Docile

by K. M. Szpara

  “No, they didn’t,” Jess says. “But this one is doing shit.”

  “Turn off the lights, please. My head is fucking killing me, goddamn.” I sink back into my chair and bend over, until my face presses against my knees. The tears come involuntarily. Snot leaks from my nose.

  When I can finally breathe without my throat feeling like the surface of the sun, I say, “Tell me to get up.”

  “Get up,” Dylan says.

  I don’t.

  “Prototype E it is.”

  “Should we test H, just to make sure?”

  I begin to shake my head, but it hurts too much. “Augh. No need. I’ll bring it with me, in case this one isn’t a match for Abigail, but this is officially the worst, which makes it the best.”

  “Are you sure this is safe?” Dylan asks. “You’ve already hurt my family enough. I won’t let you put Abigail through this if—”

  “No,” I say, my voice muffled by my shirt and the floor. “I’m not sure it’s safe. But it’s the best chance we’ve got.” Dammit, I should ask her permission, too, even though I already have Elisha’s. I sit up as far as I can. Lift my head as much as the pain will allow. “We won’t inject her if you don’t want us to. You’re her family.”

  Dylan looks between us, hands fidgeting nervously at her sides. “Elisha wants this, so I do, too. Besides, this pain will be the first thing she’s felt in a decade. Maybe that’s better than nothing.”

  69

  ELISHA

  “Hey, Elisha, it’s Alex. I’m sure you already know that because this is a voicemail and you have caller ID. Listen, I wouldn’t call if it weren’t important. Jess and I think we’re ready to start testing our new treatment on your mom. Not sure we can make any more progress on our own, until we do. I don’t know; this might be it, but it might not. If you can, let’s meet at the safe house, after your shift. Dutch told me you got a job in the donations closet at Empower Maryland. I think that’s really great.” He pauses for so long, I almost hang up. “Anyway, text me when you’re heading over with your mom. Don’t know if you heard Dutch was fired, but he’s not my conservator, anymore; it’s some ‘impartial’ pencil pusher in the accounting department, so I’ll do my best to get out of here and meet you. Okay, I lo—I’ll talk to you then. Bye.”

  * * *

  Mom walks the whole way from our apartment to the safe house without complaint. Not that I expected differently, but it’s new walking down the city streets with her. Like we’re going to the harbor together. I can’t help but hope that we’ll be able to. What if this is it?

  I type the code into the front door and it unlocks. Mom waits while I close the door.

  “Hello, Alex,” she says.

  “Hi, Abigail.” Inside, Alex stands at the kitchen counter, in front of a row of bottles. Two stools, an end table, and a chair sit where a kitchen table would.

  I don’t know what to say to him. Everyone around Empower Maryland says that after you break up with someone, you’re supposed to give yourself some space.

  “If you want to sit down, one of those is for you,” he says instead of Hi, or I’ve missed you, or I almost said “I love you” when I left a voicemail.

  “Thanks.” I stop halfway to one of the stools. “I’d rather stand.”

  “Okay,” he says, turning back to his work. “I don’t have long. Told my conservator I had a lunch date with Mariah, which, given that she’s avoiding me, is either the best or worst cover story. So, want to help?”

  I can’t help but feel bad for him. I know what it’s like to be monitored, even though it’s not the same. “Sure,” I say. I can work, now. He should know I’m useful. I join him at the counter.

  “Grab a couple alcohol swabs, cotton balls, bandages, a disposable pad, and a pair of gloves.” When he holds the box out to me, I do not think of what his hand would feel like in mine. “You can set them up on the table.”

  I take two gloves, careful not to touch him. Even though we’ve seen each other since Alex amended our contract, it feels like we’re interacting as people for the first time. And he’s telling me what to do, a—

  “Thanks.” He says it with half a glance. With sincerity. Like he’d say it to Jess while they work. He’s treating me like an equal—a competent equal. The thought stops me where I stand.

  Alex looks back at me when I don’t move, and the worry grips me again. Will he think there’s something wrong with me? That I still need hand-holding? Just because I still need help doesn’t mean I’m helpless.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t show you where anything is.”

  “It’s okay. I can figure it out.” If Alex can act like it’s no big deal, so can I.

  The supplies are in the cupboards above us. I open the first one to find cotton balls, alcohol, and bandages, which I set on the table. In the second, a stack of disposable pads. And Alex’s jacket, folded like I left it. He must’ve seen. He doesn’t move to take it, though.

  Quickly, I grab a pad and close the cabinet. Alex doesn’t look up; he keeps working while I do. Side by side. Like partners.

  “Do you want to ask your mom to sit down?” he says.

  “Sure.” I move the alcohol wipes closer to the stool. He’ll probably need those first. Everything’s so close, the placement probably doesn’t matter. But still.

  Mom looks at me when I approach her, but not before. She’s been standing silently, this whole time. I don’t pretend she has the same needs as someone in a different state might. I know what it feels like to be content and fulfilled standing exactly where someone put me.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hello, Elisha.”

  “Let’s go sit down.”

  “Okay.” She walks with me, sitting in the chair when I gesture to it. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Thank you.”

  I don’t respond, again. It’s a reflex for her. A reflex I’m still trying to shed.

  “Would you please unfold the pad and drape it over the armrest,” Alex says as he walks toward the stool, holding four capped needles.

  I do so without responding.

  “And open the alcohol wipe, if you wouldn’t mind. I’d prefer not to touch anything I don’t have to.” He smiles and wiggles his gloved fingers. “This isn’t exactly a sterile environment, but let’s pretend.”

  I don’t hide my smile. Alex Bishop is funny now that we can relax around each other. Now that our relationship is less life-or-death.

  “What should I do with this?” I hold up the alcohol swab.

  “You can rub it right there, on her arm, then get a cotton ball ready. Chances are we won’t need a bandage, but better to be safe.”

  I wipe the cool alcohol over Mom’s arm, from halfway to her shoulder down to her wrist. I don’t know where Alex is going to inject and, like he said, better to be safe. She doesn’t look at me while I work. I wonder if she’ll notice the needle.

  Alex stares at her arm.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask, the swell of nervousness suddenly rising in my stomach.

  “Yeah. I want to explain what we’re going to do.” He looks up at me. “When we tested these on me—”

  “You tested these on yourself?”

  “Yes. First, I injected Dociline. Then, the counteractives, one at a time.”

  Anger and confusion well up, inside me. “Why would you inject Dociline, after everything I’ve told you about it? After you’ve seen what it does?”

  Calmer than me, Alex says, “I didn’t want to test it on an on-med without their consent and we couldn’t trust an off-med wouldn’t tell on us. Dylan might have volunteered, but … I realize it’s not ideal, but I couldn’t bring myself to inject your mother with a drug that hadn’t been tested in anything but a glass tube. Believe me, this is not the normal order of testing. I’m sorry I’ve distressed you. Jess tested my Dociline levels, afterwards; the Dociline is completely gone from my body. We only injected a small dose.”


  “Okay,” I say, nodding my head more than necessary, as if I’m convincing myself. “I guess”—Alex and I won’t always do things the same way. How could we, when we’ve experienced life so differently?—“I guess that was the best option. I appreciate you not stabbing my mom with an untested drug.”

  “I would never,” he says. “Not after everything else my family has put yours through.”

  I pay close attention while Alex explains the specifics. What each syringe is for and what will happen and when. It’s not until he uncaps the first needle that I start to feel nervous. I watch as he injects her, holding my breath as if something’s going to happen. He already said it wouldn’t, but we’re so close I’m almost nauseous.

  He watches her for a moment, then, when she doesn’t react, moves on to C, then D. “I should warn you that this hurt when Jess injected me with it. I didn’t bring anything to counteract the pain because I don’t want any other drugs in the mix while this is still working. You’ll want to hold her tight.”

  I nod and wrap my arms around her from behind the chair, pinning her as best I can. Eyes squeezed shut, trying not to throw up. This could be it.

  “Abigail,” Alex says. “I’m going to inject you with something that we hope will help you feel more like yourself. It will probably hurt, but that will fade. If you can remember me saying this, please do your best to hold still and remain calm. Your son, Elisha, is here, helping. You can feel him even if you can’t see him.”

  I count the seconds that pass. One, two, three, four.

  Mom’s right shoulder twitches.

  Five, six, seven.

  Both shoulders.

  Eight, nine.

  Her chest expands.

  Ten.

  She screams.

  “Okay, the needle is out,” Alex says loudly and, somehow, calmly. “No sharps exposed. All we can do now is hold her, okay?”

  “Yeah,” I whisper, and readjust my hands over her arms and across her abdomen as hard as I can.

  Alex moves to hold her legs. She screams like I haven’t heard since I was seven years old. Not since the cops tried to take me, for our debts, but she went instead.

  She’s so loud. “What if someone hears and calls the cops?”

  Alex grunts. “Let’s hope no one does. Abigail, can you hear me?”

  I feel the hard weight of my cuff press against my mother’s struggling body and remember how Dad scolded me for letting Abby touch it. How Onyx clapped his hand over my wrist to stop me playing with it. I don’t want Mom to be disappointed with me, if she comes out of this. Her son, still wearing the mark of his Patron, after everything.

  “Abigail?” Alex shouts.

  Her body goes limp.

  I let go and hurry to look at her. “Is she—she’s not—”

  “She’s breathing and her pulse is…” He’s panting, two fingers pressed against her neck, eyes closed while he counts.

  I hold my breath.

  “Fine, her pulse is fine. Whether it worked, though…”

  Her eyes open, lashes fluttering. Head still flat against the back of the chair, she looks between us. She pushes something like a whisper from her lungs. Air that wants to be words.

  My heart feels like it’s in my throat, quivering. “Mom?”

  Her eyes land on me. Travel from my boots to my overgrown hair. Well with tears. “Elisha?”

  My face is so hot, so full, I need to know before I explode. “Please,” I say, the tears already leaking down my cheeks. I grab Alex’s hand and squeeze it as hard as I can. I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle it if she doesn’t come out of this. “Please say something real.”

  “You’re so tall.”

  I drop to my knees beside the chair and rest my hands on her arms. “Are you okay? Can I—can I hug you?”

  “I don’t know if I’m okay, but you’d better hug me, right now, Elisha Wilder.”

  She throws her arms around me and I sob uncontrollably onto her shoulder. Hold her so tight it hurts. Until pain shoots up my legs from where my knees dig into the hard floor and I have to let go.

  “Who’s this?” she asks, looking at Alex.

  He rolls his stool closer and sits in front of her. “You don’t remember me?”

  “Is that bad?” I ask, wiping my nose on my sleeve.

  Alex makes an indecisive face. “She hasn’t got her memories back, but it’s too soon to tell; they could still return. I can’t say she’s fully rehabilitated, but I didn’t expect that.”

  “Are you a doctor?” Mom looks from Alex to me, hungry for the answer.

  “We met at your house, on the farm,” he says, pushing his sleeves back up. “Several weeks ago.”

  This time, when Mom looks at me she’s worried. “I don’t remember. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay. Please, don’t be sorry. My name’s Alex.”

  Bishop, I almost say. His name is Dr. Alexander Bishop the Third, CEO of Bishop Laboratories. His family makes Dociline.

  “Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

  “Only if you tell me what’s going on.”

  “Absolutely.”

  I pull my stool over and sit on it, beside Mom. She holds my right hand between both of hers, kissing it once, then resting back on the chair’s arm.

  “Do you remember injecting Dociline? It would have been some time ago.”

  “Fourteen years,” I say. “It would’ve been fourteen years ago, when the cops came to collect on our debts.”

  Mom presses a hand to her forehead. “I remember.”

  I tuck my left wrist out of view, so she can’t see my cuff, and squeeze her hand for support.

  “And yes, I registered with the ODR, but don’t remember my Patron. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay; you shouldn’t have many memories of them, anyway,” Alex says. “That’s what Dociline does.”

  “Do you know how long your term lasted?” I stare at her as if I can will the answer into her brain.

  “Did it just end? Was it fourteen years?”

  I breathe deep, trying to soothe another sob before it overcomes me.

  “No,” Alex says because, when I look at him, he knows I can’t. “It ended four years ago. Your term was ten years long.”

  Mom’s eyes dart around the room, panicked. “Then why—why do I not remember?”

  Alex clears his throat. He knows this isn’t his story to share. “I’m going to excuse myself. I need to head back to the Silo, anyway, before my conservator gets suspicious. Elisha, would you mind keeping me in the loop? I’m not sure how we’ll manage without Dutch—maybe Jess would be willing to play traveling doctor. I’m guessing Abigail will need regular injections, so checkups are a must. Make sure you both document any changes, memories that return, unnatural obedience, and so on, in a notebook. Date the entries.” Alex’s head bobs side to side while he thinks to himself. “That’s good enough for now. It was nice to meet you, Abigail.” He offers her his hand.

  She takes his hand and shakes it. “You too, Alex.”

  I don’t know how to say goodbye to Alex, so I half-wave, on his way to the door, and say, “Thanks, again.”

  “Glad I could help,” he says with a small smile and nod, before closing the door behind him.

  Mom and I sit together in the empty house, alone. I worry that if we move, it will erase what just happened. As if she can’t cross the threshold. That when I got home she’d be there, like always: docile.

  I hug her again, startling her, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  She holds me tight. “I don’t mean to push, Elisha, but—”

  “Right, sorry,” I say, letting her go. “I owe you an explanation.”

  “Please.” She smiles and leans toward me, in her chair.

  “The Dociline you injected fourteen years ago didn’t leave you like it was supposed to,” I say, my words finally vindicated. My truth, the truth. “You never detoxed, even though you stopped injecting it. It’s like you’ve bee
n on Dociline all this time, except you haven’t.”

  Mom gasps, covering her mouth with her right hand. “What happened to my baby?”

  Abby. She never really met Abby. She gave birth a little over a year into her term, and only saw her twice a year, for ten years—but Mom wasn’t herself for most of those visits. She doesn’t know. I feel tears in my eyes, again.

  “She must be…” She does the math under her breath.

  “Thirteen,” I say. “Abby’s a teenager, now. You came back in time for the good part.” I laugh and wipe at my wet cheeks.

  “That’s her name? Abby?”

  “Yeah, she picked it because of you.”

  Mom moves her other hand to her face and begins crying all over again. “My babies. I can’t believe I missed you growing up. Tell me more. There’s so much I don’t know.”

  “We live in the city, now,” I say. An inoffensive start. “Nothing happened to the old house—and I think Dad really wants to move back, eventually—but we’re here for now.”

  “Wow!” A smile overtakes her face as she wipes away her drying tears. “We’re fancy, now.”

  “I guess so.” There’s no way around the truth. I’m why we moved here. I’m why Alex is here. All of this is my fault—the good and the bad.

  “You don’t sound happy about it, Elisha.” She leans forward and looks at me with the most caring eyes. When I was a kid, I always felt like she was totally interested in whatever I told her. She had a way of making me feel like the only person in the world.

  “I should explain what’s happened since you left. Well, what’s happened over the last year, really.”

  “I’m listening.”

  I tell her how Dad was planning for Abby to sell off our debt. How I snuck out in the middle of the night and walked to the city. Sold all of our debt for a lifetime contract. How Dylan sold Nora and Riley’s in exchange for a few years.

  “So…” Hesitation laces Mom’s voice. “Are you someone’s Docile? Is this a temporary visit?” Her face tenses.