My magnificent sons, whom I had never gotten to—or known how to—touch, kiss, comfort. My vision clouded with tears. The photo albums immortalized their childhood, a time when anything was still possible. Maybe, I thought, if I tried even harder, one day or another, I would succeed. It had to work.
I had been patient, had given them time to get to know us, to situate themselves. Perhaps we had waited too long. Perhaps, instead, we should have been harder on them. Gregory believed he had done his best. He was the father he would have wanted to have: understanding, permissive, easygoing.
I stopped at the photos we had taken when we were camping in Muskoka when the twins were still babies. They were sitting on a big rock, looking into the camera, almost smiling. Their faces were in focus and the woods were blurred behind them. Their resemblance didn’t seem so striking all of a sudden. With my head tilted, I was studying each of their features when the ringing of my phone interrupted my thoughts and made me jump. When I had to confirm that I was the mother of Daniil and Vanya, I knew that something serious had happened.
The college management asked that we come and meet with the disciplinary committee. Immediately.
After my urgent call, Gregory dropped everything and met me in a panic on the front steps of the college.
“What happened?” he asked, out of breath.
“I don’t know. They said there was an incident, but I don’t know what. They’re not hurt. That’s all I know.”
The assistant who met us wouldn’t answer a single question, no matter how we insisted. Instead, she locked us away in a boardroom with an oval table taking up the whole space. The room smelled like dark wood and mildew.
“What do you think could have happened?” I asked Gregory, needing to break the silence.
“I don’t know. Maybe they got in a fight.”
Gregory was tapping his fingers on the table, agitatedly looking at the time on his phone, which locked and unlocked in irritating clicks. I scanned every corner of the room, but there was nothing to look at.
Just then, the door opened and a bunch of people, ten or so, came in and sat down. At the end was a woman I felt I knew, a brunette with an aquiline nose.
The principal cleared his throat and tapped his pencil on a stack of sheets in front of him.
“Okay. TDSB protocol requires that I introduce all the parties. So, for the sake of the minutes—you’re getting this, Mrs. Cruz?—we have: Bronwyn Patel, history and math teacher, John Von, information technology teacher, and Ariel Brunswick, technology teacher, who, along with me, make up the disciplinary committee of the college, along with Charles and Bridget Vince, the plaintiffs, and finally Gregory and Emma Dominik, parents of Daniil and Vanya. There. No sense in tiptoeing around. Mr. and Mrs. Vince have told us about a very troubling relationship between their youngest son, Hendrick, ten years old, student at Montrose Junior Public School, and yours, Daniil and Vanya, fifteen years old, students here at Harbord Collegiate Institute. They met with Hendrick a number of times at the pool, supposedly to teach him to dive. Note that they would have shared dressing rooms. Daniil and Vanya, furthermore, followed him home. Bridget here witnessed them loitering near the house. And Thursday, September 28, after school, around five-thirty, Daniil took Hendrick into the woods and raped him. Then he abandoned Hendrick, alone and wounded.”
I cocked my head. He had spoken quickly and had a thickly accented English. I wasn’t sure I’d caught it all.
“Has the act been confirmed by a medical exam?”
Gregory’s voice made me jump. He was very determined and self-assured. I glanced toward the principal, waiting for his answer.
“No.”
“No, there was no medical exam, or no, there hasn’t been a confirmation?”
Gregory’s tone was poised and professional. I didn’t understand where he was going with his questions. My head was pounding. I placed a hand on my forehead. My fingers were like ice.
“The medical exam didn’t confirm the penetration,” the principal responded, imposing his gaze on Gregory.
Bridget stood up, her chair screeching against the floor. “Hendrick waited three weeks before telling us. The exam couldn’t have been conclusive.”
“Come on! A child who’s been sodomized, excuse me, but there are going to be signs,” Gregory spluttered.
I recognized her right away; she was a neighbour I saw often. She lived close, on Crawford Street, or Roxton, maybe. The young technology teacher had been looking at me since the beginning of the interview. Around the oval table, he was sitting right across from me. He looked barely older than the twins. He looked extremely sad.
“Emma, did your sons say anything to you?” asked the principal.
Hearing my name, I lifted my eyebrows and gave him a flat smile.
“They didn’t say anything to me.”
I got out my hand cream to calm myself. I looked at the parking lot through the window. It was afternoon and the students had begun filtering out from the campus.
“Listen, what are we doing here, exactly?” continued Gregory. “We’re talking about the word of kids who aren’t even here. And what’s your authority to deal with this issue? It has nothing to do with the college, from what I can understand.”
As he spoke, Gregory scanned the room. The father, who had kept his arms crossed up to that point, laid his hands on the table.
“Hendrick gave us details that a ten-year-old boy couldn’t have known. He’s a shy, reserved boy. He admired your sons and they took advantage of him.”
A violent cramp made
