Throwaway Girl (3 page)

“We want to talk to you about how things are going at home,” she continued. I looked up at Mrs. Duggleman who looked very sad, but was nodding at me to answer. “We have been concerned about some things that we have noticed here at school and we'd just like to discuss these things to make sure that everything is alright,” Debby said kindly.

The room started spinning and the adults' heads were blurry and their words didn't make any sense anymore, and I didn't know what to do.

“It's okay, honey,” I heard Mrs. Duggleman say. I felt her hand rubbing my back. I wanted to cry out in pain, but Mrs. Duggleman didn't know, couldn't know, why it hurt so badly. Tears began to spill from my eyes. What could I say? Their eyes were all on me, watching me squirm uncomfortably in my seat. My face felt hot and my lips quivered. I felt like I had lost control over myself. I didn't know what I was doing, why I was going to do it, but the next thing I did was tell them everything. Everything.

They looked at me with wide eyes while I spoke. I don't know why I couldn't stop, why the words kept tumbling out faster and faster. And when I was done, Mrs. Duggleman was wiping tears from her eyes. Instinctively, I knew I wasn't in any trouble, but that somehow things were going to be different for me. Mrs. Duggleman wiped her cheeks with a tissue and blew her nose, and then she hugged me tight. I secretly hoped it meant that Mrs. Duggleman would take me home and take care of me just like I imagined.

They told me to stay seated in the room while they left to discuss what we'd talked about
and to make some phone calls. Every minute in that room felt like hours, my knees knocking together with fear as I realized what I had just done. I held my breath when the door to that little conference room swung open. It was Mrs. Duggleman, greeting me with a sad smile. “You did the right thing, sweetheart,” she said, putting her arms around me. But my head throbbed and my stomach wrenched with uncertainty.

I wasn't sure if it was the right thing at all.

That day would be my last day with my mother. I never went home again.

I
t
's usually pretty quiet around here, so when security is called to the front at seven in the morning, something big is going on.

“Guys, check this out!” Lisa calls out. Monica, Analise, and I jump out of bed to follow her. We creep down the hallway and peer through the glass panes in the door to get a look at what's happening. The source of the trouble is a pixie of a girl, about the size of a nine-year-old but by her face I can tell she's older. She stands glaring at Betty and Madge and Phyllis, two of Haywood's security staff. Madge and Phyllis are tough to contend with, but most of the time we make their job pretty easy. The few encounters with them that I'd witnessed over the years had been enough for me to make sure we never needed to cross paths.

“That's what the fuss is all about?” Monica says, rolling her eyes. “Oh, please! Like, what is
she
going to do?” A couple of the girls laugh and decide the scene isn't worth watching. They turn and head back to bed. The rest of us are grateful for the extra room so we can catch a better glimpse. I have to admit, she's pretty tiny, this one. We're all a bit puzzled as to what she thinks she's going to do with all these people around her, and Madge and Phyllis look ready for whatever she wants to dish out.

“Don't you even think about touching me,” the girl warns. Madge and Phyllis stand on either side of her, clearly not intimidated. The girl's eyes are blazing; her fists are clenched and ready to strike. Her head is shaved, black stubble peppering the white of her scalp. She wears no makeup except for heavy black eyeliner and to me she looks like a corpse. Dressed in a frayed denim skirt which barely covers her bum, torn fishnet stockings, and combat boots, she looks the part of someone who doesn't give a crap about what anyone thinks of her.

“Okay Trina, let's get in and get settled,” Madge says sternly. She reaches for the girl's elbow to guide her through the office and Trina jumps back in alarm.

“Cut the drama, honey,” Phyllis smirks.

“Screw you.” Trina spits, her saliva hitting Phyllis square in the face. Phyllis wipes it with the back of her hand and pretends it never happened.

“Let's go, honey,” Phyllis says softly. “You can make this easy or you can make this difficult, but either way you're here.” Trina sticks her tongue out at her and gives her a shove. Madge steps in, taking her by the arm.

“I don't have to be here if I don't want to,” Trina says. “And I sure as hell don't have to stay.” She straightens her skirt and pulls it down. I'm not a rocket scientist, but anyone can see that if she dares sit down, the bottom of that skirt would sit at her hips.

“Trina, dear, come with me and we'll get you settled,” Betty says gently. Trina glares at her but follows. Knowing we shouldn't be spying, we all stand up straight.

“Get back to your beds or head for breakfast, girls,” Madge barks at us. We turn on our heels, scurrying back down the hallway. We all giggle and head back to our room.

“She seems like a real winner,” Analise says.

“And what's with her hair and that outfit? Yikes,” Monica remarks.

“We get her instead of Mandy? Great …” Analise says sarcastically.

All of us girls start on our morning chores before heading to the cafeteria for breakfast. Eggs, toast, and fruit are on the menu this morning, and my stomach jumps at the sight. I love breakfast. It is my favourite meal of the day. Living at Haywood has given me three square meals a day and I have never missed one. I make sure to eat whatever is made. Even a basic bowl of cheerios with its delicate crunch and hint of sweetness mixed with cold, creamy milk is a culinary delight to me.

I eagerly scoop bits of egg and the flowing yolk onto my fork and follow it with a bite of warm toast. “This is
so
good,” I breathe. The others look over at me and laugh.

“Andy and her food,” Lisa says, shaking her head. She sits perfectly straight in her chair, her hair and makeup artfully applied. Lisa is obsessed with her appearance. She is rail thin and picks at her food, eating tiny bits at a time, and chewing them for several minutes before swallowing. She always looks at me in disgust when I eat, and sometimes I eat more than I feel like eating just so I can get a reaction from her.

The girls are always teasing me about how much I eat, how I can't wait for the next meal. We make small talk while I start on my orange.

“Look!” Analise says, pointing. “That girl is here.”

Phyllis is guiding her down to the cafeteria for breakfast.

“Girls,” Phyllis announces. “This is Trina Baxter. As many of you know, she has just joined us this morning. I hope you all help her to feel welcome here.”

Trina does not look up at us. Her arms are crossed in front of her. Phyllis points to the stack of trays and the food buffet, but Trina simply scoffs at her and turns away. She stomps over to an empty table and glances over at the rest of us briefly before pulling out a chair and slumping down into it. She doesn't move for a half an hour.

“What is her deal?” Lisa says, shaking her head. “Chill already.” She snickers.

Does Lisa forget that we all come in here angry? None of us come in here happy. How could we? I don't know what it is about her, but Trina is interesting to me. I wonder what has brought her here, what her story is. The other girls chat happily and get up to leave for school.

“Are you coming?” Lisa asks me. I look over at Trina, who is sitting motionless. Her eyes remain fixed on a spot on the floor. I feel the urge to go and talk to her, to let her know it isn't so bad here, but then I decide against it.

“Yeah, I'm coming,” I reply.

I follow behind Lisa but turn briefly to Trina and say, “Hey.” To my surprise, she actually breaks her gaze and looks at me for a second before returning to whatever she is looking at. I make it to the end of the hallway and glance back one last time, but Trina has resumed her fixation on the spot on the floor. Her resistance to being here reminds me of myself. How every new placement, and every new place to sleep, felt wrong, how it had never really felt like home — except for one.

Maybe the feeling of home is something none of us will ever truly feel. Maybe we're destined to roam the world like vagabonds, never settling down in one place too long. Maybe we'll never carve out a place of our own.

June 2003

A
fter
the meeting with the social worker, the principal, and Mrs. Duggleman, I am taken to the principal's office. I sit, shaking with fear. I have no idea what is going to happen to me. I have no idea where I am going and I don't know what my mother will do to me when she finds out what I have done. I feel sick, sorry that I have told them anything.

When the door to the principal's office finally swings open, it's Mrs. Duggleman. She says she can't stay with me because she has to return to class, but she puts her arms around me again and kneels in front of me so that our eyes are level. “Bernice, honey,” she says softly, tears spilling down her cheeks. “You are going to be safe now,” she assures me. “No one will hurt you. I want you to know that you are very strong and very special.” She wipes her face with the back of her hand and then reaches for another tissue to blow her nose. “You be a brave girl, okay?”

I nod and hug her tight, breathing in her comforting scent. She steps out of the office. I've never loved anyone as much as I love her. If Mrs. Duggleman says it's going to be okay, then I believe her.

Minutes later, Debby, the social worker, and two other ladies pack me into a van. I have no idea where we are going. Everyone seems to be talking around me or talking about me, but no one ever explains what is happening. After a visit to the hospital and what seems like endless visits from strangers examining me, taking pictures, and asking questions, I am finally put back into the van.

We drive for what feels like hours. I am tired, hungry, and scared. I sit in the back seat, my fingers twisting the cuffs of my shirt nervously. My stomach wrenches from not knowing where we are going. The ladies in the front seat talk about the weather and the traffic as though I'm not even here. We turn onto a crescent with stately elms looming over the street. It is lush and beautiful. I study each home as we drive by. The street is lined with well-kept homes. There are flowers and sprinklers in the yards. Some people are mowing lawns, a sight I've only seen on television. I might as well be on a different planet. This is a picture-perfect neighbourhood, straight out of the pages of a book.

The van comes to an abrupt stop in front of a simple, but pretty little house. A low wrought iron fence surrounds the property. Flowers line the walkway; a welcome sign is perfectly centred on the front of the doorway.

“This is where you'll be staying,” the social worker says. It's the first time she's spoken to me directly since we started driving. She puts the vehicle in park and unbuckles her seatbelt. I stare at the house, and my knees start to tremble. I can feel my breathing getting all ragged and weird, like I'm about to pass out. The ladies hold open the door and wait for me to step out. I feel a sense of impending doom.

How else am I supposed to feel? What will these people be like? Are they nice? Do other children live here? How long do I have to stay? Will I be here forever?
The questions tumble through my mind one after the other. I'm confused and scared.

“Come on, Bernice … it'll be fine,” she says, but it sounds more like she's trying to get me out of the van so she can move on with her day than anything else. I step out onto the pavement. The trembling has spread from my knees to my entire body but I feel comfort in the warmth of the sun. I shuffle to the door, cowering behind the two ladies. The chime of the doorbell brings approaching footsteps.

“Hello! Please come in!” a woman greets us, full of cheer. She's breathtakingly beautiful with long blonde hair that falls in bouncy waves from her shoulders. She's wearing soft makeup and has thick eyelashes that outline her enormous blue eyes. She reminds me of Mrs. Duggleman.

“And who are you, my dear?” she asks me gently. I must look like I've seen a ghost, standing there trembling, my eyes wide open in fear.

“B-b-b ... Bernice,” I manage.

“I'm pleased to meet you, Bernice! I'm Shelley.” She looks to the ladies who are all watching me, smiling.

We all enter into the living room and I look around at the surroundings. There are leather couches and marble tables. The carpet is so plush that my toes almost get lost from view, and it's white, of all colours. It's such a beautiful, clean home. A big-screen TV takes up a corner of the room. I've n
ever seen anything like it. The images dance upon the screen in perfect clarity, and I'm mesmerized by the colours and size. Pictures in fancy silver frames line the walls. Most of the pictures are of adults, but there are a couple of frames with photos of two young children. I wonder who they are, if they live here too. I've never had brothers or sisters before.

“Why don't I show you Bernice's room?” Shelley offers. We all follow her down the hallway. She turns the handle of the door and the door swings wide open. “This is your room, my dear,” she says to me. I try not to show any emotion, but inside I'm flabbergasted.

It's a room fit for a princess. There is pale pink wallpaper with tiny pink and green flowers on the walls. The same plush carpet in the living room is in this room too. A huge canopy bed is thick with layers of bedding, all in pink and soft green to match the wallpaper. A white lamp with a pretty patterned shade adorns the white bedside table. There is a dresser against the longest wall and a bookcase in the corner that are both painted white. The bookcase is filled with books of all sizes. Frilly curtains in the same shade of soft green cover the window. It's almost magical in here. The thought that is where I will sleep is almost too much for me to handle. I glance around in wonder, trying to keep my jaw from hanging open.

“Will this be okay?” Shelley kneels down and asks me. I nod, biting my lip. It's a beautiful room, far more beautiful than I could ever imagine. But the bigger question on my mind is whether or not living here will be okay.

“Why don't you get settled while the rest of us talk?” the social worker says. She hands me my backpack and motions for the other women to head back to the living room.

My backpack. It's all I have at the moment. No clothes, no other shoes, no other belongings. Even my backpack is worn and dirty. I'm afraid to set it down on this white carpet, afraid that one false move will have me out on the street or somewhere worse. I mustn't do anything to make Shelley angry with me. I hear the muffled conversation of the women in the other room and I decide to step forward to examine the contents of the bookcase. There are dozens of books on every shelf, shiny new books that look like they've never been read. My heart jumps at the sight.

I've always loved reading. The ability to escape and get lost in someone else's story is thrilling. I'm comforted by the sight of all of these books and the possibility that I may get to read them. I sit on the edge of the bed peering around the room in wonder. I'm interrupted by the sound of someone calling my name. I quickly stand and make my way down the hallway where the women are.

“Bathe her right away,” Debby says quietly. “And watch for lice.” She stops talking as soon as I appear and smiles. “Bernice, it is time for us to go now. Mr. and Mrs. Thiessen will take good care of you.” And just like that, the front door closes behind them, leaving me and Shelley Thiessen alone.

“I know this must be so hard for you, Bernice,” Shelley says. “My husband Luke will be home soon and you will meet him too,” she says awkwardly. I stand in silence, nodding. “We will go out and get you some more things, my poor dear. Some new outfits, some new shoes, and other things you will need.”

I don't know what to say. I have no idea what this all means. Am I staying here forever? Will I never see Jacqueline or my home again? How will I get all these new things? Do I call her Shelley? Is she my new mom?

“Why don't we get you cleaned up?” she says. I immediately stiffen. “I can run a nice hot bubble bath for you,” she says. She walks down the hallway and pulls out a thick, plush towel from the linen closet and enters the bathroom. Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, she turns on the faucet and then pours in a silky liquid from a bottle. From where I stand I can smell the fruity aroma of the suds and see the steam starting to rise from the tub. I start to feel my knees knock together again.

Shelley is humming and rearranging toiletries, seemingly oblivious to the terror I feel. She sets a neatly folded towel on the edge of the sink, within easy reach of the bathtub.

“It's almost done.” She waits for another minute or so before turning the faucet off. Then she says, “It's all ready, Bernice.”

But I'm frozen on the spot and I don't know what to do. My entire body is trembling. Once she realizes that I'm not coming, Shelley turns towards me, her smile slipping from her face.

“It's okay, honey,” she says. “Nobody is going to hurt you. Let's just get you cleaned up and you'll feel much better.” Sensing that I'm not sure how to proceed, she adds, “You get in and get comfortable and I'll just check on you to make sure you're alright in a few minutes, okay? Just call me if there is anything you need.”

I nod, hesitating for a moment before entering the bathroom.

“There is shampoo on the ledge of the bathtub and soap in the little dish. Will you need help washing your hair?” she asks. I shake my head no and timidly shut the door behind me.

Shelley has no idea how long I've been washing my hair all by myself. Often we'd go days without water and I'd be unable to bathe. When I started to smell, I'd try to wash up in the girls washroom at school, hoping no one would come in and see me. I'd cup my hands together and fill them with water under the tap, quickly tossing the water on my hair before it seeped through my fingers. I'd run globs of liquid soap from the dispenser down my arms and through my hair before cupping my hands again to rinse. Then I'd kneel below the hand dryer, hoping the burst of air would dry my hair so that no one would notice. I'd pray that no one would walk in and see me. It usually took four tries under the hand dryer to dry my hair enough.

I undress quickly and wiggle down into the tub, wincing in pain. My wounds are stinging but the heat of the water is comforting. The bathroom is all white and spotless. There is not a speck of dirt or dust to be seen. This is what I imagined Mrs. Duggleman's house to be like, I realize. I breathe deeply, inhaling the intoxicating scent of the bubbles and I feel my muscles start to relax. I squeeze a huge glob of shampoo into my open palm, the fruity smelling liquid trailing down my forearm. I want to be sure that I smell nice for them, that I'm all clean.

A few minutes later, Shelley knocks at the door and asks if she can come in. I straighten and tense up again, but I'm mostly covered in bubbles so I say yes.

She gasps when she sees the marks on my body, but then composes herself.

“Are you doing okay?” she asks. “Do you need anything?” I politely tell her no. “May I take these and wash them?” she asks. Before I can protest she scoops up my sweaty clothes and sets some clean clothing down on the floor. I breathe a sigh of relief as she closes the door softly behind her. I sink down into the water to rinse the shampoo from my hair.

A moment later I hear voices, and I realize Shelley's husband must be home. I quickly stand up from the tub and reach for the towel. It is so thick that it feels like a blanket and I long to wrap myself in it fully, but even the pillowy threads of cotton aren't soft enough against the stinging wounds.

I unfold the outfit that Shelley has brought in and quickly try it on. I'm without underwear, but the pants are a soft, fleecy material and feel comfortable nonetheless. I slip the plain T-shirt over my head. It feels great to be so clean and to smell so good.

“Oh, Bernice, you're out!” Shelley remarks when she sees me standing in the hallway. My hair is dripping down my back, forming a large wet circle on the back of my shirt. “Luke!” she calls. “Come and meet Bernice!”

A handsome man dressed in a suit rounds the corner. He's got a wide smile and holds out his hand for me to shake. I do so, a bit apprehensive.

“Hi, Bernice,” he says, his voice deep. “My name is Luke. I've brought home an early supper for us. I thought you might be hungry.” For once, I can't help but smile. I'm famished and I can smell whatever he's brought. My stomach is grumbling.

I follow them into their kitchen and dining room, both exquisitely decorated and clean. There are two pizza boxes sitting on the countertop and Shelley has set the table with plates and napkins. She's put out a jug of milk and three kinds of juices. I quickly scoop up a couple of slices of pizza and finish them before Luke and Shelley have filled their plates. They look over at me in surprise but say nothing.

After the meal, Shelley asks if I'd like to go shopping. On our way out, she glances down at my running shoes, which are ratty and worn. She makes a remark about getting new shoes too.

We arrive at a huge mall, the size of several city blocks. There are quite a few shoppers, many of them well dressed. We pass a teenage girl who is holding up a hanger with a pretty blue dress on it in front of her chest. She asks for her friend's opinion. “I wouldn't be caught dead in that!” Her friend tells her. I chew on my lower lip as we pass, feeling embarrassed because I like the dress a lot.

“I was just joking around,” the girl holding the dress says. “It is pretty ugly.” But I can tell her from the look on her face that she secretly likes the dress too. She shoves it onto the rack and follows her friend.

When we get to the girls' section, I see mothers with what must be their daughters combing through the racks. Some of the girls gush over items, while others stand bored and ready to leave. I've never been shopping before, and certainly not with my mother. The only clothes or shoes I remember getting are hand-me-downs, even though I had no idea who they were handed down from, and they were often ill-fitting and stained.