A sudden tap on the shoulder made her twitch. She looked up at the scruffy bearded man as she yanked a little oval pill out of his hand without meeting his gaze. Her eyelids became heavy with shadows dancing their last dance of the day. Silence set upon her mind once again. I left not knowing if I’d ever see her again. *** Throughout my thirty years career as an investigative journalist, I dealt with all sorts of stories, from political corruption to serious crimes, always looking for the ulterior motive. Unveiling deliberately concealed truths was my forte. I was perceived as relentless when it came to fighting dishonesty and lack of integrity. My stories led me all over the world, yet somehow this particular story left a profound impact on my psyche. Maybe because it originated in my own neighbourhood or maybe because of her innocence, not really sure, all I knew was that being an observer was no longer enough. *** Her name was Jayce and she was an only child. She told me that she used to live in a land far far away, across the oceans and dark blue seas, over frosty, unfriendly mountains and that she was named after a Greek goddess of healing. Her family believed that having a strong name would help her in the years to come as she was born small and premature. I was never sure what to believe, but occasionally I’d sense a faint imperceptible accent which would disappear as quickly as it would emerge. She was a toddler when her father died at sea, on one of those offshore fishing boats. While other kids spent their days outdoors, on the playgrounds, Jayce grew up with her nose buried in a book. The only memory of her father was a faded children’s picture book she carried with her everywhere. I never got to read its title. No matter the good rapport between us, that one childhood possession was her most cherished treasure and she didn’t trust it with anyone. Jayce was also not a big fan of animals. She didn’t dislike them, she just liked books more. Not sure how or why, but she found herself surrounded by them, nonetheless. The tortoise Donatello, who was named after one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, the famous children’s cartoon from the early 1990s, loved eating out of the little girl's hand, especially mulberries. No one could really remember how he came about to live with them. Parrot, whose name remains a mystery to this day, got rescued in the most fortuitous way. This dainty jade-coloured parrot was saved from a tree in the park by none other than her mum who climbed the tree to fetch it. Muki, the orphan bunny was also extricated by Mum during one of their trips to the country. She told me she remembers tiny soft paws on her head and a series of hops he would make in the same pattern: head, shoulder, down her arm to the floor and back. He slept in her bed, ate out of her hands and used her head as a hopping board. He was by far Jayce’s favourite.
Sometimes she would gaze at me with those big piercing eyes as if wondering why anyone would be interested in her life. She once revealed as much. It took me a while to realise that I was her island, someone who didn’t judge her, and in a way, she was mine. We were both alone in this world, the only difference was that I had chosen it. It happened on one of those gelid winter mornings when you could feel parts of your body getting numb to cold exposure. As her milky breath reminded her of a smoky curtain rising from an ashtray on her grandfather’s escritoire, she found Muki outside on their balcony, motionless. The carcass prompted her to think of the stiff lifeless animals she sometimes saw on National Geographic. Not long after she discovered Muki’s tiny little body, Parrot broke his neck during one of his frantic indoor flights and was buried in the park from which he got so unexpectedly liberated. The irony of the situation didn’t escape her so she gave Donatello away, never to be seen again. “The thought of losing him as well would have been unbearable”, she admitted in strained voice. A year later, her mum passed away. Her illness was no secret but as any child, Jayce believed Mum was invincible. After that day even books lost their appeal. I still remember the devastation in her eyes when she declared to finally understand why she always favoured books. “In their world, you are but a mere observer of someone else’s pain”.
From what I gathered, her mum was her whole world. She was a sickly yet determined lady who came to this country when her husband died, together with her father and Jayce. They had some savings and some distant relatives who helped them settle in. Due to limited language knowledge, Mum worked all sorts of odd jobs, from Paper Towel Sniffer, Face Feeler, Pet Food Taster, Rubbish and Bin Collector to the most recent ones, Laundry Worker and Housekeeper. “The latter ones were the most dignified of her jobs”, Jayce would state matter-of-factly.
During one of our interviews, she conveyed feeling ashamed of her mum, especially when she was a teenager. It had taken her a while to understand that her mum dedicated her whole life to securing a better future for her child. “Mum never complained. She would sometimes work three jobs at the time and all I did was ignore her in front of my friends. Once I even denied she was my mum, when she came to pick me up. What child would ever do that?!” By this point she was yelling at me and it took a while for her to calm down. On occasions like these, scruffy bearded man would appear out of nowhere as if having a sixth sense to the needs of his customers. When I asked Jayce where she got the money from, she’d point those big piercing eyes at me, almost with a crazed look on her face, swallow a pill and walk away.
Her teenage years were especially challenging. Her behaviour alienated her further from the family and with no kindred-soul to turn to, she closed herself off to the world. Her grandfather did everything he could to help her get out of her shell. I gathered that she was very fond of him. Her eyes would tear up each time she’d mention his name. As her recollections were often incoherent, I was not always certain about the timeline of her stories but I did sense a tremendous guilt when she spoke about him. At one time, and I couldn’t say with an utmost conviction what she told me was true, she blamed herself for her grandfather’s untimely death.
“He did for me so much over the years and I’d never acknowledged the fact he lost his daughter at the same time I lost my mum. So selfish, so ungrateful.” Her voice merely a whisper. “Yet he never punished me. Once I ended up in jail for solicitation (that he knew of). I couldn’t have known he was a cop.” The embarrassment in her words was unmeasurable. “Worst thing of all was that he hugged me when he came to bail me out. I don’t understand it.” Through an avalanche of tears, she sobbed: “All is well Jayce, you’ll see. We’ll get through this.” As if she had fallen into a trance, she started swaying back and forth, back and forth in an endless mantra: “All is well Jayce. We’ll get through this.” This was the worst I had ever seen her. The blame she carried on her young shoulders seemed unbearable.
When we met, Jayce was already homeless, eating out of the garbage cans and using different means in silencing her tortured mind. In the course of that year, the interviews I conducted with her for the homeless series for my newspaper, struck a chord. Her innocence was remarkable and her pain palpable. Sometimes it was more about the things she didn’t share, as if they were too precious or too defective to be exposed. From time to time I’d come back to check up on her, trying to encourage her to check herself into a rehab centre, offering to support her every step of the way. More often than not, she was rarely lucid enough to recognize me and I knew that her mind wanders through the land, far far away where once lived a girl, just an ordinary little girl with big eyes and with love of books.
The dreaded moment arrived and Jayce was nowhere to be found. I still visit the spot where I last saw her, a patched-up army tent tucked under a highway overpass, away from judging eyes, hoping for a miracle. Occasionally I’d check nearby refuge places that are considered a 'bellwether' of homelessness, but to no avail.
Thanks to Jayce and stories like hers, homelessness in my city finally got the attention it deserves with residents coalescing to advocate for the forgotten ones. I still see her in the faces of displaced youth wandering our streets, hoping she had found her peace.
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