Outside In

by Sarah Ellis

  One of the security guards was the first to blink. He picked the wrong person to move along.

  The moment he touched Shakti’s arm, she exploded, a dry tree shooting up in flames.

  Gone was the illusion. Gone was the restraint. Gone was the street theater. It was a full-out rant. Shakti’s voice got harsher and higher with each word. Corporate greed, legislated poverty, government corruption — the familiar phrases washed over Lynn as she felt the sympathy, admiration and pleasure of the crowd leak away.

  She caught Rob’s eye. It was that look of sadness, worry and pity that Lynn was so accustomed to seeing when Shakti let herself go. And that was the look from friends. From strangers? They looked at her like she was a nut.

  Shakti seemed to be winding down, when Bighair thrust her microphone up to her and asked a question. Lynn couldn’t make out what it was. But she heard the answer, watched it unfold, slow and inevitable, gathering speed.

  “There are people in this city who are housed like animals, in burrows in the ground.”

  Lynn stared at Shakti, willing her to stop. You could as soon stop an avalanche. She was like an addict, a limelight addict. There was a roaring in Lynn’s ears through which she heard “reservoir,” “Underlanders,” “personal knowledge.”

  And then it was over. Bighair sped away, followed by equipment. Bob and Jean flanked Shakti, who was blinking as though she had just looked at the sun. She looked around and when she met Lynn’s eyes, she seemed to wake up.

  Lynn turned away and began walking.

  “Lynn!”

  She started to run, not caring where she went, loving the hard jolt of pavement under her leather soles, pounding out rage, disappointment and something like grief. She ran around a pocket park, across a main street, dodging a woman balancing coffee, deking around a black lab on a long leash, a crowded hotdog kiosk.

  A side road parallel to a rapid transit line led to a long flight of concrete stairs, a glass-covered walkway, an underpass and an empty soccer field. Lynn slid onto a bench and doubled over to relieve a stitch in her side.

  She had to get to the Underlanders to tell Blossom what had happened. She had to tell Blossom that it was not her fault.

  Except it was her fault. She had told Shakti. What did she expect? She had to get to the cottage, but what exactly was she going to say?

  Maybe there was a chance it would just blow over.

  No. Lynn had seen the TV cameras. Maybe it would be one of those twelve-hour fizzles.

  No again. A story about a family living under the reservoir was too good. Too headline. Too cute.

  Lynn took a ragged breath and reached into her pocket for a tissue to wipe her eyes.

  Nothing. No bus pass, no money, no cell, no tissue. And she didn’t know where she was. Lynn felt a burpy bubble of panic rising.

  She gazed at the eerie nuclear-green soccer field, oddly deserted. She took a deep breath and stood up.

  She had hours of daylight, a good sense of direction and two feet.

  It was amazing how much distance you could travel in a short time when you stopped comparing yourself to cars. Lynn remembered when she was in kindergarten asking Shakti how long a day was. Shakti answered that it was forty kilometers if you were a human and a hundred kilometers if you were a horse and one block if you were a snail and —

  No! She wasn’t going to let some soppy little-kid memory get in the way of her rage.

  A good sense of direction was fine for birds but not foolproof when you encountered a bridge that had no pedestrian access. A lengthy backtrack left Lynn sitting by a drinking fountain in a playground, hating cars. Her heels were itchy, and she reached over to scratch them and her fingers came back red and wet. She slipped off the shoes and inspected.

  The new shoes had rubbed. Blood had soaked into her socks, creeping up her ankle.

  She heard Blossom’s voice in her head.

  “There is enough of everything. It is all useful, for what it was made for or for something else.”

  She looked around. The playground offered grass, trees, flowers, a zip line, a sand pit and a climbing rock.

  Moss would work. Wasn’t there supposed to be moss on the north sides of trees? Not here. But there were always the riches of the garbage can.

  Yes, right on the top was a newspaper. She folded up an article on hockey violence and slid it behind her right heel. She assigned school closures to the other foot.

  It was good. Her snugged-in feet agreed to take her the next lap.

  Lynn saw the road ahead. She saw the pedestrian-activated light and she saw it turn green. She saw that she had just enough time to sprint to the road and get across it.

  She didn’t see the cycle path.

  Ding, ding.

  SIXTEEN

  Arcadia Lost

  There was a bright light overhead and someone with scissors. Why were they coming at her with scissors? They were cutting her sleeve. It was a good shirt.

  No! Don’t wreck my clothes!

  Nobody was paying any attention. There was just the sound of ripping fabric.

  ≈≈≈

  “Lynn? Lynn, wake up.”

  Lynn did not want to wake up. She wanted to stay floating, floating underwater but breathing with gills. Why had everyone kept this a secret? All that thrashing around and heaving your head out of the water was completely unnecessary. All that arms-and-legs business was silly when all you really needed to do was lie on your back looking up through the perfectly clear water. Like a fish, but warm.

  “Lynn. Time to wake up.” The voice was sweet, water bubbling over rocks.

  Lynn forced her eyes open.

  Somebody was there dressed in soft green. She had a purple stripe in her hair.

  Doctor? Angel?

  That could not be right. Doctors and angels did not have purple stripes in their hair. Or maybe angels did.

  “I’m Dr. Gill. Welcome back. You had an accident but you’re going to be fine. A knock on the head and we had to take some gravel out of your hands and arms, but nothing is broken.”

  At the mention of head and hands, Lynn’s body came rushing back, or she came rushing back to her body. The exquisite fish feeling shredded away like a scrap of cloud in a gale. Tongue and throat and all the other parts of talking remembered what to do.

  “What happened?”

  “You were hit by a cyclist.”

  A cyclist. Yes. Ding. There was something she was supposed to remember, something to sort out, but not just yet.

  She sank back into the warm and welcoming sea of air and water.

  ≈≈≈

  When Lynn woke for real, she was furious. The concussion holiday was over. She remembered everything.

  Shakti had betrayed her, blurting out the Underlander secrets to the TV reporter. Had it been on the news? She had to get back there to apologize, to explain. What if the authorities had already found the cottage? What if they had taken Blossom and Larch away and arrested Fossick?

  Lynn sat up abruptly. She had to get out. She swung her feet over the edge of the bed. Where were her clothes? Where were her glasses?

  Shakti appeared from behind the curtain. Immediately her story filled up the room.

  “Of course you had no ID except a name tag in your coat that said A. Smith. I was just beside myself. The police seemed to think you might have run away and I said to them, no, no, you don’t understand, she’s not that kind of teenager and they said that sometimes parents don’t know and I said that I would know because I was that kind of teenager myself and then they found out that I was a single mother and they gave each other those looks. At long last they thought to check the Emergency and you don’t even have any identifying tattoos because, as I said to the police, she isn’t that kind of teenager. That’s one good thing about tattoos. If I’m ever hit by a cyclist they
’ll just see the gecko and that will be me.”

  The location of the gecko was something that Lynn had long avoided thinking about.

  All through this speech Shakti had kept giving Lynn little pats on her knees or anywhere else that wasn’t her bandaged hands or arms.

  “As I said, I was beside myself. When I got here you still had a concussion and, well, I could hardly breathe and I had to do some yoga in the waiting room.”

  Yoga in the Emergency waiting room. Up and down dog? Sun salutation? Chanting?

  “Were you on the news?”

  “Yes, but …”

  “Stop talking. I need to get to the reservoir right away.”

  “They are going to release you as soon as the doctor sees you one more time. Then we can go. Don’t worry, Sixer.”

  “No. As soon as I get out you need to take me. And don’t call me Sixer. Don’t call me that ever again.”

  ≈≈≈

  “What’s the closest parking lot?”

  “Tennis courts.”

  A beeping, backing, City Works truck was blocking the entrance to the lot.

  “Shall I try another entrance?”

  Lynn was out of her seat belt and halfway out of the car.

  “No. Forget it. It will take too long. I’ll walk in from here.”

  “I’ll be waiting in the lot.”

  Lynn ran across the lot, over the low fence and around the tennis courts. Her legs didn’t feel completely reliable. The pock-pock of tennis balls, the laughter of the players, somebody yelling in Cantonese, the complaint of a crow — all the sounds were amplified. When she got to the cut-off path she stopped and tried to get her breath to even out.

  What was she going to say? What was the script?

  There was no script. She was just going to tell the truth. If she waited one minute longer she would lose courage.

  She ran her key across the vent.

  The path down to the door was muddy. It looked like a scar. The vines had been ripped down, exposing the door.

  Lynn sat with her back against the door. Were they there? Were they there and they just didn’t want to see her?

  She slid the cover off the keypad. It would be breaking in, a further betrayal. She had to risk it. She had to know.

  Most common passwords: kids’ names or pet names. blossom, larch, tron, artdog, catmodicum.

  Nothing.

  Then she remembered Fossick’s greeting on finding day, his greeting and Larch’s little riff. A-r-C-a-D-i-A.

  Click. The door opened to a rich, liquid darkness. Lynn reached out her fingers and let the wall guide her.

  Was it colder? Was it quiet? Of course, it was always quiet.

  When she got to the walldoor she didn’t know what to do. Knock?

  Finally, she just clicked it open.

  There was nothing left. No cardboard furniture, no layers, no tubeworlds, no Vermillionaire. There was nothing but smells — apples, nail polish and glue. There was a perfect circle of light on the floor and darkness in the corners.

  It was the emptiest place she had ever been, with no objects, no people, no story, no messages, nothing to show that it had been a home.

  It was as though the whole world had been her own invention.

  She stood in the spotlight and tried to imagine it back into being.

  SEVENTEEN

  A Style for Every Story

  “She’s not herself.”

  Lynn was walking from her room to the fridge when she overheard Shakti on the phone. Usually she hated it when Shakti talked about her, but this time she didn’t care. She didn’t even care if Shakti was talking to Brandon. She didn’t care because her mother was right.

  Not herself was exactly who she was. It was like the moment when you woke up and you didn’t know who you were for a split second. That split second had expanded into days. She slept and woke and Shakti changed the dressings on her hands and arms and then she slept again, in a fog of not caring.

  Not being yourself made it tough to make choices. Mediterranean, Vegetarian or House Special? Bath or shower? Do the homework that Mr. Inkpen had delivered or watch videos of babies dancing gangnam style? Check messages or ignore them? Get dressed or don’t bother? Stay home or go back to school?

  Her anger at Shakti seemed to have burnt itself up, leaving beige boredom.

  She wasn’t even hungry. The walk to the fridge was a matter of habit, not desire. She stuck her finger into a bowl of spinach dip. It tasted like pureed Styrofoam.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Lynn! Can you get that?”

  It was Celia and Kas. They looked like visitors from a previous life.

  “Come on,” said Kas. “We’re kidnapping you to go shopping.”

  This was way too complicated. Weren’t they still mad at her?

  “Oh. Hi. I don’t know about going out. I don’t feel that great.”

  Celia stepped in. “Oh, Lynn, we’re so sorry about your accident. Maybe you have post-concussion syndrome. Are you experiencing sensitivity to light and sound?”

  “Celia. Stay with the program. Lynn, we’re kidnapping you. The kidnap victim doesn’t have a choice. Come on.”

  Shakti appeared with the phone. “Half a mo. Girls! Great to see you.”

  “We’re kidnapping Lynn to go shopping,” said Kas.

  “Excellent idea. Lynn, go get my purse. You’ll need some money.”

  “I need to change.”

  “No, you don’t,” said Kas. “Those are perfect try-on clothes.”

  “Easy on, easy off,” said Celia.

  ≈≈≈

  In a way it was a relief to just surrender to Kas’s plans. She had pre-scoped the mall.

  “There’s a new jeans store and they’re having a two-for-one opening sale. Gold mine. Between the three of us we should be able to organize some multiples of two.”

  “What is it about jeans?” said Celia. “If they fit right they can make you feel like the person you know you really are — taller, more in charge, readier.”

  “Holy grail,” said Kas.

  They settled into three change rooms and the Diode proceeded to flip jeans over her door, model their own finds and demand viewings. Lynn listened to the judgments floating over the wall.

  “Celia, those are awesome!” said Kas. “The perfect degree of skinniness.”

  The sales clerk joined in. “That style is so figure flattering.”

  “Have you got these in pink?” said Kas.

  The clerk wandered off and Celia moaned. “Figure flattering! That sounds just like ‘plump.’ Do you think I dare do green?”

  “Dare it.” Kas was her usual decisive self. “Go all the way. Do pink. Remember, two for one. Lynn, come out, what have you got on?”

  “Um, the black ones weren’t right. I’m trying on a smaller size.”

  Lynn picked another selection from the pile. Kas and Celia were being so kind. She didn’t deserve it. She read the brand slogans that covered the walls of the fitting room. Stop wishing; start living. My bottoms are tops. A style for every story.

  Lynn glanced at the price tag, and a bowling ball came out of the fog and hit her.

  She did the math. Three people times three days of bottles — three good days of bottles. Something was tightening around her chest, and she felt short of breath. Three people, three days and what would be left? Another pair of discarded jeans and another hunger for another pair of jeans.

  What was she doing here?

  There was no chair in the tiny change room. Lynn slid down the wall. Her heart seemed to have relocated inside her ears, deafening her to the pounding music of the store and the distant voices of her friends. In its place was a hole with ragged edges. She inhaled, but the air didn’t seem to have any oxygen in it.

  They wer
e gone. She would never see them again. Even though the ordinary world had flowed in to fill the gap, things were so wrong.

  The door opened.

  Celia stood there in pink jeans. “Lynn?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Let’s get you out of here.”

  Leaving the change rooms littered with two-for-ones, the three girls stumbled back out into the mall.

  “It was too hot in there,” said Celia. “Do you feel dizzy? You should drink some water.”

  “Can we go outside?”

  The nearest exit led them to a sea of parked cars.

  “Come on,” said Kas. “I know a place.”

  They skirted the edges of the mall until they came to a loading zone, then across a patch of neglected grass to a couple of beat-up benches flanked by ashtrays.

  “Coffee-break zone for mall workers,” said Kas.

  Celia handed Lynn her water bottle. “Are you feeling better?”

  Lynn nodded. It was still hard to breathe. “I’m sorry.”

  Kas and Celia exchanged a glance.

  Celia reached into her pocket and pulled out a grubby hank of braided cotton — purple, green and magenta.

  “Remember this? You need to tell us what’s going on.”

  Celia still had her friendship bracelet from grade four? Lynn felt tears amassing at the base of her throat.

  Tell them. There was no reason not to now.

  Where to start?

  “Remember Heimlich girl? Her real name is Blossom.”

  The guitar concert and the first visit to the cottage, the birthday party, traplines and tubeworlds and Clara the dentist. As the story came together, the air recovered its oxygen.

  “I never should have told Shakti about them. They trusted me.”

  “You don’t know,” Celia said. “It might turn out for the best. Maybe they’ll get some help. For Larch and that. Like, maybe Blossom could get a chance to go to school.”

  “School? Are you kidding me? Blossom doesn’t need school. She’s the smartest kid I know. She knows sign language and the names of every weed and tree and all about bacteria and how to knit and fix a bike and grow a garden and take care of her disabled brother. She can do first aid for dogs. She goes to university! She can ride her bike up steep hills. There’s no way this can turn out for the best. If they get found out it’s all over and it’s my fault.”