Restoring Harmony Read online

  “Are you Molly?” Tyler asked me.

  “Yes!”

  “We’ve got to get you out of here,” he yelled over the noise.

  “What happened? Why did the alarm go off?”

  “You can only use that machine with an American passport. You should’ve waited for me. Sorry I got tied up on CyberSpeak. I meant to meet you.” He looked around, and I could tell he was desperate to get me out of there. “Bill will never let a minor into the country; we’re just gonna have to break some more rules now.”

  Mercifully, the siren finally stopped blaring, but my ears were ringing. As soon as the alarm was silent, Tyler started punching more codes into the passport scanner.

  “What’s going to happen?” I asked.

  The gate clicked open before he could answer. He shoved a piece of paper in my hand. “Directions to the train station,” he said. Then he pushed me through the gate. “Run! I’ll cover for you somehow.”

  I stumbled out onto the sidewalk, catching my heel. The gate clanged shut behind me, and I didn’t waste any time getting out of there. I’m normally a good runner, but I could barely walk in Poppy’s high heels, let alone run. I clomped along, looking over my shoulder every few seconds. My backpack thumped against me, and I cradled my fiddle in my arms like a baby. Long, low buildings, which had probably been warehouses, lined the wide, empty road. I’d only gone about three blocks when I stopped to check the map. Ahead of me, buildings towered even taller than the apartments I’d seen in Victoria, so I was pretty sure I was going in the right direction, but I wanted to be positive.

  I ducked into an alley and slid down onto the dusty ground, kicking off my shoes and trying to catch my breath while I smoothed out the map. So far, so good. I just needed to keep going straight ahead and then to the left once I reached the part Tyler had labeled downtown.

  I dug around in my pack for my sandals, but I couldn’t find them. Dumping the contents out, I searched frantically. Where could they be? I couldn’t go all the way to Portland in these shoes. If they weren’t in my bag, they had to still be at Poppy’s apartment. I must’ve accidentally kicked them underneath her couch last night. Oh, this was great. Just great! Now what was I going to do?

  Slowly, I repacked my bag, trying to think. Finally, I slipped off the nylons. My feet were tough from gardening barefoot, but they weren’t used to concrete. I took a few steps up and down the alley. Even though it was shaded, the pavement was still really hot and rough. I stuffed my feet back into the shoes, picked up my fiddle and pack, and peered around the building on the lookout for the man from customs. Luckily, the street was empty.

  Our island was a little pocket of prosperity due to good farmland, planning, and hard work, but until I stepped out of that alley and took a hard look at Seattle, I hadn’t really understood how blessed my small, simple life had been. Around me stood the crumbling shell of a great city, covered with obscene graffiti, littered with trash.

  My parents had met at grad school in Seattle, and their stories of laughter, music, food, wine, and friends were a stark contrast to the empty, abandoned street that stretched out in front of me. After all the big governments had seized the last of the oil, which crashed the world economy and caused the Great Collapse of 2031, most people had left the city and moved out into the suburbs, where more than one family could share a house and they could grow food in their yards. It was like a giant broom had swept the streets clear of humanity, leaving only emptiness and wreckage behind. Cold fear made my heart pound.

  It was close to noon, and the July sun beat down relentlessly, leaving me no shadows to hide in. I hurried along the street, checking over my shoulder for the man with the gun. As I neared the taller buildings ahead, I thought I heard footsteps behind me.

  I threw myself into the next alleyway to hide. As I backed into the narrow space behind an old metal Dumpster, I stepped on something that squirmed under my feet, exactly like when you accidentally step on one of the barn cats. As I stumbled, trying to right myself, a cold hand clamped onto my ankle and I screamed.

  3

  “WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING!” AN OLD WOMAN with matted hair and smeared red lipstick croaked. I tried to pull myself free, but she had a surprisingly strong grip. She was sprawled on the ground, dressed for winter, holding a sack tightly against her chest with the hand that wasn’t clinging to my ankle.

  “Let me go!” I said, shaking my foot.

  I could hit her, but it seemed unfair to hurt someone lying on the ground like that.

  “Give me your money,” she said.

  Was I being mugged? I’d heard that practically everyone in America was armed and you could be robbed right in broad daylight, but this woman, even though her hold was tight, didn’t look strong enough to even get up, and I didn’t see any gun either. Instinctively my hand went to the pocket on my pack where I’d stuffed the wads of American bills that my aunt had exchanged for me.

  “It looks like a lot of money,” Poppy had warned me, “but it doesn’t go far. Travel’s really expensive, and it will probably take most of it just to get to your grandpa’s house. He’ll have to pay your way home.”

  I knew I couldn’t spare any money, but the woman’s eyes glowed with desperation and it made me feel stingy. Maybe she was hungry. “How about an apple instead?” I asked.

  “No teeth. Money.”

  “I don’t have any,” I lied. Poppy had packed my bag with snacks and bottled water, and I had food to spare. “I’ll give you a cheese sandwich.”

  The woman’s hand slackened, and she licked her lips. I pulled the sandwich out of my bag and held it out to her. She let me go, grabbing at it and stuffing the food into her mouth like I might try and take it back.

  I darted out into the hot street into the shadows of buildings, taller than the trees on my island. I finally saw some other people. I slowed down to catch my breath. I wouldn’t call the streets crowded or anything, but at least there were witnesses now if the customs man appeared and tried to shoot me.

  A few shops were open, selling fruit and newspapers, but I didn’t see any shoes for sale. Not that I really could afford to spend any money before I got a train ticket. I’d look for shoes in Portland. Finally I came to the large public area that Tyler had marked on the map as Pioneer Square. There were two coffee stands, some old men deep in a chess game, and a few dirty kids running around in a dry fountain while their parents sat guarding a cart of belongings.

  I couldn’t tell from Tyler’s map which side of the square I was standing on and was looking around for someone to ask when I saw a couple of policemen. I started to walk over to them, but right when I stepped out into the street, a teenage boy reached out and grabbed my arm, pulling me back.

  “Hey!” I said, but then I realized he was just keeping me from getting run over by a long, black car that had come out of nowhere. “Oh, thanks!”

  The car slid to a stop about half a block from us and four men in suits jumped out. I watched as they ran into the square, grabbed a rough-looking man, and dragged him back to the car. The man was yelling for help, but the people in the square just continued on with what they were doing, like nothing was happening. The old men kept playing chess; the parents on the bench dug through their belongings. Only the kids in the fountain watched what was happening.

  I wanted to scream for someone to help him, but it was like I’d been frozen in place. By the time I could move, the men had already shoved their victim into the car and driven away. I ran over to the policemen on the corner. “Did you see that?” I asked. “What’s going on?”

  One of the officers turned towards me. He had a pale, expressionless face. “Best be on your way,” he said.

  “But-”

  “Move along,” the other officer, a short, stocky man about fifty years old, said.

  And then they turned and walked away.

  I told myself that I’d misunderstood what had happened. If the man had really been in trouble, someone would’ve stepped up
and helped, wouldn’t they? Still, my hands were shaking. I thought of Katie, who probably would’ve fainted, and I took a deep breath and made myself walk towards my destination. The sooner I got my grandpa and we were back home, the better.

  As I got closer to the train station, I could see its brick walls were shored up with wooden planks and scaffolding. The whole thing looked about ready to fall down. I pushed through heavy double doors, and the first thing I searched for was the washroom. When I stepped inside it, I stopped, surprised.

  It was bright and airy and made entirely of white marble. My heels echoed as I crossed the floor to one of the stalls. It would be so cool to play my fiddle in a room like this. The acoustics would be amazing. I resisted the urge and instead used the toilet, and then I changed my clothes.

  I had to go barefoot because I couldn’t walk around in shorts and a pair of navy heels, and the smooth floor of the station felt cool on my feet, almost like the creek back home. I smiled, relieved to be out of those horrible shoes. I moved what was left of my money into my front pocket and tucked my passport into the back one for safekeeping, pulling my shirt down over my hips. These were last year’s shorts so they were nice and tight. No one would be able to pick my pocket, which was something else Poppy had warned me to watch out for.

  In a cavernous waiting room, bigger than the island’s community hall, a long line of travelers wound its way up to a wooden counter. One haggard-looking woman stood behind it, her dyed auburn hair falling out of its bun, a pencil stuck behind her ear. I took my place in line to wait.

  Two hours later there were still fourteen people ahead of me. I’d had a lot of time to work it out, and on average, each person spent four minutes getting tickets. Allowing for overages, I still had an hour to go. The only book I had was my dad’s copy of Uncle Ralph’s Olde Time Farmer’s Almanac. This was his idea of entertaining reading, and he’d insisted that I take it along.

  The last thing I wanted to do was haul a heavy book around. Not to mention valuable, at least to my dad. Buying the collector’s hardback edition, instead of an electronic one, was Dad’s big splurge every January. I’d begged Katie to let me take the E-ZBook Reader, but she wouldn’t part with it. Sometimes she could be so selfish. I opened the almanac to today’s date.

  July 10th-Oaks fall, but bending reeds brave the storm.

  I smiled. I guess Dad thought that if he wasn’t around to actually give me advice, the almanac was the next best thing. I flipped through the pages, reading about when to plant spinach and how to attract bees. It was all stuff I already knew by heart, though.

  When I finally reached the counter, I asked for a ticket to Portland, but I wasn’t good with money, so I ended up showing it all to the woman and she picked out what she needed, which was most of it.

  “When’s the next train?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Around ten o’clock tonight.”

  I looked at the clock on the wall behind her. It was just after four. Great.

  All the benches were taken up, so I found a spot against a wall and sat down to eat an apple. I had Jewels next to me and I couldn’t stop thinking about that washroom.

  Finally, the boredom and the need to play won out over whether or not anyone would care if I practiced in there. The washroom was empty, so I took Jewels out and added a bunch of rosin to the bow. I ran it across the D string and the sound bounced off the walls, reverberated off the mirror, and sent a tingle of excitement up my spine! Ohhhh . . . this was going to be good. I started wrestling Jewels into tune.

  A woman and two little girls in matching pink dresses came in, and the youngest one couldn’t take her eyes off my fiddle. I knew exactly how she felt. Jewels was beautiful, honey colored and shiny, but with a gorgeous patina too.

  While I waited for them to leave, I noticed in the mirror that my springy hair was sticking up all over. I set Jewels in her case and tried to tame my curls with some water and a rubber band. As soon as they were gone, I took Jewels and the rest of my stuff into the largest stall, the one with the wheelchair on the door.

  It took me a full ten minutes to get her into tune, but even that sounded exciting to me in this room. I could hardly wait to play something for real! At home, I sometimes faced the large mirror in the dining room to get sound to bounce off of it, but this was beyond anything I could’ve imagined. It was probably like playing in one of those great halls from the old days.

  I ran the bow lightly over the strings and launched into a warm-up, playing softly in case someone else came in. Not that you can hide the sound of a fiddle. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d missed my morning practice, though, and my fingers were itching to play.

  I let the bow bounce on the strings a little. Then, very quietly, I began to play “Turkey in the Straw.” Quick notes danced off my strings, the sound bouncing back to me, filling me with music from my toes to the roots of my brown, frizzy hair. My fingertips vibrated and I tapped my bare foot on the cool floor, keeping time.

  I’d started out as quietly as I could, but then, like a dam bursting, music overflowed, filling me, then the stall, then the entire washroom. I played one tune after another, rinsing the homesickness and worry out of my soul, the music a balm for all the stress of Mom’s pregnancy and my silent grandparents.

  I’m not exactly sure how long I played because the music had wrapped itself around me like a cocoon, but right in the middle of the “Cowboy Waltz,” someone pounded on the stall door.

  “Step out of there right now,” bellowed a man’s voice.

  4

  MY BOW DRAGGED TO A HALT ACROSS THE STRINGS.

  “I said step out here,” the man repeated.

  “Coming,” I managed to say.

  This was bad. There was a man in the women’s washroom. I must be in big trouble! When I bent over to put Jewels into her case, I saw about thirty pairs of feet, shoes of every color, and a pair of black boots standing right outside the stall. I snapped the case closed, grabbed my pack, and opened the door slowly.

  A scrawny man in a burgundy uniform stood over me, glowering. He had the bushiest eyebrows I’d ever seen. Behind him was a sea of shiny, smiling faces. The women who had gathered in the washroom, presumably to listen to me play, broke into applause.

  “Quiet!” the man yelled. “Come with me.” He took me by the arm and pushed his way through the crowd.

  “Your music was beautiful!” said a woman in a faded denim dress.

  “Leave her alone,” someone else shouted. “We liked her playing.”

  “Yeah!”

  “I’m in charge here,” he said.

  An elderly lady with a long white braid attached herself to my other arm. “Don’t you worry,” she said. “He’s all bluster, and I’ll soon sort him out.”

  In the hallway, the man led me up to a wall where a sign hung that said NO BUSKING! He pointed at it. “Can’t you read?”

  “Busking? You mean like playing for money?” I asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “But I wasn’t. I was just practicing.”

  He looked confused for a second, his eyebrows scrunching together. “Well, no playing instruments in the train station,” he finally said. “If you practice, then other people will want to, and the next thing you know . . . mayhem!”

  “I didn’t mean to break the rules,” I protested. Tears welled up in my eyes and I swiped at them. “I’m really sorry.”

  “You just leave her alone,” the elderly lady said. “Haven’t you got better things to do, like worry about pickpockets? Your mother would be ashamed of you! Didn’t you see all those ladies in there enjoying that little concert?”

  “Well . . . yes, ma’am. . . .”

  “And what were you doing in the women’s bathroom anyway?” she demanded, drawing herself up to her full height, which wasn’t even as tall as me. “I could sue you for sexual harassment.”

  “Well . . . I, uh . . . well-”

  “That’s a deep subject, mister!” she said. “Ma
ybe we should talk it over with your supervisor?”

  “No, I, uh . . . oh, never mind.” He strode off like he had somewhere important to be. I think it was just as far away from me and this tiny tornado as he could get.

  “Don’t you cry,” she said to me, leading me back into the main waiting area. “That was a beautiful concert.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m Jane,” she said.

  “Molly.”

  “How do you do?”

  “Better now,” I said, smiling.

  I spent the rest of the evening chatting with Jane. It turned out that she not only loved Canada, but she’d even been to my island back in the “good old days” when people traveled for their holidays and the ferries ran all day, every day.

  Talking to her about the island, even though she didn’t really remember much about it because it’d been forty years since she’d visited, helped ease the homesickness that had taken root in my gut.

  I knew it was weird, but I had to sort of look over Jane’s shoulder when we talked because her face was so fascinating, I couldn’t help staring. Her skin looked like paper that had been folded over and over again and then smoothed out. The largest wrinkles had smaller ones right over the top of them, branching out, like the roads on the Seattle maps hanging in the station’s hallway.

  Jane and I shared our food with each other. I gave her a sandwich, and she made me take half a dozen oatmeal cookies that the sister she’d been visiting had baked. Around ten fifteen that night, the train rumbled into the station. Nothing happened for almost another hour, but then they opened the big doors and we all swarmed out onto the platform. Jane and I managed to get seats in the first car and collapsed into them. I sat there with my eyes shut, resting my chin on the end of my fiddle case, my pack clutched between my feet.

  Within minutes of our departure, the rocking of the car lulled Jane to sleep. I stared out into the darkness, thinking how odd it was that I had come this far. Only a handful of people I knew had ever left the island, and most of them had come back saying it was paradise on Earth.