Who Owns Kelly Paddik Read online

  Who Owns Kelly Paddik?

  Beth Goobie

  orca soundings

  Copyright © 2003 Beth Goobie

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and

  retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in

  writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Goobie, Beth, 1959 —

  Who owns Kelly Paddik? / Beth Goobie.

  (Orca soundings)

  ISBN 1-55143-239-0

  I. Title. II. Series.

  PS8563.O8326W56 2003 jC813’.54 C2002-911413-6

  PZ7.G597Wh 2003

  First published in the United States, 2003

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2002115795

  Summary: After attempting suicide, Kelly Paddik is sent to a

  “secure facility.” As she tries to find a way out she has to come to

  terms with her memories of abuse.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for

  its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the

  Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry

  Development Program (BPIDP), the Canada Council for the Arts, and

  the British Columbia Arts Council.

  Cover design: Christine Toller

  Cover photography: Eyewire

  Printed and bound in Canada

  05 04 03 • 5 4 3 2 1

  IN CANADA:

  Orca Book Publishers

  1030 North Park Street

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8T 1C6

  IN THE UNITED STATES:

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  for the young women who

  spend a time at Marymound

  BG

  Chapter One

  I sat in the car next to my social worker and stared out the window. We were out of the downtown area now, driving up Main Street into Winnipeg’s north end. The car passed store after store, then a McDonald’s. A woman at a bus stop stared straight at me, then looked away with nothing on her face. That was what it was like when you were a kid in the system. So many people looking right through you with polite nothingness on their faces. It always made me wonder if the nothingness came from them or me.

  I’m fifteen years old and I’m being driven to a lockup. The thought kept pounding through my head. Outside the car, yellow leaves blew down the street like sadness, like freedom. The car turned off Main Street and passed a row of houses. At the end of the street stood a huge black iron gate. It was like something out of a horror movie. The car drove through the gate into a parking lot. Ahead of us was a tall, very old brick building. The sign out front said: MARY-MOUND SCHOOL FOR GIRLS.

  Two days ago I’d been here for a meeting, but this time I was here to stay. As the car got close to the front door, I saw the wires in the windows. Wire run through glass makes windows harder to smash and climb out. That means you can’t get out — you’re stuck wherever you are until someone decides to let you out.

  I wasn’t even inside yet, and I could feel the walls moving in on me. Waves of panic rose up my throat, and I felt as if I was drowning. I couldn’t let them do this to me, I couldn’t.

  Pushing open the car door, I dug my feet into the ground and took off for the gate. I could hear my social worker yelling, but then a huge roaring filled my ears. At the parking lot entrance, the horror movie gate still stood open, waiting for me.

  I had to get away — that was all I could think about. The gate grew and grew, and then I was through it and out in the street. Everything in me pulled together and began to run, as fast as my heart was beating, faster.

  Then I heard feet pounding after me. They were gorilla feet — loud and heavy. I didn’t have to look back to know they were a man’s. He was right behind me, and I gave up then because men are stronger and meaner than girls. I know that if I know anything. I stopped running and felt the air stand still around me. I was gasping, trying to catch my breath as I watched the street run away without me. The man’s hand touched my arm — not too heavy, but there.

  “I’ll give you a minute to catch your breath,” he said.

  I didn’t say anything. He stood there panting, waiting for me to stop breathing so hard. I wouldn’t look at him, just stared down the street and pretended his hand wasn’t on my arm. Finally he said, “Kelly, I’m Jim. I think we’ll head back now.”

  We walked back in silence. I kept kicking at leaves and watching my feet. Prisoner feet, I thought as we walked through the gate. When we got to the car, my social worker glared at me.

  “That wasn’t very smart, Kelly Paddik.”

  I tried to look at her as if I’d never seen her before and couldn’t care less. Inside, though, I was crying — crying in my hands and stomach and legs.

  I looked away from my social worker’s face, and then I saw the woman standing beside her. Even though she wasn’t wearing a headdress, I could tell right away that she was a nun. Her uniform was a light brown, and there was a small cross on her chest. Seeing a nun scared me so bad I thought my knees and elbows were going to come apart. It’s just that in stories and movies there are always nuns in places like this. That’s how you know you’re locked up for good.

  “Hello, Kelly. I’m Sister Mary.” She was so short, the top of her head came to my shoulders. And she was old — grandmother old. If all the staff in here were like this, I could run away easy. This started to cheer me up, until I remembered Jim.

  “C’mon in and I’ll show you your room,” Sister Mary said.

  Just like hotel service, I thought.

  Jim followed close behind to make sure I didn’t make a run for it again. I felt as if I was wearing him like a body glove. He probably thought of himself as my bodyguard — just a nice guy keeping Kelly Paddik away from all the bad stuff. So if he was so nice, then why was he making my hands sweat and my heart pound? I wanted to turn around and shove him, hard.

  Before I could, Sister Mary opened the front door and we stepped inside the building. It seemed very dark after the bright sunshine and the yellow flyaway leaves. From somewhere nearby, I could hear girls’ voices. We went down a long hall and through a locked door. Then we climbed two flights of stairs. I was watching the old nun, waiting to see if she would fall over from all this exercise. But she wasn’t even breathing hard. Maybe she worked out and lifted weights.

  When we got to the top of the stairs, we turned down another hall. On my left I could see an office with a large window run through with wire. I guess the staff thought they needed somewhere safe to hide out. Ahead of us there was a big room with sofas, a TV, and a kitchen area. On both sides of this room were five doors. One girl per room, I thought. That makes ten girls.

  Sister Mary led me to the middle door on the left. She unlocked the door and said, “The girls in this unit are twelve to seventeen years old, Kelly. I’m the supervisor. Anytime you want to talk to me about anything, just let one of the staff know. This is your room.”

  I walked into the narrow room after her, followed by Jim. It really was small — one sneeze would fill the place right up. Honestly, four or five steps would take you across it. And there was no place to hide anything, unless you stuck it in the heating vent. As I thought about this, Jim put my suitcase on the bed. Then he opened it and started going through my stuff. I could feel my anger rising in a huge wave. But I got it under control. You have to do that in thes
e places — sit tight on everything you feel. If you don’t, you lose it and you’re locked up longer. I always sit tight on my anger and sadness and don’t let any of it show. It ends up feeling as if I’m sitting on myself — as if I’ve got this big bum parked on my head. But if it means I’ll get out faster, that’s all that matters.

  “I don’t have a bomb in there,” I muttered.

  “I’m sorry, Kelly. We have to do this,” Jim said. Then he held up my pet rock. It was a hunk of granite I’d picked up off a beach somewhere and decided to love. Stupid, I know. I called it “Family” and talked to it when no one else was around. My pet rock was a great listener. At least it never interrupted.

  “We’re going to have to keep this in the office,” said Jim.

  “But that’s my pet rock. I need it in my room with me,” I said.

  Jim shook his head. “It’s one of the rules. You can’t keep anything that could be used as a weapon in your room.”

  “But it’s a pet rock, not a killer rock,” I argued. I needed that rock. I told it everything.

  “Sorry, Kelly. You’ll get it back when you leave. Why don’t you unpack now?” said Jim. Then he and Sister Mary left to go talk to my social worker.

  I stood looking at the room they’d given me. There was hardly any furniture — just a dresser, a desk, and a bed. Then I saw the window, with wires run through it like all the others.

  I leaned my face against the cool glass and stared out. I started to get cross-eyed staring at the wires. Outside, I could see a long hall that connected this building to a school. That had to be the way the girls got to classes. Beyond the school was a huge, fenced-in yard. They don’t even let you out when you go to school, I thought.

  I’d never believed this could happen to me — that I’d get locked up. I’d always wanted to be a normal kid in a normal family like everyone else. Somehow I’d gotten trapped in a life I didn’t want. How had it turned out like this? How had I gotten to be some freak that they had to lock up?

  I sat down on the bed next to my suitcase. The one thing I was glad about was that it was October. That meant I could wear long sleeves and no one could see the skin on my arm. Last week I’d cut my left wrist with broken glass. I was living in a group home then, where it’s easier to get hold of what you need. I’d stolen a Coke from a staff person and smashed the bottle. I’d wanted everything to end then, but I’d messed up. So here I was, alive and locked up.

  When the staff took me to the hospital, they told me that I was a “danger to myself and to others.” Then they told me they were sending me to a place with more staff to help me work things out. That’s the big sob story about how I got here, with wires on my window and a suitcase to unpack.

  I stared at the stuff in my suitcase. I could feel Jim’s fingerprints all over it. In fact, I felt as if his fingerprints were crawling all over me. Slowly I took out my socks and underwear and put them in the dresser. The most important stuff I didn’t unpack, because you couldn’t see it. That was the stuff I kept deep inside me. Only my pet rock heard about those secrets. I’d had them for as long as I could remember — memories of home, things my dad did to me at night when Mom was asleep.

  I worked so hard, all the time, to forget those things. Those memories made my body feel thick, heavy and hard to move. When I thought about what went on at home, I got so scared I couldn’t breathe. Sometimes, if I made myself move or run fast, I could get away from it for a while. When I was a little kid, I used to play a game. I would start at one end of the street and run until I was tired. I would pretend I could go so fast I could leave everything bad behind me. Like a small bird, I would fly up and away from my body forever. Too bad forever doesn’t last very long.

  In here, in this place, there was nowhere to run. I stood at my window and watched yellow leaves blow through the huge iron gate and out into the street. The leaves blurred together as the tears started. Don’t cry, Kelly, I told myself. It doesn’t help, so don’t bother. Just figure out how to get out of this place as fast as you can.

  Chapter Two

  I decided that the first chance I had, I would take off. In the meantime, things would go easier if I pretended that I wanted to be here. So I hung my shirts and jeans in the closet, then looked at the last few things in my suitcase. On the top of a small pile sat an envelope with pictures of my family in it. I hadn’t looked at them in a long time. Underneath were some notebooks full of writing.

  I started to write stories when I was about five years old. When I was seven I decided to write the story of my life, but I didn’t get very far. One of the oldest notebooks started off with: I am seven. My mom and dad is big. J and D is smal. That was about as much as I wanted to say, I guess.

  “J” and “D” are Jolyn and Danny, my sister and brother. I hadn’t seen or talked to them in years, but I thought about them a lot. The last time I saw Jolyn, she was hiding her teeth under her pillow for the tooth fairy. Danny was in diapers. Were they both still living with my mom? Or did they turn out like me and end up in a group home?

  I’d written lots of other stories too, about good kids with happy lives. Those stories went on for pages and pages. It was easy to write stories like that. I could pretend that I was one of those kids. It was a little like looking out a window onto another life. I could get out of mine for a bit, and forget who I really was.

  Suddenly I heard a lot of voices and footsteps out in the room with the TV. Since it was around three o’clock, I figured it must be the girls getting back from school. Quickly I shoved my notebooks into a dresser drawer. Then I sat on the bed and counted heartbeats.

  “Hey, the new girl’s here,” someone called.

  My doorway filled with faces, though none of the girls came into my room. My eyes kept wanting to lock onto the walls, but I made myself turn and look at the girls. Girls in lockups are supposed to be tougher than those in group homes. I tried to look as if lockups were nothing, as if I spent holidays in them.

  “So, what’s your name?” someone asked.

  “Kelly.” The word kind of flopped out of my mouth. Great, advertise your nerves, I thought. “What’s yours?” I asked.

  The girl asking the questions didn’t answer. I guess she figured that wasn’t her job. “What are you in here for?” she asked.

  I could tell that she was the girl who ran this unit. There’s always one who’s tougher than everyone else. If you let her know you’re scared, she’ll ride you. So I shrugged and said, “Beats me. My social worker’s in the office. Ask her.”

  I didn’t want to tell the world about my arm. That was my business. But if I didn’t give this girl an answer, it could mean trouble later on. She was already looking at me sideways, her lip curled like a pit bull’s. I could see her getting ready to fire another question, but then a loud voice spoke up behind her.

  “C’mon, ladies, break it up. Let Kelly get used to the place before you all jump on her.”

  One by one the girls backed away, leaving a woman standing in the doorway. She had a lot of red curly hair that could have spent some time with a comb. And she looked like she could run — not your grandmotherly type. “All right if I come in?” she asked.

  I shrugged. What was I supposed to say? No?

  Leaning against the dresser, she said, “I’m Fran. Welcome to Sister Mary’s unit.”

  So that little nun did actually run this place. I tried not to look surprised. “Yeah, sure,” I said.

  She raised an eyebrow. Girls probably talked to her like this all day long. Lifting her hands, she ran them through her rebel hair. “How about if I ask one of the girls to show you around and explain the rules?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I shrugged again. This place wasn’t anything to get excited about. On the other hand, I did need to know how to get to the washroom.

  Going to the door, Fran called out, “Chris.”

  I held my breath, hoping it wasn’t the girl who’d asked all the questions. But the face that showed up had on a grin that
looked as if it belonged there. Her black hair was cut short and her eyes were really dark. She was cool, but not a staff kind of cool, as in I’ll like you as long as you do what you’re told. Chris told me that she was Cree and came from a place up north called Churchill.

  “Ever seen a polar bear?” I asked.

  “Sure. Have you?” She looked at me kind of strange when she said this. I realized that asking if someone has seen a polar bear isn’t usually the first question you ask a stranger. So I pulled out the last thing in my suitcase and handed it to her. It was a grubby, falling-apart white bear. Every girl in a group home has a couple of stuffed animals on her bed — something from home. They always look like they’ve been through a war.

  When she saw it, Chris laughed again. Her laugh was kind of tricky. It got inside you and then you were smiling without even realizing it. I guess the building looked so old and creepy, I didn’t think anyone would be laughing in here. It made me wonder why Chris was here if she could laugh like that.

  Chris showed me around the unit and listed off the bath rules, bedtime rules and snack-time rules. They sure had more rules in lockups than they did in group homes. I followed her around, waiting for the rules about blowing your nose and tying your shoes.

  Chris was showing me the kitchen seating plan when I saw Fran go into the washroom. Suddenly I heard Fran call out, “Who’s the drip that left the tap on?”

  Chris burst out laughing. “Ever sick!” she called back.

  Fran’s head popped out the washroom door. “D’you know what I mean, or d’you know what I mean?” she sang out.

  I rolled my eyes. Dumb jokes always had me wanting to crawl into the nearest grave. Suddenly I realized someone was standing behind me, so close that I could feel her body heat. Turning quickly, I saw the girl who ran this unit, the one who’d asked me all those questions. Pit Bull, I thought. Why was she so interested in the back of my neck?