Leftovers Read online

  Leftovers

  Leftovers

  HEATHER WALDORF

  Text copyright © 2009 Heather Waldorf

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in

  any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

  recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be

  invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Waldorf, Heather, 1966-

  Leftovers / written by Heather Waldorf.

  ISBN 978-1-55143-937-2

  I. Title.

  PS8645.A458L43 2009 jC813’.6 C2008-907663-X

  First published in the United States, 2009

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2008942003

  Summary: An unruly dog and a scrawny teenage cancer survivor

  help Sarah begin to recover from years of sexual abuse.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing

  programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through

  the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and the Canada Council for the

  Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council

  and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover artwork by Getty Images

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 5626, STN. B PO BOX 468

  VICTORIA, BC CANADA CUSTER, WA USA

  V8R 6S4 98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  Printed on 100% PCW recycled paper.

  12 11 10 09 • 4 3 2 1

  For Ace

  ONE

  Ah, summer

  Lazy mornings in bed, flipping through back issues of Peopleand munching on chocolate chip waffles.

  Long afternoons at the beach, slathered in SPF45 and sprinkled with sand.

  Breezy nights in the backyard, grilling gourmet veggie dogs under the stars, chilling with some hot guy to Mom’s old-dude CDS: James Taylor, The Eagles, Simon and Garfunkel.

  Worries? None for me, thanks.

  Responsibilities? I’ll pass.

  Rain? Not on my parade.

  This is the life. MY life. Me. Sarah Greene. Can you believe it? It’s the stuff of prom queens. Of Hollywood daughters. Of romance novel heroines. Of—

  BBBBRRRRIIIINNNNGGGG!!!

  “I hate you!” I shout at the alarm clock. No way it could be 6:15 AM already. But I’ve been wrong before. Like yesterday. And the day before that. All week, in fact.

  A way-too-perky female voice comes over the loudspeaker from the ramshackle lodge across the field. “Good...SQUAWK...morning! Out of your...SQUAWK... beds, you...SQUAWK...sleepyheads! Last...SQUAWK...one to the flagpole gets...SQUAWK, SQUAWK, SQU—”

  Bleary-eyed and yawning, I sit up, whacking my forehead on the exposed rafters. On my way down from the loft bed, my foot misses the ladder; I tumble from my lumpy mattress to the floor, scraping my elbow. I feel around for the iron bedpost and pull myself to my feet, fighting an overwhelming desire to sprawl on the cool linoleum, maybe catch a few extra zzzzz’s.

  “Crap,” I mumble, wincing at my lemon-sucking reflection in the mini-mirror nailed to the wall.

  Pulling on the first musty pieces of clothing I find scattered around the drafty cabin (cabin is way overstating it; my quarters are no bigger than a glorified garden shed), I run a four-foot mad dash into my “private” bathroom, which is a closet containing a toilet, a sink and a shower stall as narrow as an upright coffin. I slap a Band-Aid on my scraped elbow, brush my teeth and shake out my dusty, peanut-butter-brown bedhead.

  Good enough.

  At six thirty sharp, I sprint out my cabin door into the early morning fog to join the small stampede across the muddy field to the flagpole.

  At Camp Dog Gone Fun, the last one there gets Poo Patrol.

  TWO

  I make it to the flagpole second to last. No Poo Patrol for me. Not today. Today I draw the Grooming straw. Forget my own grooming; for three leisurely hours this morning, I’ll be washing, drying, fluffing and brushing out the matted and dirt-encrusted coats of a dozen-odd dogs of questionable parentage.

  Not that my own parentage is anything to brag about.

  Case in point: “Camp God Damn what?” my mother asked a month ago when she found out where they were sending me—”they” being the fine folks who run the juvenile court system.

  Here’s the truth: There are worse places to spend a summer. Like a detention home for girls voted most likely to kill their families with an ax. Or a Britney Spears fan convention. Or one of those places where you chant, eat tofu and do yoga three times a day.

  Camp Dog Gone Fun isn’t one of those ridiculous rich-doggie spas that you see in magazines either. There are no canine treadmills or therapy baths. No animal masseuse or pet psychic is on call. Bottom line, all the canine campers at Camp Dog Gone Fun are rejects from the River View Animal Shelter in Gananoque, Ontario. Dogs who, because of old age or disability or “quirky” behavioral issues, are impossible to adopt out. Each summer, the program director—a veterinarian everyone calls Dr. Fred (even his wife)—ferries the dogs here to Moose Island on the St. Lawrence River for a “wilderness” respite from the shelter. He can’t afford to hire real staff, so he brings over a bunch of community service kids too and calls us “volunteers.”

  So when exactly did my life, as we say here at Camp Dog Gone Fun, go to the dogs?

  At my sentencing, the judge told me that Camp DGF is where “kids like you” are sent.

  I whispered to my lawyer, “Kids who lick their behinds and howl at the moon?”

  “No, young lady,” the judge, who’d overheard me, shot back. “I was referring to kids who lack any real criminal intent but whose impulsive actions have resulted in trouble with the law. Kids who might benefit from the fresh air, physical activity and team spirit at the camp. Kids who might actually welcome the opportunity to complete all of their community service hours over a two-month summer period instead of having to juggle them with homework, part-time jobs and family responsibilities during the school year. Kids who—”

  Whatever, already. I was happy to go. Really. Anything to get away from the question on everyone’s lips.

  “Why, Sarah?” the police had asked. “Why did you do it? Is there trouble at home?”

  Nope, I thought, shaking my head. Not since Dad bit the bullet. Or, more accurately, the filet mignon.

  “Why, Sarah?” asked all the outwardly concerned, inwardly titillated kids at school. The fact that my “impulsive actions” were the most exciting gossip to orbit the cafeteria since Jake Miller sliced off his big toe on a lawn-mower blade the previous summer shows how starved some small-town kids are for real excitement. I responded to their nosy inquiries with lava-freezing glares and middle-finger salutes.

  “Why, Sarah?” asked my mother. “Are you upset that I’ve started dating again?”

  Like I care. My mother could date the mailman, Tom Cruise or the rottweiler next door, and I wouldn’t bat an eyelash.

  Too bad, really. It would be such an easy out to blame my mother’s boyfriend, Tanner, for my “impulsive actions.” But all he’s truly guilty of is bad clothes sense and pointing the digital Nikon camera he won in a work raffle at my face. “Say cheese,” he’d said, grinning.

  I was at the kitchen table, studying for a biology test. “Piss off,” I snarled. And I was serious. Serious as cancer. Already the kitchen was morphing into a poorly maintained carnival ride. The floor spun in time with the ceiling fan, and my cha
ir legs turned to rubber. My chest pounded out an angry heavy-metal anthem. I’d swear the two-dimensional frog guts in my bio book began twitching.

  But Tanner just laughed and kept fiddling with the camera.

  “For God’s sake, Sarah,” my mother said from across the room where she was fixing coffee. “Just smile, for crying out loud.”

  Without thinking—barely breathing—I slammed my ten-pound textbook closed and pitched it at Tanner’s face, knocking his camera to the floor, where it smashed to smithereens on the ceramic tiles. I bolted out of my chair and grabbed Tanner’s car keys off the counter. Ignoring Tanner’s shocked expression and my mother’s angry shouts, I fled out the side door.

  THREE

  “I just had to get out of there” was how I’d explained it to my mother at the police station, after a trip to the hospital. Forget that I was still only fifteen, obviously had no license, and my only driving experience was behind the wheel of a golf cart last fall in my cousin’s apple orchard. Not too surprising that I’d totaled the car.

  “You’ll have to get over this ridiculous picture-taking phobia one day, Sarah,” she said. “I’d understand if you were deformed or overweight, but you’re an attractive young woman—when you aren’t scowling. You cut school on picture days. You won’t sit for family portraits. You destroyed Tanner’s new camera.” She buried her head in her hands and mumbled through her fingers. “This is crazy. Crazy.”

  I shrugged. Best to let her assume that my phobia came from low self-esteem. Also best to let her assume that all that Polaroid film charged to my father’s Visa over the years was used to snap quick pictures for his recipe portfolio. It’s true that he did that sometimes. My father had dreamed of writing a cookbook some day. In fact, he’d been in Montreal last summer, at a lunch meeting with a potential publisher, when he choked—rhymes with croaked—on a piece of steak.

  It was the best day of my life, if you consider what all my previous days had been like. Grief is a strong emotion, but so is relief.

  Tanner came over and handed me a can of Coke and my mother a cup of vending-machine coffee. I didn’t get why he was there. He’d been at the hospital too. He even seemed relieved when I’d been discharged with a clean bill of health.

  What was in it for him? Did he really love my mother? Nah. He probably just thought I’d done him a favor. His insurance would probably buy him a much nicer car than the shitbox I’d totaled.

  Mom took a sip of her coffee, winced and then tried a different tactic with me. “Dad and I used to love taking pictures of you when you were a toddler. We have albums full of you.”

  I hate it when my mother refers to her late husband as “Dad.” I hate that he was my dad. In junior high, I used to fantasize that I’d been the result of some lurid one-night stand between my mother and a South American rock musician. I imagined my real father was a drummer (or maybe a bass player) named Marcos (or maybe Juan), who blew through town for one hot night of passion and never came back. It didn’t bother me that Marcos/Juan had never tried to make contact with me. He probably didn’t even know I existed. There are worse things than being ignored. Trust me.

  “What about your graduation next year?” Mom blathered on. “Or your wedding? What if you have your own children some day? Will you never take pictures of them?”

  I gulped. “Never.”

  “Fine,” my mother said, crossing her arms in defeat. “But Sarah, someday you’ll be sorry that you have no photos. You can’t always rely on your memory...”

  Ha. Joke’s on her. I have plenty of photos to look at. All I need is one more chance to find them. I’d bungled my first attempt horribly, but I can’t let that—let anything or anyone—stop me.

  Finding those photos was—and still is—my mission in life.

  A search-and-destroy mission.

  Nothing else matters.

  FOUR

  Sweaty under the midmorning sun, covered in wet dog hair, my hands smelling of tar shampoo and oatmeal conditioner, I call a break and pass out Milkbones to my charges. These old, disabled, quirky dogs wag their tails like crazy. They love me—love anybody who brushes them and gives them affection and biscuits. Especially biscuits.

  Here’s the truth: I don’t mind them either. The dogs never gawk at me or peer over the rims of their eyeglasses and coffee mugs like my teachers, neighbors and even my boss down at the Doughy Donut Emporium, question marks flashing in their eyes. The dogs never say things like:

  “Sarah’s usually so responsible. Intelligent. Not reckless at all! Wasn’t she lucky to have survived the crash?”

  “Yes, Ian’s death must have been hard on her, but it’s been almost a year now. Her marks haven’t suffered. So what happened?”

  “It’s always the quiet ones you have to watch out for, isn’t it?”

  And the dogs don’t gather in the high school cafeteria either, like my classmates back home, whispering about my so-called accident behind my back.

  “Sarah’s such a freeeeeeeak!”

  “So Sarah doesn’t like her mother’s new boyfriend. That’s no reason to steal his car, is it? She hasn’t even finished driver’s ed!”

  “OMG!!! Is it true that Sarah raced down Commerce Street like she had the cops on her ass?”

  MORONS, all of them.

  Remember that old Sesame Street song, “Who Are the People in Your Neighborhood?” I don’t know about the people in other neighborhoods, but the people in my neighborhood are idiots. Or, as we say here at Camp Dog Gone Fun, barking up the wrong tree.

  Because no one ever asked where I was going that night.

  Good thing too.

  FIVE

  The only other thing you might be interested to know about my “neighborhood”—Riverwood, Ontario, population 3,700—is that it’s a sleepy rural community of hobby farmers, Ottawa commuters and their families, and a handful of assorted oddballs. And that it looked even sleepier while I was careening down the main drag in a stolen car on that foggy, fateful night last March, hell-bent on reaching the highway that would take me an hour’s drive northeast to the city of Ottawa. To my dead father’s restaurant.

  Tanner’s car was in fast-forward that night, but I saw only still shots out the windshield. Garth Brooks was singing on the radio, but I heard only sound effects worthy of some cheesy Hollywood action flick. Some highlights:

  SWOOSH! St. Bart’s United Church. The place is packed with women each Sunday. And it’s not because the town’s females are all seriously into the God thing. It’s because Reverend Donaldson is single and a dead ringer for Matthew McConaughey. Even the blue-haired choir ladies jockey for the chair closest to the pulpit.

  VRRROOOOMMM! Old Man Kevert’s body shop. Mr. Kevert is Riverwood’s one-man freak show. He brags about keeping a two-headed baby raccoon in a jar of formaldehyde in his refrigerator. Mr. Kevert doesn’t give out candy at Halloween; instead he shows kids his “trick,” which involves popping out his glass eyeball and rattling his false teeth and nobody knows what else because kids generally take off down the street screaming at that point.

  ROARRRR! Jeff Grenville, the star of Riverwood High’s concert band, was slouched against the Coke machine in front of Alvin’s Arcade, eyeing my Paul Tracy impersonation with—was that curiosity? Concern? No, more like envy.

  BEEEEP! I waved and blasted the horn at him just for fun, knowing there wasn’t much chance he’d recognized me through the unfamiliar windshield and the after-dinner darkness.

  ZOOOOM! Over the bridge. Melvin’s Grill to the left. Phil’s Pharmacy to the right. I’ve always thought that the two places should get together and offer some sort of promotion: buy two grease-burgers for lunch and get a free frothy pink Pepto-Bismol shake to go. I was glad I’d eaten supper before escaping in Tanner’s car. As fast as I was driving, it would still take a while to get where I was going and do the nasty but necessary job that needed to be done. I hadn’t exactly thought to bring a snack.

  A white streak of fur darted in
front of Tanner’s car. Fluffbucket. He belongs to Ms. Jeppsie, my math teacher. What I want to know is, if felines are so smart, why don’t they look both ways before they cross the street? Then again, Fluffbucket is old, eighteen or nineteen, and in all those cat-years he’d never known Commerce Street to be a particularly hazardous roadway. Until that night, Riverwood was a town where people stuck to the speed limit and obeyed the Slow. Watch for Children signs, extending the same courtesy to cats, dogs, squirrels and even the occasional skunk.

  SCREEEEEEEEEEEECH! I slammed my foot down on the brake pedal, swerved to the left and lost control of Tanner’s rusty red Neon, a car which, under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be caught dead driving. If I actually knew how to drive.

  Clenching my eyes shut didn’t help matters any. But when the concrete likeness of Harold Medeler, World War One fighter pilot, standing at attention atop the town war memorial as proudly as a plastic groom on a wedding cake, comes straight at you at eighty-odd kilometers per hour, the less you can see the better.

  At the moment of impact, all I heard was an ear-splitting CRACK, which I assumed was my head going through the windshield. It turned out to be the front bumper against the cenotaph, and Harold’s head flying through the Neon’s front window into the passenger seat.

  Then the WHOOSH of the airbag.

  Then the sirens.

  Obviously I survived (so did Fluffbucket) despite what I’ve heard about the left-hander’s tendency toward poor hand-foot-eye coordination and the increased probability of dying in a motor-vehicle accident. Harold was rescued and sent to the city cement works to have his head reattached. He was back at his post a week later. Tanner’s car was a write-off.