Whatever Read online

  WHATEVER

  OTHER BOOKS BY ANN WALSH

  Forestry A–Z, with Kathleen Cook-Waldron (2008)

  Horse Power (2007)

  Flower Power (2005)

  Dark Times, ed. (2005)

  By The Skin of His Teeth (2004; 2007)

  Beginnings, ed. (2001)

  The Doctor’s Apprentice (1998; 2007)

  Winds through Time, ed. (1998)

  Shabash! (1994; 2008)

  Across the Stillness (1993)

  The Ghost of Soda Creek (1990; 2008)

  Moses, Me and Murder (1988; 2013)

  Your Time, My Time (1984; 2008)

  Whatever

  Ann Walsh

  RONSDALE PRESS

  WHATEVER

  Copyright © 2013 Ann Walsh

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher, or, in Canada, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright (the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency).

  RONSDALE PRESS

  3350 West 21st Avenue, Vancouver, B.C., Canada V6S 1G7

  www.ronsdalepress.com

  Typesetting: Julie Cochrane, in Minion 12 pt on 16

  Cover Art & Design: Nancy de Brouwer, Massive Graphic Design

  Paper: Ancient Forest Friendly “Silva” (FSC)—100% post-consumer waste, totally chlorine-free and acid-free

  Ronsdale Press wishes to thank the following for their support of its publishing program: the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund, the British Columbia Arts Council and the Province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Book Publishing Tax Credit program.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Walsh, Ann, 1942–, author

  Whatever / Ann Walsh.

  Issued in print and electronic formats

  ISBN 978-1-55380-259-4 (print)

  ISBN 978-1-55380-260-0 (ebook) / ISBN 978-1-55380-261-7 (pdf)

  I. Title.

  PS8595.A585W43 2013 jC813'.54 C2013-903157-X

  C2013-903158-8

  At Ronsdale Press we are committed to protecting the environment. To this end we are working with Canopy (formerly Markets Initiative) and printers to phase out our use of paper produced from ancient forests. This book is one step towards that goal.

  Printed in Canada by Marquis Printing, Quebec

  This book is dedicated to

  the volunteers of Restorative

  Justice programs

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you to Sandra Hawkins, who first introduced me to Restorative Justice; Rod Hawkins, Crown Counsel, Williams Lake, BC, (ret.) and Judy Ross and Nola Crocker of The Center for Epilepsy and Seizure Education British Columbia for their expert advice; Bev Cook for her astute weekly critiques; my fellow writers and friends (Kathleen Cook Waldron, Ainslie Manson, Becky Citra, Heid Redl and Verena Berger) for listening to draft after draft of the manuscript in progress, and to Ron and Veronica Hatch for having faith in the book and adding it to the Ronsdale Press list.

  If readers have questions about Restorative Justice or the Canadian criminal law, please check out thelegalbeagle.ca. The website is hosted by a retired Crown Counsel and a Restorative Justice practitioner. Information about epilepsy is available from The Centre for Epilepsy www.epilepsy.cc

  This story and all characters are fictional. All references to Restorative Justice (RJ) circles are based on the RCMP model for Community Justice Forums.

  Chapter One

  THE SOUND OF THE ALARM pulsed against the walls, and echoed back so loud it filled my head as well as the hospital corridor. I ran for the stairs, no way I was going to take the elevator. Down them, two at a time, my heart pounding in my chest, my feet pounding on the steps, my head pounding as if it were about to explode. One floor, another, another. Six, five, four. Between the third and second floors, I bumped into a woman who was inching down the steps, clutching the railing. She yelped, but I didn’t turn around—kept moving as fast as I could.

  When I reached the main floor, there was chaos. Nurses flew by me, charts in hand, ushering flocks of hobbling, shuffling patients towards the doors. A few people pushed intravenous stands ahead of them, the IV bags wobbled as they threatened to come loose from their supports. Hospital gowns flapped open, backsides flashed. Not pretty. A couple of wheelchairs were pushed toward the main doors by people in street clothes, probably visitors. One nurse held a crying baby. Another held the arm of an old man, urging him to keep moving. He was also crying. I blended into the frantic crowd and left the hospital.

  I walked a few blocks until my heart settled down, then called the theatre, even though I knew it was too late. Maybe, just maybe, they’d waited for me; maybe the director really wanted me for the part. This audition was for a large role in the first community theatre production of the season. It wasn’t just another high school play; this was my chance to act with really good amateurs. The part was made for me, and the role was a big one. I’d be on stage almost all the time. If I got this part, I would show everyone what I could do. It could be my big chance—for a minute, in spite of everything, I had another vision of my name in lights in Times Square.

  I’d made it through two earlier auditions. At first there were nearly twenty of us, then eight, and today was the final call-back—only me and a blonde girl. I was the better actress. I deserved that part. I could have had it if . . .

  I got the director’s voice mail, left a message. “Hi, this is Darrah Patrick. I had to go to the hospital with my brother. An emergency. I’m sorry I missed the audition, could I please come tomorrow?”

  I was going to say that I’d memorized the lines in the scene he had given me to study, blah, blah, blabbity-blah. But instead I gave my phone number and hung up.

  It wasn’t two minutes before my phone buzzed. “Got your message, Darrah. I hope there’s nothing seriously wrong with your brother, and I’m very sorry you couldn’t be at the audition. When you didn’t show up, we assumed you’d changed your mind. So I told the other girl the part was hers. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course,” I lied.

  “We’d love to have you help backstage. We could use someone to handle the props. Would you be interested?”

  My voice was tight as I said I’d let him know about being props girl, goodbye and thanks. Thanks for nothing.

  Props? Moving coffee mugs and vases around during scene changes and making sure the whiskey bottle was filled with tea steeped to the correct colour—no thanks. I wanted to be on stage, under the lights, acting.

  But I wouldn’t be because, instead of taking me to that final audition, my hysterical mother had made me come with her to the hospital. She was speeding and leaning on the horn as if this were a real emergency instead of just another one of Andrew’s seizures. He’d had it in the car while they were waiting for me in the school pick-up zone. But by the time I got out of class, it was over. He’d already passed out, the way he always did after one of his “fits,” and Mom was doing what she always did—rushing him to the hospital. She didn’t need me to sit beside him and hold him up; his seat belt was doing a good job of that. I should never have climbed into the car with her.

  After the director’s call, it took me half an hour to reach home. I had left my jacket in Mom’s car, and the sunny September day had turned cold and cloudy, but I walked slowly anyway, ignoring my freezing fingers. My phone buzzed once, then twice more. Mom. I ignored it. It buzzed again. Dad. I ignored him, too.

  When I got home, it was late, after five. Dad was home, early for him, and there was a policewoman in our living room.

  “We’ve be
en waiting for you, young lady,” said the constable. “Sit down.”

  “Oh, Darrah!” said Mom. “Oh, Darrah, oh, Darrah, oh . . .”

  At first I denied it. “Of course I didn’t pull the fire alarm. Why would I?” There had been no one in the hallway to see me. As mad as I had been, I’d still had sense enough to look around.

  The constable grinned. “Ever hear of security cameras, miss? Hospitals are full of them.”

  “Whatever.” I shrugged. “So what? It’s not a crime.”

  “Actually, it is. You have violated Section 437 of the Criminal Code of Canada.”

  Mom gasped. “What’s that?”

  “Darrah is guilty of ‘willfully, without reasonable cause, by outcry, ringing bells, using a fire alarm, telephone or telegraph, or in any other manner making or circulating or causing to be made or circulated an alarm of fire . . . ’” the constable itemized, reading from her notebook. “Section 437.”

  I shrugged. “Whatever. It’s no big deal.”

  “It’s against the law to shout ‘fire’—or pull a fire alarm— when there isn’t any danger. Just as much as stealing or murder is against the law. It’s a very big deal.”

  “But I’m not a criminal.”

  “You are now.” The constable’s face was serious.

  “Why did you . . . oh, Darrah . . .” Mom again, crying harder.

  “I don’t know. I guess I was upset.” My voice was thin, my throat seemed to have tightened so much I could barely get words out.

  “Upset? Please explain.” The constable poised a pencil over her notebook. The constable was short and had dark, curly hair. Her uniform fit perfectly, and she had a dimple on her cheek. But even though she was tiny and cute, she scared me.

  “Mom promised I could audition, said she’d take me, then she wouldn’t drop me at the theatre.”

  “But, Darrah, Andrew was . . .”

  “Mom, the doctors told you not to take him to the hospital every time he has a seizure. They taught you how to look after him. You could have—”

  “Your mother was worried about your brother.”

  “Sure, Dad. Like always.”

  “Tell me exactly what happened. For the report.”

  “Report? What for? Will it be in the newspaper?” Dad looked horrified.

  “This is for the official police report, sir, but it might be mentioned in the paper. No names will be released if it does appear, because Darrah’s a youth. But she will be charged and will have to appear before a judge.”

  “I’m not a ‘youth.’”

  “In the eyes of the law you are, miss. In criminal law anyone under the age of eighteen is considered a youth.”

  Criminal law? Judge? Could I go to jail? “I’m sorry, I didn’t know . . .”

  “Sorry isn’t enough, miss. Do you know someone was hurt when you pulled that alarm?”

  “Hurt?” I thought about flapping hospital gowns and crying babies. Maybe someone flapped themselves into a heart attack? “How . . .”

  “When the alarm went off it startled an elderly woman on the stairs. She missed a step and fell. Broke her leg and possibly sprained her arm. She says someone went past her, running, and bumped into her. Was it you?”

  A dim memory of a yelp on the stairwell. “Me?”

  “Please,” begged Mom, “is there any way to settle this without Darrah going to court?”

  Dad added his plea. “Can we pay for anything, do anything to keep this from becoming public knowledge? My employers . . .”

  The constable looked at my parents, and shook her head. “No, sir, ma’am, this is a serious offense. There is no way for your daughter to avoid consequences.”

  “I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.”

  “You’re lucky it was just one person who was hurt,” said the constable. “It only took a few minutes for the hospital staff to realize it was a false alarm, so they didn’t have to evacuate a patient in the middle of open-heart surgery or the really sick people who couldn’t be moved without risking their lives.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .” I yammered like an idiot, then I burst into tears. “I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt. I didn’t think.”

  “Oh, Darrah, oh, Darrah,” said Mom, but she moved closer to me and put her arm around me.

  The constable looked at us—me and Mom weeping, Dad all but on his knees begging her to make this go away. She thought for a moment, wrote something in her notebook, closed it and was silent for a while longer.

  “At first I didn’t think you would be a good candidate for the program, Darrah, but you now seem genuinely sorry for what you did. So I will suggest an alternative to you and your family. There is a way that you can make amends without going to court, which could easily happen.”

  “How?” Mom, Dad and I all spoke at once.

  “It depends in part on Mrs. Johnson, the woman who was hurt. If she’s agreeable, I will recommend that you go through the Restorative Justice program instead of appearing in court.”

  “Darrah’ll do it!”

  “That’s up to your daughter, Mr. Patrick. Not you.”

  My choice? I thought for a moment. “What will I have to do?”

  “First, you have to take full responsibility for your actions.”

  “Like a confession? I already did. I said I was sorry.”

  “During the Restorative Justice circle you must do it publicly, in front of others.”

  “Others?” Dad was nervous again. “Who else will be there?”

  “Who do I have to say it in front of?”

  “A representative of the hospital, Mrs. Johnson, your parents and perhaps the principal or counsellor from your school.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “It’s hard, but that’s what you’ll have to do.”

  “Can’t I phone everyone and tell them I’m sorry?”

  Dad nodded in agreement, he liked my idea.

  “No, the circle is a necessary part of the community justice process. You, the offender, and the people you have harmed, the victims, will sit in a circle and face each other.”

  “Can we turn the lights off? So I don’t have to see them?” And they won’t see me either, I thought.

  The constable smiled. “I don’t think that’s ever been done, but you can request it.”

  “Then what happens? What else does Darrah have to do?” Mom pulled me closer.

  “She will have to explain what she did and why. Apologize to those affected by her actions. Then everyone discusses what her sanctions will be.”

  “Sanctions?” I didn’t like the sound of that word. “Like how much time I have to spend in jail? Or in one of those juvie places?”

  “A circle doesn’t administer that type of punishment, Darrah. Sanctions are other ways for you to pay back society for the harm you have done.”

  “What other ways?”

  The constable’s radio crackled, she bent her head to her shoulder where it was clipped and spoke softly into it. “Sorry, I’ve got to leave. Here’s my card. Let me know if you and your parents want to go the Restorative Justice route and I’ll see if a facilitator can be found for your file.”

  Mom grabbed the card and looked at it. “Thank you, Constable Markes.”

  “How soon can we do this circle?” asked my father.

  The constable shook her head. “The decision to participate in a RJ sanctioning circle is Darrah’s, not yours, sir. Discuss it with her.”

  “What’s a facilitator? When will this circle happen? Do I have to . . .”

  But Mom was already ushering the constable out. “Thank you so much for the chance to solve this without going to court. Thank you, Constable, thank you.” She was positively oozing gratitude. But she wasn’t the one who would have to look a strange woman in the eye and apologize. She wasn’t the one who would have to do sanctions, whatever they were. Mom wasn’t the one who . . .

  “You’ve been lucky, Darrah.” Dad sound
ed relieved. “Maybe we can keep this in the family. Although I still don’t understand why you—”

  I shrugged. “Whatever.” I pushed past him and went up the stairs to my room. I was going to cry, but I didn’t want him to see. I’d already cried in front of my parents once today, I wouldn’t do it again.

  This wasn’t even my fault. It was Mom’s. And Andrew’s.

  Why was I being blamed for something that wasn’t my fault?

  Chapter Two

  EVERYONE LEFT ME alone until dinner. I cried for a bit, then washed my face and gave myself a pep talk. I could handle this circle thing; I’d act contrite and be apologetic about what I’d done. I’d even cry, if I thought it would help. Last year our drama teacher taught us how to cry real tears anytime we wanted to. It was easy to start and easy to stop, so you didn’t have to sob until your nose got red and drippy. Maybe I could make everyone so sorry for me that they wouldn’t give me any “sanctions” at all.

  I was a good actress, I would con everyone. Besides, what could they do to me? The constable said the RJ circle couldn’t send me to jail or somewhere else nasty. How hard could this be, anyway?

  When I went down for dinner, I began to find out just how hard. Mom and Dad sent Andrew to his room while they talked to me.

  “But I’m hungry,” he complained, moaning, grabbing his stomach and making a big dramatic deal out of having to wait a few minutes for his food.

  Once he left, Dad began, “No matter what sanctions the circle imposes—”

  “I haven’t decided if I’m going to do the circle.” “You will,” said Mom.

  “You definitely will,” said Dad.

  “It’s my decision,” I reminded them.

  “So it is, Darrah, but I think you’ll agree that it’s a wise choice to go that route. However, regardless of what happens, you’ve upset your mother on a day when she had all the stress she could handle with Andrew’s seizure. You’ve disappointed us both. Also, your mother and I will have to spend more time on your problem before it can be resolved. You know how pressed for time we both are. So here are your home consequences—”