Harbinger

by Sara Etienne

  I’d felt that way my whole life. Like there was an invisible layer under everything that only I could sense. Maybe I wasn’t crazy.

  “It was like I knew every tree and bush and weed growing in that forest. Like I belonged to it.” Maya’s face shone as she told me about the experience. It outshone her too-thin body and her sharp face. Making her beautiful. “No. It was like that place belonged to me.”

  Maya dropped back on her pillow, looking up at the ceiling. Then, her voice small again, she said, “Then the feeling left and I was just me again.”

  She fell quiet, but this time, she squeezed her eyes shut. After a few minutes, her soft snores filled the room. Time to get some answers. And not just for me anymore.

  I reached down and grabbed my boots out from under the bed. The brush pen slipped out and rolled across the linoleum. Grabbing it, I thought of the big suitcase my parents had packed. Kel could’ve picked out any of that other stuff to give me. But he hadn’t.

  He’d brought me my pen. Kel had known exactly what I’d want.

  Tears welled in my eyes as I tied my shoes. I was so tired, and Holbrook had taken so much from me. My sketchbook, my clothes, my freedom. I clutched the pen in my fist and pushed open the window. Parts of me might be missing, but I wasn’t lost.

  I’d find out what was going on in this place. What the drawings were about. And the music. And Maya’s déjà vu. I wasn’t waiting around anymore.

  Leaving my pen on the ledge for safekeeping, I climbed out through the window like I had the first night. From my perch on the ledge, I counted four Takers guarding the dorms. Two of them made constant patrols around the building. Blood sounded in my ears as I counted how long it took them to make their circuit. Eighty-two seconds.

  Unfortunately, that still left two of them in the courtyard at all times, sweeping the dark corners with their flashlights. I racked my brain for usable schemes, but all I could come up with were bad movie stunts. Throwing a rock at the other side of the courtyard? Yelling “Fire”? Tackling one of them from above?

  Then the solution appeared all on its own. A muffled grunt came from the guys’ side of the dorm. The door swung open and Freddy appeared, hauling out a kid in handcuffs.

  “I don’t care what the bastard said to you and it don’t matter, ’cause he’s coming too.” Freddy’s growl drowned out the boy’s pleading.

  A second boy was hauled out right behind them. I didn’t recognize either of them. Suddenly the second boy turned on the Taker and swung, clocking the guard in the jaw. Freddy and the other Takers ran over to help.

  I didn’t waste any more time. I crossed the ledge and went down the ladder. This time, the bottom part slid easily to the ground. The padlock was warped and twisted, like it’d been melted, but I didn’t have time to figure out how. I shoved the bottom section of the ladder back up and hid in the shadow of the building.

  Nurse came out and her sharp voice cut across the chaos. “Let’s see what they do to each other in Solitary. There’s nothing like being locked in the dark together for a little conflict resolution.”

  One of the kids yelled something. I sprinted around the corner and into the woods. As soon as I was a safe distance away, I made myself throw up in the bushes. Getting rid of whatever bit of medicine wasn’t already in my bloodstream. Then I headed down to the Compass Rose to get some answers.

  It was dark under the trees. I knew where I was going now, but they still towered over me, their arms blocking out the night sky. I felt them moving around me, great beings creaking and moaning.

  Crack.

  A twig snapped behind me and I dropped to the ground. I crouched in a layer of pine needles and dirt, watching, listening. The musty scent of decaying leaves and growing things surrounded me. A spider crawled up my leg, tickling me as it ducked under the cuff of my jumpsuit. The low moan of a tanker’s horn quivered through me. Crickets sang of heat and sex.

  I was ready to get up when I heard it again.

  Crack! And then heavy footsteps.

  I tried to stay still. As they got closer, my brain screamed for me to run. I leapt out of the bushes and took off down the hill.

  The person was right behind me, gaining on me, my breath wheezing in time with their steps. I zigzagged through the trees, trying to lose them, knowing I was running out of space between me and the Compass Rose. My pulse shrieked in my ears. Faster! But the trees thinned, and I knew I was out of luck.

  I skidded to a stop and spun around. Ready to face whoever was there. But there was no one. The dark woods were silent except for the thud of my heart.

  They were gone.

  My throat squeezed with fear, but I tried to shake it off. To concentrate on making it into the Compass Rose. Flood lamps created a moat of light around the building. Since there weren’t any guards, I guessed there must be motion sensors or something.

  The huge tree out front grew halfway in and halfway out of the circle of light. And its branches stretched up to the second-floor windows. If I could manage to climb up the shadowed side, I just might make it. Of course, the windows were probably locked, but I’d already come this far.

  I sprinted to the big tree and grabbed a low-hanging limb. Swinging myself up, I monkeyed up the trunk, staying out of the light. Then I felt my way through the branches till I was sitting high in the shadows.

  The smooth bark was warm to the touch, as though blood flowed through its limbs. The tree swayed under me, and I wondered if it would pull its roots from the ground and walk off into the darkness.

  The flood of energy pumped through my hand, filling my mind. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Alert and grounded, I moved along the branch toward the windows. There were three of them within reach, but somehow I knew that the farthest one was the right choice.

  Keeping my eyes fixed on the window, I balanced easily, putting one hand in front of the other. The hinged window was latched, but as I touched it, I could sense the sagging weakness of the old wood. I tugged and the latch pulled free.

  The window swung open and I stepped onto the sill. My other foot pushed off the tree branch and, as I tumbled through the window, exhaustion swept over me. I landed in a heap on the floor, feeling drained and empty. I must not have gotten all the medicine out of my system in time.

  I staggered to my feet, feeling even more overwhelmed as I saw where I was. The room was dully lit by little brass lamps hanging over framed diplomas. I was in Dr. Mordoch’s office.

  Then again, maybe I was lucky. Maybe I could find my sketchbook. Kel said he’d found his guitar pick in here, but he hadn’t said where. There was only her oak desk, the wall of filing cabinets, and the leather chairs for visitors. I didn’t see anywhere she could keep a hundred students’ earthly possessions.

  The shadows and dim lights were disorienting. So I just started opening doors, hoping I’d stumble onto something. The first door, leading out into the hallway, was unlocked, but a skeleton key stuck out of the keyhole. So much for high security. Dr. Mordoch must be pretty cocky about the quality of her knockout pills and Takers.

  Another door led to a tiny closet stocked with office supplies. The third door opened on an enormous coatroom full of suitcases and plastic bins. Bingo.

  There weren’t any windows in here, so I shut the door behind me and turned on the light. Bright yellow tags were stuck to everything. “Martinez, Frederick.” “Johnson, Zach.” Dr. Mordoch might be bogarting everyone’s stuff, but at least she was well organized.

  I quickly found my bag. My mom had obviously been the one who’d packed my suitcase. My nice pair of jeans. Shirts I hated and never wore. A Tinkerbell watch. But no sketchbook.

  I dumped everything out and checked again. Nothing. I looked around for a bin with my name on it.

  Instead, I found Kel’s. I peeked inside his bin, but there wasn’t much. A broken steel guitar string. Two quarters. Ginger Altoids. And a smooth gray rock. He must’ve had this stuff in his pocket when they’d dragged him to Holbrook. I opened the Alto
ids tin and there was just one left. I smiled.

  Like he left it for me. I put the chalky yellow candy in my mouth. It was sharp and sweet, making my eyes water.

  I couldn’t find anything else with my name on it, so I headed back to the main office to keep looking for my sketchbook.

  Rummaging through the desk, I pulled out staplers, a hole puncher, a squeezy penlight with “Zoloft” written on the side, a pocket Tao Te Ching, an address book, and a few loose keys. No sketchbook.

  The filing cabinets were the only other place I could think of. With the help of the penlight, I tried the small keys in the cabinet’s lock. The second one fit and all three drawers popped open, revealing rows and rows of alphabetical files. Dr. Mordoch had pulled my file from the bottom drawer, but I didn’t look there right away. Because halfway back in the top drawer, my eyes caught on the label “Fujita, Nami.”

  I hesitated for a second, then pulled out the manila folder. Her application had been filled out by the Nihonjinron Cooperative, her parents signing off at the bottom. Under “Reason for Application” was a list of Nami’s offenses. She’d been caught sneaking out at night to play shows with her band in the city. She was also accused of smoking pot and sexual promiscuity. Bad, but not that bad. Then, reading the final deadly sin, I understood why she’d been sent to Holbrook. “Disregards cultural values.”

  Her family must live in one of the back-to-your-roots Cooperatives. The war and rationing had done more than divide people economically; it had sent people scurrying back to the safety of their pasts. All kinds of people suddenly realized that they were fundamentalists about something. Anything that could keep “Us” together and “Them” out. There were White Power Cooperatives and Chosen People Cooperatives, and, in Nami’s case, Japanese Nationalist Cooperatives. But evidently, Nami was now, officially, a Them.

  Something about her in-your-face bravado clicked into place. When you get expelled for being different, then “different” is all you have. It made me feel sorry for her in a way I knew that Nami would hate. I wished I could’ve unread her file, so she could just be fearless Nami again. I shut the top two drawers without looking for anyone else’s files.

  In the bottom drawer, the folders were labeled with dates instead of names. The most recent one was this year, and I was surprised that the first thing inside was my confiscated sketchbook. I let myself touch the rough cardboard cover and straighten the spiral binding before I moved on.

  Behind the sketchbook were reports from my past few days at Holbrook. In addition to notes like “Confinement to Meditation Center” and “Peer demonstration at lunch,” there were details about my eating habits (“consumed a sandwich, six Tater Tots, and a glass of orange drink”), my behavior during Free Time (“appears to be assimilating into Family Unit”), and a hundred other tiny moments during the day. And also, the letter from my parents enrolling me at Holbrook.

  There was nothing about anyone else in the file. It was creepy to think I was being watched so closely, but also extremely boring.

  The next folder was also about me and was much more interesting. It held pages and pages of correspondence from the past three years. Letters back and forth between Dr. Mordoch and my parents. Copies of articles from psychiatric magazines about teenage suicide from Dr. Mordoch. A few of my “bone” sketches from my parents. Descriptions of the Holbrook facilities.

  The deeper I went into the drawer, the further back in time I went. When I was in seventh grade, the files changed. It was bizarre. Instead of focusing on me, they were centered on the creation of Holbrook Academy. Brochures for the new school. Legal permits. Zoning for solar panels. The Transfer of Property from the monastery to Dr. Mordoch.

  This document was heavy in legalese, but it set out the conditions specified in Ms. Holbrook’s will. Except for superficial changes, the forest, statues, and buildings were to remain untouched.

  Paper-clipped to the deed was another newspaper article from the local Maine paper. “Economic Hardship Forces Monastery to Sell Holbrook Estate.”

  There was a note scribbled at the bottom. “This will bring Faye back.”

  What?

  The now familiar sensation of heaviness hit me. The medicine was definitely kicking in. And my mind struggled to stay focused. To grasp what I was seeing in front of me. I flipped through the next file. Old report cards of mine from sixth grade. Paperwork for enrollment at the new South Hills Cooperative School in fifth grade. The hospital report from when I’d been pushed down the stairs in fourth. And it kept going. File after file.

  Trying to push away the suspicion that was gnawing at me, I skimmed faster. A school psych evaluation from third grade, noting my difficulty in making friends. A drawing of my hand decorated like a Thanksgiving turkey, the crayon pressed hard into the page. Immunization and doctor records, clearing me of autism, learning disabilities, and a dozen other ailments. The entire drawer was about me. My whole dysfunctional life, neatly color-coded and dated.

  Chills crept down my back and I realized something. I wasn’t like the other kids in the top two drawers, a thin file holding an application and some school records. And I wasn’t just one of Dr. Mordoch’s patients. I was the patient.

  All of this, all of Holbrook, was about me.

  But why?

  My hands shook as I pulled out the final file from ten years ago. The corners of the manila folder were soft and worn, the cardboard stained with an ancient coffee cup ring.

  The file started with a form labeled “Patient Evaluation.” It was dated March 11 and was filled out in my mother’s handwriting: Faye Robson, Age 6, along with a Maine address and Social Security number.

  The bottom section was filled out in Dr. Mordoch’s handwriting.

  Referred by Mr. and Mrs. Robson (parents) for marked personality change and conduct disorder.

  Parent interview: Parents report that Faye, previously a well-adjusted child, has recently undergone a marked personality change. They now find that she is difficult to talk to and avoids eye contact. They describe the child as “disobedient” and “sullen,” often keeping to her room for long periods and refusing to come out. She frequently succumbs to night terrors, screaming and flailing, from which her parents find it almost impossible to wake her. The child also refers to a “lady” who comes and speaks to her, and Faye’s parents assume this is a new imaginary friend. Faye’s aberrant behavior has been ongoing for several months, and is becoming more severe. The parents are able to pinpoint the specific day of the personality shift, December 8, after the family took an evening walk down to the beach. They have no hypothesis about what triggered the change and insist that they were with Faye the entire time. Despite their protests, it is obvious that the child suffered a trauma, and I have agreed to take her on as a patient.

  Paper-clipped to it was a neatly typed transcript labeled “Interview with Faye Robson.” I read it eagerly.

  “Faye, I’m Dr. Mordoch, a friend of your parents. Would you like a cookie?”

  (Patient doesn’t answer.)

  “I want to talk to you for a little bit. Can I come play next to you?”

  (Patient shrugs.)

  “Your parents tell me you like to play in your room. What do you like to play?”

  “I color.”

  “Would you like to color now?”

  (Patient nods.) “I like the red crayons.”

  “I like red too. It’s very bright. What else do you do in your room?”

  (Patient shrugs.) “Sometimes she tells me stories.”

  “Your mom?”

  “No.”

  “Who tells you stories, Faye?”

  “The lady from the beach.”

  “Tell me about the lady, Faye.”

  (Patient shakes head.)

  “Can you tell me what she looks like?”

  (Patient shakes head again, visibly agitated.)

  “It’s okay, you don’t have to. We can just sit here and color instead.”

  (Patient breaks
the crayon and stomps it into the carpet.)

  A dotted line signaled the end of the session. It was weird reading words I must’ve said but didn’t remember. I didn’t even know who I’d been talking about. I tried to remember the sessions, the room, the beach, anything. But my mind was blank.

  I moved on to the next interview and the next. After the first session, Dr. Mordoch varied her questions. How was I feeling? Had I had any more bad dreams? But they all ended up in the same place—with Dr. Mordoch asking about the woman and me refusing to answer.

  Sometimes there were pictures I’d drawn too, normal little-kid stuff with houses and cats. Sometimes the transcripts had scrawled notes along the bottom. “Is this woman a manifestation or the perpetrator of Faye’s trauma?”

  The last transcript in the file was from June 2. It was labeled differently. “Hypnotism and Overnight Observation of Faye Robson, Age 6. 2 mg of diazepam administered to patient for anxiety.”

  “I want you to just relax, Faye. Are you comfortable?”

  (Patient wriggles around in the chair for a moment, then nods.)

  “Good. Now I want you to look at this light. I know it’s bright, but I want you to keep looking at it. Now take a deep breath and let it out.”

  (Patient inhales and exhales.)

  “Good. Keep looking at the light, and take another big breath and let it out. Let your muscles relax and go limp. You are comfortable and safe.”