29

The genius of the Gorsebrook day program was that it commenced with the distribution of snacks. The atmosphere in the common room was a clamorous free-for-all at first and I couldn’t imagine how the workers planned to get everyone under control. The participants were rushing to and fro, poking at each other, shouting and shrieking laughter — it was a cacophony and I could tell my sister found it overwhelming. But Marlene kept us at the outskirts of the action, explaining that this was just the usual pre-program blowing off of steam and very soon things would become orderly and structured. She introduced us to the two co-ordinators, a short, plushy woman named Lina who would’ve looked like a librarian if it wasn’t for her hair, which was a nicely faded seapunk blue, and a gangly young man called Ian with a ponytail and a South Shore accent. Seeing them side by side it was hard to not think of Jack Sprat and his wife. In fact they did have the air of being versions of each other, the way husbands and wives sometimes did — they were both soft-voiced, smiling, and held their eye contact to a near-uncomfortable extent as they shook my hand, as if to ensure I understood that they were seeing me. Kelli shook their hands as well, but didn’t have much use for the eye contact.

I was worried. The crowd and clamour made Kelli turn in on herself and she’d been staring at the tiled floor and covering her ears intermittently since we arrived. Additionally, a stocky boy had barrelled up to us like a speedy little tank almost the moment we arrived, causing Kelli to rear like a horse. He’d only meant to greet Marlene but he had been pleased to be introduced to me and Kelli and insisted on giving us both hugs.

“Kelli’s not so much into hugs,” I said to Marlene. The moment I said it I realized I was doing the thing that made me most annoyed whenever strangers did it to Kelli. I was talking over and not to the boy, taking it for granted that he wouldn’t understand.

“Kelli doesn’t like hugs I’m afraid, Arthur,” said Marlene.

“But I’d like one, please,” I said.

The boy — who I call a boy because that’s how he seemed to me with his shy grin and the excited way he bounced from foot to foot but who, I should note, had an older-man’s bald spot — smiled and flung his arms around me. Someone had doused his hair in some kind of spicy pomade that morning and combed it flat over his bald spot, which I was now observing and inhaling up close because it was directly under my nose.

“Wekkome,” said Arthur, releasing me. “I wekkome you. Wekkome you too, Kewwi.”

“No,” said Kelli peevishly as Arthur vroomed off to welcome someone else.

On the other side of the room, Ian started clapping his hands together. “Snack, folks! Snack time! Get in your chairs!”