Secrets from Myself

by Christine Hart

  On the other side of the bridge, we turn left into the West End, and minutes later I am handing him a twenty-dollar bill. The charge is just over sixteen dollars, but I keep two dollars for change to be sure I can get home with the cash I have on hand.

  I turn into the alley between Barclay and the retail-heavy street to the north. The heritage home is waiting for me, quietly fenced, shrouded in dark, but for the ambient light from the streetlights half a block away on either side.

  I creep back to the small gap I started between the fence sections hours ago. In the dark, I am brave enough to heave with all my strength and move one of the panels inward. The gap is now large enough for me to squeeze through.

  My butter knife comes out of my back pocket and I wedge it between the edge of the plywood and the windowsill on the side of the house. I pry and feel the knife start to bend. Damn it!

  There is time. Calm down, I tell myself. I move on to one of the thick carpentry nails on the outside of the board. I work my knife under the head of the nail and pry and pry. It squeaks, but starts to move.

  I move on to another nail. And another.

  Now I can pry open the edge of the panel and wedge the handle of my knife between the board and the windowsill.

  The ragged edges of the plywood scrape and cut my hands, but I pull. I alternate between prying with my knife handle and pulling with my bare hands.

  The board gives way and pops off!

  I do a quick scan of the alley and the yard around me. There is not a soul in sight. I put my foot on an old hydro meter on the side of the house. It’s as solid as a rock. I climb up and in through the window, tearing several rips in my jeans on broken glass wedged into the bottom of the window sill.

  I look down at my legs as my eyes adjust to the light. My jeans are ruined for anything except a rock concert. Blood seeps into the frayed white edges of the fresh tears in the fabric.

  The cuts sting, but they don’t look deep. I don’t have time to assess for long. I need to be in and out. I have two stops to make. First, the fireplace to look for Akasha’s letter.

  I look around the room I’m in. It’s a dining room, or was until the furniture was taken away and the fixtures gutted. Bits of trash are everywhere.

  The next room is a kitchen, also gutted. Two giant gaps in the wall with ghostly stains around the edges hint at a fridge in the corner and stove between two cabinet panels.

  So far, the house is unrecognizable as a home, let alone the century-old brothel from my dreams. As I pass through the entryway, something does seem familiar. A wood staircase heading to the second floor. Past that, I find what could have been a living room and a stripped- bare brick fireplace.

  This could have been Calhoun’s living room. Even if it was, the mantel where Akasha hid her letter has been completely torn away. Two weeks ago, two decades ago — it doesn’t matter. If this was the right house, the letter is certainly gone.

  I have a second stop to make. Akasha’s old bedroom, if I can find it. I backtrack to the entryway and creep up the stairs as silently as I can. The upstairs level is small and dark. I move slowly, one step at a time.

  I close my eyes and stand still. I picture the upstairs as it once was. I pause and breathe. Akasha’s room was the first one on the left coming up from the kitchen stairs. That makes it the last one on the right now.

  I open my eyes and feel along the wall. Dirt and leaves and random debris crunch lightly under my feet. I reach a dark opening and turn in passing through the doorway. Ambient light gives the room a faint yellow hue.

  There is absolutely nothing but bits of trash in this room. An old accordion-style closet door is partially open. I peek in the closet. A few piles of discarded plastic bags are clumped randomly.

  I assess the room again. The rough shag carpet is filthy. I can see that even in the dark. The wallpaper is peeling everywhere and on the far wall it’s peeled away enough to reveal layers underneath.

  I peel back the top layer of stripes and find a plain, whitish layer underneath. There is a pattern behind that layer too, so I keep peeling. I reach the bottom layer and my lungs stop working, robbing me of my breath.

  It could be a faint orange or pink; it’s hard to tell. But the interlocking droplets dusted with gold are unmistakable.

  I keep peeling until a huge section of the original wallpaper is visible. I take my knife and saw at the bottom of the bottom layer where it disappears under the crown molding running along the floor. I have to work hard with the blunt blade, but the old paper gives way and I lift it off the wall, peeling until a piece comes off in my hands. I slip it into my back pocket.

  I take one last look around the room. I’ve been in the house long enough. It’s time to go. I go down the back stairwell to the kitchen this time, back to the living room where the open window waits for me. I grab a piece of loose carpet and cover the jagged edges on the window sill. I hop down to the ground.

  A flashlight flickers off in the alley. I wait a few beats and then squeeze back through my opening in the construction fence. I leave the gap and walk back into the alley.

  I round the corner and I’m face to face with a tall, beefy, middle-aged man in a uniform with a SECUR-ITY patch sewn to his arm.

  Chapter 26

  Dr. Werdiger has joined us in Jane’s office. Mom is here as well, standing behind me.

  “Young lady, the only reason we are sitting in my office and not talking to you through the bars of a jail cell is that I was able to convince the developer of that property that you are a mental health patient as well as a minor,” says Jane.

  “But I am a mental health patient and a minor,” I say.

  “You broke the law! This is not like running away or sneaking out to smoke. I got a call from the police in the middle of the night!” says Jane. I sense Mom’s body tensing behind me.

  “I thought it was just a rent-a-cop. And I didn’t smoke. It was Rayanne,” I say. I could add that the real reason we snuck out was to use my Ouija board more effectively, but I don’t have to say the words out loud to know how much worse that would make things now.

  “If that developer had wanted to press charges, you can be certain the police would have been their next call. Katelyn, you have a lot to learn about accountability and responsibility,” says Jane.

  Mom’s continued silence is freaking me out, but I try to put her out of my mind. It’s my counselor and psychiatrist I’m answering to at the moment.

  “And Jane tells me your delusions regarding your past life and communicating with the dead are persisting, along with some kind of trance state which is occur-ring more frequently. Hearing voices, having recurring nightmares, and slipping into non-lucid states are serious symptoms. My recommendation is that we admit you back to BC Children’s Hospital and begin a course of medication to complement your therapy. However, your mother does not wish us to medicate and instead is consenting to your release into her custody, provided that you remain in Vancouver for continued observation and treatment.”

  “Wait, I’m sorry to interrupt, but how am I going to stay in Vancouver if you’re releasing me from Arbutus House? We can’t afford to pay for a hotel for however long you think I still need treatment,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster.

  “You let me worry about what we can afford,” says Mom coolly. “We’re staying with Patty for a few weeks; longer, if needed.”

  “You will continue your treatment with me directly through regularly scheduled appointments until such time as I am ready to transfer you back to your psychiatrist in Nelson,” says Dr. Werdiger. I look back at Mom. She remains silent with her arms crossed.

  “Your job at Visions Vintage is over, as is your time at Arbutus House. After you leave this office, you will return to your bedroom, pack your things, and leave,” says Jane.

  Jane and Dr. Werdiger are both glaring at me. I feel l
ike I’ve been sent to the principal’s office, but no actual punishment is occurring. Although I’ve never been sus-pended, I wonder if this is what the experience is like: getting kicked out of somewhere you didn’t want to be in the first place as extreme punishment for supposedly rotten behavior. I was wrong, though. I’ve never broken into anywhere in my life. I’ll never do it again, but not because of this meeting. I already knew the difference between right and wrong. If they understood that Akasha was real and that she deserved justice — or closure at the very least — this would all look different to them.

  “What were you thinking? Why were you there?” says Dr. Werdiger.

  I turn around and look at Mom again. She nods, suggesting I should tell the truth. I consider the truth, briefly. Dr. Werdiger’s frown changes my mind.

  “It was a dare. A friend dared me to sneak in and stay for ten minutes. We were joking about the house being haunted and she dared me. That’s all it was.”

  “Was one of the other girls in this house with you?” says Jane.

  “No, it was a girl I met through Bryce. We had planned to meet downtown so she could watch me sneak into the house. She was behind me in the yard, waiting outside the construction fence. She must have seen me get caught and went the other way.”

  “What was the other girl’s name?” says Jane.

  “I’m not giving you her name. It’s not fair to get her in trouble when she didn’t really do anything anyway.”

  “Okay, I don’t think there’s much value in hashing this out any further today,” says Mom as she steps forward.

  “Please call my office at your earliest convenience to schedule an appointment for Katelyn,” says Dr. Werdiger. He passes a business card to Mom, who forces a smile and tucks it into her wallet.

  “Katelyn, go pack your things,” says Mom.

  In my bedroom I am alone for the first time since the Barclay house. I carefully extract the wallpaper from my back pocket. I pluck my diary from its hiding spot and open it to the front page. I place the wallpaper piece inside and close the book again before wedging it into the front section of my backpack.

  It takes me less than ten minutes to scour my bedroom and stuff every one of my personal possessions into my bag. I acquired a few outfits from Visions, but not much more. My bag is practically bursting at the seams, but I manage to get the zipper closed.

  I say quick goodbyes to Mariah and Melody, both of whom seem disinterested. Therese and Yolanda are at the community center. Mariah promises to say goodbye for me. Bonds formed in situations like Arbutus House should be strong, reinforced by common ground. That’s not how I feel walking out the door. I will never see these girls again. I won’t try to contact them and they won’t try to find me, online or off.

  I get into Mom’s car with an uneasy sense that I’ve forgotten something, but the feeling fades. I look back as we drive away. The yard is empty. What did I expect? They’d change their tune and be standing outside, smil-ing and waving?

  “So why did you really break into that house? I looked up the address and took a drive past it. Patty told me she took you for a walk in the West End. What were you looking for?” asks Mom.

  “I was looking for some small scrap of evidence that Akasha was real.”

  “And what did you find?”

  I remember my piece of wallpaper. I want to show it to Mom, but that precious piece of paper is for my eyes only. It’s not proof of anything other than that the house is over a hundred years old.

  “Katelyn?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t find anything. The place had been renovated over and over and stripped bare long before I got there. It was a stupid idea. I had another dream about Akasha and I was desperate.” If I explain my ability to channel Akasha in my diary has grown by leaps and bounds, Mom will be furious. I’m going to stick with the term dream from now on.

  “Next time you have a dream about Akasha or find her writing in your diary, just tell me. Talk to me about it.”

  “I will. I’ve already said the break-in was stupid. It’s over and done. I won’t do it again.”

  “Okay, I believe you. How about we grab a couple of burgers? Sound good?”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  After a trip through the drive-thru of the nearest burger joint, we park in front of Patty’s small, rectangular home. Mom calls it a “Vancouver Special” although it doesn’t seem like much of a gem to me. Just plain and overpriced.

  Inside, Patty has already re-made her couch into a bed with fresh sheets and pillows. Mom had been sleeping on the couch, but tonight, Patty wants the couch so she can give Mom and me her bed. Patty insists, but this does not make Mom happy.

  “Tomorrow I’m going to finally sort out the clutter in my spare room. It’s full of boxes and useless junk. I’m embarrassed I hadn’t gotten around to it when Becky first got here,” says Patty.

  “Thank you again, Patty, I can’t tell you enough how grateful we are,” says Mom as she shoots me a back-me-up-kid glare.

  “Yes, thank you, Patty.”

  “We won’t be here very long. I want Katelyn to get the best care possible, but I’m starting to lose patience with the counselor and the doctor involved. We’ve got an appointment with Dr. Werdiger tomorrow. If he doesn’t come up with something useful, I’m taking Katelyn back home. I don’t care if he disagrees,” says Mom.

  “Don’t get mad, Mom, it’s not their fault. It’s nobody’s fault. I’m too weird to fix.”

  “Katelyn, you don’t need to be fixed. And you are both welcome to stay here as long as you like. Everything will sort itself out. You’ll see.” Patty’s confidence shines in stark contrast to Mom’s irritation. I hope something good happens at the hospital tomorrow.

  Chapter 27

  Patty has hauled half her spare room into the back hallway by the time Mom and I are finishing our breakfast cereal.

  “We’re heading off to Children’s Hospital now, Patty,” Mom calls back into the dense tunnel of cardboard boxes.

  Patty’s head pops into the opening she left to get back to the rest of the house.

  “I’d say have fun, but that’s probably not the right thing. How about, good luck?”

  “I’m going to drop Katelyn off at that art class afterwards and putter around Main Street while she’s there. We’ll be home for dinner.”

  “Thanks again for the classes, Patty,” I add. I thanked Patty before, but Mom hadn’t heard me. I need every extra brownie point I can get right now.

  BC Children’s Hospital is quiet this afternoon. Since I don’t have a room for Dr. Werdiger to visit me in, I’m in a waiting room sitting under large letters that spell Pediatric Psychiatry.

  “Katelyn Medena, the doctor is ready to see you now,” says a slim, short girl who doesn’t look much older than me.

  “Hello, Katelyn!” says Dr. Werdiger brightly as we enter the consultation room.

  “Uh, hi,” I say awkwardly. His happiness confuses me. Mom stays silent.

  “I have some great news. I’ve been able to get Katelyn in for a ct scan. It took some doing, but I think we may get some information we can finally act on.”

  “What’s a ct scan?” I ask. I have a feeling I’m not going to like his answer.

  “It’s nothing to be afraid of. Think of a lot of very accurate x-rays being compiled by a computer with state-of-the-art precision.”

  “Why do you want to scan my daughter’s head? What are you looking for?”

  “Mom, isn’t this what you wanted from the beginning?”

  “Katelyn!” Mom looks at me with a mixture of hurt and worry in her mossy eyes.

  “At this point, I’m ready to rule out mental health issues, a bit of bad behavior aside. I’ve reviewed Jane’s notes and I’ve met with Katelyn myself. Becky, I think you might have been right all along in suspecting a physical issu
e here.”

  Mom and I are both looking at Dr. Werdiger with amazement. He’s speaking as though my brain holds a passing curiosity for him.

  “What physical issues are you going to find with a scan?” I can see the anxiety building behind Mom’s wide eyes.

  “I won’t speculate needlessly. As I said, there’s no reason to be afraid. This is just one last point on a check-list so we can all know we’ve been thorough.” Dr. Werdiger has gone into damage control mode, pushing down an invisible barrier to calm Mom.

  “How long do we have to wait? I’m hoping to take Katelyn home to Nelson as soon as possible,” says Mom. She is using her breath to calm herself, I can see it.

  “Wednesday. The day after tomorrow. Normally the wait could be a few weeks to a few months depending on other health variables. But I pushed the urgency, knowing how long you’ve already been away from home.”

  “Thank you, we appreciate that. I think another couple of days will be fine.”

  “Katelyn, do you have any objections?” says Dr. Werdiger.

  “Nope. Scan me. Poke me. Prod me. I’m good, as long as I get to go home afterwards.” I look at Mom and smile to show her I’m not afraid. She smiles back and puts her arm around me. I think she’s supporting herself more than me. I don’t blame her, though.

  Mom takes me to art class as promised. Today’s session is an assignment on positive and negative space. Mr. Macpherson (aka Reese) has dimmed the lights. On the table, he’s placed a plastic ball with holes all over it under a spotlight lamp. We are supposed to represent the light areas with charcoal, leaving the dark shadows blank on the page. We will end up with abstract drawings that don’t look like anything, but I don’t mind. The scene at the center of the room isn’t interesting enough to inspire a project I’d want to keep.

  I draw the light shapes over and over and over. I am bored after the third attempt, so under the cover of dark, I try something for myself. I close my eyes and picture the locket I saw when hypnotically visualizing my treasure.