From the Ashes

by Jesse Thistle

  I hadn’t talked to a woman so powerful, so bright, and so intelligent in years. I didn’t own anything because I’d been on the streets for so long. All I had were words and a desire to impress her.

  I wrote her poetry. I’d had corrective surgery on my wrist to fix the break that had never healed properly since the fall from the building, the fight with police, and the thousands of push-ups I did in jail, so I had to do it with one hand. It often took me hours to type one page. I bled for each one. This was one of the first ones I sent:

  once in a lifetime

  two people meet.

  not knowing what the universe has designed for them,

  they form a bond so strong

  that it holds the very fabric of time at a standstill.

  this is true love,

  it is infinite,

  i will always love in this moment forever with you.

  now is ours.

  Lucie loved the poem. A week after she got it she sent me Michael J. Fox’s Always Looking Up and The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho—books with messages of hope and making the best of our gardens, our lives, even with our shortcomings, that I devoured. I knew it was her way of helping me, of saying it was okay that I was a little broken.

  We started to Skype like crazy after that. Before every call, I showered, combed my hair, put on my best hat, my crispest pressed shirt and pants, and my brand-new leather jacket, even clean underwear.

  Life on the streets had been horribly dirty. Many times I’d wished I could have had a shower but simply couldn’t—I often went for weeks without one. So when I got sober, I collected an abundance of soaps, shampoos, skin creams, face scrubs, toothpastes—I must have had, no exaggeration, about two hundred of each. So many that I filled an entire bookshelf with them and kept them on display in my room at Harvest House behind my computer seat, perfectly lined up.

  When Lucie called, I’d sit in front of my wall of soap and shampoo, so she could see that I was clean, so she could see that I was respectable just like her.

  I really wanted to impress her.

  THE OTHER HALF OF THE SOLUTION

  MY PROBATION OFFICER, MR. F., came to Harvest House for our last weekly visit. When he sat down, the sun was shining behind him and carried summer warmth onto my face.

  “You’ve done your time, Jesse,” he said. “How does it feel?”

  “Not sure,” I said nonchalantly. The immensity of release was not yet upon me, but I wasn’t afraid of freedom for once.

  The manila folder he put on the desk that housed my case file was thin, not the usual thick ones I’d had back in Brampton. That alone felt like a major accomplishment. He rifled through it, stamped the last page, and then got me to sign a confirmation of release from the Justice of the Peace.

  I was a free man.

  “What are your plans when you leave here?”

  “That girl in Toronto I told you about, Lucie?” I said. “I’m going to see her.”

  Mr. F. studied my face for a moment.

  “You know, when you first came, I thought you were a long shot,” he said. “Wasn’t sure if you’d honour your surety bond, thought you’d take off and relapse like the rest of them.” He motioned to the long line of clients crowding the hall. “But something was different about you . . .” He tapped the end of his pen against his teeth then went over my activity report.

  “You did every chore in the joint—cleaning washrooms, toilets, and showers; kitchen duty; waxing the floors; sold calendars. You mentored the young guys, helped others with reading, academic bridging, ran marathons in the program. You did everything over twelve months without a single violation. That’s not normal.”

  I thought back to my first day at Harvest House the first time around. I was skin and bones, just off the Greyhound bus from Brampton, and as rusty as an iron rivet on the hull of the sunken Titanic. I had a real hate for the world, but also a glimmer of hope after hearing news of my dad. It was like that dude in the shelter freed me to move on, made it okay to let go and stop chasing my father’s ghost—something that didn’t really sink in until I started talking openly in group therapy during my second attempt at rehab. That, and I was desperate—I didn’t want to die, which almost happened after I relapsed with Max.

  “I guess I just chose to live. And that meant trying my best at everything.”

  “Come on now.” He shook his head like I’d given him the wrong answer. “That’s only half the solution.”

  I didn’t know what he meant. I’d put in the work this time. I’d set micro goals and chose to follow through on each one of them, just like Brian and Mr. T. told me was possible years before. I chose to stay sober, pushed myself in therapy, until the minutes turned to days, the days to weeks, and the weeks to months. I’d literally set one- or two-minute goals—If I can just make it to the next minute, I thought, then I might have a chance to live; I might have a chance to be something more than just a struggling crackhead. I chose, repeatedly, in everything I did until I reached my first three months of sobriety and I thought I’d achieved the impossible—to me it had seemed impossible. My name looked so triumphant on the achievements board: J. Thistle—90 days. And now that I’d reached the year and had worked the AA steps properly, I felt I could just keep on choosing a better future forever and ever.

  “There’s no doubt it took lots of dogged hard work. But don’t forget the team of great people behind you, the rehab itself, and the addicts who’ve struggled and won victories with you these last twelve months—they held you up and gave you the chance to choose better for yourself. They deserve credit, too.”

  I sat back and thought about what Mr. F. was saying. There was truth in his words, an external factor Brian and Mr. T.’s empowerment philosophy had missed. The support of family and love—Harvest House gave me both; they gave me the opportunity to choose.

  “And you, Mr. F. You played a part, too. You got me to write the letter to the convenience store guy I robbed—that helped me move forward in so many ways.”

  He smiled and slid another paper my way.

  “You still have eighteen more months of probation in Toronto. Here’s where you report.”

  I read the form and saw that my new probation office was just down the street from where I fell off the building, on an old corner where I used to use. My gut stirred with crack cravings, but it wasn’t enough to send me to the toilet—that was real, tangible progress.

  “I hope this Lucie girl will hold you up like everyone here did,” Mr. F. said, “and that you remember to keep making the right choices.”

  I nodded. “I’m sure she will and so will I.”

  BRAVERY

  I WAS MORE AFRAID THAN I’d been in my whole life.

  I walked to the oncology ward thinking of what I was going to say, my hands sweaty and heart trembling uncontrollably. I squeezed Lucie’s hand like a vise grip.

  She smiled. “Have courage, Jesse. Just tell him how you feel.”

  Afternoon light cascaded through the hall window, shining on her beautiful red hair. It calmed me.

  “It’s time,” she said. “Put pride away.”

  I nodded. I’d been in Toronto at Lucie’s for just two days, but I already knew she was the one. We sat awake both nights discussing my grandfather and how people fight and waste the best years of their lives trying to be right, but that “right” doesn’t exist when precious time is spent in such useless ways. She listened to me talk about the void I had within, how I’d tried to fill it with drugs over the years, and how I knew I’d broken my grandfather’s heart by hurting myself long after we’d fought in the van over me wanting to buy a car.

  “Don’t you see?” she said. “You two donkeys just loved each other so much that this fight broke out—and neither of you is willing to admit it’s gone on long enough.”

  She was right. We Thistle men never learned how to express ourselves. We were raised to be tough and unemotional, with the thickness of our calluses and fists the only way we were ever
allowed to show how we felt—lessons that went way back to Grandpa’s horrible boyhood in Cape Breton—lessons my dad, no doubt, struggled with, too.

  The last time I saw my grandfather was at my grandmother’s funeral. I’d been granted furlough with my AA sponsor Randal again, a week after she passed, but he left me alone when I walked into the funeral home and up to my grandmother’s casket. My grandfather sat with his sisters and my aunts and uncles beside him. He wept softly, as if he was trying to hide his grief, even then. I bent in and kissed my grandmother’s face. She had a peaceful smile, almost like Buddha.

  When I’d turned to face my grandfather and offer my condolences, he’d wiped his cheeks and barked, “It’s too late, asshole. She’s gone.”

  I never felt so sorry for him in all my life—I knew he didn’t mean it. I’d used anger myself to hide from emotions I couldn’t handle.

  I returned to Harvest House. I occasionally worked in the shop making duck decoys or building furniture to sell to support the program, and every time I lifted a drill or held a saw, I thought of the old guy and wished, for just one day, we could work side by side again like we did when I was a boy. That I could hear him say “attaboy” one more time. I missed him so much. I ached to wipe away his tears, to tell him how I really felt.

  When we entered his room in the hospital, he was alone with my aunt Sherry, who I hadn’t seen in nearly five years. She was holding his hand, tears streaming down her face. She whispered to him, and he looked up at me. I had no words, and neither did he. Soon we were both crying, too.

  Finally I said, “I’m sorry, Grandpa.”

  “I know, Jesse. It’s okay.” He held his arms out, and we hugged.

  I knew he’d heard from the family, Aunt Sherry primarily, of all the things I was doing to better myself, and I knew he knew me better than anyone. I was sure he could look right into my heart and see I really was trying my hardest.

  “I’m proud of you,” he said and gave me a karate chop on my forearm, like he used to do on my knee when I was a kid, then held my hand. His hands were shaking. He told me that he understood what it was like to be an orphan. “That’s why I was always hard on you. To make you strong. Like my granddaddy did with me. That was the only way to protect you. Just keep flying straight or I’ll kick your ass.” He gave me his trademark Popeye wink.

  That was the nearest he’d come to saying he loved me in nearly two decades.

  He passed away a month and a half later, six months to the day of my grandmother’s passing.

  FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS

  LUCIE AND I SAT ON the couch in our apartment. My leg rested on the coffee table and shook from pain after a long day of work with Uncle Ron. Fourteen- to sixteen-hour days working again for Randolph installing kitchen countertops had become the norm, and Lucie was always there to help me recover at night—rubbing Swedish bitters on my wound, which had opened back up from the heavy work, binding my leg in special bandages to keep the swelling down, drawing on my shoulders to distract me.

  “Ah, watch it,” I yelped as she shifted on the couch. “You bumped my foot.” I wasn’t nice about it, something that was happening as of late—me being snappy and grouchy after work.

  “I’m sorry,” Lucie said, kissing her hand and placing it on my foot. “I didn’t mean to.”

  I huffed and crossed my arms, making more out of it than I should’ve.

  Lucie turned to face me.

  “I’ve kept quiet this last year,” she said. “But I’m not going to anymore.” She sounded dead serious—she clearly wasn’t having it this time. “When I picked you up from Harvest House you had a garbage bag full of donated clothes, a wall of soap, a toothbrush, and tons of shampoo.” She paused, her expression even more focused. “But you also had a dream. Remember we’d talk about university, and remember the promise you made to your grandmother?”

  I nodded. I knew to drop the act and listen. When we first started talking when I was in rehab, we spent hours on the phone, getting to know one another as I worked nights watching over the new guys. Lucie was at York University, her first year back in school after over ten years of drifting about, and her resolve to give it another go inspired me. We’d talk about her assignments, how she was sacrificing going out with friends to do homework, getting things done on time, with good marks. We were talking about moving in together, too, and how I could do the same once I moved to Toronto. We schemed about how we’d study together, support each other, look over each other’s work. We were a lot like each other—late bloomers.

  “Remember when I helped you get into academic bridging at the University of Toronto last fall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, since you dropped out of bridging to work with your uncle, you haven’t been happy. I’ve watched you day after day come home miserable and limping.” She crossed her arms. “I can’t watch you break your body anymore—you’re not supposed to be a construction worker.”

  “I’m trying my best!” I said, slamming my hand down. I thought she was insulting the labour that put food on our table and helped pay our rent. I thought she was saying it wasn’t good enough.

  “You can have a tantrum all you want. I need to be with someone who’s living their truth. Because I love you, because I love us, and I know what you’re capable of.” There was a long pause. “It hurts me so much to watch you keep neglecting your dream.”

  She reminded me of my grandmother, that power and uncompromising attitude, when she knew she was right. I remembered when we argued over the placement of the TV when I first moved in. I tried to force it onto the stand and hollered when she told me not to because it wouldn’t fit. Then I ran out of the house sure that I was right, like I’d learned to do in anger management when I got too worked up.

  She didn’t chase after me. She waited until I returned an hour later to explain why the TV had to go where it did. She was calm and kind, but firm.

  “I understand why you throw fits,” she said. “I would, too, after years of having no control over anything.” She then said she’d always be there to help me figure out my emotions, even if it was an ugly process.

  God, I loved her so much. But I tried to be mad now as she challenged me to face the truth—I’d given up and broken my word to myself, to my grandmother, and to her.

  Finally, she said, “You chased the money—I get it, we have to survive—but money will not make you or me happy. Following your heart will.”

  I thought about it. There was something about the way we’d talked those nights, like we were planting dream seeds in fertile soil, our hopes and desires spigots of water, nurturing a future we both wanted and saw in each other. She gave me the courage to hope and dream, because I saw that in her, and she believed it was possible for both of us. It was contagious.

  She was right.

  And she trusted and loved me back when I was just a newly recovered criminal, back when it felt like no one else would. I promised myself I’d honour and protect that no matter what. Trying my best in school was part of that.

  “Just fill in the line that asks for your major.” Lucie’s red hair brushed across my arm as she walked me through the York University application process. “What do you want to do?”

  I scratched the top of my head. “I like history,” I said. “I watch lots of World War I documentaries.” I peered down at my callused hands and couldn’t picture them writing academic papers. I still doubted my decision—I’d quit installing countertops a few weeks before.

  “Good—historian is a great profession.” Lucie moved the mouse and clicked a box on the computer and scrolled onto the next screen. She smiled. “Almost done. Now just add in all your personal information here and we’re good to go.”

  She walked away and put the kettle on for tea.

  “But—” I said. The application was just halfway finished and it looked like Chinese to me.

  “No. You have to do this one on your own.”

  She wasn’t trying to be mean, I knew that
.

  “I’ve taught you how to fill in enough forms, my job is done.”

  I couldn’t argue. Since living with her, Lucie had helped me fill in health card forms and taught me how to drive and how to fill in all the car driver insurance forms. She taught me how to email and use the computer halfway decent. She taught me how to make doctor’s appointments and fill in the forms at the medical offices. She taught me how to access my debt information and then chart out a plan to pay it all back. She taught me how to open a bank account and how to access credit, and she also taught me how to write properly—she edited most things I wrote and taught me grammar and sentence structure, adding to what I’d already learned in my GED.

  Lucie basically taught me how to access society again.

  “Okay.” I sighed and worked my way through the rest of the application and the Ontario Student Assistance Program forms. She came over occasionally when I got too frustrated, but she was resolute—she made me do it all.

  When I pressed return and the forms were submitted, she hugged me.

  “You did that.” She smiled. “I didn’t want to take that away from you.”

  I felt like I’d climbed a mountain.

  THE FINES ARE FINE

  WHEN I WAS HOMELESS AND in trouble with the law, I collected fines like boys collect hockey cards. The police slapped fines on me; the courts, too, used to slap fines on me for every missed court appearance; and judges slapped fines on me every time I got convicted. Each fine ranged from $50 to $200. Eventually, my collection added up to over three grand.

  The fines had long been a black stain that I believed I could never wash off. They were just there, reminding me I was a criminal who owed a pound of flesh to the state—a pound of flesh I didn’t have, would never have. I’d often thought in the past about changing my life, but thinking about those fines would make me give up before I even started. When I got sober, I put the fines aside; mainly because I was struggling just to live. But when I graduated rehab and started working, I began saving with Lucie’s guidance, and one day, before I started university, I realized I had over $3,000.