we managed to stay in the city. Until all that shit happened. One bad hustle pretty much turned Marlene off The Life for good. Mostly it was welfare after that. And moving farther and farther east every year, to cheaper and cheaper places, until we were smack in the middle of Burnaby. The Burbs.
Burnaby used to have one thing going for it—I was closer to Drew. But now I can’t bear to look him in the eye. Not after everything he’s seen. He sure as hell didn’t need to know about Marlene and me. I should never have phoned him that night; I should have kept him pure and separate from our bullshit.
But it was getting so I started to really panic when Marlene didn’t come home till late. Once upon a time, she used to leave me notes. Then that whole note thing went out the window. Meanwhile, if I’d ever disappeared and didn’t call or leave a note to say where I was, she would’ve peaked! It felt like the only thing worse than Marlene being home was waiting for Marlene to come home. Three nights before I left, I got so freaked out, I wrapped my arms around my knees and sat there on the couch, squeezing and rocking back and forth like some mental patient. What if she got hurt, who’d call me? I got so riled I actually found Fat Freddy’s number and phoned him.
I had to go into Marlene’s file box for his number. Marlene has a small plastic file box with alphabetized index cards that detail every bar she ever hit with the Birthday Girl and a few other scams. She used to be very systematic. She wrote down the town, the bar, the bartender, the jewellery involved and who she was with at the time. This stuff dates back to when Sam was around. Freddy’s card has his phone number and any leads that are specific to Freddy. The details are coded. I don’t think a cop would ever know what he was reading.
“Heya, kid,” said Freddy when he picked up. “Na, I haven’t seen your mother lately. I figured she was either workin’ solo or lambin’ it. Ha ha …” That’s Fat Freddy for you, like some prehistoric creature from the late, late show. My dad kind of talks like that too. Sam calls crooked guys “rounders” and regular guys “square johns.” I was pretty old before I realized most people don’t talk that way.
“You all alone over there, Sammie?”
“My boyfriend’s here,” I lied.
“Uh-oh! I won’t tell if you don’t!”
Talking to Freddy only made me more paranoid.
I hung up. But I couldn’t shake that black-cloud kind of feeling. I got out the White Pages and flipped chunks of grey leaves. It was almost nine o’clock now.
I started by phoning hospitals to see if she’d ended up in the emergency ward: Burnaby General, Vancouver General, St. Paul’s. It wasn’t as if Marlene had never had a wreck in the past. She’d totalled that old Nova of hers last year.
When the hospitals didn’t have her, I wondered if she’d be stupid enough to get drunk and try to work. Marlene’s not the kind of girl to learn from her mistakes. And what if she got busted? Who’d call me?
I phoned the main police station downtown. When they answered, I hung up. People like us don’t call cops.
Then I panicked some more.
There are perfectly legit reasons to call the cops, I told myself. Normal people call the cops all the time.
I phoned back. I asked if anyone had come across a woman called Marlene Bell.
The cop laughed. “No. Should we be expecting her?”
“She’s—She should be home and I thought … an accident, maybe.”
Silence on his end, and then, “Okay, why don’t I call you back if I hear anything? Who knows, eh?”
I couldn’t hang up now. That’d be suspicious. What if he traced the call?
Normal people phone the police.
I told him my number.
An hour later he called back. They had Marlene.
I asked if she was okay. “Will she lose her driver’s licence?”
“She wasn’t driving. We found her wandering around Broadway and Main. If you want to come get her—actually, we’ll hang on to her for a couple more hours, let her sober up. Come after midnight. You driving?”
“I don’t have my licence yet,” I mumbled. “I just turned sixteen.”
His silence was the worst part. “Do you have someone you can call?” he finally asked. “And bring her some clothes.”
“Clothes?”
“She was wearing a sleeping bag