Secrets from Myself

by Christine Hart

  On my break, I tap my phone and find a text from Bryce. I unlock and read, Is tonight a good night for me to come see you? I totally forgot to ask Mariah about having a visitor during the evening. Assuming he’s allowed in, I’m going to be interesting company tonight.

  Tonight’s great. We eat at 6, so come by around 6:30 if that works. After work I’ll have a couple of hours to corner Mariah and, if necessary, call off Bryce.

  Unexpectedly, Mariah says yes to my having a visitor. She’s even a little happy about it. I have just enough time to help clear the table after dinner when the Arbutus House doorbell rings.

  Bryce is standing on the front step, smiling. I wave to Radhika before she pulls away.

  “Mom’s coming back for me at nine. I hope that’s not too late,” says Bryce.

  “That’s perfect. We don’t have to get to bed until ten.”

  Bryce follows me into the living room. I frown as we find Melody and Therese watching a supermodel com-petition show.

  “There’s a picnic table in the backyard. Let’s go there.”

  It’s a warm summer night in Kitsilano. The mountains are a faint navy wall in the distance under the clear summer sky. Bryce reaches for my hand and I flinch like a hot poker grazed me.

  “Did you, uh, change your mind?” says Bryce, frowning.

  “No, it’s just … I don’t think it’s allowed here.” I look at Yolanda, twisting back and forth in the tire swing. She’s not looking at us, but I don’t know how much she can hear. Or what she’d do with any gossip she learns.

  I look into Bryce’s warm, caramel eyes. He looks worried. Maybe I should tell him about my dream. It wasn’t actually about me, so it won’t sound so horrible.

  “Also, I had a nightmare.” I take a deep breath for courage.

  “Yeah?”

  “I dreamed I was Akasha again.” I wait for Bryce to launch into an objection, but he stays silent.

  “I was wearing a fancy dress — in the home for girls that took her in off the streets. I don’t think I mentioned this before, but in the dreams and diary entries, it’s pretty clear that Akasha was being pressured to become a prostitute. In my nightmare, the owner of the home for girls — it was actually a brothel — got really angry when she tried to run. He attacked her. It got bad. I woke up before the worst of it, I think.” I am careful to tell my story as if I were watching Akasha, not being Akasha, when I talk with Bryce.

  “Oh, my god. That’s terrible. That’s sick.” Wide-eyed alarm flashes across Bryce’s face and I hear the tension in his voice.

  “It was just a dream,” I say. “A nightmare. It’s fading already. You know how some dreams you forget right away, but others stick around for a few hours, sometimes longer? That’s all this is.”

  “Have you told your counselor or your doctor?”

  “I’ll probably tell Jane. Dr. Werdiger hasn’t visited as often as he said he would. Jane said something about ‘certified’ cases taking higher priority than out-patient supervision.” I look over at Yolanda who still appears oblivious to my conversation. I look at the windows along the back of Arbutus House. No faces are watching.

  “Promise me you’ll tell someone. You can always talk to me, but you’ve got professionals right here. Take advantage of that.”

  I wonder what Jane would make of a violent dream. A call to Dr. Werdiger? Medication perhaps? I’m not going to relate anything to anyone if the result will send me down a road of glossy little capsules morning, noon, and night.

  “I’ll tell her next time we meet.” I take Bryce’s hand anyway and force myself to hang on.

  Chapter 22

  “Hi, Patty,” I say, answering my phone Saturday morning.

  “I didn’t want to put this in a text message, because I wanted to hear your tone of voice after my new idea,” says Patty.

  “Can this possibly be good?”

  “I think it’s good. I booked you into an art class. I ran it by Jane; she’s not going to make you use day passes. It’s Tuesdays and Thursdays for the rest of August, starting next week. What do you think?”

  “Art class? Hmmm. Sure, sounds fun.” Every extra moment I spend outside Arbutus House is worth pouncing on.

  “Don’t tell your mom or Jane I suggested this, but …” Patty pauses to take a deep breath.

  “What is it?”

  “I thought you might be able to use the class to draw a portrait of Akasha. The art teacher is going to give you assignments, but you’ll have free time too. I thought it might help you make sense of what you’re going through. It could be cathartic.”

  “Wow, that’s a great idea! I might not do a perfect job, but it couldn’t hurt. Thanks!”

  “I’m glad you’re into it. I’ll pick up the stuff on the supply list. Your mom wants to see you this weekend if you’re not spending all your time with Bryce. Can you come over this afternoon?”

  “Sure, I’ll check with Mariah and text you back. I’ve been allowed to go to Visions Vintage by myself on the bus. Maybe they’ll let me take the bus to come to you.”

  “If not, either your mom or I will come and get you.”

  On the bus home from Patty’s house that evening, her words are still swimming laps in my head. I never considered Patty a part of our family, but I suppose she was, or now is again. I’m going to take her up on her suggestion to draw a portrait of Akasha in art class. I might have more visions or see things more clearly if I could look at her face at will. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? If it weren’t for Patty, my life could easily have crumbled into a mess. It still might.

  As I turn the knob of Arbutus House’s front door. My phone jingles. It’s Bryce!

  Are you free tonight for a visit? Mitchell offered to bring me to see you. He’s in a crazy good mood!

  I can feel the broad grin on my face as I tap the glass on my phone.

  I’d love that! We should get in as many visits as we can before I go. Still don’t know how long I have left in Van. Does 7 work for time?

  Should do. I’m going to be so sad when you’re gone. I’m glad I finally told you how I feel though! It felt great to know you feel the same way.

  My heart wrenches, torn between happiness and self-pity.

  We’ll work something out. I won’t get to come back to the Coast often and you’ll probably never come back to Nelson, but it’s the 21st Century. We can keep in touch :-)

  I almost never use emoticons myself, but I can’t resist.

  You’re right. We’ll find a way to stay connected. See you at 7!

  My housemates are all in the backyard enjoying the mild summer evening when a black Mercedes suv pulls up in front of the house. I squint at the tinted windows, trying to figure out what a vehicle like this is doing in front of Arbutus House. A moment later I get my explanation.

  Professor Mann steps out of the driver’s side and walks around the front of the vehicle. The passenger-side tinted window slides down and Bryce is sitting in the seat. He looks like he’s been crying. I can’t be certain from behind the living-room window, but a sinking knot behind my rib cage tells me I won’t get to ask Bryce how he’s doing.

  Professor Mann marches along the walk and up the stairs to the Arbutus House front door. The bell chimes. Panic floods me from head to toe. Why is he here? Why is Bryce so upset? Should I get Mariah? The bell chimes again. Nobody but me is inside the house. I get up and approach the door. Banging replaces the chime and I jump before I open the door.

  “He-hello,” I say, visibly shaking. Professor Mann’s dark eyes glare at me.

  “I am here to tell you in person that you will have no future contact with my son.” Professor Mann’s neatly trimmed moustache barely moves as he speaks. His accent draws me in while his words push me back. I stand and stare at his furious face. I can think of nothing to say.

  “You will
not text, email, call, or write to Bryce. You will never set foot on our property ever again or I will call the police and have you charged with trespassing.” His words are filled with disgust.

  My mouth is dry as I continue staring, frantically searching for some response as I feel my eyebrows lifting in disbelief.

  “Acknowledge what I’ve said or I will enter this house and speak with the proprietor to ensure that I’m understood.”

  “Yes. I mean, yes, I understand.”

  “Good.”

  “But, why are —”

  “I owe you no explanation, but at your age, if you have to ask, you’re even more of an idiot than I took you for.”

  Professor Mann turns and marches back to his car. Bryce looks at me. I’m shaking as I wave goodbye. Bryce doesn’t wave back and Professor Mann doesn’t turn around before he whips the car door open and tears off down the street.

  “What was that?” says Mariah a few paces behind me. I jump again.

  “My friend’s father. He … I’m not allowed to see Bryce anymore.”

  “Why? What happened? Katelyn, you’re shaking.” Mariah puts her hand on my shoulder and I instinctively flinch away.

  I meet Mariah’s gaze and I see affectionate concern on her face. Sobs smack my face like a bucket of ice water and the tears flow. Embarrassed, I bolt for my room and shut the door.

  I rip my diary out from under my mattress and violently shove pages aside until I reach a blank one. I grab my pen and close my eyes, feeling the tears still forcing their way through my eyelashes. I can’t concentrate; I drop the pen and roughly wipe my face with both hands. It’s no use; I flop on my side and let the waves of emotion crash down on my head. I hug my pillow until it stops.

  My clock reads 8:05 when I’m calm enough to look up. I shove the cuffs of my hoodie into my eyes to dry them as much as possible. I sit up and breathe deeply. The tears are gone. My raw anger has retreated.

  I resume the position sitting cross-legged in front of my diary, eyes closed, pen in hand. I draw air deeply through my nose and slowly exhale through my mouth. I touch the paper with my fingertips and think of Akasha’s face. Nothing else matters. Nothing else is in my moment.

  Scratching begins and continues for a few minutes, not as long as before. I look down to find a new message from my former self.

  Mr. Eddie Calhoun approached me on the street again today. My presence on the streets of Vancouver has not gone unnoticed, or so he reminds me. His concern for my safety is not convincing, but he’s right; I have few choices left. I watched the ship for another day. It has been another day of nothing happening. Chatter on the street is that everyone onboard the Komagata Maru will be turned away. They, we, I, are not wanted. Why had it not occurred to me that coming to Canada might bear a risk of rejection? How could I have been so naïve as to believe that this journey promised my happiness with Sanjay and a bright future for us as a couple and, eventually, as a family? This country is a lie. I have to give up and go with Mr. Calhoun. I’ll be trading my soul for food, but I’m too weak and too scared to do anything else. God forgive me.

  I knew Akasha had been forced by circumstance to go live in a house she knew was probably dangerous. Would I do it differently? The world of today is so different. If I became stranded, I would have options. The stupidity of running from my mom has become abundantly clear.

  I close my diary and look out my window. Professor Mann’s hateful glare flashes before my face. In a heartbeat, I see the dream image of Sanjay’s father, Mr. Hasan, glaring down at me in the temple in India. This has happened before and will happen again. I shud-der and stuff my diary back under my mattress before I climb under my blanket and shut my eyes.

  Chapter 23

  Monday was miserable, filled with moments of pure rage and wrenching sadness. I called in sick to Visions Vintage and wallowed in my room, knowing full well I wasn’t allowed to shut myself in all day. I didn’t care. And I knew better than to text Bryce for answers, but I tried anyway. My phone gave me this reply: The Telus customer you are trying to reach is unavailable.

  Translation: Bryce’s father blocked me and Bryce isn’t allowed to change that. I spent most of Monday pushing away the image of Professor Mann’s callous face, but it kept popping back into my mind. I tried to picture Bryce and all I saw was the image of him crying in the distance. Why? What was so wrong with two kids liking each other? How could it make that man so angry? And more to the point, how dare he speak to a child like that!

  I haven’t said anything more about it to Mariah. And I haven’t said a word to Mom or Patty — I can only imagine what they would say. Mom might go as far as to call or even visit Professor Mann. That wouldn’t go well for anyone. And also, I’m not ready to talk about it without crying.

  I think I’ll start by telling Jane in our next meeting. Hopefully by then I’ll be able to talk without emotion taking over. If not, Jane will probably love seeing me cry.

  Today is better, though: I have my first art class at the Kitsilano Community Center, conveniently located farther south along my regular bus route. The class Patty enrolled me in is called, “Uncovering the Artist Within.” It’s a class for adults, but Patty assured them I’m a longtime art student, like most other kids in Nelson.

  The classroom is brightly lit, like the art room back at my high school. The white walls are a bit yellow with age. The tables are slightly battered from use, arranged in an open square shape. The countertops are chipped and stained. I smile, thinking about how art can leave its own footprints. A bowl of fruit sits on a small pedestal in the middle of the room.

  I take a seat and look around at my classmates: two men and five women, all looking like they’re in their late fifties or early sixties. They’ll think of me as either a cute pet or an arrogant brat. Probably both, based on the varied expressions around the room.

  Our instructor finally arrives. A man in his thirties with shaggy hair, dressed like a surfer. I am intrigued. It wasn’t my money spent on this class, so if he doesn’t know the first thing about art, it won’t be a disaster.

  “Good afternoon, everyone. Welcome to ‘Uncovering the Artist Within.’ I’m Reese Macpherson.” The room is silent, so Mr. Macpherson happily continues.

  “We’re going to dive right in today with a self-guided assignment. I’d like to get a sense of where each of you are at before I finalize our lessons.” I shoot my hand straight up.

  “Yes, miss,” he says.

  “Katelyn. Are you saying we can draw whatever we want to start?”

  “Yes, Katelyn, we’re going to do a basic pencil sketch. Just a plain old number two pencil — nothing fancy yet. You’re welcome to use the still-life fruit, but you can draw whatever you like today,” says Mr. Macpherson.

  “Thanks, Mr. Macpherson.” I will be drawing Akasha immediately.

  “Please call me Reese. My old man is Mr. Macpherson.” Reese’s surfer outfit makes much more sense now. I won-der if these retirees will appreciate his youthful approach.

  Reese hands us each several large sheets of thin pulp-gray sketching paper. I unzip my brand-new pencil case and find a number two pencil.

  Today’s class is one of six sessions. I don’t know if Patty and the instructor and Jane will all co-ordinate to review my participation in assignments (or attendance in class at a bare minimum) so whatever I can sketch of Akasha this afternoon has to count.

  I look at the fruit, and then around at my classmates. Everyone has started to sketch the bowl and its contents. I’ll stand out. Oh well.

  I close my eyes and picture Akasha in her satin dress. Nope! I try again to see her in her brown sari. The image isn’t clear enough. I try again, this time picturing the temple and her colorful pink dress and orange pants.

  I can’t capture the color, but I start with her frame and build onto it. I do a quick rough sketch of her sit-ting in front o
f the lotus pond. I do another of her stand-ing in the upper-floor window. It’s not good enough, though. What I really need to capture is her face.

  My third drawing takes much more time. I start with Akasha’s hair and the gentle heart shape of her face. I work my way through the outlines of her eyes with their generous lashes and her full lips, shaded to capture their dark color. I fill out her eyebrows and tiny metal bell earrings she wore before she left India. The portrait isn’t perfect, but if I want to take it with me without causing a scene, I should finish, fold it up and tuck it into my sketchbook. I do this and quickly fill in the next sheet.

  I draw two faceless figures holding hands. They are Akasha and Sanjay in the temple. They were so happy for such a short time. Bryce’s face pops into my mind and I fight to hold back the tears welling in my eyes.

  “That’s everything we have time for today. Please turn in your sketches. I’ll get us started with chalk and charcoal next time.”

  I hand my sheets to Reese, nervous that he’ll ask what happened to the portrait piece, but he says nothing, smiles at me, and accepts sheets from the round, grandmotherly lady to my right.

  Sesame oil and ginger scents waft through the air as I walk in the front door of Arbutus House. Mariah has surprised us with homemade chicken chow mein for dinner.

  “You’re just in time to set the table, Katelyn,” says Mariah. She doesn’t ask how my class went and I don’t want to open the subject.

  “Dinner smells amazing. I can’t wait to dig in.” I mean it.

  “I hope you like it.” Mariah’s tone is curt. Either she’s angry that I haven’t elaborated on the incident with Professor Mann or she’s hasn’t forgiven me for the incident with Rayanne. Or perhaps her tone has nothing to do with me and Mariah is a complicated woman. I know nothing about her personal life, assuming she has one outside policing wayward teenage girls.

  Yolanda, Therese, and Melody wander in and we sit down to Mariah’s culinary masterpiece.