Throwaway Girl (12 page)

September 2004

I
t
is September when I am caught. It is my own fault they found me. It is the weekend of the fireworks festival, which takes place at River Landing, a couple kilometres from where I've been sleeping. There are several reasons why I've decided to venture out to the festival. First of all, there will be thousands of people, which translates into thousands of opportunities for me to obtain food. And second, I've loved fireworks from the first time I saw them, when Shelley and Luke took me to the big hill at Diefenbaker Park to see them one Canada Day. I'm feeling lonely for them, and I think seeing the fireworks might make me feel closer to them again.

All I think of is how I'll be able to fly under the radar by blending into the crowds. Darkness is slowly setting in. I'm tired and weary from walking. It's not that it's really been that far but more because I'm not feeling very strong and healthy. I weave my way through the crowd, keeping my eyes peeled for people I might know or for police who are in heavy attendance. I'm hoping for a good view nonetheless, so I make my way closer to the bridge where the fireworks will be set off. Thinking that I should be pretty inconspicuous alongside a group of teens my age, I slide in next to them on the side of the riverbank. They glance over at me and a couple of them snicker.

“Ew,” one comments, waving her hand in front of her face. I look down at myself, thinking that I shouldn't be that dirty, but the girls scoot further away from me. I feel my face get hot with shame while they shoot dirty looks at me.

“Miss,” someone says, tapping me on the shoulder. “I think you better come with me.” It's a police officer standing over me. My mind races to come up with a story, any story that might make me invisible again.

“I'm sorry, you must have the wrong person,” I say, playing dumb.

“Bernice Burton?” the officer says. I shake my head no, but it's clear that she's not about to walk away. People around us are staring, the girls to the left of me are watching, wide-eyed. I contemplate getting up and running but I can see from the tight crowds and the number of police officers here that I won't get far. “Honey,” she says softly, kneeling down to my level. “It's really best that you come with us.” Two other officers have now joined her and I realize that I don't really have a choice after all. I stand up and they lead me up the riverbank with their hands on my shoulders as though they can sense my urge to run.

I want to vomit with fear and hunger and regret at being caught. Where will I go? What will happen to me? Do I have to go back to the Puhlers'? Just how much trouble am I in? But the police officer keeps looking at me with a concerned smile and it's clear she's not here to punish me. She's on the radio talking in codes I can't understand while the other two guide me to the car. They open the door for me and I slide into the back seat. We pull away from the riverbank just as the first firework hits the sky. I listen to the popping sounds as they erupt, scattering brilliant colours across the sky. It's funny how the world as we know it can just change in a flash.

“What's your name, honey?” the police officer says. Apparently she's been asking me several times, but I've been staring out at the sky. I think of telling her what I'm sure she already knows, after all, she's said it already but I can't bear to return to any semblance of my old life.

“I'm Andy,” I whisper. She nods and continues driving.

She assures me that I'll be alright. But she is clean and beautiful and has a large diamond ring on her finger. She has authority and a decent paycheque. How can she know anything about how I feel? About the kind of life I've had? She couldn't possibly know the depths of my fear and disappointment at being found, of having to be accounted for. After what feels like hours of questioning at the station and several phone calls, I am fed a meal and then she tells me we're off to take me to the place I'll call home. My knees knock together as we drive. The streets are relatively quiet being that it's the middle of the night.

We pull up to a big old manor that looks like a castle. It's like nothing I've seen before. I look at the police officer, puzzled.

“This is Haywood House,” she says. “They're waiting for you.”

I
t
's late at night when I finally make it to the familiar old building. The landscaping is as beautiful as ever and it reminds me of the feeling of wonder I had coming here for the first time on that late night so many years before. Coming back has made me realize just how much I've missed seeing so many of the people here. We are “throwaway girls,” kids that are too old to be cute and cuddled, too set in our ways, and too old to be saved because the damage has already been done. But to each other, we're sponges, soaking up every bit of love and praise we can find. We're warriors of our pasts, searching for the part of ourselves that wants to grow into something more than we've been told we'll ever be. We long to be accepted and loved so we create the only family we've got.

I ring the buzzer on the front of the building. I can barely see through my tears. I imagine that Betty will swing open the door to greet me, but then with a sinking feeling, I remember that Betty doesn't work here anymore. I buzz again, becoming frantic, needing to see a familiar face. When the door opens, it's Phyllis. She gasps when she sees my swollen face and pulls me in for a hug. “Andy! Come in!” she says. She quickly shuts and locks the door and holds me close. “Honey, what's wrong?” I can't talk. I can't say anything. She leads me down the hall and soon Madge and Gertie appear as well.

They are all so surprised to see me that I cry harder at the sight of their faces. It's been so long. They all crowd around me, asking what has me so upset. I can see the love and concern on their faces and it makes my heart ache with guilt and gratitude. After all, I am also to blame for this awful tragedy. I was her best friend and I didn't do enough. I could have done more to save her.

“She's gone,” I manage to get out.

“Who's gone, honey?” Phyllis asks.

“It's Trina,” I say. “She's gone.” And though the women have no details, they all pull together for a hug. Although they can barely make out my words, they hold me close. I can't stop crying for the loss of my best friend. And then I cry for the losses of every girl in this building, because if there is something we all know, it is loss.

I
step up to the microphone and clear my throat. I am trembling. The thought of reading my writing to a crowd almost makes me seize up completely. I scan the crowd, hoping to see a familiar face. I spot Austin standing to the left of the plastic chairs provided for the attendees. He is leaning against a bookcase, a wide grin on his face. He gives me a thumbs-up sign and motions for me to begin. He looks so happy and proud of me, and my heart dances with joy at the sight of his beautiful self, how he stands so confident and self-assured. Everything about him is endearing.

I picture Shelley and Luke and Mrs. Assaly in the crowd, their faces eager. I imagine Shelley blowing me a kiss, making sure the others know that she's my mother and that I'm her pride and joy. I even picture Trina sitting there, her trademark scowl transforming into a beautiful smile. She is nodding at me, giving me her blessing to go ahead. I tear up thinking about her, knowing that even if I haven't forgiven myself for her death, she puts no blame on me. A hand waves furiously in the opposite corner and catches my eye. I'm delighted to see that it's Gertie from Haywood. She's frantically trying to get my attention to let me know she is here. She pumps her fist in the air when she knows that I've seen her. I don't see anyone else that I know. Everyone is watching me with rapt attention, eager to hear the words I've written. I wipe away the beads of sweat that have formed on my forehead and take a deep breath.

“When I was thirteen, I thought you were every girl's dream. In fact, you were. On the outside, you were everything a girl could want. You were charming and funny, athletic and strong, handsome and well-dressed. You were assertive and capable. Everyone thought you were a star.

I wondered what you saw in me, plain, good natured me. I was smart and studious, scared of everything and I admired your strength. I couldn't believe that you'd picked me from all of the others. How you told me I was beautiful and that you loved me. I felt so strong, so important for once because I was the envy of so many. I would have done anything for you, until you showed me your love.

How could someone so admired be so cruel? Your hands left imprints on both my body and soul, hot reminders that faded into shades of green and blue. You unleashed your anger and set it on me in the private moments we shared. Every girl wanted to be in my place but I couldn't let them. I didn't want them to feel your love too.

When you left me broken from the inside out, I promised myself that I would never let you hurt me again. I was done with all of the suffering, eager to breathe a breath of hope in my life. I wanted to expose all of your secrets, how your perfect image masked the true monster I knew you for. As it turned out, I was the last to know.

My body had had enough at such a young age. My skin was tired from the constant attempts at healing. My heart was even wearier, carrying the burden of a thousand secrets and lies that you and I shared.

Months of having the envy of all the other girls, surely believing that being with you would be magical. I decided that my status would have to suffer in order for me to be free from you. If only I could expose every part of you, strip you from your identity and leave you for all to see.

I know why you chose me. I was eager and willing to be whatever you wanted me to be in order to feel worthy of being by your side. It is all coming to an end now. Your perfect world will come crashing down and I may finally know peace.”

The audience claps and smiles at me. I blush and thank the small crowd. I wait behind the curtain that serves as the backdrop for the stage while the others perform. When the presentation is over, I race out to find Austin.

“You did awesome, sweetie!” Austin gushes, wrapping his arms around me for a hug and lifting me off the ground. I giggle and gave him a playful swat to put me down. “Honestly, that was incredible,” he continues. I blush and turn my head to see if I can spot Gertie, but I can't see her anywhere. I want to talk with her for a couple of minutes and thank her for taking the time to come and see me.

“Looking for Gertie?” Austin asks, reading my mind. “She had to leave a couple of minutes ago. She said she had an appointment she couldn't be late for.” I feel a twinge of disappointment because it would have been nice to see her. “She told me to tell you that she's sorry she couldn't stay to talk and that you were fantastic,” Austin finishes.

“Okay,” I say, but Austin can see my disappointment. A few of the listeners come up to congratulate me on my reading and how much they enjoyed it. I thank them all, feeling humbled by the praise. It's exhilarating to have strangers commenting on my work and showing appreciation for it.

When most of the listeners have already dispersed or left, the bookstore staff begin dismantling the seating area and folding up the plastic chairs. Austin starts to help them, smiling with pride and stealing looks my way every chance he gets. I watch his long, lean body as he lifts several chairs at once. He is smiling and joking with some of the staff, letting everyone know that his girlfriend is brilliant and that he's never been so lucky. Feelings of love for him rush through me. He has no idea how much I love him, how I'm the one who has never been so lucky. I giggle as I listen to him go on and on.

“Your reading was so powerful,” a soft voice says behind me. I turn to see who is talking to me. A pretty, blonde, middle-aged woman stands smiling with a young girl that looks to be about eight years old, who is a splitting image of her. The girl smiles brightly at me and holds out a small notebook and a pen. “Can I get your autograph, please?” she says. Her mother pulls the girl's hand away and shakes her head, a little embarrassed. Someone is asking me for my autograph?
This is too much,
I think. Then the little girl stares up at me with her big eyes and says, “Oh, please would you? My mom always said you were really special.”

I look at her, confused, wondering how on earth her mother would know me. I look to the girl's mother for clarification, but she has already stepped forward and is giving me a hug. I pat her back awkwardly until I smell the most wonderful smell. It is a smell I'd never forget, a smell that meant everything to me as a young child. Apples and cinnamon. The smell of comfort and love. Security and safety. It couldn't be.

I step back abruptly to study the woman's face. Her shimmery blonde hair has tinges of white and her face has creases and crow's feet that I don't remember. But she smiles warmly at me and I almost collapse with shock.

“Mrs. Duggleman?” I choke. She nods and pulls me back in for another hug. This time I squeeze her tight. “Is it really you?” I ask. She laughs and nods.

“It sure is, my dear Bernice,” she says. Hearing my birth name sends shivers down my spine. It has been years since I've been called that.

“Why are you here?” I stammer.

“We came to listen to your reading,” she says.

“How did you find me?” I ask.

She strokes her daughter's forehead affectionately as she speaks. “I saw a poster for readings from promising young writers at the library, and your picture was on it. Although the first name wasn't the same, I knew it was you as soon as I saw it.” I shake my head in disbelief. I look down at the gorgeous girl who asked for my autograph.

“Is this your daughter?” I ask. Mrs. Duggleman nods and pulls her daughter towards her.

“Yes, Bernice. This is my daughter Sierra. She is seven years old.” She gives me a knowing look, as though she is remembering the secret morning we shared so many years ago. And now here she is with a beautiful daughter of her own.

“How have you been? Are you doing well?” Mrs. Duggleman asks.

Really, how do I answer that? I've lived what feels like many lifetimes since I was put into foster care at the tender age of nine. I nod, telling her that I'm living on my own, going to school and that I've got a great boyfriend whom I love very much.

She seems relieved. “Won't you please come and visit sometime, Bernice?” she says, handing me a card with her address and phone number. “I'd love to talk more.”

I take the card and tuck it into my jacket pocket. There it is. My chance to finally go to Mr. and Mrs. Duggleman's house like I'd wished for so many years ago. I'd spent days dreaming that I'd be her child and we would live happily ever after.

I gaze at Sierra who looks so comfortable in her skin, so confident and poised for her age, so normal. And instead of the grief and jealousy I thought I'd feel, I kneel down and tell her, “You are a very lucky girl to have a mommy like yours, Sierra. And I'm so pleased to meet you.” I reach for her notebook and write a little message and my signature. She lights up and shows her mother, as excited as if she'd just scored the autograph of a pop star.

I feel tears start to well up. Mrs. Duggleman and I both stand awkwardly, unsure of what else to say at this moment in the bookstore while staff members mill around. “I've never forgotten you or stopped thinking about you,” Mrs. Duggleman says finally. I nod, barely able to maintain my composure. “Please do think of coming to see us.” She smiles and wraps me in another hug, the smell of her sending fireworks off in my mind and body as its power transports me back to another time. “You were always amazing, Bernice. I always wanted the best for you,” she whispers, bidding me good-bye. I stand stunned, watching as the two of them head for the exit.

Feelings of all kinds are fighting for space inside me. Gratitude. Joy. Longing. Sadness. Curiosity. Mrs. Duggleman was the catalyst that changed my life forever. What would've happened if she hadn't done what she had? Where would I be now? Who would I have become? I have no answers, just questions that keep coming, occupying my mind.

I stand in the same spot for a long time, reflecting. The bookstore has long since cleared out and the staff is preparing to close. The lights are being dimmed and the money in the cash register is being counted.

“You ready, my love?” Austin says in a playful voice and I laugh. He places his hand gently on my back to guide me to the door. I love the way he touches me, how gentle and protective he is. He brushes the hair back from my face as we walk. But I don't think of Marcus and the memories of him touching me that way, or of how he stole the last of my innocence.

Instead I think of Shelley and how she'd stroke my forehead before bed. I think of love and security and the healing of a mother's love and how good memories have the power to outweigh the bad if we let them.

Austin opens the car door for me and watches to make sure that I get in alright. He skips excitedly to the driver's side of the car just to make me laugh. He gets into the seat, buckles his seatbelt and looks at me, his eyes twinkling and so full of love that I feel it to the depths of my soul.

“I love you,” he says before backing out of the parking space. I smile as I watch him, his jaw locked and serious as he concentrates on the road. “We're off,” he says. “Just me and my girl.”

We speed down the highway on the way to our new town, the sprawl of the city getting smaller in the distance. I throw my head back and close my eyes. My mind goes back to Trina and the night she planned to leave Haywood with her boyfriend. How I'd imagined how happy they'd be driving off to start their new life together. I think of her and how happy she'd be for me in this moment.

Then I start giggling uncontrollably, in between kisses from my boyfriend who is driving with one hand, his other wrapped around me protectively. The car is packed with our belongings, my hand resting comfortably on his thigh as we drive, feeling carefree and hopeful. I can't help but realize my good fortune. This time, I'm not imagining it at all.