by Edeet Ravel
The Saver
The Saver
EDEET RAVEL
Copyright © 2008 by Edeet Ravel
Published in Canada and the USA in 2008 by Groundwood Books
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a license from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright license, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.
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We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP), and the Ontario Arts Council.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Ravel, Edeet
The saver / Edeet Ravel.
ISBN-13: 978-0-88899-882-8 (bound).–ISBN-13: 978-0-88899-883-5 (pbk.)
ISBN-10: 0-88899-882-1 (bound).–ISBN-10: 0-88899-883-X (pbk.)
I. Title.
PS8585.A8715S29 2008 jC813’.54 C2008-902513-X
Cover photograph: Design Pics © 2008
Design by Michael Solomon
Printed and bound in Canada
For my nephew, Joshua, with love
Monday
November 19
Hi Xanoth,
OK, I know you aren’t real. I’m not a psycho or anything.
But I like thinking about you. I like thinking about your violet eyes and how beautiful your planet is. I love how it’s so clean and perfect, there isn’t even a word for garbage in your language.
I’ve been thinking about you since the year after I had Mrs. Johnston. I had her in grade four, when I was ten. Then in grade five everything went back to being messed up. I didn’t even see Mrs. Johnston in the hall, because she retired right after I had her.
So starting in grade five, to keep myself awake in class and to help me fall asleep at night, I began thinking about you. That means I’ve been thinking about you for seven years. By now I know a million things about your reality – your glass dome houses, the swan gardens, your job as a pilot flying people from place to place, and how everything is free on your planet. And you can eat whatever you want, because the food is made with special ingredients that aren’t fattening but taste exactly the same, only better.
Anyhow, I’m writing to you now because down here on Earth my mom died. I came home from school and Julian, the tenant with the white triangle beard in Apartment 2, opened his door. I thought he was going to go on one of his rants about how we’re leaving food lying around and that’s why there’s cockroaches in the building. Julian has a roach obsession. He has a million bug traps in his apartment, and he puts sticky paper around his bed at night because he’s terrified the roaches are going to crawl over his face while he’s asleep. So as soon as he hears anyone on the stairs, he pokes his head out and begins shouting that people are leaving food out and not tying up their garbage in bags.
But today, just as I was getting ready to block him out of my mind, he said, “Your mother’s in the hospital. She fell on the stairs. I called 911 and an ambulance came to get her.”
I felt unbelievably sick. If you asked me how I’d feel if I got home and found out my mother fell on the stairs and had to be taken to the hospital in an ambulance, I would have said I’d be OK. But I felt really sick, like I was going to throw up, only worse.
Meanwhile Julian kept repeating over and over like a parrot, “I called 911, I called 911,” like he’s waiting for me to notify all the papers so they can put him on the front page, or like calling 911 is going to erase from my reality the ten million times he yelled at me and Mom.
I didn’t want him to see how sick I felt. I said, “What hospital did they take her to?” and he said, “I called 911 and they came and took her to the Montreal General.”
I didn’t say anything. I just continued up the stairs to our apartment.
I unlocked our door and put down my knapsack, which was empty apart from my wallet and my library book, Murder Times Nine. That’s what I do at school when I’m not sleeping. I sit in the corner and read mysteries. In Sunnyview, if you’re quiet, the teachers are just happy they don’t have to relate to you. Sunnyview has the worst kids in the city. There are lots of messed-up people on Earth, Xanoth.
As soon as she heard me come in, Beauty, my cat, came running over. I picked her up and went to the kitchen to grab something before I went to the hospital. But I was too sick to eat, so I packed two bags of vinegar chips, in case I got hungry later. Then I put Beauty down. She didn’t understand why I was going out again. She didn’t like being left alone, especially because she knew something was wrong, but I didn’t have a choice.
I wasn’t sure how to get to the Montreal General, so I took the bus to the metro and asked the guy in the booth. He said I had to go to Lionel Groulx, switch to the green line, get off at Guy, and take either the 165 or the 166.
It all went OK until I got off the bus. The driver told me that was the stop for the hospital, but I couldn’t see a hospital anywhere. I kept crossing back and forth at this crazy intersection of like six streets. It was freezing cold, and the wind was blowing in my face so I couldn’t see anything, and I almost got run over.
Finally I asked this woman who looked like a nurse. She told me the hospital was the building at the top of the hill, and she explained how to get to the entrance. I don’t know who thought of putting a hospital in a place no one can get to.
I was a solid block of ice by the time I found the door. I stood at the entrance for a few minutes just to thaw out. I was hungry, even though I still felt sick. I wasn’t in the mood for chips, and I had three dollars, so I got a Reese bar from a machine they had there. I wanted two bars, but I didn’t want to be left without any money at all. I didn’t think to take more from the tin before I left.
No one knew where my mother was. They didn’t have any record of a Felicity Henderson, and I started thinking maybe Julian made it all up, or got the wrong hospital. I know on your planet no one gets sick, Xanoth, but here the hospitals are packed to the brim, and people were getting impatient with me because the phones were ringing and everyone was busy.
They sent me to another desk and then to a third desk, and finally this old wrinkly woman at the third desk was nice. I never saw anyone with so many wrinkles, really deep and crossing every which way, but she was friendly and happy. She said, “Don’t worry, dear. If she’s here we’ll find her.”
She checked her computer and finally she found Mom. I could tell right away that she found her on the dead people list. She didn’t want to say anything, but I knew from the look on her face.
She told me to wait in Room 203 and someone would be with me soon.
Room 203 was one of those dead empty rooms with a poster of palm trees that’s supposed to make you forget there aren’t any windows. There weren’t even old gross magazines to look at. I had my library book with me, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on it.
I ate the chips I brought in my knapsack. Then I shut my eyes and thought about you in your glass dome, having lemon meringue pie while your nieces and nephews played on the swings in the back lawn.
Finally a social worker came in – one of those superior types you feel like killing on the spot. Around 25, with big brown sadistic eyes. Her clothes matched her personality. She was wearing a long tight skirt that was kind of worm-beige and made of some horrible polyester, and a blue shirt with buttons that was eve
n worse, and a black suit jacket with a pocket.
She said, “Dr. Gupta is on his way. I’m sorry we have some bad news,” but she was really happy, believe me.
I didn’t want to give her the pleasure of telling me the bad news, so I said right away, “I guess my mother’s dead.”
She nodded and pretended she wanted to put her arm around my shoulders to comfort me, but I wouldn’t let her. Then Dr. Gupta, this dark-skinned guy with glasses, came in. He had the most boring voice in the world. Even if you wanted to concentrate on what he was saying, you couldn’t. He should have been a teacher. So I don’t really know what he said, but it had something to do with Mom’s heart.
When he left, the social worker gave me a Baggie with Mom’s necklace inside. It’s a thin gold chain with a small moon pendant. Mom never took it off, even when she showered.
I unzipped the pocket of my knapsack and stuffed the Baggie inside and zipped it up again, which at least gave me something to do. The social worker said, “They did everything they could, but it was a massive heart attack.” I could tell she really liked saying “massive.”
Then she asked me if there was anyone I could call – a relative or a friend. She wanted to get rid of me so she could move on to her next job of telling someone their whole family was dead in a car crash.
I didn’t know what to say. On the one hand, I didn’t want to give her the pleasure of knowing there wasn’t anyone I could call, and on the other hand, there wasn’t anyone. All I have is an uncle out west, but I think he’s in prison.
So I just kept saying, “Everyone I know is in Manitoba,” and finally she got bored and asked me how old I was, because someone had to identify the body and fill in all the forms. I lied and said 18. Luckily she didn’t ask for proof. She only asked if I was ready to see Mom.
I felt like saying, no, I’m not ready, I need to strangle you first. But of course I said yes.
Even if she hadn’t needed me to identify Mom, I would have asked to see her. I wanted to make sure she was really dead, and that they didn’t make a mistake. If I didn’t see her, I’d always wonder about that.
I guess somewhere in the back of my mind I was thinking that maybe it wasn’t her, maybe someone else’s mother was the one who died. That happens sometimes in mysteries, like in Simisola, by Ruth Rendell. The detective calls the parents to identify their daughter, and it turns out it’s not her. But that’s because the daughter’s black, and the police jump to conclusions, because a black girl the same age is missing.
I knew that wasn’t going to happen to me. If it wasn’t my mom, they wouldn’t have the necklace.
The social worker told me she’d be back in a minute, but I couldn’t wait in that room from hell again, so I waited out in the corridor.
While I was standing there, leaning against the wall, an Asian family of about a million people showed up. They were all talking at the same time and looking for something. Finally they went into the same room I was in. I guess that’s the waiting-to-hear-someone-died room. I felt bad for them at first, but they were smiling and laughing, so maybe they hated the person who died, and now they were going to inherit a lot of money.
A few minutes later the social worker came back and took me to a very creepy place. It was just like in a movie, a dead body on a table. The only difference was that the sheet covering Mom had blue flowers on it, and she had a pillow under her head. Her skin was like pale stone, but apart from that she looked the same, with her beautiful eyes and flat eyebrows and her perfect nose and mouth, and her black hair parted in the middle. I didn’t inherit her nose or her mouth, unfortunately. I only inherited her eyes, but on her they looked good. On me they’re a waste.
Suddenly I was all dizzy, like I was going to faint, and the social worker said, “Do you want a few minutes alone with your mother?” That was the last thing I wanted. It wasn’t her anyhow.
“I just need a bathroom,” I said. I was mad at myself because my voice was all crackly.
The social worker took me to a bathroom that smelled of puke. There was a smell of bleach too, but it couldn’t get rid of the smell of puke. So I got out of there right away. I decided to focus on you and not think about anything else for now.
The social worker wasn’t there when I came out. I waited for her on a chair, and finally she came rushing back, mumbling some lame excuse. She probably went outside to smoke. I noticed a bit of a bulk in her jacket pocket, and she was sucking on a mint, and her cheeks were a bit red. I’m good at clues, maybe from all the mystery books I read.
She asked for the millionth time whether I had any relatives or friends of the family, and I had to tell her for the millionth time that it was only my mother and me in Montreal, so she spelled out all the options. I was barely listening. But one option was donating Mom to McGill University, and that’s what I chose. It’s free, and that way the hospital looks after everything, even the death certificate.
She said there were a lot of forms to fill in, and I’d need to come back and bring my mother’s birth certificate and social insurance card and driver’s license. Like someone like us would have a car.
She told me I had to bring my birth certificate too. What if she finds out I’m only 17?
Then she checked her sadistic date book and made an appointment for me for tomorrow at 3:30. She also gave me a flyer, When a Loved One Dies, but she said most of it didn’t apply to me, because the hospital would take care of everything. Her nails had this worm-beige polish on them, to match her skirt. What a loser.
I thought I was through with her, but she started again with all her fake “What will you do, where will you go?” What she was really thinking about was probably her boyfriend, and how she’s going to get into spiked boots with him tonight.
She gave me a number I could reach her at. She kept on and on about how she didn’t want me to be alone, so finally I told her I’d stay at my best friend’s house, and I gave the address of one of the places where Mom cleans. Cleaned. I got up to go, and she made me promise to call her tonight. In your dreams, Miss Muffet.
I took the bus and metro and bus back home, and I made myself spaghetti and scrambled eggs and a tuna sandwich with mayonnaise. I don’t eat cows or pigs. Mrs. Johnston, the teacher I had in grade four, said she never ate mammals because mammals have souls like humans, and all the same emotions as humans, even hope. She said she wouldn’t eat a horse or a dog or a cat, so why would she eat cows? She’s right about emotions, because look at Beauty.
Then I wanted dessert, so I lifted the cake cover, not really expecting anything, but there was a whole new orange cake there. I guess Mom made it in the morning, before she left for work.
So that’s when it hit me, I guess. I sliced the cake and ate it and I was crying my lungs out. I wasn’t worried about anyone hearing me, because downstairs they always have the TV on full-blast, and on our floor it’s only bikers and skinheads. Beauty didn’t know what was going on. She kept jumping on my lap, then going to her bowl to see if there was food in it, then jumping on my lap again.
I turned on the TV to get my mind off things. The show really sucked and the reception was messed up as usual because we don’t have cable, but it was that or nothing.
I don’t even know what the show was about. My mind kept turning off. Some guy was saying he was innocent, and some beautiful blond woman was helping him, and every few minutes they showed a kid on a tricycle. Each time my mind turned off, I missed a big chunk of the story, and even though you can usually tell what’s going on because they repeat the plot about a hundred times, I couldn’t figure it out. I gave up and shut the TV.
One thing I know for sure. I’m not going back to Sunnyview. I flunked grade five, so I repeated, and I flunked again, but you can only get held back once. That’s the rule. Otherwise they’d have all these old kids in classes with little kids. If you flunk twice, they basically leave you alone. You can go to special dummy classes if you want, but you don’t have to. You can sit with everyone e
lse and no one bothers you.
Now that I’m 17 I don’t have to go to school at all. I’ve only been going this year because there wasn’t anything else to do. Ricardo, the guy I went out with in grade nine, switched to another school, so I didn’t have to see him. As for everyone else, I figured out years ago how to be invisible. You just ignore people who are mean to you and they get bored, because people like to be noticed. And if you don’t notice them, they’ll move on to someone who does notice.
Besides, I’m strong. I’m stronger than a lot of the guys and I’m pretty good at using my elbows if the need arises. If you use your elbow it’s like, oh sorry, did my elbow accidentally poke your eye out? Not that I actually say anything. The main survival strategy is never to say a thing. Silence is the ultimate weapon. A lot of people don’t know that.
I decided to have a shower and go to bed. As usual the water pressure was non-existent and the water kept going cold every few seconds. It was the last straw of today. If it wasn’t for Beauty, I would have taken a hammer and smashed the faucets, but I didn’t want to scare her, so I just cried. Then I put on my sweatpants and a T-shirt and got into bed. Beauty jumped up and sat next to me, the way she always does. I tried reading Murder Times Nine but I couldn’t concentrate.
So I decided to write and tell you about today. I’m writing in a really nice notebook that Simone, the woman who lived with us until I was seven, sent me five or six Christmases ago. It has pressed flowers on the cover. I didn’t have anything to write in it until now, just like I’ve never had anything to write on a computer. I could have set up an email address in the library, but who would I write to? All I’d get is mail saying YOUR SMALL PENIS WILL SOON BE HISTORY. That’s what a lot of companies use email for down here on Earth.
The whole time I’ve been writing, Beauty’s been putting her paw on the paper as if she wants to write too.
Well, that was my day, Xanoth. What I really wanted to tell you is that I was a total bitch to Mom this past year. And my last words to her were, “Leave me alone.”
