Page 60 - Philly Girl

44 Janice Shapiro

someone else, someone worldlier, more articulate, someone
who could debate the issues. I didn’t even know how to fold
and pack.
Once Mae and I found our campsite on Vancouver
Island, however, I relaxed a bit. Canadians seemed nice.
Their lives and outlook appeared uncomplicated, like I was
at the time. The people I met seemed to have no fixed opin-
ions, no special issues to argue. This was such a relief to
me that summer. Our Canadian companions drank tons of
beer and watched hockey games. They barbecued salmon.
Some invited us into their homes and their boats—and their
beds, when their parents were out of the house. I fell for
a guy: he looked like a blue-eyed, long-haired cigar store
Indian, and was likewise mostly silent. But he was hand-
some! The romance I wanted that summer was entirely in
my own imagination; that “romance” was pure animal lust,
but I yearned for something more. I recognized something
about myself: I could never have sex without caring.
One morning I took my bike on a back road. As I biked
downhill, a truck hit me. I don’t remember the moment
of impact. Neurologists later told me that was due to trau-
matic amnesia—nature’s way of deleting a horrific memory.
I had no identification on me, however, and so I became a
“Jane Doe” at a hospital in Port Alberni, Vancouver Island
in British Columbia. I was unconscious—and unidentified.
The compassionate Canadian healthcare system had things
well in hand. They looked after me until Esther tracked me
down, calling the Canadian doctor and sending over my
health insurance information. For years, my mother’s story
was that she contacted the Canadian Embassy and informed
them that her husband worked for the American postal ser-
vice. This was her steadfast explanation of how she had the
necessary “clout” to locate me. Mae later told me that she had
called my mother and told her where I was. But I’ve always
liked my mother’s story better.