by Karen Grose
“I had three meals a day. Pasta. Meat. Vegetables. Washed and cut fruit. I’d forgotten how they tasted. They were nothing like the jello molds with the shredded carrots and canned crap the ladies made for us after church on Sundays.”
The detective shook her head. “People still make those things?”
“Penn had free Wi-Fi, too. Unlimited, they told me. All the better, I’d thought. Connecting with the world again was great. Empowering, you know?”
“Did you jump right online?”
“No, I slept for two days.” She thought back. A doze? A catnap? No, it’d been a full-out coma, the first deep sleep she’d had in months. And, better yet, not a single dream she could remember. It had been a full-on blackout.
“You probably needed it,” the detective said.
Greta stared across the table. Detective Perez was wearing a trim, navy blue two-piece suit and a pink blouse with a soft, ruffled collar. A strand of pearls graced her neck. Could the detective imagine the bone-deep ache that came from the stress of living on the street? She guessed not. But from what she’d heard the night before in the cells, she must have had other stresses.
“I woke up once, probably for no more than ten minutes. I went to the washroom and made a phone call to the Xiangzis in the hall.”
“Free long-distance too?” the detective asked.
Greta gave her a relaxed nod. “They were happy to hear from me.”
Her next connection wasn’t as easy.
Greta: hey.
Latoya: do I know u?
Greta:
Latoya: u ghosting me or smthg?
Greta: not me
Latoya: it’s been 6 months
Greta: ikr
Latoya: so what then?
Greta: sorry
Latoya: where’ve u been?
Greta: it’s a long story
Latoya: listening
After she’d filled in every last detail, she’d crawled back to bed. The stupor lasted another twenty-four hours. When she finally woke—not fully awake, only alert enough to be semi-conscious—she’d quickly discerned things were going to be different from what she’d expected. It was mandatory to attend the clients’ residence council. She had to help prepare supper once a week. When she was told, she laughed. That was easy. She knew her way around a kitchen from working at Honey Bee with the Xiangzis. Then the bomb dropped.
“What’s up?” she asked after she sat down in the office.
The man from the front desk the day she’d arrived sat across from her. “It’s time to consider your future,” he said.
Greta scoffed. ‘What future?” She’d been on the streets for six months. She hadn’t had the chance to think beyond the next day.
“A short-term plan?”
She crossed her arms and looked at the ceiling. “Sleep?”
He laughed.
“And watch TV.” Except that wasn’t true. She’d been doing that the past few days and was already bored out of her mind. Either TV was getting stupider or she was growing up.
“Rules are rules for a reason,” he said.
Her stomach dropped.
“So what’ll it be?” He waited. “What about school? It’s right on site.”
“Can I wear pajamas?” She reached over and got an apple from the bowl on his desk and took a big bite.
“Yep. But you can’t be late.” He paused. “And you’ll get counseling.”
“For what?” she said, her mouth full.
“For whatever drove you to the streets in the first place. And to allow you to support yourself.”
Mr. K. nightmares filled her head. “Been there and done that,” she denounced. She put the apple down and started counting. One, two, three.
“This is different,” he told her. “Trust us.”
Trust? Was he kidding? Except for Latoya and the Xiangzis, who’d had her back from day one? She didn’t trust anybody. All the adults in her life had let her down. Her mother, her father, Colleen, Mr. Parthi, Officer Pappas. Even Coach Dewson. There was no trust, and the last thing she wanted was to sit down and talk about her feelings.
She tried to stay calm. Four, five, six. Cheeks burning, she rallied, and then lost it.
“I don’t need it. I’m the only one who has ever got me. I’ve been abandoned too many times to want support from you.”
She stormed up to her room and locked herself in, tears flowing freely—and she let them. After a good half-hour, she wiped her face with the back of her hand and checked the hall, relieved the staff hadn’t tried to find her. Good. See? Pissing people off works. The conversation was over.
Detective Perez stood, waggling her cup. She pressed the button on the recorder and reached for the empty pitcher on the table. “Give me a sec,” she said.
After she stepped out of the room, Phil leaned over and said, “You’re doing fine. Keep the heat in check.”
When the detective returned, she slid the pitcher of water across the table and pressed the button on the recorder. “Let’s pick up from where we left off.” She looked down at her notes to refresh her memory. “If I recall, you weren’t happy about the counseling.”
Greta’s shoulders sagged. She got an odd sensation. The detective was right—and the Penn staff too—but she hadn’t been ready to acknowledge it.
“Can we fast forward through that?” she said.
Detective Perez shook her head. “It’s important I hear what you have to say.”
The lump that had been stuck in her throat since she’d arrived that morning grew bigger. How could she explain what happened? How could the detective understand? She felt guilty. Uneasy was a better word. She twisted in her chair. “That whole counseling thing got delayed.” Then she remembered what Phil had said. She looked up and smiled. “I found Colleen.”
The look on Detective’s face said she didn’t believe her.
She’d started by googling Colleen Jones, Toronto. Hundreds of names came up in the search. She refined it. Colleen Jones Toronto Counselor. The results narrowed to less than a hundred. Still not helpful. Next she tried Twitter. If Colleen tweeted, she was doing it anonymously. She hated when people did that. Creepers and trolls without the courage to post their name had zero credibility. There was only one word for them. Blocked. She logged onto Instagram. No luck there either. The last place she looked was Facebook. It wasn’t a platform she used. It was more a space for an older crowd. Not the elderly, like at church, but middle-aged types, like her mother and housewives and aunties. But, Greta had reasoned, as Colleen was older, maybe she used that instead.
Bingo. Persistence paid off, like Mrs. Xiangzi said it would. Colleen’s picture came up on the feed. Greta double-checked her profile to see if she’d mentioned anything about living in Bracebridge. She scrolled through the pictures. The waterfall. The main street. Greta posted a message and waited.
Detective Perez held up her hand and cleared her throat. “Hang on. How did you find this Colleen Jones?”
“On social.”
“There are over three million people in this city.”
Greta looked at her. Do not laugh.
“My grandchildren have been trying to get me on Instagram and Snapchat for years now.”
“Did you set it up?”
“I tried. Wasn’t for me.”
She had no idea what to tell her. If she didn’t take the plunge, she’d miss whole chapters of her grandchildren’s lives. Social was how they communicated, how they kept in touch. She smiled, trying to encourage her. When Detective Perez scratched something on the page, circling it twice and jotted in the margin, for the first time in two days she wasn’t worried about her notebook.
***
Greta worked hard to fill the empty hours waiting for Colleen to message back. At first, she was wired, bouncing off the walls in her room. She checked her phone obsessively and wolfed down every snack laid out in the house. Unwilling to go anywhere, she was restless. Then she needed to get out. She slipped on her sneakers to go for a
run, but the air felt so cold in her lungs she was winded after only a few steps. Deflated, it appeared her running days were over and walking was now more her speed. When she returned to her room, she found a message from Colleen in her feed.
Greta: hey
Latoya: get it?
Greta: yep
Latoya: and?
Greta: meeting her tmrrw
Latoya: that’s gr8
Greta: smiley face
Latoya: u good?
Greta: been waiting my whole life
Latoya: questions?
Greta: they’re ready
Latoya: you go girl. good luck
THIRTY-ONE
G reta felt her blood pulsate in her temples. She was waiting in the coffee shop at a table by the window, eyes glued to the front door. If she hadn’t been sitting somewhere so public, she’d have taken the brown paper bag holding the cookie she’d bought and hyperventilated into it, right then and there. Her stomach muscles loosened a little when Colleen brushed through the front door. She sized her up: trench coat, inky jeans, boxy purse slung over a shoulder. Her sand-brown hair was shorter than she had remembered, but her fashion sense hadn’t waned. She moved lightly on her feet, and Greta could feel her positive energy. She reached up a hand and waved her over.
“Sorry,” Colleen said, giving her a short hug, “the subway was a mess.”
“No problem, just got here myself,” she said. A lie. She’d been sitting there patiently for over an hour. At one point, Greta had wondered if she was even going to show.
Colleen grabbed a latte from the barista, dropped her purse on the table, and sat down. “What are you doing in Toronto?”
“Long story.”
“You’re not here with your dad, right?”
“No, he’s still in Bracebridge.”
Colleen smiled. “Then school or something?”
Greta smiled back. Perfect. The question meant she didn’t have to lie again, but she didn’t have to tell the whole truth either. Her mood lifted.
“Taking courses. Just finished Grade Ten.” ’Cause that was the truth.
“Your mom would’ve been excited to hear all about high school.”
The knot in her stomach grew. “That’s why I’m here, Colleen. I’m hoping you can answer some questions. There’s stuff about my mom I’d really like to know.”
“Like what she was like when she was your age?”
She hadn’t thought about that. “Okay. Let’s start there.”
“Your mom told me Grade 10 was her favourite year, too, except for French and Phys Ed. She had some big argument with her parents and they made her take those.”
Her heart skipped a beat. She didn’t hear anything Colleen said, save for the fact her mother fought with her parents—which surely meant she had grandparents. Somewhere out there… But where?
“Why was it her favourite year?”
Colleen laughed. “Did she ever tell you about History?”
She snorted. She’d spent most of her childhood trying to stop her mother from playing Trivial Pursuit with her mind—to no avail. If she were still with her now, she’d play it with her day and night, for as long as she wanted.
Colleen took a sip of her latte. “She liked English, too. She told me about this huge project she did on World War Two and all the stuff they read. It was the year of her big dreams.”
Greta thought back to the conversation they’d had on the back patio at the cabin the summer she’d turned eight. She’d told her she was her big dream. Everything she’d wanted, she’d said. Was her mother already thinking about her then?
“Which were what?” she asked.
Colleen laid her hands in her lap. “First she thought she’d be a historian. Go to Western, get her PhD, maybe even teach at a university; somewhere romantic; somewhere far away. Like UBC or Dalhousie.”
Greta shook her head. That couldn’t be true. Her mother had told her she hadn’t gone to university.
“If that didn’t pan out, she wanted to get a job in the community. She had this elaborate plan laid out. She’d get so excited whenever she talked about it. Start locally, in a recreation centre. Assist a city councillor as a means of gaining credibility. And then, if it all worked, consider running for MPP—that’s a Member of Provincial Parliament.”
Greta nodded. She’d taken Civics.
“Her world opened up wider when her class took a trip to Queen’s Park. It was a big deal for a kid from Brantford travelling to The Big Smoke for the first time.”
Greta shot her hand out across the table. “She was from Brantford?”
Colleen stared at her. “You didn’t know that?”
“You said north of Hamilton the last time we talked.”
“Guess I forgot to get back on that. Yes.”
Brantford. Greta pulled out her phone to access her Notes app.
“Anyway, she described her trip in great detail.” Colleen laughed. “Too much detail, actually. How the rolling fields and two-lane roads gave way to a six-lane highway in the thick of the cement jungle. How everything got bigger—brighter, faster, louder.”
Greta nodded. That part was true. She pictured her mother going on and on about details she’d never notice. She was definitely like that.
“That tour mesmerized her. There was so much history in the stones and the paintings in the halls. When their tour guide said Canada was just over a hundred years old, she thought that was ancient.”
Greta thought about the time she’d thought sixteen was pyramid ancient, too. Wasn’t that the time her mom had met her father? Something about sixteen rang a bell.
“Because of that trip, your mom’s dreams got bigger.”
Greta’s attention snapped back to Colleen’s story. “Bigger how?”
“She wanted to make a difference. Maybe be Premier.”
“Of Ontario?” She couldn’t believe it. “What did her friends say?”
“They laughed. Obviously. Thought the whole thing was a joke and—”
“Nice friends,” Greta interjected.
Colleen took another sip of her latte. “It was a different time. Females in politics weren’t common then. It wasn’t what people expected. It was Kim Campbell, whose real name was Avril… She was our first female Prime Minister. In 1993. But she only lasted six months.”
“How come?”
“Her party lost the next election.”
Though Greta couldn’t see her mother as ever being a politician, she disagreed. “A woman could be Premier—and Prime Minister.” Mrs. Xiangzi had been certain she understood that.
“You’re just like your mom.”
“So what happened?”
Colleen’s face clouded over. “I guess that doesn’t matter now, does it? Things weren’t meant to be.”
Greta stared at her from across the table. None of her mother’s big dreams had materialized.
“Why hadn’t you told me my mom was a client at the Women’s Shelter in Bracebridge?”
Colleen looked up sharply. “I told you I worked with her.”
“I thought you meant co-workers… You know, colleagues. I was really screwed up when I found out she was your client.”
“Honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mislead you.”
“Why didn’t you help her?”
Colleen’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I did everything I could.”
“I don’t think so,” Greta said curtly. “Maybe if you’d tried harder, she’d be alive now.”
Colleen stared back in disbelief.
“Well, she obviously trusted you to tell you all this stuff.” Greta held her gaze until Colleen lowered her eyes.
“Do you know Hannah?” Greta pressed.
“Your mom’s sister?”
“Tell me something about her,” she said.
Colleen perked back up a little. “Emily said they were thick as thieves.”
Greta felt a pang of envy.
“Hannah was a few years older so,
truth be told, it probably wasn’t always like that.”
“Go on.”
“Your mom told me that, when they were growing up, Hannah drove her nuts. She had all sorts of stories about the things she did to her.”
“Like?”
“Let me think. Okay... When your mom was maybe seven, Hannah had to babysit when her parents were working. The last thing Hannah and her friends wanted was a whiny kid hanging around then, so they ditched her.”
Greta frowned. “That was mean.”
“They left her sitting on the toilet all day. She’d accidentally swallowed an ice cube at lunch, and Hannah convinced her that if she didn’t poop it out, her insides would freeze and she’d die.”
Greta laughed. It wasn’t funny; it was hilarious.
“Your mom said she was so scared when her mom got home from work, she was still sitting there, asleep, with her head on the toilet paper roll.”
Greta’s eyes widened.
“And her father took a picture.”
“Seriously?”
“Emily said they kept the photo up on the fridge for years. It was a running joke in their house.”
Greta was still laughing. “What else did Aunt Hannah do to my mom?”
“Oh, she was horrible. When your mom was about nine, her friends were all taller than her. Hannah convinced her she’d sprout up an inch overnight if she lay down on her bed and rubbed her tummy with both hands—in opposite directions, of course.” She laughed. “Then she took off.”
Greta groaned and rolled her eyes. “My mom believed her?”
“Yes, but she laughed it off. She said it wasn’t as easy as it sounded, and took her a half an hour just to get the pattern right. By that time, Hannah was long gone.”
Greta wasn’t so sure about her Auntie Hannah. She didn’t sound like the type of person she wanted to meet.
“Hey, don’t worry. Everyone’s got those types of stories from their childhood.”
She looked down at the table. Not everyone had them.
“At least your mom didn’t have brothers. The stuff they pull is way worse, trust me.”
Greta thought back to what her mother had told her about boys. It hadn’t been all bad.