“Now you’re a teacher, Mama,” Sylvie said to me while I was tucking her in.
“What do you mean, missy poops?”
“You’re teaching Johnny how to speak using that book.”
It broke my heart to think the book might not work.
One morning it was warm enough that we could hear the snow thawing. The snow was turning to water again under our feet. The mud ran past my sneakers, like a promise.
“Can you hear that, Johnny?” I asked him while he kicked his legs happily in his stroller. We saw some pigeons up ahead eating grain on the melting ice. Pushing the stroller ahead of me like a toboggan, I ran and slid along the ice to scare them. Up the pigeons flew, and Johnny squealed in delight. It made me so happy to hear his laugh.
We went into the literacy centre, just in time for snack. Edna was there that day and gave me a hug. Ms Hina gave me a handful of apple.
I sat down in one of those goddamn kid’s chairs, with my knees almost up to my ears. I placed the binder in my lap and opened it to the picture of the apple. “Apple? Do you want an apple?” I said to Johnny. I took his hand, touched the picture, and gave him an apple. Same thing as ever. No difference. I was no expert. Who was I to think this could work? I got up to stretch my legs, and the binder fell to the floor. It opened to the picture of crackers.
Johnny stopped humming and put his hand on the picture. Ms Hina and I stared at each other, then we looked at Johnny.
“Johnny? Crackers? Do you want crackers?”
I waved my hand at Edna, and she ran to grab the crackers from the cupboard and placed them in my hand.
“Crackers?” I put Johnny’s hand on the crackers. He looked at my handful of crackers, then placed his hand on the picture. He pointed at it. He pointed at the goddamn picture.
I handed him a cracker, and he ate it. He pointed at the goddamn picture and got what he wanted. All this time, he didn’t really want an apple. He just wanted a cracker.
I picked him up so hard, he almost lost his cracker.
“Cracker! Cracker!” I cried while dancing in a circle. Ms Hina went to the classroom cupboard and took out a sleeve of crackers. She was jumping, too.
“Cracker! Cracker!” we sang. Those snooty white ladies were silent, wondering what the hell was going on.
With Johnny in my arms, his mouth full of mush and drool, I ran up the stairs to Sylvie’s classroom. Mrs Finnegan was pouring glue into egg cartons.
“She’s not here right now. She should be in French class. Is everything alright?”
“Everything is great!” I was already out the door, trying to find Madame Gauthier’s class.
I followed the sound of the singsong French.
“Je soo-wee. Tooo ehhhh. Eeeel ehhhh.”
I barged into the room like a giant was about to attack the school.
“Je m’excuse!” I said to the teacher, then turned to Sylvie. Poor thing thought somebody died or something. I knelt down and kissed her forehead, Johnny still wrapped around me like a monkey. “He pointed at the picture of the cracker, and he got a cracker!”
Sylvie and I began dancing around Johnny, laughing and crying.
“Cracker! Cracker!”
PART 4
SUMMER
The mayflies have come early this year, making the Rouge River hum and sing into a new season. Grandfather Heron is back, watching from his post amidst the reeds.
At the corner of Orton Park and Ellesmere Road
Car windows are rolled down and the volume turned up. Rear-view mirrors shake with the reverberations of a season arrived.
At Victoria Park and Danforth Avenues
Five smiling women are holding certificates. They have completed a program for teaching computer skills to survivors of domestic abuse. They pose for a picture, then hug each other tightly. A new beginning.
DAILY REPORT
June 28, 2012
Facilitator: Hina Hassani
Location: Rouge Hill Public School
Attendance:
Parent/Guardian/Caregiver
Children (one per line please)
Marie Beaudoin
Sylvie Beaudoin Johnny Beaudoin
Edna Espiritu
Bernard Espiritu
Helen McKay
Finnegan Everson Liam Williams
Fern Donahue
Paulo Sanchez Kyle Keegan
Natalia Angelo
Marca Angelo
Pamela Roy
Evan Roy Yanna Roy Tasha Roy
Notes:
Today we baked a vanilla chocolate chip cake for Bing’s goodbye party. Our little genius is off and away to the gifted program next year! It was very difficult, as you can imagine, to get the toddlers to place the chocolate chips into the batter instead of eating them right out of the bag. I’m not sure how we even ended up with a finished product, but we did. Bing was so very happy.
Tomorrow I’m thinking we will do our graduation ceremony for all our school-aged children. I know it’s risky to have sweets two days in a row, but why not? It’s the end of the school year. Rainbow cupcakes it is! No supplies needed this time around, as you know, and I will begin prep for cleaning once school is out. By tomorrow, I will start to give away the rest of our perishable groceries.
I have touched base with Tammy over at East Side Early Play, and we are very excited to begin planning out activities for September. Now that we have daily access to their gym, we can finally incorporate more movement, dance, and games. Tammy has a yoga background, and I have a dance background, so it’s kind of perfect. I have informed the parents at Rouge Hill Public School of the change. Some are thrilled about it; some are not so thrilled. But the general consensus is that the bus stop right outside the main entrance is a real winner. Thank you for keeping me amongst the community I have learned to love.
Have a wonderful summer, Evalyn.
SYLVIE
“If there are any dancers out there, please report to the east doors of the school,” said the voice on the loud speaker.
We pow wow dancers shuffled through the grounds of Rouge Hill Public School—from the ice cream truck to the policeman on horseback; from the drummer’s tent to the taco stand—but never to the east doors of the school, as instructed.
It was a hot day for the Scarborough East Pow Wow. The sun blazed through rainbows of ribbon. The sun blazed through tightly bound braids upon scalps wet with sweat. Through metal cones on jingle dresses. Through feathered bustles and fancy shawls.
Everywhere I went, I could hear visitors yelp when they sat on the burning hot plastic seats to wait for the Grand Entry.
“Hot, eh?”
“Isn’t it ever.”
“When are those dancers going to start?”
“I dunno.”
Bing and I sat under a skinny tree much too young to give shade. It was difficult to strike a balance between crouching close enough to share relief from the hot sun and not touching so that we could avoid each other’s body heat. So we tried to cool ourselves with ice cream instead, bugging our mamas at regular intervals for pocket change.
I struggled to keep my ice cream upright while my jingle dress cones hung downwards catching on the grass. Bing, of course, expertly bit into his ice cream, consuming it without drips or dribbles.
“Please, folks, we want to get started on the Grand Entry. Please, if you are a dancer, make your way to the east doors of the school.”
“Aren’t you a dancer?” Bing said, pretending to be responsible.
“Yup,” I said, licking melted chocolate ice cream off my wrists.
I looked around the yard and laughed. Kids everywhere in their regalia, at odds with their parents. Sour cream smeared across moccasins. Headdresses crooked on top of tiny toddler heads. “If Mommy gives you one more cookie, will you stop pulling on your braids?!” I heard a mom say to her daughter whose hair had gone undone and fuzzy. “Will you sit down? The Grand Entry is about to start!”
I could see Elder F
ay take her place at the beginning of the procession. Her wrinkly face squinted at the hot sun while she positioned her shawl over her left arm and her feather fan in her right hand. I gobbled up my ice cream and took my place behind her and the other elders and behind the veterans holding flags. Mama rushed over with a baby wipe to clean my chocolate-covered face.
I thought it was the sight of Levy, that very serious boy, in his grass dancing regalia and child-sized feather buttress that had Mama holding back tears. But when she held my cheeks after wiping them, I realized she was crying at the sight of me.
“You’re beautiful, Sylvie.” I blushed. I had never heard that before.
Mama hurried back to her picnic blanket, where Johnny and Bing’s mom were sitting, to watch the Grand Entry finally begin. Johnny, who was in his stroller sucking the sleeves of his ribbon shirt, suddenly sat up at the sound of the drumming.
“Look! It’s your sister, Johnny!” Mama pointing at me, my hands at my waist, bouncing at the knees, and following the procession.
The procession made its way around the circle to the other end, where Mama was sitting. She was still crying. I waved my arms at her to join me. Mama shook her head no. I waved again. Bing’s mom elbowed Mama in the ribs, until Mama finally stood.
Mama wiped away her tears. “I don’t know. I don’t think I earned this dance.” I said nothing. I just held her hand in mine, rubbing the back of it with my thumb. We both automatically put our free hands to our waists and began dancing.
The procession continued in a circle to the tune of men wailing, each of them drumming with one hand and the other hand covering an ear. Wee children in their fancy shawls turned circles around each other. Levy’s dance looked like he was having a conversation with the ground. Edna stayed with Johnny, who cheered at the sight of us, ribbons still in his mouth.
From afar, I could see Bing watching from under our skinny tree. He waved. Just then, there was a fierce wind. It cooled all of us down. I knew it was time. As the procession moved away, I waved goodbye, and I looked forward.
LAURA
I am standing just close enough to Mrs Kamal, until she begins to speak to me. She thinks I am the spirit of her dead brother. But I’m not. I’m Laura. I try to tell her it’s me, the girl from across the hall. I want to say thank you for feeding me when Mommy wasn’t there. I want to say I know it wasn’t her who kicked me out of her house once she found lice in my hair. That it was her husband who wanted me to go. So, as a favour, I stand here so she can speak to her dead brother like he’s here. I want to say he’s off near that river where they used to skip rocks, but I think she wants to believe he’s here beside her. It’s not that he doesn’t care. It’s just that he’s happier there. And he loves to skip rocks. He showed me once how he can make the rocks jump, not once but hundreds of times. He held up a smooth, flat rock, his secret to being so good at it. Then he pointed to the wound on his arm. So that’s how he left, I figured.
Mrs Kamal always waits until no one is around, then begins to speak to me in her language. Sometimes she laughs. Sometimes she sits for a long time, looking out in the distance. Today, she is sitting in her section of the Galloway Park community garden. We can both hear the sound of the drums at the pow wow. She frowns in the direction of the noise. She doesn’t like those people. She says something I can’t hear. Shakes her head and takes away the dead leaves from her vegetable patch. I have watched her grow it since I left and the weather became warmer. This is where she talks to me the most. I have watched her peel open wet toilet paper rolls with tiny seedlings growing inside. I have watched green sprouts come out of the dirt and watched her grab some of them and place them in her mouth. She says in her language something about it tasting so good. I can tell, the way she closes her eyes and makes noises.
Without any gloves on, she uses her hands to turn the dirt until it’s all dark again. I wish I could help her. I wish I could taste those sprouts, too. Once she is done with the dirt, she stands up and cracks her back. Her hands are on her bum, and she bends backwards. She makes a noise. She almost forgets to put water on the vegetables and I whisper to her to feed them. She listens. She sinks a white cup into a big bucket full of water and feeds every vegetable, like we’re at dinner. Like each vegetable is over for dinner, and she’s giving them each a glass of beer. I laugh a bit. She stops. I cover my mouth.
Mrs Kamal finds a tree stump to sit on. She knows I am following her as she sits down. She says his name. Youssef? Youssef? She knows now. It’s not him. She looks in my direction, even though she can’t see me and I can’t answer. She covers her mouth and cries. I put my hand on her shoulder and she cries even more. I try to show her the rocks skipping, to make her stop. That’s when the wind begins to pick up and shake all the trees.
The trees dance. The plants and flowers dance. Mrs Kamal holds her hijab down. The wind is so strong. I can’t even hear Mrs Kamal crying anymore. I can just hear the wind.
“Why won’t you leave?” says the wind.
I don’t know what to say. I’ve never spoken to the wind before. I haven’t been spoken to since I left. So I stay quiet. The wind picks up and nearly sweeps me up and away like a balloon.
“Why are you here?”
“Because ...” I think real hard. I put my hand on my heart. “Because I don’t want her to cry.”
“She won’t cry forever.” The wind sounds like leaves clapping.
“How do you know? I’ve seen her cry for so long.”
“She won’t cry forever.”
“What about everyone else? How can I leave?”
“If I tell you that if you let go, you can see that no one cries forever, will you leave?”
“And go where?”
“You know where. Youssef is already there, skipping rocks.”
The wind makes a circle around Mrs Kamal. A circle of dust. I see her there crying. I know if I stay, she will cry more. I say yes.
I watch Mrs Kamal wipe her tears away. She picks up a dandelion wish and looks at it. She closes her eyes to say goodbye to Youssef and blows. The wishes float into the air, and I watch them. One of the wishes grows and grows until it is large enough to take me by the hand. The wind laughs, probably because I’m making a face, I’m so scared to fly. But I am. I am flying.
Mrs Kamal multiplies into millions of beads, like her necklace—it is a necklace of Mrs Kamals. I follow the beads and can see her face growing older, no longer crying. She is kissing her children’s foreheads goodnight. She is making food and smiling, harvesting her vegetables and watching the sunset. She grows older and older. She is blowing out candles, being helped up and down the stairs. Old and wrinkly, she is kissed on the forehead by her children. She dies smiling. She meets Youssef at the river again. He has a pile of smooth, flat rocks to show her.
I see a necklace of Ms Hinas. I see her sitting beside piles and piles of paper with hundreds and hundreds of children’s names on them. Her brown hands look at each page and remember each child. I see her holding close to her heart the picture I drew for her. She saves my picture and places the rest in recycling. She closes the doors to the centre one last time.
I see a necklace of Bings. I see him running to another man in an airport. He is older and older. He is sitting beside his mom, holding her hands while she says goodbye. He cries, loud. He almost leaves that man he ran to at the airport. But he decides to stay, because he loves him.
I see a necklace of Sylvies. I see her writing and writing. I see her stories being read by so many people. I see her being sad sometimes because she misses her dad. She is smoking by the water. Sometimes she thinks of me. When she is done smoking, she goes back inside her house to write some more, and she feels better.
I follow the necklaces, up and up and up and up and up, past the trees, until everyone looks like ants. I follow these necklaces, people I have never seen. People I have only dreamt of. I follow the necklaces into the clouds, until I can no longer hear the wind. All I can hear is quiet. It is dark
er now. The sky is pink. The air is warm. I can hear myself breathing. What do I do now?
I hear my name. Laura. I turn toward the darkest part of the sky. I can see stars.
“Daddy?”
He stands there. Afraid of me but smiling. He wonders if I am angry. His skin is pink. His hair is clean. He wears a T-shirt and jeans; his hands are in his pockets.
When you’re dead, you can’t tell someone, “You will change your ways,” because their ways won’t continue ever again. But my daddy. My daddy takes off his shirt. I see he has no tattoos or scars. Just him. He shakes his shirt. From it comes millions and millions of stars, flying into the sky and taking their places. Twinkling stars. I laugh. He laughs too.
He puts his shirt back on. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out darkness. He spreads it around the stars to make them twinkle even brighter. He opens his arms and asks if I would like a hug. I walk to him. I’m so scared. But then he holds me. He smells like food. He smells like flowers. And smiles. And sorrys. And If Onlys. I Never Meant Tos. I’m Different Nows. I’ve Learned So Muches. I’m Not the Sames. I’ve never been hugged like that before, and that hug feels so good, so I hug him back. It feels so good to hug someone who will never hit you.
Below us, a bunch of geese fly like an arrow toward the sunset. The sky gets darker. I ask him what happens now. He doesn’t answer. He just holds me tight, smelling like home.
Acknowledgments
Salamat sa’inyong lahat.
This novel is about community. Thank you to the community who helped make this novel possible. I fully acknowledge the privilege I hold in this world and cannot be more grateful to the countless people who checked my work for cultural references. Your time and knowledge was appreciated. Thank you to the Toronto Zoo for letting me conduct orangutan research on site. To the beautiful people of Scarborough and all of the people who privately interviewed with me about their lives: thank you for inspiring me with your resilience and strength. To my east side mamas, Rashida, Meaghan, Victoria, and Jen, and to my beautiful Hernandez/Estioko family: thank you for believing in each page. To my mother, Cecille Estioko Hernandez: thank you for your expert translation. To Rania El Mugammar and Starr Domingue for their time and patience educating me. To the Scarborough Arts Council, Ontario Arts Council, and Diaspora Dialogues: thank you for the funding and support your organizations have given me throughout my career. To Jim Wong-Chu and all the wonderful people behind the Asian Canadian Writers’ Workshop: the mentorship you gave me was priceless. To Charm Torres, Zahra Siddiqui, Annie Gibson, S. Bear Bergman, and Michael Erickson: thank you for being generous when I had little to give. To Donna-Michelle St. Bernard: I am honoured to have received your guidance. To the amazing Team Arsenal Pulp Press: thank you for believing in this first-time writer, pushing me hard, and knowing I can make magic with words. To Arden McNeilly, who helped me copyedit my manuscript: I am an artist because you are my daughter. To my partner, Nazbah Tom: thank you for hearing me read every damn draft of my novel and cheering me on. To M——: your memory burns brighter than your final moments. I am wishing you rivers and quiet wherever you are.
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