Secrets from Myself

by Christine Hart

  When I heard a voice whisper, “Akasha? Are you here?” it was a thrilling moment. I felt all had been achieved. Sanjay had waited for his father to fall asleep and carried the contents of his largest trunk down here, to exchange for me.

  We risked a moment’s embrace before we stole back to his cabin. Relieved to find Mr. Hasan still asleep, Sanjay showed me the dressing screen at the back of the cabin. This is where I would be released to spend my nights. Days would have to be spent shut in the trunk, or otherwise hidden on the ship. Sanjay vowed with all his worth to find me reliable hiding places so I would not have to spend endless hours in the trunk. We will be changing ships in a matter of days and I will be confined again until Sanjay can assess our surroundings once more. I pray Sanjay can carry the trunk alone or that no one finds it too heavy.

  Being confined in this wood and cloth cage is the most secure and suffocating feeling I have ever known. Until we arrive in Vancouver, this trunk is the safest place for me. I will tolerate it as much as possible. If it were anyone other than Sanjay outside this cage, I would scream. For him, I keep silent. And I know that Mr. Hasan will have me thrown overboard if he doesn’t toss me out to sea with his own hands.

  I must force myself to stop thinking of the passage of time while I am confined. I am hopeful that Mr. Hasan will give Sanjay more space, now that he believes his son’s fate is sealed. It is a silly thing to think of, having space on a crowded steamship. I am better served by hoping Sanjay can locate safe hiding spots. Perhaps an accomplice — or two — who may be trusted. I can only leave those details in Sanjay’s capable hands.

  Is this for REAL? Did I just write this? HOW? I look down at the blue ballpoint pen in my hand. I look back to the freshly written text in front of me. It’s not possible.

  Re-reading the story sends my heart racing and my brain spinning. What is this nonsense? I need a clue, a real live lead, not more about being locked in a trunk! What’s the name of the ship?

  No, wait, there is a lead here. The ship left a place called Calcutta. But I still need more. The images from my dreams are still fresh in my mind. Maybe if I saw a photograph, I could nail down the time period.

  “Hi, sweetie! What are you reading?” says my mom, appearing in the doorway out of thin air. Her reddish-brown wavy hair has glints of purple in the sickly fluore-scent light. She looks warm in her black leather jacket.

  I slap my diary shut and shove it under my covers.

  “Nothing. Diary stuff. Private stuff.”

  “Are you writing about Bryce?”

  I frown, thinking for a moment. It would be better to start rambling about crushing on my friend again rather than tell her I’m still trying to prove Akasha was real.

  “Kat, what were you thinking, running off like that? You scared the hell out of me! What would Grandma say? You’re lucky that Bryce’s mother did the right thing and called me after he called the police. Do you know I was at the police station getting ready to send an Amber Alert to the media?” says my mom. I say nothing.

  “You can sit there like an angry mute. I don’t care. I’m just glad you’re safe now,” she says, as a short gray-haired man appears in the doorway.

  He’s looking down at me, past the wire frames of his glasses. Then he looks down at the clipboard he’s holding.

  “Katelyn Medena, Mrs. Medena, my name is Dr. Werdiger. I’ll be conducting your evaluation.”

  He’s looking at me the same way my old school principal used to after I’d been sent to the office for day-dreaming in class.

  This is not going to go well; I can feel it.

  Chapter 3

  “So, Katelyn, I see here you’ve had some excitement recently. Vancouver is a dangerous place for a minor, let alone a girl who’s run away from her caregiver,” says unhappy Dr. Werdiger. Faint musky cologne has followed him into my room.

  “I’m her mother. Please, call me Becky,” says Mom. She dusts her hands nervously and shoves a set of freshly manicured rose-pink nails towards the doctor. He shakes her hand cautiously.

  “Becky it is. I’m the psychologist you were slated to meet with yesterday morning. It’s unfortunate that we had to reschedule our appointment … and change the venue.” Dr. Unhappy sounds irritated. I wonder if Mom’s biker-style jacket has made a bad impression. As though she heard me, she removes it and sits down.

  “I’m so sorry about that. It was just a misunderstanding,” says Mom. I am still saying nothing.

  “In light of Katelyn’s actions, her evaluation will determine whether we move forward with long-term admittance to BC Children’s or take an out-patient approach.” We must look terrified, because he quickly adds, “Don’t worry; this isn’t an incarceration. Provided we don’t detect any serious cause for concern, from there we can admit her to a local group home and continue treatment in a more comfortable environment.”

  “Katelyn, say something.”

  “Something.” I glare at my mother, refusing to address Dr. Unhappy directly.

  “Being uncooperative is not going to help you through your evaluation.”

  “Fine, Dr. Werdiger, I’ll cooperate. I don’t know what else there is to say, though. Did Dr. MacDonald send my file?”

  “Yes, we have his notes and his initial diagnosis.”

  “So, you know what I think. Now I just need to know what you think.”

  “It’s not that simple, Katelyn, but if you help us, we will do our best to help you.”

  “Katelyn will cooperate. She wants to get better.” Mom confidently folds her hands in her lap.

  I grind my teeth silently, pushing my hair back and away from my face.

  “I’ll give you two some privacy.” To me, Mom adds, “I’ll bring you back a hot chocolate.”

  “Now then, Katelyn,” Dr. Werdiger says as he takes a seat in the armchair next to the magazine-covered side table. He pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Let’s talk a little bit about why your mother brought you to Vancouver in the first place.”

  “Okay. I’m here because I told my mom that I think a girl from the past is talking to me.” I manage to make my tone as matter-of-fact as possible. “I think I’m having this girl’s dreams. And I think she’s writing in my diary.”

  “And you believe this girl is you in a past life?” Dr. Werdiger is equally straightforward.

  “I don’t really know. I don’t know why I told my mom all that stuff. I don’t know where I got the idea. It just seemed to be the right thing when I found handwriting that didn’t look like mine in my own diary — and because of the dreams.”

  “Your mom thinks you might be suffering from epileptic seizures, despite that diagnosis being ruled out some time ago. Your regular psychiatrist, Dr. MacDonald, isn’t quite sure how these fantasies are helping you. Your mother also thinks you may be using drugs. She says you’ve come home smelling like marijuana on several occasions. She thinks you may have tried other drugs.” Dr. Werdiger is obviously trying to read my face and gauge my reaction. I am a blank sheet with ice-cold eyes.

  “I don’t do drugs, not even pot. I’m from Nelson. I mean, I’ve come home smelling like pot. You can’t get away from it. I don’t think I have epilepsy, either. I don’t want attention — from anyone. I have no idea why I’m dreaming and writing the things I am.”

  “I notice you’re using present tense. These dreams and writings are still happening?”

  I say nothing, but I know the look of “caught” is written on my face.

  “Okay, let’s talk a little bit about your father. You aren’t in touch?”

  “No, but that doesn’t bother me. He left when I was a baby. Mom and I are perfectly fine on our own.”

  “But you’re not fine; you’re in the hospital. You ran away.”

  He’s trying hard to rattle me. I can’t allow it to work, but I don’t know how to outsm
art him. I have to keep my mouth shut.

  “Well, it’s apparent to me that you are not hallucinat-ing or abusing a substance of some sort. So, I’m ready to refer you to a group home for ongoing counseling. The province doesn’t have a suitable facility in Nelson. We can place you here in Vancouver or in Kelowna. It might be easier for your mother if you were closer to home.”

  “Do I have a choice?” I shift uncomfortably in my bed. I’ve been sitting too long and I’m suddenly aware of the awkward mismatch between my pajamas and his business-casual slacks and collared shirt.

  “I’m not comfortable releasing you from this hospital if we can’t agree on a treatment plan for you. If you hadn’t run away from your mother, things might be different, but as it is … I’m afraid we’re a bit stuck.”

  “I’d like to stay here in Vancouver.” I leave out that I don’t particularly want to make things easier for my mom. Something completely bizarre is happening to me and I need her support. Instead she’s putting my brain under a microscope.

  “Okay, let me make a few calls and see where we can find a bed for you. We might have you placed by tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.” I am trying to be grateful and cheerful, but I know this is not what Dr. Werdiger sees as he leaves my room. I don’t care what he thinks as long as I can stay in Vancouver. Being here is my only chance to find answers.

  Mom comes back with her coffee and my hot chocolate. I take the cup and smile.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to leave again in a bit. I called Patricia Lindstrom and I’m going to meet her for a late lunch.”

  “Say hi to Nanny Patty for me.” I smile. Thinking of my former second mother lifts me slightly. “I just wish there was more for me to do here. I don’t know anyone. I don’t want to hang out in their teen lounge and I’m not supposed to wander around. But Dr. Werdiger says he can get me into a group home soon, maybe even tomorrow. I can handle a boring day and another night here.” I am able to fake cheerfulness now. Staying in Vancouver is a good thing, even if I have to submit to mental health treatment.

  “Why don’t you call Bryce, sweetie? He’s really broken up about calling the police. He did the right thing, but I think he feels like he betrayed you.”

  “He did betray me!”

  “Katelyn, you have to understand the position you put him in.”

  “I know. This sucks. For everyone. I’m sorry. I don’t know how many times I can say I’m sorry before it loses all meaning. But something is happening to me. I know I’m not crazy.” I also know arguing with Mom isn’t helpful. I take a deep breath. “But I know I’m not being haunted by a past life. I will work with Dr. Werdiger to figure out what’s really going on. And I already texted Bryce. He’s coming to see me later today.”

  “Thank you, sweetie. It’s good to see you putting the pieces back together. That’s all I’m asking for.” Mom kisses my forehead, shrugs her jacket back on, and leaves again.

  My phone jingles.

  Are you decent? I’m down in the lobby.

  Bryce! I jump up to the bathroom and start brushing my hair.

  Chapter 4

  I sit in the aggressively cheerful yellow-walled teen lounge with my diary and a copy of FLARE that is at least ten years old. I’ve finally brushed out my tangled jungle of hair and I feel more presentable to the civilized world. I told Bryce to meet me here instead of coming to my room. A new nurse came in, so I didn’t miss my chance to scramble out of my PJs and be human for the first time in over a day.

  I can’t concentrate enough to write, so I flip through page after page of fashion photos. I don’t know if I should see Bryce; part of me wants to stay angry, but the longer I wait to find out if I’m cool with him, the harder it will be for both of us to talk. I might have done the same thing if a runaway turned up at my house in the middle of the night.

  I must look unapproachable because none of the other kids that come and go from the lounge venture a greeting or comment in my direction. After what feels like hours, I look up to see Bryce walk through the door.

  In the brightly lit room, I get a better look at him than I had in his basement at night. He’s grown taller again. The minor case of acne he used to have is gone and his skin is smooth, the color of oak wood. His jet-black hair is a little different; his bangs are a bit longer and sculpted more carefully than before. His light brown eyes have an almost golden hue now.

  “Hey runaway, how ’ya doin’?” asks Bryce playfully. This is his way of breaking the tension. I smile to show him I’m not planning to chew him out. I’m desperately curious where his parents are. His mother will be hovering somewhere nearby.

  “Can’t complain now that I’ve got such fine accommodation.” I roll my eyes and survey the room.

  “I wish you could have stayed at my house, but it just wasn’t gonna work out.”

  “I know. I put you in a terrible position. It’s all sorted now. I’m probably going to stay at a group home here in Van until they tell me I’m officially not crazy.”

  “You’re not crazy. Nobody’s saying that. Not even —” Bryce stops short of naming someone.

  “Not even your father?”

  “He doesn’t think you’re crazy. A bit weird for a twelve-year-old, but hey, aren’t we all?”

  “Yeah. Coming from an academic and music prodigy.”

  “This hospital thing is just something they have to do. You can’t run away without them making a big deal out of it.”

  “True. And even if I get into that group home, I don’t know how long I’ll be there.” I pause, think, and switch to sarcasm mode. “As long as it takes me to come up with a cover story for two styles of handwriting in my diary — not to mention Hindi — along with a believable reason for being delusional or a motivation for lying, whichever comes to me first.”

  Deep down I’m not joking. I reached out for help and Bryce slapped my hand. I know he had to, but I can’t change how I feel. I shared a secret — with Bryce and Mom. And that trust led me to the Children’s Hospital kids’ lounge.

  “Maybe we can hang out while you’re here. I can show you around a bit.” I want to take Bryce’s olive branch. I can go for the occasional plate of fries without bringing him back into my circle of trust. Dr. MacDonald called it compartmentalization, which is when you separate feelings that don’t go well together — so, you can ignore the part of you that’s mad at a person when you want to be friends with that person.

  “Sure, I’d like that. I could use a little tour. I don’t know what part of the city I’ll be in yet, but I don’t want to get lost trying to find my way around.” I also don’t want to sound too eager to get back into Bryce’s social calendar.

  “Just think, when you come back to the coast for university one day, you’ll already know your way around.”

  “Yeah, that totally makes it worthwhile being held against my will as a mental patient.” I cringe at the way that came out. “I’m sorry. I know how that sounds. It’s not your fault I’m here, it’s mine.” I’m practicing again for my psychiatric audience. In reality, I’m pretty sure it’s Mom’s fault.

  “It’s okay. Your mom reminded me that you’ve got something like epilepsy, but they haven’t diagnosed it. That’s harsh.” Bryce looks at me with pure pity.

  “I barely remember those old gap-out sessions. They’re not really happening anymore. I don’t know why she still thinks I’ve got some brain disorder.” I know exactly why Mom is confused. If she could only believe me, life would be so much easier.

  “Still, it’s more than most of us have to deal with.”

  “I guess it’s possible there’s something to it.” I look away to a poster of a skateboard park on the opposite wall. Bryce and I are running out of topics and I’m too worn out for small talk.

  “How about a game of pool?” I gesture to the pool table nearby.

 
; “I’ll rack.”

  We play pool for another hour before Bryce’s mother peeks her head through the doorway. Radhika and I have always gotten along, even though she’s shy. I wonder how she’ll feel if she finds out I think I was an Indian girl in a past life. She smiles weakly at me with her painted maroon lips, not entering the lounge as Bryce says goodbye.

  MOM COMES BACK with A&W burgers for our dinner so I don’t have to eat hospital food again. I manage to smile a bit and let go of my anger about not being believed and about being in psychiatric care. I know I haven’t stopped being mad about it, but I am moving in the right direction. Once I can convince myself I’m happy and normal, I can convince everyone else. The hard part will be drawing out my treatment long enough for some field trips around the city — if I can figure out how to get breaks from the group home. Still, I need to be ready. I’ll need to make time to re-read all of Akasha’s diary entries to be sure I have not missed anything important.

  Dr. Werdiger knocks on my door as Mom stuffs the last of our fast food evidence into the waste bin.

  “Katelyn, I have some good news for you,” says Dr. Werdiger.

  “You’ve decided I’m not crazy and you’re letting me go home?”

  “Let’s not use the word ‘crazy’ from now on. I do have your group home ready, though.”

  “That was fast! So, lay it on me.”

  “You will be staying at Arbutus House in Kitsilano. Have you heard of the neighborhood?”

  “I think so. Is it near downtown?”

  “Katelyn won’t be making any trips into the downtown core,” Mom promises the doctor. She frowns at me.

  “This house isn’t really near the city center anyway. It’s south of English Bay and east of ubc. It’s mostly university students and families. A very safe and beauti-ful part of Vancouver.”