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  “But he’s getting aggressive with me. I’m pretty sure he’s going to attack me.”

  “Fine. I’ll be out in a second.”

  The doctor turned back to Mama and sighed.

  “Let’s just say something is wrong with Johnny. What do you achieve then?” He cracked his knuckles and rubbed his hands together.

  Mama knew this was a trick question.

  “Well ... I guess then we can find the right support for him.”

  “It’s not like once you get a diagnosis for a learning disability, some specialist waves a magic wand and he’ll be healed, Miss Beaudoin. It’s a lot of work. And from what I understand of your situation, this is the least of your worries.”

  Mama’s cheeks flushed. She gently pried the otoscope from Johnny’s hands and placed it back in its wall holder.

  “My advice is to deal with one thing at a time.” The doctor was already standing with one hand on the doorknob. “Truth is, next year he’ll be in school. You can trust that a teacher will bring it up if there’s a problem. And if there is a problem, a specialist will visit the school for you.”

  “Not at this school. This school doesn’t have the time or money, doctor.”

  “Miss Beaudoin.” He took his glasses off. “I know you mentioned you’re at the Galloway Shelter. I can’t imagine how hard it is to deal with these challenges in such small quarters. But once your housing is settled and Johnny is a bit older, maybe then we can talk about assessments. There’s a lot of back and forth with specialists. A lot of booking appointments, phone calls, trips across town. Think about dealing with all of that in addition to what you’re dealing with now. Besides, I have a strong feeling he’s just a bit behind. Nothing to worry about.”

  The entire time Mama begged the fool for a referral, I thought how unfair it was that I was missing Rouge Hill Public School’s Native Taco Day. And for nothing. I pictured my grade three classmates in line in the gym, the smell of chili powder and fry bread in the air. I could see the dollops of sour cream being dropped on each of the tacos, and the shreds of cheese. Mrs Falls, with her hair net and all, would have let me into the line without a toonie, giving me a knowing wink. I could have been there. Instead, I was rushing out of a stupid walk-in clinic, hoping to catch the Number 86 Scarborough so we could be back at the shelter before five.

  At least I got to imagine the sensation of Hamburger Helper with extra gravy filling my tummy. That’s what went through my mind the entire bus ride home while I elbowed Johnny’s sleeping head off of my shoulders over and over again like a yo-yo.

  My earnest double-time walking was rewarded by the satisfying shhhhh plop of the noodles falling into the boiling water. I was asked to place the cardboard box in the recycling with the other boxes of food bank fare. All the labels looked back at me: bowls of hearty meals, steaming and smiling; a family far away who would rather have something fresh and fancy; a family far away wanting to teach their kids something about charity.

  “But what about the directions?” I asked.

  “I don’t need directions for Hamburger Helper. I’ve had enough of it in my lifetime,” Mama said before ripping open the cheese sauce packet. A cloud of crayon orange revealed ribbons of sunlight in the shelter kitchen. We giggled, it was so pretty.

  That’s when we saw Mrs Abdul by the door, giving my mama cut-eye when she saw how perfect our timing was. This made me and Mama giggle even more.

  The next morning, dust from the bottom of the cereal box got caught in my eyes. I went to school squinting one eye and then the other, just so I wouldn’t bump into anything. Mama always warned me not to act stupid, otherwise the school counsellor would bring me to her office. This counsellor, Mrs Rhodes, likes to collect brown-people things and put them up on her wall. Things like coolie hats, dashikis, masks. Next to these brown-people things are pictures of her and her sunburnt children wearing the coolie hats, dashikis, and masks. I really wanted to play with the tea set she got from Japan, but everyone warned me. Indian kids who go into that office with cereal dust in their eyes are referred to an eye doctor who diagnoses eye disease and gives you a prescription, which your parents can’t afford, and the next thing you know, Children’s Aid is all up in your parents’ business wondering why they can’t afford any medicated drops for their children’s busted-up eyes. You walk in there a kid; you walk out of there a ward of the state. You can’t trust them, coolie hat or no coolie hat.

  I crept past Mrs Rhodes’ office and into my classroom, pretending everything was right as rain. My new morning ritual involved taking my coat and backpack off right quick, hanging everything up as fast as lightning, and running like the wind to my desk. I imagined this would make it difficult for everyone in class to see I was wearing the same corduroys as yesterday. Mama works hard to ensure that we are as clean as possible, but with only three sets of clothes, National Thrift being so very far away, and a washing machine that is broken when it isn’t being hogged by Mrs Abdul, it sometimes means turning my underwear inside out. It doesn’t help that Johnny is in a phase where he eats anything off the floor. This week he really enjoyed eating markers. He barfed Crimson Red and Sky Blue all over his jacket—twice. Mama was so tired.

  One day, just after dinner, Mama had an emergency. It was the type of emergency where she was opening drawers randomly, searching for things, and begging us not to ask her any more questions. She took me by the wrist, so I knew something was really wrong. Mama always holds me by the hand, our fingers intertwined, unless there is a missing piece of the puzzle, or the pieces are fitting together all wrong. These wrong things happen often, which is why I was familiar with the feeling. These wrong things explain the Why Here and the Why Now. But they never explain the Where To or the How Will We.

  She frantically knocked on 215, the door of Mr George down the hall. He was Ojibwa and the only person that Mama both trusted and found available most times. Although Slutty Christy was super nice, Mama hated people who smoked in their room despite being steps from the shelter’s back entrance. It was against the rules, and Christy just didn’t care. At least Mr George was one of us and as harmless as an aloe plant.

  Mr George opened the door and nodded. I wasn’t sure if he was agreeing to take me for a while, or if it was the Parkinson’s. Either way, Mama pulled me inside and plopped me atop his couch, seated close enough to him to have a perfect view of the gaping hole at his throat. It was a warning to me, Mama said. Since the minute he was born, Mr George was smoking Rez cigarettes like it was his job. Those cigarettes burned right through him, making a doorway to his Adam’s apple. I often sit on his couch for hours watching his strange throat hole move around like a jelly’s mouth while he enjoys his afternoon of game shows on his old TV.

  By the time Mama came to pick me up, I was asleep in Mr George’s arms, hearing the prizes being announced on Wheel of Fortune somewhere far away in my dreams.

  I had never really heard Mr George speak in full sentences before, and now he was mumbling something to Mama.

  “I’m so sorry it took so long,” Mama said, flustered. Mr George mumbled something again and Mama responded. “Exactly. Holy shit. The emergency room was packed.”

  Mr George gave me a pat on the head, and then I could feel Mama picking me up and hoisting me into an upright position, my chin rubbing against the nub of her shoulder. I could have woken up. I could have let her arms rest. But I knew she was sad about something, and this was the best hug I would get from her today. I breathed in the smell of her antiperspirant wafting up her shirt and pretended she was hugging me back.

  She expertly placed me into my bed beside Johnny’s crib, removed my socks, and put them by the window to air out for tomorrow. Mama tucked me in as she usually did, too tightly, from my toes right up to my chin, fabric gathered around my shoulders, a pillow on either side of me. She kissed my forehead quickly and like a mouse slipped through the door and left it ajar.

  I twisted my body toward the action as much as I could despite Ma
ma’s swaddling. I watched her leave in a huff. She came back with Johnny in his stroller, sleeping and covered in a blanket. She left the room again, and came back later with Michelle, the shelter supervisor. Dad was sandwiched between them. They inched forward, looking down at their feet and in step with one another, like it was a slow dance. I could tell the weight of Dad was pulling on the long dreads down Michelle’s back because her chin was slightly cocked to one side, and her face was twisting.

  “Can you lift your foot?” Michelle said.

  My dad grunted.

  “Marie, can you open the door a bit wider? Perfect. I’m going to hold your elbow right here, Jonathon. Okay, good. We’re clear of that door.”

  “You got the keys, Michelle?”

  “In my pocket.”

  They inched forward. Dad’s neck was in a brace. He moaned with his mouth open at every movement.

  “Jonathon, Marie. The couch is right behind you. We are going to do this together. Get your bum down right here.”

  “You think this is a good place to put him?”

  “It’ll have to do. Okay. Can you get that pillow over there, Marie? No, the bigger one. We can elevate his legs a bit.”

  One long moan, and my dad was in his spot. It would remain his spot for several weeks.

  Michelle turned on the living room lamp to assess the situation. She looked around. My mama and dad were on the couch, tired and hungry, glad for quiet.

  “Okay, Marie. This is what I’m going to do. I can see if Mrs Abdul is willing to trade suites with you so that you can be on the ground floor.”

  “She won’t do that. Not for us.”

  “Well, let’s see. Jonathon can barely walk, let alone make it to the elevator, even with two people helping him.” Michelle noticed my mama frowning, figuring things out in her head. “Tonight you sleep. Can you promise me that?”

  “I’ll try.” Mama didn’t have the strength to laugh, but she managed to give Michelle a goofy smile.

  Michelle giggled a little. “At least you get the bed to yourself. Think about that. I even envy you right now.” She made that sound she usually makes, sucking air through the gap in her front teeth when she disapproves of something.

  Mama smiled weakly. “I think I’ll probably sleep here on the couch. I’m too scared.”

  “I hear you, I hear you.” Michelle placed a hand on Mama’s shoulder, which melted at the touch. “You are a good mother and wife, Marie.”

  Michelle left. There was a long silence, long enough that I dozed off in the pool of quiet, until I heard the cupboards opening and closing.

  “Can you at least swallow?” Mama asked Dad as he used his one good arm to try to close his jaw. The soup just dribbled down his chin. “Damn it, Jonathon! What am I gonna do? Open up another can of soup? An imaginary can of soup? We have nothing!”

  Dad always looked at the feet of people who were shouting at him when he failed. Go on, now. Just let it loose and leave me be, his face seemed to say. Usually when he had this face, he would storm out for long periods of time and come back to Mama crying and begging him to stop visiting the off-track betting place on Ellesmere Road.

  This time, though, his big rig had jackknifed on Highway 401 because he was in a rush to get ahead of schedule and ended up falling asleep at the wheel. Now, with all of his injuries, even old Mr George could outrun him. I knew it was a bad time to ask if I could sign his cast, so I continued to pretend to sleep.

  Johnny was still in his stroller, dead to the world, sucking his bottom lip.

  DAILY REPORT

  September 14, 2011

  Facilitator: Hina Hassani

  Location: Rouge Hill Public School

  Attendance:

  Parent/Guardian/Caregiver

  Children (one per line please)

  Lily Chan

  Aiden Chan Jennifer Chan

  Helen McKay

  Finnegan Everson Sebastian Dennis Liam Williams Chloe Smith

  Amina Mohammed

  Waleed Mohammed

  Edna Espiritu

  Bernard Espiritu

  Marie Beaudoin

  Sylvie Beaudoin Johnny Beaudoin

  Notes:

  A bit of a slow day today since the centre has just opened within the school. Lots of parents dropping off their kids to school are under the impression this is a daycare and walk past. Some think it is a drop-off space to leave their kids and not a place to play with their preschool children. I’m trying to stay by the door of the centre to greet everyone in the school hallway passing by and to let them know they can come in if they need play-time. Funny enough, since many of the parents in this neighbourhood are English as a Second Language, passing them brochures about the Ontario Reads Literacy Program isn’t really catching on. I’m wondering if we could have the brochure translated into other languages. The one thing that’s easy to convey is morning and afternoon snack time. As it’s a low-income community, parents in this area seem to be quite eager for opportunities to feed their kids.

  Today’s most popular activities included the sand table, the animal shape sorter, and the magnet magic station. Circle time went very well, despite the quietness at the centre. The kids were full of beans, so I did lots of stand-up songs. Baby Waleed, as usual, thoroughly enjoyed the rainbow song. I make sure I sing it every time he drops in.

  There are some great characters who visit me regularly. One elderly woman parks her scooter outside our doors, comes in for a coffee, then leaves. I’m unsure if she has any children who actually attend the school at Rouge Hill. There’s a toddler named Johnny, whom I will be observing closely over the next while for the possibility of learning disabilities. There have been some complaints from some of the caregivers and parents about his behaviour, but I haven’t found anything troublesome. I just think he will need more support, and I think the mother, Marie, is a bit overwhelmed. I will observe for now and consider a good time to converse with her as to how I can support her so Johnny can be integrated better into our activities. There are some older kids who attend the centre before class. One of them, Bing, and I have a deal that he can peruse my special closed cabinet of toys as long as he cleans it up. He has very much enjoyed playing with the Little Scientist kit. He has been looking at everything from tissue paper to fingernails under this mini microscope.

  Helen, one of our home daycare providers who regularly attends the centre, has asked if she can donate a set of twenty plastic picnic plates so that we don’t have to use the coffee filters for plates. I told her I would ask management. Let me know your thoughts.

  Weekly supplies requested

  2% milk

  three bags

  Cheerios

  two boxes

  cucumbers

  two large

  cheese

  marble, one large block

  strawberries

  one carton (just a pint is fine, since these go bad easily in our tiny fridge!)

  high chair

  lots of babies, please send immediately!

  BING

  A bottle of professional-grade acetone tipped over, and its contents spilled across the white tile of the nail spa floor, sneaking into the valleys of the mildewed grout and running toward my tsinelas. When the liquid quickly bore a hole through the sole of my sandals, I understood why Ma’s hands rotted away despite her wearing latex gloves.

  Ma fingered the mask off her face and gestured with her lips toward a mop for me to clean up the mess, so I put down my homework and did what I was told. I didn’t mind, since Mrs Finnegan assigns the most mundane homework—reading flimsy seventy-five-page books, doing book reports mostly with drawings, observing the effects of placing cardboard on patches of grass—that is not, in my opinion, suitable for grade three. It is practically daycare. I would rather listen to the Vietnamese ladies chime amongst themselves while complaining about the very women whose feet they are tending to.

  “They’re just like us Filipinos,” said Ma one day, when I stayed with h
er until closing. “But their fish sauce is sweeter, and they have no Spanish in their language.” This is why I do not understand the Vietnamese ladies’ conversation. I think of it more like music from a radio that I can tune this way and that. Like our words in Filipino, only cut short in snippets of white paper dolls, masked ladies squatting side by side, one, then the other, then the other.

  While I pushed the mop across the floor, I watched a snowstorm of callous descend onto Ma’s pedicure towel. Ma held the white lady’s foot inches from her eyes, peeling the woman like a damaged carrot. The white lady was overwhelmed by her ticklishness, which made Ma hold the foot firmer, like a lamb ready for shearing. Ma filed the white lady’s toenails into perfect rounded squares and buffed the surface. She began to prod the white lady with her metal pusher, abusing the cuticle into submission with every scrape, shovelling out ancient filth, slicing the cuticle off the moon-shaped eponychium at the top of the nail, all while the white lady screamed and pleaded. Even massage was torture for the white lady, so Ma resorted to simply pounding her fists into the white lady’s soles. Patience was running thin. Finally, Ma painted. Base coat. Two coats of colour. Topcoat.

  Just as the white lady began to talk about how much she hated her mother-in-law, Ma said, “Enjoy!” and expertly ushered the white lady to a nail drying chair. Ma switched the fan to maximum to drown out the end of the white lady’s obnoxious story.

  “You can’t massage white people’s feet for too long,” Ma once told me while massaging the growing pains out of my legs. “Yang mga puti. Those white people. That’s the way they are. They have a bad energy. They think their lives have so many problems when they don’t. And when you massage their feet, all their sadness goes into your body.”

  Ma gestured toward my homework. “Okay, Bing. Show me.”

  I reluctantly opened my pink-lined notebook. She asked for the assignment paper from Mrs Finnegan.