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.”

“Sounds good. Mom, we can go check out ubc. Maybe I’ll get to go to school there someday.”

Mom frowns again, but Dr. Werdiger looks indifferent to my attempts to talk about anything other than psychiatric care.

“It’s good to have plans and goals. For now, let’s worry about getting you better,” says Dr. Werdiger.

I briefly consider that I wouldn’t get into ubc anyway. Then I wonder if Dr. Werdiger doesn’t think I would get in. Wouldn’t he know better? Either way, he’s right about one thing: first thing comes first. But his first thing and my first thing are different; I need proof of Akasha’s life here.

“Here is the package on staying at Arbutus House. There’s a resident’s agreement — which your mother will need to sign — house rules, and a few brochures for activities in Kitsilano. You’re due at the house to meet the on-site supervisor Mariah and your counselor, Jane. I’ll be working with you and Jane once a week, but you’ll need to see Jane every day to start. Tomorrow morning, the nurse on duty will come in around ten a.m. and help you check out. From there, you can head straight to Arbutus House. Do you have any questions?” Dr. Werdiger shifts his gaze to Mom.

“I think we have everything we need. I’ll look over this package with Katelyn tonight.”

“Excellent. Katelyn, next time I see you will be at Arbutus House. Have a great night, ladies.” Dr. Werdiger leaves abruptly.

Mom spends a few moments looking through the papers, which is good, because I have zero interest in reading them.

“Mom, can we do one thing after we get out of here tomorrow?”

“Sure, sweetie, what did you want to do?”

“The reason I ran away was because I wanted to go see Gastown in the city. I knew you wouldn’t take me. I know you don’t believe me about my dreams and my diary, and that’s fine, you’re probably right. But if I can just go look around and get it out of my system, I’ll be able to get my head in the game, so to speak, when it comes to this counselor stuff.”

Mom looks up from the stack of paper and eyes me carefully. Her deadpan expression suggests nothing about what she might be thinking. Is she angry? Is she scared? Am I about to get yelled at or cried on?

“Okay, Kat, we’ll go. But so help me God, if you put one foot out of place or I so much as get a twinge of a feeling that you’re going to bolt, I’ll clamp a lock on your ankle for the next decade. Got it?”

“Yes, Mom, I’ve got it. Thank you. This means a lot to me.”

“Why didn’t you just ask the first time?”

“Would you have taken me?”

“Now we’ll never know.”

Mom gathers the Arbutus House papers, puts a hand on my thigh and leans in to kiss my forehead.

“Goodnight, Kat. You’d better be here in the morning.”