Finding Jade

by Mary Jennifer Payne

  Then I remember who the man in the poster is. Winston Churchill. My grade eight teacher pointed out his statue last year when we were on a field trip to city hall. He was the British prime minister during the Second World War.

  But that was nearly a century ago….

  “I need to ask you a strange question,” I say.

  “Yes?”

  “What day is it? I mean, what is the date exactly?”

  She looks worried again. That makes two of us.

  “Did you hit your head coming here?” she asks. “Perhaps in the last few days? There’s so much debris around and loose bits from the bombings.”

  “No,” I reply. Though I’m not really sure. Maybe that’s why all of this is happening. Could I be in a coma or something?

  “It’s Wednesday, March 3,” she says.

  “But what year is it?” I ask. My bladder feels uncomfortably full, and it’s not because I need to urinate. It’s a reaction to the fear that is flooding every cell of my body.

  “I really think you need to see a medic,” the woman says. “You’re clearly not well. There’s one here, you know.”

  I shake my head. “Please, I just need you to tell me what year it is.”

  The woman presses her lips together and nods. It’s clear from the look on her face that she thinks I’m crazy. She’s not alone.

  “Why, it’s 1943, of course,” she says.

  Chapter 7

  At least her answer makes some sense. And if this is a dream, I give myself brownie points for being so clever: the poster of Winston Churchill, the mention of Hitler, all of us sitting here, crammed together underground like a bunch of canned sardines. Not only can I recall historical details, I can recreate them in my dreams. My old history teacher, Mr. Carter, can stick his mark of 60 percent.

  Except now I’m wondering if this isn’t a dream. Everything is feeling far too real.

  “Of course it’s 1943,” I say to the woman, with a laugh. “I’m just joking around with you.” I smooth down the front of my skirt. Skirt? Yep, I seem to be wearing a tweedy skirt of some sort. It’s making my legs itch like crazy. Don’t remember ever being itchy in a dream before.

  “I don’t regard that sort of thing as funny, young lady,” the woman replies. She looks angry with me. “You need to watch what you say and do. Careless talk helps the Gerries.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’ll try to remember that. Actually, I think my mother should be arriving any minute.”

  “Really?” the woman says, a relieved smile flashing across her face. “Perhaps you should move closer to the bottom of the stairwell so she sees you. Just don’t get in people’s way, mind.”

  I nod and hoist myself up. My knees feel stiff, as though I’ve been sitting for a while. As soon as I’m standing, I can see where the stairwell is. A steady stream of people file along the platform from that end.

  I decide to head over there, go up the stairs, and see what’s at the top. If I come out in Toronto and find a bunch of drone cameras and the white trailers that accompany movie shoots, then I’ve clearly got some sort of weird amnesia going on and have accidentally stumbled onto a movie set.

  But if I get up there and step out into the fog and damp air of London in 1943, well, then I’ve really lost it.

  “Bye,” I say to the woman, giving her a half-hearted wave just to be polite. I figure teenagers back in the 1940s were likely way more polite than we are today.

  She gives me a tight smile back. Her red lipstick is cracked and flaking in places. I can tell she’s relieved to see me go.

  I walk as fast as I can toward the people entering the lower part of the station. A lot of them are soaking wet. Their clothing sticks to their bodies like plastic wrap. It must be pouring rain outside, which makes me think I just might find that I’m in London. It hasn’t rained in Toronto in more than two months, and according to every weather forecast I’ve heard lately, that isn’t about to change anytime soon. We’re officially in the middle of a heat wave, with no precipitation in sight.

  It’s hard to get anywhere because I’m moving against the crowd. I pass crying children, wide-eyed with fear, wet hair plastered to their faces in spaghetti-like strands. Clear snot runs from their noses to their lips.

  Eventually I squeeze myself past everyone and reach the bottom of the stairs. It’s pretty dark in the stairwell, and the descending figures are shadowy. Placing my hand on the railing, I begin to slowly work my way up, trying to press myself thin against the wall. The air is damp and the stairs are slippery. I have no idea what kind of footwear I have on, but I do know I’m no longer wearing my Converse sneakers from this morning.

  I’m halfway up the stairs when I see her. As she passes me, we turn and look each other directly in the eye.

  Even though I can’t see her very well, I stop dead in my tracks. The resemblance is uncanny; it’s like having a mirror held up to my face. Except the girl in front of me (who has also stopped and is staring back at me) has a tiny birthmark on her right cheekbone … just like Jade.

  Her mouth drops open with surprise, and tears well up in her eyes. We’re both speechless.

  Jade is here! Now I know for sure I’ve either lost my mind or am having the most realistic dream of my life. Even if I’m dreaming, I’m going to take advantage of every second with her.

  I reach out to hug her just as a deafening boom shakes the staircase. Then, from somewhere directly above us, there’s the sound of screaming followed by a sickening thud. Within a few seconds there’s more screaming. As bodies come hurtling toward us like dominoes, I realize that people are falling over one another and down the slippery steps.

  “Jasmine!” Jade cries as she is knocked over by a woman clutching a toddler in her hands. The little girl is torn from her mother’s grasp. Jade reaches for me, and I grab her hand, throwing me off-balance. My feet slip out from under me, and now I’m falling as well, bashing my head against the steel railing as I tumble.

  I bounce against the edge of one of the steps. Pain shoots up my spine like lightning. My back feels broken and I can’t breathe. Panic sweeps over me. I’m still close to the railing, so I reach up and somehow pull myself halfway to standing. At least I can breathe again. I wipe my mouth and stare at the splotch of fresh blood on the back of my hand. My lip is bleeding heavily.

  Jade is somewhere in this crush of people. I need to find her. Panic claws at my chest like a wild animal. I try to lift an elderly lady, who’s softly moaning, but she keeps sliding from my clutch as though she’s made of silly putty. She’s also as cold as ice. If it weren’t for her moaning, I’d think she was dead for sure.

  No one can be this cold and still be alive. I guess it’s all part of the dream. Tears blur my vision. Jade. I’ve got to get to Jade. People are moaning and crying all around me. This has turned into the worst nightmare I’ve ever had, and I want it to end. Now.

  Suddenly, strong arms circle my waist, pulling me up and away from the pile of bodies. I’m being carried along the very top of the railing, even though I know it’s impossible. Even a circus performer with the best balance in the world couldn’t pull this off, which means I just might be dreaming after all.

  Adrenaline floods my body as I realize I’m being taken away from Jade. She’s probably hurt and suffocating under the crush of bodies on the stairwell.

  “Stop!” I shout, trying to twist my body out of my rescuer’s grasp. “Let me go!”

  There’s no response from whoever has me, so I try to pry the slender fingers off my waist. The air is getting colder and clearer. We’re reaching the entrance to the subway station.

  I begin to sob and tear desperately at the hands holding me. Though I realize this person has likely just saved my life, Jade is still down there. I can’t leave her. I don’t want her to be alone again. Even if this is just a dream. I can’t abandon her again.

&
nbsp; My feet touch solid ground. Rain lashes at my face. As the hold on me relaxes, I spin around to confront my rescuer.

  Chapter 8

  “I need you to listen closely to me, Jasmine,” Raphael says.

  The shock of coming face-to-face with him renders me speechless. But after a few seconds of silence, I begin to laugh. It’s a crazy cackle. I throw my head back for effect. I’m starting to get pretty good at this whole insanity thing.

  “Okay,” I say, poking his chest with my finger. He’s solid. I throw him a lopsided grin that I hope is both flirtatious and confident. “I know you. You’re the cute boy from Beaconsfield. I thought I might dream about you eventually. So now that we’ve cleared that up, I need to go back down there.”

  I spin around, but Raphael grabs my arm before I can even take a step.

  “We don’t have a lot of time,” he says impatiently. “I can’t explain everything to you right now, but I need to get you away from here. Fast.”

  I laugh again. “Right. Because they’re looking for me.” I snap my fingers close to Raphael’s face. He doesn’t flinch. “Just like the crazy lady said.”

  His eyes narrow. “We’ll talk about this disrespect for your Protectors later,” he says.

  I come closer to his face. “Why don’t you be my protector, big boy?” I say, leaning in to kiss him.

  He pushes me away, panic flashing across his face. Good. It’s nice to see that the boy is actually able to show emotion.

  The rain is coming down harder now. I hear loud booming sounds, like the approach of a violent thunderstorm, off in the distance.

  “You’re being an idiot,” I snap, pushing my wet hair off my face. “I’m going back down to get my sister. Even if she’s a figment of my imagination, I’m going back for her.”

  Raphael grabs my arm again. This time his hold is much firmer. “You have no idea what you can do,” he says.

  I struggle against his grip. I need to get to Jade. For a brief second, I consider biting him to get him to release me.

  “Right now I need you to stop being angry and do what I say. I have to get you to a safer place. You can’t go back down there.”

  I stop for a moment. It’s night time. If I choose to believe I’m not dreaming, then London sits in front of me in the pitch darkness. I’ve never been to England, let alone London, but I do know that it is a huge city. And, dream or not, I seem to be in the middle of a blackout during a Second World War air raid.

  “But my twin sister is there. I can’t just leave her to die.” The absurdity of my words strikes me; I’ve already left her once before, and she is dead. Suffocation on a stairwell in my dream is a far better way to go than what likely happened to her in real life. I’m pretty aware of the fact that abducted children are generally abused before being murdered and then discarded like yesterday’s trash.

  “As long as they don’t get to you, Jade will be kept alive,” Raphael replies. “You need to get over this guilt. It’s preventing you from seeing what is really happening. They need both of you together, and right now you’re being far too reckless. You’re feeding into them.”

  “Who is this ‘they’ you keep talking about?” I ask.

  Raphael ignores my question and turns.

  I follow him as he walks away, and we stumble through the darkness together.

  The air is damp and cold. I’m only wearing a blouse and a sweater vest, and I’m shivering uncontrollably.

  “How can you walk so fast?” I ask. I can barely see my hand in front of my face it’s so dark.

  “I know this city well,” Raphael replies. “We’re going to Whitechapel Station.”

  “To meet Jack the Ripper?” I ask in mock terror.

  An exasperated sigh cuts through the air. “I’m glad you find this amusing,” he says. “I’m taking you there so we can get you back through.”

  “Through?” I ask. What the hell is he talking about? I stub my toe against something that feels like a pile of broken bricks. Pain shoots through my foot. “Ow!” Tears spring to my eyes.

  “Be careful. There’s loads of debris all over,” Raphael says. “This part of the city gets hit really hard by the bombings because of the docklands.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Can you at least answer one question? Can you tell me how is it that I’m here in London in 1943 with you, when we actually live in Toronto in 2030? And while you’re at it, please explain how Jade, my dead sister, is here, too. But you’re telling me she’s alive. Clearly, this is some sort of crazy dream. Did I have a seizure or something on the subway in Toronto?”

  “Was Jade’s body ever found?” Raphael asks, his voice quiet.

  “What do you mean?” Defensiveness rises in me like a tidal wave.

  “Keep your voice down and stop being angry. It’s not helping you,” Raphael cautions. “I’m asking you to think about her disappearance. Was she ever found?”

  “No.” I answer. My mind races back to that horrible year. It wasn’t long after our tenth birthday. Mom cried constantly. Lola stayed with us the entire time, feeding and taking care of us, even though her own son, Femi, was seriously ill with leukemia.

  There were police and volunteer searches almost daily. Lola would go and help comb the nearby ravines and city parks, then come back and care for Mom, Femi, and I.

  Eventually, Lola was able to pay for special cancer treatment in the United States for Femi, and he was cured. Mom and I weren’t as lucky. No amount of money could bring Jade back to us.

  The police were at a loss about her disappearance. They didn’t have any viable leads. Strange vans, people who’d been behaving oddly in the neighbourhood — all the tips given by the public turned into dead ends. Jade had seemingly vanished into thin air.

  Only I knew the truth. I’d been there when the tall boy with the spiky, black hair approached us. I didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t one of the high school kids who walked by our house every day. After the disappearance, once his description garnered no leads, everyone chocked my story about him up to shock, as another way I was trying to cope with everything. Eventually, I began to doubt his existence, too.

  Jade and I were sprawled on the front lawn. I was reading a book, and Jade was drawing in her sketchbook. When the boy’s shadow fell across the grass, my blood turned to ice. I started shivering. I remember feeling confused, because the day was quite warm and sunny.

  “Girls, I’ve lost my kitten,” he said, showing us a glossy photo. “She’s really young, and ran out my front door.” There was a strange flatness in his voice. The fluffy, white-haired, blue-eyed kitten in his photograph looked exactly like the ones from the toilet paper commercials. Jade and I loved those kittens. They were exactly the type we wanted as a pet.

  That was when I reached out and touched the photo, and for a split second, everything tilted as if the world had been knocked off its axis. I looked up, and the boy and I locked eyes. Fear rose in my throat like vomit. Whimpering, I got up and began pulling at Jade’s arm.

  His eyes were dead. They were as black as the deepest ocean and lifeless, like the eyes of the fish I’d see lying limply over piles of ice in Kensington Market on Saturdays when Mom took us shopping. His bloodless lips pulled back into a smirk, and that’s when my bladder gave out. Warm urine ran down the length of my legs.

  But Jade continued smiling at the boy. “We need to help him, Jasmine,” she said. “The kitten could be hurt.”

  “Look at him!” I screamed.

  And that’s when he tried to grab me. I turned and ran as fast as my legs could carry me toward the front door of our house. I needed to get Mom so she could help us. I burst through the front door and into the kitchen where she was drinking coffee and reading the newspaper at the table.

  By the time we got outside, both Jade and the boy with the dead eyes were gone.

  I should never have left he
r.

  Chapter 9

  We reach Whitechapel Station after about twenty minutes of me stumbling over a variety of rubble and unknown obstacles, nearly breaking my neck while Raphael somehow continued to walk like a cat in the complete darkness.

  When we get to the top of the stairs, he turns to me and leans in close. “This is going to be a bit dangerous for you, Jazz,” he says in a voice that reminds me of the stage whispers we practise in drama class. “They’ve somehow managed to get you here, and now they’ll do anything to keep you … at least until they can kill you. You and Jade.”

  I lick a raindrop off my upper lip and stare at him. “Aren’t you going to tell me who ‘they’ are?”

  “If you keep your mind clear, you’ll know,” he replies in that frustratingly vague way of his. “You’ll be able to see them for what they really are.”

  “Will they be wearing polka-dotted Converse?” I ask.

  “When you were young, you could see them,” he says, ignoring my quip. “Remember the one that took Jade?”

  My body turns to ice. “How do you know about that?” I snap. “What are you, some sort of freak? I mean, how do you even know my sister’s name?”

  “I’ll tell you everything as soon as we are out of here. All I can say right now is that when you see them, you’ll recognize them. But — and this is really important, Jazz — you can’t let them know that you realize what they are.”

  “Okay,” I say. “So what are ‘they’? Seriously, I need an answer.”

  “Demons,” Raphael replies. “Demons and lost souls inhabit this place. We’re in the Place-in-Between.”

  Okay. Maybe I’m not the only crazy one here….

  “Demons?” I ask skeptically. “Lost souls? The Place-in-Between? In between what? I was on my way to High Park, so that would make this … Parkdale, right?”