As She Grows Read online

  I got to ride in the ambulance but it didn’t have its siren on and it wasn’t going as fast as an ambulance should. “Your mom will be okay,” the young one said to me, trying to make conversation.

  “She’s not my mom,” I said defensively. “She’s my grandmother.”

  I patiently answered his questions, one eye on Elsie’s foggy breath in the plastic cup over her mouth. I told him about my school, my favourite subject, and that if I could be any animal I wanted, it would be an elephant. I said it all to be nice to him, even though I couldn’t understand why he’d ask such dumb questions when Elsie was lying there with tubes up her nose. “You’ll probably need this,” I finally interrupted him and passed him her health card. “She’s allergic to peanuts, and she takes a lot of pills. She has a drug and alcohol history and her blood type is AB negative. Mine’s the same.”

  At the hospital, nurses stood in threes, whispering about me as my grandmother’s stomach was pumped behind the curtain. I scowled at them, knowing they were saying bad things by the way their tight faces forced smiles in my direction. One of them called my aunt Sharon, whose arrival at the hospital brought obvious relief to the nurses’ faces.

  I could see they were surprised, surprised that she was Elsie’s daughter. Aunt Sharon looked responsible in her ironed clothes and her shiny shoes. Unlike my grandmother, she wore makeup and brushed her hair and always wore a silky scarf around her neck. Elsie said Aunt Sharon didn’t have more money than we did, but it always seemed to me that she was rich in comparison.

  Aunt Sharon took me home that night to her apartment. She told me we’d have a sleepover, just us girls, and when I got out of the bathroom I found her lying in the pullout bed in the centre of the living room.

  ”Hope you don’t snore. I don’t have much room for company,” she explained and then smiled brightly. “Which one should sleep with me tonight?” she asked, pointing to the stuffed animals piled at the foot of the bed. They weren’t my stuffed animals, and besides, I was too old for that, but I was too confused to speak, so I just picked up the zebra, gave it to her outstretched hand, and silently crawled into bed. I don’t think I slept at all that night. Instead, I lay there, fixated on my aunt’s steady breathing. The warmth of her body like itchy crumbs in the bed.

  The next day I didn’t have to go to school. We went to visit Elsie in the hospital, though I didn’t get to see her. I had to wait by the pop machine while Aunt Sharon disappeared and then reappeared ten minutes later from around the corner, her heels clicking down the hall in quick measured beats.

  “Is she sick?” I asked, worried that it was my fault.

  “Kind of,” she replied. “I’d say more sad than sick.” Then she got all serious and patted her lap, motioning for me to come over. She was always like that, wanting to touch or hug. Always mushy. I went and leaned up against her solid leg, but kept my hands in my pockets. “What do you think of your grandma?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” A stupid answer for a stupid question.

  “I mean, you think she’s a good mom?”

  “She’s my grandma,” I said and pulled away from her. Then I got angry because even though I didn’t totally know what she was asking, I had a feeling. And all these bad thoughts about her came into my head, like her sharp pointed nails, her fat arms, and her powdery smell that itches my nose. “She calls you a cow,” I said, not knowing where the words came from, unsure whether I said them aloud or just thought them. I watched her to see the answer but I still wasn’t sure.

  ”You must be thirsty,” she said, standing up and motioning to the machine. “Would you like a pop?”

  An old lady stumbles out of her apartment and quickly passes by me. I see her body tense, her beady eyes panic, as if I’m going to attack her or something. I reach forward and knock on Aunt Sharon’s door, lightly at first and then harder. After a few moments I press my ear to the wood, to listen for signs of life, and the door opens.

  “Snow?” Aunt Sharon’s round nose pokes out from the small opening in the door. I see her eyes peering behind me to see who else I’m with.

  “I’m alone,” I say. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course, hon,” she says warmly, opening the door and giving me a big hug. “So good to see you. It’s been ages.” She holds me a while, squeezes tight, her pewter cat pin poking into my shoulder. “Come sit,” she says, and I follow her through the maze of stacked magazines and newspapers and books. There is barely enough room for the couch and the large chair that is full of more newspapers and books. It’s not like it’s dirty, just cluttered. The only thing I recognize in the apartment are the blue walls and furniture.

  “Winky!” she calls. “Winky! Puss, puss, puss . . . come see! We have a visitor!” My eyes frantically scan the floor, wary of the one-eyed black cat who will dart out at my feet and scratch my toes. I remember this horrible cat from when I was young. It’s about a thousand years old, Aunt Sharon’s one love ever since she rescued it from a hit and run. Other than Winky, I think she’s always lived alone.

  We sit together on the couch, squished, Aunt Sharon’s thigh slightly pinching mine, but I’m unable to move. A pile of clothes are at my back, and to my right is Winky’s purring, arched body. It’s an awkward position, and I strain my neck backward in order to gain a few more inches of space between Aunt Sharon’s face and mine. I begin to tell her that I’ve left home, but as each word drops off my tongue, I feel my chin quivering and my face losing the strength it needs to hold itself together. Finally I start crying and wheezing, like I’m this little girl, and Aunt Sharon pulls me toward her and starts rocking me, which only makes me lose it even more. My face pressed to her armpit, I smell perfume and sweat. And part of me wants to stop, but part of me just wants to keep holding onto her like that. I tell her how I had to get away from Elsie and how I punched the wall and how I saw myself cutting my arm and how I don’t know where that thought came from because I wasn’t even thinking about hurting myself and how I think I’m going crazy, the way Elsie is crazy, and what if I’m becoming nuts like her? I don’t tell her about my thighs, about the real cuts. And I don’t tell her about Mitch. Instead, I tell her I just need to calm my head and make things quiet for a while. When my breath returns, Aunt Sharon passes me a Kleenex and gets a glass of water from the kitchen. Even though I’m not thirsty, I take it and suddenly I’m embarrassed, wishing I could lose my face in the bottom of that glass.

  “You’re not crazy,” Aunt Sharon finally says, watching me drink. “And neither is Elsie.” I lower my glass and dart a look at her. I’m surprised she’s sticking up for her.

  “I hate her,” I say.

  She smiles. “Hate’s a strong word. She’s not nuts. Well, maybe a little bit. But anyways, you’re not going to be crazy. It’s not in your blood.”

  “I feel bad for you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “To have a mother like Elsie.”

  We sit quietly for a moment. And I feel bad for saying that, because it’s not like Aunt Sharon had a choice in the matter. And besides, she is so different, with an apartment and a car and a cat.

  I take a deep breath. “You never talk about my mom.”

  Aunt Sharon’s face remains blank, but then she smiles slightly. “I didn’t know you wanted me to.”

  “Did you get along?” I ask, nestling my body into the couch.

  “Sort of. When we were young, just kids. We’d play, right? We’d dress up our dog Scratchy—”

  “The black one?”

  “Yep. In our clothes and things like that. We were different, though. You know, I was neat, your mom was messy. I hated reading, she did well at school. She got along with our dad, I didn’t. When I became a teenager, we grew apart. I moved out when I was eighteen. So I didn’t see her much after that. I didn’t see anyone, really.”

  “Did she get along with Elsie?”

  “Nobody gets along with Elsie.” Aunt Sharon pulls a purring Winky onto her lap and starts
firmly patting her head.

  “So all of us left her.” I reach out to stroke Winky’s curling tail but it slides through my fingers.

  “I guess so.”

  I think of all the things I want to ask Aunt Sharon about when she was a kid, but before I can she tosses Winky from her lap, springs from the couch, and claps her hands together, announcing, “I’m starved! Want some KD à la Sharon?”

  “Mmmm.” I smile widely, pretending I’m not bothered by the sudden change in subject. Aunt Sharon makes the best gourmet Kraft Dinner. It’s what she always brought to family gatherings. Always something different. Indian curry KD, or spicy sausage KD. She’s considered writing a cookbook, but someone told her that had already been done.

  Without another word, Aunt Sharon places the TV converter in my hand and then disappears down the hallway and into the kitchen, leaving me sitting on the couch, all awkward and unfinished. Aunt Sharon is like Elsie that way, never around long enough to talk.

  “Ta-dah!”Aunt Sharon returns to the living room with two plates heaped full of curried Kraft Dinner à la India. She motions for me to lay out a newspaper on top of the books piled on top of the coffee table. We watch her favourite show, “Judge Judy.” She slaps her thighs and bobs her shoulders up and down, thoroughly entertained by Judy’s insults unleashed at the man who trashed his fiancée’s car. “This woman’s brilliant!” she says. “Watch—she’ll just pulverize the guy.” She shoves another mouthful of curried macaroni into her mouth.

  At the commercial, she takes her napkin and wipes the sweat from her forehead. “So where will you live?” she asks. I feel my face go hot and red, and then I pull one leg up between us and hug it to my chest. Truth is, I just assumed I’d crash here a bit, until I got a job and an apartment, but now I realize that it’s just too small and Aunt Sharon probably wouldn’t want a teenager in her way.

  “I don’t know.” I shrug my shoulders. “I’m working that out.”

  “I’d ask you to stay but, you know—”

  “Yeah,” I say, not wanting her to finish the sentence.

  “Well, we’ll figure out something. You can stay here tonight,” she says, slapping my knee. I feel like I should say something, but my mind is blank, so I get up and grab my schoolbag, reach down to the bottom, and pull out the crumpled papers that Mr. Hensley gave me.

  “My guidance teacher gave me these,” I say, extending the wrinkled sheets.

  She scans the papers with a careful eye.“Hmmm”—she points midway down the paper—“I know a woman who works at Delcare Group Home. I’ll give her a call tomorrow.”

  Aunt Sharon inflates an air mattress and puts it in the hallway, in between the living room and the kitchen. When I crawl into the bed, she leans down to check if my mattress is firm enough. “You used to love Elsie,” she says, pulling the duvet up close to my chin and then tucking it in around my feet.

  “I never loved her,” I say. “I was just a kid. You think you love everything when you’re a kid.”

  But she’s right, I do remember thinking I loved Elsie. A long time ago. But it was a different kind of love. I had gerbils once, about ten of them. They just kept getting pregnant. And sometimes I’d find the mother in the cage, eating one of her own babies. It was disgusting. And the thing is, when she took the first few bites, you could tell the baby thought the mother was just nuzzling it. Even when I tried to move the baby away, it would just crawl back to its mother. And you could tell that, even when it was happening, the baby still held this crazy faith in its mother’s gnawing teeth.

  In the morning I hear my mother’s voice. She’s saying my name—Snow—soft, like whispered kisses in my ear. Snow. I roll my body onto its side, skin sticking to plastic as I float on the air mattress down a blue ocean carpet. I slide my hand down to my thighs, fingertips tracing the three rough-lined scabs. I carefully pick at the dried blood, flicking the scabby testimonies of craziness into the sheets. “Snow.” I hear my name again. Only now I realize the voice is not my mother’s, it’s Aunt Sharon. She is talking to Brenda, her social worker friend. She is desperately trying to find a place to leave me, as if my very presence in her apartment makes her uneasy.

  “Great,” Aunt Sharon says enthusiastically. “Snow will be ready to go tomorrow.”

  In some cultures you are given a name only after you have lived long enough to earn it. In other cultures, you grow into your name the way a snail grows to the size of its shell.

  “She called you Snow because it’s beautiful and mysterious,” Elsie said, compelled to explain because it’s what everyone asked. But I could tell Elsie didn’t approve and, in some small way, that made me happy. Such an interesting name, people would say in a way that was more like a question, and I’d proudly explain a poetic mother who dressed like a gypsy and had a passionate longing for the exotic.

  I lie on my inflatable mattress and imagine my mother choosing this name. I imagine her at a library, with wood panelling and ceiling-high shelves, perhaps scanning a thick book on mythology or Celtic literature or modern science. I picture a woman with a round face and long fingernails and expensive socks. I imagine her arguments with Elsie, who couldn’t possibly understand the breadth of a name.

  My mother gave me a puzzle, a destiny I’m to figure out. And I’m determined to find my meaning. My high school science projects are on things like the James Bay Project, flash floods, and avalanches. At university I’m going to study Earth sciences. I’ll study hydrothermal systems, glaciers and glaciation, oceans, hot springs, and geysers in New Zealand. One day, the epiphany will strike me: something someone says, a line I read in a book, a textbook photo. Suddenly, in one small moment, I’ll understand my purpose. At least I have a choice of matters: solid, liquid, or gas.

  TWO

  • •

  6

  I saw you for the first time today. A tiny, thin blue line. Just millimetres long, yet the biggest thing I could ever imagine.

  Positive.

  I think how strange a word to first associate you with: positive. I rip open another package and dip the plastic dispenser in the urine cup. Again, a thin blue line and again and again. I frantically search for the second line, the negative. I wonder, hope, the Tylenol I had last night may have affected the results. I try four more times with the packages I stole from the drugstore, slipping them in my knapsack while all the time smiling at the stock boy who was staring up my skirt.

  A fist pounds on the bathroom door; metal bangles grate my ears. “Hurry up!”

  I ignore the command. Jasmyn can wait this morning. I whip the last empty package against the wall; its weightless flight is unsatisfying. Sitting down on the toilet seat cover, I feel pain in my stomach and wonder if that’s you. Then, I think, That’s my second word to associate with you: pain.

  The fist pounds again, so hard this time the mirror vibrates.

  “Fuck off!” I hurl the words at the door.

  “Snow?” Jasmyn’s response is one more of surprise than anger.

  “Fuck off, I said!” And there is silence. Jasmyn knows I never swear, except when it’s absolutely essential. When I need a word to bite; to actually feel sound as teeth scrape my lower lip.

  I stare with disbelief at the small white stick and close my eyes, promise aloud that if the results change in the next five seconds, I will never have sex again. Then peeking through the slit of my right eye I add another promise: I will never smoke again. I try this a few more times, thinking of all the sinful things I do, but nothing changes. I collect the wrappers and boxes into a plastic bag and tuck it in under my towel, concluding that it’s probably a mistake, because I used condoms almost every time. I open the door. Jasmyn’s crossed-arm body blocks my way, her mouth squeezed tight and pushed to the side. Our eyes lock and I know she is registering the hairline crack that, if touched, will implode me. I brush by her. She doesn’t move out of the way, or retaliate, but absorbs my shove instead. It will fuel her. She will transfer it to someone else later on toda
y.

  I met my roommate, Jasmyn, on my first day at the Delcare group home three weeks ago. She was assigned to show me around the house, something she did begrudgingly, ensuring I knew it was the last thing in the world she wanted to do. I followed her toned body squeezed into a black dress, the impatient click-click of her fake red nails tapping on walls when I paused too long. She barely mustered the energy to flick a finger in the direction of closed doors. “There’s a bathroom down there, but it don’t have no shower, only a toilet, and that room got air conditioning, but you only get it if you have asthma.” After showing me only the top floor, we skipped the second and the main levels, down the back stairs, and ended up in the gravel backyard spotted with weeds and overgrown bushes. Jasmyn lit a smoke and leaned against the rotting picnic table.

  “Your name’s Snow,” she questioned, flicking her ashes in my direction, “as in Snow White?”

  “No. Snow, as in Snow,” I said firmly, my arms fumbling around for somewhere to be. I was unsure if she was messing with my mind, trying to make some black-and-white point. Even though she looked mostly white, her coarse black hair and dark eyes told me she wasn’t. And the Jamaican flag tattoo on her right shoulder blade told me she didn’t want to be.

  “Eh, Snow White,” she said. “It’s tradition to give your tour guide payment, like a pack of smokes, good ones. If you don’t, I’ll stash weed in your bag and get you kicked out by tomorrow.” She firmly exhaled smoke in my face.

  “It’s Snow,” I said, my blood boiling. “Call me that again and I’ll kick your ass.” I regretted the words the second they came flying out of my mouth, because I could tell that Jasmyn was one of those girls who wanted to start something for the pure pleasure of it.