Where You Went

You had been pink and shiny from the scrubbing, but now, scabbed and itchy, and how terribly inconvenient this was given that you were holding on to the windowsill with both hands and willing your foot to grow another half inch so you could reach the balustrade and give your arms and knees a damn break.

You swung your legs the littlest bit to the left and swore silently as the orderly’s phone slipped out of the pocket of the jeans you were wearing, crashing to the ground. But, you were at least able to wedge your toe between the column and the wall stably enough to let go with your right hand and wrap it around the column as you swung your left foot over and freed the right foot. There. You held your breath for a few seconds, listening to see if anyone had noticed the sound of the breaking phone.

Hearing no voices or doors opening, you sucked in some air and started to edge down the column. You had known this building as a bank, not a branch of the state hospital, and you and your climbing buddies had scaled these — well, essentially these — walls on a lark, 10 years ago, during your climbing phase.

Like then, the dark hid your descent. Unlike then, you were alone and unsure of what awaited you at the bottom. Unlike then, you weren’t trying to escape.

Escape. Jesus.

You stifled a laugh. Nobody would have ever guessed that at age 48 you, of all people, the biggest rule-follower ever, would be scaling the walls of the state hospital because you couldn’t just walk out on your own.

This whole thing had been so weird.

First of all, you had a sister. Who was zealous about your well-being. And oddly easily able to admit you.

You wished you had more time to explore the other differences, large and subtle. Because you didn’t think you came across as needing to be admitted and/or sedated.

To be sure, you had incorrectly answered the questions about the president (Clinton!), and your address (not 5th St.?), and the name of your dog (Clem). Aw, you thought, I have a dog and sister.

So not the point right now. Focus.

OK, and, yes, the equations, written all over your body in Sharpie possibly set off alarm bells, though they certainly didn’t require the rough washing it took to get them off.

You had awakened in the middle of the night in bed knowing the answer and grabbed the pen beside your bed to start writing on your legs. Because the paper in your desk downstairs was much too far away.

The calculations confirmed your guess.

But before you could call your assistant and tell her, you fell asleep.

And the next afternoon you awoke on the sidewalk in the middle of downtown, wearing only a t-shirt and underwear with black ink all over your skin, telling passersby what you had finally, finally, discovered.

OK, sure, you supposed you couldn’t really blame your sister (sister!). You could understand how that episode may have landed you in the psych ward. But, that was days ago, and you had been the model of mental stability since.

But, well, Catherine, even though it took you a couple of hours to realize it, you were right about everything.

Which meant there was a 98% chance you were also right about the amount of time you had left.

You had gone to your therapy sessions, diligently, if not altogether honestly. You had pretended to care about the pictures you were drawing, which were, in reality, to cover up your notes. This kept you off the hardcore meds.

It did not, however, hasten your release. According to your sister, you had to be in for a week or observation.

That, you realized, would not work at all.

So, there you were, hiding in the bushes, catching your breath.

The first part had gone smoothly enough.

Taking the bars off the windows with the screwdriver you liberated from the janitor’s closet was a matter of working quietly at night without the light on.

Collecting a few Sharpies from the front desk, some duct tape from the janitor’s closet and somebody’s shoes from the Lost and Found was slightly more difficult, but you had the invisibility of middle age on your side.

Obtaining some actual clothing was a challenge. There was nothing in the Lost and Found that looked like it would fit you, though you were tempted by a too-small pair of brown corduroy bell-bottoms.

So you ended up sneaking to the laundry to see if there was anything there at all. And got caught.

“Catherine, the basement is off-limits,” some orderly said to you, Eric, you thought his name was.

“I know. I was going to steal some pants. I’m not comfortable in these… do we call them scrubs?”

“You were going to steal some pants?”

“Well, yeah. I was. I guess I’m not now.”

Eric looked at you as if you weren’t actually making sense and nodded. “I’ll get you back to your room.”

He was wearing Levis, size 32. You thought they would fit.

They did.

You hoped the consequences for injecting Eric with whatever was in his syringe and leaving him tied up in the closet weren’t too severe. But, at least you were wearing pants that would keep you warm and keep your legs from more abuse.

You had planned your escape for the end of the second shift so you could get out the gate when the night-shift workers arrived, but the timeline had moved up; thanks, Eric.

So, you quietly looked around for something heavy to throw and found a filthy garden gnome half-buried in a neglected planter.

You crept out from behind the bushes and hurled the gnome at the glass front door. It hit with a thud and broke, sending ceramic shards flying. The security guard at the gate left his post to investigate and you ran, squeezing through the gap in the gate just as the security guard saw you.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Stop.”

You smiled at that, wondering if it ever actually worked.

And then you ran.

The streets here were nearly identical, except for the names. Even the trees were familiar. This was your neighborhood, and you’d be home soon. You planned on grabbing food before heading out to the lake with your scull, which you assumed would already be loaded onto your car. Since you lost Eric’s phone, you didn’t know what time it was, but you knew the sun rose at 6 and that was more or less your deadline.

You made sure to stay in the shadows, pausing not only to breathe and to scratch your scabs, but to listen for footsteps. You didn’t hear anyone chasing you and there were no sirens in the distance. You thought you perhaps were being a little overly dramatic and your rational side concluded that, more likely, your sister would probably come to your house tomorrow to coax you back to the hospital.

You walked for a few minutes, through the yards, most dotted with old-growth trees that helped hide you. When you turned up the street to your house, the sign said, “Hill Ave.” not “5th St.,” which explained why you didn’t get your address right.

Your house. But white with dark blue trim. You wrinkled your nose at that.

When you entered the door code, the green light didn’t go on, so you tried again. It still didn’t work. You heard a dog bark and wondered if this was Clem!

The porch light turned on and a woman opened the door.

“Can I help you?” she frowned, standing with her hands on her hips.

“I’m, um, looking for Catherine Woods. Doesn’t she live here?”

“Nope. Wrong house.” She moved to shut the door.

“Wait,” you said. “Please. I need to find her. Can you at least see if you can Google her address?”

The woman paused as if she were considering it, then said, “You can go to the police station. It’s just over a few blocks on Liberty. Someone there will help you.”

You flipped off the woman as she shut the door.

You were running out of options.

So you decided to add auto theft to your repertoire and checked the handle of each car you passed to see if it would miraculously open.

The first three were armed with alarms you set wailing. Good job.

The next two were locked and silent.

The sixth opened.

You dove in, felt for keys in the ignition, and, finding none, searched the floor and the glovebox. No luck.

You did discover, however, an unopened protein bar, which you scarfed down in three bites, unconcerned about possible food poisoning.

And then you saw the keys tucked in the visor. You silently thanked a god you no longer believed in and said out loud, “I’m so sorry, car owner. But thanks.”

You started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

Blocks later, the gas light came on. Fantastic, you thought. That’s just great.

You made it 5 miles out of town before the car sputtered to a stop.

The road to Lake Minatare didn’t have a shoulder and was lit only by the moon, so you got out and walked in the middle, periodically checking behind you for headlights in the distance. But no cars came from either direction. So you walked.

You guessed you had about two miles left to go when you smelled the lake, a combination of mud, dead fish, sweetgrass and nostalgia.

Until you took up rowing four years ago, you hadn’t been to the lake much since your childhood, when your family would stay in the RV for weeks at a time, eating hot dogs and bologna sandwiches, building sandcastles and waterskiing.

You knew the practice boats were kept in the sheltered dock near the lighthouse, so you headed in that direction. There were enough houses and streetlights surrounding the lake that you were easily able to see the lighthouse, despite its lack of an actual beacon.

It had been built in the late 1930s to give people jobs during the Depression, but it never actually worked as a lighthouse, since it was, after all, on a small, inland lake. Now it was a tourist destination, thanks to an article on the Atlas Obscura website.

You approached the lighthouse quietly, not that anyone would have reason to suspect you’d be here, but you were about to steal a boat, so silence seemed wise.

The boats were parked neatly in a row, chained and padlocked to the dock.

Shit.

So much for stealth.

You turned on the light and examined the boats, not sure what you were looking for.

Then you saw that one boat was hooked to the chain by a rope through a loop that was — ah-ha! — screwed in. And you still had your screwdriver.

A few minutes later you were on the water.

There was a small island in the middle of the lake that marked the turnaround point for the annual dragon-boat races. You could only barely make it out in the moonlight, but you aimed the scull toward it and closed your eyes.

You didn’t think about what you would do if you were wrong. You rowed quietly, with your eyes closed, thinking through the equation in your mind, running it over and over again to be sure.

You pulled out the Sharpie, took off your pants and started writing. You tried to replicate the positioning and size of the original equation, the one that was so rudely scrubbed from you. If only they had known. Or, rather, had believed you when you told them.

You kept writing, kept calculating and remembering. Soon, it was effortless. You no longer had to think. Instead, you understood organically, viscerally.

Half an hour or so later, you were done.

Then you waited.

You could tell that The Exchange (you called it this, although you didn’t know why) had started by the sound. Or rather, its absence. No whisper of wind or cars in the distance. Only the near-silent waves lapping up against your boat.

A fog had settled around you, and you felt suddenly exhausted.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw movement. A dark shadow coming toward you.

Your heart leaped in your chest and you smiled.

At me.

I glided to a stop parallel to you. We looked at each other and compared hair (yours was longer), bodies (I was thicker) and age spots (we each had the one on our right cheek).

We started crying at the same time.

“We were right,” I said, snorting and giggling and sobbing and yawning.

“Twice,” you said, showing me your arms full of writing.

“I just used paper,” I said, holding up the notebook.

You laughed again, sounding exactly, precisely like me. “I wish I had more time. There’s so much to compare.”

“I met your boyfriend. He knew. And he believed me.”

“I met your sister. She … did not.”

“Yeah. She doesn’t really get me or even know what I do,” I said. “But she’s family.”

“I can’t tell if she hates you or loves you too much.”

I laughed this time. Sounding exactly, precisely like you. “I want to figure out the sleep thing. I am barely staying awake.”

“Me, too,” you said. “And, uh, there’s going to be some shit. I ended up in a psych ward. And stole a few things, cars and stuff.”

“Oh boy,” I said, yawning.

“I’m so sorry. I truly am.” You were so, so tired.

“I know. I know you are without question.” I shook my head at the wonder of it all, even as my body wanted to lie down and my eyes started to close. “I hope we get to do this again. There’s so much I want to know about you.”

“We will, I’m sure. Why wouldn’t we?”

We both noticed the light at the same time.

“The sun’s coming up,” we said together.

“Hey,” I said, “Take care. I know things are bad where you are, but you have a pretty good life anyway.”

“What do you mean, bad?” you asked, drifting to sleep.

“I … the fascists… the pandem..”

That’s not …, you thought. Then you zonked out.

****

I woke up slumped over in the boat, the sun warming my face. I must have been asleep for a while. I heard my sister calling my name so I sat up, cursing the crick in my neck. I blinked a couple of times, letting my eyes adjust to the brightness, and saw that I was only 20 or so yards from the shore. My sister was waiting for me, her blonde hair waving in the breeze.

Blonde hair. No, that’s not right. Her hair is brown.

Oh.

Crap.