Those Girls (15 page)
My eyes stung when I remembered the time Dani, Courtney, and I stole some change from Dad’s pocket and bought scratch-and-wins, sure we’d win and he’d be happy. We were stunned when all of them were “not a winner.” I made Dani scratch them all again. But we were still losers.
Patrick pointed to my feet. “Sandwich in the bag for you. Your sisters already ate theirs.” He put the van into gear and turned back onto the road.
“Where are we going?” I said, pulling the sandwich out of the bag. Turkey and bacon. I ripped into it.
Patrick reached behind him, tossed me a bottle of water.
“My house. My wife will help you clean up and we can talk about your situation.”
“Why are you doing this?” I spoke with my mouth full, too hungry to care.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“People don’t do stuff for nothing.” I glanced back, noticed that both my sisters looked like they were asleep.
“This isn’t for nothing. I’m paying it forward.”
I looked at him curiously. “What does that mean?”
“It’s when someone did something good for you one day, so then you do good things for other people.” He glanced at me again. “Someone helped me out once. So now I help kids before they go down the same path.”
I looked at his tattoos. “You mean prison.”
“Among other things.” We drove in silence for a bit. “Your sister seems pretty messed up,” he said in a low voice.
“She’ll be okay.” She
had
to be okay.
He gave me another look. “Some people, they deal with stuff differently.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. “We’ll look after her.”
* * *
He told me we were on the east side and chatted about other areas of Vancouver like Kitsilano, Shaughnessy, Point Grey. The names blended together. He said the east side had some rough spots—where the homeless and addicts lived—but also lots of families who couldn’t afford the downtown prices. He stopped at McDonald’s so we could use the bathroom. Courtney was only limping slightly, but when I told her she was walking better she said she was still sore between her legs.
When we came out, Patrick had bought us milkshakes.
“You still looked hungry. Didn’t want you biting my arm or something.” He flexed his biceps and laughed, a surprisingly light sound for a big man.
I felt the corner of my mouth lift, almost smiled back, then stopped myself. I couldn’t let myself like him yet, couldn’t let down my guard.
Patrick’s house wasn’t very big, just a plain box covered in faded cream stucco that someone had tried to paint. We parked on the street in front. Patrick got out. He was muscled all over, with tree-trunk legs, broad shoulders, and a barrel chest. He reminded me of Angus, the Clydesdale. His T-shirt had a logo of a dark bird rising up.
He pushed open a wrought-iron gate, guarded on the other side by a garden gnome with a perky red hat. Someone had tied a doll’s scarf around its neck and added a pair of sunglasses. Dani and Courtney walked through. I stopped to look at the gnome.
Patrick smiled. “I collect them.”
More gnomes lined the pathway around the side of the house, all with different-colored hats. The backyard was an explosion of color, flowers all over the place, statues of mythological creatures cavorting in random locations, some with broken noses or missing arms. Nothing matched, and there didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to anything. Vegetable beds blended into flower beds, trees wrapped around fences. Metal wind chimes dangled from some branches, wooden ones from others. Flower wheels spun in lazy circles.
Despite the disorder, it was a strange kind of beautiful.
“When I was in prison, I told myself I’d have a garden one day,” Patrick said beside me. I glanced at him. He was smiling with pride. He bent down, righted a gnome that had been kicked over. “Cats,” he said.
Inside, the house was warm and cheery. Crocheted blankets in bright colors were tossed over mismatched couches. Plants were crowded into every window, their leaves reaching toward the sun. The walls were covered in photos with different-colored frames. Cats were sleeping on the back of the couch and on the chairs, or on a large scratching post in the corner of the room, the carpet frayed. I counted ten cats, then lost track. A bird chirped loudly from a cage in the kitchen—two more cats watching from the floor, their tails flicking.
Patrick’s wife also turned out to be in great shape, her skin tanned, her smile big. She looked about the same age as Patrick, but her hair was blond, pulled back into a ponytail. She was wearing tight black shorts, running shoes, and a hot pink tank top.
“Come in, come in. I’m Karen. Would you like a cup of tea? Something to eat? A hot shower?”
“Do you have somewhere my sister can lie down?” Dani said. Courtney was almost swaying on her feet, her eyelids at half-mast.
“Of course.” Karen took us down a small hallway to a back bedroom with two beds. Courtney curled up in one, her hands covering her face.
“I’ll make you something to eat.” Karen’s voice was hushed, her face solemn. She closed the door behind her.
“I gave her another pill,” Dani said, staring intently at Courtney, as though she were counting her breaths, willing her to keep going.
“You’re supposed to be careful with those,” I said.
“She started crying on the bus and kept asking for it. She said it helped her forget.” She looked at me. “Were you okay, walking to the park?”
“Yeah.” I nodded toward the door. “What do you think of them?”
“They seem nice.”
“Don’t you think it’s weird? Them helping us like this?”
“Some people are just like that, Jess. It makes them feel good inside.”
“Where are their kids?”
“I don’t think they have any. But I saw some photos of kids at a gym.”
Sounds and scents of food being cooked wafted down the hall.
“She’s making lunch,” I said. “Do you want to come out?”
“I’m going to stay with Courtney.” She sat down on the bed and stroked her hair. Courtney moaned, made a panicked sound.
“Shhh,” Dani whispered. Courtney quieted, her breath deepening again.
“Do you think they’ll find us?” I said.
“The police … or them?”
“Both.”
A pause. “No, I bet we’re okay.” But I heard the uncertainty in her voice. She curled up next to Courtney, pressed her face into her shoulder.
Karen heaped my plate full of spaghetti I wolfed down, barely noticing the fat black-and-white cat batting at my bare toes until I was finished. Then I rubbed his warm belly with my foot as I watched Karen move around the kitchen. I liked how she talked to herself while she worked. “Now, where did I put those tongs this time?” “Going to have to get Patrick to fix that sink again.” It reminded me of my mom talking to the food when she was cooking, wrestling the chicken into the crock pot and ordering it to stay, dammit!
Mom wasn’t a fancy cook, sticking to mostly fried food or meats and potatoes, but the kitchen always smelled good—and the fridge was full. She told me once that she didn’t have much money when she was a kid and always dreamed of having a full fridge. She would’ve liked Karen.
I offered to help clean up.
“That’s okay, sweetie,” Karen said. “You have a shower or bath or whatever you like and get some rest. You can stay here tonight and we’ll talk tomorrow.”
I soaked in the bath. There were still bruises on my inner thighs. I stared at the bite mark on my left breast, covered it with a soap bubble. I shut my eyes, squeezed them tight, but I could see Brian’s face, flashes of his body moving above me, could hear the sounds he’d made. I picked up the washcloth and the soap, scrubbed at my body as if it were filthy, trying to hold back the sobs.
When I got back to our bedroom, Courtney and Dani were sleeping, a lamp casting a glow over their faces. Dani looked angry even in her sleep. Courtney’s face was hidden by her hair, one hand tucked near her face like a little girl. I crawled into the other bed, looking around the strange room. I startled at the loud sound of a bus going by, people arguing out on the street. I grabbed the pillow and blanket and curled up on the floor close to my sisters.
* * *
In the morning Patrick knocked on the door.
“When you girls are ready, we’ll talk.”
We came into the kitchen, sat at the table. Food was already out on plates, steaming cups of coffee by each seat. A cat leapt up, grabbed a piece of bacon. Karen scooped him up and dropped him onto the floor.
“Get out of here, Rocky.”
Courtney was looking a little more alert, but all her responses were a half step behind and there was a vague look in her eyes I didn’t like. She’d asked Dani for another pill, but Dani said it was better if she waited. Dani looked like she could fall asleep sitting, like she just wanted to close her eyes or curl up on the floor.
I’d woken up at two in the morning, my pulse racing when I heard steps creep past our door. I was ready to wake Dani when I heard a toilet flush. Afterward the house was quiet but I couldn’t get back to sleep. Dani’s hand was hanging over the side of the bed, all her nails chewed to the quick. I studied my own, broken and rough. Then I remembered Brian’s, the grease under his nails. I curled into a ball, squeezed my eyes shut, pressed my hands to my ears.
Now I was groggy, shoveling bacon in my mouth, methodically chewing, but my eyes felt like they had sand in them, the lids heavy. Dani picked at her breakfast, tried to get Courtney to eat hers. Courtney just sipped her coffee.
“So what are your names?” Patrick said.
Dani stared at Patrick, her eyes big. Courtney looked scared.
“We can’t tell you,” Dani said.
“You need fake ID.” It wasn’t a question.
“Can you help?” Dani said.
He nodded like he’d been expecting that, grabbed a piece of bacon, bit into it with a crunch. “I can get you some, but you need to come up with new names. Use your current initials for your first and last names.”
Fear shot through me. If we gave him our initials, could he figure out our real names somehow? If he discovered where we grew up …
“Why do you want our initials?” I said. Dani gave me an impatient look.
“Easier for you to remember, less slipups,” Patrick said. “I’ll get birth certificates for you. Should have them in a couple of days. How old are you all?”
I frowned at Dani, scared she was revealing too much. She hesitated, glanced at me, then back at Patrick.
“Look.” He put a few more pieces of bacon on my plate. “I don’t give a shit what you did or where you’re from. All I care about is helping you start new lives.” He smiled at Karen, who was pouring him another cup of coffee. “Thanks, sweetie.” He dumped cream into his cup, turned back to us. “So. You going to meet me halfway?”
Dani sucked in a breath, released it. “I’m turning eighteen in a few months.” She pointed to Courtney. “She’s sixteen and a half.” She pointed to me. “She just turned fifteen.”
“You’re young enough people will believe you don’t have social insurance numbers yet. But you should get them soon—not all at once.” He motioned to Dani. “You first.” He looked at Courtney. “Did you have a driver’s license?”
“She only had her learner’s,” Dani said.
“She should apply for another. You’re both a year older now.”
Courtney glanced at him, her face blank, took another sip of her coffee.
Patrick watched her for a second. Karen followed his gaze. I didn’t like the look on their faces, their concern. What if they called the police or took her to a hospital?
Patrick turned back to me. “We’ll keep your age at fifteen. You look young.”
That’s no fifteen-year-old’s body.
I blinked back tears, stared down at the table, the smell of bacon grease turning my stomach now.
Karen got up and started making a fresh pot of coffee.
“Do you have any work for us?” Dani said. “You’ve got this big yard.” Her voice was hopeful, pleading. “We’re really strong.”
“What kind of experience do you have?”
“Farming, mostly, but Jess, she’s really smart—and we’re hard workers.”
“I might be able to find you something at the gym to get you started.”
“We don’t have anywhere to stay,” Dani said, her face flushed. “Is there a shelter around here? We don’t have money.…”
Karen turned around from the sink, gave Patrick a look. I wondered what it meant. Did she want him to get rid of us?
“Let’s talk about that later,” Patrick said. “I’ll show you the gym.”
* * *
The gym was a couple of blocks from the house—Patrick explained how to count city blocks. It was in an old warehouse, but it looked recently painted and it was clean, the air smelling of pine and lemon. Framed posters from old boxing movies were hung high up on the walls, circling the room. Patrick walked around showing us stuff: the boxing rings, his office—crammed full of files and an old computer, boxes of protein bars and weights and sweatshirts tossed in the corner. Kids stopped and talked to him as we passed, their faces eager when they showed him a few jabs or hooks. Heavy bags were strung from the ceiling and there were large balls in corners, mats stacked against the wall, boxes spilling over with boxing gloves.
Patrick grabbed a couple of pairs and got us to put them on.
He showed us a small bag in the corner, about head-height. He said it was called a speed bag and demonstrated how to stand and hit it so it kept coming back. It was amazing how fast he was, his hands a blur.
Then it was my turn.
I was awkward at first, had a hard time finding the rhythm. The more I hit, the more I fell out of sync. I looked at Patrick in frustration.
“Hang in there,” Patrick said. “You’ve almost got it.”
I tried again, tuned everything out, focusing on the ball, taking my time as I hit it with my right hand, then my left, then the right again. After a while my blows fell into a rhythm, an odd exhilaration flowing through my body each time I connected.
Dani picked it up right away, and Patrick went on about how she was a natural. “You’ve got talent, kid.”
Dani smiled for the first time in a long time, her face determined when she hit the bag, the sound strong and solid and powerful.
Thwack, thwack, thwack
.
