A Time to Die

by Nadine Brandes

  The word impossible drifts inside my consciousness, but I shrug it off. At least I asked. I sever the communication with God. He has my request. The next step is up to Him.

  “How’s the biography coming, Parvin?” Reid’s voice sounds stronger. The nurse clicks off the mini flashlight and leaves the room.

  I scuff my shoe back and forth on the polished hospital floor. “First of all, it’s an autobiography.” Reid’s grin reveals the hole in his mouth from his missing tooth. “And it’s not very long, but it’s finished.”

  Part of me wants him to read it. The other part wants to burn it. “This will never get published . . . It’s bland.”

  “I’m proud of you.”

  I avoid his gaze. Will he still be proud when I tell him Skelley Chase’s conclusion?

  Mother takes Father’s hand. “We are going to see what food they have available for visitors.” This translates into, “It’s your problem. Think of Reid and deal with this biography thing like an adult.”

  It’s inevitable that I’ll deal with it incorrectly, no matter how adult it seems to me.

  “I brought you home a gift.” Reid looks around the tasteless hospital room. “Did they gather my belongings from the train?”

  I grasp the escape topic. “All belongings are locked in a storeroom. What did you get me?”

  “You’ll see. It’s in celebration of writing your biography.”

  “Autobiography.” My playfulness dies away as Mother and Father disappear through the doorway.

  “What have you planned so far? Have you given it to a biographer or Bio-publisher yet? Are you going to get it published right away or wait until our Good-bye?”

  “I met with a professional biographer.” I place myself back on my bedside perch. “I was hoping he could polish it for me.”

  “Did he read it?”

  “I gave it to him yesterday. He said he’d read as much as he could overnight.” The clock in the top right corner of Reid’s electronic bed screen says 6am. Like always, time has disappeared and I can’t account for the missing hours.

  “When do you meet with him again?”

  His excitement cuts at my heart and I remember, with tightening guilt, my frustration and anger toward him the last six months. “His train leaves town today at seven. That’s in an hour.”

  Reid’s smile wilts. “You’re not going to meet with him?”

  His dismay hurts even more than his excitement. “The man won’t publish it, Reid. He says it’s bland—”

  “No! Don’t stay here for me, go get your manuscript! Tell him your plan—our secret, even.” He grasps my hand, taking me by surprise. “You’ve got to follow through. Remember the passion you had when you first told us about your idea?”

  I yank my hand from his bandaged one. “Remember the passion you didn’t have? Why are you so earnest now?”

  He slumps back against the pillows, pale and sweaty. Beeping on his screen increases and he touches his wrapped forehead with trembling fingers.

  “Reid, I’m sorry!” I place a palm on his face. He closes his eyes and breathes in deep, shuddering breaths. “Shh.” I stroke his cheek, willing his body to calm and regain its energy. “What do you need? Water? The nurse?”

  “I’m just . . . proud of you,” he rasps, drawing my attention back to his face. “I know how . . . badly you want to . . . finish something.” He opens his eyes and places a shaking hand over my own. “I want to help you with this, Parvin.” His gaze turns distant.

  Finish something. That’s what Reid thinks. He doesn’t realize I’m restless to start something. The autobiography didn’t do it. It’s like standing at a hearing again, watching another Radical led to the Enforcer car, sentenced to the Wall. I can’t save them. I may not save a single one before my Good-bye. If I keep pushing forward, can I reach a place of wholeness? Success? Victory?

  I let out a defeated groan and lay my head on the blanket. I can’t tell Reid about my doubts and how I’m starting to fear the end. He’s determined to believe I’ll proceed on to greatness in a matter of months. He’s proud.

  The beeping slows and Reid’s breathing deepens. He’s sinking back to sleep. He needs it.

  As I still my own nerves, the restless dragon scratches against my lungs, urging me forward. It builds like a halted breath, growing, pushing. The dragon needs air—it needs action. I must appease it, whether Mother approves or not. I stand and scribble a note on the bedside electropad for her and Father.

  Gone back to Unity to finish my autobiography.

  But that’s not all I’m going for. The autobiography is not enough to tame my agitation. I don’t know what is, but I plan to find out.

  7

  000.181.06.21.32

  A flash of lightning punctuates my entrance into Faveurs. My hair sticks to my rain-soaked face and I close the door against the dripping sunrise. The French waitress squeaks and slams a delicate hand over her heart.

  “What time is it?” I gasp, but there’s no need. My eyes find the clock behind the counter. 7:04am. I’m late. Skelley Chase’s train left four minutes ago.

  The interior of the café is furnished with tables identical to the ones outside yesterday. A polished wood floor rests beneath my feet, already covered in a small puddle. Wide lattice windows line the entry and back walls, coated in dark rain. A counter rests before me against the right wall weighed down with coffee machines and jars of syrup. Frenchie stares at me with eyes wider than a newborn baby’s.

  I place my hands on my knees, sucking in deep breaths after running the entire way here from the hospital in a downpour. Running has never been my forte.

  I’m too late—the story of my life. I straighten, holding a fist against my sternum. “Is there a note for me?”

  Frenchie shakes her head, no.

  “A package? Anything?”

  She shakes her head again.

  Figures. Now I don’t even have my manuscript. “Fine. I’ll have whatever I had yesterday.” Since I’m here and shivering, I might as well indulge in something hot and soothing. Then I remember my pouch of coins is at home. “Never mind. I have no specie.”

  “I do.” The low, bored warble flips my heart like a spatula.

  I turn and see the asparagus-colored fedora before I register the brown goatee and trimmed scruff. Skelley Chase nods to the waitress, who gives a coy smile and retrieves a tall, clear glass.

  “You’re here.” I can’t believe it.

  His eyes scan me from head to toe and back again. I must look desperate, drenched without a coin in my pocket. I struggle to pick up my dignity from the gutter.

  “You have a skill for noting the obvious. There’s been a train delay.”

  My heart lurches. “Yeah, it derailed.”

  “So I heard.” He smells like lemons. Did he eat the lemon peels he gathered yesterday?

  “My brother was on it.”

  Skelley Chase shrugs. “Supposedly he still has six months.”

  How dare he shrug off my brother’s injury? I take a breath to spew an angry response, but something in his insensitive comment halts my fury. “You’ve read my manuscript?”

  He places a hand on my shoulder and steers me to a table by the corner window. My manuscript lies on the crisp tablecloth. “I’m going to make you famous.” He says this in a stoic, professional manner.

  I choke on air. “Famous?”

  He pats my back and pulls out my chair. I plop into it while my thoughts scream on a mental merry-go-round. Does this mean I’ll be published? Reid will be so proud, and I’ll have something to my name. Mother can never say I wasted my life. Unregistered Radicals won’t be sacrificed anymore.

  A deep breath precedes my forced calm. “Explain.” I adopt his same businesslike tone while my hope sails through the ceiling.

  He lays a manicured hand on t
he curling first page of my manuscript. “Most of your manuscript is worthless, but I’ll spruce it up. I’ll have it published within a month if I can pull it off.”

  My jaw drops and I don’t bother to maintain my calm façade. “Why? Why did you change your mind?”

  “Because your story has a lot of promise if you work it right.”

  “Work it right?”

  He steeples fingers together and leans his chin on them. “You should go through the Wall.”

  The bold statement hits my heart like a frozen sledgehammer. “The Wall?”

  He closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, he speaks slowly. “You and your brother have one Clock. You don’t know who will die in six months. You say you want to live out adventure, well this makes an excellent story—you go through the Wall and then return before your Clock runs out. You’ll tell your story, and I’ll make you famous. Your voice will be so loud, the government will have to do something about the injustice you mentioned happens in this village.”

  “The government would capture and sentence me to some sort of punishment if I did any of that.”

  “They wouldn’t dare. Not if you’re famous. Besides, I’ll vouch for you against any punishment.”

  “You can do that?” “

  “I can do anything.” He winks. “I’m going to edit and publish your novel in the next month to build up a following over the remainder of your time. Along with your book, I’ll have press releases and follow-up stories on postboards.”

  Overwhelmed. That’s the word that comes to mind when he leans back and surveys my reaction. This project is too much. Press releases? Building a following? Fame? I’ll be remembered.

  The Wall.

  “I can’t.” But my heart pounds with thrill.

  Skelley Chase swirls his cinnamon cookie in the cappuccino foam. “You’re the one who wants to find your purpose.”

  There are too many holes. If I allow him to publish my story in a month, where will that put Reid? If he’s still in the hospital, the government would terminate his medical services once they knew the Clock might not be his. He’d be back in the Radical Ward. And then there’s the other issue . . .

  “I can’t go through the Wall.”

  “It’s your last six months. I’ve seen a lot of people die disappointed and unfulfilled. If there’s ever a time to be spontaneous, it is now.”

  Mother would slap him upside the head for recommending spontaneity to me. She’s tried to squash impulse out of me my whole life so I’d be like Reid—calm, collected, and planned out. Now that I have an opportunity to be as impulsive as I like, will I refuse to take it?

  “No one’s ever done it before,” he continues.

  “Done what?” My voice still hasn’t returned to a normal pitch. “Died in an abandoned wasteland with the bones of convicts and Radicals? Someone does that every other week here in Unity.” My mind conjures images of the long stretch of grey stone on the west horizon, mere miles away from Unity Village. Cold. Unwelcoming. “There’s nothing over there. Just death. No one comes back to our side. No one survives.”

  “You could return,” Skelley Chase pushes. “Plan a date of return and I’ll make sure the door is open for you.” Before I can respond, he holds up a hand. “Sleep on it.”

  “Sleep won’t tell me anything except that I’m one day closer to my death.” Frenchie places my drink before me with careful hands. I’d almost forgotten about it. “Thank you.”

  She opens her mouth, but her eyes jerk to the door and her already pale skin turns sickly white. I place a hand on her arm. “Are you okay?” I twist in my chair to see what stole her blood. The black Enforcer who Clock-checked me last evening stands in the entry, scanning the coffee shop with narrowed eyes. The backward E stands out against his wet skin. My hand falls from Frenchie’s arm.

  My Clock is with Reid.

  As if sensing our instant terror, the Enforcer walks up to our table. Frenchie is still pasty white, but she manages a polite whisper, “Bonjour. What can I get you?”

  “Your Clock,” he rumbles.

  Her lower lip quivers and she tries to inch around him, but he grabs her arm like he did mine the day before—it left bruises. I’m surprised it doesn’t snap her tiny bones in two.

  “Clock.”

  “Eet’s in zee back!” But even I can tell her panic runs deeper than simple fear of the Enforcer’s mannerism. She doesn’t have a Clock.

  She’s a Radical.

  “Let’s go get it,” the Enforcer says, but she tries to squirm from his grasp.

  “Madame!” she shrieks toward the coffee counter.

  A heavyset woman with frizzy hair emerges from the back room. She places her fists on her aproned hips. “Let my employee get back to work.”

  He turns to her. “Clock?”

  “Is that the only word you know?” She pulls her own Clock from her apron and thrusts a solid thirty-two years, seven months, and four days in his face.

  “Where’s hers?” He gives Frenchie a little shake. She whimpers.

  “It got burned inside your black heart,” Madame snaps, pulling on Frenchie’s other arm. “We got her estimated Numbers written down from her memory, though. Fourteen years solid.”

  He stands his ground. “She’s breaking the law without a Clock. It’s the Wall for her unless someone vouches at her hearing.”

  Madame leans right up in his face, but he doesn’t react. “Her cottage burned down a year ago and her Clock with it! And if you want to bring up breaking the law, then you better throw yourself across the Wall. Radicals get two options—relocation is one of them. Go register this girl! I’m sick of watching innocents thrown into that abandoned, feral, no-man’s-land just because our village happens to be within train distance.”

  My desire to even think about the Wall again sinks into an inner abyss. No matter Skelley Chase’s offer, no matter my dreams of success, I will never cross it.

  The Enforcer turns toward the door and drags the screaming, frantic French waitress behind him. I leap to my feet, but my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. What can I do?

  Madame throws a cappuccino cup at his head and it shatters against the doorpost. He doesn’t stop. The downpour is swept inside when the Enforcer opens the door and Frenchie’s wail is lost to the wind. Faveur’s entrance bell tinkles as the latch shuts behind them. No one in the shop seems to breathe except Skelley Chase.

  He takes a loud sip of his cappuccino, then rises to his feet. “I’ll be back in an hour.” He picks up a black umbrella from the corner, slips on his wool overcoat, walks to the door, and tips his fedora at Madame. “I’ll bring back your French waitress.” With that, he enters the gale and disappears.

  The café remains silent. I stand, shaking, by our table. Madame walks to the counter with balled fists—the movement awakens my muscles. I want to follow Skelley Chase and see how he plans to convince an Enforcer with a hollow heart to release Frenchie; instead, my desire to avoid these growing encounters with Enforcers wins me over. I sit down.

  Can he save the waitress? I’ve never seen anyone stand up to the Enforcers and win. What sort of man is this?

  My manuscript rests on the table. Already, my precious blueberry words are marked with his own scratchy black pen. I don’t read them—they might make me change my mind about this whole autobiography thing.

  A half hour later, the entry bell tinkles and Skelley Chase walks back in, leading Frenchie to the counter. They’re both sopping wet, but his coat rests over her shoulders. Her cheeks are flushed and she beams at him.

  “Go warm up,” he says.

  The café is dead silent. Madame stares at Skelley Chase with her mouth half open. He walks up the stairs to the rooms above the café and returns to my table moments later in dry clothes.

  “How did you save her?”

 
; “I told you, I can do anything.” He leans back in his chair and surveys me. “You haven’t changed your mind?”

  I tangle my fingers beneath the table. Will he be angry? Disappointed? This hero—this famous man—is offering me help and I want to meet his approval, but I must stand on my decision. “Nope. No Wall.”

  “Well then, let’s just rewrite this thing.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “You’re still going to publish it?”

  “Yes.”

  “In a month?”

  “Yes.”

  I scratch at a spot on the tablecloth. “I’d prefer you not to publish it until my Good-bye in six months. With Reid in the hospital, I want to make sure he still gets medical benefits. I can’t put him in danger.”

  Skelley Chase glances back at my scribbles. “Okay, I’ll try.”

  My thumb rolls my cross ring around my pinky. I’m not sure what else to say. Thank you? Maybe. But am I grateful? We’re continuing my autobiography, but it didn’t bring fulfillment the first time around. My restless dragon is still pacing inside. Is this the thing I want to pour my last months into? Will I feel fulfilled afterward?

  I look at Skelley Chase. “So why do you need me here?”

  “Your manuscript is now mine. Together, we will meet here to edit and rewrite it.”

  “You’re staying here?”

  “Yes. I’ve taken on a new biography—yours. And”—he toasts his cup to me—“the train is derailed.”

  I frown. “But . . . you have a car. You could leave whenever you want.”

  “I don’t like to put on so much unnecessary mileage. I’d rather transport it on the train. The train delay gives a wonderful excuse to my publishers, editors, and other . . . people demanding my return.”

  I dislike his abruptness, but I can’t help appreciating the effort he’s putting into my bland novel.

  “Now to make this biography work, you need to be open with me.”

  I bristle. I’m not open with anyone, except maybe Reid. How open is open?