I sit down on the bed next to my mom to stop myself from collapsing. Sweat dampens my forehead. I press my palms into my eyes and then drag my hands out to my hairline, counting in multiples of three to stop the panic racing through me.
Three. Six. Nine. Twelve. Fifteen. Eighteen.
Stop thinking, Freya. Just count.
Twenty-one. Twenty-four. Twenty-seven. Thirty. Thirty-three.
This is all the reality you need. Here and now.
Thirty-six. Thirty-nine. Forty-two. Forty-five.
My mother’s rubbing my back, drawing me to her, and I rest my head on her shoulder, breathe measured breaths and count all the way to ninety-nine before I’m okay enough to stand again. Then I kiss her cheek and plod into my bedroom where I open the window to let in winter air. It’s a long time until I’m calm and cool enough to quit counting entirely and when I reach that place, the blond boy from my dream is there too. He looks okay. Normal. Not furious and feral like the last time. He knocks his arm affectionately against mine and says, “You’re all right, Freya. You’re okay. Everything’s going to be all right, you’ll see.”
I want to believe him.
The boy’s lips form a goofy, lopsided grin, like he’s aiming to make me laugh. I recognize the funny expression just like I recognize him. He makes me feel better and it’s not the first time.
When I wake up—from a dream I didn’t realize I was having—I’m smiling into my pillow. My bedroom’s freezing and I tug a sweater over my head and pull the window shut. I climb under the covers and quickly shut my eyes, trying to find the place I left the boy. Trying to find the Freya I was in my dream.
SIX
The boy eludes me. My dreams are of other things. Standing silently next to my mom on an ice rink in my bare feet, my entire body numb. Christine lopping off my hair as Seth watches, telling me I should get to know him better. My father yelling at me that I’m selfish.
I shout back that he’s the selfish one. Too selfish to really be dead.
When I wake up again I feel terrible for screaming at someone I miss so much. I’m so fucked up inside that maybe it would be better if I were the one who’d died instead.
But I can’t even feel that properly because as fucked up as I am, scrambling after delusions and dreams while distrusting what’s as plain as day in front of me, I know I want to live. I just want living to feel the way it should.
I spend the conscious hours of my weekend trying not to think because it seems really letting myself go—allowing my mind to wander beyond the boundaries of everyday life—risks loosening my grip on reality to a point that scares me stiff. I can’t handle one more doubt or feeling of suspicion.
On Saturday night and Sunday afternoon I shove all my brightly colored clothes into a garbage bag that I hurl into the back of my closet. Then Mom, Olivia and I go out for a late lunch with Nancy, who acts as if I look the same as ever but then asks if I’ve been having any more headaches lately.
“Nope,” I say truthfully over my buffet plate. “They must have been a flu leftover.” I resist the urge to tell her she sounds like my grandfather. Why do the two of them keep going on about my head when I haven’t said a thing about headaches lately?
According to my mom a guy named Frank broke Nancy’s heart years ago and she hasn’t been interested in anyone since. Her nearest family is down in Kansas and my mom also says that Nancy spends a lot of time alone, which makes Nancy sound like a sad person but as far as I can tell, she’s not. If anything she’s perky but with a propensity to want to fix other people’s problems.
I listen to Nancy and my mother chat about work and then toss around the idea of renting a cottage up north this summer for a couple of weeks so that we’ll all have the chance to soak up some scenery. “And make the most of the hot weather, right, Leila?” Nancy adds, staring first at my mother and then at Olivia and me. “How are you readjusting to Canadian winter?”
My mom replies that she feels as if she’s forgotten the knack of driving in snow but I say, “I sort of like the cold. It’s not as bad as people say. It makes me feel …” I catch myself before blurting out something weird about how it stops me from overheating when my mind’s spinning, roots me in the present.
“How does it make you feel?” Nancy presses.
“Like I’m really home,” I reply, spearing salad with my fork. “It’s Canada. It’s supposed to be cold.”
Nancy smiles but her stare feels like a microscope, as if she senses I’m editing myself and would like to stare through the façade to the real me. Maybe her real calling was to be a therapist.
“How about school?” she continues. “Is it a repeat of things you already learned in New Zealand or do you feel like you’re ahead of the game?”
With my mouth full of salad, Olivia answers. “All the geometry stuff I already know but French is hard. It’s funny, they call them grades at school here instead of years. I think ‘year’ sounds better.”
I was in year eleven in Auckland but now I’m in tenth grade. It sounds like going backwards but I don’t feel like it’s a repeat. I’m behind the kids in my classes in some things and ahead of them in others, which is what I tell Nancy when she asks me directly.
She doesn’t give me the microscope look from before but nods thoughtfully like this is precisely the reply she wants to hear. Maybe my mom is right about Nancy spending too much time alone after all. It’s nice of her to take an interest and everything but I don’t want to be analyzed.
I get quiet and stare around the restaurant at the other diners—an old couple eating steaks in silence, a rowdy group of about ten people who appear to be celebrating some kind of occasion, and a lone woman puffing furiously on a cigarette. As I’m watching the woman give herself lung cancer I spot a familiar face in the booth behind her, my biology teacher, Mr. Payne. He notices me looking over at him but doesn’t wave. I bet he doesn’t know it’s me.
This is my life now, I tell myself. Being new wave Freya with the black hair and scary eyes and recognizing my biology teacher in a restaurant. There’s nothing but this moment.
If a person tells themselves something often enough, will they begin to believe it?
Back at home after dinner, my mom and Nancy sit in the kitchen drinking tea while I return to my closet to pick out an outfit to wear to school tomorrow—a hunter-green top and black pants. Somber but not that different to what I’d normally wear. The main thing is to avoid anything that looks remotely cheerful.
At school on Monday morning Christine agrees to head straight for the mall with me after class to replenish my wardrobe with similarly somber and androgynous attire. Derrick approves of my new look and I notice some of the other new wavers checking me out at lunch and in the halls (especially a tall guy with a Flock of Seagulls–inspired haircut that completely obscures one of his eyes, so technically I can only see one eye checking me out). Surprise registers in several other faces, including Seth’s and Terry’s, but the only other person who really says anything to me about my appearance is Kyle from my English class who, despite me turning him down last week, tells me he likes my hair.
I could be imagining it (I’ve been imagining so many things lately that one more would hardly be a surprise) but for the most part it seems as if people—the guys especially—have pretty much quit staring at me by Wednesday. I make it through the first part of Wednesday feeling okay, successfully pushing thoughts of the green-eyed boy from Walmer Road to the back of my mind. But it’s impossible to avoid the fact that it was a week ago today that I trailed him home. Would he follow the same schedule and route today?
At the end of math class, I edge over to Christine and ask whether she still thinks I should talk to the guy from my déjà vu if I see him again. She raises one eyebrow and asks, “Is that a hypothetical question or have you already seen him again?”
I pick at my thumbnail and glance down at the Doc Martens boots Christine helped me pick out on Monday night. “I haven’t seen him but I thin
k I know where to find him.”
Christine frowns, her eyes flashing in alarm or surprise—I can’t tell which. She must’ve just been humoring me the other day when she mentioned past lives and told me that I should try to make contact with the guy if I see him again.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “You think I’m being crazy.” I know I am. I just can’t seem to help it.
“I don’t think you’re crazy,” Christine says as we troop out of math class together and forge a path through the hallway. “It’s just a”—she sighs lightly as she searches for a more sympathetic word—“kind of an obsessive thing. Like, you’ve gotten this idea in your head and are running wild with it.”
I continue my assault on my fingernail. “No. It’s crazy.” Crazy is when your past doesn’t feel real. Your grandfather doesn’t feel like your grandfather but you dream of a boy you don’t know and follow another home in the street. Crazy is thinking your sister isn’t your …
Stop it, Freya. Don’t think. You’ll burn out.
Christine knocks her elbow against my arm. The action reminds me of the boy from my dream. She says, “Let’s think it through. If you do approach him, what are you going to say? And if he tells you that you’ve never met, where are you going to take it from there? If you’re really going to do this you have to be prepared for anything.”
I’m so not. Obviously.
Christine’s eyes bug out. “He could be mental for all you know and see this as a good opportunity to take someone home and chop them up into little pieces.”
“Jesus, Christine,” I mutter.
Christine tosses her head back. “Okay, so he’s probably not psychotic but I’m just saying, be smart about this. Don’t rush up to him in some lonely place and don’t freak him out by saying anything weird. You have to be cool and matter-of-fact if you talk to him.”
“I know that. I need to play it casual.” I don’t want to freak him out and I certainly don’t want to be chopped into little pieces. If I had my head on straight I’d forget about him entirely.
I’ve been trying to forget for a whole week but he’s still in my head. If I could just talk to him maybe it would break whatever spell he has over me—prove he’s not the person I think he is, just another average teenage guy who happens to have the face of a Greek statue.…
There’s nothing but this moment, but for a minute he could be in the moment with me. My brain threatens to overheat as I ponder that: standing in front of him, his green eyes taking me in as I ask him where I know him from.
No, I snap at myself. Don’t think, Freya. Just do it.
I can’t tell whether my decision means I’m losing a battle or winning it. Either way, it feels inevitable.
Once Christine and I have parted ways I duck into the nearest bathroom, slip a sheet of loose-leaf paper out of my binder and write a note excusing Freya from afternoon classes in my neatest impersonation of my mother’s handwriting. I take the note to the school secretary who smiles as though she doesn’t suspect a thing and points at the school attendance book where I have to sign out.
The note says that I have a doctor’s appointment but I catch a bus to the mall and then hustle over to the information stand where I question the lady behind the counter about the fastest way to get to Toronto. As it turns out there’s no rapid way to reach the city by public transportation. I take a commuter bus (which only leaves once an hour) to Yorkdale Shopping Center and then catch the subway from there. The entire time I’m trying not to think too hard, staring fixedly out the bus window and then at the subway map, repeating Depeche Mode and Smiths lyrics in my head (Christine would be so proud of herself for transforming my musical taste) to distract myself so that I don’t lose it entirely.
By the time I reach the museum subway stop it’s a few minutes later than when I saw the green-eyed boy last Wednesday, but I buy a hotdog from the vendor in front of the museum and hover around the cart for a few minutes anyway. It would seem less ridiculous to speak to him in public, as if I just happened to be here like I was last week. Unfortunately, that’s clearly not going to happen.
My feet carry me to Walmer Road. I’m jittery in my skin. Blinking in double time. There’s a moving truck parked down the road from the boy’s house and a series of men in scruffy blue jeans are lugging hefty boxes out to the truck. None of them notice me as I pass but closer to the boy’s house, where three children are making a snowman in their front yard, a little girl in an orange snowsuit stops to stare at me.
It’s the scary eyes, I bet.
I smile and wave—most people, unless they’re genuinely psycho, look less scary when they smile. The two older kids wave back at me but the little girl only continues to stare.
Soon I’ve passed them too. Soon I’m eyeing the boy’s house from the sidewalk, hoping he’ll saunter out his front door, walk directly towards me and explain the mystery. That doesn’t happen either. It’s up to me to continue heading for his door, up the steps of his front porch, my gloved finger pressing his doorbell. Because I haven’t let my mind focus on my actions, it’s a complete blank as I wait on the boy’s doorstep, listening for any sound of movement from within.
My heart thumps erratically in my chest as I force myself to ring the bell a second time. Fifteen seconds or so later the door pulls open and I jump like it’s a surprise.
The green-eyed boy is standing in the doorway, pulling his sweatshirt down over his waist as though I’ve interrupted him at something. His shoulders relax as he looks at me but I hunch over like I’ve taken a punch to the stomach. It seems impossible to stare back at him and manage to breathe at the same time. He runs a hand quickly over his short dark hair and says, “So, are you selling something or what?”
I shiver at the sound of his voice. It’s as familiar as the rest of him.
I do know him. I’m sure of it. I shouldn’t have waited to come see him; I should’ve come before I asked Christine to dye my hair. Maybe he would’ve recognized me then.
“No,” I tell him in an unnaturally high voice. “I’m looking for someone.” Since I haven’t allowed myself to contemplate the meeting in any depth, I’m improvising as best I can. “My friend Alison. Alison Leighland.” My old Auckland friend is the first person who springs to mind. “This is the address she gave me.”
“There’s no Alison here,” the boy tells me. Then he turns to shout over his shoulder, “It’s just some girl with the wrong address.”
I hear someone bound downstairs behind him as I mumble something about this being the address Alison gave me and then ask the boy how long he’s lived here. A pretty girl with strawberry-blond hair spilling halfway down her back runs up behind the boy and locks her arms around his waist. She whispers into his ear, making him laugh at words I can’t hear.
“In a second,” he tells her before refocusing his attention on me. “I’ve been here for just over a month but I have no idea who lived here before. Sorry.”
I stare blankly at the boy and the strawberry-blond girl now standing next to him like they’ve been surgically fused at the hip. I want to grab the boy’s hand and force him to look at me more carefully. Instead I’m glued to the spot, speechless. How come he can’t sense even a fraction of the familiarity that I do?
Awkwardness infuses the air between the three of us. I watch the boy and girl exchange a look that translates as: Why’s this creepy girl congealing on the doorstep when she’s been told that her friend doesn’t live here?
“Do you have a phone number for your friend?” the guy asks. “Can you call her up and check the address?”
“Um.” I tap the toe of my Doc Martens gingerly against his doorstep. “Could I use your phone? It’s a local call—it won’t cost anything.” I don’t know where I’m going with this—only that I’m not ready to give up but I don’t want to breathe a word of what I came to say in front of his girlfriend.
“Go ahead,” the guy says, opening the door wider and stepping aside to allow me entry. There’s snow on my Do
cs and I bend to begin unlacing them so I won’t drag it inside. “Don’t worry about it,” he tells me. “I’ll show you where the phone is.”
The girl’s forehead creases as I straighten to follow them. They lead me into the kitchen where the guy indicates the telephone hanging on the wall near a circular yellow table. I pick up the phone and randomly dial seven numbers while they watch. As I listen to the telephone receiver ring into my ear, I overhear the girl say, “Garren, I should get going now. I’m supposed to be at work in fifteen minutes.”
The boy’s name sends a shiver up my spine. I couldn’t have guessed it five seconds earlier but it sounds right. Garren. At first his name makes me feel hopeful and warm, like I’ve won a secret prize. Then an avalanche of loss and longing that has nothing to do with my father rumbles inside me. It scares me to feel that lost and scares me even more to feel that someone else, Garren, is part of a cure for the hole inside me.
Before Garren can reply to his girlfriend, the doorbell rings and he stalks off to answer it. I’ve allowed the phone to ring enough times (and been lucky that no one’s answered) to hang up without looking like I’m giving up prematurely. With only the girl and me left in the kitchen, I coat my voice in frustration and say, “There’s no one there.”
Seconds later Garren reappears in the kitchen with a middle-aged handyman in tow. “I’ll need you to go to the fuse box and cut the power to the refrigerator for me,” the handyman instructs, paying no attention to me or the girlfriend.
Garren’s girlfriend leans in to kiss him goodbye and tells him she’ll see him soon. She stares expectantly in my direction, no doubt waiting for me to announce that I’m leaving too. “Would you mind if I wait another ten minutes and try again?” I ask. “No one picked up and I came all the way from Brampton on the bus.”
“Okay,” Garren says after a two-second pause. “Have a seat. I have to deal with the fuse box.”
Garren and his girlfriend vacate the kitchen while I pull a chair out from the table and slip into it. The handyman’s busy tugging the fridge away from the wall, whistling to himself, and with Garren gone I take the opportunity to scan the room for clues about his life. The kitchen’s been painted a pastel green and there’s a collection of small houseplants growing on the windowsill. A thick cookbook is sandwiched between a jar of dried pasta noodles and a cookie tin. Aside from the table, the only piece of furniture in the room is a wooden stool that stands flush against the counter. Overall the kitchen looks like a tidy, welcoming place but reveals very little about the people who eat inside it.
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