Secrets from Myself

by Christine Hart

  After serving our simple breakfast of dal and naan, I ate my own portion and cleaned basin after basin of dishes. After my meditation time is over, I will scrub the floor in the main hall. I should want nothing more than to serve at the temple. I am a failure as a devotee.

  Guru Nanak, please send me enough strength to say no if Sanjay asks me to go to Canada with him. I will work hard on meditating properly. I will come here, stare at the lilies, and devote myself only to God. But first, I must have the strength to listen to my head and not my heart.

  “Akasha,” whispers a voice in my ear. Sanjay is so quiet that I almost believe the word is still a mere thought.

  I open my eyes and his square jaw and chiseled facial features clash with his giddy smile. Sanjay stands tall and confident before me, his bright eyes full of excitement.

  “I hoped you would not come today.” I avert my eyes to the ground.

  “Why not? Do you not love me?” Sanjay’s voice has a hint of panic.

  “I will not lie. I love you still.” I take a deep breath to muster my courage. “But you must leave here and never return.”

  “Nonsense. You must come with me.” Sanjay kneels on the ground in front of me.

  “Your father would have me burned.”

  “Father will never know. We leave for Canada next week. Agree to be my wife and I will smuggle you out in one of my trunks. I have spoken with a man who has done such a thing and he told me what to do.” Sanjay is looking at me intently and I risk making eye contact. He is so persuasive. I sit up straight to strengthen my resolve.

  “So what if we make it to Canada? Your father will never allow you to break your engagement. He will stand at your side until you are married. Now that you have told him you want a love match instead, he will be all the more determined to see you married as he wishes.”

  “If my mother still lived, she would soften his heart. Father has lost his compassion and his humility. He has become obsessed with the singular notion that our family must become Canadian.” Sanjay takes my hands in his.

  “Suppose your plan works and we make it into Canada and run away from your father. How will we live? We will not be citizens. We will have no money and nowhere to go.” I can feel fear quickening my pulse as I look around the garden for witnesses.

  “You are wrong again.” Sanjay grins. “I have written to my friend Pameer asking for help. He lives in Vancouver and can shelter us. His answer finally arrived!” Sanjay removes a folded piece of paper from his pocket and holds it out like a medal.

  I look up again to meet Sanjay’s gaze. His energy is contagious. I allow the picture of our Canadian home back into my mind. My heart has won the battle.

  “All right, Sanjay. I will try. I will go with you and pray for our success.”

  Sanjay squeezes my hands.

  “You will not be sorry, my love. We have a long and difficult path ahead, but all will be worth it when we marry.”

  The sound of footfalls on the stone path behind me startles both of us and Sanjay drops my hands.

  “Good day, Miss,” says Sanjay as he nods in farewell.

  My heart surges with a mix of anxiety and happiness as he leaves.

  The footfalls behind me grow louder and closer. I close my eyes to discourage the passerby from engaging me in conversation.

  “Akasha,” says a stern deep voice. I open my eyes again to see Sanjay’s father standing before me, taller than Sanjay with a full beard and skin weathered by time. His dark eyes bear me no affection, only rage.

  “I heard Sanjay’s voice here a moment ago. I take it you have not discouraged him as you should have done.”

  “Sir, I have told him to go and do as you instruct.” Fear grips my chest as Mr. Hasan glares at me.

  “You are a liar. Shiva will punish you accordingly. We are a Hindu family and my son will wed a Hindu bride, not a Sikh. Your attempt to ingratiate yourself to my household by adding Hindi to your linguistic skills was pointless. Do not worsen your fate by tempting my son any further. We are leaving for Canada in one week. If you cause him to disobey me, if you so much as write him a letter once we have gone, you will find me to be a ruthless enemy. My brothers will come to this place, take you, and sell you to a whorehouse in Agra. A year after that, they will come for you again and burn you in the street, you filthy orphan!” Mr. Hasan’s eyes blaze with hatred.

  “I have not and will not convince Sanjay to do anything he does not wish to.” I am angry and terrified. Tears well in my eyes and sobs tug at my throat.

  “I have nothing more to say to you.” I open my mouth to defend myself again, but Mr. Hasan is already walking away.

  I hold my breath until his footfalls are gone again. And then I press my hands up to my face to contain the weeping. I rock back and forth on the bench until I regain control.

  I wake up in a strange, dark room, terror pounding the air out of my lungs. I look over at the alarm clock. It is five-twenty in the morning. I am in Arbutus House. I am Katelyn.

  Chapter 7

  There are three other girls here at Arbutus House. All are older than me and have been here for quite a while. They are: Yolanda, a fellow runaway; Therese, a former underage prostitute; and Melody, a schizophrenic who just got out of the hospital and is here trying to adjust to the outside world again. Melody is the only girl who gets a room to herself, apart from my temporary good luck.

  My roommates are all normal-looking girls. Melody is tall with an auburn braid. Therese has creamy white skin and very pale platinum hair with brown roots. Yolanda is fairly heavy set with a freckled face that makes her look happy in spite of whatever compelled her to run away from home.

  They are all pleasant and bright enough, although none feels like a friend yet. You would never know that my housemates were confined for mental health treatment. It has been an uneventful week.

  I had to wait these seven days before Mariah and Jane would let me have a visitor. I’ve been texting back and forth with Bryce, but on Jane’s advice, I invited Mom to be my first guest. I’m waiting for her in the living room, looking out the window for her green sedan. Checking the mirror on the far wall, my jean shorts and t-shirt look like any other summer outfit. My long wavy hair is clean and brushed. Nervous energy darts between my wide eyes and my lips are pressed into a firm line. Mariah sent the other girls to the community center so I’ll have privacy to talk with Mom. I’m eager to tell her all about my talks with Jane.

  I’ve made progress. I’ve discovered that I have feelings of resentment about my father leaving Mom and me and having no presence in my life after I was six months old. I know that Akasha’s writing is really my own, distorted in an attempt to draw attention from authority figures apart from my mom. My dreams are a manifestation of a desire to be special, intensified by my fascination with both India and Edwardian culture. I stopped short of confessing to smoking pot; I will not be able to pro-duce a credible account in the event anyone who actually has smoked it hears me. Where did Mom get the idea someone would give a twelve-year-old girl a joint? I mean, even in Nelson, that’s a bit much.

  So, I have carefully crafted my cover story. Jane believes me. If I can convince Mom too, and get her to sign a form, I may receive precious day-pass privileges. As a minor, I will require an escort, but I can be excused from Arbutus House for outings of my own choosing. I’ve got my fingers crossed Bryce’s big brother Mitchell will be up for it. Otherwise I’ll be stuck with Mom and my old nanny. Until now, I have only left the house for brief group outings to coffee shops and parks.

  Mom’s green sedan finally rolls into view and comes to a stop alongside the sidewalk. She isn’t alone. A head of pixie-short, straw-blond hair sits in the passenger side next to Mom’s ruddy curls and black leather jacket. Patricia, or to me, Nanny Patty, has come along. Mom mentioned that she had moved from her motel onto Patty’s couch, so it’s no shock to
see them together. She’s one of few people Mom knows in Vancouver.

  “Hey, Mariah. My mom is here, but she brought a friend. Is it okay for both of them to be here?” I call back towards the kitchen. Mariah emerges, wiping her hands on a tea towel. Her long black hair is swept up into a messy bun on her head. She is wearing an apron that really doesn’t work with her stocky frame.

  “Do you know the other person?” asks Mariah.

  “It’s my old nanny. Well, she’s not old, it was just a long time ago that she was my nanny,” I say. I can hear the nerves in my voice.

  “That’s fine; I’m sure it’s not a problem. But until you get a chance to talk it over with Jane, keep the conversation light. If it gets too emotional, you’ll have to ask your nanny to wait in the car,” says Mariah. She has a worried look on her face.

  A knock on the door interrupts us and I give a small jump. Where is this anxiety coming from? Maybe I really do have a screw loose if I can’t keep cool around Mom. Mariah gestures and I open the door.

  “Good morning, sweetie!” says Mom, beaming. Patty stands behind her, wearing a small smile and the weathered denim jacket from my childhood. She is not as tall as I remember her, but still lean and strong.

  “Hi, Mom. Hi, Nanny Patty.” I’m looking at Patty as I hug my mom.

  “Hi, Katelyn, it’s good to see you. You don’t have to add the ‘nanny’ part anymore,” says Patty. She smiles, showing off the lines in her cheeks framing uneven teeth and a pointed chin.

  “Well, then, you can call me Kat. Mom does. I can’t believe you’ve still got that jacket. You look exactly how I remember you.”

  “Wow, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Aren’t you going to invite your guests in?” says Mariah from behind me.

  “Yes, please come in.” I step aside and sweep my arm inward as a welcome.

  Mom and Patty step inside and put their shoes on the plastic mat. They follow me to Arbutus House’s simple living room. A pastoral painting hangs over the single couch facing the bay window. Patty sits in an armchair while Mom and I take opposite ends of the couch.

  “How have you been? Is everything going all right? Are you making progress?” says Mom.

  “I’m not supposed to talk much about therapy, but it’s going well. Lots of progress. Jane can’t be here today, but she’s going to call you later and give you an update.”

  “Well, what would you like to talk about?” Mom wrings her hands, looking around as though she might be on camera. She fluffs the wavy layers of her hair and pulls out a tube of gloss to refresh the thin red sheen on her lips.

  “Tell me what you’ve been up to this week. It’s been pretty quiet for me here.”

  “I’ve been staying with Patty. Just taking it easy, trying not to spend too much money. The shopping here is amazing!” says Mom.

  “Your mom has been exploring the Mount Pleasant neighborhood while I’m at work,” says Patty. Her voice sounds scratchy, as though overused for a long time.

  “I heard you became a social worker. What’s that like?” I’m genuinely curious and I’d love to talk about something that has nothing to do with my situation.

  “Kat, she doesn’t want to talk about that. Not here and now,” says Mom. She looks around again.

  “My work would probably bring you down. You don’t need that right now,” says Patty.

  “Let’s make a plan for an outing. What would you like to do, Kat? When they say you can go out, that is,” says Mom.

  “I don’t know. You have to sign a form so I can get passes to leave the house without a staff member. But after that, we could do anything. I still haven’t seen much of Vancouver, so I don’t know what I’d be into around here.”

  “Think about it and do some research. I’ll talk with Jane and I’m sure we can arrange for a nice afternoon together,” says Mom. She sounds irritated. It’s the telltale sign that she’s losing patience with something I’ve done. The upside of being at Arbutus House is that I won’t get a talking-to from Mom at the end of the day. I’m sure she’s got lots of talking points saved for the drive back to Nelson.

  “I’ll put some thought into it too. I think it should be just the two of you, but I’d be happy to make some suggestions,” says Patty.

  “All right, then. We won’t keep you much longer. I know we’re not supposed to be here all afternoon,” says Mom as she stands up. She looks uncomfortable. I can’t tell if Arbutus House is making her nervous or if it’s because of all her stored-up anger at me.

  “Text me when you’ve talked to Jane,” I say as Mom gives me a short squeeze. We exchange cheek kisses. Patty gives me a quick hug. Mom gives me a lingering smile. “I’m sorry if I seem a bit weird, sweetie. It’s just that I didn’t think we’d be … here.” Mom gestures at the walls. “I mean, in Vancouver longer than a second opinion. It’s okay, though.”

  Minutes later, I am back at the living room window waving goodbye. I had expected our visit to be longer. Mom’s frustration at being stuck in Vancouver has caught me off guard. I feel like something bad has hap-pened that I can’t quite remember — like I’m waking from a nightmare that has already started to fade. A flash of anger pulses through me. How dare you? It’s okay? It’s your fault we’re stuck here, Mom! Then again, it was me who ran from her in Surrey. Compartmentalization. I need to keep my cool at Arbutus House. I can always hash it out with Mom on the drive home.

  I return to my room to read. Our television hours are strictly rationed and the only tv in the house is in the living room, as well as the shared computer. I will be delighted when I receive computer time, although supervised, hopefully along with my day passes. I read with the door open, not just for personal preference; I’m making a statement to Mariah that I have nothing to hide.

  An unexpected knock startles me. I look up from my book to see Mariah standing in the doorway with a wiry, greasy girl with blotchy skin who looks to be a couple of years older than me.

  “Katelyn, I’d like you to meet your new roommate. This is Rayanne,” says Mariah. The girl stares at the floor, and then looks past me out the window to the backyard.

  “Uh, hi, Rayanne,” I say. I am filled with dread. Part of me hoped the other bed would stay crisp, clean, and unoccupied. I have never shared a room with a stranger before. The experience will not be made more bearable by a girl who looks ready to scratch her own arms off.

  “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” says Mariah.

  “So … what are you in for?” I’m joking, but the unease in my voice is hard to hide.

  Rayanne whips her head towards me and spits her response. “It’s not funny, my being here.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t think it was. I’m just making conversation.” My arms are raised in surrender.

  “I’m drying out. Meth. It was this or stay in the hospital.” Rayanne sets her bag down on the empty bed. She remains standing, awkward and angry.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I’m crazy. Dissocia-tive Identity Disorder, among other things. And I’m a runaway. My mom thinks that’s the worst thing a kid can do.” I try to sound nonchalant as I carefully scrape to the side of my mind my curiosity about whether Rayanne should be in a drug-specific home for youth.

  “Nothing’s worse than withdrawal!” Rayanne glares at me. I take a moment to evaluate her eyes. Raw hunger for something I’ve never tasted is consuming the girl.

  “I wish there was something I could do for you.”

  “You can’t help me. Nobody can help me.”

  “We could try to get along. While we’re stuck together, at least.”

  “I won’t be good company for a few days, maybe longer. Sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

  “Can’t they give you something for the symptoms?”

  “They already have. It doesn’t work.”

  “If you smoke,
cigarettes, I mean, I think you have to leave the property. Unless you’re nineteen. You’re not nineteen, are you?”

  “No, but they’re going to let me smoke. I don’t care.”

  “Why don’t I give you some time in here by yourself? You can put your stuff away, get changed, and settle in.”

  “You’re not afraid I’ll steal your stuff?” A hint of a smile crosses Rayanne’s face. It’s gone again in a moment.

  “Unless you want some old clothes and some crappy makeup, there’s nothing to steal.” My mind’s eye flashes to my diary in the nightstand. I’ll need to move it under my mattress when Rayanne’s asleep tonight. As obvious as under my mattress is, it’s at least slightly more secure than my nightstand drawer. I want anyone who goes after my diary to have the dirty feeling of digging it out from under my mattress before they get access to my secrets. I pause for a long moment, torn as to whether I should rescue my diary immediately — revealing both its existence and hiding spot — or risk leaving it alone with Rayanne. I turn and walk out empty-handed, giving Rayanne a forced smile as I leave.

  Chapter 8

  The other girls are still gone and the living room is too quiet. I am not allowed to turn on the television, which seems to be an unfair rule in a house I am also not allowed to leave alone. I want my day passes, so I obey all the rules.

  I would look for company in the kitchen, where Mariah is still baking, but I know she will put me to work. So I go out to the backyard rather than getting roped into the next batch of whatever she’s making.

  I sit on the tire swing and nudge the ground with my toe to start a soothing sway. My brown canvas shoes are covered in faded pen-ink doodles, childish enough to be embarrassing while comfortable enough to still be my favorite shoes. I feel like someone is watching me. I am careful to keep my eyes on the garden at the back of the property so I don’t accidentally make eye contact with anyone who pops back into the house.