Sketches (16 page)

I nodded.

“Most strippers hook on the side. Not all of them, but most.”

“Did your mother?” I asked, then instantly regretted my decision. “Sorry! You don't have to tell me,” I sputtered.

“I don't have to, but I will. It's not like she ever told me, but I figured she was.” Ashley kept petting the cat, her eyes down, not looking at me. “She sold drugs as well, and what she wasn't selling she was stuffing up her nose.”

“I'm sorry. I just didn't know.”

“How would you?” she asked. “And with all the other things happening in her life she just never seemed
to have any time, or interest in me. The first time I ran away she didn't even notice for a few days.”

“That's awful.”

Ashley looked up. There were tears in her eyes.

“At least your mother cares enough to come looking for you,” she said.

“I wish she'd just leave me alone.”

“You know, if you ever want to tell me your story . . . why you're out here . . . you can,” she said. “What's your mother like?”

“She was . . . she is . . . nice,” I said softly.

“And she spent time with you, getting you into lessons and stuff.”

“She did,” I agreed.

“Did she ever smack you around?”

“Never!” I exclaimed. “She never even spanked me or my sister.”

“Then why are you on the run?”

I swallowed hard. “I'd like to tell you,” I said, “I really would . . . but . . . but . . . I can't.”

I turned and walked away.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I HELD IT IN MY HAND
, turning it slowly so that the faint light coming in through the gaps in the boarded-up window reflected off the smooth metal. It went dark and then brighter as the light caught it once again. It seemed to glitter like a diamond. I turned it over and over, watching the light play against the blade. It was almost hypnotic. I touched my finger against the razorsharp edge. I pressed the side of the blade against my arm. It felt smooth and cold. I turned it ever so slightly and the blade sank into my flesh. I watched it happen, but felt nothing. No matter how many times I'd done it I was still amazed that it didn't hurt. I drew the blade along and a line appeared on my arm. The flesh on both sides of the line sprang out and the space became dark as blood, dark-red blood. A trickle seeped out of the cut. I watched as it formed a dark line and ran down my arm and then dripped off onto the concrete.

I touched it with a finger and the blood smeared, but it still didn't hurt. It just felt numb, like nothing. Slowly that feeling spread along my entire arm and into my body and then up my spine until it settled into the centre of my head. I didn't feel sad, or angry, or scared. I didn't want to eat or drink. I didn't miss anybody or anything. I didn't have to think any more.

“Hey, Dana!”

Ashley's voice jolted me back. I quickly pulled down the sleeve of my shirt to cover the cut. Hopefully it wouldn't bleed through the material.

“Where are you, Dana?” she called out.

I folded up the knife and stuffed it into my pocket. “I'm over here!” I yelled.

“What are you doing?” Ashley asked.

“Nothing. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Nothing really.”

“That's a lie,” Ashley said. “You were thinking about home.”

She was right, and I was so shocked that I didn't even know what to say.

“Don't look so surprised,” Ashley said.

I had spent the last few days thinking about my mother and those posters. Part of me was worried that she had been so close to finding me. Another part was upset that she hadn't tried sooner or harder. If she'd really wanted me home she could have found me . . .

couldn't she? I felt so confused. I didn't want to go home, but I wanted her to try to find me. Sometimes I just wished that none of this had happened. That I had my life back—my school, my friends, a fridge with food in it, and my bed and bedroom and . . . I couldn't go back.

But could I stay here on the streets? What sort of a life was this? There was no way out. I felt trapped, with no answers, no hope.

Ashley sat down next to me and said, quietly, “You ready to tell me about your family now?”

“There's really not much to know.”

“Who's in your family . . . who did you live with?”

“My mother and my sister,” I told her.

“How old is she?”

“She's going to be turning eleven soon.”

“That's a nice age. I remember being eleven. Grade six, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me about her.”

I shrugged. “Well, don't get me wrong, I love her, but sometimes she can really be a pain. She's always following me around and wanting to know what I'm doing, and copying the way I dress or what I say. Funny, though, most of the stuff that she did to annoy me I sort of miss now.”

“I bet she misses you, too,” Ashley said. “Anybody else in the house besides your sister and mother?”

“Nobody worth mentioning,” I said angrily.

“Your old man, your father, where does he live?”

“He moved out when I was ten. Divorce. I didn't see him much after that. He got remarried, had a new baby, moved to Vancouver.”

“So it was just you and your mom and your sister.” “And my stepfather,” I said.

“I didn't know you had a stepfather.”

“I wish I didn't.”

“Sounds like you don't like him much, do you?” she asked.

I snorted. “I
hate
him.”

“One of my stepfathers was okay,” Ashley said.

“One of them?”

“Yeah, I must have had four or five of them, and that's not even counting all the ‘uncles' who would show up for a few days or a few weeks. You're lucky you only had one stepfather.”

“Depends on the one.”

“What did he do, smack you around?”

Ashley asked. “He hit me a few times,” I admitted.

“He must have hit you more than a few times for you to hate him that much.”

“You ever get hit?” I asked, ignoring her comment.

“Like, every day with some of them.”

“And your mother didn't stop them?”

“Stop them . . . I don't think she even noticed it,” Ashley said. “Hard to believe she could miss something like that, huh?”

“Not hard. People miss things. Nobody knows everything all the time,” I said.

“I think it's more than that,” Ashley said. “I think sometimes people miss things on purpose.”

“What do you mean?”

“If my mother had seen one of her boyfriends hit me then she'd have had to do something—you know?— yell at him, or hit him, or kick him out, or call the police. If she didn't see it, then she didn't have to do anything.”

“You think that's what happened?” I asked.

“Yeah, but—what's that on your arm?” she asked, pointing at the sleeve of my shirt.

I looked down. There was a stain showing through. “It's nothing . . . nothing.”

“It's definitely
something
. Let me see.”

I tried to turn away but Ashley grabbed me by the arm and spun me toward her.

“It's nothing . . . a scrape . . . I brushed up against a nail that was sticking out of the wall,” I said. I'd used that excuse more than once before at home.

“A nail?” she asked. “When did you do that?”

“Just a few minutes ago . . . just over there somewhere,” I said, pointing to a dark corner of the deserted building.

“Was it a rusty nail?” she asked.

“I couldn't really tell. It was too dark to see.”

“Because if it's rusty you may have to get a shot. Let me have a look. That clinic could do that, right?”

“But it's okay, I'm sure the nail wasn't rusty!” I pleaded.

“Yeah, right,” she scoffed. “Rundown, abandoned old buildings only have new,
unrusty
nails. Let's have a look at the cut.”

I really didn't have a choice. Reluctantly I rolled up my sleeve to reveal the gash. It had opened up and was seeping blood.

“That looks nasty. We'd better get something to clean it up and then some bandages.”

“You have that stuff?” I asked.

“Of course not, but there's a drugstore a few blocks over. When Brent comes back I'll send him over to get what we need.”

“Thanks.”

Ashley stared intently at the cut. “This doesn't look like it could have been done by some nail sticking out of the wall. And how come your arm is cut, but the sleeve of your shirt isn't ripped?”

Before I could react, Ashley took my arm and held me firmly by the wrist. “What about these other marks?” she asked.

In the dim light I'd hoped she wouldn't be able to see the faint white lines—the scars from other times I'd
cut myself. I didn't know what to say, how to lie my way out of this.

“You did that to yourself, didn't you?” she demanded.

“Why would I?” I asked as I tried to shake free of her hold. She just tightened her grip.

“Don't lie to me. You think you're the only one who cuts? I've seen girls who do this before. I should have figured it out. That's why you always wear long-sleeved tops, right?”

I nodded my head.

“Did you use the knife that Brent got for you? Is that why you didn't want to carry a knife?” Ashley asked.

“One of the reasons.”

She was still holding onto my arm, and now she turned it to get a good look.

“Wait here,” she said, and she got up and left the room, leaving me alone.

I felt unsure and anxious—where was she going, what was she doing? But before my mind had a chance to go in too many different directions she came back. She was holding a McDonald's bag, from supper the night before. She pulled out a clump of napkins.

“Here,” she said, as she handed them to me.

I placed one against the cut and it sucked up the blood, turning wet and red.

“Press another on top,” she said. “You have to stop the flow.”
I did what I was told, taking a second and third napkin and pressing them down, holding them in place.

I mumbled, “Thanks.”

I didn't really want to talk to her about it, but there was something else on my mind, something I needed to ask.

“You said . . . you knew other girls who cut themselves on purpose, right?”

“Yeah?”

I paused. “Well . . . did they ever say . . . did they tell you why they did it?”

Ashley sat back and took a deep breath, thinking. “I guess there's probably lots of different reasons people do the same thing. But this one girl I used to know, she used to tell me that it hurt when she did it, but it was a different kind of pain than the other hurt she used to feel.” She paused. “The type you feel here,” she said, touching a hand to her chest. “Inside. The pain you feel in your heart, or in your head.” She paused. “She said it was like when she was feeling a pain on the outside— where she'd cut herself—she didn't feel the pain on the inside as much.” Again she paused. “Does that make any sense at all?”

“Yeah,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “Yeah, it does.” I knew exactly what that girl meant.

“Did your mother know you were doing this?” Ashley asked.

“Not at first. When she found out she was confused and sad. She brought me to the doctor, and then he arranged for me to see a psychiatrist and a social worker.”

“And did that help?”

“I stopped cutting my
arm
,” I said.

“But you didn't stop cutting, did you?” Ashley asked.

I shook my head. “I just cut on a part of my body where nobody could see it.”

“And your mother didn't know?”

“She didn't
want
to know. If you pretend something isn't happening then you don't have to do anything about it. It's like you said—people are pretty good at ignoring what they don't want to believe is going on.”

We both sat quietly for a while. My cut stopped bleeding, the way they always did. There was just one more thing I needed to ask.

“Ashley, that girl, the one you told me about . . . what happened to her? Is she okay now?”

Ashley just looked at me. “I'll answer your question if you answer mine,” she said. “Why do you cut yourself?”

I shook my head. I had a pretty good idea, but I wasn't going to share it with anybody.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“
SO
,
HAVE YOU FIGURED OUT
where we're going to sleep tonight?” Ashley asked Brent as she finished off the last of her submarine sandwich. Actually, she didn't eat the final bite, the last meatball. Instead she folded it up in the wrapper. I knew where that was going. Pumpkin liked meatballs almost as much as chicken nuggets.

Brent took a sip from his drink. “Our place to sleep is in the bag.”

“What is
that
supposed to mean?” she asked.

“It means it's in the bag,” Brent said. “In this bag.” And he held up his backpack.

“We're going to sleep in your backpack?”

“We're going to sleep in what's inside the backpack. Let me show you.” He undid the buckles and started to pull something out—something made of nylon.

“It's a tent!” I said.

“A four-man tent.”

“Where did you get it?” Ashley asked.

“Bought it from a guy for twenty bucks. A pretty good deal.”

“We're going camping?” I asked.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Brent said. “We're going to sleep in Tent Town. Although it isn't really a town, and not all the people live in tents.”

“Is it far from here?” I asked.

“It's in a little triangle of land between the expressway, the lake, and a railway line,” Brent explained. “Thousands and thousands of people drive by on the road or zip past on their commuter trains to the suburbs without ever knowing it's there.”