here.”
“No, you don’t,” she says, and adds after a moment, “This is not a good place to be.”
“You’re here,” you say.
She is silent for a long, long time. Then she says, “Something bad happened to me. When I was little. And I never told my mom and dad. I should have. I really, really should have told. I should have stayed.”
“That’s not me,” you say, big and strong, and you stop scuffing the ground, start swinging again. You need to move. “That’s not me.”
“I don’t believe you,” she says. Then, “Look. Look at the cats.”
They are coming up from the beach: three, no, four, no, five cats, heading across the grass in the dark. They are silent, stealthy, like ghosts. Sarah laughs softly.
“Here, kitties,” she calls. “Here, kitties.”
You grunt and start pumping, driving yourself up into the air again, watching. Sarah goes quiet, watching too. You let yourself slow and come to a stop beside her.
The cats circle, not coming close enough to touch. Even in the dark, you can see the matted fur and bald patches on one, the jagged ear on another. A third meows, big and demanding—hungry—like no sound Coco has ever made in her life.
“We’ve got nothing for you, cats,” Sarah says. “On your way now.”
They obey, wandering away, across the park, and Sarah leans over to pull her boots back on. “Let’s go,” she says. “I’m putting you on a bus. Again.”
She leads the way back to the path, and stops in front ofa big stone surrounded by bushes, lit by a tall lamp opposite. First you notice the candles and the flowers gathered in the wet dirt in front. Then your gaze travels upward to the words engraved in the stone.
THE HEART HAS
IN HONOR OF THE SPIRIT OF THE PEOPLE
MURDERED IN THE DOWNTOWN EASTSIDE.
MANY WERE WOMEN AND MANY WERE NATIVE
ABORIGINAL WOMEN. MANY OF THESE CASES
REMAIN UNSOLVED. ALL MY RELATIONS.
ITS OWN MEMORY
DEDICATED JULY 29, 1997
You read the words twice. A third time. Anger flutters inside you, along with fear and confusion. “Why are you showing me this?” you ask.
Sarah shrugs, gestures toward the words again.
You read them one more time.
At last she speaks. “Those women. They could be you. They could be me.” She digs around in her tiny purse, pulls out a lighter, leans down and lights one of the candles, positioning it under a plastic flower to protect it from the damp. Then she turns and leads the way up the path onto the viaduct. She doesn’t say much on the walk back to Princess. And neither do you.
With Hastings in sight, you pass the little grey house that Sarah pointed out to you. A man comes barrelling downthe narrow path between that house and the next. He’s big, hunched over, kind of. And mad. Mad at Sarah.
“Where the hell you been?” he shouts as he approaches. He pauses, as if at a loss for other words. “Where the hell you been?” he repeats, and his hand shoots out and grabs Sarah around the upper arm.
“Hey!” she says sharply, and you pick up your pace, putting a few strides between yourself and the pair of them. “Let go of me, Charlie. I’ve just got one thing to do and I’ll be …”
He wrenches at her then, and she turns on him, yanking her arm free. “I said, I’ve just got one thing to do.” She strides after you, ignoring his repeated orders to “Get back here.”
“Who’s he?” you say, though you guess, of course.
“That’s just Charlie. He goes off the deep end now and again. Pay attention. We are going to get you on a bus. You’re going to go home, and you’re going to stay there. Do you understand?”
You do not. Understand, that is. Even as Sarah is saying it, you are thinking about the money in your pocket. You are thinking about how soon you can come back. After all, you know where to come to now. You know where she lives. Charlie is a bit scary, but she seems to know how to handle him.
Less than a week passes before you get off another bus right at the corner of
“No, you don’t,” she says, and adds after a moment, “This is not a good place to be.”
“You’re here,” you say.
She is silent for a long, long time. Then she says, “Something bad happened to me. When I was little. And I never told my mom and dad. I should have. I really, really should have told. I should have stayed.”
“That’s not me,” you say, big and strong, and you stop scuffing the ground, start swinging again. You need to move. “That’s not me.”
“I don’t believe you,” she says. Then, “Look. Look at the cats.”
They are coming up from the beach: three, no, four, no, five cats, heading across the grass in the dark. They are silent, stealthy, like ghosts. Sarah laughs softly.
“Here, kitties,” she calls. “Here, kitties.”
You grunt and start pumping, driving yourself up into the air again, watching. Sarah goes quiet, watching too. You let yourself slow and come to a stop beside her.
The cats circle, not coming close enough to touch. Even in the dark, you can see the matted fur and bald patches on one, the jagged ear on another. A third meows, big and demanding—hungry—like no sound Coco has ever made in her life.
“We’ve got nothing for you, cats,” Sarah says. “On your way now.”
They obey, wandering away, across the park, and Sarah leans over to pull her boots back on. “Let’s go,” she says. “I’m putting you on a bus. Again.”
She leads the way back to the path, and stops in front ofa big stone surrounded by bushes, lit by a tall lamp opposite. First you notice the candles and the flowers gathered in the wet dirt in front. Then your gaze travels upward to the words engraved in the stone.
THE HEART HAS
IN HONOR OF THE SPIRIT OF THE PEOPLE
MURDERED IN THE DOWNTOWN EASTSIDE.
MANY WERE WOMEN AND MANY WERE NATIVE
ABORIGINAL WOMEN. MANY OF THESE CASES
REMAIN UNSOLVED. ALL MY RELATIONS.
ITS OWN MEMORY
DEDICATED JULY 29, 1997
You read the words twice. A third time. Anger flutters inside you, along with fear and confusion. “Why are you showing me this?” you ask.
Sarah shrugs, gestures toward the words again.
You read them one more time.
At last she speaks. “Those women. They could be you. They could be me.” She digs around in her tiny purse, pulls out a lighter, leans down and lights one of the candles, positioning it under a plastic flower to protect it from the damp. Then she turns and leads the way up the path onto the viaduct. She doesn’t say much on the walk back to Princess. And neither do you.
With Hastings in sight, you pass the little grey house that Sarah pointed out to you. A man comes barrelling downthe narrow path between that house and the next. He’s big, hunched over, kind of. And mad. Mad at Sarah.
“Where the hell you been?” he shouts as he approaches. He pauses, as if at a loss for other words. “Where the hell you been?” he repeats, and his hand shoots out and grabs Sarah around the upper arm.
“Hey!” she says sharply, and you pick up your pace, putting a few strides between yourself and the pair of them. “Let go of me, Charlie. I’ve just got one thing to do and I’ll be …”
He wrenches at her then, and she turns on him, yanking her arm free. “I said, I’ve just got one thing to do.” She strides after you, ignoring his repeated orders to “Get back here.”
“Who’s he?” you say, though you guess, of course.
“That’s just Charlie. He goes off the deep end now and again. Pay attention. We are going to get you on a bus. You’re going to go home, and you’re going to stay there. Do you understand?”
You do not. Understand, that is. Even as Sarah is saying it, you are thinking about the money in your pocket. You are thinking about how soon you can come back. After all, you know where to come to now. You know where she lives. Charlie is a bit scary, but she seems to know how to handle him.
Less than a week passes before you get off another bus right at the corner of
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