Twisting Minds

by Tessonja Odette

  “Why didn’t you just say something instead of creeping along behind me?”

  He shrugs. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

  “Well, great job.” I cross my arms over my chest, heart continuing to race. A suspicious thought weaves through my consciousness. “How were you behind me? I was the last person to leave the platform, and I didn’t see you on the rail.”

  The crooked smile is back. “Geez, thanks. That makes me feel great. Not only am I a creep, but an utterly forgettable one.”

  I purse my lips, glaring. “You didn’t answer the question.”

  He sighs. “I saw you on the rail. I was sitting behind you, and I was behind you on the platform. Not in a weird way or anything,” he rushes to add when I raise my brows. “I was about to ask where you were headed when you took off. Once I realized we were going the same way, it was too late to say anything. I could tell you were already freaked out.”

  “How could you tell?”

  He hunches his shoulders and tosses his head left and right, eyes wide in what must be his imitation of me. I deepen my glare, and he lets out a small laugh. “Hey, it’s a good thing I was following you, creep or not, right? Or would you rather I’d let the bus take you down?”

  I remember the bus, the shock of finding it mere feet away from me. Another question comes to mind. “What was a bus doing out this late in the first place? It was lights-out well before I got off the rail.”

  The boy shrugs. “The buses are like railcars. They run on reservoirs of electricity instead of directly from the grid. It was probably going back to base from its last run. Maybe it had some kind of mechanical malfunction that kept it out later than usual.”

  That reminds me. I look at my reader, seeing it’s twenty minutes past midnight.

  He must be able to read the anxiety on my face. “Can I walk you home?”

  My eyes move back to the boy. The boy with no name. “You never answered my first question. Who are you?”

  He reaches out a hand. “Darren. And you are?”

  I hesitate before placing my hand in his. “Claire.”

  We shake hands briefly, then Darren reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out his own reader. The screen illuminates, adding its pale light to mine. “Two is better than one. Where to?”

  I never agreed to walk with him, but I have to admit, the idea of walking alone after the fright I just experienced sounds awful. “Fourth Public Housing Center, building seven,” I finally confess.

  “Same here, but I’m building four,” he says. “Come on.”

  We make our way down the street, toward the corner. The corner. Where I saw my mom.

  The shock of nearly getting hit by a bus has cleared my mind. Only now do I realize I couldn’t have possibly seen her. Couldn’t possibly have heard her. Still, I shudder as we reach the corner, where nothing but piles of overstuffed black garbage bags lie dormant.

  Perhaps my rigid posture is noticeable, because Darren leans toward me and says, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I don’t know how to answer that. No, I just hallucinated that I saw my dead mother and nearly died myself? Yes, thank you for saving me? I settle for the truth. “As okay as I can be.”

  He doesn’t press me further, and we walk the rest of the way in silence. When we reach the courtyard of my building, we stop, and Darren faces me. “Do you want me to walk you to your room?” I shake my head, and he smiles, the light of our readers showing something I don’t think I’ve seen from a stranger in a long time. Genuine kindness. “Get home safe, then.”

  It’s that kindness that makes my apprehension drain away, and I’m stumbling over how to respond. I should thank him. I should smile back. Instead, I mutter, “You too,” and turn away from him.

  I look over the railing when I reach my door, and find his silhouette in the courtyard. He waves, then turns away, heading toward the other apartment buildings.

  Once inside my room, I sink to my bed, feeling suddenly weak. The events of the night strike me hard, and my heart starts to race again as I relive my travels through the dark streets, the sounds of muffled footsteps behind me, my mother’s face before me. The lights of the bus, just seconds away from impact. Darren, pushing me from its path and crushing me into the sidewalk.

  And then I realize...

  I was afraid tonight. I felt something.

  It may have culminated in a jarring hallucination, but it was something. A giddy relief winds its way through my stomach, releasing the tension in my gut, my chest, my throat. I recall the way my name sounded, spoken by my imagined mother. Claire. With that, I unravel, sobs tearing from my throat like a bird escaping a too-small cage. Tears stream down my cheeks, burning my eyes, searing my skin in trails of heat as I give in to the sorrow that crashes over me like a wave.

  I let my grief pour out of me, luxuriating in finally being able to feel, finally being able to process some of the pain I’ve been hiding.

  When my tears dry, I close my eyes.

  For the first time in two weeks, I sleep.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I wake with the strange sensation of feeling both groggy and rested, as if my mind is refreshed but my body—eyes, limbs, muscles—can’t reconcile what I’m forcing them to do. Still, I swing my legs over the bed and stand. Memories from last night come rushing back. My terror walking the dark streets. My mom. Darren. It’s almost like a dream, and I spend countless minutes second-guessing whether it actually happened.

  But it did. I know it did.

  With automatic movements, I get ready for my day. Use the facilities. Get dressed. Eat some flavorless oatmeal. Walk to the bus stop. The numbness is back as I go about these routine motions, but it feels tenuous now, like I could summon the fear from last night in an instant if I wanted to. Even waiting for the bus under the full light of the morning sun offers a morbid thrill, sending a prickle up the back of my neck as I see it round the corner.

  This time, though, the bus doesn’t nearly collide with me and instead stops a safe distance away. I file inside along with the numerous other citizens. As I take my seat in the packed bus, I find myself looking around. But what am I looking for?

  Hooded jacket. A smile. That’s all I remember about the boy who rescued me last night. And when I don’t see anyone resembling him, I feel an unexpected pang of disappointment.

  The bus lurches into motion, and I return to the routine of my day. Numbness. Bus. Rail to the city. Laundry at the Great Northwest Hotel.

  The scents of bleach and chemical cleaning agents burn my throat as I work, even with the face mask covering my nose and mouth. Unlike at the restaurants, here I am offered thick rubber gloves to do my tasks in, so my hands get a break from the assault of hot water they are used to. Perhaps it’s because I know my shift is only six hours long, but I’m working faster today, lighter on my feet. I find myself listening to the conversations of the other women who work the laundry room with me, women I usually ignore.

  One of them—Marlene, I think it is—pauses when she catches me laughing at something she said. I’m worried for a moment that I’ve overstepped some invisible boundary, something that should keep someone like me from engaging with the more seasoned workers, but my worry fades when her lips flick into a smile. “I thought you were mute, new girl,” she teases.

  My first inclination is to brush off her comment and return to my work without reply, but something else bubbles within me. Something bold and carefree. Something that recognizes her expression as an invitation to participate in some long-forgotten art. “Maybe that’s what I wanted you to think.”

  Marlene barks a laugh as she stuffs a heaping armful of towels into an enormous washing machine. “Oh yeah? And why would you want me to think that?”

  “Isn’t that the best way to know everyone’s secrets?” Banter. That’s the long-forgotten art. Something I once reserved for my friends when I was a Select. Or for my mom.

  “Ha! What would a young thing like you want wi
th the secrets of old birds like us?”

  I offer an innocent shrug, keeping my eyes on the stain I’m scrubbing from a white sheet. “I don’t know. Maybe I have a thing for old, balding men.”

  The other women hoot with laughter over the groaning of the machines around us.

  Marlene lets out an exaggerated gasp. “Now, who would you be calling old and balding?”

  “I’ve seen Sergio from delivery.”

  “She’s feisty,” says another woman, Carol. “Looks like we need to be careful with this one!”

  Marlene shakes her head with a scolding glare, but she can’t hide her amusement. “You keep your hands off my Sergio. If he falls down a rung, he’s mine.”

  “If you say so.” I smile. Our work continues along with the chatter, but this time I’m included, enfolded into the tiny clan of laundry room women. Conversation is light, teasing, never touching on anything serious about our lives or statuses beyond exaggerated lamentations over the woes of our tasks. It’s as if our biting remarks, when made in jest, somehow help us forget the very real truths of our humble situations.

  It makes me wonder why I never spoke to them before today, or why I barely engaged with Molly at the restaurant. I never thought I was better than any of them—or worse, for that matter. It’s just that I didn’t...care. About anything.

  I’m still riding the strange wave of lightheartedness hours later as I enter Dr. Shelia’s clinic. I’ve almost forgotten my previous trepidation over this meeting, and it only returns as a slight unease when I enter the bright office room and take a seat on the couch.

  “Dr. Shelia will be in momentarily,” Emily, the receptionist, says before she closes the door and leaves me alone in the room.

  I’m less nervous this time, probably because I’m so distracted by my odd mood, but I sit on my hands just the same to keep myself from fidgeting.

  Dr. Shelia enters after a few minutes and takes her seat at the desk. “Hello, Claire,” she says as she leans back in her chair and eyes me over a pair of narrow glasses. Her voice is gentle, but her smile is cold and forced like last time. “How has your sleep been since I last saw you?”

  I open my mouth, but I’m not sure what to say. I settle for the truth. “I slept well last night.”

  “Is that the only night you’ve slept well this past week?”

  “Yes.”

  “You haven’t taken the pills I’ve given you.” It isn’t a question. She knows.

  “I haven’t.” There’s no use lying, I suppose. “I was worried how they would interfere with my work performance.”

  Dr. Shelia sighs, clearly disappointed. Her eyes unfocus for a moment before returning to mine. “What was different about last night that made sleep happen for you? Was it because your schedule was less demanding this morning?”

  “No,” I say, before realizing I’ve negated the one excuse that could have allowed me to keep the events of last night to myself. Yet, I can’t ignore the strange urging I feel in my gut. I’m not sure why, but I think I want to talk about it. And isn’t that what Dr. Shelia is here for? For me to talk to?

  Without intending to, I narrow my eyes at her as I decide whether I should open up or remain closed off. Numb. Quiet. My norm for the past couple weeks—months, even.

  “What is it?” Dr. Shelia says, her expression mirroring mine, eyes boring into me as if she can read my thoughts by looking at my face.

  I look away, fixing my gaze on her desk instead.

  “You can talk to me, Claire. Why don’t you lie down?”

  I take in the couch I’m sitting on. It’s likely the nicest piece of furniture I’ve sat on since I’ve been a Public, with its clean, white, cloth-covered cushions and sturdy construction. Nothing like my narrow, squeaky bed in my apartment. “Here? With my shoes and everything?”

  “You can take off your shoes,” Dr. Shelia says gently. “But yes, lie down. It might make you more comfortable when talking to me.”

  I shrug, remove my shoes, then lie back on the couch. As I shift into the cushions beneath me, I learn that the couch isn’t nearly as comfortable as it is nice. Maybe it’s designed that way to keep me awake. “Okay,” I say.

  “Now tell me what happened.”

  I take a deep breath. “I saw my mom last night.”

  “Your mom.” Dr. Shelia’s voice is devoid of judgment—or any emotion, for that matter. This surprises me since I know she’s read my file. She knows my mom is dead. Still, she says nothing else, just remains quiet.

  When I realize she isn’t going to prompt me to explain, I continue on my own. “I was on my way home from my double shift at the two restaurants last night. I was tired and jumpy. When I was almost home, I started hearing sounds, like I was being followed.” I was being followed, by Darren, but I don’t mention this just yet. “Then I heard my name, and it sounded like my mother’s voice. It sounded so real. Then I saw her. Thought I saw her.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Like she always did, but hazy, because of the dark. She looked scared. Confused.”

  “What happened next?”

  Now it’s time to mention Darren and the bus, but I hesitate.

  “Take a deep breath,” Dr. Shelia prompts. “Relax your muscles.”

  I’ve grown tense since I’ve started talking about last night, as if I’m back on that dark street. I do as she says and breathe deeply until I feel my muscles unclench. Back to numb. No, not numb. More of a neutral curious.

  “Go on, Claire.”

  “I almost got hit by a bus,” I finally confess. “I was so fixated on my mom, I didn’t see or hear it coming. A man saw me and pushed me out of the way before it could hit me.”

  “Who was the man?”

  “I didn’t know him. He’d been walking behind me on his way home but didn’t want to scare me by making his presence known before then.” I’m not sure why I feel so determined to make it clear Darren wasn’t as nefarious as I first thought him to be. It isn’t like I know anything about him. Still, I want to change the subject. “When I got up, I realized how crazy it had been for me to even think I’d seen my mom. I still can’t believe how entranced I was.”

  “You were tired,” Dr. Shelia says. “Overworked. Frightened. Hallucinations and everything you’ve described are common symptoms of sleep deprivation.”

  I nod. “But I slept after.”

  “Let’s go deeper into that. Why do you think you were finally able to sleep last night?”

  “I cried last night.” My voice comes out weaker than I plan, and I can feel my throat getting tight. “It was the first time I’ve been able to cry since...since my mom died.”

  “How did that feel?”

  My lips press into a line, fighting me until I allow them to curl into a tight smile. “It felt good.”

  Dr. Shelia is quiet for a while. “It felt good to actually feel something for a change.”

  I turn my head, meeting her gaze. “Yes. How do you know?”

  She smiles that cold, clinical smile. This time it doesn’t bother me. “Insomnia. Apathy. Neurochemical imbalance. All symptoms of depression, and very common after experiencing trauma such as you have.”

  Trauma. It’s the first time anyone has labeled my experience in such a way. Before this, the labels have been related to my social status. Inherited debt. Probationary citizen. Lucky you’re a minor. Dr. Shelia is the first person to see my mom’s death as something other than an inconvenience to society. A wave of relief washes over me, and I feel like I might cry again.

  “Let it out, Claire.”

  I do. I cry until my body is wracked with sobs, until it feels drained, empty of all pain, all emotion. The time that passes is unknown to me, and when the tears leave, I feel like I did this morning. Groggy. Refreshed. Renewed.

  Dr. Shelia hands me a tissue, and I blot my cheeks and nose. “You did well today,” she says, then turns to her desk. She presses a button on her holographic keyboard and says, “Dr. Grand, we�
��re ready. Will you bring Claire a cup of water when you come in?”

  She returns to face me, sees me swaying in my seat as I right myself on the couch. “Are you lightheaded?”

  “A little.”

  She stands as Dr. Grand enters, then moves to the far end of the room to the window. There she opens it a few inches, filling the room with a mild breeze. I close my eyes, letting the fresh air fill my lungs.

  “Nice to see you again, Ms. Harper,” Dr. Grand says.

  I open my eyes to meet his empty expression. He hands me a paper cup of water, which I drain in a single gulp.

  Dr. Shelia returns to her chair. “You need to drink more water, Claire. You’re dehydrated.”

  I nod, and Dr. Grand begins attaching the metal disks to my forehead and scalp like last time. When the projection illuminates with images of my brain, I squint, trying to see if I can decipher anything in its swirling colors as well as the codes and numbers beneath it. To me, it looks exactly the same as before. Confusing.

  “Your vitals look a little better today,” Dr. Shelia says, although her tone makes me think the improvement can’t be too great. “But it won’t count for much if your sleep continues to be sporadic and unpredictable. I want you to start taking the sedative I provided you last week. I’m also filling a prescription for an antidepressant.” She turns to type on her keyboard as Dr. Grand removes the disks from me. After he replaces them into the case, he sweeps from the room without another word.

  I chew on my lip, watching Dr. Shelia typing. “Is the antidepressant necessary?”

  Dr. Shelia pauses and looks at me but doesn’t say anything.

  “It’s just...I can’t afford these medications. Besides, I don’t want them interfering with my ability to work. I’ve never been medicated, so—”

  “Claire, your health and well-being are more important than your ability to work three jobs.”

  “But...but I need to work. I need to work off my probation as soon as possible.”

  She leans forward, holding my gaze. “I understand how badly you want to leave your probation behind, but you won’t live to enjoy the results if your body and brain deteriorate in the process.”