In the Dark We Forget Page 2

  Scanning the corridor, Aoki gives a curt nod. “You’d be the best judge of that, for sure. You gotta—” She breaks off, pinning her gaze on a white man in street clothes as he passes, dragging a shaky hand across his haggard face, oblivious to her scrutiny. “You should trust your body and what it tells you.” She sits next to me.

  I feel unwanted tears prickling the skin around my eyes. I stare at the floor, blinking back panic as though it were only salt tears. “Am I . . . in danger? Someone did this to me? That’s what this means?” I tighten my hands into fists to stop the trembling. “What do I do? Where do I go?”

  Aoki straightens her shoulders. “For now, back to the detachment. I’ll see how long I can keep your file.”

  “I’d like that,” I say, words tumbling out without time for careful consideration. “I didn’t exactly have any expectations, I mean, I didn’t think I did, not until I saw you come out and I realized I felt . . . relief.” I shrug, awkward. “Guess I was expecting some big strapping white guy. Or something.”

  Aoki quirks her lips, just a little. “You’re not the first person to say so.” She pauses. “Not even to my face.”

  I cock my head to one side. “It’s weird that I don’t remember my name or anything about my life, but I know somehow that another Asian woman will take me seriously better than a white man will.”

  Aoki’s gaze sharpens. “Did you know you were Asian? I mean, without thinking about it? Without seeing your reflection somewhere?”

  I stare at her. “I just . . . knew.” I comb what little there is of my memory. “I just thought, when Thea’s car pulled to a stop ahead of me this morning, on the side of the highway, I thought, I hope it’s a woman, and I knew I’d look safe to her since I was Chinese.” My eyes widen as I realize what I just said. “I’m Chinese.”

  “Do you know any Mandarin? Or Cantonese? Um, maybe Taiwanese? Or, uh, Fukienese, even?”

  I gape at her, brain suddenly on whiteout, digging for a reply.

  Aoki puts her hands up, palms facing out. “Sorry, that was rude.” I see kindness behind her joking expression. “I should know better than to ask that of any Asian Canadian. It’s a sore spot for a lot of us, eh, the mother tongue, yada yada.”

  I blink at the taste of truth in that. I push aside the unease that follows.

  Aoki looks intent again, all joking done. “Don’t worry about it. I know this is difficult, and you’ll be hearing it a lot, but something’s sure to come back. You just have to be patient.”

  I give a short laugh. It sounds like a bark. “I don’t think you’re supposed to say that. Shouldn’t give the patient false hope.” I hear the bleakness in my voice.

  “Not that I should ask.” Aoki pauses. “Is that what the hospital psychiatrist said?”

  I swallow instead of spitting. “Don’t get my hopes up too high. Some people never recover their memories. But I might experience potentially disturbing and confusing flashbacks. It’s not exactly a science.” I think back. “She said my amnesia is . . . unusual. If the . . . Rohypnol caused it, then it should look a different way. Like you said. Short-term. Not this gaping emptiness—but, I still know things, random things about how stuff works.” I pause, guts roiling coldly. “It looks like the only thing I don’t remember is who I am or how I ended up on the side of the Trans-Canada.” I press my lips together, tight, and remind myself Aoki’s virtually a stranger. It’s her job to help. Doesn’t mean I should tell her everything I’m afraid of. I chafe my arms, glancing up and down the hallway.

  “Well.” Aoki gathers herself to stand. “Let’s get started on what we can do, okay?”

  Back at the RCMP detachment, I get fingerprinted. Another surprise: it’s all electronic. No ink or stamp pads. I blush when I realize I was expecting a black ink pad. Maybe I watched too many TV cop shows as a kid.

  Aoki runs the freshly scanned prints. “Well, you’re not a criminal.”

  “Awkward otherwise, right?”

  She allows a small smile, barely a twitch of her lips.

  Another database. Another search. “Not a Missing Person either.”

  I rub at my sternum. “So that means . . . no one’s looking for me.” I try to blink away the stinging in my eyes. I breathe carefully past a sudden panic pushing up against my diaphragm. “Could we—” I swallow, try again. “I want to look for the place I woke up. Can we do that? Now?”

  “If you’re sure you’re up to it. I was hoping we could get a start on that.” Aoki checks the wall clock, an old-fashioned analog with multiple hands. “Are you hungry? Why don’t we grab something from the Tim’s on our way out?”

  I suppose it’s a sign I know where she means. I wish I knew good or bad.

  Three

  Where do I go afterward? How are you or the hospital going to keep tabs on me? I mean, I don’t even know where I’ll be.”

  “That’s probably in our favour right now. We don’t know enough about the situation, but we need to keep you safe.”

  Aoki merges the truck smoothly onto the highway. I hear the tires rolling over asphalt underneath, the sound of air whistling past. The sun shines bright and strong, past its zenith now. There’s a rattle just behind me, but I can’t place what it is. I sip my warm tea. Too many tannins or something. So bitter.

  Or maybe it’s just me. I replace the tea in the cup holder. Should’ve asked for cold water.

  “I’ll ask Lenore to contact a few of the churches, find you a safe place to stay overnight. They’re good like that.” She glances at me. “Non-denominational, if you want.”

  I shrug. “Sounds fine. Do I have to stay there, whatever charity billet you dump me? So you can reach me by phone or whatever?”

  Aoki gives me a sidelong look.

  “Sorry. I sound like a snotty teenager.” I crumple the takeout bag on my lap, compressing the remains of a bland turkey sandwich into a tight ball.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I guess?” I throw my hands up. “I don’t even know. I should just be grateful I’m fine. Just some bumps and bruises, right?” I sink back into the seat.

  “You change your mind, we can skip it. Head right back to town. No problem.”

  I stare out at the brilliant landscape unfolding around us. There are precisely two white fluffy clouds in the stunning blue of the sky. The mountains are as massive as they’ve been for the past millennia, impassive and aloof.

  I open the window, feel a sharp wind. The rattling behind me intensifies. I give myself three deep breaths of cool, fresh air. I depress the window button again. My ears pop slightly as the air pressure inside the truck readjusts.

  “Just nervous, I guess. Sorry.” I press back the stray hairs around my face, redo my ponytail, remind myself of my manners.

  Aoki remains silent for a few more kilometres. “Nothing to apologize for. However you deal with this. Everyone’s different, and you’re entitled to freak out or not freak out.” I can see her hesitate. “Just know we’re here to help best we can.”

  I watch the kilometres roll past in an undulating sea of plant life. Trees, flowers, grasses, weeds, shrubs. And undoubtedly, animals invisible to my ignorant eyes. The highway twists, ascending and descending through the rock and dirt and thousands of hectares of trees. I try to envision the toil taken to break this trail. . . .

  I can’t. It’s literally unimaginable to me. Who takes a look at these mountains and thinks, Yeah, we can cut a railroad through that. I mean, I can imagine someone thinking they want to climb up and over. They want to see how far they can push themselves. They want to explore. They want to migrate westward. But to believe you can make your mark with thousands of kilometres of steel and other people’s blood. That’s just . . . unbelievably . . . arrogant.

  I shake off the distraction, tap my to-go cup. “Hey, uh, I’m not sure I’d know exactly where I . . . woke up.”

  Deciding against more bitter tea, I sandwich my hands between my knees, but I only end up reawakening the pain from the dee
p bruising.

  Aoki gives a short nod. “I’m estimating from Ms. Halford’s statement. We’ll pinpoint it best we can once we’re closer.”

  She’s good as her word. We slow down maybe ten minutes past Field, lying alongside a CN train station on the south side of the highway. The town is so tiny, I think I could count its streets and buildings from here, if I wanted to. I can’t tell if the train station’s still in use. As we continue eastward, I spy an access road off the north side of the highway, heading east along the foot of one of the mountains. It must lead upward. There’s nowhere else to go. I squint at the small sign at the intersection. Yoho-something-something. Road, perhaps?

  “Ms. Halford said she picked you up at about seven o’clock this morning from the north shoulder around Yoho Valley Road. She said she was driving west. Did you cross the highway before you started walking west?”

  I shake my head. “I remember passing Field in the car with her, but I can’t say. . . .” My attention catches on a curled piece of shredded rubber laid out on the left shoulder of the highway. I point it out as we pass. “I think I walked past that. I remember wondering how big the truck must’ve been.” I remember I checked over my shoulder, too, nervous all over again about walking with my back to high-speed traffic.

  The Trans-Canada Highway leads on, clear of any roadside turnouts for as far as I can see. Aoki checks her rear-view mirror, pulls over onto a generous patch of shoulder to let a stream of cars roar past. We resume our comparative crawl.

  We pass a sign for an outdoor exhibit overlooking a deep, dark green valley to the left.

  “Did you walk past this?” asks Aoki. “Lower Spiral Tunnel viewpoint.”

  I nod. “Used the facilities.” I consider. “Where I woke up . . . it’s flatter. Not the side of the mountain, like this. I was in a, like a shallow dip. I had to climb up a little before I even saw the highway.”

  We pull over, allowing a few cars to pass, then continue round a very slight bend.

  My scalp tingles again, like ants all over it. I straighten up abruptly, the seatbelt pulling against my collarbone.

  Aoki flicks a glance at me. She slows, aiming the truck toward the shoulder, checks the highway in both directions, then makes a smooth U-turn.

  I find my voice. “How far is this from where I got a ride?”

  “We’re about ten klicks east of Field.” Aoki turns off the engine. “Let me go first, okay? I’ll signal when you can come out, too.” Seeing my alarm, she says, “I don’t think it’s dangerous, but I’m cautious by nature.”

  She gets out, scanning our surroundings carefully, her hand at ease at her side, close to the pistol in its holster. I want to curl my legs up onto the seat. I settle for undoing my seatbelt and rubbing the tops of my thighs to dry my palms. I watch as Aoki steps away from the truck and slowly circles around the rear. She ends up outside my door, gives me a shallow nod. She steps just far enough away to allow the door to open.

  The air smells of pine cones and hot grass. Now that we’re not encased in the coolness of the AC, I can feel the full afternoon sun on my head. I leave my jacket on the passenger seat. I hear the click of a camera, look over to see Aoki with her phone in hand.

  “Getting a screencap of the coordinates.” Aoki slides her phone into a pocket. She opens the small door behind me to grab her official cap.

  “Are we supposed to be doing this?” I swallow. “Alone, I mean? Like, aren’t you supposed to get a crime scene team or something for this?”

  “We need to find where you woke up first.” Aoki rounds the hood of the truck, fitting her hat on snugly, her lips quirked up a little. “I get some leeway since I’m the constable who started your file.” Her expression sobers. “Since the tests found Rohypnol, and you were apparently physically assaulted, this is definitely a criminal offence file. It’ll go to Serious Crimes, out of Kelowna. But I’m here now and I can gather some evidence, so that’s what we’re going to do.” She looks at my face. “Don’t worry. It’s not like in the movies. There’s no jurisdictional fighting or anything like that. We just want to do the best we can for you. Whoever’s in charge of the file.”

  Aoki pauses to assess me again. “Are you ready to take a closer look around? I’m going to stick right next to you.”

  I nod, my mouth abruptly dry. I run my tongue over roughened lips.

  Turning, I face the mountainside. It’s not a huge bit of land between me and the dark evergreens that skirt the foot of the mountain. But it’s not tiny either. How am I supposed to find the spot again?

  “Take your time,” says Aoki. I glance at her. She looks back at me, bland. “The spot’s not going anywhere.”

  Right. I look down. There’s a very slight dip downward leading from the gravel toward the trees. Too shallow. I pivot and walk east along the shoulder until I find more of a slope. Is this it? I squint farther eastward, down the line of the highway shoulder. Is that? How am I supposed to distinguish one patch of grass from another?

  I feel my shirt sticking to me, at armpits and the small of my back. My head feels too light. Everything hurts. A spear of light strikes my left eye and I slap a hand to cover it. Flashes of disjointed things bomb my brain. Blackness and screaming, terror, anger, despair—

  I gulp in air, mouthfuls and mouthfuls, like I’ve been drowning. I feel tears against my palm and uncover my face. My eyes dart every which way, searching for what, I have no idea.

  “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Aoki hovers next to me, careful not to touch me, her palms facing me.

  My hands are trembling. This is useless. I’m useless.

  “No, no you’re not.”

  “Jesus, did I say that out loud?” Hearing the tremor in my voice, I wrap my hands around my shoulders, squeezing tight.

  “It’s natural to have flashbacks or to feel panicked. Just . . . take as long as you need.” Aoki’s tone is level and calm, her face kind. “Then we’ll start again. Whenever you’re ready. We don’t need exact coordinates. Just an idea of a search area. Somewhere to start.”

  I clench my hands into fists, rest them against my forehead. All right. I can do this. Another deep breath, this one maybe a little less shaky. I let my hands fall to my side, flick them to dispel the lingering panic. I try for levity. “Well, I did throw up on the side of the highway, once I climbed up and started to freak out. But yeah,” I gesture vaguely at land and sky, “that’s not gonna be a reliable marker now.” A thought bubbles up through my shame. “I can’t have walked that far, right? Before Thea—Ms. Halford—picked me up. And I know the sun was just rising.” I look up at Aoki again. “What time was dawn?”

  “About six, give or take.”

  “So, is this a reasonable distance for me to have walked?”

  Aoki taps at her phone, snaps another screenshot. “Yeah, I’d say so.”

  We spend another few minutes walking back and forth along the highway shoulder. Despite my embarrassment, I look for a patch of gravel with the contents of my stomach still on it. No go. It’s been hours after all, and it’s a sunny day. Aoki makes some notes for herself. We get back into the truck. She hands me a bottle of water from a cooler behind her seat.

  On the ride back, she explains next steps. Serious Crimes, higher-ups, investigators. I don’t have anything to say. I wonder if I’ll end up with the strapping white RCMP officers of my imagining after all. I rub my temples. That sounds wrong, even in my head.

  We pass the Lower Spiral Tunnel viewpoint again. It was still cool when I stopped there earlier in the morning. I remember shivering inside the smelly facilities, then rubbing my hands with a triple dose of hand sanitizer as I skimmed the outdoor exhibit. Tired, I read the signage and peered at the facing wall of tree-clad mountainside, trying to find the tunnels, playing at tourist while I fought off another stomach-churning wave of panic.

  I realize now how right I was when I told Aoki I “just knew” my heritage. Earlier this morning, I searched the exhibit text and the scattering of
contemporaneous camp photos for any mention of the Chinese men sent in to fire the dynamite, their lives considered disposable by the white overseers and engineers tasked with carving a figure-eight of tunnels into these daunting mountains and, really, across this whole country. And I remember I wasn’t surprised when I failed to find a single image of any Chinese labourers, not even unidentified ones.

  I suppose expendable people don’t get names.

  Four

  Back in Golden, I hesitate before exiting the truck.

  Aoki stops with her hand on her door handle. “Feeling okay?”

  I stare through the windshield at the dark brown siding on the RCMP building, the darkish green roofing, the flags hanging motionless on the pole. The pale yellow stone cladding the bottom half of the building looks like it has minerals embedded in it. I frown as I move my gaze over it, puzzling at the play of sunlight. “Is your detachment sparkling? Or am I seeing things?”

  Aoki lets out a laugh. “It’s the minerals and the little fossils in it. I mean, that’s what I’ve been told. Apparently, it’s a big deal, don’t ask me why.” She looks at me, her smile fading. “You all right?”

  “Not sure how I’m supposed to answer that. I don’t know my name, where I live, how much money I have in the bank, how I got here, if anyone’s missing me. . . .”

  The truck’s engine ticks, trying to cool itself down in the afternoon heat.

  “Not that you’ve asked me.” Aoki turns slightly to face me. “But you’re handling it all remarkably well, given your situation.” She pauses. I keep my gaze fixed on the ugly building. “In my experience, people hate uncertainty. Your circumstances are the very definition. It’s like that saying There but for the grace of God. Do you know it?”

  I press my finger against my temple, shake my head.

  “Sorry,” says Aoki. “Thoughtless.”

  “But I can guess. Better me than them?”