Secrets from Myself

by Christine Hart

  “Sounds good. Mom, we can go check out ubc. Maybe I’ll get to go to school there someday.”

  Mom frowns again, but Dr. Werdiger looks indifferent to my attempts to talk about anything other than psychiatric care.

  “It’s good to have plans and goals. For now, let’s worry about getting you better,” says Dr. Werdiger.

  I briefly consider that I wouldn’t get into ubc anyway. Then I wonder if Dr. Werdiger doesn’t think I would get in. Wouldn’t he know better? Either way, he’s right about one thing: first thing comes first. But his first thing and my first thing are different; I need proof of Akasha’s life here.

  “Here is the package on staying at Arbutus House. There’s a resident’s agreement — which your mother will need to sign — house rules, and a few brochures for activities in Kitsilano. You’re due at the house to meet the on-site supervisor Mariah and your counselor, Jane. I’ll be working with you and Jane once a week, but you’ll need to see Jane every day to start. Tomorrow morning, the nurse on duty will come in around ten a.m. and help you check out. From there, you can head straight to Arbutus House. Do you have any questions?” Dr. Werdiger shifts his gaze to Mom.

  “I think we have everything we need. I’ll look over this package with Katelyn tonight.”

  “Excellent. Katelyn, next time I see you will be at Arbutus House. Have a great night, ladies.” Dr. Werdiger leaves abruptly.

  Mom spends a few moments looking through the papers, which is good, because I have zero interest in reading them.

  “Mom, can we do one thing after we get out of here tomorrow?”

  “Sure, sweetie, what did you want to do?”

  “The reason I ran away was because I wanted to go see Gastown in the city. I knew you wouldn’t take me. I know you don’t believe me about my dreams and my diary, and that’s fine, you’re probably right. But if I can just go look around and get it out of my system, I’ll be able to get my head in the game, so to speak, when it comes to this counselor stuff.”

  Mom looks up from the stack of paper and eyes me carefully. Her deadpan expression suggests nothing about what she might be thinking. Is she angry? Is she scared? Am I about to get yelled at or cried on?

  “Okay, Kat, we’ll go. But so help me God, if you put one foot out of place or I so much as get a twinge of a feeling that you’re going to bolt, I’ll clamp a lock on your ankle for the next decade. Got it?”

  “Yes, Mom, I’ve got it. Thank you. This means a lot to me.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask the first time?”

  “Would you have taken me?”

  “Now we’ll never know.”

  Mom gathers the Arbutus House papers, puts a hand on my thigh and leans in to kiss my forehead.

  “Goodnight, Kat. You’d better be here in the morning.”

  Chapter 5

  The drive down to Gastown takes us through the roughest blocks of East Hastings Street. I haven’t been back to Vancouver since I was eight years old. I can remember flashes — the aquarium, an urban mall, the view of the city from our hotel room. I have no memories of being a baby or toddler here. I’ve only ever seen the scary part of the city on television or in photos. On the street today I see people who look worn, broken, drained, and wrung-out. The people here are beyond poor and addicted, they’ve been totally crushed by life on the street. But I can’t look away.

  My rural mountain town, Nelson, doesn’t have a lot of homeless people, mainly because the winters are cold and snowy and because there are few places to sleep in public without being bothered. I’d be more likely to stumble across some hippy tenting in a park than a junkie.

  After we have passed the blocks of lumpy sleeping bags and overflowing shopping carts, Mom pulls over and parks in front of a greasy-spoon diner.

  “I’m not sure where you want to start, but I looked at a map on my phone. We can walk along Water Street until we get to the Waterfront SkyTrain Station. From there, we’ll see how close we can get to the Port of Vancouver. That’s a recognizable landmark,” says Mom. Her awkward tone is humoring me. My gut instinct is to yell, to tell her I really did have dreams about a girl from the past, and that I’m not making it up.

  “This is great, Mom. I’m sure being here in person will be different than my dreams and it’ll be easier to move on.” I don’t believe one word coming out of my mouth.

  We close our car doors and I look up and around at this unfamiliar neighborhood. I see my reflection in the diner window and realize I stick out here; I’m a doe-eyed kid in a plain T-shirt and jeans with no business wandering around the city. Across the street, a community garden is growing a mishmash of vegetables and flowers. Creeping vines weave through the fence, hiding most of the rows nearest the road. I glance both ways along the sidewalk, briefly considering another escape. I look over at Mom, her reddish wavy hair practically wild behind her steely blue eyes. Her frown busts me instantly.

  “I’m not going anywhere. We’ll walk around. I’ll stick with you, I promise.”

  “You better believe you will. If there’s a next time, I’ll let them lock you up.” Mom glares at me. She starts slowly down the street and I follow, for my own safety as much as obedience.

  We come to a gap in the downtown towers and I can see the sun shining on blue-green mountains to the north. As we cross a few more streets north of Hastings, I can see giant iron arms painted orange. I decide they must be used for lifting shipping containers and must mark the Port of Vancouver. We are close after all. We come to a halt underneath an old-fashioned grandfather clock. The morning sun adds a nostalgic yellow hue to the historic atmosphere of bare brick buildings, cobblestone streets, and antique lampposts.

  “Waterfront Station is on our left. A green space called Crab Park is to the right. Which one do you want to try first? The station might give us a view of the port.” Mom examines her phone closely. I can see that a part of her wants to help and my heart softens.

  “No, let’s try Crab Park. I think we should go towards those giant orange metal arms.”

  “You mean the dock cranes? Those weren’t around in the nineteen-hundreds. Aren’t you looking for where your ship landed?”

  “I’m sure you’re right and that nothing is left of Vancouver from a hundred years ago. It’ll help me to see that in person, from whatever angle we view it.”

  “Okay. We want one more street up and another block over.” Mom looks up from her phone and points towards the edge of the line of metal arms.

  Crab Park does not disappoint me: it gives a clear view of the Port of Vancouver and its bright orange cranes. As we walk along the concrete paths, the only problem is that I’m not learning anything. I don’t know anything new, about Akasha or her fate. I realize that I hadn’t been honest with myself about my expectations of this urban waterfront. I really had expected to find something that would make sense of the images and urges I’ve been having these last few months. My energy weakens with each step I take.

  “Well, what do you think, should we make our way over to Waterfront Station now?” There is a hint of urgency in Mom’s voice; she really wants to get this over with soon.

  “Just a second … there is something,” I say as a matte tile mosaic catches my eye. At the heart of a concrete slab, a steamship made of white and gray tile floats rigidly in a sea of blue and pink ceramic chips. The sunset in the background looks warm; golden clouds behind a hot orange sun. The men wearing turbans stare accusingly at me with blank tile faces. A compass surrounds the ship, and around that, a square border with the words, “The Komagata Maru” repeated below the letters N, S, E, and W.

  “This was her ship,” I whisper.

  “What?”

  “My … girl, Akasha. This is the ship she came to Canada on!” The prospect of a real lead sends adrenaline through my veins.

  “This is a commemorative mosaic. You can’t possibly
recognize anything in the picture. It’s practically abstract. Don’t latch on to the first thing you see.”

  “Why don’t you just let me have it? You’re itching to get going, so why not just let me think I’ve found something?”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie, I’m just trying to help. Write it down. You can do some research when we get you settled.”

  Mom doesn’t believe me, but she’s got a point. I pull my notepad out of my backpack and write down everything I can think of about the picture, even things I already knew.

  Komagata Maru

  — Steamship

  — India

  — Port of Vancouver

  It’s not enough. But it’s something.

  “Let’s go. I’m not going to have some kind of psychic vision just standing around here.”

  Mom puts her arm around my shoulder and pulls me along as she turns back towards the car.

  After a drive-thru burger lunch just outside downtown, we reach Arbutus House around two o’clock. The yard is quiet. Apart from a small sign above the door, there is nothing special about the place. Mom knocks on the door. I can tell from the way she’s fidgeting with her car keys that she’s nervous. I feel the same way and I shift the weight of my backpack as we stand on the step. Mom knocks on the door again. We wait. Finally, a shadow moves behind the frosted glass pane next to the door.

  “Good afternoon. May I help you?” A round woman shorter than Mom stands in front of us. She has long flowing black hair that is scraggly at the ends as though it hasn’t been cut in years. Her brown skin is weathered. She wears only a bit of brown eye makeup. Lines and bags under her eyes give her a defeated look.

  “I’m Becky Medena. This is my daughter Katelyn. We were told you’d be expecting us.”

  “Yes, come right in.” The woman breaks into a warm smile and steps aside. “My name is Mariah. I’m the house manager.”

  “Dr. Werdiger mentioned you. Will we be meeting a counselor named Jane as well?”

  “Not today. Jane doesn’t live on site. She usually doesn’t consult with parents until further into treatment.”

  I stand in the entryway awkwardly, unsure if I should enter the living room or head down the hall to the left to look for a bedroom. The kitchen is on our right, and unless the house has a basement, there isn’t much room to move around.

  “Katelyn, let me show you to your room. Mrs. Medena — sorry, Becky — would you like to wait in the living room for us? The other girls are all out this afternoon, so you’ll have some lovely peace and quiet.”

  A wary feeling creeps up the back of my spine. I’m about to get a lecture Mom won’t be hearing.

  “Sure. I’ll have a seat until you’re sorted.”

  “Katelyn, please follow me. You’re in the last bedroom on the right.” Mariah marches down the hallway and I follow obediently.

  The room has two twin beds with plaid bedspreads, two nightstands, and two wardrobes on the far wall. There is no sign of another occupant.

  “You have the room to yourself for the time being. I wouldn’t get used to it though. With summer starting, we’re bound to see another new face soon.” Mariah is pleasant, but not friendly. I set my backpack down on the bed next to the room’s only window, claiming my spot.

  “So … is everyone here … crazy?”

  Mariah looks at me for a long moment.

  “My dear, even if I wanted to try to answer you, that’s not an appropriate question. Take a moment to put your things away and come back to living room.” Mariah leaves abruptly. I was wrong about the lecture — clearly this woman is merely the gatekeeper, and hopefully a cook. My stomach rumbles with protest at the remnants of my greasy burger lunch.

  I remove my clothes from my backpack and put them in the shelves on the bottom level of the wardrobe. I have nothing worth hanging. My diary gets the prime real estate inside my nightstand drawer. Once I have a roommate, I might need to do a better job of hiding it, but I can’t imagine Mariah will care in the slightest about my personal thoughts. I sit down on the bed to draw out my time alone.

  My window looks out on the house’s backyard. The yard has a picnic table, a garden, and an oak tree with a tire swing. Arbutus House is the perfect place to be a normal kid.

  Too bad I’m the farthest thing from normal this house has ever seen.

  Chapter 6

  Mom doesn’t stay long and thankfully Mariah is the resident cook. While she chops and scrapes and stirs in the kitchen, I slip back to my room to re-examine Akasha’s entries one more time. I re-read each of her notes in turn. There is nothing new.

  I pull a fresh pen out of my backpack and sit cross-legged on the end of the bed with my diary in front of me. I look over at the open door. Sounds of Mariah preparing dinner still carry down the hall. No one else is in the house.

  I close my eyes and try to picture the girl from my dreams. I’ve seen her reflection, but the image was fleeting. Flowing wavy ebony hair and honey eyes met me briefly. Pink lips and an oval face with skin like warm toffee. I picture the brown sari I saw looking down with my own eyes as Akasha crawled up onto the old Van-couver pier.

  A thick fog flows over me and my mind’s eye grows dark. A light flickers in the distance, heading towards me, slowly opening up the scene around me.

  I am seated at a writing desk in a finely appointed sitting room. My hands are brown again. The sleeves of my old-fashioned dress are navy-blue cotton with ivory lace trim at the cuffs. I am writing a letter.

  Vancouver, September 10th, 1914

  Laura, my friend, I can only pray that this letter reaches you some day. You may have learned that I stole away with Sanjay to come to Canada. Things went so terribly wrong. I was a stowaway in his trunk, our goal almost achieved. I was moments from being carried to freedom with my true love. God had other plans and I was cast overboard in an argument. I barely survived. The ship’s passengers were detained at the port. Only a few were admitted. I did not see Sanjay among them.

  My misery does not end there. I am being held by a man who said he ran a home for girls. I quickly discovered he is a liar, but it was too late. How could I have been so naive? I should have let myself starve on the street.

  I do not believe I will ever find the money to return home. I’m not sure if I can even afford to post this letter. If he finds this sheet of paper, he will tear it up and I will feel the back of his hand on my cheek.

  If you read these words, do whatever may be in your power to put this letter in Sanjay’s hands. The Komagata Maru left Vancouver on July 23rd of this year. He may already be home as I write. I pray that he will come back to Canada, back to Vancouver. Whatever else you might do, please pray for me, and for my safety.

  Your Loving Friend Always, Akasha

  I fold up the letter and stuff it into a pocket in the skirt of my navy dress. I will not risk leaving home unescorted, but I must hide my letter. I may not get a chance to write unobserved again for a long time. Where to hide it? What spot can I trust to be both safe and secret?

  I walk around the room anxiously. I need a hiding place and quickly. The porcelain flower vase? No, there are a lot of arguments in this house and the vase could get smashed. The underside of the sofa? No, not secure enough. Behind a painting? No, it could be moved or taken away. The fireplace? If I could find a loose brick, it might do until I have an opportunity to put it in the post. Is the grout old enough to crumble?

  I test each outer brick around the fireplace. When I come to the top of mantle, one brick is slightly loose. I grab a letter opener from the writing desk and pry the brick out. I scrape frantically at the grout left behind. I make just enough room for my letter to fit comfortably before I replace the brick. I sweep the grout rubble and dust into the fireplace with the toe of my shoe.

  “Akasha?” says a smooth, deep male voice from behind me. And blackness return
s.

  I open my eyes to find myself still sitting on my plaid bedspread in Arbutus House. No sounds come from the hallway. Only white noise knocks inside my ears. My heart thuds thick beats that prickle with primal fear. I had been Akasha again. I can feel her terror still gripping me. She was so afraid of being discovered.

  I look down at my diary. There is fresh writing on the page, but it doesn’t look like mine. It looks like hers: Akasha’s. The text starts with “Vancouver, September 10, 1914 … Laura, my friend.”

  It worked! I wrote her words again! It’s all in English to someone named Laura. Who is Laura? Does it matter?

  “Girls! Dinner’s ready!” Mariah calls from the kitchen.

  A blond girl pops her head around my doorjamb.

  “Hey, new girl. Stop writing for a minute and come get some food.”

  The blonde is gone again in a beat.

  How can I eat dinner now? How will I get to sleep tonight?

  No matter how I sleep tonight, I have something to do tomorrow. I have a fresh lead. And I now know for sure that I was right about the Komagata Maru. Suck it, Mom! Ha!

  My next goal is to get more information about the house Akasha stayed in. If I’m lucky, it’s still standing — with the original fireplace intact.

  Sleep doesn’t come easily after my outrageously successful writing session. But I finally drift off. I slowly blink awake, but I know I’m dreaming.

  I am sitting in my favorite place in the whole world. The morning sun adds a sprinkling of tiny glass gems to the basin of water lilies in front of me. The square stone tiles on the ground have fresh green grass growing in place of grout. My stone bench has enough room for one other occupant. I am waiting for Sanjay. My heart is full of anticipation and love. A cool breeze kisses my cheek.

  I am supposed to be meditating, practicing to clear my mind of thoughts. I had chosen a plain piece of linen to focus on. But how can I turn away the image of Sanjay’s face or the promise of rugged Canadian forests?