She went out in the hall and said, “I’ll wait for you here. You have five minutes,” before closing the door. I was relieved to see there were no locks or bars on the door. There was, however, no window in the room either.
I quickly made my bed, changed, and put my things away. I was debating what to do about shoes. I remembered then that Kim had been barefoot and followed her lead. When I opened the door, she nodded and said, “come with me.”
We went down a hall with identical doors on either side, then through double doors to another hall that branched out in three directions. We turned right. It looked a lot like a hospital. I was worried. So was November.
We became especially worried when we stopped in from of a door marked ‘Dr. Eva Rivers.’ Kim knocked on the door, waited a moment, then opened the door.
“Hello Dr. Rivers,” she said with a smile. She was standing with her hands clasped behind her back, feet hip-distance apart. At ease, soldier, I thought to myself.
“Hello, Kim. Who do you have here?” asked the doctor, rising from her desk and coming to meet us on the other side of it.
“This is Clare Knox, my roommate for the week,” replied Kim.
“Thank you, Kim. I’ll take it from here,” replied Dr. Rivers.
Dismissed, Kim gave a half bow to each of them and left the room.
“Hello, Claire. I’m Dr. Eva Rivers,” she said to me, hand outstretched and smiling.
I was unable to smile, anxious as I was, but I did manage to shake her hand and offer a weak, “hello Doctor.”
“Don’t look so worried. Here, have a seat and we’ll begin,” she urged, motioning to one of the chairs in front of her desk.
I sat primly in the seat while she looked over what was presumably my file. Eventually, she said, “I see you’ve been living with your grandmother since your parents died in January.” She looked to me for confirmation. What? All of a sudden, I can feel November’s pain and sadness. It’s true. I nodded. What happened?
“Your grandmother has provided us with your latest report card, and the assessment made by the school psychologist. It appears that though your schoolwork has not suffered, you’ve retreated from your social circle and spend most of your time alone. Your guardian reports she often hears you crying in your room, but you refuse to talk about it with her.
“You also declined weekly sessions with a therapist. When your grandmother grew worried, the school counsellor suggested an after-school activity that might help you channel some of your emotions. This, you did not decline and have never missed a karate class. Your instructor says you have a natural ability and have improved at an impressive pace,” she explained.
At this, November bristled. They’ve even talked to my karate instructor. Is nothing sacred? she wondered. I agreed, this was getting creepy. They knew way too much about me.
“What if I told you I could cure your melancholy in a snap?” she asked, closing the file and looking intently at me.
Her gaze was like the high beams of a car to a deer, blinding yet impossible to look away from. My first thought was drugs or electro-chock therapy. Did they still do that? Was it legal?
I must have looked horrified because Dr. Rivers immediately continued by saying, “no, nothing sinister like what you seem to be imagining,” she chuckled.
“Your parents were operatives for a secret intelligence unit of the armed forces called the Canadian Special Operations Forces Command. They died in an undercover operation that went south,” she said and waited for me to process this.
“What?” I said, but what I mean was, what. The. Actual. Fuck?
Expecting this incredulity, she produced two glossy eight-by-ten pictures of Mom and Dad, wearing standard army fatigues. I picked up Mom’s first. Her hair was tied back in a severe ponytail and her unsmiling face looked like that of a stranger. Tears welled up in my eyes as I picked up Dad’s picture. He looked a lot like he did when he was in jail. Tan, lean, and a little mean.
Something snapped inside me, and I dropped the pictures back on her desk.
“You mean they didn’t die in a car crash on the way back from a show in Montreal?” I demanded, denial giving way to anger.
“No. They were ambushed while retrieving sensitive information in the alley behind the theatre. While they were meeting with their informant, an incendiary device was placed on their car,” she said.
A second ticked by. Two. Three.
“They died from a car bomb?” I cried, eyes wide.
She nodded. “Technically, they weren’t in the car. They were thrown some fifteen feet by the blast when they touched the handle. They died from the ensuing injuries,” she specified. “Would you like to see the report? So you know I’m telling the truth?” she asked, holding out another folder.
I wanted to say no. That would make it real. But they were dead anyway, might as well know the truth. I held out my hand and she gave me the folder. I braced myself for gruesome pictures, but there was only a picture of the crime scene after the bodies had been taken away. As I read about third-degree burns, broken ribs, and a shattered pelvis, I grew sick.
Like she was reading my mind, or perhaps the colour of my face, Dr. Rivers extended a trash can. I took it and immediately let go of my dinner and my emotions. I started sobbing uncontrollably, then laughing hysterically. When I was done, she took the can, passed me a tissue, and told me I could freshen up in her private bathroom while she disposed of the can.
I went through the door she showed me and splashed some water on my face, washed my hands and gargled with water. When I came out, the can was gone, and Dr. Rivers handed me a bottle of water.
“How do you feel?” she asked, curious.
“Angry,” I replied and found I was seething. How could Mom and Dad have kept this from me? How dare they die and leave me alone with nothing but questions.
Dr. Rivers smiled in satisfaction and said, “see, I told you I could cure your melancholy!”
Chapter 24
There was a knock at the door and after a pause, Kim came back in. Dr. Rivers asked Kim to explain what they did here.
“New recruits are assessed upon arrival. If they are deemed to be suitable candidates for the program, they will begin training. If they are not suitable candidates, they will attend workshops and therapy sessions relevant to their situation and return home at the end of the week,” replied Kim, standing in that quasi-military stance.
“What kind of assessment and what kind of training are we talking about?” I asked, more out of curiosity than any real interest. The whole thing was bonkers. I’d attend the mandatory workshops and therapy and go home to have an interesting conversation with Nana.
“Assessment has already begun. The contents of your file are the first part of the screening. Your reaction to the existence of the secret task force and your parents’ involvement is also being analyzed,” replied Dr. Rivers.
“And then?” I asked, aware that my question had not yet been answered.
“There will be a series of physical tests, language proficiency, performance under stress, that kind of thing,” said Kim.
“Can I refuse to be tested?” I asked. I don’t know how much November and I had in common, but I would likely fail most of the physical tests.
“I’m afraid not. It’s mandatory for all camp attendees. Some of the results will go into the report provided for the parents or guardians. All of the results are sent to HQ, especially for legacy recruits,” said Dr. Rivers.
“Legacy?” I asked.
“Children of operatives are automatically tested,” explained Kim.
“Tell me about the training,” I said, directing my question to Kim in the hopes I’d get an answer this time.
“You must have seen CIA, MI6, and FBI movies or TV shows, right?” she said. I rolled my eyes. “It’s pretty much like that, only for teenagers. I mean, this facility only trains teenagers. Adult candidates are assessed and trained in other facilities,” said Kim.
&nb
sp; “Wait, so this is basically a school for spy kids?” I asked with a chuckle.
“Teenagers are extremely resilient, they adapt more quickly to change than do most adults. They also have less resistance to learning new things or new ways of doing things,” said Dr. Rivers.
This was unreal. But there was clearly no way out of here for the next seven days. As the saying went, the only way out was through.
“How long does the training last?” I asked, wondering what I’d be in for if they deemed me suitable.
“That depends on when you begin and how much time you devote to it. At your age, if you came here only on weekends and school holidays, basic training would likely take about five years. However, if you attend school here full time, you would finish your training at the same time as high school,” explained Kim.
“Then what?” I asked.
“Most students go on to the next phase of training, which also includes a university degree. We follow the Canadian curriculum, there would be no CEGEP. However, some students decide to start taking minor field assignments while they continue their education in the normal way,” said Kim.
“You mean like the army reserve?” I asked. I remember seeing a flyer about that at school as a career path.
“Yes, exactly!” said Kim.
“So, this is basically like going into the army,” I said.
“With an added twist,” said Kim.
“Do you think you have enough information for now? It’s almost time for lights out,” said Dr. Rivers.
I looked at the clock on the wall. It was eight forty-five. My brain couldn’t take much more of this anyway, so I said I was fine for now.
“Alright, Kim will explain the schedule and walk you through it tomorrow. Good night, Kim. Good night, Clare. And welcome to You two point oh!” she said in a voice that was way too chipper to be reassuring.
I’d probably leave here with a lobotomy.
Back in our room, Kim laid out the daily schedule. Five am wake-up, warm-up and training session, showers, breakfast, workshops, lunch, outdoor activities, therapy sessions, journal writing (or other individual activity), dinner, free time, lights out at nine pm.
I blew out a breath. I was exhausted just hearing about it.
“Grab your towel and toiletries, I’ll show you where the bathroom is,” said Kim.
On the way, she explained that the hall lights dimmed but stayed on at night in case I needed to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. She also said there were hall cameras and that the double doors at either end of the hall were locked for our safety. No one was allowed to enter a room that wasn’t theirs, ever. If we wanted to spend time with someone, it would be in the common rooms during free time.
I was relieved to see individual bathroom and shower stalls. When Mom had taken me to the gym once, everyone showered in the same room. I wasn’t down with that. And I’d seen enough movies to worry about privacy.
We brushed our teeth, washed up, and put on our pyjamas. There were other girls in the bathroom and Kim introduced me, though I was too nervous to remember any of the names. In the hall on the way back, everyone was smiling and saying goodnight like this was a sorority. Maybe it was.
“Are there boys here?” I asked when we were getting in bed.
“I was wondering when you would ask!” said Kim with a laugh. I waited, saying nothing. “Yes, but not in this hall. Boys are in another hall. Most activities are co-ed, as are the instructors,” she said moving around in her bed until she was comfortable.
“Tell the truth, am I going to die here?” I asked, feigning humour but really interested in the answer.
She burst out laughing, and replied, “of course not, silly. It’s just like camp, a very active camp.”
“So, it’s not going to be like training for Dauntless?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. The lights had turned out.
“Only a little,” she whispered back.
Shit.
* * *
The week was gruelling in ways I cannot describe. I left ‘camp’ with an offer to join their training program, either part-time or full-time. They gave Nana a bunch of fake flyers about the school and told her I had shown so much promise, I would be receiving a full scholarship.
Before I left, Dr. River said I could attend up to three weekend training sessions before I made up my mind. That would give me enough time to discuss it with Nana, decide if this was a good fit for me, and make arrangements if I decided to transfer mid-year.
Nana was very impressed, both with the scholarship and with the report she had received. I had made a complete three-sixty and was now a happy, well-adjusted teenager ready to reach my full potential.
On the drive home, Nana asked what I thought about it all. I told her honestly that I was considering transferring there full time, but that I wanted to sleep on it first.
“That’s a very mature decision, young lady. I’m so proud of you,” she said. “And I’m sure your parents are very proud of you, wherever they are,” she added.
I just bet they were.
Chapter 25
I opened my eyes, my heart still pumping from the surprise night exercise, and sagged into the sofa in relief. I most definitely did not want to switch places with November. I patted myself down, checking for sore muscles and new bruises, but they were gone. Sadly, so had my lean and toned body. I was back to my usual mushy self.
Only then did I notice someone was in the room with me. It was needlepoint girl. December. When she noticed me looking at her, she smiled and put down her needlework.
“You don’t say much,” I said to her.
“God gave us two eyes and two ears, but only one mouth,” she replied, as cryptic as the Dalai Lama. She seemed so nice that I didn’t want to inadvertently offend her with a response.
I extended my hands to her in invitation. She got up from her seat and came to sit next to me on the sofa. She took one of my hands and cradled it in both of hers.
“Don’t worry, it all turns out okay in the end,” she said soothingly.
* * *
I was on a plane, sitting next to Nana. It appeared we were on our way to Spain, specifically to Granada. She and December were both doing needlepoint and wearing identical serene expressions. I was starting to panic again. Where’s Mom? Why wasn’t she on the trip with us? December’s memories flushed my brain.
Mom had been dating a guy named Simon for the last three years. He didn’t live with us, but he often took me and Mom on various outings, and he came with us on our yearly family vacation with Nana. I liked him, he was nice. However, he died in a stupid skying accident in January and Mom’s been a mess. Though Nana helped out as much as she could, I had to pick up the slack at home.
Since I was intent on making the honour roll in every possible subject, the level of stress I had been experiencing got dangerously high and my homeroom teacher suggested I speak with a counsellor. She suggested activities I might do to help channel my energy and emotions. Since I already had so much to do, and she was insisting I pick one, I had chosen needlepoint to placate her.
It was offered as a lunchtime activity twice per week. It gave me a great excuse not to hang with my friends. They meant well, but I was tired of talking about my problems and much too tired to hear about theirs. My brain was so stuffed with all the goals I wanted to achieve and all the chores I needed to get done at home.
The activity was led by the school psychologist. When I saw her from the door, I balked and considered leaving. But she had spotted me and checked her list for my name. I reluctantly gave it to her and entered the room.
There were about twenty kids in here, boys and girls, as well as a handful of staff members. The only person I recognized was Valerie, a girl from my French class. She smiled at me and nodded to the seat next to her.
Mrs. Reynolds was beckoning me. She gave me a bag and invited me to take a seat.
“I’d like to welcome our new members to needlepoint class. You
may think that needlepoint has gone out of style decades ago. But you may be surprised that needlepoint, crocheting, and knitting have made comebacks as mindfulness practices,” she said,
While she spoke, Valerie opened the bag I was still holding and laid out the contents on my lap. She urged me to hold the ring. She then took her kit and started stitching. I looked around and everyone but the newbies was stitching. One of the staff members and two other students were holding the ring the way I was. Weird.
“Mindfulness is the process of slowing down and taking time to focus our full attention on where we are, and what we are thinking, feeling, and doing in the present moment. It’s the practice of being aware of, and engaged with, our emotions and actions as they occur, accepting them without judgement.
“When we are aware of our feelings at a given time, we create the opportunity to interact with others thoughtfully, as opposed to simply reacting or acting out reflexively. Mindfulness is an enormous piece of self-care and wellness, particularly given how negatively stress can affect our health,” she went on.
I realized that stitching was a mostly silent activity.
“How does stitching relate to mindfulness? When we engage in a task with our hands it allows our minds to wander, or just be. The work itself has a meditative, rhythmic quality to it, and it allows our thoughts and feelings to percolate. We can stitch while a thorny issue simmers. Often, at the end of the time spent stitching, we have arrived at some resolution or are at least better able to tolerate the ambiguity of the situation. The kinetic aspect of stitching gives our brains a little space to pause, reflect, and observe our emotions without judgement,” she concluded.
She then went around to answer questions. Valerie placed the provided canvas onto the frame. It wasn’t a colloquial country landscape. Painted on the canvas were the words ‘Be. Here. Now.’ How apt. She showed me how to thread the needle and knot the thread. The threads in my bag had various colours but were all precut to the appropriate length. She explained this first needlepoint wasn’t about making it pretty. It was about learning to stitch and staying present. I started with the basic continental stitch and realized how easy this was.
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