Kat's Fall
Kat's Fall
Shelley Hrdlitschka
O
RCA
B
OOK
P
UBLISHERS
Text copyright © 2004 Shelley Hrdlitschka
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and
retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in
writing from the publisher.
National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data
Hrdlitschka, Shelley, 1956-
Kat’s fall / Shelley Hrdlitschka.
ISBN 1-55143-312-5
I. Title.
PS8565.R44K38 2004 jC813’.54 C2004-901022-0
Library of Congress Control Number:
2004101756
Summary:
When fifteen-year-old Darcy’s mother is released
from prison, he finds it is much harder to love than to hate,
until he too is accused of a horrific crime.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its
publishing programs provided by the following agencies:
the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry
Development Program (BPIDP), the Canada Council for the Arts,
and the British Columbia Arts Council.
Design and typesetting by Lynn O’Rourke
Cover Image: Christy Robertson
Printed and bound in Canada
Orca Book Publishers
1030 North Park Street
Victoria, BC Canada
V8T 1C6
Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 468
Custer, WA USA
98240-0468
07 06 05 04 • 4 3 2 1
For Danielle (Dani) with love, always.
—S.H.
I would like to thank Beryl Young, Kim Denman, Diane Tullson and Sandra Diersch for their gentle critiquing and encouragement, and Hank Einarson for his continued interest in my work.
—S.H.
Hope Springs Daily, Friday February 21, 1994
MOTHER SENTENCED TO FIFTEEN YEARS
FOR DROPPING BABY OFF BALCONY
Plunge Was Not Accidental, Jury Decides
BY SANDY FROST
Sherri Murphy, the 23 year-old Hope Springs woman charged with the attempted murder of her eleven-month-old daughter, appeared indifferent as Judge Forbes sentenced her Thursday to 15 years in prison. Ms. Murphy ignored the jubilant spectators and frenzied media as she was led, handcuffed, from the crowded courtroom.
It was the end of a highly publicized trial in which witnesses testified that Ms. Murphy was an unfit mother, well-known on the streets for her struggles with drug addiction.
During the trial Ms. Murphy admitted that she was ill-prepared to cope with the extra demands of a handicapped baby. However, she denies intentionally dropping her from the balcony, claiming it was accidental, yet refusing to say how the accident occurred. The baby landed in bushes and survived the 20-meter fall with only minor injuries.
The public outcry at the time of Ms. Murphy’s arrest was astonishing and unprecedented. The child was born deaf and also suffers acute epileptic seizures, yet the story of her miraculous survival has won the hearts of Hope Springs citizens, stirring up the demand to see justice done.
Ms. Murphy’s four-yearold son also lived with her at the time. The two children now reside with their father.
Ms. Murphy will be eligible for parole in ten years.
Contents
“W
ake up, Darcy.”
I hear the familiar voice, but I don’t respond. Kat stands at the foot of my bed, shaking my leg.
“Darcy!” she says, louder now. “C’mon! Wake up.”
She lets go of me and I hear her step around to my side. I sense her leaning over, peering into my face. Her long hair tickles my neck.
“Darcy?” she asks again in that odd, garbled speech of hers. “Are you okay?”
Trying not to breathe, I concentrate on lying as still as I can. Her breath is warm on my cheek.
“I know you can hear me,” she says, suddenly grabbing my shoulders and giving me a shake.
I still don’t react and go as limp as possible.
She lets go. “Darcy, you’re making me scared,” she says. The words run together, probably unintelligible to anyone else, but I understand her. I also hear the quiver in her voice. Deciding to make my move, I wait five more seconds and then, wham! I spring up, fling my arm around her shoulders and haul her down onto the bed with me. Screaming, she thrashes about, trying to hit me, but I hold her too tightly. I let her try to battle loose for a minute or two, but when the fight begins to go out of her eleven-year-old body, I relax my hold. She pushes away and we end up lying side by side, facing each other. She’s glaring and her chest is heaving from the exertion. She lifts her hands and signs, “That scared me! Don’t do it again.”
I simply smile my most charming smile.
“Darcy!” she says out loud, but then signs again,“You’re mean!”
“Yeah, but you love me anyway,” I sign back.
She shakes her head, but the fire leaves her eyes. She sighs deeply, then snuggles closer. I throw my arm around her, enjoying the feel of her silky hair against my cheek.
Kat has been climbing into bed with me since she was just a baby. She thinks I can protect her from all the monsters and bogeymen out there. I wish. She shivers and I realize she’s wearing just a skimpy nightie. Our townhouse is freezing this time of year. Dad won’t let us turn the heat over sixty degrees. I tug at the tangled heap of blankets, trying to pull some of them over her shoulders. Her warm body wiggles closer and presses up against mine, and for a brief second I allow myself to enjoy the sweet-smelling girl-body beside me…
She leaps out of the bed. “Darcy!”
I feel my face burn. I didn’t mean for that to happen. God, she’s my sister!
“You’re disgusting!” she signs. I swear she’s quivering, she’s so pissed off.
“Sorry,” I sign back. And I am. But how do you explain to a little kid that some things are out of your control?
She stomps out of the room, slamming the door. I pull the blankets over my head.
W
E FALL INTO
our usual routine, hoping that will make us forget what just happened. It doesn’t, of course, but we have to try. I don’t know how much Kat knows about guys, but I’m willing to bet she knows more now than she did a few minutes ago.
Kat has some kind of internal clock that wakes her at the same time every day. She gets me up and then usually makes us breakfast. My job is to remind her to take her seizure medication and to get on the special school bus that collects deaf kids and takes them to their school. Dad’s been gone for hours already. He’s a truck driver and starts work early, but, to be truthful, even if he were here he wouldn’t be here, if that makes any sense. He’s never learned to sign very well so I have to translate most of the messages between him and Kat. He finds it easier to ignore us. We find that easier too.
I take a quick shower and then find a plate of steaming pancakes on the kitchen table. I look at them closely, wondering if she’s planning to poison me after that bedroom incident. “Are those rabbit turds I see squished in there?” I ask, using my hands.
Kat rolls her eyes, but doesn’t look at me. I suspect she won’t come running to me to protect her from the bogeyman anymore. Huh. Maybe I am the bogeyman.
“Well, are they?” I ask.
“Yeah right, Darcy,” she says with her hands, looking at me somewhere down around chin level.
I stab a couple with my fork. With a snap of my wrist they land on my plate. Cutting a minuscule piece from one, I squint suspiciously at Kat, then put it into my mouth. She’s still ignoring me. I chew slowly, deliberately, then leap to my feet, letting my chair crash to the floor behind me. I clutch at my neck, eyes bulging. I glance quickly at Kat again, expecting to see some audience appreciation, but it’s like I’m not even here. Being my most dramatic self, I die a slow, painful death, slumping to the floor, my eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling. I jerk once, then shudder for good measure. Eventually I look to Kat again, but she just shakes her head and goes back to eating. I get to my feet, humbled, pick my chair up off the floor and sit down to eat my chocolate chip-studded pancakes.
She really knows how to hold a grudge, that girl. She never used to be like that. I decide to add grudgeholding to my mental list of things about Kat that are changing. Also on it are mood swings, lip-gloss and tiny breasts. I glance at her. She’s still ignoring me. I notice once again how pretty she’s become. She used to be just plain cute, but that’s something else that has changed. Her face has slimmed down, and her light blue eyes are rimmed with thick dark lashes. Her skin is still clear, and her thick, honey-colored hair is brushed smooth. At the rate she’s changing she’s going to be drop-dead gorgeous in about a week. Maybe it’s a good thing that she won’t be climbing into bed with me anymore.
I quit my daydreaming when I hear a horn blast outside.
“Quick, the bus is here!” I sign.
Kat jumps up, grabs the lunch bag she’s left on the counter and jogs down the stairs to the front door. She slides her feet into unlaced runners, grabs her jacket from the closet and slings her backpack over one shoulder. For one uneasy moment I think she’s still too ticked off at me to even say goodbye, but just as she’s climbing into the mini-bus she turns and waves. “See you after school, Darcy,” she yells.
“Yeah, later,” I sign back, trying to disguise my relief.
Scooping up the newspaper that’s lying on the top step, I head back to the kitchen. I’m in no rush to get to school. Hope Springs Alternate is relaxed about starting times. There’s no point being any other way.
I finish the pancakes and push my plate away. Pulling the elastic off the newspaper, I let it unfold on the table. Instantly those pancakes start backing up my throat.
Staring out from the front page is a picture of Mom, and I swear she’s looking me right in the eyes. The caption reads, “Attempted Murderer To Be Given Parole.”
S
lam.
Bowed heads in a nearby classroom snap up as I bang my locker shut, but it can’t be helped. If I don’t close it quickly, my skateboard will topple back out.
The five students hunkered over notebooks in my room don’t look up when I arrive, but Ms. LaRose does. Marie LaRose. How’s that for a la-de-da name? “Good morning, Darcy,” she says. “How are you?”
I shrug as I drop into my chair.
She nods and regards me seriously. I ignore her and open my journal to a fresh page. We have to start each morning by writing, a response to some stupid quote that’s written on the board. This is Ms. LaRose’s idea of creative writing and it’s the only subject I do lousy in. It’s not because I can’t write well—I actually like writing—it’s because I won’t, and that’s because I have to be careful about what I say. My grade seven teacher—who I’m sure hated me—once told us to write a story, and when I did she showed it to the school counselor, suggesting I harbored “pathological leanings”. I bet that’s the incident which started the ball rolling to get me sent here, the school for social deviants and misfits. She asks me to write a story and when I do, look what happens. Go figure. That’s the last time I’ll be creative.
The one good thing about Hope Springs Alternate, though, is we can complete the curriculum at our own pace. I could graduate in another eighteen months if I set my mind to it, or I could take my time and attend school for another four years, probably writing stupid responses to famous quotes for that entire time. I’ve chosen option A and am flying through my courses. I know Ms. LaRose is impressed. What I don’t think she gets is that I’m not doing it to impress her.
Feeling her eyes still firmly fixed on me, I finally look up. “What?” I ask.
She gives her head a shake, as if bringing herself back to the present. “Sorry,” she says, “I didn’t mean to stare. My mind was just wandering, you know how it is.”
Yeah, I do, thanks to her. With her skintight jeans, high heels and low-cut, snug sweaters she looks more suitably dressed to work the streets than to teach wayward teens.
“By the way, Darcy,” she says, interrupting my thoughts. “There’s been a meeting called today for you, myself, Mr. Bryson and Ms. Wetzell. We’re meeting in this room, after school.”
Now that gets my attention. “But I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Of course you haven’t, Darcy,” she answers in her sweetest, most rose-like voice. Her demeanor is in complete contrast to her get-ups. “It’s just some kind of midterm evaluation.” She glances self-consciously at the others, who have suddenly taken notice of our conversation. I hear Troy—class thug—snicker. Everyone knows she’s lying. This is not the way midterm evaluations are done around here.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see Gem, the girl who sits at the next desk, staring at me. I turn abruptly and stare back, expecting her to act properly embarrassed and look away. But she doesn’t. Instead she winks and smiles. What’s with these people?