by E. L. Giles
Dolores’s mouth sets into a straight line. “No need to apologize, sweetheart. It’s okay. These things can take some time to recover. Don’t worry.”
“How long was I out?”
“Two days. It’s mostly this fever we’ve been fighting. You talked in your sleep but nothing really coherent.” Dolores pauses, then adds, “Oh, you vomited a couple of times. Did you drink the water from the lake or eat the wild berries from the groves?” she inquires.
“Um, I think so, yes,” I say. “But how did you know?”
I had seen nothing wrong with the water. In my memory, it was clear and tasted quite good. I recall the berries, too, but the memory of them brings a taste of bile to my mouth
“First, you need to boil the water, or you’ll get sick. And be careful with what you eat in the woods. Not everything you find there is good for humans. Just ask O’Hare when you—”
“What?” I exclaim. “What did you say?”
“Uh…” She frowns. “You need to boil—”
“No. No. The name. What name did you say?”
The name rings a bell.
“O’Hare?” she asks, puzzled.
“O’Hare…O’Hare,” I repeat. “I’ve heard it before, but I can’t remember when or where.”
Silence settles between us, and we stare at each other, statue-still and wordless. She looks concerned, sitting on the edge of her chair with her hands wrapped tightly around mine. It starts to hurt, but I don’t mind. I have other concerns.
Chills run over my skin, jolting my body with the sickening memories and flashbacks that are assaulting my mind. I close my eyes and focus on them despite the pain they bring. It’s all too blurry and unclear, but I do remember the wrenching terror. It feels like my brain has purposely hidden these memories from me or kept them at bay in an attempt to protect me somehow, but I need to remember.
The creaking of the front door startles me, and I instantly turn toward the sound.
A man exclaims in a loud voice, “Mom, what’s taking so lo…” He stops abruptly when he sees me.
For a moment, time doesn’t exist anymore. It’s like this young—early twenties maybe—man has the power to stop it so I can contemplate him. I can’t look away. I can barely breathe. My now burning body is a prisoner of these wide, steely-gray eyes, and my fingers, my neck, and my stomach all prickle and become wet with sweat, like I’m feverish, but I don’t know why. Maybe it has to do with the chicken? He stands tall—far above my pitiful five foot four—open-mouthed, his features tense, framed by long, curly brown hair that contours his square jawline. One word comes to mind, stronger than this deeply-anchored restraint: handsome. Opinions on physical attractiveness aren’t something allowed in Kamcala, but again, we aren’t in Kamcala, and this young man is…breathtaking.
We eye each other for a moment, unable to speak. I can’t tell, but I don’t think the handsome boy will find anything attractive about me. I’m not Anna after all.
“Hi?” I venture, realizing the young man isn’t about to speak first.
He says nothing in response. His mouth is open, but no sound comes out of it. After a moment, Dolores prompts him: “Josh?” and he finally reanimates.
He moves out of the entry, stepping into the house. I realize as he steps closer how tall he really is. If I stood beside him, I would look ridiculous, I’m sure, barely reaching his shoulders. He steps closer to me, and under the orange lights of the house, I realize the handsome boy named Josh shares features with Dolores, particularly the nose, the jaw, and the mouth. The wrinkles and scars from the wild life are less prominent on him than on her though.
Something catches my attention when I finally detach my eyes from his. The only thing that comes to mind is: what the hell is he wearing? An awful gray coat seemingly made from wool or something covers him from shoulders to feet; is it that cold outside? Isn’t it summer? Have I been out for two days or two months?
Finally, the handsome boy named Josh speaks. “Hi. Um, you look…well. I mean…”
Even the sound of his voice as he addresses me, despite how clumsy he sounds, brings butterflies to my stomach. This deep voice sounds pleasing, vibrating inside of me, and makes me want to listen to him even more.
We’re not in Kamcala, I remind myself again.
“Lisa,” says Dolores, “this is my son, Josh.”
“Your son,” I mumble. The idea is so strange to me, like it comes from another world. In Kamcala, after giving birth, the babies are placed in the Caring Center where special nurses—like Anna—care for them. Never have I thought there was a possibility that someone could keep their baby.
“It was Josh,” says Dolores, and I’m pulled from my thoughts, “and O’Hare who found you in the woods.”
O’Hare. That name again.
I don’t know why it brings more memories back to me—like footsteps walking around me and the sight of rotten leaves and bugs crawling before my eyes. I feel hands on me. I feel the pain in my wounded arm. I see the darkness surrounding me. I already remembered most of that, but now I seem to be able to rewind past those events. I see a split tree trunk, an electrified fence with a warning sign on it. I remember climbing the tree. I remember, and I can still feel where the bark scratched the skin from my stomach to my chest. I jumped off the tree, and that was where I twisted my ankle. I remember the pain well. Before that, there was a brick wall I leaned against to help me stand. There were voices. A strong wall of heat hit me, an explosion…
And then a body lying on the ground, all bloody and dying. Stephen!
“Tell O’Hare it’s happening!” I exclaim, the words building in my throat on their own.
“What?” Josh and Dolores ask in unison, both surprised by my words. They look taken aback, their features tensed in the very same way, arched brows and tight jawlines betraying their clenched teeth as they stare at me.
“Tell O’Hare it’s happening. This is what he said,” I say in one breath. “They’re all coming back, my memories.” My chest squeezes like it’s being compressed by strong, invisible forces. I live the scenes again. I feel the pain I felt. The same terror floods my entire body. My voice cracks as I speak again. “They’re all dead.”
Chapter Thirteen
I bury my face in my hands. I don’t want to see them. No, I don’t want them to see me and the guilt in my eyes. The shame is unbearable. All of those people are dead because of me. How can I face them now? How can I tell them the truth?
In the quiet refuge of my hands, I allow the sobs to come freely. In the quiet depths of my hands, I am protected from everyone’s stares and judgment, walled off from the world around.
“Who’s dead?” Dolores asks, worried. “What happened?”
I hear a chair scrape the floor, and then arms encircle me, crossing over my breasts. I jerk again, an old habit that remains from Kamcala, and as I calm, I drop my hands to my side but keep my head lowered, looking at my feet. Fighting this embrace is useless. Fighting against the comfort of her arms is nonsense.
I gulp the excess saliva that has pooled in my dry mouth. “The bus, Stephen and the whole convoy that exploded—and the Retirement Center. Marcus and—” I can’t speak anymore. The words die on my lips, muttered through the sobs and my hitching breath.
“The Retirement Center? Marcus? Marcus Ruther?” Dolores asks.
“You know him?”
I feel Dolores sigh. “Josh, call everyone inside,” she says.
I watch Josh out of the corner of my eyes as he leaves the house. I feel suddenly hollow, as if deprived of something I need. I start rocking back and forth in my chair, in Dolores’s arms, the movement bringing some semblance of comfort. Dolores tightens her embrace.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” I repeat endlessly.
Dolores releases her hold on me and shifts to crouch in front of me. She squeezes one of my thighs gently again and again. I won’t lie to myself: I like it. It’s relaxing, like she’s releasing the pressure
of anguish from inside me with only her bare hand.
“Don’t worry, honey,” Dolores soothes.
How I hate to be told not to worry. It’s like “trust me.” It always means there is something to worry about and that the person saying it should not be trusted. Tell me not to worry, and I will worry.
Before I am enveloped by the nightmares that threaten to crawl from the back of my memory, Josh returns, followed by two other men. The first one, his face hidden beneath a long, thick, gray and white beard, is a head taller than Josh—which is impressive—while the other one, though shorter than the other two, makes up for his stature with his broad shoulders and muscular body. He reminds me of the maintenance workers I used to care for back in Kamcala.
They all walk with the same slow, rigid gait, and they head to the table where they take their seats across from me. The tallest one folds his arms over his flat chest, his dark brown eyes locked on me like two dark pits. He looks at me the very same way Marcus did. I avert my eyes from his gaze and turn my attention to the bulkier one, who sits in a strange, almost-relaxed position that actually looks forced, making me wonder if he is really comfortable sitting that way.
Then there’s Josh, who hesitantly walks by me, head lowered, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. He takes another chair across from me, sitting straight, watchful and silent. For a moment, I keep my eyes locked on him as if he is the only familiar face around, fearing to meet the others’ eyes.
Dolores stops massaging my thigh, gets up, and steps to my other side. Now I’m facing everyone, and there is nothing between them and me. It’s like my trial at the Justice Court, and it comes with the same anxiety I felt then. All these eyes are locked onto me, and I have to tell them the harsh truth, the events that led me here. I must tell them about O’Hare and that his friends—I guess they were his friends—died in the most horrible way I can think of.
I wonder which of these men is O’Hare—the tallest one, who hasn’t moved an inch since he sat and still stares at me with puzzling eyes that seem to analyze me to the depths of my soul, or the short, bulky man who has started wiggling in his seat and barely looks at me. I guess his position wasn’t that comfortable after all.
“Um, hi,” I start, my voice faint, barely audible. If I have a hard time greeting them, how will I be able to tell them what happened? I guess I just need to start and tell them without thinking too much. “There was a convoy, and I was going to the Retirement Center when it all got messed up and everybody died.”
Okay, I totally missed the point there. I notice the bulky man is biting his lower lip as he shoots me shaky, worried glances.
“Maybe start before that?” Dolores suggests.
I inhale deeply, close my eyes, and tell them my story from the very beginning—my very first appointment with Marcus—and manage my way up to the very moment I blacked out in the woods. Slowly, as I tell the events, a lump of guilt forms in my throat, guilt that turns to shame as I realize that all I’ve left in my wake is chaos and death, and all because I wasn’t good enough for Kamcala. I couldn’t make myself fit the mold, be like everyone else. Marcus and the unificator-turned-guard had put themselves in danger for me and set in motion a crazy plan that cost so many lives to save one, mine. Why? I don’t know. What I do know, though, is that I shouldn’t be alive.
Everyone at the table shares the same look of shock as they stare at me. The news must be brutal for them to hear. Or maybe they have realized what a wreck I am. What’s worse is their silence, and I don’t know what to expect until the bulky man opens his mouth and speaks.
“It’s happening. Those were his words? You’re absolutely sure?” he says, emphasizing Stephen’s phrase.
I nod. “I—I think so,” I reply, trying again to recall the events as they were.
“What?” shouts the bulky man, who now appears on edge. “You think so, or you’re—” He gets up and forcefully pulls back the chair, making it topple over.
“Enough, O’Hare,” Dolores interjects, the shriek of her voice hurting my ears.
At least I know who O’Hare is now.
“I gotta go,” O’Hare grumbles.
He heads to the door and slams it open.
“Go after him, Alastair,” says Dolores. She looks frightened, but I don’t get why.
The tall bearded man nods, gets up, and walks to the door before disappearing into the darkness of the night.
Only the three of us remain: Josh to my right, who stares at the floor, and Dolores to my left, arms stretched behind her, gripping the table like she might fall to the floor otherwise. I realize the heaviness my presence has on them. I realize the trouble I’m causing them. I should leave.
“I’m sorry,” I start, looking between Josh and Dolores, “for everything. I—I will go. Thank you for your help. Really.”
I push myself from the chair with effort, my eyes blurry with tears, but it’s too fast. I had momentarily forgotten my current limitations. Pain shoots through my injured ankle as my foot lands on the floor and my knees fold under my weight. Before I realize I’m falling, I find myself in Josh’s arms.
“Where do you think you’re going like that?” asks Dolores, her forehead creased.
Josh carefully helps me sit down again, and as his arms loosen their grip, our hands meet for a moment—a futile, short moment, but it’s enough to send warm, tingling waves through my veins. My fingers tickle where they touched Josh’s. I notice Dolores is staring at me, and I come back to my senses, forgetting for now the strangely pleasant sensation.
“Anywhere I won’t cause harm to anyone,” I say grimly.
“Harm?” she exclaims. “What are you talking about? It’s more like you’re the one who’s been harmed, sweetie, don’t you think?”
“But I’m still alive, which is not the case for—”
“Oh no, no, no. You stop that right now. We’ll clear one thing up immediately. This isn’t your fault—in any way. Got it?”
“You weren’t there. You don’t know!” I shout and instantly feel ashamed for the harshness in my voice. I didn’t mean to say it like that—like myself—hotheaded.
Dolores doesn’t seem to be bothered though, and I breathe a sigh of relief for that. She doesn’t deserve this attitude of mine.
“No need to know, unless you personally shot them dead or asked for them to be shot dead, which you didn’t.”
I don’t argue anymore. It’s not that she’s wrong or right. That’s not the point. But the idea that in one way or another I am responsible for what happened to them is still stuck in my head. It will surely haunt me until I die. I’m certain of it. What’s the point in arguing with her? It’s pointless and tiring. She’s right about one thing though; I can’t leave this place. Not now, not this weak. In a way, I’m glad I can’t, because I think I like this place and these people.
I know it’s crazy, because I don’t even know them, but part of me simply feels good here, and Dolores makes me feel comfortable. And Josh makes me feel…I don’t know how he makes me feel, but I recall the tingling sensation when his hand touched mine and feel the ghost of a smile pull at the corner of my mouth.
Yet, there is also the other part of me that wonders if I’ve messed up everything for them by being here. What happens now?
I’m so confused.
Dolores releases her hold on the table and takes her place back in front of me, crouching again, and pulls herself close to me. She gently pats the top of my hand as she looks into my eyes, her irises wide over the sea of white. It’s like she’s trying to read my mind, and I don’t want her to. It’s too horrible in there, too wrecked. I need to move her attention elsewhere.
“You knew Marcus, right?” I ask, recalling that Dolores had known his whole name, Marcus Ruther. And the tall man—Alastair—had reacted as if he knew him as well, when I mentioned that Marcus Ruther was dead. His stoic, stiff military presence seemed shaken for a moment at the news.
Dolores turns her head to look be
hind her as if she’s searching for someone. Her gaze stops on Josh, and I notice his face tenses more with each second that passes. He clenches his hands in tight fists, knuckles turning white, and his eyes widen like they’ll pop out of their sockets. He seems terrorized by something.
“We won’t discuss that tonight, honey.” Dolores says. “There’s too much to tell, and it requires the right state of mind.”
The right state of mind?
Whose mind? Mine? What kind of story calls for a specific state of mind? I told them everything about myself, my story, my shame, and my guilt. I exposed everything, making my life an open book for them, and now that it’s my turn to ask, I’m told I should wait until I find myself in the right mindset?
I inhale noisily, forcing air into my lungs. I try to calm myself before I let the frustration grow stronger. I glance at Josh from the corner of my eye. His expression convinces me not to venture further down this path. I don’t know what frightens him about it.
“What’s the matter with him—O’Hare?” I ask, jerking my head toward the empty chair in front of me. “He must be mad at me, right?”
“He’s not mad at you,” Dolores says. “He’s shaken, as we all are. And, O’Hare is quite wary about some…”
“Cautious, not wary,” interjects O’Hare, who has appeared and is now standing in the doorway. We all jump. None of us heard him return—but where’s Alastair?
“The past decades have been hard enough on us. We’re almost there. It’s not time to fuck it all up,” says O’Hare.
I stare at him, puzzled by the mystery of his words. He walks by us, hands in his pockets, a grave look in his eyes. At least he seems calmer.
“Decades of what? Us? I don’t get it,” I question.
Dolores sighs heavily. “Not tonight,” she pleads.
He raises a hand, ignoring her request, and asks with great interest, “Have you noticed any changes in Kamcala recently? Like a rising number of attacks against the Party? Or political dissidents arrested? Anything unusual?”
He picks a chair and pulls it toward himself, sitting across from me.