She has a body like her mother's: thin, angular, very white, big breasts but while her mother has a very real touch of elegance, Gurdy is all skank: too thin, like she's on drugs; too tired; too worn out — too unhealthy. I was surprised there weren't tattoos all over her and piercings; she now seems the type. It wasn't supposed to work out this way.
I could just see the top of her bowed head; her dirty blond hair was badly dishevelled and greasy. She was nervously scratching at a stain on the table with a broken fingernail. "Your mother told you about me, didn't she?" As a kid she was always defiant, not giving a shit what other people thought. Except me.
"She didn't say much. She told me where you were; asked me to get in touch with you; said you could use a friend."
She didn't look up. "But you know."
"I've heard things."
"They're true — maybe not all of it but most of it is."
I had nothing to say. Twenty-five and already a ruined life.
Her coffee, untouched in front of her, was growing cold. She looked up, but barely. "I'm ashamed. Does that matter?
"To me? No. It's your life."
She straightened, pissed off. "So you don't care?" The defiance again.
"Of course I care. You're better than this."
She shrugged, indifferently. "I guess I'm not."
No, I guess she isn't. But she was. When I left home to go to college she was there in the house like she was always in our house, over from next door, over to compete, to argue, to fight, to do everything little tom boys do with older boys. As neighbours, two years apart in age, we had been inseparable for years until that afternoon ten years ago when I left home to go to college, left home while she stood in the living room fighting back the tears. "You'll never pass," she said, competitive to the end.
I remember kissing her on top of the head and lightly punching her arm. "Now I have all the incentive I need." And I was gone, gone from the home my parents would soon vacate, gone from my adolescence, gone from her life. It felt traumatic and exhilarating as I drove away: I was heading into the future. With each mile she became more of a distant memory.
And, now, over the months, after hearing a few stories about her it was a memory I didn't want to be reminded of.
But recently, concerned, my mum insisted I get in touch with her, so I finally did, or tried to. She had moved from the address I was given, moved five times, or more accurately, changed couches. It took me three days to track her down. For what? So I could participate in her misery? In the coffee shop I'd taken her to, I intended only to touch base, wish her luck and get out of there.
But I couldn't. The woman needed a meal ... and during that meal it became obvious that she needed a lot more from me. I was thinking about how I could help her as I walked her home when, at the door, her friend held out a garbage bag filled with her clothes and said, "Your turn." Then promptly shut the door.
I'm a lawyer, I've done well. I like my life. I just moved into a new condo six weeks before; I finally had the place set up and had the routine I wanted: lots of work and plenty of recreation: running, walking, hockey, baseball — I had the perfect balance. I was 27, totally self-centred, with little interest in girls. Now one was moving in.
You could never call Gurdy Johanneson pretty. As a kid she had looked good as a rough and tumble tom boy, but at 25 she just looked rough and tumbled with large black, very sad eyes, short dark brown hair looking like it was self-cut with dull scissors and as thick as her eyebrows ... and as lifeless as her lips which seemed perpetually pursed in a pout. To me Gurdy looked like an over-age street urchin and it was tearing my heart out. Once, she was like a sister.
If she was glad to find a safe harbour in her personal storm it sure didn't show. When she entered my place she seemed more angry than pleased. And sullen. I threw her garbage bag of possessions on the bed in the once spare bedroom and already started planning on how to get her out of there.
Not that I took much notice of her. In that first week I stayed late at the office, recreated longer than usual after work and, as a consequence, spent as little time as I could with her, which, I thought, suited her just fine.
She said she was ashamed and she should be. From what my mother told me she fell apart soon after I left town and continued the decline over the next five years until, after graduating high school and after a little time in college, she landed on the streets, used and abused. How bad did it get? Her parents and friends had all abandoned her; she had entirely bottomed out.
So you'd think she'd show some appreciation for me taking her in. But no. She did no cooking, no cleaning and made no effort to greet me with anything other than disdain when I came home each day. She was always lounging in pyjamas on a chair, a book in her hands, utter indifference on her face.
I stocked the fridge hoping she would dive in during the day and start to fatten up a bit. But she didn't — an apple, some cheese, a little bread, that was all she'd have. She ate a little of whatever I prepared each evening but never finished it. We didn't talk. I tried a little but got nowhere so gave up. I was living with a zombie who took up no space, made no demands and, as far as I could see, had absolutely no future ... the little girl who was once tethered to my hip had no tomorrows.
What do you do? I had no idea until instinct took over and I thought of recreation. On a Saturday morning eight days after she had moved in I told her we were going for a walk. I was surprised she complied ... in body only: she sullenly and soundlessly got ready. We had breakfast on the way to the city skirts and were on the trail by 10 and off it by 11 without a single sound from her, other than the odd grunt and a groan when she got into the car.
But something seemed to have happened, I wasn't sure what but as I drove home I could feel a diminished tension, maybe because she was too tired to be sullen.
Encouraged, we went for another walk on Wednesday night, not so far because it started to rain, but it felt good, too and I was realizing why. Our relationship in the distant past had always been physical: we constantly did things together, from chores to skating, biking, hiking — all kinds of things; we were always on the go. This was an extension of that. After an interregnum of 10 years we had revived our natural state of being and it was working for both of us.
The next Saturday afternoon, after lunch but before heading for a trail I took her to a large sports store and told her to get what she needed, which was everything — she had been hiking in all the wrong stuff and with really crappy running shoes. She objected of course, I knew she would, but not very vigorously. I over-saw the purchases offering helpful suggestion until she was fully equipped from the skin to the outer shell, even throwing in a high-tech daypack with built in hydration system. Then, I insisted she put on the stuff before she left the shop.
She looked good and I think she felt good: there was a little colour in her cheek now and an extra spring in her step; she was just as quiet but there was more energy in her stride and more purpose, as if she was there not just to follow me but to enjoy herself.
But follow me she did, uncomplainingly until we had hiked past the two-hour mark and she was beginning to wilt. I knew she wouldn't complain that she was getting tired — the old Gurdy would never have conceded a victory to me, but it was obvious that she was too gutted to continue much further.
"We'll just hike to my favourite lookout, another half hour tops, then we'll turn back." The joy I got out of saying that was shameful.
I pressed on, she followed but she made it clear she wasn't happy ... until, in another ten minutes we rounded a bend and arrived back at the parking lot. She didn't figure it out at first, she was too tired for that, but when I unlocked my car from a distance she couldn't help but see the lights flash cheerfully and for the first time since we re-met, she grinned.
It had been a bit too much. She was tired and sore and quiet and when we got back home she immediately took a bath.
I was just starting to prepare supper when she called out from the bathroom asking me to bring her a glass of wine.
I did. Tentatively, careful to hand her the glass without any undo intrusion.
"You never look at me," she said, coldly.
"You're in a bath tub," I sneered.
"You never look at me wherever I am. You're ashamed of me."
I was just heading out when she said this so I kept on going but I was back in a minute with a beer in my hand. I sat down on the toilet seat angled away from her. "And why shouldn't I be ashamed of you? You've made a complete mess of your life. Sure, I'm disappointed in you, I'm disgusted with you. You're a lot better than this, Toss."
"And I'm disgusted with you. Not even a card. He'll send me a present on my birthday, he always gives me a present, a fun present; he knows I love to get them from him. Nothing, not even a card. That was two months after you left. Nothing. And then your parents moved and I knew I would never see you again, I knew you had left my life forever — I was nothing to you, all those years and I was nothing to you, just a little kid you once had a little fun with."
"I got busy."
"I got lost," she snapped back. "The one rock in my life rolled away and I had nothing."
"You had wealthy parents and a nice house."
