Thursday, November 3, 2005

j. She was eleven at the time. Gawky eleven. Long hair pulled back in a messy braid with caramel strands dancing idly on her cheeks or waving like spider legs in the breeze. I remember her freckles, the dusty slate-coloured eyes, and the crooked front tooth that made an otherwise normal smile memorable. She was the kind of kid who was never aware of the volume of her voice, the reach of her limbs, or the top of her head. She was covered in bruises from head to toe -- some from soccer, some from volleyball, and some because she could not keep track of where she began and where she ended. I felt kinship with her in that, for sure; we comiserated over bumped heads and jammed fingers and scraped shins. She had the bunk above mine -- by default, mind you, since no eleven year old goes to summer camp to sleep above her counsellor's bed on purpose. What kind of mischief could she possibly get into up there with nasty old Meg listening in? But she took it in her stride. And so we were roomies. Her salty-smelling beach towel hung pungently near my head for the majority of the week and she fidgeted in her sleep almost relentlessly, causing the bunk frame to creak like old stairs. I took a cue from her grace, though, and never said a word about either thing. She came with two friends and they were thick as thieves -- we called them Charlie's Angels because there was a blonde and a brunette to round out the trio. All sporty, all funny, all affable. I loved them. My job could not have been more easy. We'd sing songs that echoed off the tiles in the bathroom. We'd eat Oreos in sleeping bags under the stars. They would let me listen in on how they were processing the whole big world -- their stories and thoughts and ideas were as big as the August moon and as wild as the owl's call from the big tree down the hill. I was the envy of the other staff; even the girls filling up the rest of the bunks seemed to have that same balance of goofiness and eagerness and peacefulness that the Angels did. They loved being together. My cabin the week before had been the antithesis of this one: a coterie of difficult, secretive, whispering girls who had relentlessy bullied another small, shivery girl in their midst. I'd spent more time lecturing than announcing marvelous new afternoon plans or directing sneakouts, and that was not the job I'd signed up for. And the sting of their casual victimization was too familiar, too recent, too much like words I'd heard before with my own name replacing hers. I could almost feel myself slipping behind their object's eyes at times, experiencing the jeers and whispers and gestures all over again. But this week was a break. They were a break. They let me be as effortless as they were. J. was the real prize, though. She made me laugh until I was wheezing. She'd stumble over the same roots as I would on the path to the waterfront. She'd sing songs even when she didn't know the words. One day, all ten of us were sitting around talking. My shy assistant counsellor had even found her voice by this point and was telling a story about her cat falling into a neighbour's swimming pool. We were giggling at her animated impressions of the spitting and yowling, and got to telling as many pet stories of our own as we could remember. I told them about Raisin the dog, Babykins the kitten, Miff Cooper the hamster -- my whole history of furry friends. But she didn't have any pets, J. said, when we turned to ask her for tales. Not a goldfish? No. No cat or dog? No. Turtle? Nope. Pet rock? Pet rock? No. They're too hard to take care of. I grinned because she was too young to get the joke on one level but perfectly able to on another -- that line! Yes! I didn't even bother to tell them of the 70's craze. "So, J... tell us something else fun about your house then, if you have no critters about." She frowned at my question and her hair fell in her eyes. Her hands tugged at one another in her lap. "Well, we're not so interesting. It's not a really fun house like that. We're all just... average people." "Nothing silly at all? No one sleepwalks or drinks milk from the carton or eats bugs?" "No -- there's never anything to say. Usually, it's pretty quiet." She was solemn for a moment, and then added the caveat with a grin: "That is, unless the elephants in the basement wake up. Then life changes in a BIG way!" Everyone giggled but I felt an odd charge up my spine. It was such a sudden change in the atmosphere that I stood up immediately and wanted to go outside. But instead I just wandered idly to my bed that smelled of J.'s ocean-soaked towel and fiddled about with something, anything, until one by one, the girls went about doing other things. Suddenly I was watching J. closely, but for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why. It's not like this was the first time I'd ever heard an adolescent describe her parents or her home or her life as boring. But there was an irony in her words that was years older and degrees colder. But I didn't press it. I just kept my eyes open and my heart dangling off my sleeve to inspire trust if it might end up being needed. And sure enough, it was in a similar hang-out, silly conversation the next day that she blurted out six words I don't think I'd ever choose to hear again. "My dad hits me, you know." What? Was that a joke? Who just comes out and says that in the middle of a conversation about favourite bands? Who says that in front of a roomful of people you didn't know four days before? Does anyone say that outside of afterschool specials? I was immediately red in the face, but I didn't want to be. I wanted to know what the right thing to do in that second was. I wanted to know why she'd given us this. Given me this. Her blue eyes were no brighter, no less bright. Those messy strands were absolutely still on her cheek. Then she got up and walked outside and the room took a big breath of air and propelled me outside behind her. I did not speak, I only listened. For two hours I listened and it was horrible but I didn't take my eyes off her because who could? This was something I'd expected from the poor bullied soul the week previous but she had the greatest home life on the books. Other girls were her problem. J. looked charmed from every angle. And suddenly I realized -- if no one ever suspects a thing, if you look fine, when does anyone ever give you the chance to tell that those bruises weren't all stairs and coffee tables and field hockey sticks? You literally have to snap people out of their reverie to get what you need. And when you do, what if they don't like what they see? What if they don't listen? What if they don't get what the first sentence means and you can never find another one? So J. got it all out at once, in six words. I reported her stories on the phone to a nice man that evening who told me he would keep in touch, as I told J. I was required to do. She'd begged me not to for a second, but resigned herself to it quickly enough. She was more worried about what her mom would do, since they depended on her dad for income. She was forcing herself to be practical. To deal with the consequences of the desperate decision to admit everything at the worst and best time. The other girls did not press her on the issue as the week went on, choosing only to offer hugs. The other two Angels -- who surely knew already -- hovered closely around her just in case. I was sure they would do the same for her when they went home. As much as I ached for her, I knew by sight that she did have love from a couple other people in the universe. I knew she'd be okay. Things would change. She would finally have the chance to be as effortless and free as she'd seemed at first. She was one of dozens I reported, and any actual identifying details of J. or the case itself are not shared here -- or changed completely, of course. Only I remember her, only I know who I am speaking of. And it should have ended there, should have been a problem solved, should have been ancient history. But J.'s father was not apprehended. I only learned that a year later when her two friends came to camp without her. In these days when my life is caught up in doing things for me... In these days when I am self-indulgent and selfish and self-pitying... When I cry at half-pains and stress about half-stresses... When I do what I do because it is what I am good at and I love it but it asks for something so different from the way I used to use my heart... When I remember J. and the one who came home to find his family had moved, and the one who went to prison for defending himself against his father, and the one with the angry red crayon in her fist, and the one who ran through the woods screaming for hours because he thought he could lose the demons somewhere in the dark... All I can do is keep my eyes open and wait for the elephants to wake. 12:59:29 AM    well, yes, but...  []

© Copyright 2006 Meg Fowler. Last update: 3/4/06; 2:29:45 PM.