She makes peace with the messengers of responsibility.
In my old apartment in Vancouver, before I moved back to Toronto, I answered a knock early one Sunday evening and found a police officer standing outside my door. My roommate, Ruth, was out. I assumed something must have happened in the neighbourhood and that the officer was going door to door in the co-op, to warn everyone. Ridiculously handsome, tall and broad-shouldered, he looked as if he’d walked out of a GQ magazine cover shoot, or maybe worked as a stripper in a cop uniform until he landed his big acting break.
I wore baggy lime track pants and a turquoise sweatshirt, my doing-laundry attire. I had my hair piled in a messy topknot, held in place with a scrunchie.
He said, “Don’t be alarmed.” Even his voice was gorgeous; soothing, like dark hot chocolate swirled with organic peppermint. “Is your name Eufemia?”
“—I’m a little alarmed that you know my name.”
“Your mother called the police in Toronto and reported you as a missing person.”
“Oh. Would you like to come in?”
“Sure. Your neighbours don’t need to hear this.”
I closed the door behind the officer as he stepped into our kitchen. With his back turned to me, I reached up to undo my bun. I realized in time it would look mildly lascivious and that nothing would make my comfortable, kaleidoscope-coloured outfit appear adult-in-control.
I fiddled with my silver acorn pendant. “My mother is severely mentally ill. I’ve been told she has a file with the police in Toronto the size of a telephone book.”
“Right, well, they gave us a call. Someone sent you an email, but you didn’t reply. We have to investigate every claim.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize. I’m not missing. I’ve cut off contact with my mother because I find it difficult to deal with her.”
In a misguided attempt to keep in touch, I had given my cell phone number to my mother, thinking I would limit the aggravation for my roommate and everyone in my dad’s family if she could reach me. In the first week, she left seventeen messages, shouting, screaming, badgering and bullying threats that went on for five minutes at a time. I called her, told her I couldn’t take it anymore and that I would be changing my number.
“You’re sick,” she said. “You need Mamma to look after you.”
I said I was sorry, I couldn’t listen to her anymore, and hung up.
I explained it all to the officer as he nodded.
“Does your mother speak English?”
“Yes. She understands too, until someone like you shows up and then she’ll fake that she doesn’t speak the language, doesn’t know what you’re saying.”
The officer looked sympathetic. “At least this was quick. Sometimes we go to ten houses before we find who we’re looking for. It only took us an hour to find you.”
I resisted the urge to say, “Because I wasn’t missing.” Tomorrow could find me holed up in a Chevron gas station washroom, cutting off all my hair and dying it blond. Let’s see how fast you find me then, Officer Hottie. You had a sweet deal here, an easy patrol, a non-suspect to apprehend and a short report to file. Next time, I’ll pull a full fugitive.
More cops will track me down—first thing in the morning, middle of the day, late in the evening and once nearing midnight—and ask me to call my mother, as if regular conversation and contact with her delinquent daughter could stop her psychosis from taxing their overstressed system.
Sometimes I’ll interrogate them, “Are you saying she presented as coherent and sane? Isn’t there a computer file with my mother’s name in it? Doesn’t it note what transpired in our past and that I live in hiding from her? What makes you think she’ll listen to me this time?” Often, I apologize.
I ordered the police file on my family. Filled out the forms, got my dad’s signature, paid for the archived transcript. I hoped for a bulleted list of every visit with details. I received a sheet of paper with six dates and no other particulars—due to concerns for her privacy. Over twenty-five law enforcement visits, proof of the burdensome past, weren’t included on the document. I wasn’t granted access to a thorough account. The printout was an incomplete list of interventions that jostled my father’s memories:
• The time two officers came to investigate the hit-and-run and recommended professional help for my mother that led to her diagnosis.
• The time an officer showed up with the business card of an Italian social worker and advised my dad to get out. He’d skimmed the file before answering the call and said, “Sir, you can’t continue to live like this.”
• The time my father apologized profusely to an officer for my mother’s obscenity-strewn tirade. He’d served notice that Mom was in violation of the law, missing her court date for shoplifting. The man replied, “You’re saying sorry to me? Buddy, I feel sorry for you.”
• The time a squad car stopped by with an officer answering the call Mom made about an attempted burglary to find the basement windows had been smashed from the inside. The guilty hammer lay nearby, in plain view, on the china cabinet.
• The time my mother assaulted a nurse at Dad’s work (butchery requires a full-time medic on hand). The nurse offered to press charges to help her friend, my father. The officers went to the house and delivered a stern lecture, refusing biscotti and espresso.
• The time four officers came and my mother fed them wine and prosciutto while my father burned with humiliation. She told them her husband refused to sleep with her, and invited them to return for dinner anytime. In parting, one said, “Sure. Next time you can make us spaghetti,” and everyone except my father laughed.
It’s simple: in a fair and kind society, police wouldn’t be tasked with the role of front-line mental health workers. We wouldn’t close our hearts to the suffering of others. We wouldn’t blame people for their illnesses. We wouldn’t criticize. We wouldn’t invest in comparison. We wouldn’t pretend that a one-size-fits-all remedy exists for the pain that pulses through the heart of another. We would pause before offering advice—remain silent, attentive and humane. Imagine a future where no one would feel shunned when they experienced the onset of schizophrenia or another serious brain disorder. No secrets and no shame. No person disrespected or disregarded; no one would ever feel ashamed, isolated, humiliated, insignificant, belittled or better-off dead—because they would be treated with dignity. Our differences, our fear, would shrivel up, while our connections, our compassion would be boundless—expanding out further and further—magnified to match the size of our universe.
Mercy never expires.
Empathy never ends.