by Sarah Noffke
Joseph zips his fingers over his lips and tosses his hand over his shoulder like he’s throwing away a key. “My lips are sealed,” he mumbles, not opening his mouth. Then the half-wit pushes out of the chair and nearly skips for the door. “Later, old man Lewis. Let’s do this again soon,” Joseph says as he leaves.
I shiver out a sigh. “Your kids are the absolute worst. Honestly, there’s not a single good thing I can think of to say about Roya and Joseph. And I’ve really thought and thought about it. But they have no good redeeming qualities.”
“Thanks,” Trey says, not at all offended. “So you have news?”
“Seriously,” I say, deciding to belabor the point. “I’ve known both of your brats their entire lives and they really are bloody awful. It’s like God wanted to create the two most unlikable people when he made them. How do you stand yourself? If I was responsible for breeding such stupidity into the world I’m not sure I could look in the mirror.”
“Your news. What is it?” he says, sounding impatient now.
“If I were you, which I’m glad I’m not, then I’d consider sending Roya and Joseph away to college. Like really far away, like Budapest or Guatemala. Then evacuate the Institute and start up this mom-and-pop shop somewhere else. End contact with the little fuckers. They’d never find us. And without those two around we will be able to finally have some peace.” I let out a sigh, feigning a dreamy look.
“Your news,” Trey repeats.
“Oh that. Well, I got a new tie,” I say, sounding disappointed. “It looked different in the catalogue and actually clashes awfully with my hair. But not all is lost. I’m thinking you might be able to use it to strangle your son with.” I tap my head. “I’m always thinking and coming up with great ideas.”
“Ren…” Trey says, not at all flustered by my antics.
“So I tracked down Vivian’s history today,” I say, my tone shifting. “Took me a while to jog my memory, but I found the right cues.” I pluck from my desk the file that I’ve read through ten times and hand it to Trey.
“She went through orientation here at the Institute eight years ago when she hit puberty and came into her dream travel power. Vivian spent a few years here before going off on her own,” I say. Trey has a team led by Dr. Raydon who scouts for these lost Dream Travelers. They are brought in and put through orientation so they can understand their abilities and hone them. The efforts are centered in North America or otherwise they probably would have found Adelaide.
“Vicky Desmond,” Trey reads from the file. “That’s her birth name?”
“Right,” I say. “She changed it legally to Vivian Bishop shortly after leaving the Institute. I’m guessing about the time she made a connection with her father, Frank Bishop.”
“So you taught her?” Trey says.
“She sat in my strategy class. That’s how I tracked this down,” I say, pointing to the file.
He shakes his head, looking overwhelmed. “Wow, you remember a face from that many years ago in a sea of other faces in a lecture hall?”
“Of course I did,” I say. “I also remember every bloody stupid thing you say. Moving on. She also studied abilities from Shuman.”
“Yes, that’s standard practice for new Dream Traveler orientation,” Trey says.
Shuman is the cold statue of a woman who runs the news reporting department. Most call her the Head Mentalist because she teaches abilities to newbies. Well, I call her freak because she likes my pet names. “I questioned Shuman this morning to fill in the details on this file. Turns out according to her that Vivian had a block on her abilities during her time here. She could dream travel, but none of her gifts would surface.” I had to be inconspicuous with my questioning since I haven’t cleared Shuman as the mole. That’s going to take a bit more work since she has such a strong mental guard.
Trey’s head tucks back on his neck from surprise. “Oh really?”
Blocks are common for Dream Travelers who suffer from trauma. Most of our maintenance staff are Dream Travelers who don’t have their ability. They are no service to the other departments without a psychic power. Usually they suffer from PTSD or have some other emotional disturbance that hinders their power.
“So her gift was never recorded?” Trey says.
“No, although we now know she has her father’s power of voice control,” I say.
“So did she get her clairvoyance and ability to reflect psychic energy from her mother?” Trey says.
“Her mother was a Middling,” I say. “I’m still digging into this, but Vivian’s mother put her up for adoption when she was ten years old.”
“Hold on a second. What? Who does that?” Trey says.
I shake my head, as confounded by this as Trey.
“Are you going to question this woman, Vivian’s mother?” he asks.
“Well, since I can’t interrogate the dead, no, I don’t think so,” I say.
“Maybe that’s why she gave Vivian up. Maybe she was sick,” Trey says. He always wants to see the bloody best in people. It’s really a losing game if you ask me.
“Well, the woman lived a long seven years after she dumped Vivian, so I doubt that was the case.”
“Oh,” Trey says.
“And she was apparently murdered,” I say.
“So does any of this point to what you think Vivian is going to use the Smart Pods for?”
“Not yet. It tells me that we’re working with an incredibly complex individual. Her powers were obviously blocked by being abandoned. She studied here and then disappeared until a few years ago. That’s when she connected with her father, Frank Bishop, and got on his payroll at Smart Solutions using her birth name,” I say.
“Maybe he’s the one who helped her unblock her powers,” Trey says.
“Maybe,” I say, still replaying seeing her face in the crowded classroom from several years ago. She was plain then. No makeup, dirty blonde hair and baggy jeans and a T-shirt. Vicky Desmond was a stark contrast to the Marilyn Monroe look-alike I saw in San Francisco.
“Ren, are you all right?” Trey says, his chin jerking to the side with sudden confusion.
“Yes. Why?”
“You’re smiling.”
“Oh,” I say, slapping a neutral expression on my face. “Yeah, well. I’m just looking forward to you getting out of my bloody office. There’s your subtle hint. Get out now.” I then wave at the door.
He nods slowly, not looking entirely convinced.
As soon as Trey leaves I slide down in my chair. What is it about this woman? There’s undoubtedly something about Vivian that’s intriguing. A perverse spark that hints at her ability to persevere unlike anyone I’ve ever encountered. And now I have a strange sympathy for the woman. The more I study her, the more I find that she’s not entirely the evil villain I want her to be. Something tells me that she’s not the violent monster that Antonio was, the man who was responsible for thousands of deaths. And she’s not the psycho, hungry for life force like Allouette and Chase. She’s undoubtedly up to something and it’s nefarious, that much I know. But of all my enemies Vivian is someone I can respect. She’s infiltrated the Institute, overcome great challenges, and risen to a powerful position. Which means that Vivian is incredibly strategic. A cold shiver runs down my back.
Chapter Ten
An unidentified number rings my mobile. The device shouldn’t even work inside the Institute since it’s underwater, submerged at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. However, Aiden, the daft scientist, did something to the device so it has reception anywhere. Now apparently I can receive calls on the bloody moon. Hurr-freaking-ray. I left Aiden with a cold stare when he bragged about this point.
“Ren Lewis,” I say, placing the brain-frying device to my head.
“Mr. Lewis, this is Betty, Adelaide’s midwife,” a woman on the other end of the line says.
I remain silent, waiting for her to pony up why she’s bugging me.
“Adelaide has gone into labor,” she fina
lly says after an irritating pause.
“Well, we knew this nuisance would evict itself soon,” I say.
There’s another pause. “Sir, it’s six weeks early.”
“I see,” I say, half my attention on the report in my hand. “Sounds like the thing found Adelaide no longer habitable.”
“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think you’re giving this matter the sensitivity it deserves,” the drain on my attention says.
I slap the report down on my desk and press the phone more firmly to my ear. “I get that we haven’t formally met, Linda, but I’m not the sensitive type. If this is all you have to report then I’m going to ring off now. Cheerio,” I say.
“Wait,” she says. “My name is actually Betty. And aren’t you going to come to the hospital? Your daughter has gone into early labor.”
“I’m fairly busy at the moment and not the type to sit around in waiting rooms. I’ll get a full update when this whole mess is over and Adelaide returns home,” I say.
From the other side of the line there’s a frustrated sigh. “Sir, I was hoping to tell you this in person when you arrived at the hospital, as I suspected you’d do. But here it is. Things aren’t progressing normally with Adelaide’s labor. There’s complications and we need her next of kin here to make decisions.”
“What?” I say, bolting to a standing position. “Complications? Is Adelaide okay?”
“Yes, but the baby isn’t in a preferred position and it’s causing Adelaide great strain,” the woman says.
“Great strain,” I say, trying to compute what this could mean.
“Yes, your daughter has been hyperventilating since the labor started and her mental state is making this delivery more difficult. There’s no one here for her, only hospital staff. And going through this without a loved one is especially difficult. I’m worried for her,” the woman says and her voice shakes on the last word.
“All right, fine. I’ll be right there,” I say, a bit begrudgingly.
***
When I arrive at the hospital the midwife meets me in the waiting room since I refused to enter Adelaide’s room. Seeing a woman in labor isn’t something I can do. Some people have triggers and that happens to be mine. I’m fairly certain that seeing Adelaide in labor will bring a rush of my worst memories back. I only have one real regret in life and it’s watching a woman die in childbirth and knowing it was entirely my fault. Dahlia is in Tokyo or Amsterdam or whatever. Otherwise I would have sent her in there to support Adelaide. And Pops had to return to Peavey briefly. Unfortunately for Adelaide, I’m all she has right now.
“What’s going on?” I say to Betty, the midwife, as she approaches. By the look of her hair she doesn’t own a brush and by the look of her clothes she washes them using a washboard. Of course a midwife would be the hippie type. Hippies should have died out in the seventies; instead, they bred and secured their dumbass ways underground in small towns in Oregon.
Because Los Angeles sucks in every way imaginable, I actually sat in two hours of traffic getting here from the closest GAD-C. What’s the fucking point in being a Dream Traveler in the busiest city in the country?
“Adelaide is failing to progress,” the midwife says, and I catch the hint of real fear in her eyes.
“What the fuck does that mean? Adelaide is failing labor? How does one possibly do that?”
Her shit brown eyes narrow with confusion at my remark. “Sir, labor is complicated. And Adelaide’s blood pressure has dropped, she’s weak, possibly too weak to push and—”
Running footsteps slapping against the linoleum interrupt her sentence. “Betty! Betty!” a woman calls. She’s young. A newbie nurse, I’m guessing. “We have a diagnosis. Dr. Rollins just received the blood test results.” The girl with the high ponytail stops. She doesn’t look at me but rather at the midwife. “She has amniotic fluid embolism,” the young nurse says to the midwife.
And immediately the midwife’s expression unleashes a fear response in me. Her eyes widen. Mouth pops open. A small sound falls out of it.
Betty turns to me. “That means—”
“Adelaide could die,” I say through my constricted throat. It feels as though a chain has been wrapped around my neck. I know things. Things from decades of working for the Institute. A lifetime of reading. And I know that amniotic fluid embolism is a rare condition. And I also know that it has a high mortality rate.
“They’re going to have to do an emergency C-section,” the midwife says, trying to explain from her place of knowing.
“Do it,” I almost yell, throwing my arm in the direction of the hallway where Adelaide’s room is.
“But sir, just so you know, to save your daughter…” She hesitates. “There’s many complications involved…And…” The midwife can’t finish her sentences, and it’s infuriating.
I pinch my eyes together, directing all my anger at the woman who is speaking too slow.
Finally she says, “The baby may not survive. In these cases, there’s many risks for both mother and baby. You need to know that.”
“I don’t care if the monster survives. Just get it out of my daughter and do what you have to to save her life,” I say, and now I do yell.
She nods, and I hate the look in her eyes. It too clearly says what she didn’t. Adelaide is in serious danger. Surviving this is one thing. Not having brain damage or a host of other possibilities is another.
The woman and the nurse turn and run off, all their actions urgent.
I spin around to the wall, my eyes on the ceiling. “Don’t you fucking take her,” I say aloud. “And God, don’t make her a vegetable and leave me with her bloody monster to raise.”
Chapter Eleven
Waiting is something losers do. They idly sit by and just wait for news. For results. For things outside their control to happen. I’ve never considered myself a waiter. I live my life. Do things. Make things happen while other things happen. I’ve never sat around unable to do something because I’m waiting. And yet here I am, in an ordinary hospital waiting room surrounded by losers who are dripping with concern. Their lives are stuck in mid-pendulum swing because of someone else. Because someone else’s life is being decided in a frigid operating room. Their life span, quality of life, and the weight they’ll potentially put on the people in this room by being a burden or not at all is all being determined. And it’s being determined by the hands of surgeons and doctors who maybe graduated at the top of their class, but most likely did not. Half of doctors graduate in under the bottom fifty percentile and yet they’re granted positions where they rule over people’s lives.
One of those doctors could be operating on Adelaide now. They’ll be cutting her open and ripping a monster out of her. And even then her fate won’t be decided. The amniotic fluid could be in her lungs, overtaking them, depriving her brain of oxygen. There are things the doctors can do and things outside their control. I know that. The phony balance in the world isn’t governed by the people in this place, a hospital meant to save. It’s always been controlled by a God who has a fucked up sense of right and wrong. I say this because I truly believe, at this stage in my life, that God put me on this Earth as a monster. That wasn’t enough for God though. He had to tear people from my life one by one so that I put up a wall around myself, too afraid to care about people, too afraid they’d die. Not all the people in my life have been plucked from the Earth by God’s hands, but enough that I got the bloody point. Most who the monster cares about will meet an early end. God obviously cursed me. And I have a feeling he’s doing it again with Adelaide because of his fucking vendetta against me.
I’ve never believed that because God deems something right, it is. That’s a fucking ambiguous method of living one’s life. God gives and takes and doesn’t care if things are right or wrong. That’s not the fucking point of his game. People think he’s supremely good. That he wants the best for us. That there’s a bloody purpose to this all. There’s not. God isn’t trying to help us.
I’m not saying he isn’t there. That’s fucking ridiculous. He’s there, all right. He’s watching. He’s allowing the tragedies. Enjoying them maybe. I believe, and it’s taken me forty-five years to decide this, that God is only a bigger fucked up version of us trying to experience himself through us. He isn’t trying to save our souls or help us grow. He eats up our failures. That is an experience. He wants to experience our losses, our joys, our addictions, our seemingly unending pain. That masochist is all about experiences. That is all. Pray for help but he only eats your words. Commit yourself to him, but he only feels the devotion. His job is not to intervene or love us or guide us through this bloody hell hole. He’s not the director, he’s the guy in the audience and we are his actors and all he wants is a fucking show.
“Mr. Lewis?” I hear from the far side of the room.
I flip my head up and instantly a strain in my neck announces itself. I’ve been sitting for over an hour, my elbows on my knees, head hanging low. I’ve been waiting. Waiting to hear my name be called, like a fucking loser would. My back also mentions its problems with my long sitting position when I stand.
A doctor in light blue scrubs stands by the nearest wall, holding a clipboard. He’s tall and bald, and the look in his small eyes gives nothing away. He turns and begins walking with me as I approach.
“I’m Dr. Mizin, the doctor who performed Adelaide’s surgery,” he says. He’s Russian judging by his accent. Thank fucking god. Russians never graduate in the bottom half of their class. That may be a stereotype, and in my profession stereotypes are akin to law. Typecasting and generalizations use statistics to help me make snap decisions.
