Throwaway Girl (11 page)

June 2005

I
t
's been three weeks since I ran away from the Puhlers'. Though I am sure the police are looking for me, I've found it harder to remain undiscovered by Marcus and the rest of the group. It's hard to find a place to hide out when all the ones I really know used to be our regular hideaways.

I've been sleeping in a deep line of shrubs just beyond Gabriel Dumont Park, in a fairly dense part of the riverbank. Luckily the riverbank stretches for several kilometres and there are areas that are pretty remote from the city. I've dug out some of the soil with my hands to make a little trench to lay my body in. The shrubs are large and thick with leaves, so I'm fairly protected from the elements. The nights are still pretty cold. My body throbs with a piercing ache that doesn't seem to subside even with my constant shivering.

I've been walking up the trail to the nearest residential neighbourhood. It is home to some of the oldest houses in the city, vast character homes that ooze charm and sophistication. The only people I see early in the morning are the gardeners and the landscapers who are working in the yards and they don't pay me much attention.

I walk several blocks to the nearest shopping area. I take turns using the bathroom at the corner cafe, the gas station, and the medical building each day, hoping that I don't become too familiar to anyone. I scrub my face and arms and do a quick wipe of my privates, hoping that I stay clean enough not to draw attention. I even do a quick wash of my hair in the sink with the soap in the dispenser, reminding me of when I was little and would do it at school because I so rarely bathed at home.

I haven't come very far, have I?
I say to myself. Here I am, years later, still washing my hair in a public restroom with liquid soap and a poor rinse, hoping that I can dry it and come out looking clean and put together before anyone walks in on me.

Maybe this is all I was ever meant to be,
I tell myself. I stare at the dried blood all over my arms, scabs of varying sizes mottling my arms. I think of every cut I've made, how each memory is etched into a part of my flesh, like a roadmap of my life and my pain.

My stomach throbs with hunger and I realize how thin and sickly I look. I'm running free though, and living on my own terms feels better than being at the Puhlers'. I think of Stephanie and Hunter and the rest of the kids. They're probably all looking out for me. I'm always looking over my shoulder, hoping no one spots me. I can feel how anxious I'm becoming, like time is running out.

The nights are the worst. The people who wander the riverbank at night aren't always the most desirable and I find myself frozen in fear when I hear others rummaging nearby. There are often groups of teens drinking and throwing bottles at trees. I don't try to befriend anyone. I don't want anyone knowing I'm here. At times, I can hear the voices of people I sense are up to no good and I lay trembling, hoping that I'll remain safe in my little trench.

At night the mosquitoes have their way with me, leaving flaring bumps up and down my skin. The bites are hard to scratch because of all of my cuts. One swipe with my nails and I'm bleeding all over again. I don't like the blood that oozes from my scabs. It turns my stomach and makes me feel ill. It doesn't give me the thrill of a fresh cut, when the blood trickles freely with the pain.

I ran out of food days ago. Luckily with it being practically summer now, people are eating at the picnic tables and they rarely pick up all of their garbage before they leave. Families with young children are my favourite. The kids drop morsels of food everywhere when they eat. I sit quietly, flipping through one of my books, pretending to be engrossed in reading and watching the river. Once they leave, I quickly walk over to the site and gather whatever I can find. Sometimes there are full portions of food left on the tables. Often I gather handfuls of Cheezies or cans of pop that are half full. It's not pretty and I'm not proud of it, but it is food and when you're this hungry, your stomach doesn't care where it came from.

At times I dream of the meals that Shelley would make for us, the steaming mounds of fluffy mashed potatoes, the golden roast chicken with its dripping juices, and her perfectly spiced gravy. I imagine us sitting around the table, laughing, and the feeling of perfect satiety in my stomach from having both my physical and emotional needs met. The scene is so vivid in my mind that my mouth waters; I can practically taste the food. Then tears prick my eyes as I realize how ashamed Shelley would be of me right now. This is not the life she envisioned for me, this I know.

I
've
been a wreck since seeing Jacqueline on the street. It shouldn't have come as a surprise to me to see her there; after all, I was fairly sure that if she were still alive, she'd probably be living the same way. Every social worker I've had has reported the same thing to me about the state of her lifestyle. I used to harbour so much anger towards her. Anger for being a poor caregiver and for hurting me, anger for not being the mother I needed. I would be so angry for what might have been, like if I had just wished hard enough, she'd turn into someone else and welcome me with open arms ready to love me. Now I understand that Jacqueline isn't capable of being what I wanted her to be. And seeing her after all these years, I realize that the anger has mostly melted away. Instead I feel a deep sense of pity for her for all of these years wasted. For a relationship with her daughter wasted. For her life wasted.

I've been crying so much lately, releasing pent up feelings that I hadn't even realized I'd been holding all these years. Austin has been super supportive of me, holding me close and letting me grieve.

I want to talk to Trina, to let her know what's happened, so when she bursts into the apartment first thing in the morning, I run to give her a hug. She smiles, happy to see me, and I feel hopeful about her for the first time in a long time.

“You okay?” I ask her. She hugs me close and smiles again.

“I'm good,” she assures me. She kicks off her shoes and heads into the kitchen.

“I'm just going to make breakfast,” I tell her. “You want some?”

Trina peers over my shoulder at the frying pan I've got on the stove, the butter forming a puddle. She nods and my heart leaps at the chance to have breakfast with her. I crack a few eggs into the pan and shake salt and pepper on them. Trina watches as I put two slices of bread into the toaster. She takes out two small glasses and the orange juice. I glance over at her arms and see the tell-tale signs of the same compulsion I felt for so many years. She catches my eye and pulls her sleeves down, but it's too late. I've seen the cuts and the scabs. I've seen the damage. I understand the feelings released through each of those cuts. I understand the escape it has given her, and yet it breaks my heart to see the marks mottling her arms. Still, I can barely contain my excitement at her bright smile, how her eyes seem to have light in them again. I work quickly, hoping that I can get us sitting with our breakfast before she changes her mind. I've missed her so much.

We sit face-to-face on the couch, our legs pulled to our chests, our plates resting on our knees. She eats slowly and mindfully, as though she's trying to make it last. I study her face, relieved to see her looking more like herself. After so many weeks of depression and indifference, I want to keep her in this moment. I make small talk before telling her about seeing my mother. She smiles sadly at my story.

“I wonder if I'll ever see mine,” she says. “Maybe I should try and track her down.” My eyes grow wide with surprise.

“I'll help you if you want,” I say, but I'm a bit scared about Trina finding her. No matter how many years go by, the feeling of not being wanted by your mother does not diminish or get easier.

“I've missed you,” I say finally. Trina smiles, her gaze fixed on the sky outside our balcony doors. We finish our meals and I scoop up her plate and take our dishes to the kitchen. I quickly wash the dishes and clean the kitchen. It's almost nine o'clock and I have to rush to take the bus to the library to meet with the other participants of the writing program. Our performance is the following week and I want to be ready. Trina is still curled up on the couch and I bid her goodbye before I go. “Want to hang out tonight?” I ask, hoping that we can spend some quality time together.

“Sure,” Trina says. “I'd like that.” She waves good-bye, still smiling.

“Love you,” I call out to her as I head to the doorway.

“Love you too,” she replies. I shut the door behind me, my heart leaping with relief that we'll be able to reconnect tonight. My best friend is back.

W
hen I arrive at the library, Austin waves at me from behind the front counter. I see the long line-up of patrons waiting to get their books signed out, so I wave and continue on to the conference room where our group will be meeting. I'm nervous about reading my work, but I'm also excited.
Shelley would be proud of me for this,
I think.
She would have wanted this for me and so would Mrs. Assaly.
The other participants are taking turns reading aloud, pretending there is an audience before them. I smile at a few of them and take my place in the room to practise as well.

“How'd it go?” Austin asks me when he's off work. It's mid-afternoon already. I've been reading in the library, waiting for him to finish his shift.

“I think I'm ready,” I say, but my stomach flutters at the thought.

“I've got some news,” Austin says. He looks more nervous than I've ever seen him.

“What's that?” I ask. He's wringing his hands as he sits next to me.

“I was accepted into the Masters program in Regina,” he says. “I can start this fall,” he continues. I feel my heart flip-flop at the news. Regina is two and a half hours away. Even though he'd always told me his plans, I can't imagine Austin being that far from me. Austin looks nervous but excited. He's gazing at me intently, looking for my support. I smile halfheartedly, trying to be happy for him, but all I can think of is what I stand to lose.

“And I know this might be too soon, but I can't imagine going without you,” Austin says. “Andy, would you come with me?”

I breathe a sigh of relief and smile. Surely I can go to school in Regina too? Although I don't quite know how I'm going to make it work or what it means for me, I know that I want to be with him. I throw my arms around him and kiss him.

“Of course I will,” I say, and I mean it. I know enough to know when you've got a good thing, you can't let it go. And truthfully, I know I can make it on my own without him, but why would I want to? For a fleeting moment I wonder what will happen to Trina if I go. All I can think of is getting to be with Austin.

We start discussing our plans, talking over each other in excitement. “I'd like to go as soon as I can,” Austin says. “I want to find a place before they're all snapped up by the other students.” He has decided to keep his grandma's house and rent it out while we're gone. He's not ready to let it go just yet and has dreams of coming back to it to raise his own family. “But who knows where the world will take us?” he says and I agree. Why limit ourselves when other opportunities may present themselves? But the thought of marrying Austin and starting a family in his grandma's house thrills me. We hold hands as we walk out to his car.

“Trina and I are going to hang out tonight,” I tell him. He seems as relieved as I am to hear the news. “She looked great today,” I continue. “She seemed like her old self.”

Austin drives me to pick up a movie and some of Trina's favourite snacks. I'm practically buzzing with excitement when we pull up to the apartment. I can't wait to spend the evening with her and tell her my news. Surely she'll be thrilled for me, thrilled for us. Austin kisses me good-bye and watches until I get into the building before driving away. I race up the stairs two at a time, hoping that Trina is there so we can talk more.

“Trina, are you here?” I call out when I open the door. I feel a pang of disappointment when I'm met with silence. The apartment is dim; the only noise the hum of the refrigerator. I set down the bag of snacks and walk out to the balcony to look outside. Dark clouds are rolling in quickly and I can smell a hint of rain in the air. I think of Trina and me, each snuggling under blankets talking and laughing like when she first moved in, the rain pitter-pattering against the windows. The air is cool against my skin.

I shiver and rub my arms, hoping that Trina will be home soon. I can't wait to reconnect with her like old times. She has felt so lost to me for so long. I think back to this morning and how vibrant she seemed, how there was light in her eyes for the first time in what has felt like forever.

Thinking I'd like to take a hot bath and put some comfier clothes on, I make my way to the bathroom. I open the door and flick on the light. Standing in the doorway of the bathroom, I glance at myself in the bathroom mirror and brush the hair out of my eyes. I turn towards the tub, the thought of sinking down into a tub of hot water is so inviting. But something is horribly, horribly wrong. It takes a moment for my brain to catch up with my eyes as I survey the scene before me.

I stare in shock. How could there be so much blood in one place? It is almost black in some places against the white of the tub, that at first I convince myself I must be mistaken. And then something clicks and I realize I'm not wrong at all. I gaze at the lifeless body before me. Blood-curling screams ring in my ears, and I realize that they are coming from me. Surely the knife gleaming in the tub isn't real, surely the deep slashes in her wrists aren't there, surely I'll shake her and she'll spring back to life. Surely she can't be gone. And yet as I hold her, wailing her name, I know as surely as anything that she's not coming back.

“Trina,” I sob. It isn't long before I hear knocking on the apartment door. The next thing I know, there is a strange man standing in the bathroom, gasping at the sight of me holding my dead best friend, blood seeping through both of our clothes. He looks at my horror-stricken face and runs for the phone. Emergency crews arrive minutes later, but I can tell from the look on their faces that they know before even getting near her that she is gone. They speak to me gently and carefully as they try to pry her out of my arms.

I sit on the cold bathroom floor, staring at the blood that has taken over the room and I wretch violently. I can feel that someone is rubbing my back while a police officer is trying to ask me questions. But I'm in shock. I look over to Trina who is now on the stretcher. Her face is strangely beautiful. The look of pain I'd been seeing there for weeks is gone. She looks at peace.

But peace doesn't come to me. Instead, tortured images of the awkward position of her body, the pool of blood, and the gaping wounds on her wrists cloud my mind, starting me screaming all over again.