CHAPTER FOURTEEN

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 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 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 precisely 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.”

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.

Beth falls into step beside you. “What happened back there?” she asks, her voice almost too low to hear. “It’s him, right? Grimsby.”

You appreciate that she leaves off the Mister. He doesn’t deserve it. But you still want to shut her up. That one word, the A word, is as far as you’re able to go right now. Now that you’ve said it, you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to say it again. You try out a nod, a small one.

She seems to know enough to stay quiet after that. Or maybe she’s scared too.

How does she know anyway? How have all these people come together? Jane and Samantha are hangers-on, but the rest of them have only one thing in common. Or two: you. And Grimsby.

It’s a bit of a walk Michelle takes you on, and she does so in her typical fashion, out in front, fast.

You see several people you know as you walk down Hastings, then Main, and Cordova. Several double takes, as they try to make sense of your company. There’s the Army & Navy store coming up on your left. Great place for cheap boots and clothes. On your right, a series of doors are set back from the street under an overhang. All the way along, people have laid out sleeping bags, even pitched small tents. Collections of stuff are everywhere. The doors are glass, barred. One of them is covered in signs and posters, and that is the door Michelle opens and enters.

You look at the pictures some more, and something inside you rises up. You do not want to be a face in a “missing” poster. You do not want to be where Sarah is now. Sarah knew that. She tried to tell you. Go home, she said. They could be me. They could be you.

You know, deep down inside, that Sarah is dead.

An image flashes into your mind: your heels scrabbling in the gravel while that man tightens his grip on your throat. You never want to be there again. You never, ever want “they” to be you.

You walk through the door and tear your own poster down, leaving Sarah’s all alone.

Inside, a woman comes toward you, surprise on her face, as six of you crowd through the door behind Michelle. You look around. Diana’s face is a mask. Beth looks bruised, her round cheeks pale, eyes kind of sunken. Marlene stands straight, shoulders back, at the ready. Jane’s back is pressed against the door, her expression a mix of fear and disgust.

Samantha stands next to Jane, but her face shows only compassion. She has her hand on Jane’s arm, and you feel a sob of longing in your throat as you recognize her protectiveness.

“Can I help you?” a voice says, and you turn to see the startled woman who stands now at the top of the three steps that lead up from the entry area.

Michelle is striding up those steps, and you see the recognition. “Raven,” Michelle says, and Raven bursts into a grin.

Raven is black, much blacker than you, and elegant and strong and beautiful. You like her instantly. “Michelle! You look great!” she says. And they embrace.

An outreach worker, you guess. Your knees buckle slightly, and a hand grasps your elbow—Beth’s. She gestures with her head, and together the two of you step forward and climb the stairs.

There are so many people to be managed, you realize, and at the same time there is something dreadful to track down and force out into the open. Your sickness is rising.

“I want to call my mother,” Jane says suddenly, interrupting whatever Michelle is saying to Raven.

Another woman has joined them from a backroom and she whisks Jane off, presumably to help her do that.

You see your own fear mirrored on Diana’s face. “No mothers,” she says.

“Michelle,” you say suddenly, your voice sharp. “Jane can’t tell about us.”

Michelle abandons Raven, goes off in search of Jane, who is probably already weeping on the phone, begging her mother for a ride, probably telling her everything in one big rush.

Raven turns to the five of you who are left. “Let’s sit down,” she says. She ushers you into a room with a big round table, and fetches apple juice while you arrange yourselves.

You gulp the juice, your body screaming for sugar—and something stronger. You probably have half an hour of sanity left before you start shaking and vomiting.

Raven is looking at you; she knows exactly where you’re at. You can see it. You find that you trust it.

“Now, tell me why you’re here,” she says quietly as she closes the door. She addresses no one in particular, avoids eye contact.

You are surprised, but grateful, when Marlene speaks first.

“It’s my grandpa,” she says. “I think he hurt them.” She pauses, as if it takes great effort to spit out the next word, the more precise one. Finally, “Abused them,” she says. “Kaya and Diana.”

Samantha has her hand on Beth’s arm, but Beth seems oblivious to her. All her attention is fixed on you. You hold her gaze for a long moment after Marlene falls silent.

Speak, her eyes say. Tell.

You turn back to Raven.

They feel like the biggest words ever spoken. They are certainly the biggest words ever spoken by you. And with them said, you find, you are done. You can say no more.

Raven sees it immediately, the nausea taking over, your addiction demanding its next meal. She moves you to a couch, where she can talk just to you, and she tells you that you need a bed, that you need to go into a treatment centre today.

“There’s no point,” she says, “to stretching this out. You need to get off the drugs so you can deal with the abuse. Your best chance is now.” She pauses, as if considering. Then, “You’ve seen the posters. You know what’s happening to women down here.”

You think of Sarah on the swings, Sarah lighting the candle in front of the stone. They could be me. They could be you.

You nod, ever so slightly.

“What’s that?” Raven says.

“All right,” you whisper.

Beth calls Mom after that and she comes. And she cries and so do you. You’re pretty sick, by then.

Raven will take you to the detox centre herself, she says. And you run to the toilet to throw up one more time before you go.

Calling Mom that night is rough: getting up the nerve, waiting while it rings. She’s brisk on the phone. “Tell me where you are. I’ll be right there.”

I wait for her on that couch by the door, while Kaya stays in back with Diana and Michelle. Jane’s mother sweeps Jane and Samantha away in the meantime. Turns out Jane got her call in before Michelle had a chance to stop her.

Mom arrives strong, but there’s something about her shoulders and her cheeks, as if the bones in her back and her face have melted a bit and sunken down. She hugs me and holds me away from her and looks into my face.

“You’re all right,” she says, and I bite my tongue on a wailed No, I’m not. I’m not. She doesn’t need that right now.

“Where is she?” she says.

Raven brings Kaya out then, and Mom wraps her arms around Kaya without a word and without looking into her face like she did into mine. It’s like she doesn’t want to see what’s there. Not yet. She just wants to hold her messed-up daughter in her arms.

“I’m taking her to treatment tonight,” Raven says to Mom. “I’ve found her a bed.” She hesitates. “If that’s all right with you.”

Mom nods, still holding my sister tight.

In the end, Kaya has to wriggle herself free. “I’ve got to go, Mom,” she says.

So we go home without her, yet again. And despite the fact that Marlene and Michelle are in the back seat of the car, Mom cries all the way. Tears drip off her chin. At the red lights, the sobs turn to wails.