Throwaway Girl (8 page)

T
he
first night in my new apartment is the hardest. It has taken only minutes to unpack the few things I have and when I'm done, the place feels empty and cold. I set my shoebox on the floor next to my bed. The walls are bare except for the framed photo of everyone at Haywood, and I glance at it several times. It is taking me a while to get used to the sounds in the building. It is eerily quiet, and when there is a noise, I jump in alarm.

There's a convenience store and a grocery store just a couple of blocks away so I can pick up things I need easily. I've bought some food staples, but because of the meager budget, it isn't much. I'm grateful that I know how to cook. One of the first things I do is make myself a hot meal, which I set on my lap in the armchair in my living room. I made myself noodles and sauce and baked some fresh biscuits. I savour each bite, knowing that Shelley would be proud of me for this moment. She always wanted me to dream big and do well. And though this wouldn't have been dreaming big in her eyes, I know she'd think it was a pretty big deal that I was surviving and taking care of myself.

While I'd always enjoyed some level of privacy at Haywood, even being amongst so many others, living on my own is hard. Something about coming home to a barren, empty apartment each day reminds me of my days with my mother, Jacqueline, when I was little. I spent hours on my own back then, learning to decipher the sounds outside our small apartment. I'd try to entertain myself by singing and dancing, or by drawing pictures on any papers I could find. Now here I am, almost ten years later, resorting to the same things to keep myself company, except it doesn't feel comforting to me. It almost felt haunting, like I have come full circle with my past.

I will never be you, Jacqueline,
I keep repeating to myself.
I will never be part of that life again
. It might be part promise, part aspiration, but I am determined to make more of my life and leave the ugliness of my past behind.
So many people have come in and out of my life.
So few of them I have loved. So few of them have ever loved me.

In a few short days Trina will be moving in. She is ecstatic about it. She is already packed, at least that's what she said last time we talked. Although my apartment is only a one bedroom, we'll be putting another bed beside mine and we'll share the bedroom. With Trina's meager belongings, we'll still have lots of space.

Trina also has a new job, working at a jeans retailer nearby. Although she is still in school, she only attends part-time. She kinda decided she was done with school a long time ago. How she got the job was beyond me, though I'd never tell her that. Even though Trina's appearance has softened over time, she still looks pretty rough around the edges. She hardly conjures up the image of courteous sales assistant providing superior customer service, but I know Trina and there's so much more to her than meets the eye.

Trina can't wait to get started. She's already planning which clothes she can buy on payday with her employee discount. I've tried telling her that there won't be a lot of money left over after living expenses, but she seems to think she'll be hitting the jackpot making minimum wage at an entry level job.

Work at McDonald's has been good so far. At first, it was overwhelming trying to learn all the rules of the job. On my first shift I was trained on “lobby,” which was how to wash the tables and sweep the floor, change the garbage, and keep the washrooms tidy. Next I was trained on “window,” which means learning how to use the front till and take orders from customers. I liked that job much better because I could actually interact with people, but I found that even though I was going as fast as I could, people were very impatient and eager to get their food and get out of there. After my first few shifts I came home tired from trying to remember everything.

I reek of oil from the deep fryers after each shift. I often wash my uniform in the sink with soap because I can't stand the smell. The nearest laundromat is blocks away and I can't afford to go down there and wash my uniform that much. I usually work the supper shift anyhow, and there isn't enough time to get down there to wash clothes between the time when school ends and when I start work.

I've been getting to know some of the other employees. Most are young and starting out in their first job. Surprisingly, I'm finding that I really enjoy it. I take pride in doing my job well and my managers comment on my good work ethic. I thrive on the praise.

Although I tend to work mostly in the evenings, it sometimes varies: early mornings, afternoons, late nights. My favourite is the early morning, when the seniors come in. I am fascinated by how they come day after day, meeting their friends for coffee dates that last several hours. I make sure to remember the orders of the regulars before they can say them, and they smile in appreciation each time.

I search their faces, seeing the wisdom of their years. I hope that by that age, life will be easier. Maybe by then I will have it all figured out. I am so full of questions and have so few answers.

My least favourite shift is the late nights. I hate walking home afterwards. The restaurant has a policy where they pay for cabs for the female staff to get home after midnight, but because I live so close, I can't justify the expense. Even the two-block walk home feels harrowing at times in this neighbourhood.

While other parts of the city are quiet with residents tucked into their beds, this neighbourhood tends to come alive late at night. Homes that looked closed up and abandoned pulse with life after dark: doors and windows are left open, visitors stream in and out. People sit on the front steps or across the lawn, often drinking. There are groups of people walking around everywhere. Sounds of cars rumbling and people yelling are commonplace. There are often domestic disputes, a lively party or bored teens up to no good. I walk quickly and determined with my hands in my pockets and my head tucked down into the hood of my jacket. I cross the street at the sign of anyone coming my way. Many nights I take a longer route to get home just to avoid groups of people.

But I've found that I've settled into a manageable kind of life. I am working hard and I have a decent place to live. I know the loneliness will be quelled in a few days when Trina arrives. Maybe things really are looking up.

February 2005

I
am walking with Marcus. It is late at night and the others are in the park, drinking. Marcus asked me to come with him to his house and I am thrilled to have some time alone with him without everyone watching our every move. He's gripping my hand tight and keeps kissing my temple as we walk, his tall body leaning down to me easily. I'm shivering again, both from the cold and the butterflies in my stomach. I have no idea where Marcus lives or how far it is.

We walk quite a few blocks and my feet feel frozen in my thin running shoes. It is forty below with the wind chill and my ears are searing with pain from the exposure. I'm trying to make small talk, but my lips are having a hard time forming sentences and I can feel something like ice crystals forming in my nostrils making it harder to breathe.

Marcus's long legs take huge strides, and I almost have to run to keep up with him. “We're almost there,” he says to me, laughing. He must see how cold I am. He pulls me towards a rundown apartment building which has more boards than windows. The security door is broken and the light bulbs have been smashed out of the ceiling. It's dark and damp but Marcus navigates his way easily down the stairwell to his basement apartment. The carpet in the hallway is stained in so many places it's hard to figure out its original colour. I squeeze his hand a little tighter. I don't feel comfortable in this place. In fact, I feel a bit scared.

He unlocks the deadbolt and then kicks the door of his suite with his foot and motions for me to go in. It's tiny and dark. I notice right away that the walls have several holes. He flicks the light switch on and the warm glow of the small bulb casts shadows around the room. Marcus's apartment takes me by surprise. There is leather furniture lining the living room, and a big-screen TV dominating the main wall. He even has a leather dining set in the tiny dining room. There is a plush area rug in the middle of the room and a bookcase full of hundreds of CDs and DVDs against the wall. My face must register shock at the extravagant things he owns because he smirks at me and tells me to have a seat.

I sit on the couch and curl my legs under me, grateful to be out of the cold. Marcus checks his cell phone. He pulls out a bottle from the cupboard and rinses out two glasses that are sitting in the sink. I glance at the coffee table in front of me and see a box of gold jewellery, its contents spilling over the sides. I look around the room, trying to take it all in. I've never seen so many expensive things in one place before.

Marcus slides in next to me and passes me a glass. I eagerly take a sip, wanting the liquid to warm my throat and my insides. He sips his and sets it down and pulls me towards him.

“You okay?” he asks when he realizes that I'm still trembling. “Do you want to take a hot shower or something?” I shake my head and hold my glass tightly to my chest.

“Come here,” he says, taking the glass from my hand and setting it on the table.

I tremble harder but Marcus holds me tighter before putting his weight on me and forcing me down until I am lying on my back on the cushions of the couch. He brings his mouth down on mine, gentle at first, his warm breath taking the chill away. I return his kiss and wrap my arms around his neck. We keep kissing, the passion building between us. He slides his hand underneath my shirt and I gasp at the feeling of his cold fingers exploring my body. My mind is racing at the thought of what we are doing and how thrilling it feels. Marcus touches me gently and I feel stirrings I've never felt before.

Marcus slides his hand down my body and I squirm at his touch. He kisses my neck and moves his mouth down to my chest at the same time. I feel scared and excited all at once, but I can't imagine telling him to stop. He kisses his way back up to my neck and then takes his arms and wraps them tightly around me, flipping us both over so that I'm beside him. He holds me close to him, his chin resting on the top of my head.

“I love you, Bernice,” he says breathlessly. I melt into him, my heart thudding through my chest.

“I love you too, Marcus,” I respond because he's being so sweet and gentle and he's making me feel like no one ever has. And he wants me of all people, plain, old unlovable me.

“We better go,” Marcus says after what feels like a couple of hours of us cuddling. His cell phone keeps ringing and I can tell he's agitated by it every time it goes off. “Why won't anyone leave me the hell alone?” he says angrily. He helps me up from the couch, but darkness has clouded his eyes. Whoever is trying to reach him has got him in a foul mood.

“What's going on?” I ask, but Marcus just shakes me off, eager to get moving again. “I'll walk you home,” he says to me.

I try to hide my disappointment at having to leave the warmth of the apartment and my alone time with Marcus. I'm not looking forward to the walk back in the cold. But Marcus holds me as we are walking and my heart skips a beat at the thought of our make-out session. How I hope it won't be our last. But he loves me … loves
ME!
So I know that it will only be the first of many.

I smile at him adoringly as we walk and he chuckles at the silly grin on my face. Every so often he stops in mid-stride and takes my head in his hands to kiss me and I feel tingly all over. We arrive at the Puhlers' much too soon.

“Goodnight, beautiful,” he says, winking. I reluctantly pull away from him and tell him goodnight. He watches me enter the house before leaving. I close the door softly behind me, not wanting to wake anyone, and lean against the back of the door. I close my eyes and imagine Marcus kissing me and touching me. I imagine him telling me how much he loves me over and over again and my heart feels like it's going to burst. I think of how I've heard of people searching their whole lives for love and never finding it and how lucky I feel that at thirteen I've experienced it. For the first time, I'm in love.

T
rina
is my very best friend. It is amazing to have her here with me. We are able to do as we please, staying up late to talk and eat ice cream sundaes. We go to the mall together and look at all of the things we'd buy if we had the money. We've started finishing each other's sentences and squabbling over the insignificant things each of us does that annoys the other. She's become the sister I've never had and I'm thrilled about it.

Even with so little free time, it's nice to have someone to share my days with. The summer is going by very quickly and I'm trying to get as many shifts in as I can before school starts. I'm getting excited at the thought of starting my classes, but nervous at how I'll do. Trina keeps telling me that I'll be fine, that I don't realize how smart I am and that I'll breeze through, but I'm not so sure.

It's Friday night. Trina and I are supposed to be having a girl's night watching a movie and eating popcorn but it's almost eleven and she isn't home yet. I've already made the popcorn and poured our drinks but the ice cubes have long since melted. I'm wearing my comfiest pajamas with my plush slippers. I'm restless staring at the clock waiting for Trina to come through the door.

Her shift ended at nine o'clock and after counting the time it takes to get to the bus stop and home, she should have been home at least an hour ago. I shove handfuls of popcorn into my mouth, but it seems tasteless when I'm so worried. I shut the lights off in the apartment and step out onto the small balcony so I can watch for her. I sit cross-legged on the floor of the balcony watching all of the activity of a Friday night. I see the constant reminder of why I hate walking home in this neighbourhood, especially after my night shifts.

I hear the brakes of the city bus in the distance and the engine of the bus as it gains momentum again. The bus stop is two blocks away, but I can hear the sound of the bus clearly on this summer night. I keep watching for Trina as far as my eye can see, but when she doesn't appear even after two buses have made their scheduled stops, I realize that something is wrong.

I slide open the patio door and step back into our apartment. I kick off my slippers and put on my shoes, not bothering to change out of my pajamas. I quickly lock the door behind me, shoving the key into my shoe. I run down the stairwell and push open the security door, breathing in the night air.

I look around the parking lot and see no one. It's quiet and very dark. Not quite sure where I'm headed or where to look, I walk down towards the bus stop, hoping to meet Trina there, though the feeling in my gut tells me it's unlikely. Several cars pass me on the street, a few of them with drunken teenagers whistling or yelling at me and my outfit. I ignore them and focus on finding Trina.

When I reach the bus stop, I feel a sense of anticipation when I see the next bus approach. A teenage boy steps off the bus, his hat pulled far down his face. Otherwise, the bus is empty. I step into the bus and ask the driver if he's seen anyone that fits Trina's description, but he shakes his head. “It's been a quiet night tonight,” he tells me. “I would've remembered if she'd been on the bus.”

I nod and thank him, fear flooding my system. She's always home when she says she's going to be. I turn to make my way back to the apartment, but I can't help but feel uneasy.

I decide to take another route home, near the convenience store that we like to frequent. It's two blocks in the opposite direction, but I figure that if I go that way, at least I can rule out the other place she's likely to be. Young kids are racing their bikes in the streets, even though it's so late at night. I see the glow of the convenience store sign and walk a little faster. I am only half a block away and I can see the store is buzzing with activity. Security guards pace back and forth in front of the building. At times they limit the number of customers in the store, creating a line-up of people who must wait outside for their turn until other customers have made their purchases and left.

As I'm walking, I hear a small whine and imagine it's a kitten. I slow my pace and glance down the alley that's adjacent to me, but I see nothing. I pause and hear the sound again. I look around but I can't see anything that could be making the sound. Curious, I step partway into the alley and recognize the sound. Someone is crying. It's hard to make out anything in the alley, so I follow the sound to what looks like a black garbage bag alongside a fence. Then I realize it's not a garbage bag at all but a person curled into a fetal position on the ground.

“Are you okay?” I ask, alarmed.

The cries become louder and I realize that something is very wrong. I bend over the person, but it's so hard to see anything properly in the cavernous dark of the alley.

“Are you hurt?” I ask. The person sobs and manages to say yes in a panicked voice. “I can get help,” I say, thinking about the convenience store just up ahead. We could phone the police and the ambulance.

“Andy?” says a feeble voice. My blood runs cold.

“No, no, no,” I say, scared. I turn the person over and search for a face. It's her. It's Trina. Although I can barely make out her features, it's definitely her. My stomach lurches with worry and anger and a million questions spill out.

“How did you get here? Who did this to you? What happened?” I ask, but Trina is groaning and sobbing and she clearly needs medical attention. I reach my hand out to touch her face and feel the wet stickiness of blood.

“I'll get help, Trina,” I tell her. “Just let me run to the store,” I say. “I'll be right back, I promise.” But she cries and grabs onto me, not wanting me to leave her. I start to cry and tell her everything will be alright, but that I need to get help. I wrestle my body away from her grip and run as fast as ever to the line-up that has formed at the convenience store.

“Excuse me, but I need you to call the police for me, and an ambulance,” I tell the security guard. He looks me up and down, amused by the sight of me in my pajamas and raises an eyebrow in suspicion.

“My friend … she's been seriously hurt and she needs an ambulance,” I shout. My voice sounds high and ragged. He scratches his neck and looks into the store as though he hasn't heard a word I've said.

“You're not just trying to get into the store now, are you?” he says seriously. He looks back at the line-up of customers standing outside the store. I stare at him in amazement.

“Look, please, my friend is hurt! Could you please call for help? She's just around the corner here,” I scream, pointing in the direction of the alley. When he doesn't lift his radio, I turn to the others, desperate now. “Please! Does anyone have a phone? We need an ambulance and police here right away,” I beg. I feel like I could hit this man who seems so unmoved by what I'm saying. I wave my blood-covered hand in the air so they can see it.

A woman finally registers the panic in my voice and pulls out a cell phone from her purse.

“Here, I can call for you,” she says. She starts to dial, but her fingers fumble over the keys. I shuffle impatiently until the call goes through. The customers in the line-up listen, curious. I thank the woman and then run back towards the alley. Already I can hear sirens approaching from somewhere. I run as fast as I can until my breathing is heavy and uneven.

Trina is in the same position that I left her in, still whimpering with pain.

“It's okay,” I tell her. “Help is on the way.” The sirens become louder and louder until finally I see the circling red flash of the ambulance casting eerie glows onto the back fences in the alley. I watch as the paramedics tend to her and get her strapped onto the stretcher. In the light from the inside of the ambulance I gasp when I finally see her face. She is bruised and bloody, her left eyelid so swollen that I can't even see her eye. She is even missing teeth. She is moaning and drifting in and out of consciousness and I try to soothe her. Two police officers ask me one question after another, but I don't have the answers to any of them. I don't know who did this to her, how or why it happened. I only know that my best friend is broken and bleeding and I can't make sense of it.

One of the paramedics invites me to ride with them to the hospital. The police agree to meet us at the hospital so that they can question Trina. I climb into the ambulance and sit holding Trina's hand, but I'm not sure she even knows I am there. She has an oxygen mask on her face, machines monitoring her vital signs. I shiver at the sight of her, wondering how this could have happened. I think of all of the times I walked home at night and how I'd always made it home safely. I'd been fearful at times, but nothing had ever happened. And now Trina is lying here, severely injured. Somehow I can't help but feel like it should be me lying here instead of her.

The ride to the hospital seems to take forever, but once we reach the emergency room everything moves quickly. Trina is whisked away and I'm left holding her bloody sweater. A nurse takes me to get her admitted and the police officers from the scene wait for me to finish. I'm terrified not knowing how Trina is doing, hoping she'll be okay.

I sit on one of the hard plastic chairs in the waiting room. The people around me have drawn-out looks on their faces, either tolerating their pain while they wait to see a doctor or eager for news about their loved ones. I swallow several times, trying to keep tears from coming. Who could have done this to her?

An hour later, a nurse calls for me from the hallway.

“Are you Andy?” she asks when I stand.

“Yes,” I say breathlessly. My heart is pounding; my hands are slick with sweat.

“You can go in and see her now,” the nurse says. “She's asking for you.” I nod numbly and follow her down the corridor.

“She'll need a lot of rest, but she'll be okay,” the nurse says. I pull back the curtain that surrounds the bed and slip in quietly. Trina has her eyes closed, half of her face swollen beyond recognition. She is still hooked up to oxygen. Dried blood mats her hair and dots her skin. Despite the horrific appearance of her face, she looks peaceful as she's resting. The nurse enters and writes a couple of things on a clipboard.

“We've given her something for the pain, so she'll be more comfortable,” she tells me. I nod again, unable to say a word, stunned by Trina's appearance. I pull a chair closer to her bedside and feel for her hand. I stare at her features, tears falling faster than I can brush them away. Trina stirs and I feel a slight squeeze from her hand.

“I'm here, Trina,” I say softly.

One of the police officers from the scene enters and asks me again what I know. They've been able to discern that it was a group of teens, perhaps gang members, who beat Trina. I bristle at the officer's questions, which keep leading back to whether or not Trina has been involved in any gang activity or if she has any connections to people who might be involved in the attack. I explain that we've been living together and working since leaving Haywood House, that I'm her best friend, and that she isn't involved in any funny business, but the officer seems skeptical. I guess it's easy to assume that since we've never had a stable home life, girls like us must be trouble. I answer the questions the best that I can, but it's only Trina who really knows what happened.

Trina is still dozing when the officer leaves. I caress her hand and lay my head on the bed near her body. I'm suddenly exhausted. I glance at the clock above the bed and see that it is four in the morning. I want to fight sleep so that I can attend to Trina, but in the end my eyelids become so heavy that I give in. She's going to need me tomorrow.