Striking Out by Alison Gordon Page B

there’s also some other psychopathology. A lot of the woman we see have been in and out of institutions more than once. Some of them were turfed out in the latest round of budget cuts and are walking around with enough medication in them to stagger your average horse.”
    “Do you administer the drugs?”
    “No, we’re not equipped to handle that. We’ve got enough responsibility as it is. Besides, we’d rather not be known as a place that has drugs. That said, though, there’s nothing wrong with staff asking a woman if she’s taken her medication, or staff keeping an eye out for mood swings or suggesting that one of them go to the outpatient clinic. But that’s the limit. We have a nurse, too, who comes in once a week, for minor things. And we have doctors who will see the women if they need help. A dentist, too. And we provide legal advice and a mailing address for welfare cheques.”
    “Does Maggie get mail here?”
    “Not to my knowledge,” she said, standing up. “I’m sorry, but if you haven’t got any more questions, perhaps you’d like to meet some of the other volunteers who might know Maggie better than I.”
    I stood, too.
    “I’d appreciate that. And I think that you’re doing really wonderful things here.”
    “The most important thing we provide is very simple.”
    “And what’s that?” I asked. There was a knock at the door.
    “Acceptance,” Moira said, then called, “come on in.”
    A moon-round face poked around the door, smiling under a sequined baseball cap missing half its sparkle. It was followed by an egg-shaped body, in jeans and a happy-face T-shirt. A little stuffed yellow bird was pinned to her shoulder.
    “Delivery!” the woman said, holding up an envelope. She handed it to Moira, then looked at me with frank curiosity.
    “Hi,” she said, sticking out her hand. “I’m Fay. Who are you?”
    “I’m Kate,” I said, accepting the enthusiastic handshake. “Pleased to meet you.”
    “Fay’s our courier and general all-round helper,” Moira explained.
    “All round, that’s me,” grinned the woman, then did a model’s turn. “Get it?”
    “Got it,” I said.
    “We got another food donation come in,” Fay said to Moira, who was opening the letter. “So, what is it? A cheque, or what?”
    Moira looked up from the page, still smiling.
    “So, it’s none of your damned business,” she said.
    “Hokey-dokey, chief,” Fay said, saluting. She started out the door. Moira stopped her.
    “Fay, take Kate to meet some of the volunteers. She’s looking for a friend.”
    I followed the yellow bird, pausing at the door to the office.
    “If you see Maggie . . . ,” I began.
    “I’ll let her know you’re worried about her,” Moira finished, firmly.
    “Well, thanks again for your time,” I said.
    “Any time. Just call. Oh, and give my best regards to Andy.”
    She smiled a small but wicked smile.
    “Tell him I hope nothing vital was damaged.”

Chapter 18
    Fay and I headed back towards the main desk.
    “Who are you looking for?” she asked.
    “A woman named Maggie. Do you know her?”
    “Maggie? Does she wear a hat?”
    “Whenever I’ve seen her.”
    “An older lady, right?”
    “I’d say maybe fifty, something like that.”
    “That’s not her real hair, you know,” Fay said, conspiratorially.
    I thought about Maggie’s bottle-black hair, which she wears pulled back or tucked under her hat.
    “I didn’t think so. Does she dye it?”
    “It’s a wig. She’s all grey underneath and it’s short. I saw her in the shower once.”
    “Do you know her well?”
    “She doesn’t talk. Not very friendly. Except to Evelyn.”
    We were at the counter.
    “Who’s Evelyn? Is she here?”
    “Not today.”
    “Is she a staff person? Or one of the, um . . .”
    I didn’t know what to call them. Clients? Visitors?
    “No, she’s a street kid, like me.”
    “Does she come in regularly?”
    “She gets her mail here. She’s here for the welfare cheque, for