by Trilby Kent
“No, you can’t!” laughed Julie, rolling her eyes. “Don’t encourage him, Ana.”
“Come on,” said Suvi, yanking at Ana’s arm. “Let’s leave the lovebirds to their beer.”
They went upstairs to Suvi’s room, where the walls were covered in band posters and ticket stubs and pages of highlighted Blue Jays rankings from Sportsnet and tropical lights.
“Your parents are really nice,” said Ana.
“Steve’s my stepdad, actually. He’s been here for a couple of years now. He’s got a daughter too, Phoebe, but she’s at university.” Suvi squatted at a basket next to her bed that was stacked with magazines. “I’ve got the new Seventeen, if you want to look at it. I know it’s kind of cheesy, but the sex advice is hilarious.”
But Ana was looking at a pencil drawing taped to the back of the bedroom door: a girl who was definitely Suvi.
“Did you draw this?”
“No, my friend Mischa did it. He and his folks are up north right now—you’ll meet him when they get back. So, what kind of music do you like?” She squinted at Ana. “I’m guessing you’re not into boy bands.”
Ana shrugged, waited. “I’m into indie.” Suvi reached for a pile of vinyl records dominoed under the bed. “The Yeah Yeah Yeahs especially. I cut my hair like Karen O last spring. Who else…the Arctic Monkeys are pretty good. And Mogwai.”
“I don’t know them.”
“Probably because they’re Scottish.” She pushed the vinyl aside. “So, what do you like to do for fun?” Ana shrugged again. “Like, Mischa, he draws. And he sings in this junior opera thing.”
“What about you?”
“I like sports, I guess. Basketball in the fall, volleyball in the winter, baseball or soccer in the spring. Those are my school teams, anyway. In the summer I just loaf around and ride my bike and read trashy books and eat sour keys and check out the lifeguards at the pool.”
“I like swimming.” The words were out before Ana had weighed their full implication.
“Cool! We could go tomorrow, if you want? You look like a swimmer. Tall, I mean. Strong shoulders.”
“I don’t have a…” She gestured at herself. “It…it got left behind.”
“You can borrow one of my swimsuits. Or, if that weirds you out, you can get one there—they usually have a few for sale by the cash.”
“I’ll have to ask my father.”
“They’re not expensive. Of course, they’re not super sexy, either.”
“That’s OK.”
“It’s a date, then. Awesome!”
Awesome.
Across the street from the grocery store was a row of houses in varying stages of abandonment. Pointy-roofed Victorians with iron railings fencing off the entrances to dingy basement apartments. Some windows were hung with yellowing curtains, one or two had NO PLANES stickers, one was blocked with a sheet emblazoned with a marijuana leaf, and a few were boarded up completely. One of the houses had a gray metal door with a security buzzer and a discreet sign down by the bike racks that said EAST END WOMEN’S CENTER.
Ana never usually found herself on that side of the street since their house was on the same side as the grocery store. That day, though, leaving Suvi’s, she remembered that she had promised her father that she would buy some rice for their dinner. So Ana headed toward the store on the west side. Waiting for the light to change, she noticed the sign.
Laminated blinds clattered in the window, disturbed by someone brushing against them on the other side of the glass. Ana caught a glimpse of a bookshelf crammed with leaflets, the fronds of a potted plant. She wondered what went on behind the metal door.
As if someone had been reading her thoughts, the door opened and two women came out. They were young, smiling. One had blond hair tied up in a turban; the other dark hair and long feather earrings that brushed her shoulders. As she waited for the turbaned woman to unchain her bike, the dark-haired woman took a pack of cigarettes from her bag and pulled a lighter from her back pocket.
“Excuse me,” said Ana. Both women looked up at her, and she froze.
“Hey,” said the turbaned woman. “What’s up?”
“Can you tell me…” Ana looked up at the heavy metal door. What? What was she trying to ask them? It was a feeling, nothing more. An instinct.
“Did you want to go in?” said the woman with the feather earrings. “I can buzz you in.”
“I’m just looking for someone.”
Now it was their turn to freeze. Feather woman eyed Ana with new suspicion.
“There’s confidentiality,” she said. “You can’t just walk in looking for someone.”
“It’s meant to be a safe place,” said the turbaned woman, more gently. “For people in trouble. Are you in trouble?”
“No,” said Ana quickly. This could all go wrong. It could chase her further away—
Turban woman nodded, exchanged a look with feather woman.
“We’ll buzz you in,” she said. “You can check in with reception. Youth hours are Tuesdays and Thursdays from four to nine, so if you hang around for half an hour you could go check out the games room upstairs. They have a coffee machine.”
“Helena,” Ana repeated. “But some people call her Lena. Rempel. Or maybe Doerksen—that’s her married name.”
“I’m sorry,” said the woman behind the desk, which was cluttered with open binders, post-it notes and a stack of unopened mail. Her screensaver twisted with a parabola of constantly changing colors. Thank-you cards and pictures of teddies hugging stuffed hearts had been stuck to the wall behind the computer. “There’s no one working here by any of those names. And I can’t give out client information.”
“Of course.” Ana glanced up the narrow staircase. “Can I wait here for a bit?”
“Make yourself comfortable. There are magazines on the table.”
The chairs were well-worn, the pink carpet faded by the sun but carefully vacuumed. Hanging ferns and wind chimes made the room feel homey.
Ana scanned the pamphlets in the window. You Had Plans—A Baby Wasn’t One of Them. Free HIV Testing. Women’s Hotline, Free and Confidential. Domestic Abuse: The Facts.
Behind her was a notice board. Ana twisted around to read some of the printouts and posters affixed there.
Stitch and Bitch, Wednesdays at 7 pm—All knitters welcome! Tea provided.
Anishinaabe language classes—free if you bring a friend.
Pride Week sign-up!!
Movie nights, Saturday in the games room. Sign up for your weekly date with George, Brad or Ryan!
Yoga classes—pay what you can. Space limited, so sign up now!
Baby and toddler play mornings at Cedar Ridge—parenting and family planning advice.
Ana turned around. On the table next to the magazines were a pot of pens and a stack of client registration forms.
She picked up one and turned it over to the blank side.
“Can I leave this here?” Ana passed the piece of paper over the reception counter. On it she had written Helena (Lena) Rempel/Doerksen and the address of the house where she and Papa were staying. “In case she comes in?”
“This is your address?” Ana nodded. “Phone number?”
“I don’t have one.”
The woman grunted.
“OK,” she said. “I’ll tell Cathy when she gets here—she works reception in the evenings.”
“Thank you.”
“Come back any time. Youth hours are on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. I guess no one turned up today because it’s so nice out. It’s busier during the school year.”
“Can you imagine having to do that?” Suvi reached into the canvas bag, fumbling between the rolled-up towels for the sunscreen. She tipped her head toward the pool to where an older girl was cutting a slow line through the water. The girl was clothed from wrist to ankle in a black robe, and a black scarf made a perfect circle of her face as she held her chin stiffly above the surface.
Ana tried not to stare. S
uvi had caught her out a few times already: studying the features of the Korean woman in the corner store, the African bus driver waiting at the station for his shift to start. In the colony, everyone had looked the same, excepting the Bolivian workers. But here, every other face was a puzzle to Ana, layered with mystery—closed doors secreting other lives, other homes, far away.
“Is it because of her religion?” Ana asked.
“I guess.” Suvi squirted a dollop of lotion onto her hand. “You should really use some of this—you look like you burn easily.”
“Thanks.” Ana gingerly smoothed the cream over her face, hands and feet. She had yet to take off her jeans and top, which rustled against the smoothness of Suvi’s swimsuit.
Suvi pulled her T-shirt over her head and unzipped her shorts. Instinctively, Ana looked away, pretending to fumble with her own top.
“It must be really hard work, swimming like that,” Suvi said. “That gown thing looks heavy. I bet it’s itchy too.”
“Maybe it’s special. For going in the water.”
“Maybe.” Suvi snapped her shoulder strap flat. “So, are you coming?”
“You go. I’ll be a second.”
Ana watched Suvi go, her body long and lean and tanned and boyish from behind. She climbed up to the top of the highest diving board, where she pulled a double thumbs-up at Ana before launching over the water, gripping her knees in a cannonball. The splash sent waves lurching over the edges. The robed girl stopped mid-stroke, flinching at the water in her eyes, before sedately carrying on.
“Holy crap, it’s cold,” gasped Suvi, who had appeared, dripping, beside Ana once more. “I mean, it’s nice, but it’s cold. Are you a jumper or an edger?”
“What?”
“Do you jump in, or do you edge in?”
“Oh. I think I’m an edger.”
“Well, get edging, then!”
There was no getting around it. The sunlight glaring off the deck was making Ana thirsty, and her skin was prickling under the layers of clothing. No one cares, she told herself. Papa would never come here. It’s only you who knows.
She peeled off her jeans so that they pooled in a heap around her ankles and then, still sitting on the bench, made a slow exit from her top. That wasn’t so bad. Her skin was ghostly white, but she wasn’t the only pale one there. Standing up, though, was another matter.
“Where are the steps?”
“On that side. Can you be any slower?”
“OK, OK.”
They walked together, Ana’s confidence growing next to Suvi. When she stepped into the water, it was as though a memory shocked itself into her foot. Up to her knees, and the muscles in her legs began to relax. In up to her waist. She sat, playing at the surface with her palms. Isaac Buhler is drowning. Only that wasn’t today. Today was just the sun on white concrete, droplets collecting on the tiny golden hairs on Suvi’s arms, sunscreen splatted on a polished bench. She entered the water headfirst, cutting straight past the swirling black robes as they trailed after the girl in the headscarf.
On the walk home from the pool, Ana continued toweling her hair, the rats’ tails straggling wetly down her back, wondering what she’d say to her father if he came home early.
Suvi popped another sour key in her mouth. “So, when are you getting your new car?”
“In a few weeks. It depends how long we stay here.”
Suvi stopped. “You mean you’re not staying for good?”
“It depends on…stuff. My parents—”
“I thought you said your mother was dead?” Suvi remained where she was. Ana looked at her, and noticed for the first time that one of Suvi’s eyes was a slightly different shade of green from the other.
“She’s been gone for a long time,” Ana said. “Since I was five. It’s easier to think of it that way.” She reached for the bag of sour keys, hoping to distract her friend’s attention. But Suvi pulled the bag back.
“How can it be easier to think of her as dead?” she said.
“No one talked about her where we used to live,” said Ana. “My father and I don’t, either.”
“But don’t you want to know where she is?”
“That’s why we came here. To look for her.”
“Maybe she went back to her family—that’s what I’d do. Why don’t you just ask them?”
“They don’t live in the city. But my father already spoke with some cousins whose farm is nearby. She’s here. He’s sure of it.”
“God…” Suvi offered her the bag again. “That’s crazy. So, do the police know?”
“No. We’re doing it ourselves.” Ana reached into the bag, then stopped. “You can’t tell anyone. Promise?”
“I swear. But how will you find her?”
“My father’s asking friends of his. I want to look too, but it’s kind of impossible.”
Suvi looped a sour key onto her pinkie and bit, tugging the jelly with her teeth. “Have you tried going online?” she asked.
Colony Felicidad
Of course I thought it was all my fault. And so from that day on I spent every waking moment trying to be a good girl, trying to atone for what I thought was my crime. In case Papa decided to leave me too.
My only secret was reading in English. Justina loaned me books that she and my mother had brought with them when they came here from Alberta. Paperback fiction, mostly. School stories. I could sense that the language was old-fashioned, but I didn’t care. It felt delicious, practicing the words under my breath as I lay in bed at night. I wasn’t trying to be bad, but I certainly never wished for anyone to find out.
No one in Colony Felicidad had ever told us that teenagers were supposed to be rebellious. Some of the boys would smoke on a Thursday night, when the teenagers got to go unsupervised. Thursday nights and Sunday afternoons were reserved for that sort of thing: drinking alcohol and secret meetings with girls. The adults mostly turned a blind eye. “It needs to come out,” they’d say. We weren’t baptized into the church yet, so there weren’t the same expectations of us. But mostly we wanted to be seen as adults. When you were an adult, everything was better.
This is what we believed, anyway.
There are three things I know about my mother. The first two come courtesy of my Aunt Justina.
First, she told me that my mother was crazy for Berliner doughnuts. Berliners weren’t something that Old Colony folk in Bolivia tended to make, so I don’t know where she and Justina discovered them, but it must have been back in Canada when they were girls. In Canada they were filled with jelly, but in Bolivia they filled them with yellow cream and dusted the tops with sugar. Justina told a story about how she and my mother had a long-standing argument about the best way to make them—by injecting the filling into the doughnut with a pipe, or by sandwiching it between two halves and frying them until they stuck together—and how they had planned to let my father decide with a blind taste-test. That was before my mother ran away. The taste-test never happened.
Second, Justina told me that when they were really little—this was still back in Canada—she and my mother and their brother used to sneak up to one of the farmhouses they passed on the walk back from school and peer through the window of the room with the television set. In this way they watched reruns of The Mickey Mouse Club and The Lawrence Welk Show and other old-time programs that the old couple who lived there would watch. In the summer the window might be open, and then they could actually hear the soundtrack, whereas in winter the window was always shut and it was just the moving pictures. My mother’s favorite thing was watching the four Lennon Sisters sing “Hi to You!” and “Tonight You Belong to Me.”
“Hey there, hi there, ho there, try our hos-pi-tal-i-ty!” sang Justina. That was as much as she could remember.
The last thing I know is what she wrote in the note she left in my treasure box before she ran away. I still have it and not even Papa knows.
Be kind. Think first. Forgive me.
“So long could I stand by
, a looker on.”
Love, Mama
Toronto
THE QUOTATION WAS FROM Shakespeare. Ana found it online a few days after Suvi showed her how to do an Internet search at the local library.
It was Ana’s first visit to a library. Anyone could go in and use the computers, read the magazines, borrow the books—
“Not just books,” said Suvi. “DVDs too. You know, movies. And video games. They’re mostly lame and educational.”
“How much does it cost?”
“It’s free. It’s run by the city. You just bring in your address—”
“But who owns it?”
“The city. Everyone.”
“But…” Ana pulled a book off the shelf. “I could take it and not bring it back.”
“You’d be a dick. And you’d get a fine.”
Ana looked at the book in her hands. It was titled A Taste of Italy. On the cover was a burly older man with a fat mustache holding a fish. Ana slid it back onto the shelf.
At first Suvi had seemed excited to show Ana how to browse the Internet—“it’s like a telephone book and a library and tons of takeout menus and a hang-out zone and a gallery and TV all in one!”—but soon she’d grown bored with the rate at which Ana wanted to stop and linger over every new page.
Even now, it took Ana a painfully long time to find the right letters on the keyboard, and the cursor kept swinging out of view as she maneuvered the mouse off the edge of the mouse pad, but finally, ignoring the looks of a couple of boys watching a music video at the computer opposite hers, she pressed “Enter.” And there was her answer.
It was a line from The Winter’s Tale, spoken by a character called Perdita. Ana had first Googled the name in images, hoping that a photograph of her mother would miraculously appear. Instead, she had been confronted with thousands of pictures of a cartoon dog from something called 101 Dalmatians, and a smattering of shots of airbrushed models and women in old-fashioned dresses. She had hovered over an image of a painting from the nineteenth century, of a porcelain-skinned woman with long red hair and laurels around her head and shoulders, and then she had turned to the online encyclopedia that Suvi told her contained information on almost any subject she could think of.
