Throwaway Girl (5 page)

T
he
morning after Trina's boyfriend leaves her stranded at Haywood, I sleep in. I only wake when I hear Monica call for me. When I turn over to look at her, she lets out a sigh of relief. “She's still in bed,” Monica calls back out the door behind her. The clang of cutlery on the porcelain dishes and the voices of the girls in the dining hall having breakfast fill the space.

“You sick?” she asks me.

“No,” I say.

“She's fine,” Monica calls back. Everyone must be wondering where I am because I'm usually one of the first ones to head for breakfast.

“I'll be there soon,” I say, sitting up in bed.

When the double doors close with a thud, the room becomes quiet again. Thinking I'm alone, I stretch and yawn and let out a sigh. Then I remember the night before and turn to Trina's bed, the one that used to be Mandy's. Trina is awake, lying on her back staring at the ceiling. I glance at her arms, which are stretched out beside her. I spot cuts in various lengths across her arms and realize that the cuts are fresh, most likely something she's done during the night.

“I used to do that too,” I say, pointing to her arms. Trina stiffens and covers her arms with the blanket. “Got the marks to prove it,” I tell her, extending my arms out for her to see. Even when you get healthier, you never forget. I have scars that will stay with me forever.

Trina looks surprised, as though she's never met anyone who has done it before. I think of the help I got to stop. Perhaps Betty can help Trina too.

“I haven't done it in a really long time,” I explain. “Betty helped me stop.”

Trina pushes the blanket down and lifts her arms up to inspect them. She looks sad as she runs the tips of her fingers up each of her forearms. Trina looks back at my arms thoughtfully, as though she's never considered that there may be a way to stop.

“C'mon. Let's go get breakfast,” I say to her, springing up from my bed. I go to her and offer her a hand up. She looks at me for a moment, unsure, and then takes my hand, following me towards the dining hall.

When the other girls catch sight of the two of us approaching hand-in-hand, the activity in the room seems to stop.

“What's wrong, did Prince Charming get lost?” Analise snickers. Laughter follows from a few of the other girls.

“Yeah, thought you were out of here,” Monica says. Everyone stares at Trina, waiting for an answer. I can see Trina's fists balling up, tears filling her eyes again. Her teeth clench. I know she doesn't need to be provoked.

“Lay off,” I tell them firmly. Monica and Analise look at me in surprise. “She's one of us. Cut the crap.”

I lead Trina to the buffet table to get our meal, knowing full well that all eyes are on us. Trina smiles gratefully at me once the rest of the girls shuffle out of the room.

“Thanks, Andy,” she says. “For everything.”

I
t isn't long before Trina is sitting with us at mealtimes and joining in our activities. She's pretty quiet and doesn't really share with the others, but I'm glad she's opening up to me at least. As we get to know each other, even Trina's look is changing. Her look has softened as she lets her guard down. She has toned down the heavy eyeliner and is letting her hair grow out. It's like she's dropped the tough girl persona a bit.

At Haywood, once you turn sixteen it is mandatory to start taking the ‘Life Skills' program. Basically it means that the older girls have to start doing some of the shopping and cleaning. We have to make a meal plan and work together to make a meal a couple of times a week. Betty gives us the money to go and get the things we need. Haywood even supplies a car for us to use, provided we have our license, as long as we have a staff member with us for supervision.

Trina and I have been working together closely. She knows nothing in the kitchen. It's a room with foreign tools to her. Because I used to cook with Shelley, I know my way around a kitchen pretty well and I'm teaching Trina what I know.

Today we are cooking chicken lasagna for supper. I'm sautéing onions and pieces of chicken breasts while Trina grates mozzarella cheese. The smell of the meat cooking makes my mouth water.

“Are you going to be able to hold yourself back, Andy?” Trina says, laughing. “You look like you're about to dig in!”

I smile. I admit that waiting for the meal is my biggest challenge. I reach over and scoop some mozzarella cheese from the cutting board, popping it in my mouth before Trina can say anything. Being around food just doesn't get old for me.

“My mom never bought cheese,” Trina says softly. The remark seems to have come out of nowhere. She's staring intently at the pile of cheese.

“Mine neither,” I say.

“It was always too expensive. At least that's what she said,” Trina recalls. Although we're only talking about cheese, I can tell by the look on her face that we're really talking about so much more. “There are a lot of things she didn't buy. She really wasn't good at taking care of my sister and me.”

“You have a sister?”

“Karissa. She was four years younger than me.” Trina swallows and pauses. “She was the cutest little girl. I adored her. I think I was more the parent than my mom was.”

I nod, unsure of how to respond. Trina doesn't usually share a lot.

“When we got taken away, Karissa and I were separated. At first I got to see her every few weeks. The social worker would bring her over for visits. I couldn't wait to see her each time. She looked good. Healthy. Her foster family seemed to take good care of her. When it started to feel like it was too long since we had last seen each other, I started asking about her, but no one would tell me anything. Then one day the social worker showed up. She told me my sister had drowned in a swimming pool.” Trina sucks in a deep breath. “I never got to say good-bye.”

I set down my utensil and put my arms around Trina. She stiffens a bit, then relaxes. “I'm sorry, Trina,” I whisper.

I've never had a sister, but I definitely know what loss feels like.

“I was never the same after that,” Trina says.

We stand hugging for a moment, and then go back to preparing the meal. We work in silence, thinking of our pasts.

“I'm going to buy tons of cheese when I'm outta here,” Trina says suddenly. I look at her and then we both burst out laughing.

Later, the two of us talk long into the night. It turns out that Trina didn't have much of a home life with her mother either. Trina's mom, Lucy, had become unexpectedly pregnant with her too, but at age fifteen. Lucy had grown up in poverty herself, so she didn't know any other life. She hadn't been ready for parenthood. Because she was so young, her friends were out partying and having a good time. Lucy didn't want to miss out so she left Trina alone for long periods of time so that she could go out with her friends. A neighbour called the police after realizing that Trina and her little sister had been left alone in the apartment for two straight days, and the girls were put in foster care.

Trina's been in ten foster homes in ten years. She's even been in juvie a few times. She's got quite the rap sheet. She's been charged with theft, assault, trespassing, carrying a weapon, and a few failures to appear in court. Her quest to have someone, anyone, care about her has put her in a whole mess of toxic relationships, mostly with guys who show the slightest interest in her, but who are all terribly wrong for her. She's begged, borrowed, and stolen for almost every guy she's dated. She's even taken the rap for them, keeping them out of jail by confessing to the police that she'd done it all and they'd had no part.

Caseworkers and various police officers have all tried to reason with her and get her back on the straight and narrow. “This isn't the right path for you, Trina,” they'd say, knowing full well that although Trina's childhood hasn't been the best, the guys in her life had been orchestrating the criminal activity all along. But Trina is loyal, and the caseworkers and the cops aren't the ones holding her at night, telling her how beautiful and tough she is, making her heart swell with pride. Her boyfriend Jeremy was doing that, and if ripping off an old lady in the street or robbing a convenience store was what it took to hear those words, she'd do it.

“We've got a new placement for you. It is part of your conditions,” her caseworker had told her shortly after her release from the last thirty day sentence. Where? How far away? The thought of leaving Jeremy for any length of time would be unbearable. But Jeremy assured her he'd get her out quickly so that they could build a life together.

“They've got a spot for you at Haywood.”

September 2003

“B
ernice
, honey, where are you?” Shelley calls. I am sitting against the big oak tree in the backyard with a notebook and a pen. I am writing a story. I've been writing a lot lately. My teacher keeps encouraging me to write. He says I have a great use of language and vivid imagery. He tells me that I have a gift and that I should continue to develop it. I'm discovering how much I love to write. Just like reading, I can escape for a while and get lost in the page. Luke has even bought me a pink spiral notebook to support and encourage me. I've been writing in it diligently every day.

I am writing about a young girl who is very sick. Her parents love her with all of their hearts and they are determined to save her. I already know how it's going to end. Although her situation seems dire, in the end she's going to make it.

“I'm here,” I yell back at Shelley. I peer at her from around the tree and she smiles and waves, satisfied now that she knows where I am. I return to my page with my thoughts tumbling one after another, my pen moving furiously to capture it all. “Just like me, you're going to get a happy ending,” I tell my character. “You'll think that it's all over for you and then a miracle happens to change everything.”

I smile as I continue writing. I feel powerful wielding this pen, weaving this story. I can decide the fate of my characters with the scrawl of my hand. Great things can happen when you least expect them.

I've been here for about a year and a half now. Shelley and Luke are trying to adopt me. It's a long, drawn-out process and it could take several months, but we're going to be a forever family. I have my miracle.

Mrs. Assaly, our elderly next door neighbour, is watering her garden. She still does all of her yardwork herself. She glances over at me and smiles approvingly. “I used to love to draw when I was your age,” she says. “I'd sit under a tree just like that and draw for hours.” I give her a polite smile and return to my notebook. “Good for you, dear. You keep that up!” she says to me.

“Do you still draw, Mrs. Assaly?” I ask.

She shakes her head sadly. “No. I'm afraid I don't,” she says. She looks down at her garden for a few minutes before speaking again. “I stopped drawing after my Henry died,” she says, referring to her husband who passed away five years earlier.

I nod with understanding. “Well, if it made you feel so good, maybe you should start drawing again,” I offer. After all, why give up something that fills your heart with joy?

Mrs. Assaly smiles at me and nods. “You know, my dear Bernice,” she shakes her head in disbelief at me and then breaks into a chuckle. “I think you may be right.”

I hear the backdoor swing open again. “Bernice, I have to pick up Luke and run to the store to get some things for supper,” Shelley calls out. “Grab a coat and let's go.” Luke woke up to find a flat tire on his car this morning and since we were already running late, Shelley decided to drive him to work in her car rather than have him spend the time changing it. The commute to his work takes about forty-five minutes and I'm not particularly thrilled with abandoning my story to sit in a car during rush hour traffic. I groan at Shelley in disappointment.

“Okay,” I say reluctantly.

I snap the notebook shut and start to get up when Mrs. Assaly calls over to Shelley. “If Bernice wants to stay here and write, I don't mind watching her.” Mrs. Assaly looks back at me and gives me a sly smile, knowing that I want so desperately to work on my story. I nod in approval, hoping that Shelley agrees.

“That's fine with me if that's what you'd prefer, Bernice. And if you don't mind too much, Mrs. Assaly.” I pump my fist in victory and tear open my notebook again. Mrs. Assaly laughs and waves Shelley on.

“Go ahead! She'll be fine. It's no trouble at all.” Mrs. Assaly gives me a wink and resumes her watering. Shelley makes her way over to me and plants a kiss on my forehead. Her familiar fruity scent fills the air around me. How I love the way she smells.

“Are you sure you don't want to come?” she asks.

“I'm sure,” I tell her. She stands and ruffles my hair with her hand before starting for the door again.

“Thanks, Mrs. Assaly! We won't be too long.”

I return to my story, realizing that I'm reaching a pivotal moment. The girl is close to death and if the doctors don't do something soon, she could die. They suggest an experimental treatment that is extremely risky, but her parents must decide the course of action immediately. Knowing that they'll lose their daughter if they don't try this new treatment, they give their consent to the doctors to go ahead. They want their daughter to have the best chance at survival so that she can go on to live a happy, productive life. She's been through so much already, having suffered horribly from her illness. Her parents know that their decision could be the key to her survival, that they alone can make the choice to save her.

I write furiously, barely looking up from my notebook. Mrs. Assaly calls over and asks if I want something to eat. “That's okay, Mrs. Assaly. I'll wait for Luke and Shelley to get home,” I reply. Mrs. Assaly is a great cook, but mealtimes with Luke and Shelley are my favourite. We sit around the table, clasp our hands, and say a prayer. The table is always set so nicely, the platters of steaming food artfully arranged. Shelley always makes more than enough food. She laughs at how I can't seem to get enough, how I still rave about her cooking at each meal. “You are my number one fan, Bernice,” she laughs. During the meal, I love how they ask me about my day, how they seem so genuinely interested. I feel so safe and cared for. We've turned into a real family.

I write until my hand starts to get sore. By now the sun has set and the air has gotten cooler. I rub my arms vigorously with my hands, hoping to warm my skin. My stomach is growling and I realize that I'm hungrier than I thought. I stand up and brush the fallen leaves and dirt from my pants. Mrs. Assaly is sitting on her patio with a cup of tea and what looks like an album.

“May I come over?” I ask her. She waves me over. I push myself up in the air and over the fence and land with a thump on her side of the yard. She chuckles while I pick myself off of the ground. “Sorry … I guess I should have used the gate,” I say sheepishly.

“I would have done the same thing at your age.” Mrs. Assaly laughs. I take a seat beside her at the patio table.

“Whatcha doing?” I ask. Mrs. Assaly rubs the front of the album she's holding, a forlorn smile on her face.

“You were right, Bernice,” she says, opening the album. Expecting to see photographs, my eyes light up in surprise when I see that the album contains dozens of drawings carefully posted on the pages.

“Are these yours?” I ask. Mrs. Assaly places the album in front of me so that I can have a better look. I carefully turn the pages, staring at the gorgeous images. Most of them are of people of all ages and sizes. The people look so real, it's hard to imagine that they were drawn.

Mrs. Assaly smiles nervously. “It's been quite a few years since I've last looked at these,” she admits.

“Oh, Mrs. Assaly, you must continue drawing! These are incredible!” I breathe. How could someone with so much talent give this up? Mrs. Assaly looks closely at me before reaching for the album.

“You may have changed my mind, Bernice. I think you've inspired me.” She flips through the pages herself, lost in thought. My heart swells with pride knowing that Mrs. Assaly may draw again and that I had something to do with it. If she's as passionate about drawing as I am about writing, how in the world could she possibly give it up?

The wind starts to pick up and the leaves start to lift and swirl above the ground. It's starting to get dark. Although Mrs. Assaly and I are having a wonderful time together, I'm anxious for Luke and Shelley to get back. They'll be so excited to hear about Mrs. Assaly and her drawings. When the pages of her album keep getting blown open by the wind, Mrs. Assaly suggests we go inside the house and wait. I help her stack the patio chairs and carry in the album for her. We sit in front of the TV and she brings me some cookies and milk. “I'm sure you're hungry dear,” she says. “It might be awhile before you have dinner.” I am thankful for the snack. The growling in my stomach is getting louder and it's starting to make me anxious. Feeling this hungry brings back too many memories. It's as though the emptiness of my stomach has paralleled the emptiness inside my heart throughout the years.
But it's different now
, I try to assure myself.
You have a loving family, a safe home, and lots of food to eat. It'll be okay and you'll eat soon.

Mrs. Assaly keeps glancing at the clock, watching vigilantly out the window every time she sees a pair of headlights making their way down the street, to see if it is Luke and Shelley. I'm focusing on the game show on TV. Adults are playing against children to see who is smarter. I'm amused by this show, how the kids are clearly smarter than the adults. Many of the answers come easily to me and I laugh when I see the adults scratching their heads, asking for help.

At last, a pair of headlights turns into Luke and Shelley's driveway. Mrs. Assaly breathes a sigh of relief.

“They're home!” she says brightly. I get up from the couch and stretch, grateful to be going home now. Mrs. Assaly walks to the front door and pulls it open. She hesitates at the doorway and puts her hand over her mouth.

“Stay here,” she advises me. Immediately, my heart starts to beat faster.
What's going on?
I wonder. I make my way towards the door but when I look outside, it's not Luke and Shelley at all. It's a man in a police uniform, walking towards Luke and Shelley's doorway and he's clutching his hat in his hands.

I watch as Mrs. Assaly dashes down the steps towards him. I stand at the top of her front steps, watching, my feet frozen in place. The officer looks at Mrs. Assaly and then up to me before clearing his throat uncomfortably. Mrs. Assaly cups her hand over her mouth, horror in her eyes, and somehow before anything is said, I know.

In seconds, I vaguely hear Mrs. Assaly talking to me. She is wrapping her arms around me, as though shielding me from the news. I can hear the police officer speaking in low tones, but I don't make out what he is saying. Instead my mind is thinking of the girl in my story, the one who is very ill. I think of her lying in that hospital bed while her parents talk to the doctor.

“We've made our decision,” they say. “We've decided against the experimental treatment. It's time for us to let her go.” The doctor nods in understanding. And with that, the parents walk hand in hand out of the hospital while their daughter gasps in horror, knowing that her fate has been sealed. There will be no miracle for her, no happy ending. She won't be saved after all.