Throwaway Girl

by Kristine Scarrow

  To Gracelyn, Ethan, and Kale — may you always believe in your dreams, especially when life doesn’t go the way you planned. The future is yours for the taking.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  I haven’t always been called Andy. For a good chunk of my life, my name was Bernice, the name my mother gave me. How my mother and I ever got paired up will forever be a mystery to me. I don’t know why she kept me in the first place, but she did.

  Although she gave birth to me, I refer to my mother by her name, Jacqueline. I don’t know who my father is, and perhaps I’ll never find out. “It could have been any one of a hundred men,” Jacqueline told me as I was growing up. Nothing can instill pride for a mother faster than a line like that, don’t you think?

  I’m about to turn eighteen. And that means leaving Haywood House, the place I’ve lived the longest since I was taken away from my mother. A group home may not be a “real” home, the kind most kids grow up in, but for some of us, it might be the only stable home we’ve ever known.

  As far as looks go, I’m pretty average, I guess. I mean, I don’t look like Lisa Carson, the popular, albeit stupid, girl here at Haywood, but I have my own sense of style. I’m not into the trendy, girly wear that I see in the stores (not that I can afford it anyway), but I’m not sporting that evil army look, either. Last time I saw a kid wearing that stuff, I nearly dove to the ground for safety when he entered the convenience store. Frankly, as far as fashion goes, I’m about as normal as it gets.

  I have straight blonde hair and green eyes. If we’re getting technical here, I was born a brunette. Someone said once that blondes have more fun so I decided I needed to be blonde. Then I’d have more fun. Funny thing is … I’m still waiting.

  At the moment, Gertie, the night supervisor is coming my way. She’s going to tell me it’s time for lights out. I look up, and sure enough, she is ambling over to me with that sideways gait she has, like she’s had something shoved up her butt and can’t get it out. I know this is a mean thing to say, being that Gertie is fairly nice and all, but seriously! Watch her walk and you can’t help but comment.

  I click off the small lamp on the metal bedside table and bury myself deep into the scratchy wool blanket. Sandpaper would be a luxury compared to this blanket, but I decide to keep my mouth shut. It could be worse. I’ve had worse.

  Gertie peers around and makes her way across the room. I watch as her body casts a shadow against the wall that could be considered both hilarious and terrifying. The Hunchback of Notre Dame meets Penguin Man or something. I stifle a giggle and give Gertie a break. She really is a pretty nice woman.

  I shut my eyes and attempt sleep. I am tired, but I have always had difficulty falling asleep. It’s no wonder, given my childhood. I hear the soft snores of the girls around me, jealous of their ability to drift off into the land of dreams. My mind wanders instead to my earliest memories of life with Jacqueline.

  Chapter 2

  1999

  It’s winter. I am about six years old. I’m wearing my favourite blue dress, my only dress, which is threadbare and frayed in several places. The dress is so tattered and worn that it has a musty smell to it. It hasn’t been washed recently and there is a smear of dirt on the front of it. Despite its look and smell, I love how pretty this dress makes me feel. I’ve even combed my hair. I am a beautiful princess, worthy of love and attention.

  The snow is falling, fat wet flakes that cover the streets and cars as I watch for my mom from our apartment window. I am excited and full of hope. I am thrilled that it is snowing. The snow is so clean and brilliant. It makes the outside shimmer and glisten. All the dirt and ugliness on the streets below is hidden. I stick my hands on the frosted windows, scraping layers of ice off with my fingernails in order to get a better view. I long to run outside with my mouth open wide, eager and searching for the crisp, refreshing flakes on my tongue.

  The day couldn’t be more perfect. I look and feel amazing. When Mommy comes through the door, she will be happy from how beautiful the snow is, so proud of me, so proud of how I look.

  I wait and wait. Mommy wasn’t here when I woke up this morning, so there is no telling where she is and how long ago she left. I have done everything I can to make her happy. I’ve picked up the clothes that littered our bedroom floor; I’ve rinsed and scrubbed the mound of dishes that have piled on the kitchen counter. It was hard to clean them when all the gooey bits of food have been sitting on them for such a long time. Without having soap to help, I used my fingernails to scrape the dried bits as best as I can. Some of the plates were heavy and hard to handle. One even broke, but I’ve scooped the pieces up and hidden them and Mommy will never know.

  She won’t believe how clean it looks in here and that I’ve done all this work. She might walk in, distracted, talking about something, perhaps what a gorgeous day it’s turning out to be and then look up in surprise. She might stop in mid-sentence, gaze around in wonder and then rush to me with an appreciative smile and her arms open wide. She’ll hug me so tight that I’ll feel like I am suffocating from all her love. Perhaps she’ll have gone to the grocery store and be carrying a bulging plastic bag. She’ll tell me what a good girl I am, how lucky she is to have me and how beautiful I look; how my light shines brighter than any winter wonderland. Then she’ll show me the fresh, delicious food she’s bought, and make dinner for just the two of us.

  My heart swells with the power of my daydream. Mommy will see how hard I’m trying, what a good girl I really am. She’ll be so proud that she’ll want to stay home and take care of me. She’ll want to spend time with me because she’ll see that I can help make her happy. I’m willing her to come through the door, just so I can see the smile I’ll put on her face.

  It’s almost lunch time. I can tell by the way my tummy is rumbling. When I first wake up, it’s faint and easy to forget about. But by noon, those faint rumblings gather steam and start to roar, like tigers clawing at my stomach. I already know there is nothing to eat here. I’ve checked and rechecked the cupboards and the fridge many times in case I’ve missed something. The bottle of ketchup standing alone in the fridge has been the closest thing to a meal for me today. I’ve squeezed circles of it, making silly shapes onto a plate, rolling my finger in it, painting mini works of art before sucking the zesty sauce off of my hand. And when that isn’t enough, I turn the bottle upside down over my mouth and squeeze until my throat burns with the rush of the tangy tomato taste.

  I sit on one of our kitchen chairs, the uneven metal legs wobbling on the floor under my weight. The vinyl seat is torn, exposing the soft foam below. It feels warmer this way but I resist the urge to tear the rest of the vinyl off of the seat. It’s both peaceful and scary being in this apartment alone, but I know I mustn’t leave. I glance back at the window and the flakes drifting through the air.

  And then there is the sound of footsteps echoing in the hall. Someone is approaching the apartment door. She’s here! I smooth my hair and my dress franticall
y and suck in my breath, my heart pounding with anticipation.

  The door opens with a thud and my mother stumbles in. Her hair is messy and she isn’t wearing a coat, even though it’s cold outside. I can smell the stench of vomit from the doorway. She teeters at the entrance before slamming the door behind her and swiping the hair from her face to better see where she is going. She is muttering, cursing under her breath, and wheezing from climbing the stairs to the apartment. I dangle my feet back and forth from the chair, eagerly awaiting her to notice me, when I see her glance around the room. She has the sickness again this morning. I can tell. She doesn’t quite stand or walk or talk right and she looks like something else has taken over her body.

  “Bernice!” she screams, even though I am in the same room, barely ten feet from where she’s standing. She is carrying a plastic grocery bag, and although it isn’t swelling, my tummy growls loudly. I am excited to see what she has brought.

  “Right here, Mommy!” I say in my sweetest, brightest voice. She looks over at me and her eyes spring open with rage.

  “What have you done?” she growls. I continue to smile, hoping that I’ve made her day, but she doesn’t seem to like what I’ve done.

  “I cleaned for you, Mommy!” I say. But my mother has made her way to the fridge, where shards of ceramic spill from behind it. The plate! Its pieces are coming out of hiding, tattling on me!

  She picks up a few of the broken pieces and turns to me. “Damn you, kid,” she spits, throwing the broken pieces across the room at me. I duck in fear, wondering how this could go so terribly wrong. She comes towards me, with her hands in the air until her grasp settles on my head. She grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me off the chair, dragging me to the fridge.

  “Clean this up,” she bellows. The back of her hand hits me square in the mouth and I feel a sharp sting followed by the salty taste of blood. I nod in quick successions and bite my lip to keep from crying aloud. Tears cloud my vision and I try to sweep them as fast as they fall so that I can pick up all of the mess. I work quickly, tense at what might come next as she stands behind me.

  When she is satisfied with what I’ve done, she drops the plastic bag in front of me. The bedroom door closes behind her and there is silence again. I dry my face on the front of my dress, certain that I am no longer beautiful, that I will never be good enough to make her happy. My body shivers with shame. I reach for the bag and open it, grateful at least to be able to satisfy my needy stomach. I know it won’t be the meal I long for, the one I dream of having my mother lovingly prepare.

  I hold my breath as I open the bag. Inside, I find a box of Strawberry Toaster Strudels, already opened and half eaten. They are soft and a bit soggy, but the sweet, fruity scent makes my mouth water. I fumble for the remaining pieces and stuff them furiously in my mouth. The flavourful filling dances on my tongue. I cannot eat them fast enough; I am desperate to calm the gnawing pains in my stomach. I’m wiping my sticky fingers on my dress, which is damp from my tears.

  I approach the window again, but the flakes have stopped falling. I glance back down at the street, but the clean, fresh blanket of snow has been trampled upon, revealing dark tracks and dirty streets. Everything is messy and ugly now.

  Chapter 3

  Haywood House is a residential group home for girls just two blocks from the South Saskatchewan River, in the historic Saskatoon neighbourhood of City Park. Large, looming elm trees line the properties in this neighbourhood, and quaint, humble houses dot the street alongside larger, more impressive dwellings.

  The government bought the old stately manor and had it renovated and retrofitted in 2001. Although it was originally meant for up to twelve girls, it currently houses seventeen.

  The building itself is beautiful on the outside. Its tidy brick exterior and majestic columns tend to catch eyes from the street. Passersby can be found snapping photos of it, appreciating the grandeur and character of the old home. The grounds are immaculately kept, with flowers blooming throughout the season.

  From the outside, it looks like the home of our dreams. Especially to any of us kids who have been through the system. Standing outside a building like this makes us wonder if we’ve come to the right place. After all, none of us ever expected we’d be pulling up to a house like this and settling down for the night, calling it home.

  But once you get inside, the place starts to feel more like an institution than a home. Like even though the powers-that-be tried really hard to make it warm and cozy, by the time they were done with the outside, there wasn’t anything left for the inside. Or maybe that’s the trick of all these places. Make them seem really great at first glance so that the ones in charge can pat themselves on the back, so we kids can feel important when we pull up. Let the world think that good is being done. Just don’t step inside. It’s all downhill from there.

  As you enter the house there’s a small sitting room with two large, wing-backed chairs and a round wooden coffee table with magazines. The magazines are dog-eared and worn, issues of Chatelaine and Canadian Living from four years ago, yet we girls read them any chance we get. Sheena calls them “old lady” magazines. I read through them, even though the lives and stories inside seem so foreign to me. But instead of feeling sadness, I am fascinated. I see the confident women posing in the fashion pages, the delectable recipes, the craft projects and home décor ideas, and somehow, I have this feeling in my gut, like a fire burning in my belly. It’s like if I concentrate enough, I can feel it all, taste it, and see it, like it’s my life after all.

  Beyond the sitting room is the front office. Lorna is the office manager. She answers the phones and takes all of the deliveries. She also does intake for Haywood. For any new kids coming in, Lorna is the first person they talk to.

  After the office is a long corridor. There are offices, supply rooms, and a first aid station. The mint green walls and grey tiled floor make it seem like a hospital or clinic. There are charts on the walls, motivational slogans, and framed photos of events from past years, but I’m not sure that anyone has ever really looked at them.

  This is where you find Betty’s office. She’s the counsellor here and she helps put broken kids together again. I credit her with saving me from myself. When I came here I was so full of pain, I had no idea how to release it. Betty showed me ways to cope and deal with everything that had happened to me.

  From there you enter the cafeteria, a room that smells more of antiseptic and bleach than of delectable cooking, even though the food here is pretty good. The metal chairs are all lined up perfectly around the wooden tables until the bell rings for the next meal.

  The washrooms and sleeping quarters are just past the cafeteria. Having to push through heavy double doors to get to your bed hardly conjures up a feeling of hominess, but it’s alright. All of our beds are lined up, five to a row. Each of us has a metal headboard, a foam mattress, a lump of a pillow, a sheet, and a wool blanket, as well as a small metal bedside table with a drawer and a lamp. The bulb in the lamp is so dim that I can barely read anything when it’s on. I guess it wouldn’t be so great if all of us had bright lights on while others tried to sleep. Privacy is a pretty foreign concept here.

  Today’s a big day at Haywood. We’re saying good-bye to Mandy. She’s twelve and has only been here for a month or so. She’s pretty. She has long black hair, clear brown skin, and she’s petite. She’s been one of the quieter ones here, but she fit in nicely.

  It’s never easy when one of the girls leaves. We don’t know who to expect next and what she’ll be like, like when Analise came last year with her flippant attitude and the idea that she’d be running the place. She was only fifteen at the time, thinking she knew everything and that we’d be bowing down to her. But that’s not how it was. Some of us have been in here for what feels like forever and the ways of this place, the roles … they’ve all been established. Some fresh-faced newcomer can’t come in here calling the shots.

  I guess we all come angry, tough, out
to prove something, but we never really get the chance. We’re expected to just step into place in this new environment and its rules like puppets or robots, participating, going through the motions. Emotions get buried. Eventually you get to feeling numb, dead inside. Or maybe we are dead inside before we even come. That’s more like my story. But for me, coming here felt like salvation.

  Once you come to Haywood House, chances are you’re here for a while. Most of us girls have been in the system for years and are now permanent wards. And here’s the newsflash no one seems to care about: when you are a teenager, you aren’t getting adopted. There’s no line-up of parents eagerly combing the building, ready to light up at the sight of their beloved chosen one, the missing piece of the puzzle that will make their family complete. I used to lie awake at night and dream of the possibility that someone somewhere would see me, truly see me, and decide that I was worth taking a chance on.

  Mandy is one of the lucky ones. An aunt she’s never met lives on Thunderchild First Nation, a reserve two and a half hours north of Saskatoon, and has agreed to be her guardian, a “PSI,” or “Person Having a Sufficient Interest in the Child,” which means that Mandy’s going to be with family and may get her better life after all. Even though we don’t know Mandy that well, we’re all really happy for her. She’s still young, I think to myself. She still has a chance.

  The staff at Haywood is planning a little celebration for her. There will be cake after supper and we’ll all get to say our goodbyes. Mandy seems excited and hopeful. Her aunt will be picking her up in the morning. She packed her few belongings hours ago, and she’s been pacing and staring out the window a lot.

  “You okay?” I ask her.

  She turns to me and smiles nervously.

  “I think so,” she says, biting her lip. “I’m scared, Andy.”

  Her eyes well up with tears. I give her a squeeze and try to reassure her. Being the oldest one here now, I think the younger ones look up to me. It seems weird to look up to someone who has had the life I’ve had. After all, it hasn’t worked out so well for me, has it? This definitely isn’t where I saw myself at seventeen. But I like Mandy. I wish her well and I want her story to be different.