I See Me (3 page)

She opened my file at the very beginning and began to scan the pages.

“It’s not in there,” I said. “I’ve read all that. I’d already know about the necklace if it was in there. There’s a note about belongings, but I assumed it meant clothing that had probably been burned after she died, since I hadn’t been given anything.” I weighted that last part with every ounce of disdain that I could muster over something I’d only learned about moments before — so not much, but more than usual.

“Oh … I … you’ve read this?”

“Yep,” I answered. “More than once. It’s a bonding exercise. I guess you hadn’t gotten around to offering yet.”

“Well, I … that is unorthodox —”

I picked up the necklace. It was as heavy as it looked. “It’s broken,” I repeated.

“Yes, I saw. I thought about getting it repaired, and cleaned.”

For some reason, it incensed me that this woman had seen this piece of me, this piece of my history — maybe even touched it — when I hadn’t even known it existed.

“Is the box hers?”

“What? Oh. No, I don’t think —”

I stood up and tossed the velvet box on Carol’s desk behind her.
 

She flinched back in her comfy black desk chair. She gripped one of the vinyl arms, then deliberately relaxed her hand when I noticed. Her light coral fingernails were chipped at the very tips. I knew she had a panic button underneath her desk. She’d used it when I was hit with the hallucination that I’d had in her office about a year ago. If she had just let me leave, let me get some fresh air and sketch as I’d requested when I felt it coming on, then she wouldn’t have had to use the button. Then I wouldn’t have had to suffer the touch of strangers and the questions of the paramedics. I should have left without permission, but I knew that usually resulted in reprimands and restrictions. Also, they kept the front doors barred — literally gated. I had to be buzzed through both the exterior exit and the door between the reception area and the offices if I wanted to leave.

I really hadn’t wanted Carol to see me in the grip of a hallucination. Part of me hated her for having seen me so vulnerable. She’d talked about it as a bonding experience afterward. I’d kept my mouth shut.

I coiled the necklace in my palm, then tucked it in the inner zippered pocket of my bag, along with my passport and the big wad of cash I was more than ready to unload. I turned to leave.

“Wait,” Carol cried. “What about … will you be staying at the Residence tonight?”

“Doubt it,” I answered as I sauntered out through the door. Social workers always kept their doors open during client meetings to thwart any accusations of abuse. And, of course, so they could call for help. Though as previously noted, they also had a panic button for that. I didn’t think any of us foster kids were supposed to know about the panic buttons.

“You need to check in,” Carol said as she jumped up from her seat to follow me into the hall. “You need to be careful about stress and … and … everything.”
 

I quickly crossed by the other open office doorways. It was almost four o’clock, so most of the offices were empty for the day. At the top of the stairs, the room to my immediate right was painted in what was supposed to be cheerful colors. Kid colors. Egg yolk yellow, deep sky blue, and grass green. The room was filled with a tidy array of toys, low plastic chairs, and a navy blue cushy couch that had seen many better years than this one.

I looked away. I’d always hated that room. I’d met two of three sets of prospective adoptive parents in there. I’d also spent an entire day captive in there — three times — after I’d been voluntarily surrendered to the ministry, but before I’d been assigned my next foster placement. Everyone here was overworked and underpaid, including the foster homes. The rest of us were stuck in the nowhere that was between the two.

But not anymore — not me, not now, or ever again.

“Check in with me,” Carol continued. “With your doctor, with your —”

“Shrink.” I said. “Yeah, I know. How about we leave the counseling to the experts?”

“I’m a certified —”

“I know to get my white blood count levels checked once a week,” I said as I trotted down the stairs with Carol at my heels. “I also know that there will always be a room for me … if I give you enough notice. I get that you aren’t tossing me onto the streets.”

I got stalled at the locked glass door inside the front waiting area. This door could only be opened by code, or by remote if the receptionist was around. She wasn’t.

Unfortunately, this meant that Carol caught up to me and managed to drag me in for a hug. Being all of five-foot-three had its disadvantages, and overly emotional hugs from chesty people was one of them.

“Right,” I said, as I withstood the unwanted human contact without screaming. “Great.”
 

I patted Carol’s back.

She didn’t let go. “I just loved that picture you drew for me. I’ll always cherish it.”

“Okay, then.”

Carol finally drew back from the hug, but she didn’t let go of me. “Oh, no! I bought you something. Special pencil crayons.”

Great. I didn’t draw in color. “I’ll grab them from you later.”

“Oh? Okay.” The loose promise of a visit got me a smile. She was teary, but not crying.

“Is this your first aging out?”

Carol nodded.

“You’re doing great.” I really hated to lie, but I really had somewhere to be.

“Really? I was so worried when you were late —”

“Buses, you know.”

“I’ll miss our monthlies.”

I hated it when she called our meetings ‘monthlies,’ like we menstruated together or something. “Okay, sure, but I’ve got to go now.”

“All right. Be safe, Rochelle,” Carol said. “I’ll always be here for you. I care about you.”

I nodded. This motion caused the migraine I’d just fought off to ping-pong through my head. Carol wasn’t being false or anything, but I just needed to go. I needed to think about the necklace, and I had more errands to run. Errands I’d been planning for months. I didn’t want to get derailed.
 

My entire life had been dictated by other people’s tragedies and shortcomings, but now I had a future that was just mine. A hallucination, a mushy social worker, and a dead mother’s necklace weren’t going to slow me down.

“Thanks for everything, Carol.” Then I said what I needed to say to get clear of the door, of the building, and of all the many caring-but-overworked-and-underfunded social workers that Carol represented. “I’ll call you next week.”

“Perfect,” Carol said with a teary smile. “Happy birthday, Rochelle.”

She even managed to say that — to wish me well on the day of my ill-fated birth — without a hint of irony.

She buzzed me through the door, then through the exterior door with one last wave.

I wasn’t going to call Carol next week. I might check in later, just so she didn’t send the police looking for me. Though I might be brain-damaged, I was polite. Some might say I was well trained by the system that had raised me.

I thumbed the automatic lock on the secondary security gate that stood two steps in front of the exterior, then slipped through it onto the sidewalk. The ministry was serious about protecting its workers. And with some of the loopy, estranged parents I’d seen raging around here, that wasn’t surprising.

The gate clanged closed behind me. The sound made me smile.

I was never going to hear that again.

∞

A bus got me back to Cambie Street within a dozen or so minutes, but then I had to wait for the next SkyTrain to get to my ultimate destination. I actually had enough time that I considered dropping by the Dairy Queen up the hill on West Broadway to see if a friend of mine was working. Then I spotted the jewelry store just a couple of blocks up.

This neighborhood was undergoing gentrification … you know, a cleansing. A bunch of the single-level storefronts had been torn down and replaced with big-brand big-boxes disguised in brick, steel beams, and smooth concrete with upscale apartments above. However, a few holdouts remained to sully the block. The jewelry store was one of them. I’d never actually noticed it before. But then, I hadn’t owned a piece of jewelry that had any real worth before.

Even if the stone were only quartz, it would be cool to get the chain fixed. I might be able to mend it myself by squeezing the broken link back around the eyelet that was drilled into the stone with needle-nose pliers. I wasn’t sure I had the strength, though. Gold was supposed to be soft, but the links of the necklace were really thick. A jeweler could probably do it properly, and it would hold better.

The dirty windows and door of the place were covered in security bars. The twenty-percent sale sign taped to the inside of the window was seriously sun bleached. The display case was half full of watches. Who wore watches anymore? The other half was filled with what appeared to be hundreds of different wedding bands. I never knew there were so many choices. But then, I’d never even fantasied about getting married.

I had to buzz to be let in, so I did.

Then I waited.

I waited so long that I glanced around for the security camera that I was pretty sure would accompany the buzzer and the bars. It was in the upper right corner of the doorframe.
 

I removed my tinted glasses and depressed the intercom next to the buzzer button.

“Hi.” I spoke into the black box while looking up at the camera. I’m sure I looked ridiculous doing so. “I have a gold necklace that needs to be fixed … and the money to pay for it.”

I didn’t mind that most adults found me a little off-putting. That was the point, after all. I couldn’t blend in — I know, because I’d tried for years — so I didn’t bother. However, most old people could be made to feel really stupid about their prejudice with a simple friendly smile. Though I only bothered smiling in that way when I wanted something, which wasn’t often.

The door buzzed, and I grabbed the handle quickly before it could lock on me again.

The store was divided by three rows of waist-high glass cases, with more ringing the walls. It was less dusty inside than I’d imagined it would be. The cash register was at the back, next to a short Formica countertop.
 

Not bothering to look at anything, I headed back to the counter as the jeweler wandered out of the back office. He wasn’t that old. Old enough that he was graying at the temples, but I had friends going gray, so sometimes that didn’t mean much. Still, he was old enough to be my father, if he’d been Asian rather than East Indian. Not that I knew for sure my biological dad was full Asian, but I looked to be at least a quarter by my size and the shape of my face. This was why my white blond hair and big, pale eyes — supposedly inherited from my mother — were weird if I didn’t keep them covered.

He was young enough that my appearance shouldn’t have bothered him.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was in the can.”

Great. “Okay,” I said as I fished the necklace out of the inner pocket of my bag.

“Cool bag,” he said. “Did you get that on Etsy?”

“No,” I answered — again lying, though I really hated doing so — because I really wasn’t into the chatting part of human interaction. “My necklace is broken.”

I placed my mother’s necklace on the counter, stone first. The heavy linked chain pooled to one side. It was long enough that it would probably fall almost halfway to my belly button if I wore it. By that, I gathered my mother had been tall. I hadn’t known that before.

“What’s this?” the jeweler asked. But he was speaking to himself, not me, so I didn’t bother answering.

He lifted the chain. “Yes, broken, I see, but …” He stared at the stone, then looked at me. He was acting weird. Concerned, maybe. But then also freaked out around the edges.

He picked up a magnifying glass — one of those ones that jewelers somehow wore in their eye — and looked at the broken link, then closer at the stone.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked. His tone was weirdly harsh, but also excited.

“Quartz?” I said with a shrug. “Can you fix it?”

“Can I fix it …”

He looked at me instead of the necklace, sizing me up for some reason.

The back of my neck started to itch. I was really aware of the locked door behind me. Could I get out of the store without him letting me out? I hadn’t thought of that before coming in. Why would I? I wanted to glance back to check to see if there was a release lever on the door, but I held the guy’s gaze instead.

“Where did you get this?”

“It was just handed to me by my social worker. It was my mother’s. My dead mother’s. But I’m not sure how that’s your business.”

“You didn’t steal it?”

“What? No. Why would I be stupid enough to bring it in here if I ripped it off?”

“To sell it.”

“I just want it fixed. Can you fix it or not?”

The guy stared at me for a moment longer. His eyes were really dark brown. Wet seal-pelt brown, but not warm and fuzzy like that image would imply. Slick and nimble seal brown. Tricky … maybe not to be trusted.

“It’s not a quartz,” he finally said, returning his gaze to the necklace. “The chain is rose gold, eighteen karat. I’d have to weigh it to be sure, but this is thousands of dollars worth of gold in this market.”

He looked at me for a reaction, so I shrugged. He looked at the rough-cut milky stone through the magnifying glass again, turning it in his fingers. “I don’t know what idiot just drills gold eyelets into a diamond this size and simply hangs it from a chain.”

“Sorry?”

He looked at me. The stone was now hidden in the palm of his hand, which he was practically clutching to his chest.

“Do you know what this is worth? The gold or stone alone? I could sell it —”

“No,” I blurted. “Not interested. It was my mother’s.”

“The stone is almost the size of a nickel,” he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Depending on clarity, the depth of the damage from the eyelets, and estimating on the low end, it’s worth easily fifty grand. And the gold —”

“I don’t want to sell it,” I said. I was on the verge of yelling. I placed the palms of my hands on the counter to stop myself from snatching the necklace away from him. I didn’t like the way he was holding it. I didn’t like him holding it at all.