That Night (17 page)

“Better make it fast,” the woman said. “Harley’s coming up the stairs.”

Harley was one of the staff. I hoped to hell Helen wasn’t as stupid as she was mean. She leaned close, her breath hot in my ear. “Stay out of my way.”

Finally the weight left my back. I stayed still, trying to catch my breath, slowly moved my aching arm forward, groaned into the floor.

Helen’s voice said, “One week, Angie.” Heavy footsteps walked out of the room. The other woman followed.

I rolled onto my side, then eased up into a sitting position. I winced as I held my side and tried to flex my arm. I glanced at my roommate. She was gingerly rubbing the back of her head where she’d hit the dresser.

“Why did you do that?” she said.

“She had it coming.” I stood up slowly, sucked in my breath from the pain in my side.

She glanced at the door, like she was expecting Helen to burst in. “Now she’s pissed at you too. She’s going to make your life hell.”

I crawled onto my bed, nursing my wounds, my roommate’s warning resonating. I’d been so close to finally getting my life back. Now Helen was going to screw up everything. Why did I let her get to me like that? She was nothing.

*   *   *

I got up early the next morning and showered while my roommate and most of the other residents were still sleeping. The faint smell of coffee lingered in the kitchen, and I assumed some of the house residents were off to their jobs. One older woman with short dark hair and a scar that dragged down the side of her mouth sat in the corner, eating her breakfast. She gave me a nod and a “Good morning.” But she looked down again, making it clear that she didn’t want a conversation. Maybe she’d already heard about my run-in with Helen.

I could deal with loneliness—I’d gone through it before—but it still stung. I thought about my girls on the inside with a pang, remembering how close we’d all been. I hoped the shit with Helen would settle down and I’d make some new friends at the house eventually. I hadn’t reported the assault—nothing would get me beaten up faster. Plus, there’s always an assumption by officers that you must have done something to incite the problem. They might pull me out of the halfway house until things calmed down, which was the last thing I wanted. I just had to deal with it.

At Rockland, I’d spoken to the counselor about job opportunities once I was on day parole and I had a résumé made up. The counselors at the halfway house also provided guidance, and there were some house sessions once or twice a week on living skills. That morning I was going to the labor office to see what was posted, then I planned to drop off some résumés around town. I had a meeting with my community parole officer that afternoon to check in. That evening I was going to attend a Narcotics Anonymous meeting in town—the halfway house staff had already given me a list of the local chapters, and there were also meetings in the evening once a week at the house. I still didn’t believe I’d had a substance abuse problem, but that didn’t mean crap. I was high at the time of my sister’s murder, so one of my conditions of parole was that I had to stay away from drugs and alcohol. No problem there. I never wanted to feel again like I did the night Nicole was killed, never wanted to be that oblivious.

There were other challenges—how to figure out a bus schedule, how to get my driver’s license reinstated, how to apply for ID so I could open a bank account. But I decided to take it slow, one thing at a time. I took my envelope of résumés, dressed in my best jeans and shirt, and headed out. First, I was going to the thrift store so I could buy some clothes for job interviews. I walked along the road, breathing in the fresh air, noticing the shadows the big oak trees made on the streets, the tidy homes with their flower-filled yards. Despite the fight with Helen the night before, I was thrilled to be on parole.

We hadn’t gone down to Victoria often when I was growing up because it was almost a two-and-a-half-hour drive. Sometimes, though, our mom would take us to the museum or Fisherman’s Wharf, and we loved shopping in the city. Campbell River only had one old mall with a few small stores, but Victoria had three big malls and lots of boutiques downtown. Victoria was the oldest city on the island and also surrounded by the ocean, but it had a much different feel than Campbell River. There were Parliament buildings, quaint Victorian-style homes, horse-drawn carriages, the inner harbor, and lots of tourists snapping photos of the float planes and street artists. On the boardwalk, I stopped and admired a few sketches, wishing I could buy one, but clothes were more important right now.

I found a few items at the thrift store, a pair of black pants, some shoes, a plain white blouse, a small fitted blazer. It looked like something I’d seen women wearing on TV. I wished I could show it to Margaret. We used to watch
Dancing with the Stars
at Rockland, oohing and ahhing over the skimpy costumes. Margaret would get a crush on a contestant each season, getting upset if they didn’t win. We’d make ourselves snacks—you get creative with food from the canteen—then plop ourselves down on the old couch. Trash-talking with the other inmates was the best part, especially when Margaret would tell them to “shut your holes.” I liked watching the dancing, but none of the guys did it for me. I wasn’t like Margaret, who loved all of them—she even wrote fan letters. The only one I had a soft spot for was a motocross racer who competed one year. He’d reminded me of Ryan. Sometimes, when he was dancing, I’d blur my vision, and imagine it
was
Ryan, but then I’d want to cry, so I stopped doing that. It was easier not to remember, not to think about it.

But I found my mind drifting to him now. Was he at the men’s halfway house? Did he ever think about me anymore?

*   *   *

I changed into my new clothes, then spent the afternoon walking around and delivering résumés, with no luck. I also found a bus schedule and figured out how to get to the animal shelter. When I told the staff I was available for walking the dogs, they said I could come by any weekend. I spent some time in the back, poking my fingers through the kennel bars and rubbing muzzles and talking to the dogs, saying things like “Hey, I’ve been locked up too.” The chain-link fences, the noise, the shelter uniforms reminded me of Rockland, but there was a kind of comfort in that familiarity. The outside world was now the scarier place.

When I got back to the halfway house it smelled like burned meat and onions. Helen was in the kitchen, frying some hamburger patties and talking to a couple of women sitting at the table. I was starving but didn’t want to make my dinner with her in there, so I kept walking. She grabbed my arm when I passed the kitchen door.

“Hey, Murphy, one of my forks is missing. You take my fork?”

I gave her a dirty look. “No, and get your hand off me.”

Nervous snickers from the table while Helen’s fingers dug into my arm, pressing on the tendons. I tried not to flinch. She moved closer.

“You better hope it’s not in your room or you’re in deep shit, you hear?”

I couldn’t figure out why she was making such a big deal about a fork. At the most I might get a warning from the staff for accidentally taking someone’s belongings. What was her problem? Was she just trying to start another fight?

Her fingers dug in harder. “I said,
you hear
?”

“I heard.”

*   *   *

In our room, Angie was on her bed, playing music on an iPod. The night before we’d talked a little after Helen left. She was twenty-six and had been in for drugs and prostitution but said she was clean now, trying to get her life together so she could get her kids back. She’d borrowed money from Helen so she could get her youngest a birthday present.

I crouched to look under my bed, lifted up the mattress, felt along the edges for any cuts or tears.

“What are you doing?” Angie turned off her music.

“Helen’s missing a fork.”

“And you think it’s in here?” She sounded confused.

“Something’s in here. Harley will be up any second.”

“Oh, shit.” Angie stood up. “If he finds drugs in here, we’re screwed.”

We ransacked the room, trying to work fast and quiet. We checked our pillowcases, drawers, the tops of the sills, light fixtures. Every time we heard a step outside or a noise in the hall, we froze and stared at the door, only letting out our breath when the person moved on. Finally we heard the knock.

I tried to look calm as I opened the door. “What’s up, Harley?”

“Sorry, girls, going to have to do a room check,” he said. “Stand out in the hallway, please.”

Angie and I watched from the doorway. Harley was a big guy with yellowed teeth and a two-pack-a-day smoking habit. He had small, mean eyes, and was supposed to be a real hard-ass if you messed up. I hadn’t had any trouble from him yet, and didn’t want any now. Each time he lifted a book or checked the pockets on our clothes or reached into our shoes, I held my breath. Finally he stopped in the middle of the room, slowly looking around, his face thoughtful.

Then I saw the smudge of dirt on the windowsill, near the potted fern. I stared at the spot, tried to remember if the dirt had been there before. I checked Harley’s face. Had he noticed? He started walking toward the window. My body felt hot all over. I glanced at Angie. Her cheeks were also flushed, her eyes shiny like she might cry. Harley was reaching out toward the plant.

I rested my head against the doorframe, closed my eyes, felt like crying too. I was screwed. Two days out and I was going back to Rockland.

“Your window’s leaking,” Harley said. “I’ll have someone look at it.”

I opened my eyes. Holy shit, he hadn’t noticed the dirt.

At the doorway he gave us both a hard look. “I don’t know what you two did with the stuff, but we’ll be watching you.”

When we heard his boots going down the stairs, I walked over and felt around in the plant. My fingers touched something round and soft. I pulled out a small bag of marijuana. We both stared at it.

“Shit, she
really
has it in for us,” Angie said.

I hid the drugs in my shampoo bottle. When the kitchen cleared out and I heard voices in the backyard, where Angie said Helen and the girls liked to smoke, I went down and made myself some soup. Then I walked to an NA meeting, dropped the marijuana in a Dumpster on the way. I was feeling good when I got home later. Though I wasn’t an addict, I’d come to enjoy the support of twelve-step programs and had made some friends that way in Rockland, plus I’d learned some stuff. I was hoping the same thing would happen on the outside.

I was getting ready for bed when Helen came into my room.

“I know you got my fork, Murphy.” She looked around, her eyes stopping at the plant. I’d drawn a smiley face on a piece of paper and balanced it on the leaves.

She turned to Angie. “You think you’re funny?”

I stepped in front of her. “Fucking hilarious.”

She glared down at me. “Give me my shit back.”

“You fuck with either of us again, Harley’s going to be searching
your
room. And I’ll make sure he finds something interesting.”

She grabbed the front of my shirt and brought her face down close to mine. I met her eyes, tried not to recoil from the sour smell of her breath.

“You’re screwing with the wrong person,” she said.

“I’m just getting started.”

She let go. At the door she turned and said, “I won’t forget this.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

C
AMPBELL
R
IVER

J
ULY
1996

After graduation, I started working full-time at the Fish Shack. I didn’t see Nicole much because she was usually at the beach with Shauna and the girls. Sometimes, when I was leaving the house for work, they were outside waiting for her. They’d laugh and call out taunts when I walked to my car, but only when my parents weren’t home—sometimes they were hanging around the kitchen, using our phone and drinking all our pop, their high-pitched voices setting my teeth on edge. It was easier to ignore them now, though, easier to just smile and walk away. School was over and Ryan and I were starting our new lives. Soon we’d get out of Campbell River and I’d never have to see those bitches again.

We’d been getting some hang-ups at my house, never when my parents were home, only when it was me and Nicole. She’d look nervous when she saw me answering the phone, and I wondered if it was that boy calling again. If it was one of the girls, they’d say something mean, and they called often. Nicole spent even more time over at Shauna’s now, staying overnight a lot of weekends.

One night, I heard the doorbell ring and answered it. Frank McKinney was dropping Nicole off, one arm holding her up. She could barely stand, her eyes glassy, her clothes messed up, the smell of beer rolling off her.

“Can I talk to your parents, Toni?” he said.

I called for them, and they came to the door. I pretended to leave but stood just out of sight at the top of the stairs so I could hear what was going on. McKinney was apologizing to my parents, saying he’d come home from work and found that the girls had all been drinking. They’d gotten into some of his beer.

“I’ve already spoken with Shauna, and it won’t happen again.”

My mom sounded really upset when she said, “Please go to your room, Nicole, and we’ll talk about this in a minute.”

Nicole stumbled past me at the top of the stairs, her face angry and embarrassed, then disappeared into her room.

Downstairs, Mom said, “I’m so sorry she acted like that in your home.”

“It’s normal for kids to experiment at this age.” McKinney’s voice was calm. “You don’t want to come down too hard on them or they’ll just start hiding it.”

My mom nodded, her gaze intense on McKinney’s face, as though he held all the answers. “Daughters, they can be so challenging sometimes.”

“They sure are.” He leaned against the side of the doorjamb, one hand resting on his utility belt, his head cocked as he smiled down at my mom. “But you’ve got a good one there. I don’t think you need to worry about her.”

“Usually she’s so responsible. I just don’t know what got into her.…” My mom looked up and saw me at the top of the stairs. “You don’t need to be here right now, Toni.”