Another Thursday, another visit to the friendly neighborhood shrink. Dr. K. asks to see my homework, then praises my efforts on the letter to the Girl. She asks how my week was.
I sit there in that uncomfortable chair and rattle off a list of what went wrong: the love of my ex-life thinks I’m faking amnesia, my best friend defended him, and my parents put our farm up for sale. I tell her about my temple memory too, and how my mind deceived me. And how I couldn’t bring myself to convince Dad not to sell the farm, and how this morning when I told Stephen that I had failed, he didn’t get mad or anything. All he did was sigh and go back to hiding out in his room.
I’ve never seen such a stunned look on the doctor’s beautiful face.
We spend the rest of the hour talking about each of these events, and Dr. K. asks me to describe my feelings: mad, hurt, embarrassed, worried, disappointed, guilty. I think I name every emotion known to humankind. My heart feels heavy and tired, but I don’t break down or freak out or anything. I feel cold, oddly detached, like I am talking about someone else’s life. On some level, I guess I am.
When our time is almost up, Dr. K. explains my new homework assignment. “I know you don’t remember your recent years, what your life was like. But let’s not worry about that for now. I want you to write a few pages about what you would like your life to be like now, in the present. What things you want to do, what people you want to spend time with. How about you call it My Perfect Life?”
Sounds futile to me to wish for what you can’t have. But I nod obediently, and she stands up to give me a hug.
Last time we came to the city, I fell asleep before we could go to Taco Time, apparently my old favorite. When Mother asks if I’d like to finally go there for lunch, I don’t have the heart to say no. She’s jumpy, knocking her coffee over so it spills all over my burrito. Maybe she wants to talk about the farm thing, but she doesn’t bring it up. I’m guessing Dad told her about my false memory too, but she doesn’t mention that either. When we pull up in the driveway at home, I’m so relieved that I pop the door open before Mother has even gotten the key out of the ignition.
I bound up the sidewalk and nearly trip on a rusty old bike. Tarin sits on our steps, munching on a bag of chips.
“Hey,” she says. “Hope you don’t mind me turning up like this.”
I don’t have time to answer; Mother is right behind me. “Well,” she says, “hello there.”
Tarin doesn’t pick up on the what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here vibe. She stands up and leans on my shoulder. “Mrs. Grenier, can I borrow Jessica? I’ll have her back in an hour or so. Going for a little nature walk.” Mother looks unsure, but Tarin hooks arms with me and leads me away from the door.
“Thanks!” Tarin says.
Mother pauses, watching us, then nods slowly before she disappears into the house.
“Wow,” I say. “You have a way with mothers.”
“You’ve got to be confident,” she explains, “but respectful. Works like a charm.”
She pulls me toward the garage, glancing around like she’s looking for something. “Which way to the cut line?” she says. “I know how to get to my secret hideaway from there.”
“Is that where you’re taking me? Is this kidnapping or something?”
“Sure,” she says. “You could call it that.”
I laugh, and I’m glad that she’s here to take my mind off—well, everything.
“So? You know where it is?” she asks, the sun reflecting off her nose rings.
When I’d visited the bison, I had seen a long clearing that ran past their pen. “Maybe.”
“The blind leading the blind. Now this should be an adventure.” She looks around again, and her eyes land on the For Sale sign. “Whoa. What the hell?”
“I’ll tell you about it as we walk,” I say, and I lead her this time, behind the house and on to where the clearing is. I tell her about Stephen and how upset he is, and how I can’t decide how I feel. How even Dad seems confused.
“Yikes,” she says. “A real-life soap opera.”
I almost tell her about the fake memory, but she starts going on about her stepfather and how he controls her mom, and how it disgusts her that her mother has no spine. If it weren’t for her boyfriend and music and knowing one day she’ll be old enough to be on her own, she says, she’d completely lose it.
When we get to the clearing, she nods. “This must be it. It should lead us to the creek, and then I’ll know how to get there.” We make our way down the cut line, bees buzzing around our heads and grasshoppers leaping in the tall grass. Tarin and I get into a rhythm, taking our steps in unison, and it feels good to be moving, not thinking.
The cut line opens into a wider space, a field with trees sprinkled through it. We pick up the pace and stride across the clearing, then come to a small creek winding its way around the trees.
“Bingo!” Tarin exclaims. The creek is shallow enough that we could probably walk across it.
Tarin shields her eyes from the sun with her hand and looks slowly from one side of the bank to the other. “There’s an old log bridge that I cross when I go from my place, so it must be on your side of the creek. And that way”—she points to the left, where a clump of tall pine trees stands—“should be north.” She turns to me suddenly. “I’ve never taken anyone there, you know.”
“I’m honored to be the chosen one,” I say. “Now get your butt in gear and find it already.”
We tramp along the side of the creek, Tarin occasionally stopping to study her surroundings, and then she turns and heads into the trees. A small path leads through the bush, and by the way she pulls me in there, I guess we are getting warmer.
“This is it!” Only a few minutes’ walk, feet crunching leaves and snapping twigs, and the trees give way to a small clearing.
“Ta-da!” she says with a sweep of her arms. “Not exactly the Taj Mahal, but it’s all I’ve got.” A rusty old camper, the kind that sits on the back of a truck, is propped up on cement blocks. It looks like the smallest breeze would send it toppling onto its side.
I can’t pinpoint what I expected, exactly, but this piece of junk doesn’t look like much, abandoned and with tall weeds growing up around it.
“Who does it belong to?” I ask.
“I have no idea. I’ve been coming here since we moved to Gran’s a few months ago, and I’ve never seen any sign of life or anything.”
“What do you do out here?”
She takes a swipe at the grass with her stick. “Hang out. Read. Write in my journal. Get away from my mom.”
Obviously, she needs to get things off her chest. But why would I want to deal with someone else’s issues when I can’t even handle my own? Tarin drops the stick, steps closer and whispers, although there’s no one to hear but the birds and squirrels. “I’ve even spent the night here a few times.”
“By yourself?” I ask.
“No, with a male stripper.”
I laugh. “Can I have a tour?”
“Absolutely, darling.” Planting her feet firmly on the ground, she grabs the door handle and yanks it hard. It pops open, and she takes a step up to climb into the dark cave of the camper. I follow her and am hit with a disgusting smell that makes me gag.
“God, what died in here?”
“It’s not that bad. You’ll get used to it. Now let me open up the curtains a little.” A soft light fills the room. There’s a table with benches on either side. The benches are covered in hideous green upholstery spotted with holes, and by the door is a two-burner stove.
“Where do you sleep?” I ask.
She sits on one of the benches and leans on the table. I’m not getting used to the smell. “Up there.” She points to an area above the table, where there’s a camouflage sleeping bag lying on a dingy foam mattress. She observes me for a few seconds like she wants me to say something, maybe “how cozy” or “this is awesome,” but no polite blah-blah comes out of my mouth. She gives up and gestures for me to sit down.
“Make yourself at home.” The table is smeared with something red.
“It’s only ketchup,” she says, reading my mind. “I made a fire and roasted a hot dog last time, and I didn’t have anything to wipe up the mess.” She gazes around, her face softening with affection. “I love this little getaway. Sometimes I can’t take my life for another millisecond.”
She is my new friend, and I should be more supportive, but all I can think is: Shit, here it comes.
“I know your problems are bigger than mine,” she says, “but really, Mom and I can’t stand each other anymore. I can’t stand her for marrying Fraser, and she can’t stand me at all. At least here, out in the boonies, I can get away from her a little. When Gran’s better and we go back home to our tiny apartment with Mr. Jerkface, there’s nowhere to hide. I don’t think I can do it again.”
I nod and try not to look at the ketchup smears, because they are really bothering me. “That sucks” are the only words of wisdom I can come up with.
“Can you keep a secret?” she asks.
I don’t know if I want to know the secret, exactly, but I know that keeping it to myself will not be a problem. I don’t have any real friends to tell. I nod.
“I have a plan,” she says. “To take off. For good.”
“What?” I say. “Like running away?”
She nods, a flash of determination in her eyes. “Yeah. I’m going to get away from all that crap. Take off and start over. I’ve been thinking about it for ages, but I think I’m finally ready.”
“Wow,” I say. “Where will you go?”
“I’ll come here first for a few days, then wherever. Doesn’t matter. As long as no one knows me and I never have to see my stepdad again.” She sits up straight and locks me into one of those searing stares of hers.
“I’ll send you a signal, when I finally do it. You could come with me.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, and suddenly the weight of this whole scene—the depressing camper, her desperation to get away—is too much. My fragile psyche is not in any condition to handle more strife; it’s reached its maximum quota for the next few decades at least.
I stand up. “I need to get back,” I say. “My mother’s probably worried.”
Tarin frowns, and I think maybe she’s going to make some smart-ass comment about me being a goody-goody, but instead she gets up too. “Sorry to lay that on you. I guess”—she sighs—“I guess I trust you.”
I wish I could say the same, but I’m hesitant. I don’t even trust myself these days. She clears her throat and pushes the door open. “Let’s get you back home.”
We walk in silence until we reach my front door. I ask her if she wants to come in for a cookie or something, but she shakes her head. “Homework to do.”
She’s already on her bike in the driveway when dread suddenly washes over me. She may be complicated, but she’s the only friend I’ve got. I call after her, “Hey, Tarin!”
She pauses, waiting for me to speak.
“Ever been to a pit party?”
She wrinkles her brow for a second, then lets out a loud laugh. “No, but it’s been a lifelong dream.”