And as you hear him thundering his way back up the slope, as you hear the truck’s engine turn over, as you hear the truck tear out of the parking lot and down the road not far from your tree, your silent breathing turns to loud sobbing. You stifle the tears fast, though. You’ve got to get onto that road now, while you can still find it.
It’s a long journey back downtown. You make it to the road right off, and down the hill into town, though it’s pretty hard on your bare feet. You find out you’re in Port Moody, not that that’s much help. You have no money and no choice. You get yourself onto a main road and stick out your thumb. A guy stops right off. You don’t like the look of him, but what can you do? You get in. You give him what he wants. And you huddle back against the door, trying to keep the nausea down while he drives you home.
The other girls cover you for a couple of days while you start to heal. And for the first time since you came back downtown, you want to write. You find a stack of napkins from McDonald’s and a couple of pencil crayons. You fill those napkins with the scrinchiest writing you can muster, so small only you can read it. And you tell what happened to you. The man. The drive. The beating. The escape. The journey back. Every little detail makes it onto those napkins. You read them over and over to yourself. You imagine you’re reading them to Sarah, and every time you draw her into your mind, you hear those words: They could be me. They could be you.
When you’re done, you wander outside in the rain and drop the stack of napkins into the gutter, stand and watch the ink run, the napkins swirling away, some sticking to the curb, some not. You give the sticky ones a push with your foot, until every bit of paper is gone.
Then you go back inside and start caking makeup onto your bruises. It’s time to go to work.
You stay away from the kiddy stroll now. You’ve been thinking about it, and you’ve decided to give Sarah’s corner a try. Princess and Hastings. Yes, the police will pick you up if they see you, but you’ve got a sharp eye and good spotters. And you’re more afraid of the guy in the pickup than you are of the police. He won’t look for you on Hastings. You’re pretty sure.
You do a good job of avoiding the police, but the second afternoon out there, you glance up and catch Beth staring at you from the window of a passing bus.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Beth
The day after the funeral, I take the Hastings bus downtown. It runs all the way from near my house to downtown and along Hastings to Burnaby. Easy enough. If I want to, I can just stay on it and it will turn around at the end of its route and bring me home again. I’m not getting off downtown, I know that much. I’ll just look out the window. I’ll look and look. That’s all.
And if I see her …? I have no idea what I’ll do if I see her.
I don’t see her. Not that day. Or the next, Monday, after school. Or the one after that. Mom’s working, so she doesn’t even know that I don’t get home until six most days.
After a week, I get braver. I get off the bus just past the scary part, get a bus back, get off downtown and head east again. I can go back and forth three or four times in an afternoon that way.
Another week passes. Still, I don’t see her.
One day I decide to skip school. Maybe she’s never out on the street in the late afternoon. Maybe I’m just missing her every single day. So, on Tuesday morning I’m on the bus by nine thirty. Back and forth I go. Back and forth. At lunchtime I get myself a milkshake and a burger. No eating on the bus, the driver says, so I sit on the bus-stop bench and wolf it down. Back and forth.
I’m on my way back downtown when I see her, standing right there on the corner, teetering on her high-heeled boots. I lurch up out of my seat, and collapse right back into it, fighting the urge to scream, Stop this bus! Instead, I check the time and the place. Princess and Hastings, northwest corner. Half past one.
As soon as I feel like I’m in a safe part of downtown, I get off the bus and cross the street. Go home, I tell myself. Or call Mom. But Mom’s picking up some night shifts, nursing, this week, so she sleeps all afternoon. I know it doesn’t matter if I wake her up; she’d want to know. She’d come. But I’m not ready for that. I need to see Kaya again.
Back I go on the bus. And there she is: same corner; same teetering sister. Half an hour later, I pass the corner again and she’s gone.
My transfer is running out. I’ll need to pay again. I should go home. I should call Mom. I don’t. Scraping together every last dime at the bottom of my purse, I buy my way onto another eastbound bus. Princess and Hastings comes. And goes. No Kaya. I look at my watch. Three o’clock. This time, I let the bus take me all the way to the end of the line, asking myself, If she’s there, will I get off?
It’s way past four when the bus approaches the corner again. The driver actually tried to make me get off at the bus loop in Burnaby, but I just said that I had slept past my stop, and he relented. I sit up straight in my seat, tip my head against the cool glass of the window and put all of my will into looking, as if my gaze can pull my sister up out of the sidewalk. Magic.
And maybe I’m more powerful than I think I am, because there she is. There she is, and this time, she’s looking right at me. Our gazes lock. As the bus passes, I turn my whole body and look back. She’s still staring, but she has not moved from the spot. The bus pulls into the stop. Get up! I shout inside my head. But I don’t. Two people get off, four get on, one of them with a stroller; many seconds tick by. I do not get up, and Kaya does not move.
At last the bus carries on its way. Our gaze is broken. I sit in my seat and shake all the way home.
It’s past five when I get there, and Mom’s up, slouched over the kitchen table with a mug of tea. She jumps to her feet when I tell her what happened.
“Let’s go,” she says.
On the drive, she asks questions. When I tell her about all my bus trips, she looks at me hard. “Smart girl,” she says when I explain why I didn’t get off.
Princess and Hastings is deserted when we drive by, so we park the car and walk the neighbourhood. I know Mom’s been doing this, but I never have, and I don’t like it. I keep my body pulled in tight and don’t meet anyone’s eyes.
Mom is silent until she stops in front of a window right near that corner. I look up. SHEWAY, the sign says, VANCOUVER NATIVE HEALTH SOCIETY. Mom points. And my gaze is drawn to a small poster on the inside of the window looking out. Have you seen Kaya? the poster says. She squints out at us from a photo Mom took in August. Underneath the picture, our phone number. And another line of text: Kaya, please come home.
She has called twice, and the second time, she left a message. Somehow she always catches us out. I’m okay, she said. Don’t worry about me. As if that were possible.
“She was standing right over there three hours ago,” I say, pointing. “Right over there. She must have seen the poster herself.”
“I put up lots,” Mom says.
“I know, Mom. I’m not blind,” a voice says.
We both jump and turn, and there she is, her hood shading her face.
“Kaya!” Mom says, and steps forward, arms outstretched, but Kaya moves away from the hug, not into it. Her eyes are stones. Damp stones, but still.
“Leave me alone, can’t you?” she says. “Just leave me the fuck alone.” Her voice is louder on the repeat. Shrill. She turns and strides away, in sneakers now and tattered jeans.
“Kaya,” Mom says again. She does not run after her, though, and neither do I.
I don’t know about Mom, but I’m feeling a little bit afraid. That girl is supposed to be my sister, but she feels so far away from me right now. She seems tough in a way that I’ve never seen before. Harder than ever. Mom and I walk slowly back to the car and drive home.
That night, I’m pretty sure I don’t sleep at all. By morning, I have new resolve. She can turn herself to granite, but we’re still her family, and she’s still ours. I’m going to bring her back to us.
They’re all at school the next m
orning: Jane and Samantha, Diana and Michelle. Since the funeral, I’ve been ignoring my friends, telling them I’m busy, letting them know it has something to do with Kaya.
Now that I have a plan, I look for Diana first, even though she frightens me. I find her outside with her friends. She pulls away from them as soon as she sees the expression on my face.
“Is Kaya all right?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say back, even though I want to ask questions. How does she know my sister? What does she know about her? Well, I sort of want to ask those questions. Really, I know all I need to. Kaya is downtown for the same reason that Diana was at that funeral.
“I want to go get her,” I tell Diana. “I want us to go get her together.”
“I’ll come,” she says instantly.
We approach Michelle next. She’s coming out of math class, eyes clear, shoulders back, hair gleaming. It’s a bit of a shock to see her looking so great. It almost makes me mad, with my sister in such rough shape. She’s hesitant when I tell her what we want.
“Look,” I say, “as far as I know you’re Kaya’s only friend. Can’t you help her out?”
“I stay away from downtown these days,” she says. The pause is long. “But, yes, I’ll come.”
“Well now, quite the little gathering,” says another voice, warm and round, an I’m-here! Now-step-aside kind of a voice. Jane has arrived, Samantha in position right behind her.
So we head for the front door of the school in a group of five.
“What’s going on?” a voice calls before we reach the front hall.
I stop moving. Turn. It’s Marlene.
“You show up outside my granddad’s house, you barge in on his funeral,” she says. She doesn’t seem to care that we are standing in the middle of the hallway, that Michelle and Samantha and Jane are all listening, that her voice is collapsing in on itself. She turns to Diana. “And you. You were there too. You slunk off.” She pauses, almost gasps for breath.
I stand, still and quiet, looking at her, not sure. Then it comes. Fury.
“It’s none of your business,” I say. “Just stay away from us.” My eyes make a tunnel through the air between us, locking onto hers, shutting everyone else out.
“It’s not my business,” she echoes, sounding disbelieving.
A hand grasps my arm, pulls. I yank back and find myself in a tug-of-war with Diana. “We’re going to get her sister,” Diana says to Marlene. “Are you going to come or not?”
Electricity sparks among us, every which way. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “She can’t come,” I say, but my voice comes out croaky.
“What do you mean? Where is she?” Marlene asks.
“She ran away,” Diana says. She hesitates. “Because of your grandfather.” Diana is standing straight as anything, staring into Marlene’s eyes.
Marlene steps back again, eyes on the ground.
I pull myself together. An old man hurt my sister, and he’s dead now. This girl has done nothing wrong.
“She’s downtown. Hastings Street,” I say. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Kaya
You’re standing on Sarah’s corner. She’s long gone, but it’s still hers: her picture is on the poster in the corner-store window behind you.
Your ribs and your feet are still sore from last week, but makeup pretty much covers the bruises. As for getting into cars again after that, funny how withdrawal can make just about any risk seem worth it. Sure, you’re scared, but the move to Hastings was smart: you haven’t seen that red pickup truck once. You’re tired after a sleepless night, but back on track.
Or you were. Until you saw Beth on that bus, and two hours later, Mom.
And now six girls are coming toward you.
You have no chance to disappear, because they’re already waving, or Beth is. Jane is pushing the button for the light, all business. Samantha’s holding back a bit. Typical. Michelle is waving at you too, all cheery enthusiasm. What happened to her? You don’t want to look at Diana. You don’t want her to be here, the light changed now, crossing the street. But you are looking. What else can you do? Anyway, Diana seems kind of stiff—surprise, surprise. And there’s one more girl …
Who is she?
As they come closer, you recognize that girl from school and a memory flickers, an unwelcome one.
You were in that place. That place that’s been haunting your every move since you came back downtown. A girl was there with her dad, and Mr. G was pleading, kind of. The dad was Mr. G’s son.
“Please,” Mr. G was saying. “She’s my granddaughter.”
“Marion’s not having it,” the dad said. “I just brought Marlene here to say goodbye.”
The girl wandered over to the table where you were doing crafts with Jennifer. “What are you making?” she asked, and you were pleased, happy to show and tell, but her dad whisked her away.
As he opened the front door, you saw him gesture toward you and heard him ask, “Does her mother know she’s here?” He sounded nervous, as if it was hard to say those words. He had his arm around the girl, his daughter. He hustled her out the door.
Marlene. Part of you feels amused. You could laugh. Maybe. Here come your chickens. Home to roost.
You imagine making flapping motions with your arms.
You consider turning and running for your life. How could Beth collect these people up and come marching into your world? You take a peek inside yourself and make sure that the reservoir of misery is shut up tight, not one drip, not one drop, oozing out of it, not even a bit of damp at the seal. You inhale, deep, and blow the air out in a long stream. They’re on your side of the street now. This is where, if you were in a war, the commander would yell “Fire!” and both sides would send off a volley of bullets: bodies would fall, blood would spatter and the smell of gore and gunpowder, the sounds of human agony, would be everywhere.
But these girls did not come to hurt you, you remind yourself. And, really, you don’t want to hurt them either.
Diana comes straight to you, almost shoving Beth and Marlene (how did Marlene come into this?) and Michelle aside. She puts her hand on your arm, and you flinch.
“We’ve got to talk,” she says.
The words are like tiny crowbars. They find that reservoir seal and go at it.
The other girls hustle up behind Diana. You fix your eyes on Beth’s face in a last attempt to save yourself. Beth’s eyes lock with yours for a moment, slip away and lock again. She knows, you think. It’s a sickening thought. With it, one of the seals gives way; a leak springs. Another minute and you’ll be drowning from the inside out.
“Come on,” Diana says, her voice all urgency.
“What are you doing?” Beth says to Diana, then to you, “Kaya, come on home.”
Diana’s plan, it seems, is hers alone. The others just want to get you out of here, but you’re nowhere near ready to march onto a bus with this crowd.
Diana grabs your elbow and tugs. You stumble forward. A stumble leads to a step; a step leads to another. And the other girls follow along in a bunch, mumbling to each other. Diana leads the way down the street right past the bus stop to a set of church stairs. They are empty except for a body-shaped sleeping bag up against the church door. The bag rises and falls slightly as the body inside it breathes. A shopping cart full of earthly possessions has been pushed up to the wall at the bottom of the steps. The church itself is shut up tight. Diana marches halfway up the stairs and sits you down beside her. She looks at the others, who have followed. They’re at the bottom of the steps, all except Beth, who’s right behind you.
“I need to talk with Kaya,” Diana says.
Beth stares. At her. At you.
You sit right up against Diana’s coat, your arm now linked with hers. Moments tick by before you nod at Beth. She leans in a bit, seems about to speak; then she descends and joins the huddle on the sidewalk.
Diana turns to you. She’s shaking. And you know preci
sely why. Or you think you do.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, and you feel confusion take over your face, crinkling your forehead, tightening your cheeks.
Sorry?
You see her see your confusion, and you try to interpret what shows on her face then. Relief? Doubt? It takes her a long time to speak again.
“Because of what happened. It’s … it’s my fault.”
“It …” you say, because what does that even mean? It.
And that’s when she says the word. Later you find out that she’s saying it for the very first time in her whole entire life. Her body, her muscles, her breath, her brain, her heart: all together forming the word that has a chance to save you both, though you don’t know that yet. “Abuse.”
Once the word is spoken, you parrot it back to her and you stare at each other in horror. What now? You don’t notice yourself disentangling your body and edging away, but you realize moments later that a space has opened up and Diana is looking down at the stretch of cement between you, and tears are gushing down her face.
You clutch at the cement step behind you, clench your teeth at the nails-on-chalkboard sensation and feel a fingernail break. Rage wells.
Beth and Marlene and Michelle are staring up at you now. Jane and Samantha are talking urgently to each other.
Michelle breaks the stalemate, bounding toward you. “Come with me,” she says.
You want to turn on Diana, tear into her with claws, fists, teeth even. You want drugs, a big fix, and with it, oblivion. You want to jump into a car and feel whatever mix of twisted need and desire the next john tosses your way.
Abuse.
Diana has shattered a very, very fragile thing. And no claws, needles or paid-for sex acts are going to piece it back together. So, for the second time that afternoon you follow, this time with no linking arm.
Diana falls back, still weeping, and Marlene walks with her, Jane bustling along beside, trying to take over, of course. Samantha walks in the rear and Michelle marches on ahead. You cringe as you remember following her to Jim’s so many months ago. Where is she leading you now? She looks great, all shiny head to toe. Hmm.
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