“Mama, why are you leaving?”
Maranée saw Elizabeth from the foot of the stairs, standing in her bedroom doorway. Her mousy tangled hair fell halfway down her back, arms filled with her tattered pink blanket. Elizabeth looked past Maranée to the suitcases sitting in the doorway. She didn’t move, just waited for an answer.
“Sorry honey, the house is making me sick,” Maranée said, unlocking the door, and grabbed her bags.
“No! Mama, Daddy will be home soon!” Elizabeth ran downstairs, but Maranée was already out the door. “He’ll be angry if you aren’t home and you’ll be in trouble when you get back! And. And. I’ll be in trouble too.” Maranée locked the door behind her. She wished she could have cried, walking down the path, but all she felt was relief. And hurry. The tears, the colour would come later. Much later.
Elizabeth’s footsteps pattered behind her. “Mama, please, I don’t want to be alone. Don’t leave me, please.” The last words came as a whisper.
The footsteps followed quietly behind her. Maranée arrived at the bus stop. She waited. “Go home, Elizabeth, Daddy will be angry if he finds you out of bed.” She wasn’t sure if Elizabeth heard her.
Maranée stepped on the bus, carefully placing the small change she had collected over the past months into the ticket machine. It was much more than she had expected.
“I’ll come back for you. I promise.”
Elizabeth’s tear-stained face disappeared by the side of the road.
The bus travelled from the suburbs to downtown. Homeless bodies waded through the bustling streets, hands reaching up towards wallets and purses. On every corner they begged for that small change, equal to the coins pressed to her chest. A sign read, Women who are experiencing violence, abuse, and/or trafficking, Call 905-387-9959, or go to Hamilton Interval House. She pulled STOP as the bus announced the train station. Her coins were tucked away as she waded through the crowd, tugging her luggage along behind, searching for the ticket booth.
“Where would you like to go?” The man asked, his voice muffled by thick glass.
“I need a ticket to Newmarket, please.”
“Do you have a Presto card, ma’am, or will you be paying by cash?”
“Cash please.”
“That will be $19.75. The ticket will include a transfer at Union Station.”
Maranée counted out her change. She stopped. He counted the cash. He stopped.
“I’m sorry, I won’t be able to get you a ticket. This isn’t enough.”
“No, please, surely you can get me some kind of discount or something. I don’t have any more money.”
He sighed. “If you have a Presto card, there is a fifteen percent discount. If you are a student, you can apply for an additional thirty percent off GO transit. Otherwise, you can apply to the city of Hamilton for financial aid of up to thirty percent off for any local travel if you qualify. That will not apply to GO transit, unfortunately. There are no discounts for cash fares.”
“Okay. Well how much is a Presto card? And how do I apply for financial aid?”
“Presto cards are four dollars. You can apply for aid online.”
“Thank you. I’lll take a card.” She still didn’t have enough money for the fare. She didn’t have enough to live on, and she didn’t have access to the internet or know how to convince anyone she qualified for financial aid for that matter either.
She tried the phone booth first. Her parents lived in Newmarket — or at least they did a decade ago. Her hands trembled as she looked through the phonebook. He would kill her if she went back now. Deep breaths. Elizabeth would be okay. Elizabeth would be okay. Eliza…
The phone rang. “The number you are calling is no longer available.”
Of course it wasn’t. Maranée was just stupid for calling, stupid for leaving. Of course they’d changed their numbers. It was Maranée that had started it. She had been the one to shut them out. Of course the phonebook was out of date. What was she thinking—?
Elizabeth laying at the bottom of the basement stairs, shivering and wet. Her eyes bloodshot, her voice barely a whisper. She’d had to keep Elizabeth home from school until the bruising had gone away. Until the memories went away. Yet, often, she was woken by Elizabeth’s crying in her sleep.
That was months ago. Only once. It had only been once.
She pressed another dollar into the slot and dialled.
905-387-9959.
“Help.”