Scarborough Read online

  SCARBOROUGH

  Copyright © 2017 by Catherine Hernandez

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any part by any means—graphic, electronic, or mechanical—without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may use brief excerpts in a review, or in the case of photocopying in Canada, a license from Access Copyright.

  ARSENAL PULP PRESS

  Suite 202 – 211 East Georgia St.

  Vancouver, BC V6A 1Z6

  Canada

  arsenalpulp.com

  The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the British Columbia Arts Council for its publishing program, and the Government of Canada (through the Canada Book Fund) and the Government of British Columbia (through the Book Publishing Tax Credit Program) for its publishing activities.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to persons either living or deceased is purely coincidental.

  Cover and text design by Oliver McPartlin

  Cover photo by Matthew Henry

  Back cover photo by WanderingToronto

  Edited by Robyn So

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication:

  Hernandez, Catherine, 1977-, author

  Scarborough / Catherine Hernandez.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-55152-678-2 (ebook).

  I. Title.

  PS8615.E75S23 2017

  C813’.6

  C2017-901407-2

  C2017-901408-0

  CONTENTS

  LAURA

  PART ONE: FALL

  SYLVIE

  BING

  CORY

  LAURA

  BING

  SYLVIE

  CORY

  LAURA

  BING

  PART TWO: WINTER

  SYLVIE

  BING

  CORY

  LAURA

  MS HINA

  SYLVIE

  MICHELLE

  CINDY

  WINSUM

  CLIVE

  CLARA

  BING

  VICTOR

  LADY

  IVANA

  BING

  PART THREE: SPRING

  BING

  SYLVIE

  EDNA

  BING

  MARIE

  PART FOUR: SUMMER

  SYLVIE

  LAURA

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  I was fifteen. You were four.

  I taught you drama in a Scarborough community centre.

  You were surviving neglect.

  Wherever you are, I hope you are safe

  and know I loved you enough to write you this book.

  To all the Scarborough girls

  who dreamt of embraces

  who, like my sister and so many

  only found gold in his teeth but not in his heart

  felt the brass on his knuckles

  but not the tender caress of his palm

  who never felt the fall of rain

  but rejoiced in the fall of freshly ironed, blood-stained bills

  To all my east end women

  who lick the pastry of beef patties from between their teeth

  and walk in rhythm to the music from each store in the strip mall

  who know the song of new nails

  the acrylics biting into our hands as we spin and make the pole

  squeak the squeal of money earned

  To all of my sisters who have pushed powder for baby formula

  riding the wave of how much and how come and how long and how

  will we

  and feeling the cold tile of Warden Station against our fingertips and

  against the back of our thighs

  To all the young mothers who carry the weight of twenty-dollar

  strollers aboard the bus to their next wish

  praying each time we peek at the stillness of the water between coats

  and between stops

  bowing our heads low when the po pass

  singing echoes through graffiti-kissed tunnels

  guarding our spliffs from the harsh wind, dandelions by our hearts

  I see you.

  LAURA

  I am standing just close enough to Mommy, until she begins to speak to me. I don’t understand what she’s saying, but I know better than to ask her to say it again.

  She puts two plastic bags on the floor. She opens them up the way you open up socks so your foot can fit in. They look like two circles. I watch.

  Mommy begins putting things into the circles. Whatever she can reach with her arms. Her hair is over her eyes, and I don’t know if she can even see what she’s reaching for. I want to help her, but I don’t know why she’s doing this.

  “You’re going to your dad’s.”

  I look up to the wall behind Mommy’s head, to see if I can picture his face in my mind, but I can’t remember it. I’m not sure if I’m excited. Maybe Daddy has snacks.

  “Get all your things. We’re leaving.”

  I see Mommy has packed a bag, too. I run to my Mama Duck paper cut-outs on the windowsill. I gather Mama Duck and all her ducklings into my hand and carefully walk to the two plastic bag circles. Mommy slaps my hands, and I watch the yellow paper cut-outs fall to the floor.

  “Not those. Stop it! Go get your clothes.”

  I search the floor for my clothes. But all I can see are the yellow paper cut-outs of Mama Duck and her babies. What will they do without me?

  Mommy slaps the back of my head, and my cheeks get hot.

  “Get your fucking clothes.”

  I find my underwear in the hamper where I put it to get clean. I find my leggings under the kitchen table where I played house, then fell asleep. I find two shirts in the tub, where I rinsed them. They are still kind of damp. Mommy says there’s no time to dry them.

  I put the clothes into the plastic bag circles. Mommy rolls them back out and up so they hold things. She points to my jacket. I place it upside down on the floor like I always do, because it’s easier to put on. I put my arms into the arm holes and flip it over my head. One, two, flipperoo. Mommy helps me with the zipper.

  “Hurry the hell up.”

  She takes the plastic bags and ties one to each of my wrists. She makes fists of my hands around the handles. She kneels in front of me and wipes her hair from her face so that I can see her eyes. I haven’t seen her eyes in a long time.

  “Do not let go of these, got it?” I nod. “We have to be like little mice, Laura. When we leave, we have to whisper until we’re outside. You understand?” I nod.

  She gets her big bag and puts it on her shoulder. It looks heavy. Maybe Daddy is far away.

  Mommy looks back into the apartment and turns off the lights. We open the door. Mommy puts her finger to her mouth to remind me to be quiet.

  We step over all the coloured paper that has been left outside our door. Mommy lifts her feet up and down softly, like she’s creeping up behind someone.

  I see her reach into her pocket, and she pulls out a silver key. She places it on a table inside the apartment, then closes the door silently.

  Across the hall, Mrs Kamal opens her door. Mommy freezes. Mrs Kamal looks at me, then looks at Mommy. They stare at each other for a long time. Mr Kamal calls from inside. Mrs Kamal says something back to him, then reaches for a pair of boots she left to dry in the hallway. I want to tell her so badly that I am going to see my daddy. That he is going to have snacks. And to tell her thank you. But Mrs Kamal is looking down at the boots in her hand, pretending she can’t see us.

  We take the back stairwell down to the rear door. It is almost night. The wi
nd rushes through the leaves of the trees, and it sounds like they’re clapping at me. Like the wind is saying something. I want to stay and listen, but Mommy brings my hood up over my ears.

  “Come on,” she says. “We’re going for a ride.”

  Ontario Reads Literacy Program

  221 Harbord Square

  Toronto, Ontario

  June 6, 2011

  Ms Hina Hassani

  242 Celeste Court

  Toronto, Ontario

  Dear Hina,

  We are pleased to offer you the position of Program Facilitator at the Rouge Hill Public School location of the Ontario Reads Literacy Program. It was a unanimous decision by the board members, based on the resounding success of the Toronto Young Fathers in Action Centre in Rexdale, under your guidance. This position will commence on August 20, 2011, to allow you to prepare for the beginning of the school year on September 6, 2011.

  As you are well aware, the Ontario Reads Literacy Program is a provincial initiative to prepare children for scholastic success and to encourage families to be a part of their children’s learning by

  •fostering and cultivating skills in literacy and numeracy through stories, music, reading, and playing;

  •teaching caregivers and parents ways to engage in their children’s learning through song, dance, and basic play;

  •providing a lending library of books in different languages so parents can read to their children in their first language;

  •sharing amongst community members songs and stories of different cultures during storytime;

  •building community and camaraderie through clothing, book, and food exchanges;

  •spending time with other children and their families;

  •providing space to be active and access to a wide variety of toys that low-income families may not otherwise have;

  •linking families with appropriate community resources for special needs, health, and other related services;

  •promoting healthy eating with daily provisions of snacks;

  •giving children the opportunity to adjust to scholastic life by establishing locations within local schools.

  As a facilitator at the Rouge Hill Public School location, you will work closely with children from infants up to ten years of age. You will be joining a league of facilitators who head 203 centres located across the province and who uphold the standards by which the Ontario Reads Literacy Program prepares children for scholastic success while building community.

  That said, each location is vastly different. While facilitators are expected to adhere to operation policies, factors such as socioeconomic barriers and concentrations of various cultures will give each centre its own energy. As you know, outreach takes time and trust. In time, you will most certainly build relationships and familiarize yourself with your community’s members, elders, and children. We are confident, given your experience at the Rexdale Toronto Young Fathers in Action Centre, that you possess the skills to outreach effectively to the Kingston/Galloway area of Scarborough.

  Please find enclosed our welcome package, including a staff directory, union guidelines, budget allocation sheets, and attendance/registration forms.

  Congratulations, and welcome to our team.

  Sincerely,

  Geraldine McDonough

  Executive Director, Ontario Reads Literacy Program

  PART ONE

  FALL

  The black flies have come early this year and have bitten away all the beachcombers along the mouth of the Rouge River. Grandfather Heron watches amongst the reeds before silently flying to his hiding place.

  At the corner of Lawson and Centennial Roads

  With shadows long from an early sunset, the gals at the Pampered Paws nail salon close up shop. It has been a long day of thirty-dollar pedicures.

  At Kennedy Station

  Just a month ago, this joint was full of festivalgoers in their Caribana finery heading downtown. Now the wind blows a fierce warning of a dark season to come.

  SYLVIE

  Mama forced me into double-time walking, which I didn’t mind because I was wearing my favourite dark brown corduroys. She said each one of her steps equalled two of mine, which meant I had to walk twice as fast. Mama wanted to make it to the shelter before five o’clock so that she could have the kitchen in peace. She had scored a can of beef gravy and a box of Hamburger Helper at the food bank, but in order to brown the meat properly she had to call dibs on the better stovetop and the better frying pan before Mrs Abdul “took over the whole goddamn show.”

  I couldn’t hear much of Mama’s complaining and nagging over the vrip, vrip, vrip of my corduroy inner thighs, and that suited me just fine. I’m kind of tired of listening to her talk about Johnny this and Johnny that. See, at first it seemed my little brother was gifted, being such a good climber and so good at picking locks, undoing zippers, clicking buckles in and out, running down the hallway. But when Mama noticed he did all of this to the tune of his constant humming, she knew she had to bring him to the walk-in clinic.

  “Can I have his health card, please?” the receptionist asked. Mama nudged me and pointed to her bulky black purse under Johnny’s stroller. I grabbed it and tried to lift it to her. It sure was heavy.

  “Thank you, sweet girl.” Mama patted me on the head. While we waited for the receptionist to check Johnny’s health card, I hung on the counter like a monkey. “Get your hands off the counter, you silly goose!” I did what I was told, having gone from a sweet girl to a silly goose with one mistake.

  The receptionist handed Mama a clipboard with a form on it. “Go ahead and have a seat. Just fill this out, and hand it to me when you’re done.” She suddenly turned to a shirtless man coming out of a room, the sounds of a toilet flushing behind him. He was zipping up his jeans. Her lips pursed. We stood frozen, not knowing what to do.

  “Did you speak to the doctor yet, nurse?”

  “Yes. And he says he cannot give you a prescription for that. Narcotics are not prescribed here.”

  “You know what? I’m here to get medication for my anxiety, okay!?” He began to pace the waiting room. “And you not giving me what I want is giving me more anxiety!”

  “Sir. I am going to need you to calm down.” The receptionist put her hand on the desk phone, like a threat.

  He had a look on his face, like he knew something clever. Like he knew he was about to put all his cards down playing Go Fish. “What you’re doing is against the hypothetical oath! I’m going to call my lawyers right now!” He dug into his pockets and found his cellphone.

  “Sir! There are no cellphones allowed in the clinic.”

  He threw his hands into the air. “Aw, fuck! Fuck you all.” He slammed the door as he left.

  We took our place in the U-shaped seating area.

  “See, Mama? I told you I shouldn’t have come. Now I’ve missed Indian Taco Day at school.”

  “Oh, enough! You don’t understand how tricky it is, Sylvie,” Mama explained. “We gotta get in the clinic between noon and four to avoid the lineups. No fry bread for you right now, but you can wait until next time. Jeez.” She nudged me and pointed at a copy of Chatelaine magazine sitting on the coffee table. I fetched it for her. She patted me on the head. “Thanks, sweet girl.” I shook my head.

  We sat in that waiting room for two whole hours. I watched a boy crawl underneath the coffee table and listened to him cough like he was choking on worms.

  “Parker, sit down,” said his mom in a weak voice. “Parker? Parker, please. Come on. Can you sit down for me?” The kid kept crawling on the filthy floor.

  Mama looked at me and rolled her eyes. She could write a book on parenting based on her eye rolls.

  “Parker? Why don’t you sit down and have something to drink?” The mom searched her diaper bag and pulled out a bottle of Grape-C Plus. She shook it toward him like he was a cat looking at a treat. “Come on. Sit down. Please? Parker?”

  Mama stomped her foot to get rid of her
frustration. This parenting book she was writing in her head was getting awfully thick.

  Parker finally came out from under the table, sat, and downed the pop. Then he was done sitting, so hopped up on sugar that he jumped from chair to chair and ripped out pages from outdated copies of Reader’s Digest issues piled around the seating area.

  “Uh-oh. That’s not nice, Parker. No thank you. We don’t do that. Why don’t you sit down and have a chocolate bar?”

  It was frustrating to watch—but our frustration was only just beginning.

  “I think he’s got a problem,” Mama said to the doctor when we were finally called in.

  His eyes never left his prescription pad as he avoided eye contact with the Native woman before him—her hair, like brushed-out wool, hanging to her hips and framing her slightly bucked teeth, her accent as undulating as the East Coast landscape she came from.

  “He’s three, but he doesn’t say much, and the rest of the time, he’s humming to himself.”

  “Lots of kids sing to themselves, Miss Beaudoin.”

  “You don’t understand. He doesn’t even look you in the eye when you’re talking to him. He’ll put anything in his mouth. I even threw a ball at him so’s I could see his reaction. He didn’t even raise his arms to protect his face. It was a soft ball, eh. Nothing hard, mind you. I just know there’s something wrong.”

  It was too painful to watch my mother being ignored, so I took some tongue depressors from the counter and began making a fort with them. Johnny, of course, smashed my creation. Mama pried the sticks from Johnny’s hands and put them back on the counter. The doctor eyed the dirty tongue depressors and sighed.

  Someone knocked on the door, and the doctor wheeled his stool toward it. He opened the door just a crack and began whispering to the receptionist on the other side.

  “He’s back, doctor.”

  “Well, what did you tell him?”

  “What I told him last time. That we don’t prescribe narcotics.”

  “And?”

  “He’s threatening to sue us.”

  “He can’t sue us for not doling out oxycodone at a walk-in clinic.”