Left In Good Spirits

by Anne Pleydon

  Kenny rolls over and then back again and she feels a stinging in her eyes. Her throat tightens and she feels the lump there that she fears might close her throat for good. She bites the back of her hand softly and exhales. Her breath is unsteady but it warms her hand. She thinks about Merivale again and wonders if she should ask Baird about putting in a referral on the drug sick kid. Will that kid end up in his unit? She rolls over again and Daniel grabs her hand. And she lays still and repeats the word SLEEP over and over in her mind. She looks at his hand holding hers. She looks at her hand as though it is some thing that does not belong to her body. She watches her hand with indifference as it lays in his hand. She waits for him to fall into some deeper slumber so she can take her hand away without him feeling.

  Chapter 5

  MR. BAIRD SIGNS OUT keys, an ear piece, and a radio as he goes through admissions with two large take-out coffees. Morning shift change. He reads the communication book and gets news from last night. The team bugs him for not having brought coffee for everyone. He is eager to leave the team to join the quiet on his unit. He wordlessly hands Frank a coffee the minute he enters the unit. Baird wants the kids to be on lock-down for as long as possible. He can tell Burrard is awake. That kid always wakes early. He never seems to sleep.

  Baird heads to the staff office on the unit and clicks through to his emails. There is a Shift Report email that the Night OIC puts out. When Rodney is Acting OIC, there are always typos. He cannot type. Baird always shakes his head when Shit Report is periodically found in the subject line. Shift Report provides the highlights and vibes of all the units the night before. Any code reds, major changes in programming, and admissions. And then there is the daily count which indicates which kids are in which unit and which are in medical and discipline. Baird remembers when email first started being used for shift report how much the staff bitched and moaned at the very suggestion of it. And did McDonough ever rage about who the hell would have the goddamn time to fill that out let alone read it. It had been Clearwater’s idea and that made it even less popular. But with the direction from the Superintendent, the staff on unit submitted the report like clockwork to the Night OIC and he forwarded all of it in one giant cut and paste mess to the all-justice-staff group email listserve. Lana Clearwater was responsible for forwarding the Shift Report email to Health and Mental Health who were not there over night.

  It was impossible to protect the Shift Report email from informal shift change debrief language. Baird was uncertain who had submitted the update from the Discipline Unit but it said, “Helmcken said he swallowed a baggy of drugs and needs to stay in a wet cell until he ELIMINATES them. He does not want to return to general. Shocking.” Everyone knows the Med-Obs part of the Admissions Unit is a bit cushier and the nurses there are obligated to visit and sometimes even spend their whole shifts there. It is quieter there and some kids like getting a break from being with the general population. Sometimes a tv is rolled into the kid’s cell. Baird recalls that Burrard once convinced a student nurse to lend him a phone. Goddamn students, Baird thinks.

  Baird shares his rotation with his partner, Frank. Frank is 10 years older and a lifer. He will be line staff until he retires. He is in decent shape. He still has his hair, a full head of white hair, but his knees are bad from rugby. He tends to opt out of the more active aspects of the job as his knees and back are always bothering him. Some days he wakes up and he can’t turn his head very well. Frank doesn’t like lining the kids up to leave the unit or engaging with them on outdoor rec. But if there is trouble, boy, can Frank fly. Everyone trusts Frank. He is safe and doesn’t make bone-head decisions that get staff hurt. He defuses kids easily but also has no trouble putting them on the ground if need be.

  Baird and Frank have worked together for 15 years and don’t need to speak a word to communicate with each other. He knows Frank will wake the kids ‘cause he brought the coffee. Next time they’re on days they’ll switch. They don’t need to wake the kids until 9am today as it’s a Professional Development Day at the School Board and so, there are no teachers on-site. Baird has no use for the teacher. He’s polite to her face but thinks she’s crazy. He hates the fluorescent sweatshirts, toque, hair in a messy bun, and chipped nail-polish. She always seems confused and can’t give him a straight answer about how the kids are doing. He misses the former teacher who was a gentle, older woman with sandy cropped hair and a no-nonsense attitude. She was the type of woman he would feel uncomfortable swearing in front of. The current teacher doesn’t make him nervous. Baird is sure she’s high on something half the time.

  Baird is grateful for the extra morning time to himself in the staff office as he dreads banging on the kids’ doors to wake them. When he swings open the door, he inevitably feels the warm welcome aroma of bad breath, feet, faint teenage boy sweat, and semen waft toward him. Except when he opens Michelin’s door. The kid couldn’t find his ass with both hands and didn’t know what month it was but he never failed to keep a tidy room and demonstrate good hygiene. Michelin also has a myriad of open shampoo bottles in his room that help fragrance up the place. He has too many bottles which staff are overlooking for now because he is following program and not a pain in the ass - not this time in at least.

  Baird clicks through the emails. One is a call for applications for a case management position. It mentions something about a possible clinical unit. Here we go again, he thinks. Another go at a specialized clinical unit. This is new old news. You stick around long enough and all the old ideas become new ideas. The flavour of the day. It is all about trauma-informed care now. What was it five years ago? Culturally sensitive. Restorative. Evidence-based practice. Client-directed. Client-centred. This call for applications is to attract senior staff to case management positions. Baird remembers when each staff was a key worker and had their own cases. They would each have to arrange case management meetings and do release planning. Then, along came another Lana Clearwater initiative. She designated a team under her of 5 case managers who split the youth of the entire facility under them instead of all the staff. This change was met with both relief and resistance. Relief because staff hated case management. Resistance, too, because it was change from someone who smelled like upper management and social work. Staff begrudgingly admit the change streamlined processes a lot. It had been meant to free up the staff to focus on programming and building relationships and managing behaviour instead of getting lost in paperwork and reports and meetings. And it did just that. Staff hate to admit they like the change. Some line staff miss being assigned to a particular kid and following them along, but all appreciate the reduced bureaucracy. Also, the case managers hired are the staff who get it. They don’t make bone-headed decisions that mess with the facility. And they keep the number of damned meetings down. Case managers remember where they come from.

  What was lost though were dedicated supervisors for each unit. The re-allocation of staff to case management positions had to come from somewhere. So, supervisors were reduced to two a shift to cover multiple units, and only one at night along with the OIC. This is still a sore point for the staff, one they will never get over. And worse, because kids are no longer assigned to specific workers, there remain fears that management will feel freer to move kids between units. Staff know about custody facilities who incessantly shuffle youth between units whenever there is even a whiff that there will be fight. Baird feels some security. The older staff will never let that happen here. The OIC is old school and old home units are respected. Admissions of former graduates go to their old unit. It’s just the way it is. Some of the new staff are more open to moving kids with beef but it is a philosophy that is not trusted. It implies something they do not want to admit. And they say they won’t bend on it.

  No one dares whisper it, but the real fear is that staff will no longer have a home unit. Chaos. Partners insist they will never be split and if there is hint of it there would be a rebellion of some sort. But still, shift partners could show up
and no longer have a home unit. It is not discussed much because the belief this will never happen is clung to like life itself. The scent of change has been in the air the past couple years and it makes staff look at the admin/management unit with more than the usual dose of suspicion.

  Baird isn’t interested in the unit supervisor role now that it has changed. He doesn’t admit to himself let alone others that he has any aspirations beyond what is. And everyone seems to conveniently forget that he used to be in a position with a whole lot more power. Being a unit supervisor now would take him from the kids again and he’s not sure he wants that now. Case management is where he wants to be. He feels it’s like being a key worker again but for more than one youth and with less focus on behaviour management. He’ll miss the programming. He’s passionate about it. But he needs off the floor and is tired of trying to motivate his peers to run programs. He wants to be assigned a case load of kids that he can advocate for and plan for and make recommendations, build relationships, and connect to the community and with the family. He looks at the email and reads it over and notes the deadline. It is a quick turnaround. Do they have someone in mind? Doesn’t matter. Union rules. But he is uncertain. He closes the email.

  Baird is aware that he often finds himself refreshing his email and this is occurring more and more. But he isn’t sure why or what he is looking for. He used to have no use for the damn computer, but he notices that lately he’s been signing on almost every chance he gets. He almost looks forward to it in the morning. Signing on, he is filled with some sort of expectation and then resolve and then disinterest almost instantly. He likes it when there’s something there from Kenny. Then he ignores it and waits at least day to answer if it doesn’t have anything to do with work. He likes to have something to look forward to but he also hates typing. He doesn’t like to worry about typos.

  Frank has reluctantly woken the kids and opened their doors. It is an unstructured day on the unit without school and no programs are running. The kids do chores and watch tv and play video games. Cody and Michelin are jokers and currently, the senior kids in the unit. Cody is most senior, second only to Burrard. Cody and Michelin have been on the floor all morning and this has a dampening effect on the unit. Since they aren’t a threat to Burrard, the most senior kid on the unit, there is relative peace. Burrard is an irritating shit who wants nothing to do with staff. He doesn’t overtly command the same status as more antisocial ‘mayors’ in the past. It’s all covert. But Burrard and Cody are aligned in their reign of the unit. And Cody and Michelin have solid relationships with staff at least. The dynamics on the unit are pretty stable. Baird remembers Kenny asking him who the alpha or mayor is on his unit and he told her ,“No one,” because he doesn’t think of any of these thugs as running the unit. But also, he doesn’t like it when mental health staff imply a kid’s in charge. He knows that he and Frank are running the shift today and if Cody and Michelin are helping to keep the kids in line then it’s because staff want it that way.

  Baird has been hearing Cody and Michelin speculating all morning. The kids hear absolutely everything that goes on around them. But Cody and Michelin have a lot of privileges around the facility so are privy to even more information. He can hear them out on the unit with Frank.

  “Is Helmcken being moved today?” Cody asks Frank as they play cards.

  Frank returns, “None of your business.”

  “He can’t come in here with Davie,” Cody continues with one arm thrown over the back of his chair.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Frank says.

  Baird is relieved that Davie is going to Unit 4 because he’s been running his mouth since the moment he got here. Burrard is the most senior but not the biggest on his unit. He implies he’s dangerous in the community and the kids believe it. They believe if they touch him they could get killed on the outs. Burrard has some association with one of the oldest and largest gangs in the city but the staff can’t figure out what he does for them. Drug dealer perhaps. He’s psychopathic and always running things behind the scenes. Always getting the smaller kids to do the dirty work. For now, Burrard and Cody have a delicate but steady alliance, or understanding at least. It seems to Baird that Cody doesn’t want trouble from Burrard, but also isn’t scared of him because he’s white. And, it seems to Baird that Burrard doesn’t want trouble from Cody because he knows Cody isn’t afraid of him and Burrard also secretly fears First Nations people. It’s as though Burrard feels somehow that the First Nations kids are a gang unto themselves and he will be outnumbered, especially in jail. Michelin is close with Cody. Michelin’s a strange kid and comes from a poor neighbourhood. He’s not completely accepted by Cody because Cody doesn’t trust white kids, and it’s unlikely they’d have much to do with each other outside. But there’s something there. Michelin is the only kid that Cody will joke around with. They’re friends inside at least. Baird thinks about the possible implications of all these relationships when Helmcken returns on unit. Cody would be excited at first, but history shows that Helmcken will want status. Three at the top never works.

  It’s coming time for Baird to take his lunch and he leaves the unit, moving around the ring, and out through the Rotunda, Admissions, and into the parking lot. He approaches his truck and in front of him he sees Kenny crouched down with her back to him. He sidesteps and sees she’s petting a cat and speaking to it like a baby.

  “Let me get my shot gun,” he says to her. She startles and the cat runs off.

  “Shut up!” she says, as she straightens and turns to face him.

  “Jumpy?” His eyes focused on her face.

  “Probably unresolved trauma or something,” she says, as she moves a wisp of hair from her face.

  “Okay.”

  And they stare at each other. He moves to leave without saying another word, and she asks, “Where are you going?”

  “Lunch. I’d ask you to come with me but you don’t eat.”

  “I eat. Just at different times. But I’d have coffee.”

  “Okay,” he says, as he’s turning toward his fire-engine red truck. He hops in. She opens the passenger door and asks, “You don’t open the door for me?”

  “You too weak to open it yourself?” he responds. She climbs inside and nestles herself against the door.

  Then, she turns to look at the rest of the cabin. “Hmmm. Someone could say you’re over-compensating for something.”

  “Oh boy, this is gonna be fun,” he replies, as he pulls out of the parking lot.

  They drive in silence. She looks out the window the whole time. He can’t think of anything to say.

  There is a spot right in front of the local coffee shop. He hates how uncomfortable he feels when he opens the door for her. It feels odd and he realizes this might be the first time he has ever been anywhere with Kenny outside the facility. He orders two coffees, one black and one with cream as well as a sandwich. They settle at a table in the corner and he dives into his sandwich of two thick pieces of bread with meat and cheeses.

  Kenny sips on her black coffee and looks at his cup. “What’s in there? Cream?”

  “Yeah, triple.”

  “I cannot believe you put cream in your coffee. You seem so ...” her voice trails off.

  “That’s what working out is for. You look like you’re dying.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  “You still off meat?”

  “Yeah, and dairy. Frank asked me if I’m still a vaginite.”

  “What?” his laughter is guttural. But he also doesn’t like that she joked around with his partner. He doesn’t know why.

  She is energy again all of a sudden with eyes shining. “So, Helmcken. Is he coming to your unit?”

  His shoulders relax. “Yes, why?”

  “I want him.”

  “Hmm.”

  “But he always refuses. I know you can work your magic for me.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be for you. It would be for him,
right?” Baird wanted to make the conversation more professional. He felt strange in his stomach whenever she got silly.

  “Right. I think I’m seeing everyone on your unit except for your little firefly, Cody.”

  “Why not Cody?”

  “He’s Dr. Mull’s. He’s basically just being seen for meds. It’s bullshit.”

  “Huh.”

  Kenny smiles and picks at the lid of her coffee cup. “Whoa, you don’t like Dr. Mull, do you?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to the guy,” Baird says, looking out the window. He wrote off the psychiatrist years ago and had almost forgotten his name.

  “He’s worked here like 5 years!” she says with a loud voice.

  His eyes are on her again. “Well, he doesn’t talk to the lowly staff.”

  “You and I didn’t talk in the beginning, too. Remember, I was here over 10 years ago, too.”

  “I don’t remember that.” He truly does not remember.

  “Gee, thanks,” she says.

  “You were hiding in the Mental Health Unit back then.”

  “I don’t hide.”

  He shrugs. There is something about the frenetic pace of their banter that pleases him, yet fatigues him as well.

  “We’ve had this conversation before,” she continues. “But back then I was working in the community half time, too, so I never knew what was going on around here.”

  “Hmm.”

  “But I never spoke to you. I didn’t realize how important you were back then. Weren’t you off for paternity leave, too?”

  “At some point.”

  “But you weren’t in 2 back then, what were you doing?”

  “I was around.” Baird doesn’t think the past is relevant to this conversation.

  “Oh. Yeah, I don’t remember when we started talking.”

  Baird takes the last bite of his sandwich and wipes his mouth with the napkin. “Well, Mental Health doesn’t always like to speak to us. For years, I’ve had no idea what you people were doing.”