Dream Where the Losers Go

by Beth Goobie

  “I meant before you were placed here,” said Larry.

  “I wasn’t angry before I was dumped here,” said Skey.

  “Then why did you cut your wrists?” The question came from her mother, broad-siding Skey and wiping out her thoughts. Mrs. Mitchell didn’t usually join in on the attack, leaving the fancy-ass mind control to Larry.

  Skey’s thoughts returned. “I thought I’d beat you to it,” she shot back.

  Her mother gasped. Behind his desk, Larry coughed again, working the animal in his throat. With a hiss, Skey clamped down on the violence that shifted through her, longing to let loose on the two big fakes in this room, the jail-keepers that held the keys to her life. But that wouldn’t help her, wouldn’t get her out of this place. She didn’t want to become another Viv.

  Closing her eyes, Skey gripped the arms of the lime green chair and waited. Darkness settled in around her, and then she heard the boy breathing close by. She let out a long string of swear words.

  “I know what you mean,” said the boy.

  “All I want is a day off,” she said. “From insanity. Theirs.”

  “People are pretty partial to their own insanity,” the boy said calmly.

  “Lock me up and stare at me,” she muttered. “Take digs at me, figure out all my problems. They’re just as bad, but I’m the one who gets locked up and they’re the ones taking notes.”

  “So, take them for a ride,” said the boy. “A tangent.”

  “A tangent going where?” she asked.

  “Anywhere you want,” he said.

  As she thought about this, some of her tension receded. “Yeah,” she said, and opened her eyes. “So,” she said, careful to keep her voice calm. “What were we talking about?” Relaxing her hands, she let go of the chair arms and stretched. Then she smiled at Larry, who had his eyes glued on her, his mind doing flip-flops to keep up.

  “Oh yeah,” said Skey. “Anger. Well, I have a suggestion for something to keep me calm. I want to go out with my friends from school. Friday night, just for a while. You let me out to go to school and I always come back on time, so I think you should let me out in the evening.”

  “I’m not sure you’re ready for that yet,” said Larry. “I’d like to see how school goes for a while first.”

  Skey locked him in a determined stare. “So give me a curfew of nine o’clock.”

  “We wouldn’t consider an independent evening outing like that for several months,” said Larry.

  The violence was back, rearing through Skey like a scream.

  “Your mother and I have been discussing a home visit,” continued Larry. “A Sunday afternoon, perhaps a month from now.”

  Shooting out of her chair, Skey took two steps forward and leaned over his desk. “No!” she screamed, the sound tearing her mind wide open. Then she turned and raced out of the office, down the hall and up the stairs to her room, where she slammed the door and locked herself into the small quiet space. Shaking, she was shaking. Arms tight around herself, Skey paced and whispered, paying no attention to the words that spilled from her mouth—words full of meanings she didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand, couldn’t listen to, wouldn’t hear herself speak.

  Someone knocked on her door. “Skey?” called a voice.

  She paced, watching the gray sky outside her window, calling the gray into herself—the calm, peaceful, full-of-nothing gray.

  “Skey,” said the voice. “I’m going to unlock this door now.”

  “Fuck you,” she muttered.

  With the click of the lock, the bedroom door swung open. Turning away from it, Skey leaned against the window. Gray, gray—the sky was full of calm, peaceful, nothing-nothing gray. She breathed it in slowly, breathed the deep gray nothingness into her lungs.

  “How are you, Skey?” asked the voice.

  Skey turned to face Larry and the staff waiting behind him, lifted her arms and pushed up both sleeves.

  “Okey-dokey,” she said. “No blood, see?”

  Tap tap. Tap tap tap.

  Skey ignored the quiet sounds coming from the wall. Lying in her bed, she watched the elm’s branches lean into the moon, then pull back, lean into it again and pull back, as if rowing deeper into the night.

  Tap tap tap.

  She blinked, her eyes raw from staring so long at one place. Blinked again.

  Tap tap tap tap tap.

  Rolling onto her side, Skey stared at the wall beside her bed. Why did she play this game? It made no sense. She and Ann didn’t talk much during the day. At night they lay on either side of the wall, Ann pining for home on a northern reserve and Skey longing for a life that was a world apart.

  Tap tap? There was definitely a question mark on those taps. A tiny wash of sadness curved Skey’s mouth and she made a soft scratching noise with her fingernail on the wall. Without hesitation, Ann scratched back. Skey felt another wash of sadness. She scratched again. Ann shifted until she found the same place on the other side of the wall, and the two girls continued to scratch gently, sadness flowing from one to the other, almost touching in the dark.

  NOW, WHEN SHE entered the dream tunnel, she could count on finding herself close to the boy.

  “There’s a sound when you come in.” From the angle of his voice, she thought he was standing on the other side of the tunnel. “A hum,” he said. “It goes with the electric tingle.”

  “A nice hum?” she asked.

  “I dunno,” he said. “You could turn out to be a real bitch.”

  He began to move on into the tunnel. The nightie she was wearing had no pockets. Clutching the rock in one hand, she felt her way along the wall with the other.

  “Slow down,” she said. “I’m in bare feet.”

  “What for?” he asked.

  “I was in bed before I came here,” she said.

  “You’re in your pj’s?” Eager interest tinged his voice.

  “Down, boy, down,” she said. Guys in dark dream tunnels were no different from the rest of humanity.

  “Just asking,” he muttered.

  “What are you wearing?” she asked.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said.

  They moved on through the dark, somewhere between here and there, before and after. Nowhere. Safe from the human race. Running her fingers over the wall beside her, she traced its carvings, still curious about the lines and curves, but they didn’t hold her interest as they had previously. The boy, the way he breathed—it felt so close. She traced the pattern of his breathing with her own, matching it, taking it into herself, learning him.

  Out of the silence came a long series of swear words.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said quickly.

  “Why are you swearing?” she asked.

  He stopped. She could almost hear him think.

  “It’s like a code, y’know?” he said. “A secret language of the elite.”

  “Everyone knows swear words,” she said.

  “It’s not the words,” he said. “It’s how you use them. The way the electrical current of them passes through your brain and clarifies your perception of the world around you.”

  Like she had thought, a defense system.

  “It’s the way you make them your own,” he finished. They stood in mutual silence.

  “Can we sit down for a bit?” she asked.

  “Don’t you want to keep moving?” he said.

  “What for?” she asked. “We never get anywhere. We’ll never get out.”

  “Do you want to?” he asked.

  She thought about it. The thought seemed endless, pulling at her mind, stretching it.

  “Why do you come here,” he asked, “if you just want to go back?”

  “I wouldn’t want to be stuck here forever,” she said finally.

  “That’s not the point,” he replied.

  He sat down, and she moved across to sit next to him.

  “What kind of pj’s are you wear
ing?” he asked.

  “Whatever you’re imagining,” she said.

  He laughed softly. “That about sums it up, doesn’t it?”

  “What do you look like?” she asked.

  “I dunno,” he said.

  “Oh, come on,” she said.

  “I’ve never seen myself,” he said. “I’ve always just been here, in the dark.”

  “I could bring in a flashlight and a mirror,” she suggested.

  “No!” The fierceness of his voice flattened her.

  “All right,” she said. “I won’t. I promise.”

  Without thinking, knowing where it would be in the dark, she reached out and touched his hand. For a moment his skin rested under her own, warm and slightly sweaty. Then his hand jerked away, his breath rising into an edgy whine.

  “Don’t touch me,” he shrieked. “Don’t ever fucking touch me.”

  Suddenly he was on his feet, scrambling away from her down the tunnel, trailing a long sequence of swear words.

  “Wait,” she called, trying to follow, but she was in bare feet and had to go slowly. It wasn’t long before his sounds faded and she was left standing alone in the tunnel, one of the endless arteries of a great stone heart.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SKEY CAME GASPING OUT of sleep as the pillow was yanked from under her head and jammed over her face. A weight came down on her chest, pinning her arms, and hands held the pillow tight. No arms to fight with, Skey flopped like a fish, her entire body a desperate arc. The pillow lifted slightly, letting her breathe.

  “This is a message for you, bozo,” Viv said into her ear. “You keep it coming or things’ll get worse.”

  Skey lay motionless as Viv climbed off her, then stood in the doorway, watching night staff move about the unit. There was no sound when the girl left. She was there and then she was gone.

  Pulling the pillow from her face, Skey slid it under the bed. Then she lay in the dark, breathing and breathing deep air.

  SHE WOKE THURSDAY morning still moving in her bed, crying as she listened for any sound of the boy, some clue as to where he had gone. After tracking him along a tunnel, she had come to a meeting place, but there had been no way to tell which tunnel mouth he had chosen to enter. He had probably picked the third, she the fourth. Some near miss like that.

  Outside her window it was still dark, just the beginnings of blue on the horizon. Getting out of bed, Skey opened her door and saw Terry lit up in the office window, removing her jacket. It was just before seven when the morning staff came on shift, the unit still quiet, lights turned low. Drawn by something, the loneliness of the hour or the shadowy cavern the unit had become, Skey stepped out of her dream of dark tunnels into a dream of this morning, its possibility.

  “Terry?” she said, approaching the office doorway.

  Terry focused on her in surprise. “G’morning, Skey. C’mon in and sit down.”

  Skey shook her head. There was something about doorways, standing between places, the darkened unit and the glowing office. “What do you do,” she said softly, “when you’ve lost someone?”

  Terry stood, observing her closely. “Depends,” she said, “on how you lost this person.”

  “I think,” said Skey, hugging herself tightly, “that I didn’t pay enough attention.”

  “To yourself?” asked Terry. “Or the other person?”

  “To fear,” said Skey.

  “Everyone’s got fear,” said Terry.

  “But in the dark,” said Skey, staring at the floor, “fear is quiet. Until you touch. Then it explodes into white fire, and he runs away.”

  They stood silently under the hum of fluorescent lights.

  “Where are you, Skey?” Terry asked finally.

  “I don’t know,” said Skey. “But I know I’m afraid.”

  “That’s something most people never figure out,” Terry said quietly.

  Skey shifted her gaze to the woman’s face. “You always think of something positive to say,” she said. “Even to the losers.”

  “You think you’re a loser?” asked Terry.

  Skey hesitated. “I’m in here, aren’t I?”

  A sound came from her left, and she turned to see the night staff coming down the hall to get her jacket. “Oh my god,” the woman said, smiling. “You up already, Skey?”

  “It’s ten after seven!” exclaimed Terry, starting toward the door. “I’ve got to get these girls moving. I’m working evenings next week, Skey. Why don’t we talk then?”

  “Sure,” said Skey, but the moment was over.

  WHEN JIGGER WAS ANGRY, he sat staring straight ahead, radio on loud and slamming his fingers against the steering wheel. Opening the passenger door, Skey slipped hesitantly into the pounding beat, then sat watching out of the corner of her eye as he leaned against his door and stared at her. His blue eyes were cold, his mouth a thin line. What had she done? Panicky, Skey scrambled with her right hand, feeling for something solid. There, she had hold of the door handle. Gripping it tightly, she ran a fingertip over its metal surface, smoothing out the white waves of fear in her brain. When she glanced at him again, Jigger was still leaned against his door, watching her. Slowly he reached over and turned down the radio.

  “So who’s the guy?” he asked.

  “What guy?” she whispered.

  “You know what guy,” he said.

  It had to be Lick, Skey realized frantically. San must have told Jigger about the incident in English. But why would Jigger care about a guy like Lick?

  “It was nothing,” she said hastily. “He’s a really shy guy. He hits laser red in two seconds.”

  “Sounds like you want him pretty bad,” said Jigger.

  “I don’t want him!” cried Skey.

  “Drawing your panting lips all over his body?” sneered Jigger. “Talk about begging for it. Please, mister, please.”

  Skey lifted an impossibly heavy hand to brush back her hair. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I won’t do it again.”

  “Don’t even talk to the guy,” said Jigger.

  “I won’t,” she whispered.

  “C’mere.” He held out his arms and she slid into them, his scent of tobacco and aftershave, the warmth of his mouth kissing her over and over until she was sure of his change of mood and let herself soften. Then they were together, that force of heat, skin and mouths sliding down onto the seat, touching and touching.

  “I want you,” Jigger moaned. “I want you, Skey.”

  “Did you get the pills?” she asked.

  He fished in his pocket and handed her the package. Slowly she fingered the top flap. It had already been opened.

  Just checking things out, she told herself. Of course he would be curious.

  “We should wait a week for them to kick in,” she said.

  “Shit!” he said into her face.

  “I can’t help it,” she protested. “It’s the way they work. We should wait longer.”

  “We’ll just take our chances,” he said. “Here.” Taking the package, he popped out a pill and slid it into her mouth. “I want to see you swallow the first one.”

  She swallowed and stuck out her tongue. “See? Empty. No babies.”

  “After school,” Jigger said. “We’ll take the long ride home.”

  WHEN SHE WAS SMALL, the screaming that had come from her parents’ bedroom had been animal. Wordless, sharpened to an edge, her mother’s cries had seemed to descend out of the shivering white stars, then had wound their way around Skey’s bedroom and closed in. She was an only child; there had been no one to huddle with. The screams would go on, cutting deep into her dreams, and in the morning everyone would act as if nothing had happened, her father distant behind his newspaper, her mother blank-eyed and unfocused, slipping a few more pills. Before he had left for his day at the city’s largest hospital where he cut into people, rearranging their inner parts, her father had always performed his daily family ritual—one kiss for his daughter and one for his wife, his lips brie
f and cold on their cheeks.

  Later, her father took an apartment near the hospital, closer to his scalpels and chainsaws, and the screaming stopped. Skey gradually forgot the barbed wire sound, the night cries that had wound around her and cut her open. Now the stars stayed quiet and the air felt wider, full of space. Looking around a room she had lived in all her life, she would think, How did it get to be so big? There’s so much room.

  Her mother lost weight, became even vaguer and watched endless TV. The first time Skey called an ambulance for one of her mother’s overdoses was in grade eight. There had been several since. Though they lived separately, her parents had never divorced. When required, her mother still put on her glitter and accompanied her father to social functions. The odd time Mr. Mitchell made one of his rare appearances in the family home, rooms shrank and the three of them wandered the house aimlessly, their brains on automatic pilot, steering clear of minefields.

  Don’t speak. Don’t think. Don’t remember. What was I supposed to remember? It’s gone now.

  HOMEROOM WAS THE usual low hum of voices, the odd wolf laugh. Standing in the doorway, Skey slid her gaze over Lick, glanced away, then back at him again. Wound up like a mechanical toy, he was leaning across the aisle, examining the pornographer’s latest sketch. Both sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, displaying her wide red lips with pride.

  Crossing to the other side of the room, Skey walked up an aisle and sat in the desk Mr. Pettifer had originally assigned her.

  THURSDAY WAS A tutor-free day, so lunch was at Jigger’s Cafe. Leaned against the driver’s door, Jigger was stretched out along the seat while Skey rested her back on his chest, eating the French fries he fed her. Jigger had a way of purring when they were quiet and together like this, a low contented sound that vibrated through them both. He called it idling. To him, it was a car sound. In the backseat, San and Trevor, and Rosie and Balfour had also paired off. Ten minutes ago, they had ordered their lunches from Harvey’s. Now they were listening to tunes and feeding on a side street, while Balfour recounted the latest slasher video he had seen.

  “He stabs her...,” Balfour had to stop to swallow, “over thirty times, in all your favorite places. She doesn’t die until the last stab. It goes slow-mo, it lasts, man. You get to see every one.”