The full moon helped to light up the dark back road where Emily spent her evenings four or five nights a week. It was a muggy night; her skin glistened with sweat and exhaustion. The black truck had started circling the block again within ten minutes of her stepping out to work. He drove past slowly several times, trolling, but the tinted windows kept her from seeing him clearly. What she could make out was the baseball cap and his approximate height, six feet tall — that is, she thought, if he wasn’t sitting on books to make himself seem taller than he actually was. She didn’t know why exactly, but she had feelings often, feelings in her gut that she had found more often than not to be accurate. She thought he might be altering his height and disguising his appearance, probably to render a witness statement invalid.
She couldn’t explain it to anyone and never tried to. She didn’t want to risk sounding paranoid, or worse yet, delusional. And beyond that — and far more frightening a thought to entertain for more than a mere second — was the possibility that she may very well suffer from delusions similar to what her father had struggled with until his death when she was twenty-eight. And so she chose instead to believe that those kinds of thoughts were messages from her guardian angels. There was nothing delusional about guardian angels — many books had become best sellers on the very subject, and she owned several — and they brought her comfort and a sense of real believability to her faith in them.
Another car circled the block; Emily became instantly animated for him. He slowed to a crawl and rolled his window down. A moment later Emily — “Kathy,” as she was known on the stroll — was in his car. The game had changed so much since she returned to it, mostly because of the oxys. She had spent one summer when she was younger turning tricks to pay for her dope and never thought she would end up back where she had once been. But she had. Long or detailed negotiations with clients weren’t an option for many reasons, and now less than ever with the increasing competition on the stroll. Too many women were willing to turn a trick for far less money than they wanted or actually deserved just to put a quick end to being dope sick. As a result, prices had swiftly and dramatically dropped. It put a whole new spin on recession and financial depression, she thought bitterly. She settled on the little better than a pittance that he offered. Ten minutes later, she slid out of the car and gave a backhand wave, tilting her head over her shoulder and saying, “Later, baby.” Her smile was gone as soon as he was. She continued her walk with a purposeful gait. A cruiser drove past and slowed; the cop bent down to peer at her through the passenger-side window. Emily looked right at him and smiled; he sat back up and drove past.
Then another cruiser and two undercover cars sped past. This wasn’t necessarily unusual in this area, but tonight it gave her a weird feeling, as though something wasn’t right. Not one of them had stopped her to tell her to get on her way; that was strange, she thought. She immediately considered the creep sitting on phonebooks, but pushed the thought from her mind.
Everyone was a bit on edge as the rumours circulated that one of the serial killers was back on the prowl. What did he look like; what did he drive? They all tried to figure it out and many of them had ideas, strikingly similar to each other’s. But Emily was sure he looked unremarkable. Someone that no one would give much of a second thought to. And it made her suspicious of anyone who wasn’t already a regular. But she also considered the real possibility that perhaps he had already cultivated a bit of rapport with working girls so as not to be considered a threat — not until it would be too late. It was an unnerving thought, and served to make her even more suspicious and paranoid of each trick that slowed to a stop and asked if she was working. But work she must.
The black truck circled the block again, more slowly this time. The hairs on Emily’s neck stood up; she cringed and walked in the opposite direction. She was relieved to see Tootsie approaching, even though it meant the odds just changed. “Hey, girl,” she said with as much cheer as she could muster, along with her practised smile.
“How long you bin out here, Kath?” Tootsie replied. “Ya seen that creepy fuckin’ asshole in the black truck? I swear he’s fucking stalking me again, the motherfucker. He’s one serious twisted cocksucker; someone should cut his shriveled pecker off for ’em.”
“Yeah, he’s been trolling a couple of times since I got out here; he creeps me right out,” said Emily.
“Ah, fuck yeah; watch out for that motherfucker, Kath. I gotta break; I’ll see ya,” Tootsie said as she crossed the street and tried to flag down an oncoming car unsuccessfully.
Toots was one of the girls who worked for her oxy money daily. It angered Emily that no one had yet connected the dots and launched a lawsuit against the pharmaceutical companies that had saturated the market with them ten years earlier. She was sure it had to have been a well-planned and executed strategy on the part of Big Pharma for enormous economic gain, initially targeting the mainstream population or anyone with drug coverage and the means to afford the pills — Big Pharma knowing all too well they were highly physically addictive. The painful reality of the addictive qualities of oxys snuck up on unsuspecting people when they tried to stop using them. The cycle of addiction with opiates is different than any other drug. It’s just like heroin. Get someone strung out and they’ll do almost anything to get more.
Emily was sure people were systematically being converted into junkies whether they knew it or not by the use of oxys, often for pain that could be just as well treated with non-addictive, less damaging, and far less expensive medication. She was convinced that if anyone researched and investigated these companies they would find evidence of the calculated lobbying of doctors. Pharmaceutical companies probably offered all-expense paid trips for luxurious conventions in exotic places; conventions meant to convince doctors that it was the new miracle drug. It was all about economics and corporate greed; she was convinced of it. Emily saw the fallout all around her at the street level every time she stepped out to work. She knew that there were at least two doctors many of them visited to get prescriptions, and one that sold the scripts for fifty bucks a pop.
“Hey, Kath; you break yet?” Tootsie shouted out too loudly, startling and causing Emily to feel a little embarrassed.
“Yeah, a few minutes ago,” Emily answered.
“Bitch, you always break quick, huh? Hey, you see all the heat out tonight? Sooom-pins up; sure hope my dealer ain’t gettin’ busted again, the motherfucker. He sure got some goooood shit, man.” Emily smiled and nodded back at her and blew her a kiss and a wave. She had a soft spot for Tootsie, always had. Tootsie was Tootsie; she made no excuses, no apologies, and took no shit from anyone, ever. Her remarkable righteous anger against anyone who attempted to diminish her or her lifestyle — directly or indirectly — was enforced with a fierce and scathing education on reality as she saw it.
She first met Tootsie about a year earlier, just outside the old, boarded-up Grand Theatre, where huge and magnificent gargoyles perched on either corner of the elegant and architecturally stunning structure. It was said that the gargoyles were sentinels that watched over the working girls; legend was that if you looked to them before turning a trick you would be protected. Women had worked that infamous stroll for decades before businesses got together and formed a committee to try and run them off the track. But still they would gather there: some to score dope, some on their way to the diner, and others on their way to the rundown motel half a block down that rented by the week to the girls that hadn’t yet been barred.
Emily, who kept to herself mostly, watched one evening as Tootsie, clearly outnumbered by three girls yelling and swearing at her, started being shoved back and forth because word had spread that she had been rolling a few tricks. Tootsie shoved one of them hard right back, and then someone else punched her and she fell to the ground face first, hitting her chin and splitting it open. She laid there for a second and everyone went quiet until Toots, grabbing for something from her pocket, put it to her chin and looked up, blood seeping through the cloth; with a crooked and venom-filled smile she hissed, “Is that all you got, ya motherfuckers?” — probably with every ounce of defiance she could muster.
Without a second of hesitation, Emily ran across the street and moved right in close, pushing past the other girls to reach out her hand to help Tootsie up. She saw briefly in Tootsie’s eyes the scared little girl that was the real kid bleeding on the ground, and felt a surge of protectiveness toward her. “Back the fuck off, all of you. As if she’s the first one who’s ever rolled a cheap fucking date,” said Emily. Emily felt Tootsie hit away her outstretched hand, surprising her.
Tootsie got up and stood there, looking each of them in the face with blood flowing from thinly split skin; she looked at Emily and said, “I don’t need no help, no how, from no one. You can all go fuck yourselves, motherfuckers,” and turned and walked away. Emily caught a glimpse from Tootsie when she briefly turned back to look and knew the simple kindness wasn’t lost. They never spoke about it again, and eventually Tootsie was accepted into the loosely knit fold.
Emily walked toward the shiny new SUV that was pulling over for her; it was one of her regulars. She was focused and disciplined; she had to be. She spent a bit more time with him than was usual with most tricks, because he paid well. She tucked the crisp hundred dollar bill neatly in her bra and asked how things were going. He liked to talk about his wife’s disenchantment with him; he was shy and awkward but always a gentleman with her. He was clear he did not want to cheat on his wife, but he needed to talk to someone and he liked to talk to Emily. He said it always made him feel better about things. But Emily was on a clock, and as he droned on she started to get anxious and hurried the chat session along as politely but firmly as she could. She listened to his latest assessment of his wife’s behaviour; he was convinced that she must be cheating on him, because she had gotten her hair done twice in less than a month. Emily thought he was probably just prone to paranoia.
She always used her most practised school-teacher voice with him. “Bill, you know I really have to get going, dear.” It seemed to have a calming effect on him.
“Oh, sorry. Of course you do … sorry … sorry, Kathy.” She checked her watch for a second time, said her goodbyes, and spontaneously kissed him on the cheek before getting out and waving goodbye. There weren’t enough clients like him, she thought.
She worked for a few more hours, chatting briefly with some of the other girls between clients. Becca had told them, with tears in her eyes, that one of the cops stopped in earlier at the diner to tell Betty that a woman had been found murdered, but didn’t share any other details. Emily immediately thought of the creep in the black truck; it gave her goose bumps and she said a silent prayer as she tried to shake off the lingering sensation. She sat down with a few of the girls on the broken bench.
“And the cops were like, all over the place, like real early this morning. And Tootsie said that she tried to like take a trick to the dead end by the construction site, and they had to like, turn back ’cause the cops have a whole fucking block closed off near the site,” Mandy said.
“Yeah, when me and Jimmy went to score from Mikey, we saw all the yellow tape and got the fuck outta there,” said Melissa.
Heather piped in. “Maybe they were busting that guy Gerry that guards the site at night; he’s been boosting from there since he started. I heard he’s selling wood from there, you know; he gets his dope from Mike. Mike told me he traded him a gram for like, tons of two by fours.”
“Oh, come on; they wouldn’t block a street off for a few pieces of wood. And if you didn’t see him selling it, you shouldn’t be talking shit about him, honey,” Becca said as she looked for a lighter in her bag and continued. “It’s gotta be where they found the body. Jesus Christ, I just wish we knew who they found and I sure as shit hope they find the fucking bastard who did it fast this time.”
“Yeah, like, I wanna know if one of the weird stalking trolls did it. And if they did, then like which fucking one is it?” said Mandy.
“Yeah, me too. Hey, betcha it’s that weird guy in the beat-up white van. You know, the one with the thing hanging from his mirror,” said Heather.
“Yeah, yeah; but ya know I’m positive I saw him last week driving another truck, a green one,” someone said. Everyone had a theory as to what was going on and there was a strange and nervous tension that stuck to them all.
Emily checked her watch and then gave them all her backhand wave, saying, “Gotta fly chicklettes; see you on the flip side.”
“Yeah, take care, you,” said Becca.
“See ya, Kath,” someone else said, and then as an afterthought Melissa said, “Hey, Kath, can I crash at your place if the cops picked up Mikey?”
Emily turned and took a breath before the lie. “Nah, sorry, I’m staying with a friend and I can’t bring anyone there. He’d kill me. Fuck, shit … sorry, I mean, he’d freak. Gotta fly; see ya later.”
As she walked away she overheard Becca say, “Hey, Melissa, if you’ve got the money you owe me, or you’re holding, you can stay at my place.”
“Nah, I don’t owe ya any money, Becca; I paid that back two fucking times now.”
“Yeah, and you just might have to pay it back a few more times before we’re through. And since ya ripped me off in the first place, trust me, you’re gonna pay me back a few more times till you learn your lesson properly, sugar,” Becca said. Emily smiled as she glanced back and saw Becca giving Melissa a big hug and heard everyone laugh.
It was almost midnight and there were routines to observe. Emily started the ten-block walk home, looking closely and differently at every passing troll. She took in a deep breath and let it out, and gave a last glance up and down the stroll that was starting to fill with other working girls. She opened her purse and pulled out a cigarette and lighter, and had her final smoke of the day. She adjusted the little purse across her shoulder and continued the remainder of her walk home, checking behind her as she did to make sure she wasn’t followed. She thought of Melissa paying Becca back “two times already”; the laughter rang soft in her ears, and a smile that couldn’t be stopped spread across Emily’s face. Poor Melissa, she thought, no doubt she’d end up paying it back a few more times before Becca was satisfied she had learned a lesson about ripping people off. Ah, you have to find the lightness anywhere you can out here, she thought.
Reaching her house, she glanced up and down the street before quickly ducking in behind the tall groomed hedges. She unlocked the gate and scrambled toward the unlit back of her mother’s house, and glanced back once more to ensure she wasn’t seen going in. Using the small flashlight attached to her keys, she reached the dark back doorway. She put her key in the lock and hesitated a moment. Just one more smoke before going in, she thought, just one more. She removed the key quietly and slid down to sit, resting her back on the door frame, ignoring the chairs. She pulled off the long, blonde wig, shook out her matted hair, and reached up to rub her scalp as she lit her last smoke. She tried to shake the earlier conversation about the murdered woman, but she couldn’t stop wondering about who it had been. She forced herself to think of the immediate.
Earlier in the evening, she had patiently helped her mother eat a little something before getting her into pyjamas and gently repositioning her in the hospital bed Emily had bought — an item that had made both their lives a little easier since the stroke. She had a schedule she tried to follow daily, although it often wavered, and when it did, it was usually for doctor’s appointments and frequently because of her mother’s frustration of the restraints of an altered body and life that were overwhelming her. On those days, Emily and her mom would have a battle of wills. It was impossible to be perfectly kind and patient all the time, but most days, Emily’s eyes would meet her mother’s, and she would see the deep sorrow and struggle that her mother had to bear daily. Today had been one of those days, slightly more difficult than most. Her once graceful mother was a shadow of the woman she had been. She needed constant care and there was no one else left except Emily, who had moved back home from across the country, refusing to see her mother in a musty-smelling care facility.
She finished her cigarette and butted it out; she stood up and took a deep breath, unlocked the door, and went inside. She removed her shoes and walked with light steps through the dimly lit house toward the bathroom. She removed from the heart-side of her bra her hard-won earnings and placed the money on the shelf above the sink, catching a glimpse of her face as she did. She thought of the messy road that had borne her current career — certainly not her first choice by any stretch. She pulled the few remaining condoms from the other side of her bra, threw them on the floor, stripped, and started to fill the bathtub. She reached for the mouthwash and took a big swig; it burned and was awful, but she knew it was killing all of the bacteria that festered there. She took her toothbrush and paste, carefully squeezed it, spit out the mouthwash, and began brushing frantically. She could never seem to get her mouth and teeth clean enough. It was definitely one of the many occupational hazards and challenges.
Once her ritual of bathing and scrubbing, and then finishing with a shower to wash away her work, was completed, she pulled on her thin cotton nightgown and peered in on her mother. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully and Emily didn’t want to wake her. So she tiptoed out and went to her room, crawled into her bed, and under her cool, crisp duvet. She put her headphones on and clicked the television on to watch the eleven o’clock news, which she always prerecorded.
The body of a woman was found Wednesday morning near a construction site in the city’s south end. Police remain tight lipped, but one reporter states that his source said the woman was so badly disfigured that she had to be identified from her fingerprints. No further details will be released until family has been notified. Police are asking for the public’s assistance; anyone with any information should contact police at the tip line. In other news, police are preparing a statement for a news conference tomorrow and are expected to issue a special advisory to area sex workers to be vigilant and report any suspicious incidents to police.
Emily turned off the television and burrowed deeper into her bed. “‘And in other news’ — oh, please, why don’t they just fucking say the woman found murdered must have been a hooker?” she said, talking out loud to herself. It seemed only logical to Emily that if the police suddenly seem to care so much about the marginalized group of women — enough to issue an advisory — it could only mean that there must be more than one who had been found murdered in a very short period of time, because one dead hooker wouldn’t get anyone’s attention. Why the hell else would they suddenly make a public statement and appeal? Why? What weren’t they saying?
Her mind was racing. Who had been found murdered? It wasn’t news that someone was targeting them, that they were being raped and murdered, thought Emily, at least not to any of the girls who worked the streets. They had known for years that there were at least two and maybe more serial rapists and killers targeting them. Even stories from old-timers described serial killers that had been stalking working girls for decades, as far back as the sixties.
Emily sighed as she realized there would be media scouring the area for the next few days. While most of them were respectful, there was always the one who was not. That unscrupulous reporter would no doubt be back again. She was like a feral cat in heat when news broke about anything to do with a sex worker. She must have missed the journalism classes on ethics and definitely had no respect for ensuring informed consent, because every single time she came down to the stroll, she would relentlessly stalk and hound sex workers until they gave her a sound bite. Never once did she have the integrity to recognize and stop herself from approaching the most vulnerable — and often very high — sex workers. She had no shame and clearly failed to see the remarkable dignity and strength of the women who worked the streets. Emily was sure this journalist was blinded by a bizarre, misguided ambition, and must have believed that there was absolutely nothing wrong with how she got her pieced-together and almost always inaccurate stories — stories that were clearly manipulated while she desperately attempted to file her story in record time before deadline.
The reality was that it felt like no one really gave a shit about them or their fractured lives — save for the odd cop or outreach worker who tried to champion them. There had been an article in the paper a few years earlier about a girl named Stephanie Heather Milles, or “Stevie” as everyone on the street knew her, a young prostitute who had been found brutally murdered; she was twenty-six. Over the following weeks, it was followed by a few academic pieces of writing, along with editorials and opinion pieces — politically motivated but critically flawed — written by a select few people professing to know the survival sex workers’ reality. The pieces were no doubt composed from their safe, comfortable, and secure perches in academia, as far removed from this reality as they could be.
Emily thought about the two girls she hadn’t seen out on any of the strolls in the past while and hoped they were all right. She had been asking around to see if anyone had seen either of them, but no one had. Emily knew it was not only unusual that two women disappeared from the stroll around the same time, but for no one to have word was even more suspicious. She said a prayer for the latest victim and the two women she hadn’t seen as she drifted off to sleep; she was overcome with a feeling of dread that one of the murdered girls was someone else they knew. She resolved to write another scathing letter to the editor, or bigger still, an op-ed on the subject of marginalized and vulnerable sex workers that would likely never see publication.
Sometimes the line between who you are, who you were, who you think you are, and who they want you to be is just so damn out of focus that you lose yourself; you forget who you were, who you wanted to become, and who you were meant to be. Hope for being the most bona fide you seems gone and far away from the here and now. And your posture bends downward with the weight — and anyway, most people are just going to see the version of you they want to — so you oblige them, and you oblige them, and you oblige, until you have been someone else’s version of you for so long that you don’t remember how else to be anymore, except who society helped shape you to be. You wear the futility of it all like a long, dank, and heavy cloak.
Emily woke to her mother’s bedside bell ringing, alerting her to get up and tend to her needs. She jumped suddenly, realizing she had slept longer than usual. “I’m getting up, Mom, I’m getting up already. Hang on to your tinker bells.” Slipping on her bathrobe she quickly went to her mother’s room.
“Good morning, Momma. How was your sleep?” she asked, not really expecting a reply that she could understand. Her mother’s speech had been affected by the stroke and the progress with speech therapy had halted altogether because her mother had given up, and so they depended on other forms of communication.
Her mother made some noises that Emily interpreted as not good. “Okay, let’s get you sitting up and check your under parts.” Emily gently rolled her to one side, lifted her mother’s nightgown, removed the diaper, and placed a new one on before adjusting the bed. “I’ll be right back, Mom. I’m going to make some coffee and then get some warm water to freshen you up. Think you’re up to having some coffee today?” Her mother responded with her half smile and a nod.
She ground the coffee beans, filled the filter, and turned the machine on. She then went to her room and searched for the little bottle she had put away filled with Percocet. She fought with the tight cap until she opened it; she grabbed a pill, popped it in her mouth, and chewed it. She couldn’t shake the feeling of exhaustion that had been plaguing her for months now. The perks helped to temporarily and artificially boost her energy. She snapped the top back on and tucked it away. She knew she had to go get blood work done as per her doctor’s orders, but she was scared and kept putting it off. She was just tired, that was all; she resolved to eat more red meat. The stress of looking after her mom was weighing heavy on her, and she was sure that was all it was. She was just a little tired and rundown, she told herself again and again, until the dope perked her up.
Emily attended to her mother as she always did; a forced sense of patience was a gentle hand, and every now and then she would catch the glimpses of her mother’s embarrassment. “Well, Momma, you did this for me; it’s only fair that I do this for you. What did you always tell me: passing the torch is a necessary and inevitable part of life; we just got here sooner, is all. It’s going to be fine, Mom, you’ll see. You’ll be up and dancing in time.” She rolled her mother over gently to wash her with the warm water and medicated soap, and as she did, she stopped cold. The large angry-looking wound on her mother’s backside did not look good at all; it looked remarkably painful, Emily thought. Her mother let out a long, painful groan and banged her hand on the bell repeatedly, startling Emily out of her emotional paralysis.
“Okay, okay; I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I know, Mom, I know.” Emily reached for the pain medication on the bedside table, took one out, and gave it to her mother with a sip of water. “I’m going to call the doctor in a few minutes; just let me try and clean this a little bit for you, okay?” Emily bit her lip to stop from crying; she didn’t want her mom to think she couldn’t handle it, or know how bad it was becoming. “I’ll be right back, Momma. Here,” she said, holding the cup of slightly cooled coffee up, “Wanna sip?” Her mother eagerly accepted. Tears were spared and Emily left the room and went to the kitchen just in time before they dropped.
I can’t do this anymore, she thought, and she picked up the phone to call the support line. It was busy, as usual. She called back again and got the automated message, “All of our operators are currently serving other clients; the current wait time is fourteen minutes. If this is an emergency, please hang up immediately and …” Emily slammed the phone down, following the automated voice to the letter. She reached for more coffee, took a generous gulp, and set it down; she lifted her hand to her head and rested it there briefly. She wiped her tears of frustration with one hand and grabbed the dishcloth with the other, intensely wiping the already spotless countertop. She looked around the kitchen; it still sparkled with that old-world newness from her mother’s renovation years earlier. The two identical windows on either side of the back entrance were large and reached from floor to the ceiling, overlooking the small and private backyard. The walls and trim were brilliant white. The dark wood floors throughout the main level of the house had been sealed with many shiny coats of urethane, making them glow. The island in the middle of the kitchen had belonged in her family for generations. It was a two-hundred-year-old long and wide mahogany table, with carvings on the solid, thick legs, and deep drawers on one side. It gleamed with polish and was centered under an antique chandelier. On one end of the table were several cookbooks neatly stacked, and at the other was a huge, off-white ceramic bowl covered with tiny lines of age that must have been a century old, half-filled with fruit, some of which, Emily realized, were beginning to spoil.
She dialed the doctor’s office and it was busy. She tried again and finally got through to the nurse, and through tears and anger, managed to explain what she saw on her mom’s backside. The nurse said not to worry, that this was extremely normal and there was little to be done about it other than relieving the pressure.
“You’re doing great; your mother is lucky to have you. I have to take another call; see you in a few days.” And with that, Emily was left holding the phone to her ear, listening to a dial tone. She stayed like that for a few minutes, just listening to the dial tone.
Emily got dressed and went back to her mother’s room — once the living room, now converted — and rolled her mother onto her side. Emily supported her back with pillows and turned the television on for her; she then went to work cleaning and dressing the wound as best as she could, and then helped her mother with her exercises to ensure her muscles had a chance at least. When she was done, she sat there quietly with her mom until lunch; the need for nervous chatter and conversation had long since passed, and she was able to just be there with her mom with the ease and gift of silence that could comfortably rest between them. As noon approached and her stomach growled she went to prepare some sandwiches. Tomatoes and cucumbers with real mayonnaise and freshly ground pepper, just like her mom liked them. She cut them into bite-sized pieces and placed them on the good china before taking them in to her mom and helping her to eat.
After their shared lunch, Emily gathered the cups and plates and took them to the kitchen. As she placed them in the sink, the quiet was pierced by the tortured sounds of a crow or raven. She called out to her mom and let her know that she was going out to the back deck for a few minutes. She stood just outside the kitchen door searching for where the wounded cries were coming from, but could not tell. Emily believed that ravens and crows were seers of souls, who carried with them ancient wisdom and recognized in certain people lifetimes of journeys, struggles, and strength. She believed they came to her when she needed them; similar to guardian angels, they were the embodiment of her spirit guides. Lately she had been seeing them each day, and she felt as though they were championing her, guarding her, and whispering messages of hope, caution, love, and protection.
The painful, sorrowful, and frequent cries of an injured one were close; several others were circling low in the sky above her backyard. She spoke words of comfort out loud to the injured one. She prayed the creature would be all right even though she knew from the cries it was not. She couldn’t help but feel it was an ominous message, and she prayed to her guides — all of them, spirit and animal — and asked for the weeping creature to be protected and given a safe journey. When the cries stopped, she felt the loss deeply, profoundly; she listened to the cries of the others, and then reluctantly turned and went back inside to her mother’s side to tell her about the death of one of her much-loved creatures. And she finally wept.
The remainder of the day seemed to pass differently, slower. Emily read The Thorn Birds aloud to her mother, and as her mother started to drift off, she gently nudged her to prevent her from falling asleep. She smiled, saying, “Not just yet, Momma. Let me make sure you’re dry, okay?” Her mother didn’t resist; couldn’t resist. Emily changed the diaper for the fourth time that day. She brought her mom some more soup in a cup, with crackers and cheese, and stayed until they were gone. It didn’t matter that Emily had helped to eat some; she tried to joke with her mom. “Come on, speed it up, will you, ya old lady? I’m going to get fat eating all your food.” Her mother’s gaze let her know that she appreciated her attempt at silliness, and she moved her hand motioning for Emily to come closer. As Emily rested her head, her mother gently stroked it, which always made her feel better. “I love you, Momma,” Emily said from the little nook where she lay her head. Her mother made some noise that she took to mean, “I love you, too, dear girl,” which was the term her mother had always used with her. Emily took in a short, sharp breath and swallowed the emotion.
They stayed like that for a while and Emily considered the reality of her situation: she would have to resign to putting her mother in the care facility. Despite her very best efforts and intentions, she couldn’t give her the level of care she required. They managed, but her mother deserved more, and Emily rationalized that she could still spend her days with her mom as she had been, reading aloud and just being there. The decision weighed heavily on her and the guilt for the considerations was even heavier. She drifted off into a fitful sleep.
I smile sweetly, gently, lips full, painted, turned up at the corners as I listeeeen to him. But if you saw this same convincing smile from the inside, you would see it is twisted, angry, and sinister. He is speaking, still, describing in detail what he wishes to pay me for, and hands me crumpled bills. Then he hesitates, and with an ease that seems practised and evil, he retrieves his money as my hands touch it and he changes course, grabs at my breasts, and stuffs the bills roughly into my bra, pinching my nipple hard. Smile sweetly on the outside; yell and scream words of hatred and disgust only on the inside.
“Okay, darling, let me get those pants unzipped so I can see your big, beautiful cock,” I say on the outside, altering my smile just so — coy and sexy. I lick my lips, holding his gaze to the sound of metal teeth slowly, one by one, being tugged on until there are no more teeth and I have no choice but to reach in expertly and pull from the place beyond teeth, his membrane. I hesitate, locking eyes with his; his breathing is faster now and he grabs my hair hard, pulling it. Smile on the outside, I remind myself. Screams and rage must remain sealed tightly inside, behind the pretend smile … always, the smile hides all the disgust, the rage, the hatred, the loathing … forever silent, deeply trapped, caged sorrow that no one knows. I fight the return of the vision that lives in the dark in the far recesses of my mind, the vision of slicing off the membrane and throwing it in an open fire pit; it becomes a blazing, burning, shrivelled-up piece of offending meat — something Toots always threatened. I smile sweetly and wipe his putrid, greyish sperm from my face, trying not to give attention to the smell of burning membrane flesh that lives stuck in the cavities of my nose hairs. I stand up, still smiling, and walk away to watch and wait for the next trick.
In the distance I think I see Stevie, but that can’t be: she’s dead. I walk faster and faster toward her, running now, but with each stretch of my legs she seems to get further away. I wonder if I were to run backwards, if she would become closer somehow. I miss her. I miss the simplicity of her and all she wasn’t allowed to be, and now never could be. One thing was for sure: she would never have to suck another cock and pretend to the buyer that it was big and beautiful. A horn honks and startles me out of my thoughts of comfort and safety — the place where they can never see, touch, hear, hurt, or know. The safe place will be there for me after I exit the next car. And I twist my mouth into the practised smile as I bend slightly to look into the car. The smile, always the damned smile; what would it matter if I were to die, too? It could just be over, done; all the hatred and fear gone; gone would be all the shame bestowed on me by those who tried with their hatred to believe, convince themselves that they were better than me; those who attempt to obscure their own self-hatred and fear by imposing it on others, projecting it with such venom in hopes of ridding themselves of it, cleansing themselves from being fearful, spiteful, and hateful.
What would it really matter if I were to die? And I smile a different smile — the smile of possibility — of death as a friend and saviour in a warm embrace. I smile a different smile. Another car stops just long enough to whisper words of hate, flung at me like feces, and then screeches away. I smile the smile of possibilities! I do not have a need to be unkind or hateful toward people, even the feces-slinging ones. I smile, and wipe tears from my face. I think I see Stevie and run toward her; she is standing still as if waiting for me to catch up to her this time. I smile and push the rock-hard shit from my face; I smile the smile of possibility.
Emily woke suddenly, startled and disoriented from her dream, trying to push it off. Evening had come faster than she expected; she heard the key turn in the front door. Marta had arrived to relieve her. Marta was a middle-aged woman who had been referred by the social worker; she was a personal support worker and spent the hours between seven and midnight with her mother.
“Hello, how are you doing this evening, Victoria?” Marta asked Emily’s mother with her bright smile and bag of wool and knitting needles.
Emily got up and stretched, glad to see Marta; she seemed to have an indelible spirit and a way of making everything seem okay. Marta moved toward Emily and pulled out a tinfoil-covered dish from one of her bags. “Here, Emily; I made way too much for me self. Would you be a love and help me out by eating this before you go to your job, please me darlin’?” Her eyes twinkled and Emily gratefully accepted the warm plate of Marta’s home cooking.
Emily inhaled the delicious shepherd’s pie as she got ready for work. Before she left, she washed and dried Marta’s plate and left it beside the teapot she set out with an envelope of cash, Marta’s weekly pay of four hundred and twenty-five dollars. She went to thank Marta, and then gave her mom a kiss. Marta had already turned on Coronation Street for them to watch; Emily couldn’t stand that show.