The Shore Girl (6 page)

When I got to the mudroom, a blast of angry cold rushed in. Rebee stood in the open doorway between the two girls. I pulled the children inside, out of the howling entrance and slammed the door closed. Vanessa and Susan flung snow wads in every direction.

I stepped around the wet and stood in front of the drizzling trio.

“What's your problem?”

“Rebee's bin kilt,” Vanessa yelled from behind her soggy scarf. Her mittened hand pointed at Rebee's face, which was hidden by her pink scarf save for wide eyes, wet eyelashes.

“Rebee's not been killed. She's standing right here.”

“See, see,” Susan started giggling. Rebee stood perfectly still, eyes focused on my stomach.

“Well, let's take a look then.” I stepped behind Rebee and fumbled with her scarf, the frozen knot, mutton bone hard. I was ready to give up, march into the staffroom, grab a cleaver, chop the scarf in two.

The knot finally gave, so I moved around front of Rebee and pulled the scarf from her face. Susan let out a walloping screech. Rebee's mouth was bloodied, red-caked lips forming a small doughnut, pink bubbles gathering in the hole. A blood smear had stained one cheek, her chin. Snot ran from her nose. She wouldn't look at me. Didn't cry. Didn't make a sound.

Susan's giggles turned to sobs.

“Pipe down, Susan, it's just a little blood.”

I tugged and pulled and peeled the layers until Rebee was wet socks, rumpled
T
-shirt and baggy pants. Vanessa started shedding, too.

“Stay dressed, Vanessa. You too, Susan. Where does it hurt, Rebee?”

“In her mouth,” Susan yelled.

“What happened?”

“Rebee got banged,” Vanessa added.

“Banged how?”

“By Kenny's head.”

Vanessa wriggled and squirmed, words tumbling like marbles in no coherent order. How Kenny pushed Rebee from behind. How Rebee lost her balance and fell. How Rebee's mouth slammed against the curved lip of the frozen slide. How Peter laughed and pointed and the others joined in. Vanessa yakked on and on. Behind the blood splatters, Rebee, pale as a feather, still hadn't uttered a peep. Her socks were too small, heels folding at the balls of each foot.

“Leave us now. Susan and Vanessa. Both of you. Out.”

They didn't want to miss the show, so I pushed them into winter and slammed the door behind them. Rebee was trembling by this point. She smelled like washing day, damp cloth, a faint trace of Christmas orange. I marched her to the bathroom and stood her in front of the sink.

“Let's get you cleaned up, then. See what we've got.”

Rebee stared into the oval mirror at her blood-smeared face. She had a faraway look, as though she were looking at her older self. She was in some trailer park, some burnt-out town, some snarly boyfriend with swollen knuckles hovering in the background.

I started with the cheek. Rubbed a paper towel until the blood was all gone. Then I ran warm water over more paper, squeezed out the excess and dabbed at her chin, under her nose, around the corners of her eyes. I could see no swelling, no black and blue rising, no broken skin.

“That doesn't look so bad. Rebee, open your mouth.”

Lips stayed sealed.

“Fine. Then spit into the sink for me?”

Rebee leaned over and spat a pea-sized pink plop into the sink. I still couldn't see inside her mouth. I turned on the cold water and filled one of the paper cups that sat by the tap.

“Now you take a drink and swish it all around and then spit it out. Pretend you've just brushed your teeth.”

Rebee took the cup slowly, turned eyes first to me, then she swished and spat daintily onto the porcelain. Crimson fizz, then the
plink
of a little white tooth. We both leaned into the sink to get a better look.

“What is that?” she whispered.

I got a good look at the gap in the front of her mouth.

“Congratulations. You've popped your front tooth. Just like you're supposed to.”

She lowered her head further, studying the tooth, poking it with her fingers. Then she turned and stared at me. Our faces were inches apart.

“Well?”

Rebee's fingers pinched my sweater. It was the first time I had really looked into her eyes. They were as grey as the end of the world, exhausted.

“Will the Tooth Fairy come?” She asked this reverently, like this might save her life.

I remembered tooth fairies and sugar plum fairies and angel fairies. Somehow, my parents had inherited a book of
Classic Fairy Tales
, a book as weighty as a fattened pig. I heaved the book onto my bed and read and reread stories of frog princes and talking cats and shoes that would not stop dancing. I waited for those fairies. They never did find their way to the middle of nowhere.

“Will she come?” Rebee asked again.

My mother had a peculiar use for lost teeth, hers and mine. She laid each on the splintered cutting board, and brought down the swinging hammer with a mighty force. Then she scooped up the specks as fine as powdered milk and fed them to her spindly geranium plant.

“What do you know about the Tooth Fairy?”

Rebee shrugged.

“What has your mother told you?”

Rebee shook her head, sadly I thought. Surely her mother had no geraniums.

“Recess must be over,” I said, unwilling to drag it out further. My teacher training lacked tips for this kind of moment. “It's time to go back to the classroom.”

But Rebee wanted more. “Vanessa said that when her tooth came out she put it under her pillow and she saw the tooth fairy and she had wings. The tooth fairy stayed in Vanessa's bedroom and twirled and then was gone and she got monies.”

“Money. She got money.”

“Does she come, Miss Bel?”

I had no decent answer. I wanted the fairy to come, my longing as sharp as Rebee's, but I had no way to find her. I yanked a paper towel from its holder, folded it twice, dug the tooth from the sink, and wrapped it snugly.

“Put this in your pocket.” I passed her the tooth package. “It'll be safe there. And don't tell Vanessa. Talk to your mom instead?”

She held out her hand, opened her pocket of her pants, and tucked the paper towel as far down as it would go. I made her scrub her hands with soap and water so hot it made her eyes water. Then we marched back to the classroom, neither one of us saying a word.

It wasn't until the end of the day, after the kids were long gone, after I had disinfected my desk and stepped out into the biting wind to face the dark sky that I buried my hands deep into my coat to stop the sting. Somehow the paper towel had slipped into my pocket. I pressed my fingers around the folded square, felt the hard bump of the tiny tooth. I never thought to ask how it got there, when she might have slipped into the staffroom, chosen the exact right coat. I simply clutched that small piece of Rebee, hanging on for dear life, trying to keep it warm.

* * *

I live in Delta's furnished basement suite. If Delta's not the oldest living prairies teacher, I can't imagine who is. She does all her teaching sitting down and has trouble answering questions because her hearing is so poor. When I sneak past her classroom to get outside, she's often nodded off, her sixth-graders huddling over desks, speaking in low voices, like it's campfire time and the grownups have been put to bed. Mrs. Bagot has a great respect for elders. She believes in corporal punishment and checks on Delta's classroom more frequently than mine.

Mrs. Bagot made the arrangements for my stay with Delta. She marched into Delta's Grade Six classroom at the farthest corner of my wing and told her it was high time she got a new renter. Delta's last tenant, Martha Flem, collapsed from a stroke in the downstairs bathroom and got wedged between the toilet and countertop. This happened eleven years ago. Martha Flem lay there for three days, semiconscious. Delta found her, twisted and blue with cold, her nightie bunched over swollen kneecaps. Martha must have been a large woman. I can easily sit on the floor beside the toilet, pull my knees up, and twirl a
360
. She went straight to a nursing home after that, and I have to bang on Delta's upstairs door each evening and twice a day on weekends just to let her know I'm still breathing. “Delta,” I yell, pounding on the door, “I'm doing just fine, no need to worry.”

Often, at night, I sit on Delta's floor, my night lights glowing from every spare wall socket, bordered by overstuffed burgundy chairs, striped afghans, Royal Castle bone china girls, starched frilly doilies floating on every flat top.

I think about Buttercup, the mad dog in Delta's kitchen, locked behind baby gates. She's some kind of poodle, with matted pink curls like Delta's, a red-veined underbelly and filmy eyes. Delta has told me she needs to be put to sleep, but she can't bear to make that decision. So Buttercup chases herself in circles, round and round, always the same direction, crashing into her water bowl and garbage can. Table legs are especially problematic.

Delta went for some kind of day procedure at the woman's clinic today. A “woman's engagement” she called it, though I can't imagine her woman's parts. Delta knew she'd be late getting home and asked me to check on Buttercup. “Will you get her outside?” she asked. “Let her stand in the snow for a minute or two and take in the fresh air? She enjoys the birds, you know.”

When I unlocked the door with Delta's key, Buttercup was stumbling around the kitchen, a white plastic bag wrapped tightly around her head. With each wet, wheezy intake of air, the bag moulded to the dog's head. She shook her head furiously, but it only smushed tighter. I lifted the bag away. Buttercup, drenched and panting, collapsed to the floor. But then a minute later she had turned herself around and started circling again. Like nothing had happened.

I stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror, and pulled a plastic bag over my head. I cinched it tightly under my chin, eyelashes trapped against filmy white, the bag breathing with me, caressing my lips, and covering my tongue.

I admired Buttercup. The dog had spunk.

* * *

Rebee walks home alone each day. Vanessa and Susan, best friends forever, have since lost interest in their buddy assignment and get rides from their mothers. Rebee cuts through the schoolyard, and then hurries past the tire piles and three-legged chairs leaning in doorways, the old cars on bricks that never leave their yards. The neighbourhood has a sticky feel. Like you're walking through muck. I know this because Rebee and I take the same route until we get to the dumpster at Forrest Drive, then Rebee turns right.

Delta and I live eight blocks from the Messenger school. In a town this size, the good, the bad and the ugly are all smooshed together. Delta has bird feeders in her spruce trees, plastic deer wedged in the snow, marigolds and petunias come spring, I bet, while the guy next door chains a Rottweiler to a metal post out front.

Delta has a silver Cadillac, big enough to move into, and perches on a pillow so she can see over her steering wheel. Her feet barely reach the pedals. She offers me a ride each morning, but I prefer the walk — the neighbourhood smells and the cold on my face.

Rebee was keeping her head down, like a dog sniffing a trail, like nobody would see her if she couldn't see them. She'd made it to the dumpster, turned right. I wanted to see where she lived.

“Wait up, Rebee,” I called from behind. She turned too quickly, fear in her eyes, dropping her bag in the snow.

“It's just me. Miss Bel. I'll walk with you.” I bent down, picked up the bag, brushed it off, and passed it back to her. Rebee took it and kept on going, like she couldn't wait to get off the street.

“We're the new girls in town.” I walked behind her. Few people had shovelled and we tried to match our footprints to those already made. Rebee's boots filled with snow. “How do you like it so far?”

Rebee shrugged. She didn't look up, the red pompom bobbing on top of her hat. She pulled down the scarf that covered her mouth so she could swipe at her runny nose.

“What do you like best?” Our breath foamed in the winter air. I puffed over her head, creating a roof that disappeared. The cold sun was so dazzling it made me squint.

“You don't talk much, do you?” She hadn't said a word to me since her tooth fell into my pocket. A tiny pink nail poked through the thumb of her mitten. “Come on. You've got to have a favourite.”

“Sunburst.”

“I knew it. Sunburst's my favourite, too.”

We were at a corner. I hadn't walked this street before but it was more of the same — more white-laced curtains next door to unhinged shutters. Rebee looked both ways, climbed over the mountain made by the Winter Lake snowplow, and stepped out onto the street. There were no cars, no people.

We made it to the other side. She stood in front of the corner house, a dilapidated monster three storeys high, definitely more the motorcycle flag than the lacy curtains type. Rebee leaned back and looked up, first at the top floor of the house, then at me.

“Will I get a turn again?” she asked.

“Well, I can't say for sure. Sunburst can't be decided ahead of time.”

Rebee stared at me a minute, crinkling her eyes, then said, “I'm going to make juice.”

“What kind?”

“Grape. Maybe.”

“I'll come in with you. Purple is a good colour.”

“I'm not allowed.”

“Unless it's the teacher. The teacher is okay.” I knew this was wrong, even as I said it. But she was so alone, so small.

We entered by a heavy cracked glass door. Inside, a mat was stacked with giant men's boots and mud-caked runners. We trudged up the steep wooden stairs, past the leftover tuna and burnt cheese smell, past the number three and four doors on the second landing, then switched directions and climbed one more flight until we got to number five. Rebee took her boots off, shaking out the snow, and placed them upside down beside the door. I did the same. Then she stripped off her mittens, hat and coat. She reached under her sweater and pulled out a key on a chain around her neck, turned the key in the lock, and we were in.