Emma signed, “I feel sorry for you each time you have to recite it. I just mouth along and tune out.” There was a pause. “I wish we could come up with a creed for the Others.” They both thought for a moment.
Firuzeh struggled with the signs in her head, then figured it out.
“Through rest, I allow myself to be more than what I produce.”
Emma fluttered her flat palms in the air, her fingers splayed out in ASL applause. “Yay!” before adding more:
Through fighting, I celebrate my will to survive.
Through hiding, I celebrate my ability to navigate my own safety.
Through choice, I celebrate my body’s freedom.
Through pleasure, I celebrate my resistance.
At this last sentence, Emma signed, “Roll up your sleeves.” Firuzeh obeyed, her face twisted in curiosity. Emma leaned the round of her shoulder against Firuzeh’s, then continued to watch the luna sonrisa sail across stars in slow motion. Firuzeh could feel soft down covering Emma’s warm skin. The gesture was not sexual. It was simply a reminder that two human beings, two people who cared about each other, sat side by side. In this room, in this six-by-eight-foot room, there was peace.
Firuzeh floated. That’s how she describes it to us, using her forearms in a wavelike movement to illustrate her disassociation. She floated through time, standing under endless rain/hail/sleet, making sandbags to protect the muddy shoreline. She floated through months of seeing fabric pass under the presser foot of her sewing machine. She floated past images of armoured trucks patrolling along the narrow roadways of the island, the same roadways that had hosted sandal-footed beachcombers not so long ago. She floated through nights of wailing in every room of the residence, of women crying for their children, of the residence becoming more and more crowded with Others as the Renovation moved into full swing. She floated past piles of burning books. Piles of burning picture frames. Piles of burning clothes. Piles of dead Others.
Emma and Firuzeh returned from morning snow-removal duty to see a mound of lifeless bodies near the dumpster beside the residence. Gentle white flakes of snow accumulated on every limb, in every open mouth. Emma stood for a moment, lost in thought. Firuzeh shook Emma’s arm and signed, “It’s cold. I’m going in. Come on.” Emma followed.
One night, Emma tugged Firuzeh’s sleeve, interrupting her dream of choosing which ice cream flavour she wanted at a shop with endless options. Firuzeh groaned.
Emma persisted, shaking Firuzeh until she awoke. The wind howled outside the glass of their bedroom window. Despite the dim light, Firuzeh slowly gained focus on Emma’s signing.
“Remember the bodies yesterday?” Emma signed.
Firuzeh’s eyes opened suddenly. A heat across her throat. She nodded slowly.
“There’s a doctor on the island. He’s an Other like us, forced to work here. He gave them something. I saw it. Outside the cafeteria. At night. They welcomed me to join, but I wasn’t ready. They all stood in a circle, swallowed the pills and said goodbye.” Emma’s signs were quick and aggressive.
Firuzeh was terrified by these words. And even more terrified by her own reaction. Could this be a way out? Could I just swallow a pill and be done with this nightmare?
“I think . . . I think I want out.” Firuzeh couldn’t speak. They looked at each other in the darkness, long enough that they both wondered if the signs had even been made. “This is my choice.” Emma signed, pointing middle and index fingers up and using the other hand to pick at each fingertip with determination. “This is my body, but every day they show us how much our bodies are not ours. Every day they show us how they are in control. But this one thing, this one tiny thing: it’s mine. I want my body back.”
Firuzeh stared back, feeling nothing but betrayal. “But what about the creed we created?” Firuzeh signed the sentence. “Through fighting, I celebrate my will to survive.”
“This is fighting back,” Emma said. “‘Through rest, I allow myself to be more than what I produce.’ I am ready to rest. ‘Through choice, I celebrate my body’s freedom.’ The Purple Scrub women made a choice to work alongside the Boots so they could keep their children. Saying goodbye to this world, this pain, is my choice.”
Emma took Firuzeh’s hands into hers for a moment, then signed, “Firuzeh. That’s your name. My name is Emma Singh.” She signed it with certainty, like she was confirming what once was. Even in the dark, Emma’s smile was wide, her signs swinging and sweet. “I was once a photographer. Like, a real one who had exhibitions and double-page spreads in magazines. My parents, Ravi and Ishita, were Indian from Tanzania. That’s who I am. I need you to remember me. Can you do that? Can you remember my name?”
Firuzeh angrily collapsed Emma’s signs with her own two hands. “Don’t ever wake me again,” Firuzeh signed before whipping her body around and pulling her blanket over her head.
Two nights later, photographer Emma Singh, daughter of Ravi and Ishita Singh, joined the dead by choice. Emma’s corpse lay face up with her back bent over the swollen abdomen of another underneath her. Emma Singh got her body back. Firuzeh looked at Emma longingly, aching for that kind of rest.
Firuzeh witnessed countless rapes. Witnessed obedient children get their heads shaven. Witnessed the Boots remove her fingernails for sport. She kept floating.
One morning the rains subsided and Firuzeh woke to the sound of birds in the bush outside her room’s window. They were tiny chickadees all screeching at once, saying nothing in particular. She reached out and touched a green leaf emerging from the knobby elbows and knees of this bush, and the chickadees flew. Springtime was coming. Her tender fingers plucked the green leaf and placed it in her mouth. A gash near her lip stung when she moved her jaw, but she managed to get it onto her tongue. The leaf was bitter but fresh. Fibrous but real. Her Loving Kindness meal of the day.
A month or so later, with the warmth of the spring rising, with windows wide open in the great hall, the women were to complete a batch of dress shirts that had been commissioned just the week before. Yara and her crew were to do sleeves. Farrah and her crew were to fashion the torso. Firuzeh’s crew was in charge of buttons. She completed the task with a final ironing of the shirt before handing it to packaging, which was located at what had been the schoolhouse.
Close to the deadline, an entourage of Boots came in, with a white woman strolling in behind them, also wearing a leather jacket. Since she did not wear a helmet, Firuzeh could see how clean her hair was in its ponytail. How soft the skin on her face looked and how clean she smelled.
“As you can see, Liv, Gibraltar Point has been converted from an artists’ residency to an around-the-clock manufacturing shop,” said one of the Boots.
Her name is Liv, Firuzeh noted.
Liv looked around the room and cheerfully waved at everyone at the sewing machines. Then, for a brief moment, she looked at Firuzeh at the ironing table. Firuzeh’s heart sped up as Liv approached her.
“And what are you doing?” Firuzeh cowered. “Are you ironing the finished prod—” Liv touched the iron and it fell on Firuzeh’s hand, the nubs where her fingernails once were.
“Ahhh!” At the sound of Firuzeh’s pain, one of the Boots aimed his gun at her.
“No! Guns down. It was my fault. I’m so sorry!” Liv said, making meaningful eye contact with Firuzeh again. “This looks very bad.”
“She’ll be fine. These shirts need to get done,” said the Boot, his gun still aimed at Firuzeh.
“I insist. She’s burned herself pretty badly. You don’t want any markings on these shirts, do you?” A pause.
“We’ll take her to the clinic. They can treat her there,” said a Boot as he gestured to one of the women working at another station to take Firuzeh’s place.
“No, no. Just point me in the right direction and I’ll bring her there. I want to take a look at this clinic, make sure we’re not wasting resources,” Liv said with a nasty smile.
“It’s past the schoolhouse, ma’a
m.” A look was shared by the Boots.
“Do I have to say it again? Go on!”
Liv gave them a gesture and they left.
Out of the sides of their eyes, the sewing team watched as Liv escorted Firuzeh outside and down the road towards a line of run-down houses in an enclave facing the lake, rotten picket fences enclosing each yard.
“Mama? Mama?” said a small voice. In one of the yards, a young Brown girl in a white ankle-length dress capped her hands over the sharp edges of the fence posts, her bowl cut of black hair shining in the sun. When she confirmed that Firuzeh was not her mother, her plea transformed into a playful song, her body swinging from the posts, side to side, dancing. “Maaaaamaaaaa. Maaaaaaamaaaaaa.” Behind her, other little girls in the same white uniforms played tag. A Purple Scrub woman approached and banged her nightstick on the fence until the little girl joined the other children.
“I think this is where they told me to go,” Liv said while guiding Firuzeh past the uneven steps of one of the homes. A South Asian man in a doctor’s coat, with one of his eyes bloodied and beaten, answered the door.
“This woman has been hurt.” Firuzeh showed the doctor her burn, now weeping and inflamed. The doctor nodded and showed them to a treatment room, where Firuzeh sat on the paperless examination table. He began to rummage through the random supplies strewn throughout the room.
“Actually . . . can you give us a minute, doctor?” Liv said pointedly. “I want to have a look at her myself.” The doctor looked between Firuzeh and Liv curiously, then obeyed orders and left the room. Silence.
Liv walked to the window of the messy room and grabbed a bandage off the sill. “You know, Firuzeh . . . I saw you.” Firuzeh froze. How did this woman know her name? “It was last month. I saw you reach out for a leaf outside your window and put it in your mouth. We’ve been watching you for a while, and there was something about watching you eat that leaf that told me this person, this special person, has hope. She hasn’t been beaten down yet.” Silence. Liv positioned herself to face Firuzeh and began inspecting her hands.
“Where are your fingernails?” Firuzeh held her breath at the question. “Did this happen here?” Firuzeh gave the smallest nod. “Do you know how President Pryce was killed?”
“Excuse me?”
“The president of the United States.”
“Last winter . . . He was . . . assassinated.”
“Yes. That’s what you may have heard. By that Black extremist group. That’s what everybody heard.” Liv took a half-used tube of ointment from a cabinet and applied some to Firuzeh’s hand. A sting, then relief. Liv stepped close enough to whisper in Firuzeh’s ear. “But did you know he was already dying of cancer? That he actually died of cancer. There was no assassination? Or maybe you knew that already.” Firuzeh withdrew her hand from Liv’s grasp. This was a trick question. This was a set-up.
“Firuzeh, would you like to leave here?” Silence, save for the fluorescent lights humming above their heads. “I know you’re scared. But there’s not a lot of time. I can help you.”
Firuzeh got off the examination table and made for the door.
“I’m serious. I can get you out and to a place of safety. You’re not the first one I’ve approached. I helped a man out of the workhouse in the Junction. I helped a mother reunite with her two children out of a workhouse in Scarborough. Both of them are now being trained to take part in an uprising. Firuzeh, we’re going to fight back. I can help you, but we need your help too.”
“I’m going to get in a lot of trouble.”
“Will you be any less safe than you are here at the workhouse? I know who you are, Firuzeh. Firuzeh Pasdar. You worked at the Transgender Assistance Centre of Toronto. I know you. I know your politics; I know you have the skills to lead people, to work within a group; I know you have supported people who have survived far worse than what you are surviving now. We need someone like you to work with us, to fight with us. I need you to listen to me. Give me your hand.” Liv began to bandage Firuzeh’s hand, and Liv’s voice became but a whisper. She leaned into Firuzeh’s ear again. “There will be a work order for denim overalls next week. The following week will be bedsheets. The next week will be comforters. That week, when one of the Boots comes by to collect the work order, he will expect you to hide among the duvets before he wheels it towards packaging.”
“A Boot?”
“Yes. There are a few more like him on the inside, helping others escape. The cart will not make its way to packaging, though. And I promise you, if you follow my instructions, if you tell no one, you will get out.”
“But what about everyone else?”
“I can only help one person at a time. I need you to trust me. I will bring you to a safer place. I promise.”
Liv made her way to the door, nonchalantly.
“Wait!” Firuzeh pleaded. “There are others.” Once a social worker, always a social worker.
“I can’t take any of the other women. Only one at a time.”
“No, not here. I had clients. Please.” Liv looked at her, confused.
“Please remember these names.” Firuzeh struggled to remember the faces of her numerous clients, and finally one came to her. “Said Damji! He’s a Trans elder who lived off Shuter Street.”
“Listen: if he’s an elder, the chances of his survival are slim. The Renovation tried to eliminate elders and those with disabilities first. We have relocated a few, but sadly, we weren’t able to rescue many.”
“Bahadur Talebi!” Firuzeh begged. “They’re a gender-Queer youth. They just got here from Iran a year ago. I know in my heart they ran. They’re a fighter. They’re probably hiding somewhere. I know it. Please.”
“You’re certain?” Liv’s lips tightened.
“Absolutely. I know it. I know they would have figured out a way to hide. Please find them a place where they can be safe. Please.”
Liv nodded in agreement, then she placed a finger over her lips before opening the door. Liv escorted Firuzeh back to the sewing shop, with the bandage on her hand, and she began counting down the weeks. Denim overalls. Bedsheets. Comforters. Freedom.
Rolls of fabric and cotton batting arrived the day the work order came in for the comforters. The fabric featured the most unattractive scene of a bloodhound, an American cocker spaniel and a sheepdog playing in a rural setting. It was hideous and hard to believe anyone would buy it. Still, there were a thousand of them that needed to be made by the end of the week. Firuzeh looked around at the Boots who delivered the supplies, wondering which one was in cahoots with Liv. None of them made eye contact. All of them moved the same way. Maybe Liv was a liar. Maybe no one would come to save her. Maybe she had betrayed Bahadur and put a target on their chest, now that she’d revealed their possible survival to a Boot. She would shake her head at these thoughts, choosing to believe that Liv’s promises would unfold as planned. After Emma’s passing, she had nothing to lose. Emma had made one choice. Now this was Firuzeh’s.
The week passed. Daniella and her crew were to cut and size the fabric and batting. Farrah and her crew were on assembly. Firuzeh’s crew did the final quilting pattern of alternating hourglass swirls across the fabric to ensure the batting wouldn’t shift. She remembered what Liv had said, which was to not tell a soul about her escape. But with the completion of each duvet, she looked around the room wishing she could take each one of the women with her.
The deadline for completion of the work order had arrived. Firuzeh opened up the window of her room and saw that the bush was completely full of both birds and leaves. She plucked one leaf from the bush and placed it in her mouth. The taste had changed. Not as bitter and much more tender. She savoured the slight crunch of the leaf before heading to the cafeteria for the usual white bread with an economical smear of peanut butter and one glass of powdered milk. She looked around at the Boots who patrolled the cafeteria; all of them looked identical. No suspicious movements.
Firuzeh watched as the final comforter
was assembled. The batting was tucked into the two sections of fabric, and they were sewn together with a flawless seam. She watched the fabric pass under the presser foot to create the wave patterns to quilt the comforter. Her co-workers were already stretching their legs when she pulled the final piece from the machine and cut its thread. Night had fallen. One of the Boots blew a whistle. Dinnertime. Two Boots escorted her co-workers to the cafeteria. Firuzeh stayed behind to stretch her back and looked around. She was to place the final piece into a large cart full of other comforters manned by one of the Boots, who would wheel it to packaging.
“Get in,” the Boot said. They all looked the same. Sounded the same. Firuzeh remembered Liv’s instructions and did as she was told. The Boot calmly hoisted her into the cart, covered her with the duvets and began wheeling the cart down the hallway.
“What in the world is this?” said another Boot through the muffle of the batting. The cart stopped. So did Firuzeh’s heart. This is it. This is the end. A pile of bodies. “Who the hell would buy this?”
“I know, right?”
“What is on the fabric? Is that a cocker spaniel?”
“I think.”
“Fucking hell. That is ugly.”
“I know.”
“You’re off to packaging for that?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s that way.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I mean, it’s a tiny island. You can’t get lost here.” A shared laugh. The Boot turned the cart around. The squeaking of wheels. A beep. A door opening. Cool night air. The cart stopped. The smell of cigarette smoke. The cart turned in the other direction again, and the pace was quickened. Another beep. Smoother floors.
“Where are you off to with that?” The cart kept wheeling.
“Delivering supplies.”
“They’re almost done serving dinner in the mess hall.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m just behind. See ya.”
“Are those dogs on those comforters?”
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