Throwaway Girl (2 page)

H
aywood
House is a residential group home for girls just two blocks from the South Saskatchewan River, in the historic Saskatoon neighbourhood of City Park. Large, looming elm trees line the properties in this neighbourhood, and quaint, humble houses dot the street alongside larger, more impressive dwellings.

The government bought the old stately manor and had it renovated and retrofitted in 2001. Although it was originally meant for up to twelve girls, it currently houses seventeen.

The building itself is beautiful on the outside. Its tidy brick exterior and majestic columns tend to catch eyes from the street. Passersby can be found snapping photos of it, appreciating the grandeur and character of the old home. The grounds are immaculately kept, with flowers blooming throughout the season.

From the outside, it looks like the home of our dreams. Especially to any of us kids who have been through the system. Standing outside a building like this makes us wonder if we've come to the right place. After all, none of us ever expected we'd be pulling up to a house like this and settling down for the night, calling it home.

But once you get inside, the place starts to feel more like an institution than a home. Like even though the powers-that-be tried really hard to make it warm and cozy, by the time they were done with the outside, there wasn't anything left for the inside. Or maybe that's the trick of all these places. Make them seem really great at first glance so that the ones in charge can pat themselves on the back, so we kids can feel important when we pull up. Let the world think that good is being done. Just don't step inside. It's all downhill from there.

As you enter the house there's a small sitting room with two large, wing-backed chairs and a round wooden coffee table with magazines. The magazines are dog-eared and worn, issues of
Chatelaine
and
Canadian Living
from four years ago, yet we girls read them any chance we get. Sheena calls them “old lady” magazines. I read through them, even though the lives and stories inside seem so foreign to me. But instead of feeling sadness, I am fascinated. I see the confident women posing in the fashion pages, the delectable recipes, the craft projects and home décor ideas, and somehow, I have this feeling in my gut, like a fire burning in my belly. It's like if I concentrate enough, I can feel it all, taste it, and see it, like it's my life after all.

Beyond the sitting room is the front office. Lorna is the office manager. She answers the phones and takes all of the deliveries. She also does intake for Haywood. For any new kids coming in, Lorna is the first person they talk to.

After the office is a long corridor. There are offices, supply rooms, and a first aid station. The mint green walls and grey tiled floor make it seem like a hospital or clinic. There are charts on the walls, motivational slogans, and framed photos of events from past years, but I'm not sure that anyone has ever really looked at them.

This is where you find Betty's office. She's the counsellor here and she helps put broken kids together again. I credit her with saving me from myself. When I came here I was so full of pain, I had no idea how to release it. Betty showed me ways to cope and deal with everything that had happened to me.

From there you enter the cafeteria, a room that smells more of antiseptic and bleach than of delectable cooking, even though the food here is pretty good. The metal chairs are all lined up perfectly around the wooden tables until the bell rings for the next meal.

The washrooms and sleeping quarters are just past the cafeteria. Having to push through heavy double doors to get to your bed hardly conjures up a feeling of hominess, but it's alright. All of our beds are lined up, five to a row. Each of us has a metal headboard, a foam mattress, a lump of a pillow, a sheet, and a wool blanket, as well as a small metal bedside table with a drawer and a lamp. The bulb in the lamp is so dim that I can barely read anything when it's on. I guess it wouldn't be so great if all of us had bright lights on while others tried to sleep. Privacy is a pretty foreign concept here.

Today's a big day at Haywood. We're saying good-bye to Mandy. She's twelve and has only been here for a month or so. She's pretty. She has long black hair, clear brown skin, and she's petite. She's been one of the quieter ones here, but she fit in nicely.

It's never easy when one of the girls leaves. We don't know who to expect next and what she'll be like, like when Analise came last year with her flippant attitude and the idea that she'd be running the place. She was only fifteen at the time, thinking she knew everything and that we'd be bowing down to her. But that's not how it was. Some of us have been in here for what feels like forever and the ways of this place, the roles … they've all been established. Some fresh-faced newcomer can't come in here calling the shots.

I guess we all come angry, tough, out to prove something, but we never really get the chance. We're expected to just step into place in this new environment and its rules like puppets or robots, participating, going through the motions. Emotions get buried. Eventually you get to feeling numb, dead inside. Or maybe we are dead inside before we even come. That's more like my story. But for me, coming here felt like salvation.

Once you come to Haywood House, chances are you're here for a while. Most of us girls have been in the system for years and are now permanent wards. And here's the newsflash no one seems to care about: when you are a teenager, you aren't getting adopted. There's no line-up of parents eagerly combing the building, ready to light up at the sight of their beloved chosen one, the missing piece of the puzzle that will make their family complete. I used to lie awake at night and dream of the possibility that someone somewhere would see me, truly see me, and decide that I was worth taking a chance on.

Mandy is one of the lucky ones. An aunt she's never met lives on Thunderchild First Nation, a reserve two and a half hours north of Saskatoon, and has agreed to be her guardian, a “PSI,” or “Person Having a Sufficient Interest in the Child,” which means that Mandy's going to be with family and may get her better life after all. Even though we don't know Mandy that well, we're all really happy for her.
She's still young,
I think to myself.
She still has a chance.

The staff at Haywood is planning a little celebration for her. There will be cake after supper and we'll all get to say our goodbyes. Mandy seems excited and hopeful. Her aunt will be picking her up in the morning. She packed her few belongings hours ago, and she's been pacing and staring out the window a lot.

“You okay?” I ask her.

She turns to me and smiles nervously.

“I think so,” she says, biting her lip. “I'm scared, Andy.”

Her eyes well up with tears. I give her a squeeze and try to reassure her. Being the oldest one here now, I think the younger ones look up to me. It seems weird to look up to someone who has had the life I've had. After all, it hasn't worked out so well for me, has it? This definitely isn't where I saw myself at seventeen. But I like Mandy. I wish her well and I want her story to be different.

“It'll be great, Mandy …” I say, wanting it to be true for her. “You're going to a real home. A real life,” I remind her. After all, for all that Haywood House is — it's not really a home.

She nods, lost in thought, her gaze fixated on something I can't see. And yet I'm nervous for her. I find myself biting my nails and pacing, too.

That night, Gertie, the night supervisor, whistles loudly to get our attention amidst the loud chatter of the supper hour. She has wheeled in a cart that has a plain, slab cake on top. She's got a wide grin on her face, as though she can barely contain her excitement at the prospect of giving us cake. She waits for the room to quiet before speaking.

“Ladies,” she starts, “You all know we are saying goodbye to a very special young woman tonight. Mandy, we will miss you and we wish you all the best.” Gertie smiles, and to our surprise, her voice cracks with emotion. The response from the tables is mixed. Some of the younger girls are crying and clutching each other at the thought of saying goodbye, while others are rolling their eyes and chuckling at Gertie. Either way, it's hard to know how to feel. Girls like us aren't good at trusting people anymore. And lots of girls come and go here at Haywood. It makes it hard to get attached to someone or have a friend here sometimes.

Early the next morning, the sounds of the building begin to wake us. Groans from the boiler room and the subsequent rattling of the radiators springing to life send vibrations through the walls. The shuffling feet of the staff across the tiled floor and the beeps and muffled phrases coming from the staff radios all rouse us from our sleep. I open my eyes slowly, adjusting to the light in the room. Some of the girls are up already; I turn over, not quite ready to face the day.

“Why did she just go like that?” I hear Analise whisper. She's the number one gossip, always hungry for the newest developments around here. Curious, I turn back around in my bed and see her huddled with Lisa and Monica. I wonder who they are talking about and what's going on. I sit up in my bed and rub the sleep from my eyes.

“She told me she didn't want to make anyone feel bad,” Lisa says. “She didn't want us to see her leave, knowing that we have to stay.” And I realize that they are talking about Mandy and that she is already gone. I look over at her bed, stripped down to the foam mattress, no indication that she was ever there.

“Good luck, Mandy,” I whisper to myself. “I hope you make it.” And with that, I lay back down into the bed, willing myself to sleep. I want to dream of Mandy and her new homecoming, of an aunt who welcomes her with open arms and radiates love. I want to believe that she's found the home she's been longing for.

S
chool
is mandatory at Haywood, no exceptions. Even when Christal got knocked up by her slimy boyfriend, she was back at school two days after her baby's birth.

Most of us walk to the alternative school. The classes are smaller, and the teachers are more understanding. It's not as structured as the regular system, so we can learn at our own pace. I like school. I enjoy the challenge, and I like the socializing.

In my younger years I rarely got in trouble and did well in school. I wasn't one of those kids who begged to take a day off of school or pretended to be sick to avoid going. I never wanted to miss a day of school because I could be assured that a day at home would be far worse than anything school had to offer.

I could always count on eating at school too, whether it was from stealing snacks from the lunch kits lined up in the lockers by being the last to go out for recess, or by sneaking back to the classroom during library or gym. I often found myself quickly stuffing whatever food I could find in my mouth, barely stopping to chew. I didn't want to steal, but I was so hungry, it felt like my stomach was forcing me to do it to keep it quiet and calm. As long as I took only one thing from a lunch or two, it usually went unnoticed. Most of the kids barely cared about what they brought or had no idea what their parents had packed to notice anything missing.

There were a few occasions where I'd look in horror as some of the pickier eaters threw perfectly good food in the garbage, anxious to get outside for recess. I'd wait until everyone had cleared out before reaching in and retrieving it. Sometimes if I'd collected enough food, I'd wrap my findings up carefully and save it in my locker so that the next day I could pull out a regular lunch like everyone else. I was never caught.

My teachers were always good to me, almost too good. I remember as a young kid I'd try to stay late to help clean the classroom or just to talk. I'm not sure the teachers ever knew how much I depended on those interactions, how I'd savour every word and replay it in my mind. They made me feel like I mattered. Having someone so interested in me and my life was intoxicating.

Mrs. Duggleman was my favourite. She was my grade four teacher. She smelled like apples and cinnamon and had shimmery blonde hair and crystal blue eyes. She was regal looking, with a gentle voice and the softest hands I ever touched. I idolized her. I would sit in class, in rapt attention, hoping she'd call on me so that I could win her praise.

Mrs. Duggleman was married to a police officer. He was tall and handsome, and to me they made the perfect couple. I imagined their home being a mansion, immaculately kept. I imagined that she'd have pies baking and music playing in her kitchen, the sound of her laughter echoing through the home while her husband hugged her. I dreamed that one day Mrs. Duggleman would take me home with her and announce that I'd be theirs. It would be the perfect life.

Mr. and Mrs. Duggleman did not have any children. It was surprising to me because I thought they'd make the perfect parents. And anyone could see how much Mrs. Duggleman adored children. I figured she just loved us all too much that there wasn't room in her heart for anyone else.

Mrs. Duggleman was the first person who I felt really loved me. She was so kind to me that sometimes I would feel tears prick up by the sides of my eyelids, but I wasn't sure why. She just made me feel so good that I could burst.

She seemed to go out of her way to talk with me, even when we weren't in class. In class, she'd focus much of her attention on me, a look of kind concern in her eyes. She'd lend me her sweater on cold days when I'd come to school wearing tank tops in the middle of winter.

“Bernice, honey,” she'd say. “Why don't you use my sweater to keep your arms warm today?” And I'd beam with pride that she'd chosen me.

The year I had Mrs. Duggleman I stole less from the other kids' lunches because she'd make up some story about how both she and her husband had made her a lunch, so somehow she had two, and food couldn't go to waste, could it? I knew that wasn't the truth, but I was too hungry to care. Her lunches were the best. I'd usually get a sandwich on really soft bread. It would have all of the fixings: turkey or ham, lettuce, tomato, cheese, and the tangy taste of mustard and mayonnaise. It was the freshest thing I'd ever tasted and the layers of flavour seemed to burst in my mouth with every bite. She always had cookies in her lunch too, which confirmed my assumption that she baked homemade goodies in her home all the time. Even the carrots or apples tasted amazing; so crisp and fresh and nourishing.

I wasn't embarrassed about Mrs. Duggleman pretending she'd had two lunches packed for herself in order to feed me. To me, it just reaffirmed our special relationship. She was always checking to see how I was doing, if there was anything I needed. She would often ask me about my mom and about how things were at home. I told her everything was fine because
that
was what I was embarrassed about.

Sometimes Mrs. Duggleman would be deep in conversation with the principal or another lady at the school. They'd stand close together, talking in hushed tones, glancing my way. I knew they must be talking about me, but I couldn't understand why. I'd always done a good job at hiding my home life, or at least I thought so. I didn't want Mrs. Duggleman to have any idea about Jacqueline, so I made excuses for her absences at parent-teacher interviews and pretended she was a model mother. When things would get so bad at home that even I was tired of trying to make her out to be a good mother, I clammed up at the mention of her. I was good at deflecting the conversation. After all, any attention to what was going on at home would only make things worse. No one could know the reality of life outside of school, or I'd be in for it for sure. Jacqueline would give me a beating I'd never forget.

Then one morning towards the end of the school year, I arrived much earlier than any of the other students. I decided to sit in the classroom and enjoy the peace and quiet before everyone else arrived. I shuffled my way down the hall towards the blackened classroom and reached my hand up to turn on the lights.

In the seconds before the lights were turned on, I heard a soft sob in the darkness. When the lights came on, I was shocked to see Mrs. Duggleman's head lying on her desk with her head in her hands. She was cradling the phone receiver in her shoulder but she was crying so hard that whoever was on the other line must have been having a hard time understanding what she was saying.

“I thought it was …” She hiccupped. “There was so much blood … the baby … I'll never be a mother … all I do is kill them …” and after a few heavy sobs, she went on. “It's happened five times … what is wrong with me?”

And then in that instant, she seemed to notice that her surroundings had changed, that someone had turned on the lights, and that she wasn't alone. She looked up, panic-stricken, her face puffy, and her eyes swollen and red. She gasped and quickly regained her composure.

“I've gotta go,” she stammered into the phone and quickly replaced the receiver. She stood up abruptly, knocking the chair to the ground. Smoothing her skirt and her face, she smiled at me. I felt awful. Watching Mrs. Duggleman cry felt like daggers in my heart. I couldn't bear to see her in such pain. I felt angry at myself for coming to school and stumbling upon something I knew I wasn't meant to see. I didn't even know what her pain meant.

“Oh, my dear Bernice…” she said, coming towards me with her arms outstretched. “Good morning to you,” she said in her sing-song voice. I gave her the strongest hug I could, hoping it would help her feel better. She squeezed me tighter than usual and smoothed my hair.

“Come on in, sweetheart.” She smiled.

Confused, I looked up at her face, at the sadness in her eyes and blurted, “Are you killing babies, Mrs. Duggleman?” She looked at me in horror and blinked back tears.

“Oh, sweetie, Mrs. Duggleman was talking about grown-up stuff. Nobody is killing babies,” she said softly. “I was hoping to have a baby and become a mommy,” she said slowly. I nodded to show her I understood and that it was okay to tell me more. “But for some reason, a baby can't grow in my tummy like it can for other mommies.” She tried to smile to reassure me, but all I could see was sadness. “I'm not sure why this happens and it makes me feel very sad,” she went on.

Then, as though she felt she'd said too much, she smiled brightly. “But I have all of my students and I love you all very much,” she said, giving me another squeeze. “I am very lucky!”

But all I could think was that if she wanted to be a mommy and babies couldn't grow in her tummy, then she wasn't lucky at all. And how could the kindest, most beautiful woman in the world not be a mommy when she'd be the best mommy in the world?

And then I was angry at myself because the thought of Mrs. Duggleman having a baby filled me with jealousy. If she had a baby, then she wouldn't be at school and then I wouldn't have her and then what? I imagined her kissing and snuggling a cooing baby and the thought was almost more than I could bear. Could someone wishing for something with all their might be destroyed by someone else who wished it not to happen with all of their might too? I was filled with guilt and shame at the very thought of my jealousy.

After that day, things changed between the two of us. Mrs. Duggleman asked me how I was doing more often than before. She seemed to pay more attention to me than usual. I'd glance at her and catch her staring at me with concern in her eyes. I knew we shared a special secret after that morning in the classroom. I never mentioned what had happened to anyone. I wanted it to be our private moment. I'm pretty sure she wished I hadn't seen her crying like that, but knowing that she was in pain only deepened my love for her.

I wrote kind letters to her and put them on her desk. I drew colourful scenes of the two of us holding hands in the park. I thought of all the other kids I'd seen give drawings to their parents, then watch as they waited excitedly for a proud reaction. I felt the same way when I gave them to Mrs. Duggleman. In my eyes, if she couldn't have a baby, I was more than willing to step up and be her child.

Then one afternoon in early June, towards the end of the school year, the weather was unseasonably hot. The temperature soared to 34 degrees Celsius and without air conditioning, the school was sweltering. Students were wiping sweat from their brows and squirming uncomfortably in their seats. It was too hot to concentrate.

I had come to school that morning with fresh bruises and cuts. My mother had beat me with a belt and thrown me in the bathtub the night before. Her boyfriend had broken up with her and left her for another woman. When Jacqueline came home, she was steaming. One look at her shaking with rage and I knew I was in for it.

Sure enough, she came at me immediately, anxious to unleash her anger. After repeated swings of the belt on my back and legs, blood began to seep from the stinging wounds. She continued until she was panting, depleted. I felt like I was on fire. She picked me up by the arms and dragged me to the bathroom, throwing me into the bathtub before turning on the hot water full blast. I yelped in pain, knowing that I would soon be scalded. She laughed at my yelp, satisfied with what she'd done. She turned off the water and left the room, humming as though nothing had happened. I curled into a ball, clutching my legs as close as I could to my body. Each wound felt like flames jumping off my body, eager to find relief.

The next morning, my nightgown had stuck in my dried wounds. I had to peel it carefully and many of the cuts reopened and oozed. I winced and wiped tears as I tried to remove my pajamas. I looked in the mirror and gasped at the reflection of myself. How could I go to school like this? How would I hide these awful marks?

I pulled on the biggest T-shirt I had, hoping it would be loose enough to minimize the pain, but my arms were mottled with bright red evidence. I searched for a sweatshirt and pulled it carefully over the T-shirt, wincing at every stretch.

There I was, on the hottest day of the year, almost faint with heat because of all the layers of clothes I was wearing. I moved slowly all day, feigning illness so that I didn't have to participate in gym class and move around too much or risk bumping into anyone. As the day progressed, I started getting dizzy. I couldn't concentrate in class. Sweat poured down my back, the salt stinging and occupying my every thought. I was flushed and lightheaded.

“Bernice, why on earth are you wearing so many clothes, my dear?” Mrs. Duggleman asked. “It's sweltering outside! Why don't you take your sweatshirt off before you get heat stroke?” The other children had long since shed any layers of clothing and most were wearing tank tops, shorts, and sandals.

“I'm okay, Mrs. Duggleman,” I assured her. “It's not too bad.”

She didn't seem convinced. She lifted my hair off of my neck, the bottom layers slick with sweat. Even my toes squished in sweat in my socks and running shoes. Mrs. Duggleman sighed and made her way out of the classroom.

Fifteen minutes later, she returned and called my name. She took me by the hand and led me out of the classroom. I figured she was taking me to be her special helper for something, but when we got down the hallway and stopped at the conference room, I knew that wasn't the case. She guided me into the room, where the principal and the lady Mrs. Duggleman often whispered to, were sitting waiting for our arrival. They smiled warmly at me and welcomed me into the room, but at once I felt very uncomfortable. I looked up at Mrs. Duggleman, a little scared and unsure.

“It's going to be alright,” she assured me, and together we sat down.

“I'm Debby,” the lady said, holding out her hand for me to shake. “I'm the school social worker.” My stomach began to flip-flop and I felt dizzy and sick. I could sense that this wasn't going to be good.