Whatever (4 page)

“Everyone knows,” said my father. “The news has even reached my co-workers. I thought you said this process would be confidential?”

“Unfortunately, no one can control what the community talks about, Mr. Patrick. Be assured that no information came from either the constable or me.”

That didn't help much. Half the town apparently knew what I'd done.

“Darrah has admitted her role in this matter. We will start by asking her to tell us what happened.” Mrs. Barrett was reading from the papers on her clipboard again.

I said nothing. I didn't want to say anything. Maybe, if I kept quiet, I could . . .

Mom poked me again. On my other side, Dad folded his arms and grunted a warning. “Darrah,” Mrs. Barrett repeated. “Please tell us what happened on that day.”

“Does she have to?” That was the old woman. She shifted on the chair, pushing her leg forward. Her right arm was tucked into a sling and she wore old, faded Levis with the right leg cut open along its side, to make room for the cast. Her bare toes were white and stuck out from the end of the cast. They were so white they were almost blue, colour coordinating with both cast and jeans. But her toenails were thick and a gross yellow colour. No colour coordination there. I looked away from her bare foot.

“Yes, Mrs. Johnson, she does have to tell everyone what she
did,” said the facilitator. “It's part of the circle process. You and I discussed what would happen tonight.”

“I know, I know, you explained. But if the girl's admitted she did it, what's the point? These chairs aren't very comfortable and my toes are cold.” She wriggled them, yellow nails and all.

“I apologize, Mrs. Johnson. Would you like me to see if I can find you a pillow.”

“Won't help much,” she said, shifting her leg again. “It's not just my derrière that hurts. It's my leg, too.”

“Can I find a blanket to cover your foot?”

I suspected I wasn't the only one who had noticed the yellow toenails.

“Nope. And let's finish this.”

Mrs. Barrett looked down at the papers again. She had told Mom and me that, as a facilitator, she had to follow a script which specified what she was to say, what questions to ask at the circle. The
RCMP
had designed this script, she said, and all over Canada, wherever another poor person was having to suffer through one of these circles, the same words would be read, the same questions asked. Mrs. Barrett flipped a few pages, but I guess the script didn't tell her what to do when someone complained about a sore butt and cold toes.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Johnson,” she said, looking up. “But we have to hear from everyone. It's required in a Restorative Justice circle.”

“Okay, let's do it. Come on, girl, answer the questions so we can finish this and go home.”

“It won't take long. Darrah, tell us what happened.”

I mumbled to the floor. “I pulled the fire alarm.”

“Please tell us why you did that.”

“I don't know.”

“You said, at our interview, that you were missing an important event because you were at the hospital.”

“Yes.”

“And? Please tell us more.”

I thought for a moment, trying to think of the words that would make everyone sorry for me. “It was Mom's fault. She made me go to the hospital with her. She was speeding, driving dangerously. I told her to slow down, that it wasn't an emergency. Andrew's had lots of seizures since last year when they found out he was sick.”

I paused for a moment and thought about how my parents always seemed to be scurrying around like frantic rabbits. They'd been scurrying ever since Andrew's diagnosis— to specialists, to our family doctor, to the clinic in Vancouver, to pharmacies, to support groups for families with epilepsy, to the school to talk to his teachers, to . . .

“Go on.”

“Mom made me sit in the back seat and hold Andrew, even though he was strapped in and didn't need holding. She wouldn't listen when I asked her to drop me off near the theatre. She wouldn't even stop the car so I could get out and catch a bus, and . . .”

Oops. These weren't the words of someone who wanted sympathy. I took a deep breath, told myself to settle down.
But when I opened my mouth, what came wasn't what I had planned. “I begged her to stop the car, Andrew was fine, his seizure was over, he was asleep. But she wouldn't listen to me. Then I waited all alone outside the emergency room, and no one told me what was happening, and that snarky nurse wouldn't let me use my phone.”

“Go on, Darrah.” Everyone was staring at me. I took another deep breath. “Maybe if I'd phoned the director sooner, he would have waited for me instead of giving the blonde my part.” I shrugged. “I was hungry, so I went upstairs to get something to eat, but the cafeteria was closed and when I wanted to go back down, the stupid elevator was slow . . .” I stopped again. Again everyone waited. “That was when I pulled the fire alarm.”

“What were thinking when you did that?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Okay, I was mad, all right? I wasn't thinking. I was missing my audition and Dad walked right by me even when I called to him and . . .”

Dad looked surprised; he hadn't noticed me in the waiting room. He shook his head, “But I had to see how Andrew was—”

“Andrew, Andrew, Andrew, that's all you and Mom have said for months! I might as well not even exist.” Once more, this wasn't what I had planned to say. I stopped talking before I could do myself any more damage.

“Please go on,” said Mrs. Barrett.

I shook my head. “That's all.” I didn't want to say any more than I already had. My great plan of acting contrite and apologetic and getting off with easy sanctions was in ruins.

“Is there something else you'd like to say? To anyone here?”

I shook my head.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She sighed, “All right, Darrah. I'll ask you that question again later.” She turned to the old woman. “Mrs. Johnson, please tell us what happened to you when Darrah pulled the fire alarm.”

“You know what happened. So does the constable. I told you both.”

“Yes, but you need to tell it again, here in the circle.”

Mrs. Johnson shrugged, then winced as her arm followed her shoulder's movement. “I fell. Shouldn't have been using the stairs, but the elevator was slow, just like the girl said. Then the alarm sounded, and I figured I'd better get out of there in a hurry so I turned around and started back down. I fell. That's it.”

“When you told the constable about the incident, you said that someone bumped into you.”

“I was confused. In shock. No one bumped me. I moved too quickly and tripped over my own feet. Wasn't wearing my glasses.”

I bit my lip. Why did she say that? I was sure she was the
person I had bumped into as I rushed to get out of the hospital. I hadn't seen her actually fall, but I was moving so fast I was probably out the door by the time she hit the ground.

Mrs. Barrett turned to the constable. “Did you check the security tapes for the stairs, Constable?”

“Yes, ma'am. But, right at the point where Mrs. Johnson fell, there's a blind spot. You can see Darrah heading towards her, then the cameras don't show anything until the next landing. Darrah's running so fast she's almost a blur, but you can tell it's her by what she's wearing.”

“Mrs. Johnson, are you sure no one caused you to fall?” Mrs. Barrett asked again.

The old lady leaned forward, peering around Mrs. Barrett. She stared right at me as she answered. “I'm sure. I fell, that's all.”

The constable and Mrs. Barrett exchanged glances, then it was Mrs. Barrett's turn to shrug. It was a small movement, and she corrected it almost as soon as it began, but I saw it.

“We'll go on then. How did you feel when this happened, Mrs. Johnson?”

“Besides being in pain and not able to stand up? I was scared. I didn't know if there really was a fire and I'd be trapped on the stairs. The alarm was loud, there was shouting, lots of noise. I cried out but knew no one could hear me, so I lay there until you showed up, young lady.” She smiled at the constable. “I was never so glad to see anyone in my life.”

Constable Markes mumbled something about it being her job, glad to help, and looked at her well polished black shoes.
I could see a red flush moving up to her cheeks.

“How has this affected you, Mrs. Johnson?” Mrs. Barrett was reading from her script again.

The old woman looked at her as if she thought the facilitator were out of her mind. “How has it affected me?” she repeated. “That's rather obvious, isn't it? There's a cast on my leg because it's broken, and a sling on my arm.”

“Can you be more specific about how you've been affected by the incident?”

“I guess you want details. Okay, to begin with, I don't get out much. Can't drive. Can't hang out the laundry or dig up the potatoes. Can't carry a cup of tea and a book from the kitchen to my favourite chair in the living room because I need one hand to hold the cane. For a while they had me in a wheelchair and I couldn't push it properly with only one good arm. Kept going in circles.”

She stopped, and the room was silent, the kind of silence that makes you think of floating in deep space or standing alone on a glacier. Even Mrs. Barrett didn't interrupt to read something from her script. She waited, like the rest of us. Finally the old lady sighed and went on. “I guess what hurts most is that I didn't get to see my friend in the hospital. He died that afternoon while they were fixing me up. That's why I was there. To say goodbye.”

She stopped speaking and again there was that deep, cold silence. Then I burst out, “I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt.”

Mom grabbed a tissue from the box under her chair and
dabbed at her eyes. Dad cleared his throat and shifted on his chair.

“Darrah is normally a very responsible girl,” he said. “We don't know what got into her that day.”

“Thank you, Mr. Patrick. You'll have your turn to speak as soon as Mrs. Johnson has finished. Tell us, Mrs. Johnson, what has been the hardest thing for you since this happened?” Another question from the script.

“Besides not being able to take a shower unless someone wraps my leg in a plastic garbage bag and helps me get in and out? Besides not being able to put the garden to bed for the winter? Besides not being able to sleep because the cast itches? Besides having to perch on a damned plastic throne on top of the toilet seat because I can't bend my knee enough to sit on the regular seat?”

“Uh . . . yes, besides all that.” Mrs. Barrett was scanning the facilitator's script again, turning pages furiously.

“What do you think?” asked Mrs. Johnson. “What do you think is the hardest thing for me since this happened? None of it has been fun. So finish up with this circle nonsense and let me go home. I need my ‘throne' if you get my drift.”

Chapter Four

WE TOOK A SHORT BREAK
. When Mrs. Barrett and the old lady were back, it was the constable's turn to speak to the circle.

“Constable Markes, do you have anything to add to Darrah's account of what happened? Is what she told us correct?” asked Mrs. Barrett.

The gun strapped to the constable's waist appeared heavy enough to make her lean sideways. But she sat with her back as straight as the tin soldiers my grandfather used to keep on his bookshelf.

“Yes, ma'am.” She pulled out her notebook and began to read. “I was called to the scene in response to the fire alarm. I
found Mrs. Johnson in the stairwell and made sure she got medical attention. Then I viewed the security tapes, and one of the nurses was able to identify Darrah Patrick as the person seen breaking the alarm. She further recognized the offender as coming to the hospital with a woman and young boy who had suffered an epileptic fit. The nurse said the offender was disobeying hospital rules by using her cellphone in the emergency waiting area and had shown attitude when she was reprimanded.” She paused to take a breath.

“Thank you, Constable.”

“I'm not done, ma'am.” The constable frowned at Mrs. Barrett.

“Sorry, please go on.”

“I obtained the pertinent information from the nurse and, after contacting her parents, proceeded to the offender's home where, in the presence of her parents, she was offered the opportunity to settle this matter out of court through Restorative Justice. Although the offender at first seemed to treat the incident casually, both she and her parents have been most cooperative since. That's all.”

“Thank you, Constable.”

Attitude? I glared at the constable who wasn't even looking at me. I hadn't shown “attitude” that day; it was that nurse who had. “Didn't you see the signs, young lady?” she had asked, really cold and stuck up. “Go outside if you need to call your boyfriend.” As if I had a boyfriend to call.