Secrets from Myself

by Christine Hart

  “Hello there!” says Patty.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” says the librarian.

  “Are you able to assist my niece and me with research for a school project?”

  “Yes, what are you looking for?”

  “We have an ancestor — my great-great-grandfather — named Eddie Calhoun. He was the first of our family to come to Canada, around nineteen hundred. We’re using him as the top of our family tree, you see. And we wanted to find some kind of official document about his arrival in Vancouver. Maybe a photograph, if we’re really, really lucky.” Patty is masterful with her story. I stand silently, content to let her do the talking for me.

  “Let me see what I can find. Most of those records are hard copies, but we do have digital records I can search. Come back in about half an hour.” The librarian notes something on paper in front of her.

  “Thank you so much,” says Patty. She scoops her purse off the counter and we retreat downstairs.

  Patty buys me a bottle of strawberry-kiwi juice and we sit at a café in the spiral’s outer ring. I watch people come and go out of the library while Patty tells me about her week at work. I know I should be interested, but I am too preoccupied with trying to picture the librarian finding a photo of Eddie Calhoun. I hope that if I visualize the thing, it will come to pass and we will go upstairs to find her proudly displaying a photo of Eddie and Akasha standing in front of the heritage home in the West End. Patty will gasp. I will laugh. It’s still a far cry from proving that Eddie murdered Akasha, but that will be my next mission.

  We return to the Special Collections desk and I am vibrating with anticipation. This is the moment of truth.

  “Oh, hello there. Sorry, but I wasn’t able to find anything for you. Maybe try one of those ancestry web-sites. I hear they’re getting quite comprehensive,” says the librarian.

  “Look again, please, there has to be something here,” I say urgently.

  “Sorry, dear, I’ve looked through both hard-copy and digital collections. We have no record of an Eddie Calhoun. Most of our documentation centers on buildings, monuments, government, and public figures. For random people, it’s hit or miss. This one’s a miss, I’m afraid,” says the librarian.

  I want to argue, but I can see that it’s pointless. Patty puts her hand on my shoulder. My nerves won’t let me leave. I realize how badly I wanted this, how much I’d come to count on finding something here at this library. And then I let go and walk back to the escalator. I assume Patty is following me and when we reach her car, I see her reflection behind me in the passenger door window.

  “Take me home, please.” I am out of energy.

  And then a flicker of Radhika’s face crosses my mind. She thought she had some family records related to the Komagata Maru! It won’t connect me to Akasha, but it’s something. How can I get her to dig through those old boxes as soon as possible?

  Chapter 16

  I have difficulty falling asleep as my mind races — about Eddie Calhoun and about the possibility of Radhika’s family photos and letters. Should I keep digging? Should I let go, knowing it’s an impossible quest? Will Akasha haunt me forever if I abandon her now?

  I grip and release my pillow, turn over, and turn over again. I have lost touch with why I came to Vancouver. I had no plan apart from giving in to a wild idea. I thought something beyond my understanding had generated Akasha’s writing in my diary and planted her dreams in my head. Perhaps it’s time to start seeing myself the way Mom does, the way the doctors and counselors do. I’m a delusional child looking for attention. Having Patty, and when he’s in the mood to do it, Bryce, humor me in my ramblings hasn’t really changed the truth.

  My frustration flows into sadness, and from there, anger. How could I be so stupid as to think that a past life wanted me to find justice for her? Saying it in my head sounded ridiculous. Of course my friends and family think I’m nuts!

  My phone jingles. With Rayanne gone the tone echoes in my quiet room. I snatch it off my nightstand, turn off the ring tone, and stuff it under my mattress to hide the sound of the vibrating. Phones are supposed to be off after lights out.

  It’s Bryce. Want to come visit tomorrow?

  What? Had he read my mind? I would love to come over tomorrow. Can someone pick me up?

  He writes again. My mom offered. She found some photos for you and some kind of registration document. It’s pretty cool!

  Is this for real? My heartbeat thumps a ringing into my eardrums. I take a minute to compose myself. I’ll need to be even more cool when I’m at Bryce’s house. Especially if Professor Mann is home.

  Sounds great! Text me when you’re on your way and I’ll be ready.

  I have the restraint to wait inside the next day. Giv-ing up on Akasha has taken the wind out of my sails. Looking at some real-world relics connected to my dreams is going to be surreal.

  Radhika and Bryce are running late, but I don’t want to press them. Instead, I wait in the living room, watching the sci-fi B-movie Melody put on. I’m starting to pay attention to the group stranded in space on a cargo ship when my phone finally jingles. We’re here. Sorry we’re late. Mom wanted to wait for Dad to head into the office. No surprise that Professor Mann works on Sundays.

  I shout goodbye at Mariah and anyone else who cares as I hop off the couch and bolt for the door.

  Bryce smiles at me from the passenger side of his mother’s maroon sedan. Her car is almost the exact same color as her lips. Not sure what I think of that. But Bryce’s warm, bright white smile is more distracting. I’m still getting used to his trendy whip of black bangs and taller stature, which is noticeable even when he’s sitting.

  I slip into the back seat, slightly winded from having run through the house and across the yard. Radhika turns and smiles at me before she pulls the car back out on the road. I can still see her eyes in the rearview. Her thick black lashes and metallic-brown eyelids are much more glamorous than anything my own mom would ever wear. Radhika has always been careful to look good, and she’s always successful.

  “Mrs. Mann, thank you so much for coming to pick me up. I’m sorry I can’t come visit you on my own.”

  “Nonsense, my dear, I wouldn’t have you taking public transit. Through the city, at that! No, I’m only too happy to help,” says Radhika’s quiet voice. She’s trying to speak up over the car and the street noise as we turn onto Cornwall Avenue, but she’s still hard to hear. She says something else I can’t quite hear, so I stay silent.

  “Mom wants to know if you want a smoothie. We can stop on the way home.” Bryce turns to project into the back seat. He doesn’t have a problem with volume though.

  “I’m okay. But thank you, really.” I want to get to Bryce’s house as quickly as possible.

  Radhika finally parks in the small driveway of an old house. It’s the quaint kind of old, like the heritage homes in Nelson, although our old stomping grounds feel very far away.

  As Radhika opens the front door, the warm brightness of their home is breathtaking. The ceilings are high and I feel instantly out of my league. The faint smell of cinnamon and cardamom wafts towards us. We remove our shoes, and head directly to the kitchen, a magazine-ready showcase of granite counters and stainless-steel appliances.

  Once we’re sitting on barstools at the kitchen island and Radhika has poured us some tea and set out two fruit plates, I decide it’s time to move things along.

  “So, Mrs. Mann, Bryce tells me you found some pictures or papers I can look at for my history project.”

  Radhika’s face lights up. “I hadn’t forgotten.” She leaves the kitchen and I hear footfalls on the front stairwell.

  “Don’t worry; the whole point of bringing you over was so you could look at this stuff. Mom loves her old pictures. But I don’t think she’s got a lot to go on. My grandfather changed his name at some point after he married my gra
ndmother,” says Bryce.

  Radhika reappears with two pieces of fragile old paper to show me. The first is a grainy photograph. The second looks like a postcard. She holds out the photograph first.

  “This is my grandfather and his father not long after they came to Canada. My grandfather and his wife owned that shop in the picture. I think it was a wedding present to get them started here. Very generous back then,” says Radhika as she looked thoughtfully at the men.

  “I’d say that’s generous for any time. I’d love it if someone bought me a shop.” I accept the photo from Radhika and cradle it in my hand as I look more closely.

  The two men are smiling. One is middle-aged, the other barely out of his teens. It’s hard to make out detail in the faces. They’re wearing turbans and long tunic shirts. The black-and-white image makes colors impossible, but they’re light gray in the image. A shop sign is partially obscured by the pair; only the word GOODS shows through. I flip the photo over. The writing on the back is Hindi.

  I return the precious photo, which Radhika accepts and exchanges for the postcard. It’s not a postcard, though. It’s a ticket. Under a graphic seal and a couple of serial numbers it reads:

  CANADIAN PACIFIC RAILWAY CO.

  To the Commander S.S.———————

  Please provide the bearer with Steerage

  Accommodation with food from HONGKONG to VANCOUVER. Fare ($50 Gold) has been paid to us.

  Under the text is a PAID stamp with a date I can’t read. The ticket has been authorized by a name, which is also illegible. And then:

  Agents, Canadian Pacific Railway.

  Calcutta 23rd December 1907

  B. Hasan

  And at the bottom, a name! B. Hasan. Sanjay’s last name! Could this be any relation? Akasha has never actually named Sanjay’s father. If he changed his name, was this the new name or the old one?

  “This is amazing! This is a real piece of history!” Nor-mally when someone is showing me old family photos, I have to feign polite interest. Pins and needles are shooting up my spine and along my arms. I remember myself and hand the card back to Radhika.

  “Did you get what you need for your project?” Radhika seems eager to return her keepsakes to a safe place.

  “Would it be all right if I take a photo of each with my phone? Just to keep a copy without putting your originals in danger.” Radhika smiles and places both items on the counter long enough for me to click twice with my camera.

  “Do you mind if I borrow some paper to make some notes?” I think better of it. What if I really was just looking at Sanjay and his father, and touching one of their actual tickets? Will I have another episode right here if I start writing? “Actually, never mind. I’ll just tap some notes into my phone and email myself.” I smile nervously. Bryce looks understandably confused.

  After another cup of tea, Radhika and Bryce take me back to Arbutus House.

  My turn in the shower has been bumped to after dinner because of my tardy return from the Drive. I don’t like going to bed with wet hair and the house hairdryer is broken. I’ll just have to deal. But after a truly brain-blending afternoon, I decide sleeping with wet hair isn’t something worth complaining to Mariah about.

  I draw the curtain and turn the shower to mostly hot. I peel off my tank top and denim shorts. I step inside the steamy enclosure and pick up the communal shampoo bottle, cursing myself for not picking up some of my own toiletries during one of my brief outings.

  As I work the foamy soap through my hair, my arms start to feel chilly. I turn the water all the way to hot. Stupid small hot water tank. They’re supposed to be housing half a dozen girls here. Can’t they do better?

  The water starts to scald my skin, but the air around me is still cold. I start to feel nauseous. I need to sit down. Now. I flick off the shower head and sit down in the shower, hugging my knees for warmth. It’s no good.

  I pull the shower curtain back to grab a towel. I look over at the bathroom mirror and scream. It’s not me! It’s HER!

  Akasha’s face stares back at me from behind the condensation on the wet glass. Several lines are written in characters I don’t recognize.

  I stand cemented to the ground, panting. I break free and grab a towel. I need a picture! My phone. I wrap the towel around me and bolt out the door. I run down the hall to my room and fish my phone out of my backpack.

  “Katelyn, what’s going on?” says Mariah from the living room. I can’t make out the words, but the other girls are talking too.

  I run back into the bathroom and swipe my phone on. I snap a picture, although most of the fog is gone. A few words remain. It’s still worth capturing. I take another picture and another. And then the mirror is clean again and I am Katelyn once more.

  Chapter 17

  It is a beautiful, sunny Monday morning. I’m on the bus to Visions Vintage. I should be gazing out the window, reveling in the discovery of a potential connection to Sanjay. And I am … but the photograph and the ticket put me no closer to finding justice for Akasha. That’s my only real goal right now.

  I am, however, writing to Bryce to get a translation for my mirror message. If he can’t translate it, maybe his mom will be willing.

  I venture a glance out the bus window where the same old apartment buildings glide past. I add a message to my photo before I hit Send. Please check out this photo. I think it’s Hindi, but I don’t know for sure. The fog cleared a bit before I could get my phone. Is it readable? Please help. I need to know what it says!

  The bus turns onto Davie Street. No reply from Bryce. I sigh and watch people going about their summer day.

  Noémi is rearranging a rack of clothing near the front of the store when I walk in. She appears to be sorting by color and the effect is eye-catching.

  “You are in back today. Many bags from the donation truck need sorting,” says Noémi, not looking up from the hangers in front of her.

  “How should I sort: color, size, quality?” I am practicing my cheerful tone of voice for my next chance to work with customers.

  “We do color this week, see?” Noémi looks up to make eye contact with me and makes a sweeping gesture past the rainbow of clothing in front of her. The look on her face suggests I am an idiot.

  “Color it is. I’ll be in the back. Holler if you need me.” I am already plodding to the back of the store. I drop my backpack on the ground and slip my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. I want to know the second Bryce has an update for me.

  I quickly create piles of blue, white, brown, and black. It’s not until I get to the bottom of three large garbage bags that I have piles of pink, purple, yellow, orange, and green. I arrange the disheveled lumps in piles. There is no point folding until I know which will go on hangers and which will be piled on tables.

  My phone doesn’t vibrate until after my break. Bryce can’t translate the message, but he’ll get his mom to look at it when she gets home.

  That’s so awesome. I hope she doesn’t think I’m nuts, though. I’ll call you after work. I slip my phone back in my pocket before Noémi catches me.

  The day drags on and on until Noémi finally tells me I can go at twenty after one. The next bus I can catch won’t pick me up for another ten minutes, so I call Bryce. It’s better to talk to him before I get back to Arbutus House and I don’t want to do this on the bus. His phone rings and rings until he finally picks up.

  “Hey Kat! How’s your day so far? How did work go?” says Bryce brightly. He’s trying to be polite. If only he knew how much anxiety is coursing through my veins.

  “Good. Great. Awesome. So, has Radhika looked at my photo?”

  “Wow, you don’t miss a beat when you’ve got your teeth in something. You’ve never been one for chitchat, though, have you?”

  “Okay, give me break. Lecture me on social niceties later.”

 
“She’s still not back from yoga. She left dinner for Mitchell and me in the fridge, so I don’t think she’s going to be back until later tonight.”

  “Damn! Well, please text me when you’ve got an up-date. I won’t get the chance to talk on the phone again. I don’t want them overhearing me at Arbutus. And tomorrow I’m going to the Vancouver Aquarium with Mom and Patty.”

  “I’ll text you as soon as she gives me the translation. And I’ll send her exact words, don’t worry.”

  “Thank you, this means a lot to me. Really.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m doing this.”

  After we end the call, the bus stops in front of me.

  The Vancouver Aquarium is tucked inside Stanley Park. The building is completely unfamiliar and Patty tells us it was recently renovated. We walk past a giant Haida sculpture of a killer whale and we’re expressed through the ticket line courtesy of Patty’s membership and visitor passes. I’m impressed again by a wall of rippled glass with tiny etched steel fish mounted on it. I love the Aquarium’s glossy new makeover, but I’m a little sad that it’s not the way I remembered it.

  “I kind of wanted to see the old exhibits, but it makes sense they’ve got to cater to locals and refresh the place,” says Mom.

  “Me too. I wanted to see the place like it was when I was a kid,” I say.

  “Don’t worry, most of the building is still the original structure,” says Patty.

  We pass through the vaulted foyer and through to the outside exhibits. A crowd has gathered around the dolphin tank.

  “And this is Jewel, our youngest bottlenose dolphin,” says a young woman in a red bomber jacket. Jewel the dolphin completes a somersault and drops back down under the water.

  We are just in time to catch the rest of the dolphin show. Jewel and her friends dance and flip while the woman in the bomber explains what the bottlenose dolphins’ calls mean, how much food they eat, and what their habitat is like in the wild. Afterwards, Patty guides Mom and me through the rest of the outdoor and indoor tanks. Otters and penguins charm us with their play while beluga whales and jellyfish enchant us with their alien strangeness.