“Oh, Mom, I’m sorry.” I thought it would work so well, the list of chores I’d put on the fridge for them.
“I’m in survival mode.” Mom sniffs. Her voice is shaky, but she’s fought back the tears for the moment. A few years ago, when I started having panic attacks before math tests, she taught me deep breathing techniques, and we started doing yoga and meditation together. She taught me about pulling into a quiet place inside myself where I was safe and strong and able to do anything I put my mind to. I wish she would remember some of those techniques right now.
Jeanette’s frowning at me.
“Maybe if you talk to him,” I tell Mom. “Calmly, I mean, and—”
“Ellie,” Jeanette says, holding out her hand for the phone. “I’ve just remembered something that I need to tell your mother.” The look on her face says I don’t have a choice. I mumble something to Mom and hand over the phone.
“On second thought, I’ll use the upstairs phone.
Hang up down here when I pick up, Ellie,” Jeanette says and bounds up to her bedroom. It doesn’t make sense. Surely my aunt can talk to my mother in front of me. What is it that she doesn’t want me to know?
SIX
“Morning, guys,” Jeanette says to four men sprawled on the steps of the stone church. They’re scruffy, dressed in far more clothing than most people wear in July, their faces hardened into scowls. But when they see Jeanette, a few of them break into smiles. One guy is missing two front teeth.
I’ve seen people like this before. They’re the ones my parents cross the street to get away from in downtown Vancouver. Of course, when Jeanette wanted me to go with her to the soup kitchen where she volunteers, I knew we’d see people like this, but I hadn’t imagined actually talking to them.
Sarah might have imagined it, though, considering the outfit she picked out for me for today. She’s a strong believer in outfits that fit the situation and she has the closet to prove it. For my trip to the soup kitchen, she gave me scruffy runners, baggy cutoffs held up with a wide black belt, and a white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “Tough and street-smart,” she said, waving me out the door. She pulled a backward ballcap down on my head and looked very proud of her creation. Jeanette seemed more amused than anything else, but she didn’t say anything, either for or against, on our way here.
I’ve already decided not to tell my parents about the soup kitchen. Normally I brag to them about all the crazy stuff Jeanette and I do together, and sometimes my mother declares her sister insane and makes her swear never to take me white-water rafting or tree-climbing or tenting in bear territory again. Jeanette never promises anything, and Mom eventually gives up. Jeanette is the only person who can get my mother to admit defeat. We all laugh about it. I hope that never changes.
“Got a new recruit?” one of the men asks in a gravelly voice. He smells of cigarettes and stale sweat.
“This is my niece, Ellie,” says my aunt. “She’s staying with me for a couple of months. I wanted to show her where I spend my Monday mornings.” She looks at me like I’m supposed to do something. I mumble “Hello” and am about to shove my hands in my pockets when she clears her throat.
It’s a threatening kind of sound, one I’ve heard from teachers at school, but not one that’s ever directed at me. I hunch deeper into my costume, but “looking the part,” as Sarah says, doesn’t make things any easier. I don’t know what Jeanette expects me to do.
“Ellie Saunders,” she whispers. “Where are your manners?”
I look at her, wide-eyed, hoping she’ll realize how ridiculous she’s being. Does she honestly expect me to shake hands with these people? Mom would be horrified. Much as she believes in politeness, safety always comes first, and who knows if these people ever wash their hands or what they last touched. Yuck.
My aunt’s stare reaches out, grabs my stomach and twists it hard. I open my mouth, but no words come.
“Hey, don’t be so hard on the kid,” says one of the guys.
“Yeah, give her a break,” says another. “It’s not like I’m the king of France or something.” He smirks, and the others snicker like he’s made a great joke.
I sneak a glance at Jeanette and can tell I’m beaten. The only thing worse than shaking hands with these men would be to lose her respect. I stick out my hand and smile as though I’m greeting royalty after all. “Pleased to meet you,” I lie as I shake hand after filthy hand. There’s always soap.
Inside, the building is not the dark, dingy place I had imagined. It’s new and bright, with high ceilings and lots of windows, and people sit at long plastic tables, talking, drinking coffee and laughing together. A few people have their heads down, sleeping. One guy is talking to himself. In the far corner, a woman is dancing. Someone else is shouting about poison in the coffee. No one pays any attention to her or to the woman barfing into the garbage can in the corner.