Secrets from Myself Read online

  “This is awesome. It’s just like a restaurant,” I say after my first few bites.

  “You don’t need to suck up anymore. They gave you a job and now you get art lessons,” says Melody bitterly. I open my mouth, but no words come.

  “You couldn’t pay me to sit through an art class,” says Therese.

  “We know what they can pay you for,” says Yolanda.

  “Shut up,” says Therese.

  “She’s not wrong,” says Melody.

  “GIRLS!” Mariah barks so loudly that I jump in my seat. She has gone from bothered to outraged.

  “We will finish this meal in silence. The next girl who talks loses a day pass. Therese, it’s your turn to wash dishes. The rest of you, go to your rooms after dinner. There will be no television tonight,” says Mariah.

  “What? That’s not fair,” says Therese.

  “One day pass gone, who else wants to lose one?” says Mariah.

  We all sit silently staring at our plates.

  The meal has lost its zest for me, but I finish my plate and take it to the counter. I perk up inside as it occurs to me that our confinement tonight will work out for the best. I have a portrait to work on. Now that I know I won’t be interrupted, I’ll be able to work comfortably and truly concentrate.

  I retreat to my room and get out my sketchbook. Akasha is waiting for me, hidden inside the folds of economy pulp paper.

  Her face is beautiful; I’m not admiring my handiwork so much as feeling like I’m finally looking at her in the light of day. I captured more detail than I’d remembered. I don’t know if I need to work on her any more tonight.

  I touch the corner of her eye. I have captured her happy. I like thinking of her this way. A sudden sleepi-ness comes over me. My eyelids are heavy, so heavy. Can’t … keep … them …

  I am standing on a dirt street in an old Western town. Someone grabs my arm and I look at his face. Mr. Calhoun!

  “Take a good look now, little lotus. Your boy and his old man are here, sure enough,” says Mr. Calhoun.

  I focus on the shop window across the street where Mr. Calhoun is pointing. I can make out two figures moving inside. They are Indian men. The younger one walks out the front door with a sack of flour in his arms. The boy is Sanjay! He adds the sack of flour to a pyramid he is building in front of the shop window. I have never felt such a rush of happiness. The rush dies quickly.

  “This is a miracle! Let me go to them. I would be a burden to you no longer.” I have no confidence in my words. Desperation grips my heart.

  “A burden? You are an investment, little lotus. And you will pay off if I have to sell your hair to the wig maker.”

  “Sir, please. If I could only speak with them.”

  “Know that you will never speak with either of them again. They would not speak to you, regardless. You are ruined to the people in their world. Here in Canada, they have no voice, no standing. Still, you are below them, below every other person on this street. There is no help for you and no future, there is only what I can provide.” Mr Calhoun is both smug and deeply angry.

  “I have nothing to offer you. I have nothing left to offer anyone. You’ve already taken everything from me. Throw me in the ocean and be done with it.” I am completely serious; I want my life to end.

  “I will decide what you have to offer. You have many years of value left in you. Your bud may have opened, but you will bloom for a long time to come.” Mr. Calhoun grins maliciously and I feel nauseous.

  “I will never consent. You might feel free to take what you want, but your clients will not be pleased.”

  “Stupid girl. Don’t you know how many men will pay, not only for the exotic feel of your skin, but for your fiery resistance? Fight. Keep fighting, but learn your place.”

  I feel tears flowing down my cheeks. I cannot stop the sobs from rolling up through my stomach and outward. I clamp my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound.

  I look around the street; we are out in public. If I cry out, will someone help me? I meet the eyes of a middle-aged man in a brown suit. He sees me crying, frowns, and looks away.

  “Help me!” I sob at a woman in a pink dress with white flowers. She too frowns and hurries off.

  “Enough of that, little lotus.” Mr. Calhoun’s grip on my arm tightens. I pull away, but his hand clamps on, harder, strong as steel.

  Mr. Calhoun flags down a carriage and it stops between us and the shop where my beloved Sanjay is still stacking bags of flour.

  I am forced inside the carriage and I seize my moment. I lunge for the opposite door, pry it open and leap out.

  No sooner am I back on the street than Mr. Calhoun’s fist collides with my nose. The pain sears my entire face and I fall to the ground. Blood gushes onto my hands and I am hauled to my feet. Mr. Calhoun forces me back in the carriage and I collapse.

  The carpet of my bedroom floor is like steel wool on my face. I can still feel the impact of Mr. Calhoun’s fist. I lift my head and force myself upward with the palms of my hands. I am groggy and disoriented. This is Arbutus House. I’m Katelyn. I’m safe in Vancouver, I tell myself.

  The taste of blood still fills my mouth. I run my tongue over my teeth and flex my lips. There is nothing in my mouth but saliva. I rub my face with my hands and stand up.

  The picture of Akasha is resting alone on my bedspread, which has a puckered impression where I was sitting.

  I sit back on my bed and try to take stock. I pull out my diary and start to write.

  Akasha, I am failing you. I’m failing us. What happened in your past — our past — is a darker tragedy than I ever imagined, but I’m no closer to helping you than I was the first day I arrived in Vancouver.

  I don’t know what to do! Is there anything I can do? Are you just trying to show me how horrible my last life was so I’ll appreciate this one more? That’s where things are right now. I have no moves left. There’s no way I’ll find your letter or your locket. I can remember you and mourn you. That’s it.

  Chapter 24

  Wednesday morning feels like I am made of molas-ses. Every movement is a struggle. I have to fight to find strength, to get out of bed instead of melting into a puddle. I call Noémi and tell her I am not coming in to work, again. I badly want to see Mom. It’s time to go home to Nelson. I’m ready. If I can talk her into it, she can get me released, I’m sure of it.

  Mom picks me up after breakfast. She could tell over the phone that I was upset, but I refused to tell her what’s been bothering me. Not when curious ears are everywhere.

  “All right, now tell me what’s been going on,” says Mom as she pulls away from the curb in front of Arbutus House.

  “I didn’t want to tell you on the phone because I think I’m going to start crying again.”

  “Okay, that’s settles it. Whatever this is, you’re telling me now.” Mom ventures a quick glance at me, taking her eyes off West Fourth Avenue for a moment.

  “I’m not allowed to see Bryce anymore.” The shaking in my voice is back accompanied by an involuntary lip quiver. “Ever again. Professor Mann came to Arbutus to tell me in person. He hates me.” Sobbing takes over and I can’t get anything more out for a minute or two. Each time I take a breath to say something, sadness shuts my throat again.

  “Take your time, sweetie. We don’t even have to go to a coffee shop. We can just talk here.” Mom has pulled off West Fourth onto a side street and parked.

  Summer breeze drifts in the open window next to me. A pair of older teenage girls walks past. They look at my puffy red face and turn back to each other whispering. Yes, poor me. They’re wondering what happened. So am I.

  “I think Bryce’s father must have found some text messages between me and Bryce. It was harmless. One night at his house, he told me he has a crush on me. I told him I felt the same way. Then we texted about it. That’
s all that happened. I don’t know why that would make Professor Mann so angry, but he came over and told me that if I ever contacted Bryce I’d be in trouble or if I ever set foot on his property he’d call the cops. He was so angry. He looked at me like I’d done something horrible.”

  Mom sat there in silence for a moment.

  “Does Radhika know about this?”

  “I don’t know. I tried texting Bryce the next day and I got a message that he was unavailable. It’s the message they give you when someone has blocked your number. Professor Mann must have done it.”

  “I’m sure she knows. Bryce will be upset. Professor Mann probably yelled at him in front of the whole family.”

  “Please don’t talk to him. Please just leave this alone. We should just go home now.”

  “I won’t contact Bryce’s parents if you don’t want me to. But I think Professor Mann owes you an apology. If he doesn’t want you and Bryce to be friends, he’s entitled to his feelings. Given that you’re going to return to Nelson soon one way or the other, I’m surprised he bothered to say anything, let alone to confront you like that.”

  “He probably enjoyed it! He hates me, I told you!”

  “No grown man hates a child he barely knows.”

  “He’s not your average man.”

  “If you really feel like Arbutus House has nothing left to offer you, I’ll see how quickly we can speed up your release. Jane has already recommended sending you home.”

  “I know. Let’s just do that. Really, Mom, that’s the best choice right now.”

  “Well, do you still want a hot chocolate or a steamed milk? We could do a little shopping too. Won’t it do you good to walk around and enjoy the city?” Mom’s speak-ing in the high voice she always uses when she’s trying to sell me on something I don’t want.

  I look up to the cosmetic mirror in the passenger side visor above my head. My eyes are red and puffy. Red lines streak my cheeks. This will take hours to wear off.

  “I look like a mess. I’ll just be self-conscious everywhere we go.”

  “I could drive around a bit more. Why don’t we meander around ubc? Who knows, you might want to go to school there one day.”

  “Driving, sure. School, don’t even scare me with stuff like that right now.”

  The drive was relaxing, but I feel thoroughly gutted when I get back to my room at Arbutus House. It’s the kind of exhaustion that only comes from a long crying session. I have a few hours until dinner, so I lie down on my bed on top of the covers and close my eyes. But sleep won’t come. I open my eyes and reposition. My stupid brain is replaying both my afternoon with Mom and the horrible lecture from Professor Mann.

  If sleep won’t happen, maybe I can squeeze a little more out of Akasha. At this point, it’s a desperate move, like looking on the same shelf over and over again as you pace back and forth trying to find lost keys.

  My diary is still under my mattress. I pull it out and flip through the book full of pages that now crinkle with age and abuse until I find the last few crisp and flat empty pages. I’ve become efficient at tapping Akasha’s memories. It takes only a few calming breaths before I hear my pen scratching once more.

  Illness is certainly upon me now, but exactly what it is, I know not. I have been coughing for several days now, with my chest heavy and sore. I have woken at night many times, chilled to the bone or burning with fever and covered in sweat. I hope this is a passing trouble I can keep to myself and rest through. As I still refuse the work foisted upon the other girls in this house, I am left to do cooking, cleaning, laundry, and every other chore Mr. Calhoun can think of for me. I am biding my time looking for my opportunity to escape. I expect he thinks he’ll wear me down by giving me too many chores. I have more resolve than he could ever understand. I will watch, listen, and wait. A viable option will present itself, and when it does, I will be ready to act.

  Every time I learn something new about Akasha, I feel more empathy for her, but I’m still no closer to helping her in any way. I’m proud of her for standing her ground. I hope I never have to read a confession to giving in and selling her body. Either way, each new piece of her tragic puzzle makes me wonder how much is still miss-ing. I do know one thing; I can’t leave this city without something to help her rest in peace.

  Chapter 25

  After my Thursday shift at Visions Vintage, I take a detour on my way back to Arbutus House. I have one last lead I can make a desperate attempt to explore.

  I don’t know the first thing about breaking into a house, but in the movies, they always “case the place,” and that’s what I’m doing to Mr. Calhoun’s heritage home in the West End.

  The transit website tells me there is no direct bus between Barclay Street and the corner of Davie and Bute where I work. But I don’t mind the walk.

  Akasha’s news has been playing like a broken record in my mind all day. My customer service was probably lackluster at best. Noémi’s approval of my performance places a distant second on my list of priorities today.

  I think more about why and how Calhoun killed Akasha. At first, I thought it would have been him losing patience with her resistance to working for him — or he caught her trying to escape and lost his temper. Now it seems possible she became too much of a burden to him and he knew he could get rid of her with no consequences. Or maybe it was something different altogether. If she became desperate, maybe she stole from him. If I can figure out what happened to her, I’ll be one step closer to giving her peace. Am I selfish to hope some of that peace extends to me too?

  I reach the Barclay demolition site and the house is almost exactly as Patty and I left it. The orange plastic mesh fence has been replaced with a sturdier metal fence made of heavy interlocking segments. New handwritten protest signs hang from it, but the message is the same, as I’m sure will be the outcome. The end is coming faster for this old house.

  I peer in through a gap in the fencing. I wiggle my arm through with my phone to take a picture. It doesn’t look extremely out of place for me to do this thanks to the protest signs.

  If I weren’t interested in breaking in, I would still stop to look at this house. The first time I found the house with Patty, I noticed the peeling paint on the wood siding and the overgrown lawn. This time, I’m looking at a boarded-up window on the side.

  The fence will be harder to get through, but I’m betting there is no alarm guarding the house. Prying off plywood will be much quieter than breaking glass.

  I walk around the side of the property, plunging into tall grass, my path hugging the fence. About midway between the sidewalk behind me and the alley ahead, I hit a seam in the fence where two panels are butted up against each other, but not joined. I look back towards the sidewalk. A few pedestrians cross to and fro, not looking in at me. In the alley there is no one. I attempt to lift a panel of the fence. It’s heavy. Very heavy. I manage to budge it, but only a bit. It’s going to be tough to move, but if I come back at night, I’ll have dark on my side and can give it a lot more effort without being seen.

  I take a photo with my phone and slip through to the alley. I look around at the other backs of buildings. The alley is half commercial and half residential. On the heritage home side, the row of townhouses on my right have covered parking. The small apartment building on the left has an entrance to an underground parking garage. Most of the windows have curtains drawn. No people are visible. The commercial buildings on the other side of the alley show fewer signs of life. Blinds shutter the small second floor windows that look down onto the heritage home’s backyard. I will come back through the alley at night. No one will see me and no alarm will sound. My plan is set.

  It is just after three a.m. My phone’s vibration alarm woke me perfectly. The buzz on my nightstand was enough for me and only me. I trade my sweatpants for jeans and slip my phone in my pocket. The backpack has to stay behind; I can’t afford
baggage.

  In the kitchen, I extract a butter knife from the cutlery drawer. I have no idea where Mariah keeps screwdrivers and other tools, which is probably on purpose, for reasons like this and who knows what other self-harm issues.

  Slipping out the back door of Arbutus House is easy this time. There is no clumsy Rayanne to worry me and the confidence only experience can bring is on my side.

  I wait until I’m down on Cornwall Avenue to call a cab. Buses don’t run at this hour, but that’s okay. After another refill from Mom, I now have over two hundred dollars in my account. I am armed with forty dollars in cash and if I spend more than half getting downtown, I can hit an atm on the way back.

  Staring down the dark orange-black road I flash back to my first escape, the moment when I ran from Mom, down to the highway in Surrey. I stared down a dark road that night too, willing transportation to rescue me before I got caught. Whatever Mom, Jane, or Dr. Werdiger might say, I am not addicted to this feeling. It’s like I need to pee. This is not pleasant.

  I finally see a yellow car coming down the road towards me. Only a few other cars have passed. I flag him down with excited waving and jumping. I don’t care if he thinks I’m an idiot.

  “Where to?” says the cab driver when I get into the back seat on the passenger side. I hope he isn’t the chatty sort. I have no story prepared; only raw nerves pumping adrenaline through me, ramping me up for what I’m about to do.

  “The corner of Barclay and Nicola, please. In the West End.” I am jittery. I wonder if he can tell? Does he think I’m a junkie? Or a runaway? Technically, I am a runaway. Twice now.

  The driver doesn’t answer me. He simply shifts into Drive and pulls back out onto the road.

  We drive in silence, which suits me fine. The slick dark road slides past us until we reach the bridge. The city glitters and vents steam across False Creek. The water’s name is ironic; it reflects a fake version of a man-made world.