January 2010 Archives

Her name was Mia, and I met her on Saturday night.

It had not occurred to me that Russell might have friends who did not dip into my level of awareness, although he told me so little about himself, I wondered later how I'd missed it when I was filling in the blanks. I was, and still am, the sort of person who's happy with a single friend and can suffer bravely for extended periods with none. The fact that others didn't function that way was never something I spared any special thought. I had taken for granted that Russell's world was as small as my experience of it was, and that his only living satellites were me and the cat.

As it turned out, I wasn't getting the full picture.

As promised, Russell enrolled me in school. On Thursday evening he brought home a half-page planner that listed rules, the days that school wasn't in session, the dates of dances and contact information for all the teachers. There was also a packet listing required classes; I had to take driver's education and a health class and English, and there was room for two electives.

"Didn't they want my eighth grade transcript?" I said, but Russell told me that he'd taken care of it all, and by the way, we didn't believe in immunizations. I met this with great mirth and wondered aloud if I would be required to defend that position in biology class, but he wasn't in the mood to laugh. He made us dinner and went to bed, while I sat at the kitchen table deciding which classes I wanted to take.

There was, of course, the omnipresent question why, which, by some unspoken agreement, I did not ask again, and Russell did not answer. He was more complex, I was beginning to see, than I had thought originally. He had secrets, too, and I treated his reticence with respect, though I was powerfully curious about what he was hiding.  On Friday he, without exercising his veto powers over my choices, turned in my class request sheet. I was beside myself with excitement, and that's when he dropped the bomb.

Hazel wants to gawk at the teetering buildings in Pacifica, so we drive out, have dinner at Nona's and then double back down Palmetto and park across the street. It's dark by this point and you can't see anything but the silent, tall cranes standing like sentinels in the street. I turn off the engine and we sit in silence.

I don't think she's enjoying the trainwreck; I think she's fascinated by a piece of the world so close to her backyard. A few days ago we drove up Skyline and she stared out the passenger window, then sat upright and pointed in disbelief: The two orange towers of the Golden Gate Bridge, rising miles away from between the hills of the city and of Marin County. We had been having a bad day, the sort that comes with testing the waters, finding out how much either of us can get away with before the other starts to get upset, and suddenly that didn't matter anymore. We were only going to Ocean Beach, but instead I drove us to a different beach, right up to the bridge at Fort Point, and she stood in awe, and then she turned to me and said, "I can't believe I live here."

She's been living "here" since October, she told me, and only now does it seem real.

We are eating blueberry pie, a whole slice apiece, from wax-cardboard takeout boxes. Hazel doesn't seem particularly concerned with what she eats, nor has she noticed, I think, that she's gaining weight. If she has, she hasn't said anything. As usual, she eats steadily, hardly stopping, and doesn't quit until her plate is empty, sometimes scraped clean of the condiments as well. Before she starts school I plan to have a talk with her; it's so obvious that she's seen hard times that it breaks my heart, and she has no idea it shows.

Russell's outburst had, to my dismay, the same psychological effects on me as the assaults on my person on Halloween and New Year's Eve (though to a much lesser extent, of course).
After my attempt at reconciliation had been met with the revelation that he had gone to bed early, I had followed suit, but I hadn't slept. Instead I felt the same knot in my chest that comes from being unjustly confronted: The feeling, I realize now, after several years of reflection, of being attacked by someone far bigger and far more powerful.

Naturally, being shouted at by Russell and having been, well, weren't even in the same horrible-things ballpark. I couldn't help comparing them, though, as I sniveled on the couch that evening. I didn't get a lot of sleep. It brought back memories from before - had it really only been three weeks? - and proved a distressing intro to the nightmares that would plague me for years.

Perhaps the biggest trouble was that I had not often been yelled at, growing up. My mother had a particular way of letting me know that she was unhappy with me, and most of the time it manifested in the slamming of cupboard doors or tight-lipped comments in a barely-restrained tone about the fucking trash or the fucking litter box. It only went further a handful of times, as I had learned how to take a hint, but on occasion my mind-reading powers would be broken (as I once put it to her, in a fit of pique) or I would be too fed up or rebellious or distracted to comply. That was when things got ugly; the situation would escalate rapidly, and I would walk away with souvenirs that I would have to hide from the school authorities.

Russell hadn't bothered to build up slowly, and that frightened me. I wondered if there were any other buttons I was in danger of pushing, and if so, what they were.

The specifics of my arrangement with Russell were largely unspoken. We both expected each other to behave a certain way, and with few exceptions, such as my initial deep-cleaning of the house and Russell's ill-fated gesture of condolence, neither of us surprised the other. I would sleep in and lie around all day, bored but warm and well-fed, and then Russell would come home around five-thirty and make us dinner, and we'd do some quiet activity - reading, watching television - until bedtime. I, used to foraging for my keep, felt rather like a caged tiger having all its meals handed to it in a stainless steel bowl. My domestication did wonders for stress, but I could only spend so many hours reading or watching the television before I was pacing around the house looking for something else to do. And then, on occasion, Russell would arrive and want to be by himself, which I, afraid he would tire of me, tried to respect. But for a fifteen-year-old who had just been plucked from an exciting (if perilous) life on the streets, the inactivity of a suburban house proved excruciating.

Late Friday morning, faced with the prospect of yet another day lying on the couch reading one of the volumes in Russell's limited library, it occurred to me that I could leave the house anytime I wanted to, even if Russell wasn't present, and furthermore, that there were shops and interesting things not far away. The Ranch 99 down the street was fun to explore, as it carried unfamiliar Asian products almost exclusively, but I wanted something a little more exciting. The rain was still coming down in fits and bursts, and though I desperately wanted to go down to the beach and explore, it would have to wait for another time. I put my jacket on and went out, and found myself walking in the general direction of the outdoor mall I had lived at briefly, wandering in and out of neighborhoods looking for something interesting. After meandering northeast for awhile, I came to a stop at the top of a sloping hill, where the houses and apartment buildings suddenly ended and met a tiny, unexpected library.

The rain came down hard all night, interspersed with thunder of a volume and frequency that Russell led me to believe was uncommon for California. He appeared in the living room at three o'clock in the morning, wiping the heel of his hand over his eyes, and asked if I was okay.

"Sure." I squinted at him from the couch, wondering who would fear a little thunderstorm like this, but secretly grateful for his company. Having a friend was nice. Knowing that there was someone there in the middle of the night was even better. I curled up to make room for him to sit, but he went to the kitchen instead and got himself a glass of water. "Did it wake you up?" I said.

"Yeah."

"Me too." I snuggled deeper under the covers. "I like them."

He was silent awhile, in the kitchen, and then he came and sat in the recliner, and together we listened to the thunderstorm. I could hear him breathing, and I closed my eyes, thinking again of freedom and security, and what freedom would have meant for me tonight. Suddenly I couldn't stand the silence any longer. "You know where I'd be tonight if I wasn't here?"

On Tuesday, my period came and for once I was happy to see it. I still wasn't used to it, though, and I hadn't thought well enough ahead to buy supplies for it. I stuffed my pants with toilet paper and located Russell's spare key, where I'd found it when I was cleaning the week before, and went out, the remains of my money in hand.

I hadn't left the house in days, and never unaccompanied. Despite my wariness around Russell, I genuinely enjoyed his company, especially since it wasn't a constant thing, but today, walking in the rain, I very much enjoyed the solitude. It gave me time to think. I was working on some of the books in Russell's library, and while I was not particularly given to literary analysis, I had on my mind the very timely theme of freedom versus safety, and walked down Westmoor turning it over it in my head.

I had built myself a life on freedom. It wasn't much of a life, but it was something, and while it had led me, ultimately, in the wrong direction, I missed it. I didn't miss the cold nights or the hungry days, but being able to go wherever I want and do whatever I wanted, to not have to answer or explain myself to anyone - I missed that. Russell had imposed very little on my freedom, but his house and his presence felt like a cage. I wasn't sure what to make of that, and I wasn't sure that I disliked it. I wondered what that meant.

The book in question was One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest, and I had finished it earlier that morning. It wasn't exactly memorable, I didn't think, and the ending had been somewhat of a downer, but it spoke to the part of me that was locked, willingly, in Russell's little house in the Broadmoor neighborhood. Is this really what you want? Despite its appearances, our relationship wasn't based on equality - it was based on Russell knowing what was best because he was the grown-up and the boss as well, and I couldn't even decide if I was okay with giving up control. I plodded on through the rain until I found the Safeway we'd passed, and went inside, walking up and down the aisles.

It was a funny thing, standing in the doorway. The last time I'd been in a Safeway I had been banned for stealing, but I was stamping the rain out of my shoes now and not thinking about stealing a thing. I wasn't even hungry. I knew that time was wasting, that I needed to get back to the house and use the bathroom again, but I walked up and down the aisles anyway, thinking that anything I wanted in the store was within reach - Cheezits, cupcakes, smoked salmon - and I didn't have to do anything drastic to get it. I put my hand in my pocket and fingered the ten dollar bill inside. Today, it held so many more possibilities than it had before: My new situation gave its every penny something more to aspire to than a can of beans, a jar of peanut butter, those staples that traveled well and didn't need refrigerating.

But what did I really need? I selected a box of pads and wandered some more, promising myself I could have any one thing that I wanted, and in the end I turned around and went to the registers empty-handed save for what I had come for, a little stunned. This wasn't me. I deserved a treat, after all I had been through at least a bottle of Pepsi, but that ten dollars - now five and change - went back into my pocket, and I walked slowly back to Russell's house in the pouring rain. This was another new side of me that I hadn't seen sneaking up. I hadn't been aware that it had existed at all.

I wondered what else had changed.

"Tell me about it."

I had never before lived with an adult who took any interest in what I was doing. Russell had kept a respectful distance from my previous life on the streets, but over the past day or two he had begun to ask questions. Where did I get money? How did I find food? Where did I sleep? His question made me feel wanted, and they irritated me at the same time; previously answerable to no one, I now had to account for my past and present. Living with Russell involved giving up power and independence in a lot of ways.

"What do you want to know?" I said. It was late Sunday afternoon and the television was on, panning across dark, still-stunned Haitian faces, reporting that the status quo was still the status quo. It had prompted the conversation: What was it like, Russell wanted to know, having nothing? Was it like it was down there? This was an open-ended question, far less specific than those he had asked previously, and more difficult to evade. I hadn't attempted to invoke any right to privacy, and Russell appeared to feel that his charity came with some conditions, an idea that I wasn't particularly keen to challenge. Better that he feel he was getting something in return - it gave me a bargaining chip on the chance he should decide that he wanted to live alone again.

He waved an arm as if feeling around in the air for a more precise question, and then looked at me. "I don't know. Tell me a story."

I am not sure what I expect from Hazel. I'm not used to children, and I don't know her well at all. I want to take another day off, or another two, or a few weeks, and find out if leaving her alone in my house is a safe thing to do, if she's going to rob me blind or destroy the place or hang herself from a curtain rod. She could be crazy.

And then I realize that I am afraid of a little girl, and I get myself ready and go to work.

When I leave, she's still passed out on the couch, in a compact little ball and in the same position she fell asleep in the night before. A halo of used tissues surrounds her head. She has a cold and though she hasn't bothered to hide it, she also hasn't complained. It is as though it's a simple fact of her existence, ever present but as worthy of comment as the color of her hair.

"If you could be anywhere," Russell said, "where would it be?"

We sat in his car sharing a tub of ice cream he'd let me pick out at an ice cream shop. He'd driven us to a local lake I hadn't heard of and we watched dragonboaters skim across the surface, all paddling in unison to the shrill sound of a whistle. It threatened to rain but, for the moment, the windshield was dry. I was ensconced in a new sweatshirt, big enough to fit Russell but mine, soft and green and warm. I felt as though I was perched on the edge of an abyss, pondering its black depths, from which I had so recently risen.

Being homeless in the suburbs was difficult. Not that the city was exactly easy, but a kid in too-big jeans and no shoes and with only a sweatshirt for protection from the cold tends to capture more attention at the local mall than a busy city street. I suppose I should have taken BART back to the city, but the three nights I had spent in a warm house, sleeping on a comfortable couch and eating my fill had spoiled me. I drifted around Daly City like a wild animal circling a campfire, close enough to hope but too far away to feel the warmth.

I limped back to John Daly Boulevard the first day and bought myself a pair of shoes and socks at Westlake Mall, and a tube of antibacterial gel to rub on the bottoms of my feet. As I sat in the bathroom at Starbucks, applying it, I reflected and decided that it hadn't been worth it. I might have been feeling miserable at the time, and I might have had things extremely good for a couple of days, but all that meant is that my return to day-to-day life was made all the more difficult. Easier, I thought, to have just not refused the man in the hotel room in the first place. For the first time I began to doubt my mother's wisdom on the subject of rape.

On Sunday morning, fed up and watching my money slowly dwindling again, and with the specter of another head cold not far off, I spent a few dollars in coins and called her. It wasn't nearly as difficult this time.

"Hello?"

The bottoms of Hazel's feet are covered with broken blisters and dried blood that has seeped out of cracks in her soles in the night, and she has fresh bruises on her face and arms and probably other places that I can't see. She ignores her injuries but holds herself like she expects someone to add to the collection at any moment. When I see her on the morning of January 1 I am taken aback - I didn't see any of that in the dim light of the television the evening before. The graceful, confident, angry girl I met before is gone, and in her place is a quaking child who seems to want to crawl under the bed and hide like my cat.

I have already been to the store and am making us bacon and eggs. Hazel has just crawled out of her makeshift bed on the couch and seated herself at the table. Her hair sticks up in odd places.

"Who did that to you?" I say.

She stands in the doorway, cold and too thin, hugging herself, and looks up at me expectantly. This is how I know that she wants far more than to see my wallet safely returned to me. I put my wallet in my pocket - I'll look through it later - and stand aside to permit her entry. She comes in after a moment of hesitation but hangs near the door, as though she requires further instructions.

In this moment, I understand that things are very much more wrong in Hazel's life than she has seen fit to advertise. What I do not understand is why this has become my problem.

"How did you get here?" I say. I close the door behind her and lock it.