We hadn’t gone down to Victoria often when I was growing up because it was almost a two-and-a-half-hour drive. Sometimes, though, our mom would take us to the museum or Fisherman’s Wharf, and we loved shopping in the city. Campbell River only had one old mall with a few small stores, but Victoria had three big malls and lots of boutiques downtown. Victoria was the oldest city on the island and also surrounded by the ocean, but it had a much different feel than Campbell River. There were Parliament buildings, quaint Victorian-style homes, horse-drawn carriages, the inner harbor, and lots of tourists snapping photos of the float planes and street artists. On the boardwalk, I stopped and admired a few sketches, wishing I could buy one, but clothes were more important right now.
I found a few items at the thrift store, a pair of black pants, some shoes, a plain white blouse, a small fitted blazer. It looked like something I’d seen women wearing on TV. I wished I could show it to Margaret. We used to watch Dancing with the Stars at Rockland, oohing and ahhing over the skimpy costumes. Margaret would get a crush on a contestant each season, getting upset if they didn’t win. We’d make ourselves snacks—you get creative with food from the canteen—then plop ourselves down on the old couch. Trash-talking with the other inmates was the best part, especially when Margaret would tell them to “shut your holes.” I liked watching the dancing, but none of the guys did it for me. I wasn’t like Margaret, who loved all of them—she even wrote fan letters. The only one I had a soft spot for was a motocross racer who competed one year. He’d reminded me of Ryan. Sometimes, when he was dancing, I’d blur my vision, and imagine it was Ryan, but then I’d want to cry, so I stopped doing that. It was easier not to remember, not to think about it.
But I found my mind drifting to him now. Was he at the men’s halfway house? Did he ever think about me anymore?
*
I changed into my new clothes, then spent the afternoon walking around and delivering résumés, with no luck. I also found a bus schedule and figured out how to get to the animal shelter. When I told the staff I was available for walking the dogs, they said I could come by any weekend. I spent some time in the back, poking my fingers through the kennel bars and rubbing muzzles and talking to the dogs, saying things like “Hey, I’ve been locked up too.” The chain-link fences, the noise, the shelter uniforms reminded me of Rockland, but there was a kind of comfort in that familiarity. The outside world was now the scarier place.
When I got back to the halfway house it smelled like burned meat and onions. Helen was in the kitchen, frying some hamburger patties and talking to a couple of women sitting at the table. I was starving but didn’t want to make my dinner with her in there, so I kept walking. She grabbed my arm when I passed the kitchen door.
“Hey, Murphy, one of my forks is missing. You take my fork?”
I gave her a dirty look. “No, and get your hand off me.”
Nervous snickers from the table while Helen’s fingers dug into my arm, pressing on the tendons. I tried not to flinch. She moved closer.
“You better hope it’s not in your room or you’re in deep shit, you hear?”
I couldn’t figure out why she was making such a big deal about a fork. At the most I might get a warning from the staff for accidentally taking someone’s belongings. What was her problem? Was she just trying to start another fight?
Her fingers dug in harder. “I said, you hear?”
“I heard.”
*
In our room, Angie was on her bed, playing music on an iPod. The night before we’d talked a little after Helen left. She was twenty-six and had been in for drugs and prostitution but said she was clean now, trying to get her life together so she could get her kids back. She’d borrowed money from Helen so she could get her youngest a birthday present.
I crouched to look under my bed, lifted up the mattress, felt along the edges for any cuts or tears.
“What are you doing?” Angie turned off her music.
“Helen’s missing a fork.”
“And you think it’s in here?” She sounded confused.
“Something’s in here. Harley will be up any second.”
“Oh, shit.” Angie stood up. “If he finds drugs in here, we’re screwed.”
We ransacked the room, trying to work fast and quiet. We checked our pillowcases, drawers, the tops of the sills, light fixtures. Every time we heard a step outside or a noise in the hall, we froze and stared at the door, only letting out our breath when the person moved on. Finally we heard the knock.
I tried to look calm as I opened the door. “What’s up, Harley?”
“Sorry, girls, going to have to do a room check,” he said. “Stand out in the hallway, please.”
Angie and I watched from the doorway. Harley was a big guy with yellowed teeth and a two-pack-a-day smoking habit. He had small, mean eyes, and was supposed to be a real hard-ass if you messed up. I hadn’t had any trouble from him yet, and didn’t want any now. Each time he lifted a book or checked the pockets on our clothes or reached into our shoes, I held my breath. Finally he stopped in the middle of the room, slowly looking around, his face thoughtful.
Then I saw the smudge of dirt on the windowsill, near the potted fern. I stared at the spot, tried to remember if the dirt had been there before. I checked Harley’s face. Had he noticed? He started walking toward the window. My body felt hot all over. I glanced at Angie. Her cheeks were also flushed, her eyes shiny like she might cry. Harley was reaching out toward the plant.