made of me. She had taped it to the door herself. She made my face out of a brown paper bag to match my skin. My dreadlocks were made out of strips from the Toronto Star newspaper. The entire real estate section was used to illustrate my hair. Poor thing must have used up all her tape.
“How’s your dad?” I asked her.
“Asleep on the couch.”
Sylvie’s dad was on that couch for months. Jonathon, like many here, was a sad combination of bad cards dealt and bad choices made.
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