“It’ll be great, Mandy …” I say, wanting it to be true for her. “You’re going to a real home. A real life,” I remind her. After all, for all that Haywood House is — it’s not really a home.
She nods, lost in thought, her gaze fixated on something I can’t see. And yet I’m nervous for her. I find myself biting my nails and pacing, too.
That night, Gertie, the night supervisor, whistles loudly to get our attention amidst the loud chatter of the supper hour. She has wheeled in a cart that has a plain, slab cake on top. She’s got a wide grin on her face, as though she can barely contain her excitement at the prospect of giving us cake. She waits for the room to quiet before speaking.
“Ladies,” she starts, “You all know we are saying goodbye to a very special young woman tonight. Mandy, we will miss you and we wish you all the best.” Gertie smiles, and to our surprise, her voice cracks with emotion. The response from the tables is mixed. Some of the younger girls are crying and clutching each other at the thought of saying goodbye, while others are rolling their eyes and chuckling at Gertie. Either way, it’s hard to know how to feel. Girls like us aren’t good at trusting people anymore. And lots of girls come and go here at Haywood. It makes it hard to get attached to someone or have a friend here sometimes.
Early the next morning, the sounds of the building begin to wake us. Groans from the boiler room and the subsequent rattling of the radiators springing to life send vibrations through the walls. The shuffling feet of the staff across the tiled floor and the beeps and muffled phrases coming from the staff radios all rouse us from our sleep. I open my eyes slowly, adjusting to the light in the room. Some of the girls are up already; I turn over, not quite ready to face the day.
“Why did she just go like that?” I hear Analise whisper. She’s the number one gossip, always hungry for the newest developments around here. Curious, I turn back around in my bed and see her huddled with Lisa and Monica. I wonder who they are talking about and what’s going on. I sit up in my bed and rub the sleep from my eyes.
“She told me she didn’t want to make anyone feel bad,” Lisa says. “She didn’t want us to see her leave, knowing that we have to stay.” And I realize that they are talking about Mandy and that she is already gone. I look over at her bed, stripped down to the foam mattress, no indication that she was ever there.
“Good luck, Mandy,” I whisper to myself. “I hope you make it.” And with that, I lay back down into the bed, willing myself to sleep. I want to dream of Mandy and her new homecoming, of an aunt who welcomes her with open arms and radiates love. I want to believe that she’s found the home she’s been longing for.
Chapter 4
School is mandatory at Haywood, no exceptions. Even when Christal got knocked up by her slimy boyfriend, she was back at school two days after her baby’s birth.
Most of us walk to the alternative school. The classes are smaller, and the teachers are more understanding. It’s not as structured as the regular system, so we can learn at our own pace. I like school. I enjoy the challenge, and I like the socializing.
In my younger years I rarely got in trouble and did well in school. I wasn’t one of those kids who begged to take a day off of school or pretended to be sick to avoid going. I never wanted to miss a day of school because I could be assured that a day at home would be far worse than anything school had to offer.
I could always count on eating at school too, whether it was from stealing snacks from the lunch kits lined up in the lockers by being the last to go out for recess, or by sneaking back to the classroom during library or gym. I often found myself quickly stuffing whatever food I could find in my mouth, barely stopping to chew. I didn’t want to steal, but I was so hungry, it felt like my stomach was forcing me to do it to keep it quiet and calm. As long as I took only one thing from a lunch or two, it usually went unnoticed. Most of the kids barely cared about what they brought or had no idea what their parents had packed to notice anything missing.
There were a few occasions where I’d look in horror as some of the pickier eaters threw perfectly good food in the garbage, anxious to get outside for recess. I’d wait until everyone had cleared out before reaching in and retrieving it. Sometimes if I’d collected enough food, I’d wrap my findings up carefully and save it in my locker so that the next day I could pull out a regular lunch like everyone else. I was never caught.
My teachers were always good to me, almost too good. I remember as a young kid I’d try to stay late to help clean the classroom or just to talk. I’m not sure the teachers ever knew how much I depended on those interactions, how I’d savour every word and replay it in my mind. They made me feel like I mattered. Having someone so interested in me and my life was intoxicating.
Mrs. Duggleman was my favourite. She was my grade four teacher. She smelled like apples and cinnamon and had shimmery blonde hair and crystal blue eyes. She was regal looking, with a gentle voice and the softest hands I ever touched. I idolized her. I would sit in class, in rapt attention, hoping she’d call on me so that I could win her praise.
Mrs. Duggleman was married to a police officer. He was tall and handsome, and to me they made the perfect couple. I imagined their home being a mansion, immaculately kept. I imagined that she’d have pies baking and music playing in her kitchen, the sound of her laughter echoing through the home while her husband hugged her. I dreamed that one day Mrs. Duggleman would take me home with her and announce that I’d be theirs. It would be the perfect life.
Mr. and Mrs. Duggleman did not have any children. It was surprising to me because I thought they’d make the perfect parents. And anyone could see how much Mrs. Duggleman adored children. I figured she just loved us all too much that there wasn’t room in her heart for anyone else.
Mrs. Duggleman was the first person who I felt really loved me. She was so kind to me that sometimes I would feel tears prick up by the sides of my eyelids, but I wasn’t sure why. She just made me feel so good that I could burst.
She seemed to go out of her way to talk with me, even when we weren’t in class. In class, she’d focus much of her attention on me, a look of kind concern in her eyes. She’d lend me her sweater on cold days when I’d come to school wearing tank tops in the middle of winter.
“Bernice, honey,” she’d say. “Why don’t you use my sweater to keep your arms warm today?” And I’d beam with pride that she’d chosen me.
The year I had Mrs. Duggleman I stole less from the other kids’ lunches because she’d make up some story about how both she and her husband had made her a lunch, so somehow she had two, and food couldn’t go to waste, could it? I knew that wasn’t the truth, but I was too hungry to care. Her lunches were the best. I’d usually get a sandwich on really soft bread. It would have all of the fixings: turkey or ham, lettuce, tomato, cheese, and the tangy taste of mustard and mayonnaise. It was the freshest thing I’d ever tasted and the layers of flavour seemed to burst in my mouth with every bite. She always had cookies in her lunch too, which confirmed my assumption that she baked homemade goodies in her home all the time. Even the carrots or apples tasted amazing; so crisp and fresh and nourishing.
I wasn’t embarrassed about Mrs. Duggleman pretending she’d had two lunches packed for herself in order to feed me. To me, it just reaffirmed our special relationship. She was always checking to see how I was doing, if there was anything I needed. She would often ask me about my mom and about how things were at home. I told her everything was fine because that was what I was embarrassed about.
Sometimes Mrs. Duggleman would be deep in conversation with the principal or another lady at the school. They’d stand close together, talking in hushed tones, glancing my way. I knew they must be talking about me, but I couldn’t understand why. I’d always done a good job at hiding my home life, or at least I thought so. I didn’t want Mrs. Duggleman to have any idea about Jacqueline, so I made excuses for her absences at parent-teacher interviews and pretended she was a model mother. When things would get so
bad at home that even I was tired of trying to make her out to be a good mother, I clammed up at the mention of her. I was good at deflecting the conversation. After all, any attention to what was going on at home would only make things worse. No one could know the reality of life outside of school, or I’d be in for it for sure. Jacqueline would give me a beating I’d never forget.
Then one morning towards the end of the school year, I arrived much earlier than any of the other students. I decided to sit in the classroom and enjoy the peace and quiet before everyone else arrived. I shuffled my way down the hall towards the blackened classroom and reached my hand up to turn on the lights.
In the seconds before the lights were turned on, I heard a soft sob in the darkness. When the lights came on, I was shocked to see Mrs. Duggleman’s head lying on her desk with her head in her hands. She was cradling the phone receiver in her shoulder but she was crying so hard that whoever was on the other line must have been having a hard time understanding what she was saying.
“I thought it was …” She hiccupped. “There was so much blood … the baby … I’ll never be a mother … all I do is kill them …” and after a few heavy sobs, she went on. “It’s happened five times … what is wrong with me?”
And then in that instant, she seemed to notice that her surroundings had changed, that someone had turned on the lights, and that she wasn’t alone. She looked up, panic-stricken, her face puffy, and her eyes swollen and red. She gasped and quickly regained her composure.
“I’ve gotta go,” she stammered into the phone and quickly replaced the receiver. She stood up abruptly, knocking the chair to the ground. Smoothing her skirt and her face, she smiled at me. I felt awful. Watching Mrs. Duggleman cry felt like daggers in my heart. I couldn’t bear to see her in such pain. I felt angry at myself for coming to school and stumbling upon something I knew I wasn’t meant to see. I didn’t even know what her pain meant.
“Oh, my dear Bernice…” she said, coming towards me with her arms outstretched. “Good morning to you,” she said in her sing-song voice. I gave her the strongest hug I could, hoping it would help her feel better. She squeezed me tighter than usual and smoothed my hair.
“Come on in, sweetheart.” She smiled.
Confused, I looked up at her face, at the sadness in her eyes and blurted, “Are you killing babies, Mrs. Duggleman?” She looked at me in horror and blinked back tears.
“Oh, sweetie, Mrs. Duggleman was talking about grown-up stuff. Nobody is killing babies,” she said softly. “I was hoping to have a baby and become a mommy,” she said slowly. I nodded to show her I understood and that it was okay to tell me more. “But for some reason, a baby can’t grow in my tummy like it can for other mommies.” She tried to smile to reassure me, but all I could see was sadness. “I’m not sure why this happens and it makes me feel very sad,” she went on.
Then, as though she felt she’d said too much, she smiled brightly. “But I have all of my students and I love you all very much,” she said, giving me another squeeze. “I am very lucky!”
But all I could think was that if she wanted to be a mommy and babies couldn’t grow in her tummy, then she wasn’t lucky at all. And how could the kindest, most beautiful woman in the world not be a mommy when she’d be the best mommy in the world?
And then I was angry at myself because the thought of Mrs. Duggleman having a baby filled me with jealousy. If she had a baby, then she wouldn’t be at school and then I wouldn’t have her and then what? I imagined her kissing and snuggling a cooing baby and the thought was almost more than I could bear. Could someone wishing for something with all their might be destroyed by someone else who wished it not to happen with all of their might too? I was filled with guilt and shame at the very thought of my jealousy.
After that day, things changed between the two of us. Mrs. Duggleman asked me how I was doing more often than before. She seemed to pay more attention to me than usual. I’d glance at her and catch her staring at me with concern in her eyes. I knew we shared a special secret after that morning in the classroom. I never mentioned what had happened to anyone. I wanted it to be our private moment. I’m pretty sure she wished I hadn’t seen her crying like that, but knowing that she was in pain only deepened my love for her.
I wrote kind letters to her and put them on her desk. I drew colourful scenes of the two of us holding hands in the park. I thought of all the other kids I’d seen give drawings to their parents, then watch as they waited excitedly for a proud reaction. I felt the same way when I gave them to Mrs. Duggleman. In my eyes, if she couldn’t have a baby, I was more than willing to step up and be her child.
Then one afternoon in early June, towards the end of the school year, the weather was unseasonably hot. The temperature soared to 34 degrees Celsius and without air conditioning, the school was sweltering. Students were wiping sweat from their brows and squirming uncomfortably in their seats. It was too hot to concentrate.
I had come to school that morning with fresh bruises and cuts. My mother had beat me with a belt and thrown me in the bathtub the night before. Her boyfriend had broken up with her and left her for another woman. When Jacqueline came home, she was steaming. One look at her shaking with rage and I knew I was in for it.
Sure enough, she came at me immediately, anxious to unleash her anger. After repeated swings of the belt on my back and legs, blood began to seep from the stinging wounds. She continued until she was panting, depleted. I felt like I was on fire. She picked me up by the arms and dragged me to the bathroom, throwing me into the bathtub before turning on the hot water full blast. I yelped in pain, knowing that I would soon be scalded. She laughed at my yelp, satisfied with what she’d done. She turned off the water and left the room, humming as though nothing had happened. I curled into a ball, clutching my legs as close as I could to my body. Each wound felt like flames jumping off my body, eager to find relief.
The next morning, my nightgown had stuck in my dried wounds. I had to peel it carefully and many of the cuts reopened and oozed. I winced and wiped tears as I tried to remove my pajamas. I looked in the mirror and gasped at the reflection of myself. How could I go to school like this? How would I hide these awful marks?
I pulled on the biggest T-shirt I had, hoping it would be loose enough to minimize the pain, but my arms were mottled with bright red evidence. I searched for a sweatshirt and pulled it carefully over the T-shirt, wincing at every stretch.
There I was, on the hottest day of the year, almost faint with heat because of all the layers of clothes I was wearing. I moved slowly all day, feigning illness so that I didn’t have to participate in gym class and move around too much or risk bumping into anyone. As the day progressed, I started getting dizzy. I couldn’t concentrate in class. Sweat poured down my back, the salt stinging and occupying my every thought. I was flushed and lightheaded.
“Bernice, why on earth are you wearing so many clothes, my dear?” Mrs. Duggleman asked. “It’s sweltering outside! Why don’t you take your sweatshirt off before you get heat stroke?” The other children had long since shed any layers of clothing and most were wearing tank tops, shorts, and sandals.
“I’m okay, Mrs. Duggleman,” I assured her. “It’s not too bad.”
She didn’t seem convinced. She lifted my hair off of my neck, the bottom layers slick with sweat. Even my toes squished in sweat in my socks and running shoes. Mrs. Duggleman sighed and made her way out of the classroom.
Fifteen minutes later, she returned and called my name. She took me by the hand and led me out of the classroom. I figured she was taking me to be her special helper for something, but when we got down the hallway and stopped at the conference room, I knew that wasn’t the case. She guided me into the room, where the principal and the lady Mrs. Duggleman often whispered to, were sitting waiting for our arrival. They smiled warmly at me and welcomed me into the room, but at once I felt very uncomfortable. I looked up at Mrs. Duggleman, a little scared and unsure.
“It�
�s going to be alright,” she assured me, and together we sat down.
“I’m Debby,” the lady said, holding out her hand for me to shake. “I’m the school social worker.” My stomach began to flip-flop and I felt dizzy and sick. I could sense that this wasn’t going to be good.
“We want to talk to you about how things are going at home,” she continued. I looked up at Mrs. Duggleman who looked very sad, but was nodding at me to answer. “We have been concerned about some things that we have noticed here at school and we’d just like to discuss these things to make sure that everything is alright,” Debby said kindly.
The room started spinning and the adults’ heads were blurry and their words didn’t make any sense anymore, and I didn’t know what to do.
“It’s okay, honey,” I heard Mrs. Duggleman say. I felt her hand rubbing my back. I wanted to cry out in pain, but Mrs. Duggleman didn’t know, couldn’t know, why it hurt so badly. Tears began to spill from my eyes. What could I say? Their eyes were all on me, watching me squirm uncomfortably in my seat. My face felt hot and my lips quivered. I felt like I had lost control over myself. I didn’t know what I was doing, why I was going to do it, but the next thing I did was tell them everything. Everything.
They looked at me with wide eyes while I spoke. I don’t know why I couldn’t stop, why the words kept tumbling out faster and faster. And when I was done, Mrs. Duggleman was wiping tears from her eyes. Instinctively, I knew I wasn’t in any trouble, but that somehow things were going to be different for me. Mrs. Duggleman wiped her cheeks with a tissue and blew her nose, and then she hugged me tight. I secretly hoped it meant that Mrs. Duggleman would take me home and take care of me just like I imagined.
Throwaway Girl Page 2
