Safe Harbour

by Christina Kilbourne

  “Can you believe Kylie Jenner wore that in public?”

  I glance at a photo of a dark-haired woman in sweatpants and a baggy shirt. “Who’s Kylie Jenner?”

  Lise rolls her eyes and flips the page. “Never mind.” She doesn’t say it, but I know she thinks I’m hopeless when it comes to mainstream media.

  I look around the waiting room sheepishly and notice the contrast between us and those around us. The mother with her coughing toddler and the young man in a leg cast are edgy and impatient, while Lise and I are content to be sitting in a warm room. A businesswoman texts feverishly and shares knowing glances with whoever looks her way, glances that speak of the inferiority of everything around her. Even the old couple by the wall, who surely don’t have a busy day ahead, glance at the clock knowingly, as if their disappointment in the medical system is preordained.

  Every few minutes the front door opens and cold air sweeps into the room with another sick person. The seats fill up steadily until, within the hour, a newcomer stands by the entrance and glares at those of us lucky enough to have chairs. Still, Lise and I sit patiently, flipping through magazines, while Tuff lies in his blue bib at our feet.

  As the minutes tick by, I peel away the layers of clothing until I’m down to my shirt sleeves. It feels liberating not to be bundled into so many garments. I haven’t been this warm in days and would be happy to sit all winter in the doctor’s waiting room if someone would let me. But they won’t. It’s inevitable that one of the nurses will approach soon, even in this busy clinic.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  The receptionist must have drawn the short straw and stands in front of us with a clipboard in her hand. At least she asks politely. I have to give her points for good manners.

  Lise looks up, with well-rehearsed surprise. “An appointment? With one of the doctors?”

  I fake a coughing fit and Lise pats my back.

  “I thought this was a walk-in clinic. I didn’t think I had to make an appointment.”

  “You still need to check in,” the receptionist says sweetly. “Just bring your health card to the front desk and we can be sure a doctor sees you.”

  Lise smiles gratefully and we watch as the receptionist retreats to her glass cubicle.

  I make a show of searching through my pockets until Lise says, loud enough for half the room to hear, “Did you forget it at home?”

  I cough again and nod miserably, hanging my head in embarrassment.

  “Let’s go get it, then. We wasted all this time,” she scolds as we bundle back into our clothes and get ready to face the cold. “I asked before we left the house and you said you had it.”

  The old lady looks past her husband and at me sympathetically as we leave the clinic with Tuff.

  “It’s terrible they won’t see you without a health card these days.”

  I shrug and nod and don’t even have to fake the resignation I feel at having to go back out into the cold.

  Outside we head south with our heads down and our shoulders turned into the bitter wind. Prickles of snow sting my cheeks, tiny ice particles that feel like a thousand needles.

  “Left it at the house?” I say. “You should say apartment next time. I don’t think anyone will believe we live in a house.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We aren’t going for an Oscar.”

  We walk another aimless block before we duck into an alley to get out of the wind.

  “Now where?” Lise asks.

  “The mall?”

  “Security will be all over us in like two minutes if we sit in there.”

  “We could wander around a bit at least.”

  Lise looks skeptical, but I guess she figures it’s worth a try because we walk through the front doors fifteen minutes later. The glass atrium is congested with people trying to stay out of the cold and a security guard traces a path through the crowd. We keep our faces to the ground and take the down escalator. There’s no point going to the top levels where the high-end stores attract wealthy customers and two over-layered girls with a dog would stick out like a baboon’s butt.

  “Too bad we can’t try for some change in here. We’d be warm and making dough at the same time.”

  The lower level of the mall has discount clothing outlets that advertise 50% Off, BOGO, and Storewide Clearance. No matter how cheap the merchandise is, though, it’s way beyond our budget and all we can do is stand at the edge of the stores and look in.

  On our tenth pass of the bottom level we notice a security guard following close. I wind Tuff’s leash once more around my hand and square my shoulders. If I were alone, or if Lise were alone, it’d be easy to be invisible. But the two of us dressed in grubby parkas and winter boots look out of place next to the girls in high-heeled winter boots and long knit sweaters. Without speaking we speed up and the security guard matches our pace.

  “Let’s go to the subway,” Lise suggests and nods at the sign directing us toward an underground passage.

  “And, like, get on it?”

  “Sure. It’ll be warm and we can sit down. As long as we switch it up, we can ride as long as we want.”

  The security guard turns around when we take the entrance to the subway. We turn and watch him go, and as much as I want to hate him, maybe hurl an insult his way, or at least toss him an up yours gesture, part of me knows he’s just doing his job.

  “Do we have enough money?”

  Lise and I pull the change out of our pockets. We have enough to get two student fares, with some left over for coffees later. We race down the stairs when we hear the train pull up in a rush of wind and squealing brakes. Then we find seats at the back of a car.

  “We scored a heater,” Lise says, settling herself into the corner. When I sit down beside her, the heat envelopes me and I feel like I’ve just won the lottery.

  People stream on until the chimes sound. Then the doors close and the train lurches forward. At each stop people get on and off and the scenery changes with so much regularity I stop noticing who’s in the nearby seats, who’s standing, who’s texting, who’s listening to music, who’s holding hands or a cane or reading a book. I relax into the warmth and invisibility and rock back and forth against Lise’s shoulder in a sleepy rhythm.

  “You wanna try a free lunch program later? Get a hot meal?” Lise asks.

  For the past few weeks my time has been consumed with finding the next warm place to sit, the next place to find a meal, when to move on before someone asks me to leave, how to make a buck.

  “I thought you hated those places? Too many weirdos and social workers?”

  “Yeah, but if we get in and out fast, and keep our heads down, it won’t be so bad. Might be worth it for a bowl of chili and some bread rolls.”

  My stomach churns at the mention of a hot meal and my spirit rumbles at the thought of sitting to eat at a table.

  “You know anywhere good?” I mumble the question with my eyes closed and the drone of the train filling my ears. “That place in the church basement wasn’t so great.”

  Lise lists some options off the top of her head: the St. Felix Centre at Queen and Spadina, the Yonge Street Mission, the Out of the Cold program near Eglinton that is normally pretty first-rate, that church in Yorkville that offers all you can eat, no questions asked.

  I murmur my agreement as she describes each place and drift into a warm, comfortable, sideways-rocking sleep.

  When I wake up, I’m slouched so far over I’m almost lying on Lise’s lap. I sit up and look at the forest of pant legs and peacoats that has grown down the middle of the car. Nobody seems to notice that I’ve woken up. I look over at Lise and see she’s also asleep, her head resting on the side of the subway and her hood down over her eyes. Tuff is dozing on the floor, mostly under the seat with just his nose poking out between my boots and Lise’s.

  There’s something unfamiliar in my lap and it takes me a few seconds of waking up before I see it’s a child’s lunch bag — pink and sparkly with
Hello Kitty on the front. As a child I would have coveted it. I’m confused about why it’s in my lap, but I unzip it and find a child’s lunch inside: a Thermos of tomato soup, a cheese sandwich, an orange, a granola bar, and a note that says in childish scrawl: I’m sorry I don’t have any dog treats but here is my milk money so you can buy him something. He’s super cute. Love Hailey. XOX

  Without warning, my eyes overflow with tears.

  We ride the north-south line from one end to the other and back again before getting off and riding the east-west route. I watch how the crowd changes as we go in different directions, how passengers look more defeated the farther east or west we get, as if the distance from the business district is directly correlated to the demands of a workday and job satisfaction.

  Shared between Lise and me, Hailey’s lunch allows us to stay warm and comfortable until almost dinner when hunger drives us to go above ground. We’re the last to leave the subway car and we dawdle in the station. People, in a hurry after a long day of work, flow around us as if we’re rocks in the middle of a stream.

  “You sure you want to go back to your camp? They’re calling for freezing rain tonight.”

  “I like to be tucked in by the time the sun sets. Otherwise it gets too cold after dark. But I’ll be okay once I’m in the tent, even if it rains.”

  Lise looks like she’s about to protest, so I hold up a hand.

  “I know you’re not worried about Tuff, but I am. He’s everything to me.”

  “I know he is. I really do. And it’s not that I’m not worried about Tuff,” Lise says. “It’s just that I’m more worried about you.”

  “I can’t leave Tuff. I can’t. I know I have to figure something out soon. And I will. But I can’t leave Tuff. You know that.”

  “I do,” Lise says sympathetically. “And I hate that you can’t leave him, I mean in some ways. I hate sleeping in a warm room on a soft bed knowing you’re freezing your ass off all night. But I also know Tuff’s worth it.”

  Tuff thumps his tail at the sound of his name and Lise leans over to rub his head. When she stands up she looks past me, over my shoulder. Her expression flickers and I turn to look. She strides over to the tiled wall and rips down a poster. Then she grabs my arm and pulls me up to the street where the orange streetlights are flickering against the low grey sky.

  “What’s that?” I ask. She shoves it at my chest.

  I uncrumple the poster and read slowly, trying to make sense of what I’m holding. Impatient, Lise points at the headline: MISSING. Then she points at the name of the missing child: Harbour Mandrayke.

  I look up at Lise, but am unable to sort my jumbled thoughts into a coherent question.

  “What the hell, Harbour! You’re a missing kid!” Lise sounds angry, accusing.

  “No! I’m not,” I stutter.

  “It says here you were reported missing almost eight years ago.”

  “But I’m NOT missing. I mean, I’m right here.”

  I look down at my body standing on the pavement to make sure I’m not an illusion and that I really exist. Then I shift to staring at the photograph on the poster. It shows a small child, maybe four years old, with an age-progressed photo beside it of what the girl might look like at age fourteen.

  “It doesn’t even look like me.”

  “But what are the chances there are two Harbour Mandraykes? And look, it says: Primary caregiver found deceased. Harbour is believed to have travelled alone to the Toronto area recently.”

  The words primary caregiver found deceased are like a punch to the gut and I feel the breath leave my body. I gasp at the stark reality of what I’ve been refusing to admit. Seeing it in print, though, makes it seem real and urgent, at least for a fraction of a second.

  “I’m sorry, Harbour,” Lise says as if we’ve learned it for the first time. “I’m so sorry about your dad.”

  “We already knew. I already knew. I knew. I didn’t want to, but I knew weeks ago,” I mutter as tears race up the back of my throat and into my eyes. I gasp for breath and put my hands in my hair. I pull until the pain brings me back to the moment.

  “Harbour, there can’t be two of you in Toronto,” Lise repeats. “Not with that unique name.”

  “I know!” I shout at her. “But it doesn’t make sense.” I examine the poster and repeat the same phrase over and over. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “It says you were last seen in Stuart, Florida.”

  My brain scrambles to sort facts, dates, places. “We lived there when I was a kid. Before Mom died.”

  “Shit, Harbour! Do you think your dad abducted you? Do you think your mom’s still alive?”

  “No. NO. That’s crazy. It’s them. They’re trying to find me.” The idea lands solidly in my mind, like an old friend.

  I pull the hood of my winter coat over my face and head in the direction of the ravine. I’m walking fast and Lise is practically jogging to catch up.

  “Wait. WAIT.” Lise pulls the poster out of my hand. “Look at this picture of the little girl.”

  I stop and stare at the face. I realize it could be me. I’ve seen other photos of myself as a child and I did look like that — a mane of messy brown hair framing the exaggerated round eyes of some anime character. But I don’t recognize the clothes or the setting. I look more closely and in the background there’s something oddly familiar.

  “Look at that windmill. It’s a Ferris wheel.”

  I hand the poster to Lise.

  “Did you guys go to Disney?”

  “It’s not from Disney. It’s from here. Remember that amusement park on the island? There was a ride just like this.”

  “So you’ve been to Toronto before?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “My mother was Canadian. I didn’t think we ever visited, though. At least Dad never mentioned coming here.”

  “It could be Photoshopped,” Lise suggests. “To make it look like you were here.”

  “Maybe. I don’t really know. But it’s bad news whatever happened. Everybody will be on the lookout for me now.”

  I turn and grab Lise by the shoulders. But I must be squeezing too hard because she tries to pull away.

  “Lise, you have to promise me something!” I say and hang on tighter.

  She finally manages to pull free and rubs her shoulder. “Like what?”

  “I have to stay hidden. I can’t wander around on the streets with you. No more subways or libraries or bumming change on the sidewalk. You have to bring stuff to me. I’ll need dog food and crackers at least. Can you do that?”

  “But that means bumming enough change for us both. And it’s winter.”

  “I know it’s winter. But now everyone will know how old I am. Joyce will know.”

  I glance down at Tuff.

  “If you don’t bring us food, we’ll starve. We have to get out of here. I just don’t know where to go. Or how. I have to think.”

  “Okay, okay. Don’t worry. I’ll help. But I can’t promise dog kibble and canned tuna. You might have to take what you can get.”

  “Whatever. As long as it’s edible.”

  I hate to rely on anyone, but Lise is the only person I know in Toronto, so I have to trust her. I mean, Brandon is clearly not an option as far as Lise is concerned, I can’t imagine going to Erica for another favour and Frankie and Josh are long gone.

  “I’ll make this up to you. Somehow.”

  “I know you will.”

  Lise doesn’t let me hold her gaze. I know she thinks I’m being unreasonable, but I don’t have time to convince her otherwise.

  “First thing you have to do is tell Joyce I left town. Tell her I left a couple of weeks ago. But make it sound casual, like you forgot to mention it before because it’s no big deal.”

  “I’m not sure why you want me to …”

  I know she’s trying to understand what I’m planning, but I don’t have time to explain.

  “Please, Lise. If anyone ever asks about me, say you lost track
of me. It happens all the time, right? People come and go? Like we lost track of Frankie and Josh? Don’t tell them where Tuff and I are. Promise me. Promise.”

  “Relax, dude. I won’t give you up. And I’ll come down, like, every other day to make sure you’re still alive.”

  “Thank you. I totally owe you,” I say and then head toward my camp, with Tuff trotting faithfully at my heels.

  CHAPTER 14

  I HATE THE RAVINE. It feels like a prison. There’s no way to escape. I don’t have enough money to get a bus ticket out of Toronto and the thought of going up among the city streets fills me with cold, hard fear. My world has shrunk to a few square metres and turned to ice. There’s ice in my veins, ice in my water bottle, ice under my feet. I worry constantly about my future and I play a continuous loop of what if scenarios in my head, hoping one will lead me to an obvious plan of action. But none ever does. Somehow, somewhere along the way, I’ve lost the ability to plan and to dream. What’s worse is that I don’t know how to fix myself.

  I pull a square of cardboard out of the tent and set it in a patch of sun. The sunshine should cheer me up, since it hasn’t peeked through the heavy cloud cover in over a week, but it’s hard to find anything optimistic about my present circumstances. I gauge the time by the angle of the sun. There’s about an hour before it shifts too far west to land on my side of the ravine. I sit cross-legged with my eyes closed and let my mind wander. I give myself permission to stop trying to tease an answer out of the thousand questions competing for attention in my mind and ride the wave of each thought from crest to crest without judgment. It’s not the proper way to meditate, but it’s the best I can do.

  “No offence, but if you cut your hair and got different clothes, you could totally pass for a boy.”

  My mind scrabbles to the surface of reality and I open my eyes.

  Lise is sitting beside me and her expressionless face is the most welcome sight I’ve seen in two days. I’m surprised I didn’t hear her arrive, but lean over and hug her as if she’s been away for a month. She hesitates but hugs me back, then pulls away and pats my shoulder with her mitten.