The Backpack

“Ok, Ma’am,” said the dispatcher. “We can provide a police escort, if you wish. Your husband will not stop you from leaving. There will be a restraining order against him.”

Camille agrees to the terms. He is out of the house. Now the police will arrest him when he comes home.

She remembers that old backpack from her days in foster care. Again, she is on the move. Neighbours always hear the screams and items crashing to the floor. Like the time the neighbours finally called the cops and she was taken into foster care. Another of her Mia’s boyfriends had been hitting her mom again.

Jed was a full blown Cree, not a trace of the fairer country-born skin of Camille and her mom, Mia. Unlike them, he had lived directly on the reserve for years, and came out of the residential school silent and sullen. Most of Mia’s boyfriends had been white, and Camille and Mia lived just outside the reserve borders. Camille didn’t know how her mom had lost her status. As for Jed, he still had his status but preferred to work off the reserve at a local gas station. That day, he came home and entered the kitchen. Camille sat silent at the kitchen table, slowly sipping some canned soup out of a bowl.

“You’re late,” said Mia.

“Worked late,” he grunted.

Her mother wasn’t fooled. “I can smell the gin from here. Fired again, you loser. And you end up in the pub, drinking.”

They would fight. “Fuck off, bitch!” he snarled.

With a hand still sudsy from the sink, she pulled one greasy plate out of the water and flung it at him across the room. He lifted his hands and ducked. It smashed against the flowered wallpaper behind him.

“Loser!” she screamed.

He glared across the room, hands still in the air. “Whore. Nobody would take you but me.”

Her mother shrieked. “Ayyyyy!” and emptied the sink, pulling out dishes and hurling them in sequence like a machine gun. He ducked a tea cup, moving his hips like a samba dancer. Then another hit him square in the forehead and he yelped. He rubbed the spot and lunged forward, hitting Mia with an open hand across the face. Her mother fell limp to the floor.

That was the last time. The woman in a grey pant suit arrived with a police escort. Her name tag said “Jenny”. The cop wore a blue button down shirt and had a grim mouth as he told Jed to face the wall and put his hands behind his back.

Camille’s mother was silent at the sink as the cop came in. Jenny tip-toed through the living room and then, in the kitchen, saw Camille at the table. Camille was still clutching the spoon in her hand. Jenny carried a new, black backpack. “Hello, dear. Can you come with me? This is to pack some things.”

Camille looked at her mom, who swished the bottom of the sink to find any last utensils that she might have missed. Camille got up and packed what she thought she should. When Camille walked out of the front door that last time, Jenny noticed that the zipper wasn’t closed and she peaked inside.

“Is that it? Nothing else?”

Camille hesitated, listening for any sound from her mother. But there was silence, so she didn’t turn back.

Outside across the lawn, the cop put his hand on Jed’s head and Jed didn’t jerk away as they got into the car. Suddenly, Camille felt a rush run past her. Mia was at the side of the cop car, beating at the window.

“Let him out! I made a mistake!” wailed Mia.

Jenny, who was standing beside Camille, stepped forward to the curb and pulled at Mia’s shoulder. “Shoo,” said Jenny. “It’s too late.”

As the car pulled away, Mia dropped to her knees on the curb and cried. Mia continued to whimper as Jenny held Camille’s hand and walked Camille to another grey sedan. Jenny opened the backdoor.

“Get in. It’s time to go.” Jenny turned again, but her mother still wasn’t looking at her. Camille got into the car and it drove away.

As far as Camille knew, Mia never called to ask where Camille was staying in foster care. The foster home was OK, and she was the only teenager in the home. The old woman who cared for her usually watched TV at night, complete with TV stand and TV dinner. Camille waited for Jenny to call and tell her that Mia was ready to take her back.

Several years later, Camille met Greg over a game of pool as the same pub that Jed liked to frequent. Greg was driving through from the city and he was short for a man. Still taller than her though. She turned coyly to lean against the pool table and allowed him to see the silhouette of her breast and perfect hourglass figure. She was 19 and he was blond and 26. He wore square glasses and a sensible buzz cut, which was perfect for his job as a software engineer.

“See, that old code is no good. C# works better.”

“Why you talking ‘bout musical notes?”

“No, no. C# is a type of code we use.”

“Do you talk about that geeky stuff all the time?”

He opened his eyes wide and his coke-bottle glasses made him look like a sturgeon fish. Then a smirk appeared.

“I’ll try not to. We developers are a bit geeky.” But it didn’t matter to Camille. He had a big house in the in the suburbs and nobody to pack his lunch for work.

Now, at Greg’s house, another police car arrives. From that window, Camille watches a female cop open the white picket fence, walk up the pavement, and knock on her door. Camille yanks her old backpack from the front closet. Camille opens the front door and sees the neighbours across the street stare through their bay window. Camille stares back at the woman in the bay window until the woman yanks the curtain shut. Camille had better pack some things.

The cop drives her to the women’s shelter. They check her in and cluck at her. They shake their heads at her husband. How could he do?

“Don’t worry, honey. There are no men here. Too triggering. All the workers are female.”

She stays for a week. When Camille is in the rec room with its wide screen TV, she see the curly, brown haired woman smack her kid away from the remote.

“Get away, you little creep!” says the curly haired woman. She slaps him again. The kid starts screaming, a piercing sound that fills the corridor. A worker enters, wearing a green tunic and a butch haircut.

“These men cause women to hate,” she barks. “They hurt everyone.”

“Men are defective,” says the curly-haired woman. “That’s why we have this place. Look at all the women who need this place, running away.”

Later that day, Camille wonders what happened to the kids and decides to call Greg. In her room is a phone with a speed dial to the front desk, but she thinks she can call out if she dials ‘1’ first.

“Hello?” Greg answers.

“It’s me,” she says.

“What? Where are you?”

“I’m not supposed say. I’m not supposed to be talking to you.”

“I’ve been worried sick. I was out with the kids, and when I come back, I’m arrested. How could you do this to us?”

“Are they OK?”

“You selfish bitch. They’re with their grandparents. I don’t know right now. They’re probably scared shitless.”

“I didn’t want to do this.”

“Yes, you did. Or you wouldn’t have done it.”

“It’s your fault. You shouldn’t have hit me.”

“I never hit you before. I was sleeping on the couch, and you poured boiling water on my leg. You’ll do it to the kids next.”

Camille stay silent.

“You need some help,” he says gently. “You need to heal yourself. I love you.”

“You love me?”

“Yes, I do.”

“What should we do?”

“You need help.”

“But what should we do?”

Greg pauses. “There is an indigenous healing place that would take you in the inner-city. Maybe that would seem more familiar.”

“What place?”

“I’ll call them in the morning. Come back and I’ll pay.”

“I hope they’re OK.”

“You love them. So I’m not mad.”

“I know,” says Camille as she hangs up.

A worker knocks on the door and enters before Camille can respond.

“What are you doing?” exclaims the worker with the butch haircut. “The front desk says you made a phone outside this shelter.”

“You monitor my phone calls?”

“You made a call. Who did you call?”

“I’m ready to leave,” says Camille.

“You can’t leave. This place is safe. You can’t go back.”

“It’s OK, I have a plan,” says Camille. “I’ll just pack my backpack and leave. I made a mistake.”

The worker stands in the doorway.

“You don’t have to leave,” says the worker.

“What? Of course I do. I’ll just pack.”

“You shouldn’t have done it,” says the worker. “This is textbook blaming the victim. You are the victim. He needs to be held accountable.”

“He loves me.”

“This isn’t love,” the worker sneered.

“How do you know?” asked Camille.

“We love the woman here. Women shouldn’t even sleep with men. Men are shit.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Here, the women love each other.”

“What?”

“Lesbian sex is better. More orgasms. What does a man know? Women are better.”

Camille realizes. “I’m tired,” says Camille. “I’d like to be alone.”

“Of course,” says the worker. “You just think about what I said.”

The worker shuts the door. Camille lies down and stares at the mold on the ceiling. She could pack her backpack and leave right now. How could they stop her? Would they try to stop her? Mia couldn’t stop Camille from leaving, and hadn’t even tried. Greg couldn’t stop her. The backpack is in the corner of the room, lying limp and empty against the wall. She gets up and picks it up from the tiled floor, stuffing her underwear into it. She will wait a few minutes and open her door. All the other women’s doors should be closed andno one will see her. It is past nine. She watches for the evening coffee break, and then walks down the block to find a cab. Greg will pay when she arrives.