The Fable of Katy Wilson

by Annthea Whittaker

Her name was Katy Wilson. She was our new childcare worker at home on Jasper Avenue. In my early years, I would meet three Katys in quick succession. Each one played a vital role in my young life. On March 9, 1978, I met Katie number one who was a squishy little face poking out of a pink bundle at the Edmonton Hospital nursery. My mother still shows me the photo of me seeing my little sister’s face for the first time. I was so happy.

Then I went to school for kindergarten and met Kate number two, a real live ballerina. She was in the professional program at the Alberta Ballet School and she had blond hair and blue eyes just like my sister. Kate number two had two sisters. I had two brothers. We met at Grandin Elementary School where I brought my baby sister Katie for show and tell. I introduced baby Katie to ballerina Kate.

Ballerina Kate and I became best friends. We sat beside each other, had recess together and traded erasers and stickers. Then a few months into kindergarten, I met Katy number three, Katy Wilson. Katy Wilson was 15 years old when she first started to watch over the four of us. She came to see us on Jasper Avenue about twice a month when my parents went out.

My parents would dress in evening clothes and my Mom would curl her hair and put on lipstick and eyeshadow. Before they left, I made sure I took a picture with my new Polaroid. My mom said she hated having her picture taken. She never smiled for the camera. Mom said to me, “You know in some parts of the world, people believe a bit of your soul is taken by the camera.” When she said that and left, I almost dropped the camera. I went to find Katy. “Is that true, Katy?” I asked her. “Am I stealing my Mom’s soul?” Katy looked at me and ruffled my hair.

“Not sure, Allie. Shall I take your picture and you can tell me if you feel your soul disappearing. Are you more frail and fragile now with a bit of stolen soul? Or did you make a deal with the devil to sell your soul down in Georgia?”

“No. But what exactly is a soul?” The boys started yelling, so Katy left me with no actual answer. The reason I loved Katy so much is she never told me I asked too many questions. I had a lot of questions about a lot of things. The boys stopped yelling and fighting, and Katy came back to see me with a plate of cookies. “Allie, I thought about your question. Nobody knows exactly what a soul is or even if souls are real. But I know when I am sad, there's a tightness and a terrible pain here in my chest.” I looked over to her. I believed everything she ever said. I always would.

From the age of five till the age of eight my daily routine was predictable. I went to school every weekday. I loved school almost as much as I loved Katy Wilson. My teacher for Grade two was Madame MacLaren who taught us Canadian geography. Her method was Canadian Football League team colors to teach us the capital cities for each province and territory of Canada. Then in Grade three, my teacher was Madame DesLauriers. She had long brown hair and wore jacket and skirt sets with polished shoes. I was a good student because I loved to read, and every day I did all my homework.

The last Friday before vacation was report card day. I always got good marks, but it didn’t make me all that strong. In front of everyone, Madame DesLauriers said, “Allie, did you see your report card? Straight A’s in all the academics. Straight E’s all excellence for Effort, except in Courtesy. An S- Satisfactory in a very important part. Do you know what this means?”

“No.” I said. My voice was shaky. I was always a good student. Not the best. But second best after David Stockburger.

“Courtesy is how polite you are. You, Allie, are very rude. You talk back.”

I didn’t say anything. I was mortified. I was headed home and Mom would not miss the S on my report card. I tried not to cry in front of Madame DesLauriers. She waved my Report Card in front of me. “Will you do better after Christmas? Will you stop with all your questions?” I could only nod my head. I was starting to get dizzy and I was hoping that my reality was such that what was happening wasn’t true. Madame Des Lauriers was telling me I was rude? Mom was going to have a fit. Probably no dessert for me tonight. Probably even a spanking. When I got home, I couldn’t believe my luck. Mom wasn’t home and Katy Wilson opened the door. “Why are you looking so blue, little one?” She asked. She was so nice, I burst into tears, and showed her my Report Card.

“Wow, this is great. All A’s and E’s for Effort. Are you crying tears of happiness.” That made me laugh and I started to feel better. “No. Madame DesLauriers said I talk back and I am rude and she gave me an S, see for Courtoisie.”

“You mean Courtesy. Oh my goodness Allie. You are the most polite kid I know. I'll tell you what. Let’s get your mind off your Report Card and everything can be solved by this secret I am going to teach you.” “You are going to teach me a secret? Not tell me?”

“That’s right. Now get inside. Don’t lose your mittens else your Mom really will get mad. I am going to teach you something, so your Mom won’t even notice the Courtesy thing, ok? You can show her this...”

I was hard to convince, but Katy Wilson was always right. I got ready quickly but Katy was already in the living room calling me to hurry up.

“Hey you silky bag of bones. Don’t take all day. Your Mom will be home in two hours. We can’t let her know you have been Rudy.” Katy Wilson was making fun of me.

“The surprise for you today is I am going to teach you how to knit. What do you think about that? And whenever you knit, I want you to know I am sitting right beside you.”

“Knitting? That is awesome socks.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Laura knits on Little House on the Prairie. And Jo knits in Little Women. Every cool heroine knits. Can I make a scarf?”

I wasn’t very good at anything using my hands. I had tried to learn the piano but I broke two fingers during basketball practice, so that hi-jacked piano lessons. But I was listening to Katy. She taught me how to loop the yarn around the steady fat knitting needle, and then stick the prickly part into the loop around the yarn, round it around, then the top needle and then cross it and pull it through. This was casting on and we started with ten stitches. I was awkward at first, but Katy was patient.

“I know you can do this, Allie. It just takes a little practice. Don’t worry about school right now. Just try to sit still and knit. And when your Mom gets home, don’t talk about your Report Card. She is going to be so impressed with your knitting.”

Katy had the answer. So often, she made everything better. The next year, I was nine years old. Katy Wilson took me to get my ears pierced at the earrings store. She told me in the Philippines, infants had their ears pierced right when they were born. Bright coloured jewels were applied to baby girls’ ears in the first few minutes of life.

“Is that to decorate their souls?” I asked her. She laughed. “I am not quite sure about soul decoration but it is a custom. So why did you wait till you were nine to get yours pierced?” she asked.

“Mom wouldn’t let me,” I had been feeling all grown up with the studded gold heart earrings that had a price tag so high it would have taken me 30 allowances and chore lists before I could have paid for them.

“You’re just a fragile little kid, aren’t you, a baby goat.” She ruffled my hair.

No one quite understood why I was in a rush to grow up. It’s because I wanted to be as cool as Katy Wilson. She drove a purple Toyota Camry over to our house often. Sometimes she even showed up out of the blue. “I’m here to see how your knitting is going, Allie. Your Mom didn’t call me, I was just in the neighborhood.” I was making progress on my knitting every day. And I felt proud as punch when she ruffled my hair and told me my stitches were even.

Katy Wilson was my childcare worker for four years. All was perfect in my world where I now had almost my own big sister who brushed my hair, always made sure I could find my mittens and didn’t rush me as I struggled to put on my boots. Even though Katy didn’t treat me like I was a dumb little kid, Mom sure did. And I was a kid who often fell over or stubbed her toe. I was tall for my age, but still small and it meant I couldn’t reach the chocolate Mom stashed in the top cupboard. And adults didn’t take my opinion or position seriously. For example, I did not want to go to the Rabbit Ski hill with school. And when I got lessons at the ski hill I still did not feel sure of myself and when I crashed, I knew my leg was broken. But when you are a kid, these days they call it asserting boundaries, in my day they called it talking back, well when you are a kid, all the adults around you know better. Except they don’t. I knew I was fragile. I knew my bones were old. My parents just figured if they could dose me with enough calcium through dairy products and children’s chew-able Vitamins, then my bones would get stronger. The truth was I was getting stronger, but the spirit ghosts that lived in me, were in a great rush. Always. All the time. Patience, while it may be a virtue, is one that as I practice it, I feel my dual ghosts of impatience and screaming, fighting for an exit from my body. Instead I knit, when I really wanted to scream.

I had read about Hinduism and I believed my bones were brittle from having returned to an earthly body so many times. I understood reincarnation but didn’t discuss it with people around me, who were mostly Catholics. Instead we talked about the Saints. St. Peter at the Pearly Gates was a popular one. St. Christopher the patron saint of Travelers was one my mother often spoke of. She told me she hoped I would love to travel. She held onto me and let go, often.

Two days after getting my ears pierced, I had a raging infection. Red scabs had formed under the gold studs and my Mom yelled at me for picking at my ears. “It hurts,” I told her. “Go and sit at the table and finish your breakfast. I told you you were too young to get your ears pierced. Your body is not ready. Your ears are rejecting the gold.”

I knew it was all my fault. I picked up my knitting but I dropped a stitch and felt bad, because I needed Katy to help fix it. “Is Katy taking care of us tonight?”

“No!” my mother yelled.

I flinched at her scream and I went to the kitchen table. The kitchen was the room I hated the most in our house. Dad wasn’t home and I wondered why since it was a Saturday, so I pretended to be him, and I sat in his chair. To the right of the table was a magazine stand and I picked up the Weekend edition of the Edmonton Sun. I usually just read the comic strips, but this time I read the caption of the picture on the front page. Ms. Katy Wilson, 19 years old plunged to her death Friday night from her residence. The picture was of an apartment building that looked familiar to me and a black tarp covering something on the concrete.

“Mom, what happened? Is this Katy?” I pointed to the picture. Mom had already read the news and was trying to figure out a way to tell us. Mom started with “Katy Wilson comes from a good family. She is a good person. But someone gave her PCP, they called it Angel Dust. So she went to her balcony and she was seen balancing on the rail, but Angel Dust is a chemical. It’s a very bad drug. She didn’t realize what she was doing was dangerous, so she fell 19 stories. But she did not suffer. She died.”

I knew from church teachings, the worst sin you could commit was to kill yourself. I was so worried that Katy, my favorite person, was now in Purgatory.

“You mean, Mom, Katy is now a ghost? Because she would never leave me. I’m not finished with the scarf, my knitting. knit one, pearl two, cast on, cast off. Where is her soul?”

Mom just shook her head. I couldn’t believe it. Suddenly I felt angry. I grabbed the newspaper and I ran away from my Mom. I didn’t bother to put on a jacket.

People were at the bus stop. One woman was wearing a purple jacket. “Hello” I asked her if she knew the directions to the building on the front page. The woman was a stranger, so she looked away. I turned and asked someone else. “Do you know Katy Wilson? Do you know this building?” Now I was pointing to the newspaper. No one answered me.

I started to scream my loudest, “Where’s Katy? Where’s Katy?” But no one answered. People started to stare. I remember running. I don’t remember there being any cars or buses, but I think there must have been. At some point, I fell. My father’s strong arms picked me up. Next thing I knew I was in a room and I heard the door lock. Was it my room or someone else’s? I wasn’t sure, but I was alone. No Katy Wilson to take care of me or make fun of me. No Katy Wilson to make me feel better. And I didn’t even have my knitting.

* * * *

Annthea Whittaker is a writer and performance artist living on Vancouver Island, Canada. Her previous work has been published in Toronto’s Fuse Magazine, The Windsor Review, Fireweed, a feminist quarterly and she wrote and delivered the 3 minute speech, “Women on Wheels: the rolling feminist library” on CBC radio. She is currently working on a book of short stories with the working title, “Friendship: a collection of love stories.”