I had no idea what was going on in the room — no idea what the lottery meant — but it seemed important, and Juan was not here to defend himself.
“You are driving him?” Doucette quieted, and nodded at me. “Then you will soon be joining us in the lottery. We may as well be friends.” She bent down and kissed me on the cheek, before returning to her seat.
The lottery continued until everyone except me had selected.
Juan – 5
Doucette – 3
Roseau – 1
Jakob – 2
Bette – 6, but she said she would trade four of her hours to anyone but Jakob.
The tumbler was stowed away in the closet, and slowly the room emptied.
“Doucette,” I called, and she stopped near the door. “What just happened?”
“You are new here, but you’ll see. Elias has only so much time in Salem. We meet here each week to decide how many hours each of us will get with him while he is there.”
“Salem . . . Where is Salem?” I asked.
“You don’t know?” She pointed to her head. “It is in his mind.”
“So, it’s imaginary . . .”
“Imaginary? I would not say that. Believe me, when you’re there, no place could be more real. What makes any country real? Memories and history and people . . . Salem has all of them.”
I gave an exaggerated nod. “Right.” This inn was populated with the mad and deranged. I’d just witnessed a lottery where the winner’s purse was time in an imaginary world found in Elias’s mind. Who was this boy I’d agreed to chauffeur?
CHAPTER 5
I peeked down at the bonnet of the lime-green beetle on which I sat. Guinevere’s car, and the garage in which it rested, were both spotless. It was a quiet respite from what had been a loud day at the inn.
My laptop rested on wrinkled shorts. Napped and showered and alive again in fresh clothes, the temporary guardianship of Elias felt less the responsibility and more another twist in fate, and I sighed at yet another Plan B.
Bus brakes hissed on the road, and Elias hopped out and ran into the inn. Moments later, he quietly stepped into the garage. I slammed shut my laptop.
“Well, Ms. Neuro-typical. Let’s get going.” He tossed me the keys.
Neuro-typical? I slipped behind the wheel of the Beetle. “Is Guinevere going to give me final instructions?”
“No need. It’s me.” He climbed in the passenger side.
“Yes, I see that, but the where and the when and the programme . . .”
Elias clicked his seat belt. “I know where to go.” He glanced at me. “Honestly.”
“Honestly,” I muttered, and we slowly backed into the turnaround and eased up the drive.
“Now stop!”
I slammed the brakes and cursed as my heartbeat slowed. Elias calmly removed a handkerchief and wrapped it around his head, tying it in back. It completely covered his eyes. “A right at the top. Left at the lights, and then it’s just a short drive.”
His words. His cadence. They held feeling. He sounded comfortable and sure, which made me quite uncomfortable.
I drove out onto the main road.
“So just out with it. What’s wrong with you?”
“That depends on who you ask. Mom, she calls me unique, her one of a kind. Teachers, they say I live on the spectrum, and they may be half right.” Elias slowly folded his hands. “The kids at remedials — they call me no-brain. They’ll say I’m an idiot. And most nineteen-year-olds can read, so who’s to argue?” He held up his finger. “Okay. I’ll tell you when to turn. Don’t speak.”
I drove, while my blind guide mumbled words beneath his breath. Five minutes. Ten minutes.
“Elias?”
“Left now!”
I screeched into a car park that fronted a windowless building. Elias removed his bandana, and gave me the thumbs up. “Seven hundred twenty-eight bumps in the road. Seven hundred twenty-eight from the inn to here.” His triumphant smile melted, and he rubbed his eyes.
“Clara, I . . . I don’t know why you’re driving me and why Juan isn’t.” Elias swallowed, and his voice softened. “I do remember seeing you on the porch last night.”
“What about on the plane? And our . . . talk at breakfast?”
He shook his head. “I don’t remember. In fact, I don’t remember half of my life.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “How do you live with that?”
“By holding on to the parts I do know. The good parts. Like whatever brought you here.” He bowed his head. “I’m scared. Are you ever frightened?”
“No. Well, yes.”
“Frightened that you’ll be overcome by yourself? That a gentle monster inside of you might take over and never let go?”
Inside, I felt a twinge, and Elias must have noticed as he nodded.
“Well, what does that sign say?” he asked, pointing to the sign out front. “Mom never tells me.”
“Moriah Academy,” I read. “Bringing hope to the hopeless.”
“Hopeless, huh?” Elias grabbed his bag from the back and pushed out of the car. “Not as bad as I thought. You know . . .” He softly thumped the window. “I shouldn’t have laid all that heavy stuff on you. After all, we’ve technically never met. It’s a nice afternoon. I’m in there for hours. Feel free to walk around or whatever.” He sighed. “Thanks for the ride.”
I watched him slump toward the door. This was a different bloke than the one at breakfast. There were no secrets in him, and I jumped out of the car.
“Today, I watched fifteen sane-looking boarders hold a lottery for the chance to spend time with you in some make-believe world. Elias, please . . . what’s wrong with you? What do you say?”
He stopped but did not turn at first, and then he spun and walked quickly back toward me, stepping ten centimeters into my private space. “You’re very pretty.”
“That did . . . that didn’t answer the question.”
“No, but I have to say stuff while I can.” He let his head fall back to gaze at the sky. “What’s wrong with me? I lose my footing, in here.” He touched his head. “When a neuro-typical loses their footing, they yell or escape to the TV, or maybe the doctor throws them on depression meds. But when I slip, I fall all the way through. I feel the ground give way and I’m gone. It’s a crack — a crack in what’s real, and beneath there I’m stuck. Then, I guess I become someone else. Mom says I still know my name, but I walk a different world. The shrink calls it DID — Dissociative Identity Disorder — with a little added autism to spice up my other personality. I suppose he’s right, but only I know how it feels to slip through the cracks. Then the monster shows up.”
A bell gonged from inside and Elias glanced over his shoulder. “Not a scary monster, so don’t leave. Just one that takes over.” Again, he peeked up into the blue overhead. “Shoot, I did it again. You didn’t ask for that, either.” Elias repositioned his pack. “I’m sorry Mom forced you to drive me.”
He turned again and walked away, made it all the way to the large metal door. He called back. “It just feels so strange. To be living my life, until suddenly someone else steals it, and about the only thing that joins us is my name. Names are important, you know.”
He disappeared and I stood, arms weighty at my sides.
“I can’t imagine.”
Help Support Children of Incarcerated Parents
500 Days of Wandering, 500 Days of Hope
Day 241
I woke this morning, my head spinning from the red-eye to . . . Johannesburg. I wish I could portray for you the four creatures I saw as I cracked my eyelids. Huge, hulking, terrifying. A night in the bush changes your perspective. You find yourself doing without creature comforts such as bathrooms, and relying on a different portion of your brain. Choices here come from instinct, not experience, and I confess I am at a loss to explain what I am doing. I have been conscripted into leading this afternoon’s safari. It is a job for which I am not trained . . .
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I finished my entry, posted, and waited. Five seconds. Ten seconds.
“Come on. Where are you?” The screen flashed and my heart leaped.
My first comment, as always, was from my most ardent follower, the anonymous lad with whom I shared a bit more truth than the others thanks to private messaging. I hated lying to him at all, but with my travels going viral, I couldn’t risk being exposed. He alone read my first post the day I left London, and at some point crossed the line from follower to friend. Though I’d never seen him, I imagined his POE somewhere near 20.
FFA: Are you afraid? Leading the safari.
Me: No . . . That’s not true. Yes. There’s some . . . unpredictability involved.
FFA: My folks took me on a safari. Thrilling, really. We saw not one animal.
Me: Thrilling.
FFA: Our Jeep ran out of gas, and we hiked six miles back to camp.
Me: Liar. (This I typed with a smile on my face.)
FFA: I’m just saying that vehicles can be unpredictable.
FFA: Still there?
Me: Have you ever heard of DID?
FFA: Did?
Me: No, idiot. It’s an identity disorder.
FFA: I can’t say I have.
Me: You are useless. Tell me this, then, do you believe in mentalism? That someone can know about you, can know about your past, before you tell them, or spend time with them or something of that sort? I mean, there’s this bloke who drew some pictures of me and maybe some others I know, and if he knows about those things, then could he know about more secret things?
FFA: Most times those are mind tricks. Nobody can read your mind. But I do believe in gifts. BTW, what secret things?
Me: Very funny . . .
Rap!
I started and looked up from my typing. Elias feverishly knocked on the glass as four boys quickly closed in. I searched for the auto-unlock latch.
“Open up!”
Too late; Elias’s body collided with the outside of the car, and I jumped out.
“That moment just there would’ve been a really good time to open the door, Clara,” Elias called over his shoulder.
“Clara? Not Juan, eh?” Four blokes again shoved Elias against the passenger side, shoved him out of the way, and leaned over the Beetle. “And how did you get roped into babysitting no-brain?”
“Free will.” I peeked at Elias.
“Oh, you’re his nanny. Kind of a Mary Poppins.”
I walked around the bonnet. “Now I understand that you’re emotional derelicts. You blokes have made that abundantly clear.” I looked to the one on the far end. The follower. “How come you don’t speak? How come this ugly beast does all the talking?”
The beast scoffed. “Ugly, huh —”
“Oh, sod off. Was I speaking to you? Was I looking at you? Do you have any sense of propriety?”
He frowned and mouthed my large word, and I continued with the one on the end.
“What’s your name?”
“Brock.”
“Brock, does this ugly one always speak for you? When you two are chatting with your mum —”
He looked nervously at his snickering friends. “We don’t live together.”
“But you’d like to!” Middle boy backhanded his chest.
Brock looked at me. “He doesn’t always speak for me.”
“Then let me ask you.” I stepped nearer. “Do you enjoy tormenting Elias?”
There was a pause. “No.”
The other three stared at him, and Brock glanced their way and continued. “Knock it off! You two would’ve said the same. You told me today that Finch goes too far.”
Finch slowly nodded. “So, you all talk. When I’m not around, you all talk. Not a problem. I’ll just leave you and No-brain here. You can discuss whatever, you know?” Finch backed up. “One loser just turned into four.” He sauntered away down the sidewalk.
“Hold on, Finch. That got all turned around.” The middle two trotted after, leaving only Brock.
Brock walked up to Elias. “Well, that just ruined my life.”
“Yeah,” Elias said. “I’m sorry about that.”
We stood in awkward silence, until Elias reached out his hand and they shook. Brock exhaled loudly. “Keep the nanny. She’s a smart girl.”
“You’re tellin’ me.”
Soon Elias and I stood alone. “Maybe don’t mention this to Mom. She has enough on her mind. They weren’t really going to hurt me. I mean, not too much.”
“That didn’t appear to be the situation.”
“Can’t believe everything you see, right?” Elias glanced up, and then both to his left and right. He lowered his voice, and his eyes sparkled. “Say, come with me on a short trip.”
I raised the keys and gave them a jingle. “That’s my line.”
“And you can use it in, in oh, half an hour. Don’t worry about whatever Mom told you about the time. Juan is always late, so it’ll be no problem for her. I, uh, I’d like to show you something.”
Do not do this. Plan B be hanged. Stick to Plan A. Extract yourself now.
“How do I know you won’t slip and become monstrous? I’ve met the monstrous you, and the monstrous you . . . No, I don’t like the ring to that. How about I call him the Other One?”
Elias shrugged, and I continued. “Jolly good. The Other One doesn’t exactly trust me.”
“It’s a fair question. You don’t know when I’ll slip away. I feel solid now, but . . .” He forced a grin. “But the way I see it, you’re taking off. Someone like you has somewhere to go and someone waiting, right? So when I get into that car, I have you for about ten more minutes. I mean, if you were me, wouldn’t you ask?”
His boyish smile. His eager grin. I had my own crack through which I could not again slip. I would not risk involvements, or get mucked up in responsibility. Both practices led to disaster; this much I had learned. There was safety in leading. Following . . . that always led to a mess.
I double-fisted his T-shirt and shoved his chest. For the second time in minutes, his body slammed against the car, but the backs of my fingers felt his warmth through the fabric, and I swallowed hard.
“Do not hurt me, or I will kill you!”
“Why would I —”
“Kill you!” I repeated.
“Okay.” He raised both his hands. “I won’t hurt you . . . Why would I hurt you?”
I released him and flattened his T-shirt. Once, and then again. “Well then?” I pocketed the keys and held out my hand. “Show me.”
He stared, motionless. I watched him watch my fingers, and gently beckoned, helping him along.
“You took Brock’s hand, but you won’t take mine?”
Elias spoke to my hand. “I’ve shook, I mean shaken, er . . . shook . . . Holding is new.”
“Oh, come on, you must have with some girl.”
His face was terrified.
I took a half step nearer. “Okay, this is new.” I slowly grasped his hand and fit his fingers into mine. I felt them stiffen, and then relax. “Are we okay?”
His eyes grew big.
“Good. Elias . . .” The sentence stuck in my throat. “Lead on.”
CHAPTER 6
Why had I offered Elias my hand?
While we trudged along the motorway, this question gripped me. I had provided many affections since leaving home — a few in London as well — that were far more excessive, more damaging. This was the rationale behind the POE scale.
But to my recollection, I had never once offered my hand.
Only one male could claim to have held it, and he spent my best years rotting in a prison.
The idea of his incarceration would have been unthinkable when I was a child. There was a time when Dad’s firm hand held my small fingers and led me through the streets of London. I felt safe and I felt proud, and there was nowhere I wouldn’t go as long as I held that hand.
I idolised him until the day he struck the copper, and, in truth, many days
after. But soon my hands were required to clean the flat and care for Mum and the sibs. My hands were the first to forget what it meant to be led. My mind was second.
Lastly went my heart.
That’s when I determined never again to offer my hand. Never to follow.
What am I doing?
“Ten minutes, Elias, and we need to turn around.”
He picked up the pace, and we turned onto a gravel lane. A piece of country, so close to downtown. Around us, gentle hills swelled and fell, and we walked through patches of wood and field. Until we reached the sign.
Private. Trespassers will be shot.
I stopped, tugged at Elias, and then released his hand. I gestured at the sign and took a quick look around.
“The owner makes it quite clear that you, and I, are not supposed to continue.”
“What does it say?” asked Elias.
“It says illiteracy is dangerous.” I peeked toward his bag. “Dangerous like . . . like your sketches. That sign says that if we continue, there is a dragon waiting to devour your drawings.” My heartbeat quickened. “Specifically the ones you drew of the factory, of the prison. Of me.”
I raised my eyebrows and waited. The time to settle the matter had come. Elias had been wrong about my departure. I would not leave until I knew how much he knew, and if his knowing — his “gift,” as FFA would describe it — extended to the Great Undoing. If he knew about that . . .
Well, he couldn’t. No one could.
He dug in his bag and raised a sketchbook. “You mean these. Yeah, here’s the thing: I didn’t draw them. Any of them. I draw in stick figures.” Again, he glanced toward the sky, a most confusing tic. “Art is all the Other One. He does that.”
“Do you mean to tell me that when you’re this you, those hands draw sticks, and when the mon — when the Other One shows up, those same hands suddenly are able to draw what’s in those books? What does that mean?”
“I can show better than speak. Come on.”
Elias dashed forward, and I rolled my eyes and jogged after. The road veered left and so did we, until we both froze.
“Solid,” I said.
An amusement park spread out before us. A dead one, filled with unnatural silences. Dodgems and mini roller coaster cars clung precariously to rotted beams. A small Ferris wheel tilted, three capsules fallen and mangled beneath — a child’s mouth missing his teeth.
Both of Me Page 4
