Suicide Club

by Rachel Heng

  * * *

  They walked all the way to the southern end of the park, a full eighty blocks. When they got there, the sun was setting, and it was time for her to go home.

  “Where are you staying?” Lea said. They’d talked all day, but her father still hadn’t told her anything about himself.

  “You haven’t”—he paused, looking about himself as if to see if anyone was listening—“told anyone, have you? About me?”

  Lea shook her head. Todd had asked this morning where she was going, for she rarely went out on Sundays, but she had mumbled something and closed the door behind her before he could press further.

  “I thought you didn’t care,” Lea couldn’t resist saying. “You were hardly undercover when you came to the clinic, after all.”

  Kaito broke into a grin. “That was maybe a little—reckless of me. I wanted to talk to you so badly. But hopefully they’ve dismissed me as a vagrant sub-100 hankering after life extension treatments. God knows that’s what they all think of sub-100s anyway.”

  He pressed his lips together and seemed to be thinking.

  Lea shuffled her feet. She could feel a blister forming on the outer edge of her left big toe, but the soreness felt good, felt like the cold in her cheeks, the ache in her lower back, the teeming stories in her head. The sun was low in the sky now, sending violent orange streaks across the Hudson.

  “I’ve sublet a place in Borough Nineteen,” Kaito said at last. It seemed to pain him to say. “Why don’t—why don’t you come by? Maybe next weekend?”

  He glanced up at her. Seeing the uncertainty in his face, Lea felt something shift inside her, felt the jagged chasm that had opened up when she first saw her father again widen ever so slightly.

  “Of course. I’d love to.”

  ELEVEN

  It had been three days in a row now that the Observers hadn’t shown up. One day would have been a blip, an anomaly. Perhaps they were at an urgent Ministry-wide meeting to discuss the latest population measures; she had heard that despite everything, numbers were still falling. And when they hadn’t shown up yesterday either, she went on working calmly, reassessing her client portfolio for the eleventh time that month. But today it was unmistakable. Three days in a row.

  “You look pleased. Have you found me a new account to replace the Musks?”

  Lea turned. Even the sight of Jiang, standing stiffly with his morning herbal tea in hand, vapor rising from it like an acidic mist, couldn’t dent her.

  “Jiang, if all this”—she lowered her voice—“if all this is over, I’ll get you ten new accounts. You’ll see.”

  Jiang prided himself too much on setting a strong life-loving example. So he assumed a smile and puffed out his chest. Lea could almost hear him reciting in his head: Healthy mind, healthy body.

  “Of course,” he said. “I have utmost faith in you. And then—Tier 4 benefits await.” He tried a wink. It didn’t suit him—he must have seen someone younger do it. When he winked his entire face spasmed like a nervous twitch.

  Normally she’d be elated at the mention of Tier 4. Bigger apartment, access to subsidized firm services, nonmandatory Regen treatments. Maybe even a carshare. But ever since she’d spent the day with her father, she’d found that something had shifted. Something about her office, her desk, Jiang and his contracts, something about all of it seemed unreal.

  Still, she smiled automatically. “Oh, stop,” she said. “And how’s the boat purchase coming along?”

  Jiang was buying a sailing boat. He was still somewhat below the level at which senior executives tended to buy boats, but it was said that his latest mistress was from a powerful Ministry family.

  “Okay,” he said, mock-wiping his brow. “You never quite realize how many issues can come up, until you actually try to buy one. Sounds glamorous and everything, but let me tell you, it’s no walk in the park. Not for everyone, it isn’t.”

  “Uh-huh. Totally. Well, I better get back to work now,” she said.

  Lea worked solidly through the morning, stopping only at the polite beeps from her computer that reminded her to stretch. She hummed as she hung upside down from her chair with her eyes closed, enjoying the pressure building in her head, the weight behind her eyes, the unclenching of her spine. She would cook trad tonight, Lea decided, and have a nice evening in with Todd. Poor Todd had been tiptoeing around her the past few weeks, every gesture and word carefully calibrated so as not to offend. Ratatouille, she decided, and a nice lentil salad.

  * * *

  In the grocery store, Lea lifted the grapefruit up to the light as she had seen her mother do once when she was a child, back when the first Directives were still being drafted. Squinting, she tried to see what her mother had seen, tried to discern the quality. But, backlit by the harsh overhead lights, the grapefruit was nothing more than a dark globe, an eclipsed moon.

  Lea had no idea how to buy fruit. She never ate it, of course, except on very special occasions. Today, three days since the Observers had disappeared from her office, she considered it.

  Bringing the grapefruit to her nose, she breathed in its strange, air-freshener scent. It didn’t stir anything; no secretion of saliva or racing pulse. She thought of the chocolate ice cream she’d had all those years ago with her father and Samuel in the park. Nothing about the grapefruit evoked the cold sweetness of dessert.

  Lea put it back down on the shelf. The grapefruit were stacked furtively on a low shelf, smack in the middle of the store, between the soy milk and the nutri-bars. So you’d have to stoop to pick one up, and everyone would know what you were doing. Directive 477B: Facilitation of Healthful Consumption.

  The light in the vegetable aisle was warmer, more forgiving. Brassica and other cruciferous forms lined one wall, frilly leaves neatly tucked into ventilated paper bags. Then there were the composites: artichokes, chicory, lettuce, safflower. The alliums, helpfully multi-packed, since you never needed just one bulb of garlic. Gourds hung in baskets from the ceiling, sunset colors all mixed up in pretty knobbly shapes.

  Lea rifled through a pile of asparagus, their green skins silky and firm to the touch. She weighed a fat eggplant in her palm, brought a sprig of parsley to her nose, so close it tickled. Like most, she rarely cooked, so when she did, she liked to take her time choosing her ingredients.

  Lea was absorbed by an overwhelmingly symmetrical, perfectly formed radish when she saw him. Standing at the far end of the store, next to a large bale of spinach. The man wasn’t looking at her, but neither was he looking at the spinach. In his right hand, he held a tablet. There was nothing to suggest he was one of them, yet Lea’s heart sped up. Not every man wearing a suit with a tablet was an Observer, she told herself. Don’t be silly.

  With his dark brown suit, the man’s stocky girth meant he resembled one of the more svelte gourds in the baskets hanging from the ceiling. Lea watched as the man picked up a spinach leaf, twirling it by the stem in his large fingers. After considering it for a moment, he put it down again, picking up another leaf and doing the exact same thing.

  Just a well-heeled businessman getting ready for a trad dinner party, she told herself. Trying to impress some clients with his cultural side. In any case, no Ministry person would be allowed to walk around with a BMI like that.

  Lea went back to the radish she’d put down, tried to focus on whether the crisp crunch of it would go better with lettuce or kohlrabi. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man put down the spinach leaf and walk out of the store.

  A wave of relief washed over her. How completely paranoid she was; it definitely could not be good for her stats. She would tell Todd all about it over dinner, he would make fun of her, she would laugh it off.

  The joy had gone out of shopping now, so she quickly picked out what she needed and headed to the checkout counter. The sleek display showed the total nutritional value of her purchase—well under the sugar limit, but still more than she’d usually get. It was the carrot. But they would share it betwee
n them, herself and Todd, and then it would not be quite as indulgent. She thought briefly of the grapefruit, the round weight of it in her hand, the plump smell. Maybe when she was promoted to Tier 4. Yes, maybe she would permit herself a grapefruit then.

  * * *

  Lea could hear it before she opened the front door. Todd was doing it again, going through her music. He thought it was funny. Some days he got serious, warned her that it really was no good for her, all those soul-stirring arias. Directive 708A: Art, Music, and Film Advisory. He’d suggest some seaside or rainforest tracks instead. Other days he did this—blast it from the speakers, giggling to himself on the sofa at how ridiculous it all was.

  “Can you turn that down?” Lea yelled, going straight to the kitchen without saying hello. No response. In spite of herself, she started humming along. An aria from the St. Matthew Passion, performed by one of the few remaining living virtuosos. European, of course—there were no American musicians left.

  Alma, Tilda, something like that—it was a name that fired up images of long, dark winters, pickled fish, and frosted windows. Lea had read about her tragic story in the news. Misalignment—when replacements and enhancements had different expiry dates—was a terrible way to go. A tremor went down her spine as the voice streaming through the apartment climbed higher, higher still. The music seemed to go right through her, slipping into crevices of her soul that she had never known existed. She closed her eyes, hands still cold under the running water. The image of a face floated before her, a solid, structured face, lined as tree bark, with thick pale eyebrows and colorless eyes. If not for what had happened to the singer, she never would have known her face.

  “Lea?”

  The music stopped abruptly, hanging in the air like a question mark. Lea blinked. There was something odd about Todd’s voice. He stood leaning against the kitchen door, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Wilma. That’s what it is. Wilma Nilsson. I can’t believe I forgot.”

  Lea gave Todd a peck on the cheek, lingering to take in his smell. It was faintly sweet, the smell of sweat masked by cologne. But under that artificial woodsy scent, he smelt like a human being. It was one of the things she loved about Todd. Something about his smell that made her feel at home—that, despite the golden hair and model looks and trendy clothes, seemed to reveal a weakness. She hooked her chin over his shoulder.

  It was only then that she saw them. Sitting side by side on the plush leather couch in the living room, each clasping a mug between his hands. The mugs said “Mr. Right” and “Mrs. Always Right,” gifted by Jiang at the office Secret Santa exchange. Their tablets lay on the coffee table—her coffee table. Todd had not given them coasters, and two faint wet rings were already forming on the carefully oiled reclaimed wood. They were still wearing their shoes.

  “Hello,” AJ said.

  GK nodded a greeting and took a loud sip of tea.

  “They were at the door when I got home. It seemed rude to just leave them there,” Todd said.

  Lea pulled him into the kitchen, out of the Observers’ line of sight.

  “It seemed rude,” Lea repeated.

  “They don’t seem so bad. You made it sound like they were these Gestapo characters. Ajit even said he liked your music.”

  “Ajit?”

  “Yeah. The one who talks. I haven’t actually heard Greg say anything yet.”

  Lea massaged her inner eyebrows, pulling them apart. Blood throbbed in her ears.

  “How long have they been here?” she asked.

  She would breathe normally, stay calm, focus on the matter at hand. There had to be an explanation. They were here to congratulate her on her release from Observation. To apologize in person for any trouble caused, offer her access to Ministry preservation services in compensation. The services would come out of AJ’s—Ajit’s—personal account. Perhaps he wasn’t so bad after all. He liked her music. Lea stopped massaging her forehead.

  “You showed them my collection?”

  “Not all of it. Just some of your favorites. Ajit was very interested in them. More cultural than you’d think, these Ministry people. Surprising, isn’t it?”

  Lea looked away from him. Her right hand throbbed with a dull pain. Weighed down with the vegetables she had chosen so carefully, the straps of the plastic bag were cutting off circulation to the tips of her fingers.

  The blood was still pounding in her ears, but Lea’s movements were brisk and calm. She unpacked each leaf carefully, placed them in a colander for rinsing. She lined the squash up neatly on the countertop. She folded the plastic bag.

  “Besides,” Todd said. “It can’t hurt to be nice to them. They seem like reasonable guys.”

  Lea poured some lentils into a bowl of water. Most sank to the bottom, but a few floated, tiny lily pads. She plunged her hands into the bowl and began cleaning them. The lentils were hard as pebbles, the water deliciously cold.

  When Lea didn’t answer, Todd left the room quietly.

  “State of mind … high-pressure job … cortisol inducing.” He spoke in a low murmur, but now that the music was off, fragments of conversation floated into the kitchen.

  Done with the lentils, Lea began skinning an onion. Its exposed surface was taut, a tensed muscle about to spring. She pressed the blade into its midsection. The slow crunch as the pale flesh gave way was strangely satisfying. The familiar prick of her eyes as she sliced, each felled layer translucent and paper thin.

  Onions were strange things. Cut open they smelled not like vegetables but of animal sweat, pungent and sweet, oddly comforting. By the time Lea was done cutting the first onion, the sound of Todd’s low voice in the living room no longer bothered her.

  Suddenly she was hungry. She sliced more quickly, the pieces getting thicker and less even. When she was done with the onions, she resolved, she would wash her hands, dry them on the fluffy white towel next to the sink, go outside and shake their hands calmly. She would smile, a welcoming, calm smile, containing no anger, no hysteria. Not even a hint of irritation that they were in her living room, their shoes no doubt leaving stains on the cream rug. No, none of that.

  She would even ask them how they liked the St. Matthew Passion, compliment Todd for picking it out. It was Nilsson, she’d inform them with the grace of a dinner party hostess, the Swedish contralto. Yes, the one who’d been misaligned. This in a conspiratorial whisper, as one always used when talking about such matters. It soothes my nerves, she would say. But of course I also have the Mandolin album, and the entire Sea Series. Right here, see. She would casually pull out her tablet, show them her play count so that they’d see how much more she listened to Muzak than classical.

  Her fingers glistened with the pungent, sticky sap. Lea marveled at how well formed they were, precisely proportioned, slender, each trimmed nail curving into a perfect smile. Lying there on the chopping board, they were pink with life, not unlike little jointed carrots. Lea became aware of the weight of the knife in her other hand. It was a ceramic blade, newly sharpened to a fine, creamy edge. There was a logic to it, bringing those two surfaces together, the tender shoot of her ring finger and that clean, objective line of the blade. Angling the sharp edge just beyond the tip of her nail, she pressed down cautiously, curiously. The knife was so sharp she didn’t feel her flesh parting, not until a thin sliver lay, red and wet, on the stark white chopping board.

  Then the pain came, hot and selfish and demanding. Suddenly she was nothing. Every thought and feeling rushed into that throbbing fingertip, everything wanted nothing more than to make it stop. She let out a sharp gasp. The knife loosened from her grip.

  It lasted only seconds. Slowly, Lea realized she could breathe normally again. The pain melted into a soft ache. Wiping the blood off her fingertip with a dishtowel, she saw that the newly grown skin was smooth and supple, just a shade lighter than the color around it. She held her hands out in front of her, as if checking on a new manicure. While the blood had clotted and the skin regrown, the fi
nger in question was still very slightly shorter than it should be, its tip flat and square. No one would notice. Had it even happened?

  Todd was still talking to the Observers. The Observers—she was seized with a sudden urgency. Quickly, quietly, Lea disposed of the evidence. She rinsed the knife and chopping board, wrapped the dishtowel in a plastic bag and tossed it in the trash compacter. Soon, everything was spotless again.

  It was only when she was carrying the bowl of sliced onions to the fridge that she noticed they were stained pink. The color had seeped into their porous veins, translucent and now, almost human.

  TWELVE

  Someone had brought him in for show-and-tell. Whiter than the whites of her eyes and softer than a cloud, his nose was a damp pink upside-down triangle, wobbling nervously. As they passed him around, their small hands were reverent, tongues peeking out of parted lips, eyes afraid to blink. His name was Domino.

  When it came to Lea’s turn, she held him up to her face. He wriggled between her hands, a warm, alive thing. She felt his delicate ribs under the flesh and fur, thin bones interlocking like puzzle pieces, protecting some squirming secret within.

  Lea ran one finger along the tracks of his backbone. Coccyx, sacrum, lumbar, thoracic, cervical, she recited silently. More than a hundred and twenty muscles in the human spine; how many in a rabbit’s?

  They had learned about nerves and cartilage and skeletons in biology, but this was something different. She felt where bone met tendon in his taut hind legs, the way his rib cage gave way to a sagging, tender belly. She fingered his ears, folded like leaves, and then, taking one between thumb and forefinger, she pulled gently.