Everyday Hero (9 page)
“You really think I could get a job here?” Megan asked.
I hadn’t known she wanted to work at Starbucks. I couldn’t work at Starbucks because
then I would have to talk to strangers. Plus, even though I like the smell of coffee,
I don’t think I would want to smell it all the time.
“Of course,” he said.
“I’d like to live in the city,” Megan said.
“You’re young. Ready to live life. The city’s the place for you. You’ll be independent.
You know, live life on your own terms.”
“I’d like that.”
“C’mon.” He stepped toward the door, reaching forward as though to take Megan’s
hand. “You won’t regret it.”
He spoke slowly, drawing out each syllable.
“No!” I said. The word came out loud.
“Look, you’ll be fine. I’ll get you another cab,” Megan said.
“No! You—come—with,” I managed.
“Not gonna happen,” the man said.
I looked away and didn’t say anything because he was a stranger, and I am not supposed
to talk to strangers.
“Look,” Megan said. “The cab’ll take you to your grandparents’ house. You can see
your mom. Go home. I’m good. I’m going to stay here.”
“At Starbucks?”
The man laughed.
“No, I mean with Rob. I’m going to live in Vancouver.”
“Why?”
“He’ll let me stay with him and, you know, help me get a job.”
I didn’t know what to say. There are some things that just
are
, like kids live in
families, with a mom or a dad or a grandparent or a foster mom—even an uncle, aunt
or older brother. It was like a rule, although I’d never seen it written down.
“But—he’s not family.”
She laughed as if I had made a joke. “I’m not that big on family.”
“But—” The words had gone.
And then, even though Starbucks wasn’t any noisier or smellier than before, I felt
a cacophony in my head and vomit in my mouth. My hands balled into fists. My breath
came in pants. Thoughts whirled. Blood thumped.
“What the—” The man moved toward me. His breath smelled of cigarettes. And coffee.
“Don’t crowd her,” Megan said.
“I’ll do what I want.” His hand was on my shoulder. I felt the hard outline of each
finger. He pushed his face into mine, so close I could see red veins in his nose,
so close I could see the individual hairs of his rough gray stubble, so close I could
see a polka-dot pattern of pores.
Then nothing.
***
“Should I call an ambulance?”
“Maybe water?”
“What’s wrong with her?”
The words came as if from a distance.
Then Megan spoke, her tone strong and clear. “Shut up and give her space.”
“You’re sure I shouldn’t phone an ambulance?” someone asked.
“Yeah, you do that,” a man’s voice said. “We’re outta here. Come on.”
“I shouldn’t leave—”
“Forget her.”
My eyelids opened. From my position, curled on the cool red tile, I could see the
man’s cowboy boots. They were a scuffed brown, with heavy heels and pointed, turned-up
toes.
“’Cause I ain’t waiting,” he said.
I watched the scuffed brown boots with their turned-up toes step toward the door.
I watched as Megan’s familiar black high-heeled boots followed.
Click-clack-click
—I
counted the footsteps, pressing my body more tightly into the cold, firm wall.
“I—” Megan said.
“Your future’s out there, babe.” He pulled the door open, and the traffic noise suddenly
became loud. “Coming?”
I heard the movement of Megan’s hand as she pushed it through her hair. “I want out.
I really want out. I’m sorry,” Megan said.
The door closed.
***
“I’ll call the ambulance,” the girl with the two zits said.
“No!” I shouted. I pushed my body harder into the corner, because I do not like ambulances.
I do not like sirens.
The girl stepped away. “Maybe I shouldn’t? Maybe she’ll get, like, violent.”
The older woman came closer. I could hear the squeak of her shoes, and when I squinted
I could see their white outline against the floor.
“Now, dearie,” she said in a kind voice. “How about you tell us who we can call?”
“Megan,” I said.
“Is that your friend, dearie? Well, I think she’s made her choice. But don’t you
be worrying. She looks like the type that can look after herself.”
I wondered what this meant. I wondered if I were the type who could look after myself.
I can brush my hair. I can do laundry. I can even cook—unless I burn something. Then
the smell makes me want to bang my head.
The girl with the two pimples came back with water. The older woman took it from
her and put it close to me.
“Now have a drink and tell us who to call. I don’t want to have to phone the police,
you know.”
The police?
The police wear uniforms and make people obey rules. Except I remembered that when
I got lost seven years ago, the police car smelled of vomit.
Plus the police officer made me go to the police station even though I wanted to
go home.
The police station had also smelled—a stuffy mix of sweat, coffee and the dusty smell
of an old building.
I stood, stepping toward the exit.
“No, no. Sit down,” the woman said.
She reached forward. Her hand touched my arm.
“No!”
I do not like being touched.
My heart started to
thump-thump-thump
again. Sweat prickled on my forehead.
The woman touched me again. Her hand was on my back. She smelled of perfume. I hate
perfume. I hated her touch. I hated that she was going to phone the police. I hated
that they might come and make me drive in a car that smelled of vomit.
“Alice.”
Megan stood behind me, a few steps from the rear door. I hadn’t known there was a
rear door.
“You came back,” I said.
“Yeah.” Her lips were turning down, and her mascara had run.
“I’m—I’m glad,” I said.
I sat, a hard, sudden movement as my knees buckled beneath me.
“The girl’s crazy,” the woman who had touched me said. “You get her under control
or I’m calling the police.”
“She’s fine. Leave her be,” Megan said. “Just stop going on about the cops.”
The woman must have listened because her squeaky white shoes disappeared from my
view, and Megan slid down the wall so that we were both sitting on the tile floor.
“Police?” I asked.
“No police,” she said.
We sat quietly. (I do not know exactly how long because I couldn’t see a clock. I
like clocks.)
Also I couldn’t see her friend.
“Where is he? Your friend?” I asked.
“Gone.”
“Are you sad?” I asked.
Her turned-down mouth looked like the
sad
picture in the feelings chart the teacher
in my old school gave me.
“Duh,” she said. “Though he’s a total loser.”
This is slang. “Failure, dud, has-been,” I said, remembering the definition in the
Webster’s New World Dictionary
.
“Enough already. At least he got me outta Kitimat. Escape.”
Escape
means
get away, break out, get loose
. Convicts escape. Prisoners of war escape.
My hamster escaped. Megan was not a hamster or a soldier or a criminal.
“Are you arrested?” I asked.
“What?”
“Is that why you need to escape? They’re going to send you to jail?”
Megan’s lips twisted. “I am in jail.”
“You’re in Starbucks.”
“I’ve always been in jail.” Megan leaned against the wall.
“They let you go to school from jail?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “They let me go to school.”
We were silent until Megan spoke. “Anyhow, um, thanks.”
“What for?”
“Being a friend. I’ve never had any.”
This surprised me because Megan does not have Asperger’s and should have typical
social skills. Besides, she has 201 friends on Facebook.
We became silent again. Customers came in and out. The doorbell dinged. Both the
girl with the two zits and the woman with the squeaky shoes stood behind the counter.
The espresso machines fizzed and hissed. Sometimes the older woman looked at us.
“C’mon,” Megan said, standing. “We’d better get you to your grandparents’ before
the old cow freaks again.”
I got up. (
Cow
was slang for the older lady with the white, squeaky shoes.)
She leaned over the counter now and spoke to Megan. “You sure you’re okay with her?”
“Yeah,” Megan said.
The woman shrugged. “You know best.”
Outside, traffic passed. The noise of engines was constant, like giant cats purring
or hundreds of fans. I counted the floors in the building opposite.
Thirty-two—or at least thirty-two rows of windows.
Not a good number.
A cab pulled up in front of us. Its name was painted on the side:
Bluebird Taxi
.
We got in. The vinyl seat creaked. Stale cigarette smoke hit me like a wall. I groaned.
“Mask,” Megan said.
I pulled it out, pressing it to my face.
“To 5900 Angus,” Megan said.
The mask smelled of paper. I was sweating. I could feel the stickiness in my hair
and the clinging dampness of the cotton shirt against my back. The cab lurched forward.
I put my free hand into my pocket and felt for the beads.
Through the window, the city flickered past—neon signs, headlights, shop windows,
pedestrians huddled under umbrellas, buses, motorbikes, bicycles.
“Shut your eyes,” Megan said. “Count.”
I counted to 119.
“Better?” Megan asked.
I nodded. “How do you know?”
“What?”
“How—to—help?”
“My mom.”
“She has Asperger’s?”
“No.” Megan paused, her fingers rubbing against the cloth of her jacket with a
scritch-scratch
sound. “She hallucinates.”
“Schizophrenic?” I asked. Like I said, I know this language like other kids know
colors and shapes.
“Addicted to meth.”
“What’s meth?” I asked.
“A drug.”
“Does meth make her schizophrenic?”
“It makes her see spiders,” Megan said.
“I don’t mind bugs. They do not smell.”
“She hates them.”
After that we didn’t speak. The taxi meter ran, the numbers clicking into place with
a rhythmic, comforting
tick-tick-tick
.
After twenty-three minutes, the cab turned down Angus Drive, maneuvering along the
familiar twisting roadway under the bare branches of the maple trees. When we lived
in Vancouver, we’d visited my grandparents once a week—except for last May, when
Grandma broke her arm and went into the hospital, and Grandpa visited her there,
so the house was empty and there was no one to visit.
The cab stopped at the curb. I opened the door and got out. The rain had stopped,
but intermittent
drips plopped from the trees as the wind rustled through them. One…two…three…
The air smelled of damp earth and moss. A
For Sale
sign hung to the left of the front
path. A red
Sold
sticker had been pasted diagonally across it. The sign rattled in
the wind.
“Money,” Megan said.
“Huh?”
“Money to pay the cab.”
I gave Megan my handbag, and she handed out two twenties and a ten, which equals
fifty dollars. The taxi drove away.
We stared at my grandparents’ house.
“A light’s on,” Megan said. “So someone’s in.”
The light shone through the diamond-paned bay windows. I took a step toward the red
front steps. They’d been painted three years ago. I’d wanted to help, but the paint
had smelled.
I climbed the stairs now. One…two…three… My heart hammered, and my palms felt sticky.
Usually when I visit my grandparents, my palms do not feel sticky.
The front door is constructed of golden oak with a brass door knocker and a doorbell
that
rings the Westminster chimes. We pressed the bell, and I heard the muffled,
familiar chimes.
The door opened. My grandfather stood in the doorframe. He used to be tall—six feet
and three-quarters of an inch. I do not think he is that tall now, although it is
hard to tell because his back is bent.
“Thank goodness,” he said. “Lisa! Lisa! She’s here!”
Lisa is my mother’s name. It felt as though my heart had moved into my throat, which
is biologically impossible, so maybe it was mucus.
My mom ran into the hall. Her hair is dark, threaded with gray. Usually it is neat,
but today it looked wild, like she hadn’t combed it.
“Alice, I—we—we’ve been so worried.” Her eyes looked wet and shimmery, like she was
going to cry. People cry when they are sad. I wondered if she was sad to see me.
“Your father has been going out of his mind.”
“You didn’t lie.”
“What? No. No, never.” She stepped forward as though to hug me.
I moved back, bumping into Megan.
Mom stopped, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “Your dad told me you thought I wasn’t
coming back. That some dumb kid had told you that. But I am. Your father and I disagree
sometimes, but I’m coming back. We wouldn’t lie about something like that. Ever.”
“Coming back?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Needed to know,” I said.
It felt like I could breathe again, like some huge weight had been lifted.
Mom put out her hand so that only the tips of our fingers touched. I don’t hug.
“I am so glad, so glad you’re safe,” she said.
“You two going to stand in the doorway all day, letting the cold air in?” Grandpa
asked.
“I—no, of course not,” Mom said. “And I have to phone your father. And…and who is
this?”
“Megan,” Megan said. “The dumb kid.”
“Oh,” Mom said. “I—we—come in. Look, I have to phone your dad and the police and
Grandma in hospital and the neighbors, but then we can talk.”
“Police? Will—come?”
“No, no, I—I don’t think so. Not now that you’re found,” Mom said.
Mom is good at understanding, even when I can only grab one or two of those fast,
slippery words.
