You Can't Break Her

Sixteen| No explanation

October 1995

It was a crisp afternoon, and although the first snow had yet to fall, it could be felt in the air. The kitchen was a dungeon, as always. The crack in the curtains was useless, and the clouded skies only added to the already darkened room.

"Do you remember Lana?" My mother butted a smoke in the ashtray. I nodded. "She offered me respite for you, so you'll be staying with another family for the weekend."

We had met with a social worker named Lana about a year ago. It was a hectic day of speed cleaning, and I stayed in my room for most of it, pretending I was productive. But when I met Lana, I knew we would hit it off.

She was a dark-featured woman with beautiful tanned skin and pin straight chocolate-coloured hair that reached her lower back. Every time we had seen her since, for check-ins, she always had a big smile on her face.

The phone rang a few minutes later. My mother picked it up. "So, you'll pick her up at five?" Jess asked over the phone from her chair at the table. "I'll be gone camping until Monday." She pulled a pack of cigarettes from beneath a pile of newspapers and garbage.

I kneeled on a chair across from her, colouring a ripped page in front of me - a picture of a teddy bear with a young boy hugging him. Like a fairytale in black and white, a myth of kind and caring souls, and a painful jab from the colouring book company, they didn't make books about things I knew.

"You can drop her at the house around supper time on Monday." Jess listened for a second. "Thank you. We will see you soon."

She put the phone down, returning to finishing packing the rucksack that she had already been filling. "Are your toys in the bag I gave you? I have your clothes, but you have to pick which toys you're going to bring."

I ran to my bedroom at the other end of the house. The tiny bag my things were in crinkled when my hand wrapped around the handles. I tossed it onto the table; it slid across, falling to the floor.

"Don't throw your stuff!" My mother snapped.

I ducked, hiding behind the table to get the bag from the floor. I put the loose items that had fallen out back in and placed it on the table. "It's ready."

While my mother fixed her hair and packed her bag, I memorized the prized possession she hung over her bed. An American flag that was a few feet taller than me was nailed to the wall, adorned with her mirror-back button collection.

Knock-knock-knock

Jess leapt out of her seated position at the end of her bed.

"Hi, come in," my mother invited our guest in.

"Lana?" I ran over and hugged my social worker. "I'm bringing toys. Where are we going? Do they have cake? I like cake. Mommy says I can't eat it all the time. But I want to. Do they have a cat and a dog and a pony?"

She smiled, making me want to hug her again. She was inviting and friendly. My first social worker was a superhero to so many, a role model that influenced so many and changed countless lives. A true hero.

"We are going to visit another family. They have two children, a cat and a dog. There's a big yard for running and playing, and they have a big house with a toy room." She always knew the right thing to say.

The house was a ten-minute drive from where I lived. I was nervous; what if they didn't like me? What if I wasn't what they expected, and they punished me like my mother did?

We ate pizza for supper, as though I belonged there. The kids talked about their school while the parents made jokes that I wouldn't laugh at because comedy was not a genre I had much experience in.

After supper, I followed the two children to their playroom. They showed off their toys, and I played with each one. The parents put a movie on, calling us out to watch. "Time to watch a movie before bedtime."

"I have to use the washroom."

The mother showed me where it was, leaving me alone to go make popcorn.

When I closed the door, I ran my hand down the wicker, admiring the way it complimented the white walls of the bathroom. I washed my hands when I was finished, searching for a minute before I found a hand towel to dry them on. I reached for the doorknob, but it wouldn't turn. The lock had somehow engaged.

I was trapped in a stranger's bathroom.

I screamed while bashing my fists against the door.

"It's all right. We'll get you out of there!" the father shouted.

"It's going to be fine! This happens once in a while. Don't worry," the mother reassured me.

What she didn't know was that I wasn't worried - I was terrified. I would do anything to get free. The wooden door cracked from me banging on it, almost breaking just as they were able to unlock it.

The night calmed after my mental collapse over a locked door. The family didn't question the severity of my reaction, and it worked out because I had no explanation. We watched The Sandlot and my fears transferred to the monstrous dog in the movie. Two bowls of popcorn and a handful on the floor later, it was bedtime.

The next morning the father made eggs and bacon, and we played in the backyard for hours before eating twice more and sleeping the night in a tent in the yard.

That weekend was the first authentic glimpse of a happy family. Returning to my mother's house Monday, I wondered if I would ever experience it again. Could I ever exist as more than just a burden?