The Poetry Lady

By Bobby Hutchinson

What does it take to heal a broken heart?

 

For Layla, the only consolation is something that horrifies her socially conscious husband.

 

Layla stands on a corner of Vancouver's Skid Row and recites poetry for anyone who needs it.

 

And there, among the other broken souls, she finds not only peace, but love.

 

A clean, sweet short romance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bobby Hutchinson
• Release date: Mar 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9781927785577

Bobby Hutchinson

Bobby Hutchinson spends her time reading, writing, riding a three-wheel bike all over the place and towing Calamity Jane, her refurbished old travel trailer, to camping spots all over B.C. Getting old is fantastic; she can do whatever the heck she pleases and write what fascinates her. She loves hearing from readers and appreciates any ideas they have for interesting situations. 

Book preview

1

At eleven in the morning on that first day in May, Layla Kent got off the bus and set up on the rainy corner of Main and Hastings, across from the downtown Vancouver Library and the Carnegie Community Centre.

She propped her modest cardboard sign on the old easel she’d bought from a second-hand store on Dunbar.

She’d chosen the location because no one from her affluent Kerrisdale neighborhood was likely to come down here, to Skid Row in Vancouver’s Lower East Side. Not in the morning. They might come on the weekend, or maybe visit the bars at night. But she was safe on a weekday morning.

She gripped her long slender fingers with their bitten nails together in front of her flat empty belly, glad she’d worn the long green velvet dress; it hid the way her legs were trembling, and the long sleeves covered the raw scars on her arms.

She’d put on a brimmed hat that nearly matched the dress. It shielded her from the rain, and it was a disguise of sorts. She’d stuffed her thick, unruly red curls up under it.

Her hair was her only truly distinctive feature.

Well, someone had once said she had lovely grey eyes, but only that one man in the grocery store when she was buying newborn baby diapers just before Emily was born. But that was more than a year and a half ago.

She was shaking all over. It was a wonder her knees didn’t give way, and she realized too late that she ought to have brought a chair or a stool to sit on. Now, she’d have to stand, and she wondered if she had the strength. She’d only been out of the psych hospital eight days this time.

And what should she do with her face, with her expression, while she was standing here? Should she try to smile, or stare off into the distance, or look pensive? Should she try to meet people’s eyes or avoid looking directly at them?

Her face and her expressions had become a problem since Emily.

Hugo had told her she looked like a ghost, that she ought to lighten up and put some lipstick on. She wasn’t that young anymore to go without makeup, he’d said. Try and smile once in a while, he’d said.

So she’d practiced in front of the bathroom mirror, trying different ways of moving the muscles in her face, trying to imitate photos in magazines, this woman smiling, that woman looking interested.

She learned to use makeup to make herself look alive on the surface, but she didn’t use any today.

POEMS, $2.00, she’d drawn in thick black script on the brown cardboard. She’d debated whether to say recitations, or poems of your choice, or unoriginal poetry, so people would know the words belonged to others. But everything seemed too complicated, so she’d settled on just poems.

Quoting poetry was something she knew how to do, one of the few things she knew she was good at.

The psychologist had said she should try and focus on things that gave her pleasure, but after thinking about it, she realized the only thing in her life that had always given her ease was poetry. It never changed.

From an early age, she’d been able to quote poetry and link it to whatever was going on at the moment.

Hugo had loved it at first, basking in her endless store of other people’s words, showing her off at parties, getting her to quote something for someone.

But as the years of their marriage passed and the children he wanted didn’t materialize, he became impatient when she spoke poems. Nobody wants to hear that boring old stuff, he’d said. It isn’t as if you can sell them, is it?

So she’d stopped.

But when she was carrying Emily just under her heart, poetry had swelled and receded like waves. She whispered poems to Emily, lullabies, nonsense poems, words like caresses for the child within her.

When she’d made up her mind to do this, she’d fretted over whether to charge for recitations. She didn’t need money, Hugo made a fine living as a dentist, her medical bills had been covered by B.C. Medicare, even the ongoing appointments with the psychologist, were partially paid for. And Hugo was generous with money. Sometimes. When it suited him.

He’d spent a fortune on the baby’s casket, although he hadn’t been able to hold their newborn daughter or even look at Emily.

He hadn’t spent more than five minutes in the hospital room after the doctor explained what had happened to their daughter, their first baby. Their only baby: at 44, it was unlikely Layla would ever get pregnant again. It had been a difficult pregnancy, a long and dangerous delivery.

After Emily was born, Hugo rushed out, not returning until the next day to take Layla home to the empty nursery, the empty house, her empty body.

He’d insisted she come along that afternoon, and he’d spent a lot of time choosing the casket, all white satin and polished wood.

Emily hadn’t cost money, though. She’d grown quietly in Layla’s body, priceless, a damaged, precious little