Going Down Swinging (29 page)

The next morning we sat over breakfast. I was taking more time off school again because Mrs. Hood said I had to get new clothes because Todd dropped off clothes vouchers and it would be best if we got it over with today, especially if I was going to be switching schools. Lilly was crabbed. “How come I never get to take school off to go shopping—you’re the one who said I need new shoes, but you take
her
instead.”

Mrs. Hood brought a heavy black pan to the table, took her flipper and slapped one pancake on each of our plates. I was only half listening and couldn’t figure out what she meant about switching schools. She told Lilly to stop being such a busybody. “You’re in nowhere near the situation that Grace is in.” Lilly kept arguing about the holes in her shoes and “you always do that” and “what about me.”

When it was quiet a second I said, “Well, I don’t think it’ll be a big deal for me to miss a couple days of school and I’m fine taking the bus cuz it’ll only be a few more days till my mum’s better anyhow and I can catch up on my normal school then. We’re probably moving anyway. We got evicted.”

Lilly stopped chewing to stare at me. Wendy snorted and started coughing on her pancake. Lilly giggled, drank some juice and slapped her on the back. Wendy swallowed and said, “What’s it like to be evicted?” Mrs. Hood yelled Wendy’s name at her and Wendy kept going. “And who said anything about a few days, anyhow? You’re here for way longer than that, kid, you’re here till February. Three months.” She threw in that last part like it was normal. Three months is three months.

“At least,” Lilly said with chewed-up pancake practically falling out.

I tried to keep my voice normal. George told me one time about dogs and horses and how they could smell your fear. I could taste mine. I put my fork down. “No I won’t. My mum’ll be all right sooner than that. It’s just for a bit.” I picked my fork up again and everyone was staring at my hands and smelling their fear of forks, wondering what kind of idiot-kid has hands that can’t use a fork properly. I didn’t want pancakes anyway—Mum would’ve never let me eat white flour and syrup for breakfast. I’d get sick if I stayed here. I’d catch malnourishment. Adelle Davis’s cookbook said children who aren’t fed properly get misshaped bums and weird soft bones. My mum’d be mad if she saw me eating this way.

“No,” Mrs. Hood said, “Wendy’s right, you’ll be here three months—until February.”

I had a stomach ache. Todd Baker would have said something, he wouldn’t have lied. I was getting dizzy cuz my bones were going soft probably and my blood was getting evaporated; there wasn’t going to be enough left to hold me up that much longer. Mum always said I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want. I wanted her so much. But she was probably in a hospital somewhere and I couldn’t call her in front of them anyway. Wendy and Lilly glinted under the kitchen light, watching each other, cutting up their pancakes piece by piece. The air in my chest went thick.

“Will Grace be coming with us to Kingdom Hall?” Lilly asked.

Mrs. Hood put a bunch of pancakes on a plate and put them on the table. I whispered, “No thank you,” and looked at Mrs. Hood to find out what Kingdom Hall was. It sounded fun, in a way, like there’d be a Ferris wheel and fairy princesses and stuff.

She said, “I don’t know. We’ll see if she’d like to. Have you been to a Kingdom Hall before, Grace?”

I shook my head.

“We’re Jehovah’s Witnesses,” Lilly yapped. Loud, the same way she said “At least.” I’d heard that name before and asked her what it meant. “It means we spread the message that Armageddon is coming soon and the lion will lie down with the lamb and birds will fly to your finger and me and Wendy are getting tigers after Armageddon!”

“No I’m not, ‘member I told you I want to have a bear.”

“Why do you wanna bear? They’re all dumb and slow. What would you get, Grace? Except for you’re not a Witness, so you won’t be here when God puts Satan in chains. All the people who don’t believe won’t be, um, brought to life again after Judgment Day, like out of the ground, they just die and they don’t get to be here when Jesus is building paradise and they just stay in death and get eaten by worms cuz, um … but after the great battle, the ones of us that’s—believe will be saved or they’ll be, mm—resurrected if they already died, but the ones who don’t will be killed when God gives Jesus the keys to rule the new earth. Only we get to live forever with Jehovah cuz we served him.” She smiled like a pumpkin at me, threw a braid back over her shoulder and poured more syrup.

I looked at their mum. She was leaning back in her chair, sipping from her teacup. I looked back at Lilly, sick of her. “You can’t have a tiger for a pet.”

“Yes You Can!”

“Calm down, Lilly. If Grace wants to come to the next meeting, she can learn what it’s all about then. You should go get ready for school anyway, and Grace and I have to get ready ourselves.”

“Yeah Lilly,” Wendy told her and whispered, “Little spaz,” before she drank a whole bunch of orange juice to wash her pancake down.

“Shut up, Wendy, you’re the spaz! I was just
telling
her! Cuz we’re s’posed to! We’re s’posed to
witness
, y’stupid!”

“OK, that’s enough—get ready for school.” Mrs. Hood stood and reached for Lilly’s plate. “Grace, is that all you’re eating?” I nodded.

Wendy let her eyelids droop at me as she came out from behind the table. “Won’t get away with that for long,” and she went upstairs; Lilly giggled and skipped behind.

Hoffman, Anne
Eilleen

4.11.74 (T. Baker) Morning visit to Mr. Thompson, principal at Wolfe Elementary. I had called previously to briefly explain Gracees home situation, her non-ward status, and pending foster placement.

Two visits to Mrs. H. during the day – not home. Sheryl Sugarman did not know where she was.

Visit to Wolfe Elementary in afternoon. Grace seen and new foster home placement explained to her. This would be Mrs. J. Hood, 545 West 19th Avenue (876–5374). Grace and I had quite a long talk then went off to Mrs. Hood’s. Mrs. Hood struck me as a very warm, caring person, the house was very tidy, and she and Grace got along very well. We returned to Mrs. H’s apartment and on the way, Grace was very cheerful – she liked Mrs. Hood very much, liked the idea of having her own room. Mrs. H. not home when we arrived – we gathered up the basics that Grace needed from among the clothing and junk strewn in tangles on the floor. Many things were too filthy to take along, or simply could not be found.

When we returned to Mrs. Hood’s, Lilly (8 years, 3rd Grade) and Wendy (11 years, 6th grade) were there, Mrs. Hood’s own children. I stayed for some time, talked a great deal to both Grace and Mrs. Hood and even played a game of “hockey” with the girls and one of their cats. Grace got along well right away with Lilly and Wendy, and seemed well settled by the time I left.

I returned to Mrs. H’s apartment and found her on the floor at the bottom of the stairs leading to her apartment. She was very drunk and had fallen down the stairs. I had to help her up to the apartment as she could not make it on her own. She explained that she had spent the day in a hotel on Hastings Street. Mrs. H. was wearing a very short-length, bright yellow, sleeveless dress which mainly served to show off a variety of bruises on her arms, shoulders, and legs. Her face was also slightly ruised and she could not remember how she got the bruises. I had Wanted to take her to V.G.H. that afternoon but could not see how that could be done without carrying her. I explained that I had taken Grace to the foster home and said I could not give her the address or phone number now.
I
spoke with her for an hour, without making any progress, then left asking her to get some sleep.

5.11.74 (T. Baker) Sheryl Sugarman called to say that Mrs.
H
. had called the police last night (after hours of wandering the halls of the building calling “Grace”) to report her daughter missing. Luckily the police saw Mrs. Sugarman first, who briefly explained the situation. Call to Mrs. Hood – everything all right. Arrangements for initial clothing grant made. Mrs. Hood was warned that Mrs. H. may cause trouble at Wolfe, in which case Grace would have to switch schools, to Edith Cavell.

Spoke to Mr. Pretty – informed of situation, and that Mr. Thompson, principal of Wolfe would call if there is any trouble. Mr. Pretty made some calls and was told that Mrs. H. has a record for soliciting, spent some time in Kingston Penitentiary. He thinks this problem could be solved if a complaint were made, police could arrest her and then detox her. He promised to call Downtown Care Team. I tried to call our Health Care Team-no one available for a referral.

Later inday, received a call from the Downtown Care Team, who said they would be going out with their G.P., Dr. Klaus. Dr. Klaus later called saying he and Dr. Pantern (Now Mrs. H’s psychiatrist) agreed to put Mrs. H. in V.G. H. and to commit her if necessary.

At 5 p.m., I received a call from Alice Collingwood (4788 Quebec) who had Mrs. H. with her and was about to take her down to VGH immediately. I said I would take her instead. Mrs. H. was very unsteady but we made it to emergency but were refused admittance for Mrs. H. Only after a two hour wait, when Dr. Klaus showed up, was Mrs. H. admitted.

Eilleen Eight
NOVEMBER 197

V
ANCOUVER
G
ENERAL
, in the basement. Seems like a basement; green walls. Like snake innards. Walking down tinny green-gone-wrong veins of a reptile. Bakers with you. He’s OK. Not so bad. You told him, call-me-Eilleen. Drove you down here—he’s helping you check in, trying to get you well.

It’s echoey, wandering, nurses and patients all look out of their minds. Weaving, everything’s breathing and weaving until you get to the counter. Baker talks to the nurse there; her smile looks gluey. He’s talking about admittance, this ward and Doctor Graham, referrals, alcoholism, disorientation, blahahaha. Boring. Let smarty-boots take care of all that crap. Your job is to dry out like some boozy old grape. You’ll get Grace back when you’re a raisin again. Kids love raisins.

Let’s take a look round this rat trap; have a boo. Let them figure out the details. You poke your beak in a room. Jesus, nothing in there but a mattress. And a basin, bleach-bone white. You saunter in, see how the other half lives.

God almighty, what poor slobs end up in here? Hold tight to your purse, look up and down the box walls. White, everything white. Just a couple tiny smears, splotches, yellow-brown like baby shit. Dents here and there in the door frame; somebody took their boots to it. You get about the middle of the room—Christ knows how that mattress looks under the sheet—turn, swing your head in time to see the white door swing shut. And your heart hiccups, holds still. Oops.

Hey
, you say,
heyy-ey. Yoo-hoo. Hey, open the door, you’ve
—and no knob on the door. There’s no goddamn doorknob. Like the quiet room at the old Hollywood Hospital. You didn’t
do
anything. You don’t deserve the quiet room.
Hey!ey-ey-ey!
And you bang a palm twice.
You’ve locked the door here. Open the door
. Fist your palm.
Hey, open the door!
Baker. Baker did this. Fucking Baker—goddamn, let-me-help-you Baker. Yeah, he’ll give you a ride. What a dear. Dear sweet Bastard Baker.
Open the f(ee-iz)ucking door before I bust it down. I mean it!
And you’re kicking and punching and screaming and nobody’s coming and nobody’s talking, can’t hear anything. Only takes two signatures. Two doctors could lock you away for good. Stand back, kick the door: nobody hears you, make more dents. FuckFuckFuck. Throw something, throw your purse. Slam it. Pick it up and slam it. Slam it again and say
Hear Me, you bastards
. Screaming, mascara and tears gluing your eyes, can taste blood in your mouth—kick the dents again. Kick them all.
You can’t do this. You can’t do this
. Nobody hears. They’re going to get you this time. You signed your baby away. You didn’t read the fine print.
Let me out, you pigs. You pricks. Can’t do this
. What did you sign? You signed something for that nurse, didn’t you? or was that just for Baker? Where did you sign? What did you say?

You drag your purse back off the floor, hurl it again and the door opens. Beefy boy in white: hospital bouncer—’member them? A nurse stands behind him, tight smile.
You’d best quiet down
,
Mrs. Hoffman, there are other patients on this ward, you know
. And he moves in through the doorway, bends down.

Reason with him.

I’m not a patient here, I’m not—I didn’t do anything. I’m not nuts. I’m hypoglycemic
. And he stands up with your purse in one fisted mitt. You move towards him and stop. He looks like he could twist your arm, snap it off like Barbie’s. You reach out your hand. He nods, passes your purse to the nurse, backs out.
That’s—gimme my purse, you—Give Me My Purse!
Your voice rakes over the walls as you tackle the smooth door, banging, and trip. Your knees smash the floor. Two signatures, just takes two signatures. Get up, get up, don’t stay down. Find something, a weapon. Baker must be there, he just can’t hear you. You can’t be in the psych ward, you’re not a psych. Just a goddamn lush, that’s all.

Nothing. No knobs. Think.

Thinking.

Fuck. Pace. Pace the room. The basin, grab the basin, make someone hear. Get them to the door. Someone will know when they see you, it’s a mistake.

Throw it. Harder. Bash the door with the basin. White plastic bomb, banging and flinging itself back on the floor. Pick it up—see what happens, fuckers! I don’t go quietly, rage rage rage against the white. Bash their knobless brains in, pick it up. Hollow plastic bangs and bangs and bangs until the door opens.

The bouncer’s back, two this time, nurse behind them. He says,
You know what, lady, you’re gonna hurt yourself is what, and annoy the hell out of me in the process
, and he yanks the plastic rim out of your clutch.