The Mechanic's Daughter

The Mechanic's Daughter Part 24: It happens

Marlene called to tell me about some space for rent over the hair salon. I took Barbara to check it out. It was dusty from months of disuse, painted a dingy off-white, but the rent was good and it was right downtown. A work party from WAVE and the women's centre cleaned the place. Barbara and I moved an old desk from the house into the office. Money was invested in installing an elaborate phone that permitted the forwarding of calls to an outside number. One Saturday in June, six women turned up to paint it a soft dusty rose colour. Mona's husband, one of those capable men who know how to work with tools, came and installed good locks. Better not to have a sign on door. Someone brought a spider plant and an aloe to set in the window. Someone else donated an electric kettle.

Nora designed some flyers to let women all over the city know about the centre, the phone number prominently displayed. I drove around putting flyers in doctor's offices, beauty salons and community centres. At work, I left a stack of them in the break room.

Barbara talked to the police, to let them know the centre will open. Mona has been working with admitting nurses and emergency room doctors. A doctor at one of the hospitals had suggested a how best to help women when they arrived at a hospital. There was talk about developing a set of protocols to collect evidence.

On the day the rape crisis centre opened, there was a little ceremony. All the potential volunteers were invited, everyone who has worked with us in the last six months, the press. Barbara rounded up some WAVE members, though the term was over and many have left the city. There were a few supporters from the faculty. Only one reporter showed up, and she got Barbara's name wrong, but her piece had the telephone number of the centre correct.

Marlene came upstairs to watch the ribbon-cutting. I tried to talk her into volunteering at the rape hotline.

"I don't know about that," she shrugged.

"It's long hours, no pay, heartache and no gratitude," I said.

"But I'm not like you college girls. I'm not all intellectual about why shit happens and why we have to put it behind us."

"Marlene, you know how to talk to people. You talk to women all day." I'd seen her at her station, chatting amiably as she cut hair.

"I wouldn't fit in."

"They're not all like Barbara and Nora. Most of the women who call won't be college girls. They don't want a dose of feminist theory, just some assurance that they're not in the wrong, someone with common sense at the end of the line. You'd be perfect." The timbre of her voice alone will be enough to calm the callers.

"You think I have common sense?"

"All kinds."

She glanced at her watch. She had a customer expected downstairs. "It's all volunteer?"

"Sadly, yes. But we've applied for more money."

"Okay. When do you want me?"

Jimmy will love it – his woman caught up in the same issue that has obsessed his sister.

Barbara created a schedule to monitor the phone lines, co-ordinating about twenty volunteers, each taking one or two eight-hour shifts a week. They were housewives, nurses, students, retail workers. Many of them have been raped or have a daughter or a sister who has been a victim of rape.

Nikki had a shift that first week. She called me to say she had talked for hours to an older woman who called to tell her about a rape that took place years ago. This woman worried about what God thought of her. "I said to her 'Who does God judge? The one who was the victim of a crime or the criminal?'" Nikki said she surprised herself by remembering whole Biblical passages by way of consolation. I could hear in her story how the role of counsellor buoyed her confidence.

On Friday night, when I turned up at the house with wine, Barbara was huddled in a corner of the kitchen reluctant to talk. I'd never seen her at a loss for words. Eventually Marion got her to say what was wrong.

"Fourteen and raped by her Dad," she said.

"Her Dad?" I suddenly felt cold.

"How's she ever going to recover from that? What can I even say to her? Go to the police? I don't think so."

"Children's Aid?"

"I said that and she said she didn't want to go into foster care. And her mother...this was the hardest thing. Her mother told her she'd ruined their family. The mother's doing nothing to protect her."

"It's unbelievable," said Nikki.

"I'm so mad I could scream." Barbara got up to pace the floor. "It makes you sick. I think I've heard everything and then something worse comes out."

"It shows you how much this is needed," Nikki said.

I took my first shift that weekend, sitting in the clean, paint-smelling office. Nothing happened. I looked at the aloe. I watched the buttons on the phone, waiting for a light to go on. I was ready for anything.