“Covenant House”

7:53pm LCYC: Hi, welcome to Live Chat Youth Counselling. Live Chat Counselling is anonymous and confidential. Our average wait time to connect with a counsellor is 30 minutes. We understand that sometimes waiting can be tough. If this is an emergency, please call 911.

I buzz Jenny’s apartment as soon as I walk into the foyer. I consider just lying down here for the night, or maybe on the rain-coated asphalt right outside. But Jenny saves me (as she usually does) because just then I hear the familiar beeping noise and the click of the door opening. Perhaps when you suddenly show up near midnight at someone’s place, they don’t feel the need to speak to you over the buzzer intercom.

8:07pm LCYC: Before we connect you with a counselor, can you please describe what you are wanting to chat about today?

AYAH: im going to run away from home

I take the elevator. Jenny doesn’t live too far up, but I find myself counting the floors anyway. There is a large mirror on the opposite side of the door, and I avoid looking at it, not wanting the sudden pang of pity that I know is waiting for me. Or worse, having to come to terms with the desperation sliding off of my glasses in the form of stale rain.

8:08pm FRANK: Hi Ayah, this is Frank. I’m going to be your counselor this afternoon. Before we start this conversation, I’d like to ask. Are you safe right now?

AYAH: yes

FRANK: Are you at risk of harming yourself or others?

AYAH: no

I text Jenny as soon as I reach her apartment. A simple, “im here”, and then I wait, my wet hair dampening the carpet behind me. I hear footsteps shuffling and then Jenny creaks open the door with a finger to her lips. Her hair is up in a bun and she’s in a massive Philly Flyers t-shirt and tiger paw slippers. It would be embarrassing for me to be caught wearing something like that, but she’s known that I’m coming and I guess didn’t feel the need to change.

She motions for me to come in and I step inside, as quietly as I can with my boots. I’ve only been in Jenny’s apartment a handful of times, despite living just a few blocks from her. She says it’s too small to hang out in and always too messy for me to come over. I say the same about mine, even though those things don’t really matter to me, I just can’t come up with any other excuse.

“My mom’s sleeping so we have to be quiet.” I catch the sheen of her retainer as she talks. She isn’t whispering, but speaking in this weird low halftone. “She has work tomorrow morning.” I want to mention that speaking in a monotone voice doesn’t necessarily make her quieter, but I can’t really think of a funny way to say it, so I just nod. As she closes the door, the keys hanging on the hook next to it jingle. I hope Jenny’s mom is a deep sleeper.

I gingerly place my backpack on the floor and take off my coat and boots. I’m wearing two layers of socks so my feet are reassuringly dry.

Apparently only reassuring to me because Jenny exclaims (not very quietly) “Oh my god, Haya, you’re soaked!”

“I’m fine, really,” I say.

She ignores this and speeds to her room. It’s the first time I’ve been at her place at night. I’m surprised by how dark it is. The main source of light comes from two lamps in the living room and a candle burning on the dining table.

8:09pm FRANK: I see you’re thinking of running away. Would you like to talk about what is making you want to run away?

AYAH: if i don’t leave now, i never will.

FRANK: That seems incredibly tough. You seem to have very good reasons for running away.

Jenny re-emerges with a pair of sweatpants and a massive orange camp counselor t-shirt.

“Do you want to take a bath to warm up?” she asks.

“No, I’m fine, really,”

“A shower?”

“I’m alright,”

“Okay, well, at least let me get you something to dry off with.” She opens up the linen closet in the hallway and takes out some towels. They’re a deep, luxurious maroon and fluffy, more suited to a hotel room than my hands. Although, I guess in this case I’m technically a guest.

“Go change. Are you hungry?”

“Not really. I already ate dinner,” This isn’t technically a lie. I popped open a bag of chips a few hours ago while waiting for the bus. Even if I was hungry, the idea of eating—putting food in my mouth, chewing, and swallowing— makes me feel dizzy.

“Well, I haven’t eaten. I was too busy trying to finish that history essay,”

“The one due in two weeks?”

“I have five hundred words left. I figured I’d just do it and not have anything to worry about over spring break.” She points to the door on the other side of the hallway. “There’s the bathroom. Will you eat with me?”

I don’t respond.

“I hate eating when someone else isn’t. It makes me self-conscious. I’ll skip dinner for you.”

“Don’t do that,”

“So you’re eating with me?”

“Fine, sure.”

She smiles. “Great, go change and I’ll warm it up.”

I walk into the bathroom and shut the door, clicking the lock in place. I peel off my jeans, but opt to keep my (dry) socks on, figuring I need to preserve body warmth. I’m lucky Jenny likes baggy clothes, because we’re nowhere near the same size, but I guess I could’ve also changed into whatever I’ve packed in my backpack. The sweatpants are thick and soft and the shirt’s made of a coarse but sturdy cotton. It might be the rain, or the time I’ve spent in the cold, or just how tired I am, but I feel each fiber touching my skin. I take my hair out of my braid so that it falls in straggly tendrils in front of my face, and then I wring it out over the sink. I somehow manage to do all this without looking in the mirror, which is impressive considering how small the bathroom is. As if I’m not wet enough, I rinse my face with warm water, to wash away whatever of the outside I’ve carried in. I should take a shower, but I can’t stand to be naked for that long in Jenny’s welcoming, but unfamiliar bathroom.

8:11pm FRANK: How long have you been thinking of running away?

AYAH: years

FRANK: It must be tiring to be thinking of something that long. Are you planning on running away tonight?

AYAH: no

When I walk out, she’s waiting for me in the hallway.

“Food’s ready! You can hang your wet clothes on the back of the couch,”

I follow Jenny to the dining table where she’s set out plates and styrofoam containers.The candle is still lit, which seems like a fire hazard.

“The only thing you can eat is the shrimp pad thai. I think everything else has pork.”

“I’m really not that hungry, you know.”

“If you won’t eat then I won’t eat and I’ll go to bed hungry,”

I sigh, picking up a fork and plopping some noodles onto a plate.

I take large bites and chew slowly to avoid speaking. Not that I really need to. In between bites of panang curry, Jenny keeps up conversation all on her own, talking about an upcoming summer trip to Montreal her mother is planning. Her aunt is getting married and even though she hasn’t seen Jenny in years, she wants her to be her bridesmaid. Jenny admits it’s all a little odd, but it’s exciting. Something to look forward to.

“You could come too. If you wanted,” she adds.

I snort. “I wouldn’t be allowed to. And besides, I don’t even know your aunt.”

“You could be my plus-one,”

“Save that for your date,”

“I won’t be able to find a date as fun as you,”

“I’ll think about it. It’s a while away.” I know it’s not going to happen. There is no way I’d be allowed to, despite my mother liking Jenny and her mom. But it’s a nice idea. And nice of Jenny to invite me.

We finish eating and I help Jenny clear the table and load the dishwasher. When I take out my toothbrush before going to the bathroom, she doesn’t ask why I have it. Or maybe she doesn’t notice, I’m not sure.

Usually when one of us sleeps over, we stay awake as long as physically possible like little girls. But I’m exhausted and this is unexpected and I don’t want to impose on Jenny in that way. She’d done more than enough, I’m not expecting her to entertain me.

I stand at the door of her room as she once again scours the linen closet. “I’m so sorry, I have no idea where my mom keeps the spare blankets. I think we’ll have to share.”

“That’s okay,”

“It won’t be weird?”

“Why would it be weird?”

“I don’t know. It’s late, I’m tired. I’m just saying things, I’m sorry.”

She does look tired, the slight slump of her posture gives it away. It’s Friday night after all and the week’s worth of school is catching up to both of us.

I lie down next to Jenny on her twin bed, under the same blanket. It’s a matching bedspread, blue and yellow flowers on white. She keeps her curtains open, so the soft streetlight spills out into the other side of the room. The sun will be irritating in the morning, when it wakes me up at dawn, but right now the lighting is cozy. If I focus, I can hear the sound of cars whizzing by on the street below, but I mostly just listen to the rain pattering.

“I’m so tired,” I say, just to say something. I’m not used to this quietness between us. We usually don’t let it happen.

“Me too. I’m excited about spring break. I just don’t want to think about school anymore.”

I nod even though she can’t see me.

My eyelids start getting heavy and I feel my legs sinking into the soft mattress. I’m

moments away from sleep when I feel Jenny shift beside me.

“Haya,” she says. And I prepare myself for an interrogation. Instead she starts with “I want to say something.”

“No one’s stopping you,” I reply.

“I don’t want you to take it the wrong way,”

I don’t respond because I can’t remember how I’m supposed to.

“Sometimes…” she starts again, her voice so much of a high pitched whisper it resembles the wind outside. “You stress me out.”

“And sometimes you stress me out, Jenny,”

She clears her throat before starting again. “No, I don’t think you get it,” she says. “I’m not trying to be mean, Haya. Or rude or anything. I love you. I really do.”

And suddenly I’m so afraid of her. So afraid of Jenny and what she might do to me, with her hands, with the pillows, with her fists. Strangle, smother, suffocate. Our faces inches away from each other under the same ceiling, in the same bed, under the same blanket. It’s as if someone is standing on my chest. I can’t breathe. I can’t speak.

“Sometimes I don’t think you look at this realistically. I think sometimes you live in your own head so much that the real world becomes unbearable for you.”

I know she expects me to say something, but I stay quiet in Jenny’s clothes.

“I think that you think things are worse than they are because you’re so obsessed with all these other lives that you don’t have. It’s like, you live in your mind. And you are just your mind and the world is your mind. It’s not true, you know? I just think if you were, I don’t know, present, you might find everything nicer. Feel happier.”

“What makes you think I’m not happy,” I say.

“Well, everything you do,” she says plainly, but I can tell from her tone she’s just teasing now.

And despite the fact that she’s hurting me, really hurting me with her words, I give her a

little laugh. Because it’s Jenny and I trust her intentions and by God, she doesn’t get it. She will never get it because she doesn’t need to.

What I actually want Jenny to do is to ask me why I’m in her bed right now. Why I’ve shown up at her doorstep at eleven-thirty, the day before spring break. I don’t want her rationalizations, I just want her to ask. I won’t answer, I know this, but the desperation for such a conversation, even the inception of it, leaves me feeling raw and wanting.

Instead she asks, “You’re not mad at me?”

“No,”

“Are you listening to what I’m saying?”

I let the pregnant pause settle. “I’m really tired, Jen.”

“Okay,” she says. “Good night. Sweet dreams.”

8:12pm FRANK: Do you have in mind when you would like to try and run away?

AYAH: when the weather’s warmer

FRANK: And what will you do when it gets cold?

The next morning I slip out of the room between Jenny’s mom’s leaving and Jenny waking up. She sleeps long and hard, so I know she won’t hear me go. My clothes are still spread out on the couch, thankfully now dry, and I quickly change in the bathroom, still wearing my socks and underwear from the night before. I fold Jenny’s t-shirt and sweatpants and leave them on the loveseat. I use the keys on the hook to lock the door before slipping them back inside the apartment through the mailslot. I know she’ll be angry about me leaving like this, without telling her, but I don’t have the capacity to explain anything to her and I have to plan ahead.

Since Jenny only lives two stops from me, I decide to walk home. I figure I need the time to think, to reflect. It’s no longer raining, although the sidewalks are gross, caked with mud and fat pink worms.

I wonder if my mother will kill me. I try to imagine it, but can only come up with archaic deaths. A sword plunged into my abdomen, tea poisoned with belladonna, a guillotine awaiting me as soon as I step through the door. I can’t imagine Mama as a violent woman. Vindictive, sure, but not violent.

I walk slower when I’m lost in my thoughts. It takes me longer to get home than usual.

8:15pm FRANK: You seem very independent in your decision. How informed are you

about your decision?

AYAH: very

FRANK: How responsible are you about this decision?

AYAH: very

FRANK: How responsible are you overall?

The time between the foyer of my apartment building and the hallway of my floor is completely lost on me. I must go through the motions, but I never register them. I don’t remember pulling out my access card, or pressing the button for the eleventh floor in the elevator.

But the hallway in front of my apartment door stretches out forever. I put one foot in front of the other, feeling the slight dampness of the boots, the slickness of sweat between my toes as I walk. When I pull out my keys, I’m suddenly surprised that I have them. Maybe I never actually committed to the plan. Maybe I never really believed in it.

8:16pm FRANK: How responsible are you really? How independent are you really? How capable are you?

The chain is on the door when I try to unlock it. It momentarily occurs to me that Mama may not be up by now, but she appears just as the thought enters my mind. She is there in her cotton pajamas and pale blue robe, her face completely blank.

“Assalam alaikum,” she says.

“Walaikum assalam,” I reply.

I walk in and drop my bulging backpack onto the floor near the coat closet. I go through the same motions as I had at Jenny’s house, taking off my boots and my coat. I take off my socks too this time, and I do everything with even more care, as if there are even more people asleep in this apartment with work tomorrow. But I know there isn’t anyone here to hear me make that much noise.

“Are you hungry?” Mama asks, watching me. I can’t believe this is her first question. I don’t respond, but still she heads to the kitchen and I follow after her.

The heating is on, I can tell by the occasional rattle of the radiator, but the linoleum is still cool on my bare feet. Mama moves about the kitchen, pulling out a flat pan from the oven and a naan from the freezer, then turning on the stove. I watch as the black spiral of the burner starts to glow red.

I wonder where she thinks I was last night. I’d turned my location off on my phone, not out of fear that she might track me down, but out of humiliation for where I was planning on going. Not even humiliating for me, but humiliating for her. Her daughter, not having any friends she could confide in, any friends she could trust. How does a girl end up like that?

It doesn’t matter that I ended up at Jenny’s because nothing came out of it. Because I still came back. I now wonder if she thinks that I was with a boy. It would be a stretch, even for her. And there would’ve been no reason for me to be this theatrical.

8:17pm FRANK: I’d like to ask again, are you planning on running away tonight?

AYAH: no

FRANK: Liar.

Mama goes to the fridge, pulls out a glass container of daal and sticks it in the microwave. I packed my toothbrush and all my warm clothes. My laptop and my favorite books. It was passionate packing, not rational. Centered around me, not my survival. But where else could I have gone, if not planning on running away? Where did Mama think I went?

8:18pm FRANK: How are you going to live somewhere else when you can’t even live in your own home?

The naan’s heated up and the microwave dings. Mama picks up the bread from the skillet with her bare hands, doesn’t even flinch, and drops it on the plate. She spoons out the daal onto the side. She holds out the plate to me with her right hand, and looks up, meeting my eyes for the first time today. Or maybe this is the first time I’m meeting hers. Either way, it’s been a while since I’ve remembered that I’m taller than her, that she has to look up to see me.

I hold out my hand to take the plate, but Mama doesn’t hand it over. Instead, she grabs my hand with her left one and places my palm on the skillet.

I read once that third degree burns don’t hurt, so I’m momentarily grateful for the searing sensation, the deep sting, the pulsing of my skin as it dies on my hand. It can’t be more than ten seconds that my palm spends on the stove, but it feels like a night’s worth of terror. Yet not real terror, because you can’t be that afraid of something when you’re experiencing it. When I pull my hand away, the damage feels worse than it looks. My palm is gleaming pink, raw and tender, more like it’s been slapped over and over again, rather than burnt. It doesn’t surprise me that Mama knew, knows, how much I can take. She’s the one that’s created my limits.

She leaves to her room, leaving the plate of food on the kitchen counter too. We’re even now, I think. She’s managed to reset the scales faster than I could’ve. That’s my bad habit, I dwell on things too long. My mother acts.

8:19pm LCYC: You have ended this session with your counselor. Do not be afraid to reach out again if you need help. If there is an emergency, call 911.