Breaking Faith Page 3

  “See you next weekend,” Connie said to us. “Right, Gran Josie?”

  Josie nodded. She did come get us again. This time we went to the movies. I loved the weekends with Gran Josephine. But later on that third week, Josephine called and talked to Gran Dot—she said that Connie had head lice and told Gran Dot to check our heads. Josie said we wouldn’t be allowed to go there again until we were “treated.” I had had head lice twice before—we all did. The only silver lining to getting head lice in the summer is that you don’t have to do the walk of shame in front of your classmates once the nurses check your head. I’ve been there, and let me tell you: You want the earth to open up right then and there and swallow you whole.

  The summer passed with painful slowness and with me, as usual, avoiding eye contact with the Blood Porch. Mom drifted back to Greenleigh during the summer to see us at irregular intervals. She was sad that Constance stayed with Josephine up in Irony Heights and not with us, but she understood the rationale—and she tried to make us understand, too.

  Months rolled by like waves on the lake, summer to fall, winter to spring and summer again. I grew up living for the visits from my mom and Connie, and clinging to Destiny as my last connection to family. I rebelled against my Gran Dot (as much as a kid could rebel), after which she would yell at me and sometimes throw things. When this happened, I had learned to threaten her with the possibility of telling on her at school. She didn’t like that much, but it did rein her in a bit.

  The few friends I made on Danziger Crescent came and went like the months and the waves, our neighborhood residents usually being transient. In school, I became more and more the oddball child, with a detached disposition, hardly smiling, hardly focused.

  ...

  In grade five, my last year in elementary school, I learned how truly cruel kids could be to anyone who was different. Until then, being clean or clever had never really mattered much. Not having the nicest clothes didn’t matter that much either, but a few months passed and it was like throwing a light switch. The girls became mean and cliquey, and the boys just got dumber.

  At Christmastime, we had an especially long visit with Mom, and Connie stayed the entire time. Being all together on Christmas Eve, I felt happy and secure, like I used to feel. Though Mom was looking thin, her features sunken, I pretended not to notice. My heart gave way to the actual feeling of happiness.

  I took full advantage of nagging Momma mercilessly about Connie being away, and she tried to explain it to me in terms a child could understand. “See, it’s like Josephine is her closest living adult relative besides me, next to Gran Dot. Except Josephine is all by herself, get it?” I nodded my acknowledgment, but deep inside I still couldn’t reconcile the fact that she had left.

  Before I knew it, school began again, with its lonely days filled with hundreds of children, my glumly disengaged self, warding off even the most well-intentioned child. Without Connie to confide in, there were just too many thoughts in my head taking up space. I had no room to fit math or literacy or social studies in there, too.

  Still, I held out hope that Momma would come back home. As early as February, I would dash to the front porch, yet again, and stick my head over the railing as I did every spring. I prayed that I would see the crocus’s delicate buds sprouting into the sunshine. Then one morning in March, I saw the tip of its little shoot appearing determinedly out of the dark earth, still surrounded by the last of the slushy snow.

  We hadn’t seen Mom since Christmas.

  “Des!” I screamed and ran back in the house. “Destiny—it’s the crocus, it’s growing—come and see!”

  Des, her face bright, ran from the kitchen and stood on tiptoes to look over the railing. I had done nothing but remind her about Mom’s promise for weeks.

  “Mom’s coming soon!” We danced around the front porch like we had just won the lottery. Hearing all the ruckus, Gran came out to see what had brought on the jubilation.

  “The crocus is growing, Gran. Mom said she would come and take us with her to Toronto, remember? Maybe this year she will!”

  Gran Dot smiled and patted our heads. “Keep lookin’ out for Mom,” she said and turned to go back inside.

  “Gran, can you call Mom and ask her when she’s coming? Please?” Gran looked back at me and then plodded to the phone, with Des and I in her wake. She dialed, waited, and then put the phone to my ear. I listened as it rang and rang. No one answered.

  “Tomorrow I’ll try again,” she said. “I’ll call during the day—she may be able to answer if it’s earlier.” Not being sure what that meant, I just nodded.

  “Thanks, Gran,” was all I said.

  The memories of childhood meld together to form the tapestry of our lives. It is what makes us the people we are, we are told. But are we the product of a string of events placed in chronological order, or are we instead the sum of our reactions to those experiences?

  That question has hounded me for years, and I still don’t have the answer. Often, I’ve thought that maybe, just maybe, I don’t want to know.

  Chapter 5

  That last spring in elementary school, I was especially anxious. I shuddered to think of what my days would be like next September, going to middle school and having older intimidating kids in grades seven and eight around me. I begged the one I called the Ultimate Being to help Gran get through to Mom so that I could move to Toronto, and go to a new school where the kids didn’t know anything about me. I figured I could make up stuff about where my dad was and where my sister was, instead of people asking me all the time if it was true that Connie had gone to live with her rich grandmother.

  Feelings of isolation were common to me on a daily basis, but the worst parts of the day were the bus rides to and from school. The cool kids from the crescent never wanted me to sit beside them—sometimes they would whisper and pull their hats down over their faces as I walked by, holding Des’s hand. Or they would look at me in their peripheral vision and then smile knowingly to the kids in the seat next to them. I knew they were sharing opinions about my weirdness, and I wished that I could scream it out to them, but I didn’t dare, until today. The bus ride home that day was another notch on my belt of unforgettable moments in my life.

  It started out as usual—shouts, yells, and warnings from Mr. Mel, the bus driver—but I was too excited to care. I was in a rush to get home so Gran could tell me what she had found out about Mom.

  Destiny was seated by the window, and I was beside her. Across the aisle sat Jake, at the window, and his sister, Annie, who was across the aisle from me. Everyone on the bus was from our low-income, subsidized-housing complex where there was a mix of people from all over the world. Sometimes Mr. Mel would joke and call us the United Nations bus.

  “What are you doing later, Faith?” asks Annie. Her voice has a distinct hint of sarcasm; this in and of itself doesn’t surprise me. She is one of the girls who likes to whisper about others when they walk by. Annie has that down to a science. She whispers at the precise moment when you just get past her but are still able to see her cover her mouth and move closer to her best friend’s ear, and still within earshot to hear the whispers, which are always mean. I don’t think she likes me much, because my Gran once yelled at her mom about the head lice, and not too long afterward, Annie’s long red hair had been cut to a short crop. But, despite knowing that Annie blames me for this, I don’t hesitate to share my hopes for the evening.

  “My gran promised to call my mom today to tell her about the crocus in the front yard. It’s growing.” I perk up and smile at her, satisfied that I can say something—anything—about my mother.

  “So?” she responds with a grimace.

  “So, my mom promised that she would come back, no matter what, when that flower sprouts in the springtime.”

  Annie glares at me with a sarcastic grimace. “Why do you care so much about a stupid flower?”

/>   “It’s my mom’s favorite flower. She chose it for us—to help us remember that she would move us to Toronto with her soon.” I don’t clarify that it has been years since she made that promise.

  Annie thinks about this for a moment or two. Then her eyes narrow and she goes in for the kill. “My mom says that your mom is doing bad things with men in Toronto. And that she’s taking drugs.” Her words course from her mouth like searing, burning poison. They settle into my brain and burrow themselves there forever.

  I watch her turn her face away from me to face the front of the bus, as if in slow motion. I watch every frame, noting every nuance of her movement. Her short hair bounces against her cheek, and her cheap, ugly dangly earrings clink against her neck. Then I watch her take a deep breath as she sets her eyes triumphantly to the top of another kid’s head, straight in front of her.

  I can’t think of how to respond to her. The callous comments of that ignorant little shit hurt like so many pointed pins being shoved into my cheeks. I can feel my face go red, and the rage seethes in my stomach until, as sure as the sun comes up in the morning, it rises up to my chest and hits the back of my throat—and that’s when I go ballistic.

  I scream with a voice I don’t recognize. It’s a scream from way back when people still lived in caves and couldn’t verbalize their anger. Then, with equal fervor, I pounce on Annie from across the aisle and slap her with open palms, over and over.

  “You mean, ugly, short-haired bitch!” I snarl through clenched teeth. It feels good to say the words, and to let her feel the full force of my fury.

  Annie covers her face, and starts hollering for help with screams that are equally primal. “Ahh! Make her stop! She’s killing me!” But nobody does. They are all in shock at the ugly scene that is playing out. After a few strategically placed smacks and carefully chosen words on my part, a couple of kids finally move.

  “No, Faith!” yells Destiny, her voice sounding small against the bedlam.

  “Stop!” Someone grabs my hand.

  “Faith, no!” Someone else is pulling my jacket. But I am relentless. Some of the older kids are hooting, egging me on, and others move in to try to pull me off the unfeeling little witch. Then the bus suddenly halts.

  “Okay, that’s enough!” Mr. Mel thunders. “Everyone stop and sit down—now!” I have never heard his voice quite in that way before. Everyone does stop, including me.

  “What in the heck is going on there?” he says, unbuckling his seat belt and turning around. “Sit back down, all of you!”

  “Faith hit Annie!”

  “Yeah, she was slapping her!”

  “And she screamed and scared me—”

  In the midst of all the finger-pointing, Annie is crying, reveling in the attention she is getting.

  “Who was hitting who?” Mr. Mel asks, his voice softer but nonetheless upset.

  “Faith was beating Annie up,” pipes up one of the older kids in the back. “We tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  “No, you didn’t,” I say, turning to face my accuser.

  “Enough, I said,” Mr. Mel repeats. “Faith and Annie, no more. Understand? Hands off.”

  “She said something mean about my mom.” The tears pour out in a spontaneous realization that not only am I angry, but I am deeply hurt.

  “You’ll have to take it up with the principal tomorrow, Faith—I can’t do anything about it now. Just calm down, okay?” Mr. Mel buckles up again and starts for our stop.

  Destiny stares at me in stunned silence. I try to hold back my tears and manage to settle down somewhat. Annie continues to lick her wounds, glaring at me every so often until the bus reaches our stop. On the short walk home Destiny and I have to listen to Annie mumbling behind us.

  “You’re going to be in so much trouble tomorrow,” she says as she stomps up the steps to her house, nearly pulling Jake off his feet as she holds his hand.

  “Good. I’ll sit in the office away from you and all the other stupid people in the class.” I flip my ponytail and slam my front door closed behind me as soon as Des is in, glancing with a shudder at the Blood Porch.

  “You better leave her alone, Faith—she’s mean.” Des’s eyes are wide.

  “Gran!” I shout as soon as I walk in from the hall. “I can handle Annie,” I tell Des. “You just stay away from Jake and his lice or we’re gonna get yelled at by Josephine next time we visit Connie’s.” Des giggles. “Hey, let’s go talk to Gran and see when Mom is coming to get us.”

  “Okay!” Des skips along beside me as I mount the stairs. “Gran, where are you?”

  A muffled voice comes from Gran’s bedroom. “In here.” Des opens the door and we both step in. Gran Dot is getting up, her eyes red and puffy.

  “Gran, what’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Are you sick?” asks Des.

  “No, I’m not sick.” She stuffs a tissue into her sleeve. “Come here, you two. I tracked down your mom through her friend today. I didn’t talk to her personally, but she’s in a special hospital. They put her in the day before yesterday.”

  When I hear the word hospital, my world turns upside down. “Is Momma hurt?”

  “No, not hurt. She’s all right—she just needs to get better.” Gran looks like she is reaching for the right words. “See, she’s sick—a special kind of sick.”

  “Like cancer?” I feel tears coming again. I know cancer is the worst, so I have to get that out first, hoping that it will be pushed aside. Gran shakes her head vigorously.

  “No, nothing like that. She’s hurting in the head. Like, she’s sad and she took some”—Gran hesitates—“medicine, to make her feel better, but now she’s sick because of the bad medicine she took.” Now I feel anger.

  Looking back, I suppose there is some truth to the belief that there is a defining moment in one’s life that you can call the turning point. The second where you can say that an event has affected the way you view things, the way you shape your opinions, and the way you look at humanity. It may also serve to redefine your opinion of yourself and the way you see yourself in the world, the way you believe other people perceive you—or don’t. I would venture to say that this was one of them.

  “She’s on drugs, you mean. And she’s doing bad things in Toronto.That’s why she doesn’t come see us anymore.” Tears slide down my cheeks, which I quickly brush off. Gran just looks at me—she doesn’t offer open arms to comfort me, but she does roughly take my hand and Des’s and pulls us so we are sitting next to her on the bed. I can feel Des’s eyes on my face, reading my expression so she can gauge her reaction.

  We sit there for a long time. Gran’s lack of words speaks for her. Obviously, what I said was true about the drugs and the bad things. And though I’m not too sure about what the bad things are, I know that moms aren’t supposed to be doing them. Mom is supposed to be here, loving us, looking after us, and making certain that we are safe—like all the other moms do.

  “You can’t see her yet, but I need to go sign some papers. You’re gonna stay with Josephine for the next couple of days. She’s coming to pick you up, okay?”

  My heart is aching to see my mother. I can’t just let Gran go without putting up a fight. “Please, can we come?” I beg.

  “Please, Gran? I miss Mom so much,” Destiny chimes in.

  Gran shakes her head again. “Can’t do it—doctors said not this time—I won’t even get to see her for long. They need to have her to themselves for a while before letting family visit. It’s best for her. Try to understand, girls.”

  We managed to get to bed that night, me snuggling next to Des, with a multitude of thoughts running through my head. That foreboding feeling had found me again and covered my heart like black ink. I wondered what the “bad things” were, then I concluded that I didn’t really want to know because I might not be able to forgive my mother. Next I though
t about not getting into trouble tomorrow, because I wouldn’t be at school. After that, I thought about spending time with Connie—that made me happier. My last thought was that at least I could have Josephine’s strawberry pancakes for breakfast.

  ...

  We’ve been at Josie’s for almost a week. Connie and I are swaying on the porch swing when Destiny asks, “Is Momma coming home?”

  “Maybe, but it’ll be a while.” Connie forces a smile. “Hey, Des, why don’t you go and get us all a Popsicle. Red for me.”

  “Red for me, too,” I echo.

  Once Destiny disappears, Connie turns to me. The swing stops.

  “You really believe she’s gonna get better?”

  “Yeah. Why not?” What other option is there?

  “Because sometimes drug addicts don’t get better. Once you start, it’s really hard to quit.”

  Her words scare me. “Promise you’ll never leave me, Connie. We can live apart, but don’t ever leave me.” I reach my arm around and hug her tightly.

  “You’re so dumb.” She laughs softly. “How can I leave you? You’re my little sister.”

  Just then, Des comes back with the Popsicles. “Thanks, Des,” we say in unison.

  “You’re welcome,” she responds. “And Josie says that once we’re done these, we need to get our things. Gran is back from Toronto.”

  Butterflies explode in my stomach.

  The car ride back home is torture. It’s all I can do to keep from screaming hurry up! to Josie. We pull into our driveway and I can hardly wait for the car to stop, when I tear the door open and run inside.

  “Gran!” I shout as I burst into the kitchen. No one. “Gran!” I run upstairs. “Is Mom with you?”

  “No, Faith, she isn’t.” She says from the bedroom. My shoulders slump and I turn to go downstairs, the disappointment settling into my heart.

  As I plod down, the others are coming in. “What’s going on?” asks Connie.

  “Mom’s not here, only Gran Dot.”