by E. Graziani
“I don’t know. She’s not on drugs anymore, which is good, I guess.”
Wait, that’s not telling them to shut up and get out of your house—that’s kind of like agreeing with them.
“Shit. What that took on my part, I can’t even tell you. It was like I had to convince her, you know—actually, like, beg her to stop. I was drained emotionally after talking to her sometimes—like, so bad.” Connie places her hand on her forehead, like she’s suffering great hardship.
A surreal clarity washes over me—like I’m standing outside my body, watching myself listen to my sister trash-talk me with her slurred drunken speak. My sister, breaking a sister’s unspoken covenant and stabbing me in the back with these strangers, fueling their condescending, snooty judgment on me. I can’t move. So I just listen—the worst thing I can do, because there’s more.
“I feel for you, Connie. It must be so hard for you.”
“Yeah. Like, is she in a group home or something?”
“No, she’s still living with her grandmother in the DC.”
“Oh my God, the DC—I’ve heard about that. It’s, like, right in the middle of, like, gangs and stuff.”
“Oh my God, she lives there?”
“Like, she’s still my sister, and I feel so sorry for her. I really feel like she’s had a lot to deal with and all, but everyone knows not to do prescription drugs, right? Like, really? Her grandmother called here and she was going nuts with her—I had to, like, talk to her and shit all the time. She finally stopped and turned herself around, I guess. And my little sister is just on the brink of being affected by her—thank God she’s got more brains than Faith.”
I actually feel a heaviness in my chest when she speaks my name in amongst all that toxic babble. My breathing becomes shallow.
“And what’s with her hair? Those cheap, purple streaks—she looks like my dog when Mom brings him home from the groomer and she’s put a blueberry wash in his fur.” A peel of giggles reverberates from the couch. I feel like someone has taken a jackhammer to my head.
After Connie recovers from her bout of laughter at my expense, she speaks up again. “I think she did that ’cause she knows my favorite color’s purple. Look what she made for me.” Her head inclines, and my guess is that she’s pointing out the bracelet. They all gawk at it.
“Cute,” says one of them.
“You’d never know she was your sister, though, Connie,” says another. “You guys are like night and day.”
“Yeah, what the hell?”
“She’s got a different dad—not even sure who he was.” Connie shakes her head. “Thank God I had at least one normal parent.”
“Come on, Connie, you must have some of her mother in you, too,” one of them says, egging her on.
“Oh please—I knew long ago that my mother was fucked up. I don’t want to be in any way associated with that screwup.” This is the worst of all. “Sometimes I wish I was an only child. It would be easier that way—not having sisters and worrying about their potential fuckups for the rest of my life—not having to think of one day bailing them out of jail or whatever.” The others nod to show they concur with her.
I’m stunned. My whole life, the only solid foundation upon which anything lasting could be built, has crumbled right out from under me. I am alone—completely and utterly alone. My big sister is a lie—as elusive as a shadow.
Then, after a pause, “Do you want another drink?” Connie is starting to get up. “This is, like, bringing me down.”
I back away into the middle of the house, into the noise, into a corner. I can’t think of what to do next. I’m too angry to cry, yet too hurt to lash out at anyone. My thoughts blow around in my mind like leaves in a storm. Everything I thought I knew about Connie is lost—so I’m lost, too. I need a drink.
The beer is still working its way around my system, but I need something to take the edge off my emotions. With half-empty cups all over, I can have my fill of whatever is lying around, so I just grab one and drink, then grab another and finish that, too. Then another. When I finish the last one, I feel a sloshy fullness in my stomach that warns me I’ve reached well over what should have been my limit.
“You never know how strong you are until being strong is your only choice.” Bob Marley said that.
Now, get out, Faith. Run. Get the hell out of here and keep on going. The voice in my head sounds like it knows what I should do. I calmly put down the empty cup and walk toward the front door, pushing past the activity around me. There’s nothing here for you. Near the door, I spot a leather jacket, a nice black leather jacket, just thrown on a chair, so I grab it and put it on in one swift motion.
I don’t bother to close the door behind me. I walk from the house in the cold darkness of this January night, and sharp, clear pictures come to me. They are images of my sisters and my mother and me, living together again, happy. The thoughts make me cry, so I brush them away along with the tears that streak my face.
Approaching the bus stop, I feel a desperation I’ve never felt before, even in my darkest times. Being alone in a crowd of people is about as alone as you can be. That’s how I feel tonight.
The drinks are getting to me now—my stomach is turning. I stick my hands in the jacket pockets and feel something in one of the them. A wallet. I open it up, still striding to the bus stop—twenties—lots of them. I stop and count: seven, eight, nine, ten twenties. Two hundred dollars, thank you very much. I count again. Yes, it really is two hundred dollars in my hands.
What can I do with this? Get the hell out of here. Get the hell out—fuck ’em all. I’ll go to Toronto—take the bus. But then I have to spend some of this on bus fare. Screw that. I’ll hitch a ride.
I take a step to the bus stop, but don’t make it. I lean into someone’s hedges and heave out a red mix of cranberry juice, beer, and whatever else I’ve gulped down. Coughing and gagging, still holding on to the wallet and money with one hand and my hair with the other, I take in steady breaths to try to stop the heaving.
When I get my bearings back, I straighten up, wipe my chin, and spit out what’s left of the acidy bile in my mouth. Then, devoid of any dignity, I walk to the stop and tear my triplet bracelet off my wrist as I wait. The Number 4 bus back to downtown Greenleigh appears first as two small lights in the distance. It draws closer and closer until it pulls up to the curb, with a squeal of brakes. The doors open and I look up at the driver. It’s an older woman.
“You okay there, hon?” She asks so sweetly that I feel like I am going to cry again. Holding on to the grab bar, I board and throw some change into the fare box.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I stagger to a seat at the back and pray to the Ultimate Being that I don’t vomit again. The rocking motion of the bus isn’t helping, so I open up a window and gulp down mouthfuls of cold air. In spite of being hammered, my mind is working pretty clearly.
I am not going to the bus stop in downtown Greenleigh to catch the connecting bus back to Danziger Crescent. I’m not going to crawl back and live out a miserable existence knowing that the one person whom I thought held out a glint of hope for me thinks I’m a joke. Anger seethes in me. I want to tear everything apart, starting with Connie, because she’s the one who has torn out my soul. I hate my mother, my grandmother, and I hate the Ultimate Being. I want to take down the world because I wasn’t the one sitting on a big couch in a sunroom in Irony Heights surrounded by everything a person could ever want. Why wasn’t I the one—why?
There’s no way I’m going back home, because there’s nothing to go home to. Destiny will be okay without me. Connie said I’m nothing but a bad influence on her. This is better for me, better for Destiny, and obviously better for Connie. It’s clear that she’s embarrassed to have any association with me at all. The only person I can think of who would miss me is Ishaan, but I know he will be okay, too; he’s stronger than me and Norma p
ut together.
The bus finally rolls to the stop, and my thoughts have to wait; it’s time for strategy now. Bye, nice bus driver—too bad I’ll never see you again. I stride determinedly down the four blocks to the Toronto off-ramp, choose a strategic spot where as many cars as possible will see me, and stick my thumb out to hitch a ride. I know that hitching is dangerous and stupid and all that, but for me, it’s leave or die trying.
The guy who picks me up on the side of the highway is some kind of religious freak, and looking back, I consider this one of my most fortunate moments. I think he was probably a born-again Christian who saw me as an opportunity to garner a convert.
“Where are you headed?” he asks.
“I need to get to Toronto,” I slur. He looks me in the eye. “No, I’m going back home to Toronto. My ride bailed on me, and I have no money to get a bus.”
“Yeah, whatever.” He shakes his head. “Get in.”
I open the door and half-fall into the seat.
His name is Reggie. Balding, middle-aged, and skinny, he looks like a creeper but he turns out to be a nice guy.
“You been drinking?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“You know that’s not good for you.”
“I don’t care—maybe I’ll die. No one would care anyway.”
“You’re running away, aren’t ya?” he asks with narrow eyes.
“No, I told you I missed my—my ride bailed on me.” Lies are hard to remember when you’re wasted.
“Okay, you’re not running away, but just in case…”
He talked about salvation and the need to repent almost the entire way to Toronto. Then he even gave me some suggestions on where to go to keep warm and to stay away from trouble—that was a little weird—like he knew exactly what he was talking about.
“You can always panhandle for extra money,” says Reggie matter-of-factly. “Being young and a girl, you should always stay near somewhere public, like a library, or a big store, in case someone tries to kidnap you. A general rule of thumb: If someone tells you they’ll give you a room for the night, say no. There’s no such thing as a free lunch. And don’t sleep in a park; you could get yourself killed or somethin’. Sleep in a doorway, near somewhere that stays open all night and is lit up so you don’t get raped or mugged. College campuses are the main safe places, ’cause the buildings are usually open around the clock and will offer you shelter. But look the part with a notebook and some kinda text book. They have campus patrol officers who’ll see you and be suspicious. Janitors will turn you in if you’re sleeping in an area where they have to clean. And you might want to check an Internet café to research runaway shelters, and visit a mall, or a mission, or a public library for warmth. And for heaven’s sake, if you ever need help, go to a church or to the police, no foolin’ now.”
My head is reeling as I try to set his instructions in my mind and remember them all. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. I feel empowered, defiant.
In the end, I promise I’ll be careful. Reggie wishes me well and gives me twenty bucks after he drops me off in front of one of the University of Toronto libraries. I thank him and wave good-bye.
I search out a bathroom on one of the top floors and lock the door. Then I rinse out my mouth, wash my face with foamy soap from the dispenser, and slide down to the floor.
I panic and think I maybe did the wrong thing. What am I doing? All I have to do is go to Union Station and catch a train home. I have the money, and if I leave now, I can be home before anybody notices I’m missing.
But is that what I want? I have to think about it clearly—now isn’t the time. Maybe tomorrow…. I’ll decide tomorrow.
With these thoughts running through my head, I settle down and fall asleep with two hundred and twenty dollars in my pocket, and spotty hopes for the morning.
Chapter 18
I convince myself that my gut feeling was right—I’ll try to build a life here, away from who I was in Greenleigh. I’m going to look for a place and find a job, and when I make something of myself, I’m going back to prove to everyone that I’m not a loser from the DC, but a woman who made it on her own, without help from her rich grandmother.
Thrift stores are great for cheap necessities, so I buy a backpack, warm sweaters, and sweatpants. Then I go to a dollar store for a toothbrush, toothpaste, spare undies and soap. I spend only forty bucks, which leaves quite a bit for food, for a little while at least. Living on the street the first few days isn’t horrible, because I have things to do, but after awhile, the monotony of surviving becomes boring. Plus, the janitors at the university are on to me, so I have to clear out and find another place to sleep.
Obviously, winter is a harsh time for homeless people, because with the cold, you’re dealing with the possibility of hypothermia, frostbite, and freezing to death. A street kid I talk to suggests a youth shelter on Sanger Street, just off Yonge. But he warns me that when it’s this cold, they fill up fast and some have to make do outside. That’s a frightening thought. I picture some random person finding me, a human Popsicle, in the morning. The shelter is where I head—so far, so good. One week on the street. I’m still not in trouble and I’m still alive.
...
“All residents must follow some basic rules and live up to certain expectations,” says the lady at the desk. I’ve already registered with my name and fake date of birth at the intake desk. Now I’m trying to concentrate on the rules and expectations as this woman rambles on. “While at Sanger Street Shelter, or Triple-S House, this includes being respectful to others, keeping your bed space clean, and looking for work and housing. If you have other responsibilities—for example, attending school or performing community service hours—then we can assist you with that. Does that apply to you?”
“Uh, no.” She blinks at me looking like she’s assessing my sincerity. “I just need a place to stay for a while, until I find a job and an apartment.”
“Okay. What’s your name again?”
“Norma.”
“Norma. You’re lucky you got a bed tonight—it’s cold out there.” She sticks out her hand and I shake it. “My name’s Katherine. I’m a counselor here. If you’re ready, I’ll take you to your bed.” As she leads me up the stairs, a variety of noises comes from inside the other rooms. She raps on one door and says, “Keep it down in there—remember the rules.”
Then she turns to me. “Breakfast is served at seven, continental style. We have bread, buns, juice, fruit, and cereals. A bag lunch is provided to all who sign up for one—sometimes a hot lunch is provided, but that depends on availability of staff. You can ask for a single room if you have to get up early for work or if you’re pregnant. Are you pregnant?”
“No.”
“That’s good. Triple-S is not long-term housing. We work with residents to find appropriate housing that is clean, safe, and affordable, but generally people are expected to find housing within six weeks. There’s lockers in the main area if you have any valuables. Any questions?” It sounds like she’s been through this a million times.
“No.”
She comes to an open door. There’s a girl with mousy brown hair, lying spread-eagle on one of the beds. “Sarah, this is Norma. Norma, Sarah. All right, Norma, if you need anything, let me know.” Katherine points down the hall. “Bathroom’s over there. And remember, clean up after yourself. Good night.” She turns and heads back downstairs. I feel a little uncomfortable, being left with this emo-looking thing who appears to be on the brink of committing suicide.
Sarah moves her head to look at me. “My name’s not really Sarah, it’s Emma.”
I smile. “And my name’s not really Norma, it’s Faith.”
She props herself up on her elbow. “Where are you from?”
“Greenleigh. You?” I walk into the room.
“Sioux Lookout.”
“Where’s that?”
“Northern Ontario—between Thunder Bay and Winnipeg, Manitoba.”
“How did you get here?” I ask, placing my backpack on the bed.
“I ran away with my boyfriend, but he dumped me, and now I don’t have any money to get home.” She lies back down and looks at the ceiling. “Not even sure I wanna go home, you know. It’s messed up. Why are you here?”
“’Cause everyone in my family hates me,” I say with disdain.
“I can relate.” She sighs and turns over on her bed. “Okay, I’m going to sleep now. Maybe we can talk more tomorrow.”
I pick up my backpack, walk to the bathroom, and take the longest shower in history, hoping to wash the streets off me before I sleep in a bed for the first time in a week. I debate for a while whether or not to use the lockers for my money, but I decide to keep it in my panties instead—I find it hard to trust anyone right now. I can’t believe that people live for years on the streets. I am not cut out for it.
The next morning, I do talk to Emma. We speak casually over our breakfast of Raisin Bran, orange juice, and yogurt.
“Where are you going today?” she asks.
“Not sure,” I reply. “I’m going to try to look for a job.”
“Are you coming back here tonight?” She looks around at the other residents sitting haphazardly around the dining room.
“Probably. Why?”
Emma leans in over the table and talks really quietly. “I crashed here last night ’cause it was too far to go to where I usually stay, and I didn’t have spange for the bus. Spare change,” she explains, when I look bewildered. She leans in closer and whispers, “I got mugged last night, while trying to score some H, the fuckers. They took all the money I panhandled yesterday.”
Score some H. That sounds like serious drugs. I decide I should react like it is no big deal. “That sucks,” I say, like I’ve heard her story a thousand times.
