“There’s nothing there, Tess,” Jackson said.
“Exactly. If it’s a closet, where’s the rod? Hangers? Hooks? Shelves?”
He went quiet, and she thought he was considering her words, but when she looked at him, he seemed to be struggling to figure out how to phrase something. “If this was a private psych hospital, it wouldn’t have rods or hooks in the closet. They present a…danger.”
“Of what?”
He searched her gaze and said nothing.
“Of what?” she repeated. “I’m not squeamish, Jackson. Tell me—”
“Suicide.”
She flinched. She didn’t mean to. The thought of suicide bothered her, of course. There’d been a girl in the Home, a couple of years older than her, who’d tried once, and Tess and another girl had found her. It’d been one of the worst experiences of her life, and maybe that explained why she flinched now, but it seemed more the combination of the two things: a psych hospital plus suicide.
“People who come to a place like this aren’t crazy,” Jackson said. “Not the way you read in books and see in movies—the wild-eyed nutcase. A lot of them are just depressed. If they’re depressed enough, they might try suicide.”
“I know. There was a girl, in the Home…” She trailed off.
He nodded. “And I’m sure she wasn’t crazy. So the closets wouldn’t have rods or hangers, Tess. There would have been a dresser or boxes. Safe storage.”
Safe storage. The nightmare flashed again, trapped in a box. Upright, screaming for—
“Tess?”
She snapped out of it. “So this main area is a bedroom?”
“Sure. The ones in the attic would be for patients requiring extra restraint—”
“Restraint?”
A flash of annoyance, his kindness fraying fast. “So they don’t harm themselves and, yes, possibly others. Hitting or scratching during an episode. Possibly delusions if it’s schizophrenia. People in a private mental hospital aren’t crazed killers, and the people keeping them there aren’t evil jailers. It’s a hospital, not a lunatic asylum.”
“I’m sorry.”
He deflated a little. “I don’t mean to get on you about it. Most people think the way you do. I know better, because of my mom, and it bugs me when people flip out at the mention of mental illness and psychiatric hospitals.”
“I’m sorry. I just…” She swallowed. “Too many books, I guess.”
A wry twist of a smile. “Nothing wrong with books, even those kind. Just…don’t take everything you read at face value. Educate yourself.”
“Yes, sir.”
He made a face. “That sounded pompous, didn’t it? Sorry. Let’s keep looking.”
Fifteen
THE ROOMS WERE not bedrooms. Even Jackson conceded that after a few minutes. They were too interconnected, with areas that could only be reached by passing through other rooms, which wouldn’t work for private patient quarters. There were more “closets” too. One room had two, side by side. Jackson still insisted that whatever the purpose of the larger rooms, someone had clearly constructed these small ones for storage.
Most rooms were empty. A few contained discarded furniture, piled up as if had been moved from elsewhere. There were a couple of old desks too, but riffling through the drawers didn’t yield any clues. Then they reached a locked room.
“You can open it, can’t you?” Tess asked as Jackson peered at the keyhole.
“It’ll take some work.” He crouched and said, with deliberate nonchalance, “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. I have apples in my bag. Would you mind grabbing me one? Take one for yourself too. I’ll have this open before you get back.”
“I saw the lockpick earlier, Jackson.”
She expected him to protest, but he said, “I didn’t want to give you the wrong idea. Since you already seemed to have it.”
“What idea?”
“That I’m some kind of delinquent.”
“It was a first impression. You’re living in an abandoned house, carrying a knife, in need of a shower…”
“That was a mistake. I didn’t realize…” He trailed off and shook his head. “Can we drop the shower jabs? It wasn’t that bad, and I’m fine now.” He rubbed his cheek and then sighed at his dirt-streaked fingers. “The point is that you’d formed an early impression, and seeing me picking locks wasn’t going to help. I mentioned that my dad is a lawyer. He has clients with…special skills. When I was a kid, one of them stayed with us for a while and taught me some things.”
“How to pick locks?”
“It wasn’t like that. He was an activist.”
“A what?”
“Activist. Sometimes, to change the world, you need to break a few rules. Or locks. Not my dad’s point of view, but his clients can get themselves into trouble. For a good cause.”
“Oh.” She had no idea what he was talking about.
“One taught me to pick locks. I was ten and wanted to be a detective. Anyway…” He turned to the lock. “Just don’t get the wrong idea about me.”
“I won’t.”
He wasn’t an expert—it took a fair bit of effort and cursing to unlock the door, but finally he turned the knob. She pushed the door open and brushed past, flashlight in hand.
“Um, Thérèse…” he said.
She shone the light up, and he shielded his eyes. “I don’t need a boy to walk into danger ahead of me. I’m quite capable of doing it myself.”
“So I’ve seen. I mean that I think I should be first through since I got it open.”
“Oh. You’re right. Next time.”
She turned, flashlight beam crossing the room as he sighed behind her. When she stopped short, he bashed into her and cursed. Then he saw why she’d stopped, and he cursed again before cutting himself short and saying, “They’re for storage, Tess.”
Boxes. That’s what she saw. Not crates, but long wooden boxes exactly the dimensions of
“Coffins,” she said.
“Caskets,” he corrected. “A coffin has six sides, like in the Old West, and we don’t use them—” He caught her expression. “Okay. You don’t want the etymology lesson. But these aren’t caskets or coffins or any container designed to hold dead bodies.” He took the flashlight and walked to one. “They’re just for storage. Unfortunately shaped boxes.”
He lifted the lid on one. It was hinged. Like a casket. Inside, it was just a rough wooden box.
“See?” he said. “Not a casket.”
“It looks like—”
“No lining. No padding. Not a casket.”
“And that?”
She pointed at another box, in the corner, with the lid propped open. Its interior was padded. Jackson strode over and stuck his hand inside, smacking the padding hard as if expecting it to prove an optical illusion.
“It’s the wrong sort of padding. Caskets have satin linings. This is vinyl.”
“Let me guess. You have an uncle who’s a funeral director.”
His face darkened. “Of course not. I’ve been to funerals, and I pay attention. If you’re suggesting that I’m lying about my parents’ professions—”
“I’m suggesting you don’t know as much as you think you do. About a lot of things.”
Now his eyes chilled to gray steel. “I know caskets—”
“Then what is this?”
He hesitated.
“I’ll give you a minute,” she said. “That should be enough time for you to come up with an explanation that proves I’m an ignorant little country girl.”
“I’m not trying—”
“You do. Whether you mean to or not.”
His mouth opened, then closed. He stood there, lips pursed, before saying, “I’m not calling you ignorant, Thérèse. I’m pointing out that these cannot be caskets. It makes no sense.”
“Didn’t you say that sometimes mental patients commit suicide?”
“By the dozen?” He waved across the room.
“There are four boxes.”
“You know what I mean. Yes, occasionally, despite best efforts, a mental patient commits suicide. They’re not going to have four caskets in the basement, just in case. Even if they did, for some bizarre reason—maybe they treated suicidal patients and the rate of failure is higher—what are the caskets for? To bury them in the backyard? These people would have families.”
“Not everyone does.”
He dipped his chin in an unspoken acknowledgment. “True, but even if the hospital had to tend to the arrangements for a patient or two, they wouldn’t store the caskets here, Tess. You can’t bury bodies in your backyard.”
“Not legally,” she said. “But if you were trying to hide—”
“No.”
“I’m saying—”
“No.” Anger crept into his voice now. “That’s not the way a mental hospital works. If you’re going to say that it was a secret hospital, where people locked up their crazy relatives—”
“Then I’ve read too many books. Because that never happens. Never, ever, ever.” She stepped toward him. “Just because that’s not how a hospital is supposed to work, doesn’t mean it never does. I read an article a few years ago, by Pierre Berton, about a hospital in Orillia, not far from Hope. It was for the mentally challenged, and it said they were abused and drugged and held down in ice-water baths, and that was a legal hospital. The families of those kids were just happy someone else was taking care of them. You can’t tell me that couldn’t have happened here. That there couldn’t be illegal hospitals, if someone was willing to pay enough.”
“But these aren’t caskets, Tess. They just aren’t.”
“They’re padded, human-sized boxes. What else would they be for?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you know they absolutely could not possibly be caskets?”
He sunk onto one. “No, I don’t.”
He sat there, leaning forward, flashlight beam bouncing off the floor and illuminating his face, all sharp angles and shadows, curtained by his hair. He looked lost. A boy who wasn’t used to not having answers, lost in uncertainty and indecision, his eyes empty, as if his mind was whirring behind them, consuming all his energy as he searched for answers, digging into the darkest corners of a jam-packed brain but still finding nothing useful.
Tess watched him and felt…She wasn’t sure how she felt, only that she wanted to go and sit with him, brush his hair out of his face, tell him it was all right, that he didn’t need to have the answers. He’d jump like a scalded cat if she did, and then he’d scowl at her and give her that cold glare, as if by showing a moment’s tenderness she’d committed some grievous offense. He didn’t want that. Not from her. Maybe not from anyone, but she had a feeling it was mostly her.
She seemed to rub him the wrong way, as the matron used to say about girls who couldn’t get along. Their personalities clashed, and there was no getting past that. When Tess looked at Jackson, she wished there was a way past that.
So she settled for taking a slow step toward the box he was sitting on, preparing to lower herself beside him, not too close, not interfering. Just sitting with him. The moment she turned around to sit, though, he pushed up, flashlight rising.
“We should finish looking around,” he said. “It’ll be night soon.”
Which made no difference in a basement without windows. But she knew what he meant. Stop thinking. Start moving. So she did.
Sixteen
THEY DID MANAGE to locate what seemed to be a doorway that once linked up to the room she’d first fallen into, but it had been walled up, and there was no way of determining the reason. They found nothing else in the basement. By the time they got upstairs, it was dark. Jackson started a fire, and they pooled their food supplies—what he had in his bag and what she’d bought in town. They ate in silence.
“Is it all right if I sleep indoors?” she asked finally. “I’ll find my own room.”
“What?” He started, as if from a reverie. “Of course. Last night…I wasn’t kicking you out to be a jerk. I thought you had someplace to go. If I’d known you didn’t…” He shrugged and passed Tess another apple.
After a few minutes of silent eating, he said, “Downstairs, when you said I was treating you like a dumb kid, I didn’t mean it like that. Sometimes I…well, I figure if I know things and others don’t, then I should tell them.”
“You’re smart, and you like explaining things. I like learning things. It’s just…the way you do it sometimes.”
He nodded, flushing, as if he might have heard a similar sentiment before.
“You’d make a good teacher,” she said. “Is that what you’re planning to be?”
He looked startled, then shook his head. “No.”
She waited in the vain hope he’d tell her what he did plan to become. Of course, he didn’t. After another minute of silence, she decided to take another poke.
“Are you backpacking?” she asked.
“Hmm?”
She pointed to his pack. “I asked if you’re backpacking.”
A pause, as if reluctant to answer, then a simple “Yes.”
Silence ticked by so loudly that Tess swore she could hear a clock somewhere in the bowels of the dark house. The firelight flickered through the room, casting dancing shadows over the walls.
“You’re right,” he said finally. “About this place. It could have been a private mental hospital that didn’t operate by the rules. When you mentioned that place in Ontario, it reminded me of something I heard at one of my parents’ dinners.”
He shifted, getting comfortable on the old chair he’d pulled over to the fireplace. “My parents are activists. Mostly for Métis rights, but issues bleed over, and they have friends who are fighting for French rights, Native rights, provincial rights. There’s a lot going on in Quebec right now. Some people even talk about breaking away from Canada. It’s an interesting time.”
“Interesting in a good way?”
He rubbed his chin. “I think so. The causes are good. I’m not as involved in them as my parents are.” A short laugh. “Which is the complete opposite of my classmates. They’re into the social issues, and their parents think a sit-in is something you do with sick relatives. I mostly stick to my studies, but I do care about all those things—Métis, Native, French, Quebec. I help my parents out when I can. Anyway, they have dinners and people talk about social issues and politics and all that, and I remember a few months ago, they were discussing this rumor about our premier. Well, it’s more than a rumor, actually, or I wouldn’t be spreading it.
“In Quebec, the provincial government supports orphanages, and the federal government supports hospitals, including psychiatric ones. Apparently, the premier is relabeling orphanages as hospitals and, in some cases, shipping orphans to mental hospitals, saying they’re mentally deficient.”
“Wh-what?” Tess shot upright. “They can’t do that.”
“The government gets away with some crazy stuff, Tess. If it’s true—and I have no reason to believe it isn’t—then I guess I can’t say something shady—or even criminal—couldn’t have happened in this house.”
Tess sat in stunned silence, thinking about what he’d said. “How can they do that? With the orphans?”
“I didn’t mean to upset you.” He went quiet. “I should have realized I would. It sounds bad, but orphanages aren’t exactly the best places to live under any circumstances. Or so I’ve heard. Yours…” He looked at her. “You seem normal.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, obviously you’re normal. I mean physically all right—and well educated, if they’re teaching you French. That’s not common in Ontario, is it?”
“No.”
“Was it all right? The Home? I’m sure it wouldn’t be great, obviously. And it looks like maybe you didn’t get a lot to eat.”
She gave him a look. “That’s just me. I’m small.”
“Oh.” Another throat clearing. “Not abnormally small. Just tiny. I thoug
ht maybe…well, I guess I was jumping to conclusions. I’m not exactly a big guy myself, and I eat lots, so…” He looked at her. “I’m not making this any better, am I?”
“No.” A brief smile. “But it’s kind of fun to watch you try.” She took a bite of her apple. “The Home was fine. Orphanages are like mental hospitals, I think—people get ideas of them based on books and movies, and most aren’t anything like that. It wasn’t perfect, of course. Lots of rules. Sharing everything. But there wasn’t anything wrong with it. We got a good education. Better than most kids in town. It could be disjointed though. Most of the teachers were temporary, and they had their areas of expertise and we just learned whatever they wanted to teach.”
“Like Métis history.”
She smiled. “Like that. I have the basics though. Solid basics, with some bonuses, like French. Did…?” She was going to ask if he’d studied English in school but switched to less personal phrasing. “Do they teach English here? Is it mandatory?”
“Education here is a mess,” he said, easing into lecture mode. “Did I mention lots of changes? That’s part of it. Right now, each board sets its own program, issues its own diplomas based on its own criteria—fifteen hundred boards. That’s nuts. There’s a commission doing a report, trying to change that. Part of the problem is that French isn’t an official language in Canada, so if you want to go past high school, you’d better speak English. In the smaller towns, like this one, everyone speaks French. They don’t learn English.”
“So they should teach it.”
“No,” he said carefully. “I would say Quebec children should learn the basics of English, because knowing extra languages is always beneficial. Like you learning French. But the solution isn’t to teach more English. It’s to accept more French. To let us be French. It’s like being Métis. It’s more than just biology or language. It’s a culture.”
She nodded. “Is that why your parents made sure you learned English? Because until things change, you’ll need it for university?”
The Unquiet past Page 9
