Then old Patty orders her papers, proceeds with the formality of asking a steady stream of questions she already knows the answers to, ticks them off on her sheet, mumbling your replies to herself: Are you living common-law with anyone currently? Is the father of your child sending support? How many children do you have? How much rent do you pay? Do you have receipts? For hydro? For phone? Are you still seeing that sugar daddy who was giving you fifty bucks for a quickie now and then? She never asked that last one, you’d have busted a gut if she did, though. But it’s not one of the standards. You could truthfully say no anyway, not with George around. Poor old Stewart had to back off and find someone else to lunch with, look after his needs.
Let’s see, is there anything we haven’t covered? I see we have you down for extra allowance for a special diet. You’re hypoglycemic, is that right?
Yes, I went for a five-hour glucose test earlier this year, so yes, being on a proper diet is a big help.
That’s good. Umm, and everything’s OK with Grace, she has no disabilities or anything, does she?
No. Well, she’s got a bit of a sweet tooth, which makes me wonder if she’s a little hypoglycemic herself, but I try to keep her diet similar to my own—Oh, I wanted to ask you about lessons. She’s on a real lesson kick lately. She was taking ballet and now she wants to start with swimming—could we get any allowance for that? I mean, is there any recreational thing allowed?
Not really. Um. Well, we’ll see, I’ll see what I can do, let me just write this down, swimming …
And baton.
And baton … Well, that’s good that she’s getting into community things. It’s often difficult for children when they move around. Uh, Eilleen, I’m just supposed to take a quick glance around the apartment to make sure everything’s the, uh, like we have in your file, one bedroom and all that … I’ll just uh … Patty Hearst gets up off the couch, averts her eyes and smiles. She walks through the apartment, down the hall, pokes her head in the bedroom, fine, one bedroom, moves on to the bathroom, glances quick. You look over her shoulder, the medicine cabinet is open: a brush, a comb, Noxzema, bottle of Librium, cough syrup, can of men’s shaving cream, Pepto-Bismol. Both your eyes glue to the can. Shit. How could you miss shaving cream? Her eyes flick to the bathtub but her mouth opens and shaving cream foams out. Someone had to say it, just to name names, just to give the thing a good whack. Like a cockroach. Yeah, it was on sale and I thought I’d try it out on my legs instead of plain soap. I do seem to get a closer shave with it.
Oh really! She sounds overjoyed, relieved. I’ll have to try that sometime. She turns back down the hallway. I guess all I need is your John Hancock now and I’ll skedaddle out of your way.
The phone rings, you excuse yourself to hear, Mummy? It’s Grace. She’s talking fast, hard to catch what about, but she’s going to hit you with something. She’s like a used-car salesman sometimes: a lot of questions where yes is the most logical answer and you’re yessing and yessing and then suddenly you find you’ve yessed yourself into car payments you can’t afford and a clunker that hardly makes it around the block—And you said before that maybe I could get one and George said he’d drive me and we could get all the stuff, like the litter and stuff and we already called the SPCA and they have some.
A kitten? You smile at Miss Hearst, trying to keep up your fascinating hostess appeal whilst simultaneously being a good and caring mother—She did this on purpose, calling you in the midst of this. A kitten. How could she pull this now? Sweety, can we talk about this later. The lady from the Welfare office is over right now. We’ll talk about it when you get home.
She says, No, Mummy, please, you said I could and this way you don’t have to do anything and if we wait until, if we wait, they’ll get destroyed. They put them to sleep if they’re there too long, Mum, please. I promise I’ll look after it. You stutter and smile into the phone. How the hell—who told her what happens to kittens who loiter at the SPCA? Goddamn George. This was none of his business. His job was to distract her today, not talk about death row for kitties. Mum. Can’t I please? They kill them. We could rescue one.
Oh Grace! you whisper and say, OK. OK, but don’t forget, it’ll be your job. I mean it now.
You hang up the phone, want to holler Fuck! as loud as you can. Just because: shaving cream, areyousingle, earrings, Patty Hearst, canyousignhereplease, kitten-killers—the SPCA’S going to gas you all.
You sign the bottom of the page, smile.
Patricia Hearst smiles—hers is glass too and you get the feeling that any loud noise could shatter every lip and tooth in the room. She straightens her papers, stands them up, cracks them against the coffee table, back in the folder, back in her case. Well, it was a pleasure to have met you. I’m sorry, I know these things can feel like an ordeal.
Oh no, I mean, you’re a nice person, I mean you don’t seem like a, what am I trying to say? You made it easier. She ducks her head to avoid flying compliments and smiles, picks up her briefcase, is walked to the door.
Closing it behind her, you walk down the hall and go sit in the bedroom. If it weren’t for George, this would not have been near so nerve-racking. Yes, he means well, but you can’t have a man living in the house. Run the risk of losing everything. Run the risk of being bored to death. Feels like you’re sleeping with your brother half the time. Yes, he’s good for Grace, but they could still visit. He could take her to the track or something once in a while. He doesn’t have to live here. The ramifications, the consequences —just, it’s just—you need your closet back. He’s going off on the fishing boats soon anyway, end of the month. You should tell him he’ll have to store his belongings elsewhere—you can’t have shaving cream around and that’s all there is to it.
You flop back on the bed. Oh to sit and flirt again, at a dance, a bar—wouldn’t have to drink, just dance, have a good time. Be a woman again instead of somebody’s grandmother.
Grace Seven
OCTOBER 1974
GEORGE WENT OFF again on the fishing boats. He took his clothes and shoes and all the proof that he ever lived with us cuz Mum didn’t want to have to explain it if the Welfare showed up. I felt cold for a whole week after he left. Like the air was getting under my skin. I didn’t cry, though. I just got mad and bare-naked-cold-feeling. Mum had to go fighting with him even when he didn’t want to fight. And she kicked him out and said it was on account of the Welfare coming by to inspect the premises before they’d sign us up for another year. So there’d be no man-evidence, she said. Before he was leaving, George said, all calm to me, that he had to go out on the boats again for a while, as if he was coming back. But he wasn’t. I knew it. Plus Mum kept saying, “Thank God,” all over the place and how relieved she was to have him out of her hair. Even though he was the best guy ever. And even though when he first came to live with us, she was saying all about adults needing adult company. I guess I cried once. She bought us a bunch of junk food and let me stay up late that night and said George was good for me but not so great for her and that when he came back from fishing I was still allowed to hang around with him. We could still go horseback riding or to the races or whatever. She kept telling me not to make her into a villain through all this, but I couldn’t help it. Cuz as soon as you let people go, even for a little, they just don’t come back.
It was Friday night and Mum was at the Legion Hall, dancing or whatever. I was downstairs with Sheryl Sugarman. Josh was doing his art stuff until Rockford Files came on, so Sheryl and I were talking and drinking tea. I was still mad at Mum a bit and Sheryl was trying to be cheery. She said, “So how did your mum like the Parents-without-Partners Dance last week?”
“She said it was boring and that there was too many young women there.” Sheryl laughed. “She said it was worse than three AA dances put together. She said last week that she wasn’t going to AA any more because it was full of boring goofs that were riff-raff and dullards. And that it’s silly to say you’re not going to ever drink again.” Shery
l took a breath and said yeah, that I already told her that. “She’s going to get sick again,” I said. Sheryl didn’t look at me, just in her teacup, and sucked on her bottom lip for a second. So I said, “She was already a bit sick after being at the Parents-without-Partners thing.”
“Yeah? Well, sweety, maybe that’ll make her change her mind then.”
“But my birthday’s coming soon, in a month and three weeks. What if she gets really sick and she can’t even get me birthday presents or anything?”
“Oh, don’t worry—that won’t happen. When’s your birthday —you’ll be nine, right?”
“Yeah. November twenty-fourth. I hate the number nine—I don’t even wanna be nine.”
Sheryl laughed at me. “What do you mean, nine’s a great age—we’ll have a party and Josh and I’ll be there and … how ’bout Gabrielle, you haven’t mentioned her in a while.”
“Nah. I hardly see Gabrielle any more. I guess cuz of me switching schools and stuff and plus because of Mum firing her sister Darlene from being my babysitter. Darlene had boys over, ’member? and they were smoking and I told on her, so Darlene got fired and so then Gabrielle stopped calling me back when I left her a message. And anyway, she started acting all weird when she heard that Charlie didn’t know who her baby’s dad was. She stopped coming over, it seemed like. Who cares anyhow—I hate her and her stupid glasses and her dumb name. Gabrielle. Gobrielle. I should gob on her stupid head,” and then I banged my teacup and spilled it a bit and said I was sorry all over the place.
Sheryl oopsed and said not to worry and went and grabbed a dishcloth. “Well, you’re probably right, who needs her anyway if it’s that easy for her to walk away! Don’t be gloomy, my sweet, we’ll have a great party—and what about your sister! She’ll be in town for your birthday this year!”
“Yeah, except for Ian’ll have to come. I hate Ian.” I was still thinking about Gabrielle and her dumb sister getting kicked out from being my babysitter. “At least I got a kitten, though, at least I got Henry, so I don’t really need Darlene being my babysitter. Plus I’m going to get bribed now.”
Sheryl hucked the dishcloth across the kitchen into the sink. “Bribes! Someone’s getting a bribe? I never get bribes—who’s bribing you?”
“My mum. Didn’t I tell you? Last week, she asked how I felt about bribes and I said I was for them so now I get a dollar an hour to babysit myself.”
Sheryl frowned and squinted her eyes like she didn’t get it. “What do you mean, babysit yourself?”
“A dollar an hour to babysit myself and Henry. I mean if I’m alone, like last week. She let Mrs. Void or whatever—the lady next door—know in case of emergency cuz you guys were out. And tonight, she came down to tell you she was going out. Or well, actually, I don’t know if I’m supposed to still get money if I’m with you. Maybe I just won’t say I was here unless she asks.”
“I thought you had a babysitter last Friday.” I shook my head and smiled at her. She probably figured I was smart as anything, not being scared alone and getting money from it. Then I started feeling hungry all the sudden and I asked if maybe we could have cinnamon toast. And then Sheryl all the sudden went, “So, Grace, do you eat your lunch at school every day?”
I looked over at Josh, but he wasn’t listening. He must’ve told her or something. I said, “Yeah,” to Sheryl but I was getting all nervous because of how Mum said she didn’t want me eating so much junk food. Sometimes lately, I wasn’t eating my sandwich at lunchtime and I’d get a chocolate bar instead. And then I’d just leave my lunch bag sitting in the cafeteria cuz Mum’s sandwiches weren’t that great but I felt too guilty to chuck them out. Or, if Mum was sick and I was supposed to make my own lunch, I just bought something at the store instead, like those rectangle-shaped chocolate-covered doughnut things.
So then Sheryl started saying, “Grace, I promise not to tell, I just was wondering because of something I read recently. I mean, lots of kids’ll trade their sandwich for another kid’s doughnut or for a cupcake. Do you ever do that?”
That didn’t sound as bad so I said yeah to that. Sheryl told me that she’d been reading this article called “Could Your Child Be Hypoglycemic?” So I said, “Oh yeah, my mum’s that. She thinks I’m that too, so she always wants me to have more protein and vitamins and stuff.”
Sheryl said, “Uh huh. I remember her saying that, which is why this article caught my attention. They’ve been doing a lot of research on kids and nutrition. So it started out discussing the diets of kids who steal and get in trouble.” I got a bit antsy in my chair on that one, but she couldn’t know about the emergency money I was saving; I never showed it or told anybody. Not Josh even. It was top secret. Sheryl kept talking about how lots of juvenile delinquents have low blood sugar and how they didn’t get that good nutrition growing up and stuff. “I’ve noticed how much sugar you like in your tea—you get a lot of sugar cravings—and this article was saying how a lot of kids, if they have poor diets, suffer from bouts of depression, dizziness, confusion, nervous twitches and the shakes. Sometimes they can’t concentrate on their school work because they get what are called brain clouds, where your mind just hangs there and you can’t get a clear thought. And some of them talked about getting songs in their heads or hearing voices—”
That did it! She was making this up on account of Josh’s big mouth. Josh was suddenly paying attention now. We yelled at each other at the same time. He said, “I never told!” and I said, “You promised you wouldn’t tell!” Then I started to cry. Josh got scared-faced and sat chewing on his pencil.
Sheryl took my hand across the table. She said, “Sweetheart, Josh did tell me but—”
“Mum! God!”
Sheryl looked at him and said, “Josh, it’s OK. Grace knows you care about her and you were only trying to help.” Josh kept saying, “Oh God,” and he went and sat on the couch in the living room where I couldn’t see him. Sheryl kept holding my hand. “Grace, Josh loves you and I love you and we were concerned. Then I remembered this article and I thought maybe I had an idea what might be causing that stuff with you.” I was getting all weird and nervous and I couldn’t hardly look at her, so Sheryl said, “I don’t think you have to go to the loony bin, you know—I just thought maybe we could fix things if we talked about it.” I nodded. She said, “It seems like you crave a lot of sugar. And according to this article, extreme stress can have the same effect as having too much sugar—and in turn, the stress can make you crave even more sugar as comfort food. And sweety, you’ve been going through a lot lately—just in the last few months—your sister came to live with you and she had some pretty awful stuff going on with her boyfriend, you had to watch her and your mum fight a lot and then Charlie moved out with her boyfriend and had a baby. And now you don’t get as much time alone with her because of the baby. Then George came to stay and you really liked him and things didn’t work out, so now he’s gone too … This stuff is really hard on adults, never mind almost-nine-year-olds.” I didn’t say anything. Just shrugged my shoulders. But it made me kind of depressed, how she was talking about my life. It’d probably make anybody depressed, even if they weren’t a hypoglycemiac.
She asked me how long I’d been having the voices for. I told her not that long. “I’m not sure, like maybe around a couple months or something.”
“Well, what does it sound like when you hear it?”
“Actually, it’s kind of like what you said before about the songs in the head. It’s like when you get a song stuck in your head and it just keeps playing and playing until you want to scream. Or else a commercial. Sometimes I get the words from a commercial stuck in my head, like, ‘Tastes so good, you’ll think it was made from scratch!’” I told her about the rich-English-people dinner I got in my head sometimes and then I said, “And I know that they’re fake. It’s not like I think they’re really in the room or nothing, or like they’re telling me to go murdelize someone, like in Search for Tomorrow when that lady killed her
boyfriend because a voice told her to. They just argue in my head.” Sheryl said that made sense cuz of how my mum and Charlie and Mum and George would argue lots. It sounded practically normal when she put it that way. So then I said, “And sometimes, usually after school, when I’m coming home, I think I hear someone whisper my name.”
“I bet you that happens when you’ve had a chocolate-bar lunch. I betcha it does. Because you know, Miss Grace, you’re a pretty smart cookie, and it’s only been lately that you’ve had a hard time concentrating and understanding—like when we’ve talked about your math homework, for instance.” So Sheryl started explaining about how hypoglycemia worked and how if you have sugary stuff, your guts started pumping insulin in your blood to bring the blood sugars down and then there’s so much insulins that it makes your blood sugar go really low and that’s when stuff starts happening. And how, when I start shaking after not eating for a while, that means my blood sugar’s on the floor it’s so low. And it’s the same with white flour and coffee and alcohol.
I said I quit drinking, so it couldn’t be that. And then Sheryl started laughing her guts out. I asked her if she was going to tell my mum. She said no, she wouldn’t tell on me about the sandwich stuff but only if I promised to start eating them again—the sandwiches not the chocolate—and she said maybe we should quit drinking all this tea because caffeine is really hard on your system too. I said, “But it’s half milk, Mum said I could have it if it’s half milk.”
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