“Tell her to bite down on this,” the man says to Nancy, passing her an old belt. She has to force down the vomit that surges up her throat. There are dozens of teeth marks all along the edges of the brown leather.
“Jesus Christ,” Nancy mutters.
“He’s not gonna help you in here, honey.”
Nancy ignores the man. “Clara, bite down on this. Come on.” She feeds the belt between Clara’s teeth with difficulty, but Clara finally bites it. “I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay.”
The man picks up one of the instruments and peers between Clara’s legs. Nancy can hear the clicking of the tools. The chemical stench of the rubbing alcohol is burning her nostrils. He clears his throat, then switches on the radio and turns it up full-blast.
Nancy jumps again, her nerves already frayed like a cut rope. “What the hell?” she bellows over the music.
“Trust me!” he calls across Clara’s bare legs. “This isn’t my first rodeo, baby!”
It takes less than a minute for Nancy to understand why he’s blasting the radio. Clara’s eyes snap open and a scream issues from her mouth that could wake the dead. Her once-loose grip tightens on Nancy’s hand.
“Hold her down!” the man shouts at Nancy. “She can’t move!”
Sickened with herself and the man in equal measure, Nancy presses down on Clara’s chest with her free hand as “Sweet and Innocent” by Donny Osmond blares through the tinny speakers.
Out on the street, all the neighbours hear are the cheery upbeat notes, the saccharine lyrics of the teenage crooner. The song Nancy will associate with this night for the rest of her life. The song that will make her want to smash her car radio with a hammer and flee from a friend’s party two hours early.
Clara’s screams continue as tears drip down her temples, soaking the black pillowcase beneath her blond hair as Donny belts out his ballad to a girl who was just too young.
* * *
The subway doors slide shut and the train starts to move, transporting the girls back downtown the way they came, away from the horror of that dank basement. A sob bursts from Clara’s mouth, followed by the tiniest whimper.
“Oh, Clara,” Nancy says. “It’s over now. It’s going to be okay.”
“Thank you, Nancy.”
Clara rests her head against Nancy’s shoulder, and Nancy awkwardly extracts her arm from between them and pulls Clara into a half hug. They stay like that for several stops, swaying with the rhythmic motion of the train. It’s nearly midnight now, and their subway car is mercifully empty.
When they’re two stops away from Ossington, Nancy gently nudges Clara. “We’re nearly there.”
Clara doesn’t respond. Her head is heavy against Nancy.
“The next station is Ossington. Ossington Station,” the monotone voice announces through the speakers.
“Clara,” Nancy says again. “Come on, stand up.”
No response.
“Clara?”
Nancy dips her head to get a better view of Clara’s face.
It’s deathly pale, and her lips are blue.
“Clara!” Nancy shakes her cousin’s shoulders, her own heart hammering in her throat. Clara’s eyes open a fraction, and she moans a word Nancy can’t make out. “Come on, get up, we need to get you home now.”
“Arriving at Ossington. Ossington Station.”
The train begins to slow. Nancy reaches underneath Clara’s small arms and lifts her up. She’s so tiny, it isn’t that difficult, but as she hauls Clara to her feet, Nancy gets a full view of the subway seat beneath her. Underneath her rain jacket, Nancy breaks out in a cold sweat.
The seat is so soaked in blood that the fabric is shining.
“Oh shit! Oh Jesus. Fuck!”
Clara’s head lolls on her neck like a child’s doll. When the subway doors slide open, Nancy half drags her off the train onto the empty platform. The whistle sounds and the train pulls away from the station, whipping Nancy’s hair back as it picks up speed. Clara moans again.
“Clara!” Nancy gasps. “Clara, I need you to help me get you up the stairs. I need you to walk. Please!”
Clara blinks at her through heavy eyes, and mouths something Nancy can’t hear. But she does lift her legs, slow and weak, enough to help Nancy get her to the top of the stairs. The station is empty. There isn’t even anyone on duty in the tollbooth.
Nancy backs into the crash doors out onto the street, still dragging Clara with her like a medic hauling a body off a battlefield. It’s stopped raining, and the air is heavy with humidity and the smell of mud. She heads for the traffic lights on Bloor Street one block down.
After what seems an eternity, Nancy spots an approaching cab.
“Taxi!” she screams, throwing her hand in the air. It pulls over to stop in front of her. Propping Clara up with one arm, Nancy struggles to open the door with the other. She nearly dumps Clara into the car, then throws herself in after her.
“We need the nearest hospital,” Nancy snaps at the driver.
“You want St. Joe’s? Probably closest.” He meets her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Hey, she don’t look so good, she better not be—”
“Just drive!” Nancy shouts at him.
He shakes his head and speeds away from the curb without signaling.
In the back seat, Nancy gives Clara another small shake, smacks her cheek as forcefully as she dares without hurting her. “Clara, stay with me. Just stay with me. Stay with me.”
* * *
Nancy has never sat in a hospital waiting room alone before. She’s waited with her mother during her Grandmama’s many illnesses in recent years, but sitting in a waiting room with your parent is entirely different. There’s someone older and wiser to be the point of contact for the doctor, someone to get you a cup of tea and tell you it’s going to be okay. Tapping her rain boot on the tile floor and biting her nails nearly to the quick, Nancy suddenly feels far more adult than she ever has before. She’s responsible for someone here. She’s the point of contact.
Nancy arrived at the emergency room with Clara half-conscious and hanging off her shoulder as blood dripped onto the white tile floor beneath their feet. Nancy kept her mouth shut as much as possible with the triage nurse. Her mother—a woman with an impeccable sense of etiquette which she carried with her like a piece of heavy luggage when she immigrated to Canada—has always taught Nancy to mind her own business, reciting her favourite idiom ad nauseam: “Just keep yourself to yourself.” Why Nancy arrived at the hospital doors with Clara half-conscious and bleeding isn’t anyone’s damn business. Their job is to treat their patient. But on the other hand, this isn’t some innocent heart attack or unlucky car accident. Clara’s injuries are the result of something illegal. As she thinks about the possible implications, Nancy’s heart hammers somewhere in the region of her tonsils.
She looks down now and notes the bloodstains on the calves of her jeans. She’ll have to wash them in the bathtub tonight before her parents see them. She hopes her mother won’t be waiting up for her. A moment later, her stomach flutters as the doctor bursts through the swinging doors. He’s tall, with a dark buzz cut and a face like a thunderstorm.