“Open wide.”
With my hunger outweighing my embarrassment, I open my mouth and lean forward for the first bite. It tastes delicious. The nurse feeds me another forkful, and then offers me a bite of the jelly biscuit.
“See, it’s not so bad here, is it?” the nurse asks.
I ignore the woman’s satisfied smirk as I finish off the meal with the sausage link. With my belly full, I ease back on my elbows, dazed. My eyelids weigh a hundred pounds. The room and the nurse swivel out of focus, my surroundings melting before me.
“What’s happening?” I ask, struggling to hold my head up.
The nurse brings her face close to mine. “Sleep tight.”
►▼◄
I open my eyes. I sit in a cushioned chair in a dark room. Judging by the smell of old carpet, I no longer sit in the white room. My arms and legs are immobile, strapped to the chair. A lap belt squeezes my waist tight to the seat. A white screen covers the wall before me. Then the familiar Gideon anthem on the piano carries across the room, the words sung by a choir. A stout, bearded man appears on the screen, and the music fades.
“As you should know, I am Archibald Gideon, grandson of Ulysses Gideon. My grandfather created Gideon on the principles of human perfection. You and those you conspire with aim to destroy those principles,” the man says with a scowl. “You are an enemy of Gideon, but you have been found to be, for one reason or another, capable of reform. You will be rehabilitated to reenter Gideon’s society and given a second chance at citizenship. Count yourself lucky. Many enemies before you have been punished by death. This is your one chance at redemption. If you revert to enemy status, you will face death. To begin your therapy, you will relearn the Code and the history of Gideon. Long live, Gideon!”
Archibald Gideon disappears from the screen, and the music fades up again. Then the screen displays text from the Code as a female, automated voice says, “Read the following codes aloud.”
“No!” I shout.
A sharp pain shoots up my back like a hot knife, and I shriek, struggling to pull away from the chair.
The female voice repeats the instructions, so I mumble the words on the screen.
“Speak the words clearly and audibly,” the voice says.
I examine the restraints, trying to find a way to break out of them. I cry out when the chair once again shocks my back. The pain strikes me harder this time.
The voice repeats the instructions again, and I read the words on the screen. I follow every instruction, fearing another shock. The words of each code are repeated again and again, for what feels like several exhausting hours. My eyelids long for sleep and my stomach begs for food when it ends, but I don’t suffer any additional shocks.
The words leave the screen, and the voice says, “Congratulations on completion of your first session.”
Before I can even wonder how many more sessions I have to endure, a needle pricks the side of my neck, and the room goes completely black.
►▼◄
The apartment door creaks open, and I know Daddy is home. Mommy hurries to greet him with a kiss and the usual small talk, but his expression catches us all off-guard.
I remember this. He looked so scared.
Daddy locks the deadbolt. “Pack food and water. We have to get out of here.”
“What’s going on?” eight-year-old Petra asks.
She always wore that blue hair band back then. I wanted to wear it, but she would never let me.
“Code Enforcement is coming for me.” Daddy rushes by us through the foyer, grasping his metal briefcase.
“Why?” Mommy asks. “You never got rid of it?”
Daddy’s face turns red.
“Just pack a bag,” he says. “There’s a safe place we can go.”
I remember this. He hid the suitcase under the sofa.
“I’m scared, Daddy,” I say.
He was so tall and strong. I remember his green eyes, like mine and Petra’s.
He scoops me up in his arms. “It’s going to be okay, bug.”
“Code Enforcement! Open up!” a voice shouts through rapping on the door.
Daddy sets me down. He heads for the foyer, but before he even enters it, the door flies open. Two CE officers stand in the doorway. Each officer holds a nightstick in his hand. Mommy drops the sack of supplies she gathered and wraps her arms around me and Petra.
“Corbin Santos,” the tall officer says, “you are under suspicion for possession of enemy propaganda.”
“That’s nonsense,” Daddy says.
They enter the living room. “Remain where you are. Your dwelling will be searched.”
I squeeze Mommy’s side. “Mommy?”
“It’s okay, girls,” Daddy says. He turns to the officers. “You won’t find anything.”
The tall officer points at the sofas. “Go have a seat.”
We follow his instructions, and Daddy sits beside us. The officers disappear into the bedrooms.
“You lied to me,” Mommy whispers to Daddy. “I thought we agreed.”
He shushes her and places his arm around her shoulders. We all jump at the crash of ceramic breaking. Furniture groans as the officers force it out of place.
The two officers return empty-handed. They go for the sofas next, making us stand aside as they pull up cushions and rip them open. I hold my breath.
They’re going to find it. And then our lives will be over.
“My furniture!” Mommy yells, creating a distraction.
The shorter officer narrows his eyes at her. Then he pushes over the glass lamp on the side table, allowing it to crash into a hundred pieces on the hardwood floor.
Daddy takes a step forward. “Enough!”
Both officers ignore his protest, and the tall one scans the room, stopping at the kitchen doorway. “Check the kitchen.”
As they both head out of the living room, Petra dashes back to the side of the sofa over the briefcase and plops down on top of it. The shorter officer stops in his tracks and stares at her with a raised eyebrow.
“Petra, come here,” Mommy says through gritted teeth.
Petra shakes her head.
The shorter officer approaches her. “Get up, girl.”
Petra’s face contorts, tears filling her eyes. She jumps from the sofa and runs to Mommy’s side. Mommy hugs her and whispers comforting words.
No, empty words. It’s all over now.
The CE officer bends down and hoists the sofa up. It falls with a heavy thud on its back. The briefcase lays exposed on the hardwood floor. He picks it up.
“Open it,” he says, pointing at the combination lock.
Daddy’s expression makes me tense. “It’s only work documents,” he says.
The other officer approaches him. “Open it!”
Daddy punches in the combination, and the latches pop up. The short officer snatches the case from him and lifts the top. Both officers peek in.
“You’re under arrest for violation of Code 770,” the tall officer says, slamming the briefcase shut.
“No!” Mommy screams, grabbing Daddy’s arm.
Daddy takes her hands into his own. “It’ll be okay.”
The short officer tackles Daddy and slams him into the nearest wall, knocking framed art to the floor. Glass shatters at their feet. Petra and I scream, covering our tear-stained faces. Mommy drops to her knees and pulls me and Petra close as the officers place handcuffs on Daddy. Tears burn my eyes.
“I couldn’t do it, Audrey,” Daddy says. “I’m sorry.”
The officers drag him away.
No. I remembered it wrong.
A knock came at the door. Two CE officers stood on the other side.
“We’re so sorry, Mrs. Santos,” the short officer said. “There’s been an incident.”
“Girls, go play in your rooms,” Mommy said.
I don’t remember this.
Mommy came into the bedroom. She was upset.
“Girls, Daddy is gone,”
she said, crying. “The enemies murdered him.”
Yes, this is how it happened.
►▼◄
Rain spatters against the window, soothing me as I sit in the rehab facility rec room. A few other patients play cards at the opposite side of the room. I was invited to join them, but the rhythm of the rain beckoned me. Beyond the iron bars on the window, citizens walk by under raincoats and white umbrellas. This part of the day brings me peace because I can block out the thoughts. They haunt me most of the day and night. They are strange thoughts with words I can’t piece together. “You, Lord, will keep the needy”…Code 534: Citizens shall not be seen in public out of standard-issue coveralls… These are my thoughts, disjointed sense and nonsense. My memories of the Code are intertwined with strange phrases and words I no longer recognize.
“Raissa,” a voice whispers.
Arkin sits in the chair opposite from me.
“Why am I here?” I ask.
He leans forward. “So the glory of the Lord can be shown through you.”
“The Lord?” I ask.
“Jesus. You can’t forget Him,” he says, reaching out for my hand. “You won’t be able to.”
Another voice calls my name from somewhere behind me. I turn my head to respond and a twinge of pain pinches my neck. I wince and reach up, my fingers finding the bandage and tape. They said my surgery would be a success with a few more weeks of recovery.
I wave to the young nurse who stands in the middle of the room. “Over here!”
“Time for memory treatment,” she says, approaching me.
I turn back to Arkin to excuse myself, but I find only an empty chair.
“Where did he go?” I ask.
“Who, dear?” she asks.
“The boy.”
“There aren’t any male patients on this floor, honey,” the nurse says. “Come with me.”
Bewilderment troubles me for a moment, but the nurse’s voice and demeanor calm my disjointed thoughts. I like memory treatment. It makes sense. Soon everything will make sense.
►▼◄
Dr. Harget’s office smells like peaches today. Each day it smells like a different fruit. I like the peach smell. It reminds me of Mom’s peach cobbler from years ago.
“How are you today?” Harget asks from behind her desk.
I glance out the window beside me. “Good. It’s a nice day out. I wish I could draw it.”
“You’ve made a comment like that before. Do you draw a lot at home?”
I nod. “I love drawing. It’s natural to me.”
“What did you used to draw?” she asks.
“Everything, I guess.”
“I think you’ll be drawing again very soon. Today you go home.”
“Home?” Flashes of memories dance in my mind.
“You told me it was you and your mom there, remember?”
“Right. My sister, Petra, died. There was an accident. My father was murdered by enemies when I was a kid.”
She shakes her head. “Tragic. Those enemies can be so ruthless.”
“I wish I could work for CE, so I could stop them,” I say, closing my fists.
“Working for CE doesn’t always mean fighting the enemies,” the therapist says. “I would know. I work for Code Enforcement too.”
I nod in oblivious agreement. “Is my mother coming here to get me?”
“She’s due here any moment now.”
“How long have I been here? I can’t seem to remember.”
“Your memory is still healing. Four weeks. How does your neck feel? Are you getting anymore headaches?”
I rub the fresh scar on the back of my neck. “No headaches and my neck feels as good as new.”
“I hope you’ve found your time here to be beneficial.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I don’t feel depressed anymore, and I’m ready to get back to school and continue to be a loyal, productive citizen.”
She claps her hands together and grins. “That’s wonderful to hear!”
The office door behind us creaks open, and I glance back. A familiar face peeks inside.
I jump from the chair. “Mom!”
Mom hurries into the room and embraces me. “You look great. You look so much better.”
“She is,” the therapist says. “She’s ready to get back to life as usual.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
On the first day back at school, a few faces look familiar, and my textbooks and assignments are as boring as I remember. My teachers welcome me back from my recovery, and I remember all of them.
The day is normal except for the feeling like something is missing. I don’t know what. A poster? A chair? A person? I account for all the students. Yet, something about the day seems off.
After school, I search the crowd outside for Ogden. Did something happen between us? Did I drive him away during my depression? I can’t remember. Dr. Harget said I was in a terrible state when Mom brought me to the rehabilitation center for help. I was refusing to go to school and ignoring the Code. I wouldn’t even eat.
Troubled, I head home by myself, still searching for Ogden but seeing no sign of him. Maybe I’ll try contacting him later. I scan the street ahead. A few yards before me, a handsome face appears behind dark-framed eye glasses. A flash of dark hair disappears behind a thick tree trunk. I narrow my gaze and pick up my pace, forcing my way through the pedestrian crowd to see him again. Behind the tree, I find no one.
►▼◄
“What happened with Ogden?” I ask Mom during dinner. “I tried to call him, and he didn’t answer.”
Mom frowns and wipes her mouth with her napkin. “I know there are a lot of things you can’t remember because of the depression, so this is going to be difficult.” She places a hand on mine. “You and Ogden had a fight, and now he’s forbidden to be friends with you.”
My fork freezes before my mouth. “A fight? Why?”
“I don’t know. You attacked him in his bedroom,” she says. “That’s when I knew I had to take you in for help.”
“I don’t think I’d attack him for no reason.”
“You weren’t making any sense at all, but I’m so glad you’re back to normal,” she says, smiling at me.
I poke at the roasted potatoes on my plate. “I think I’m ready to go finish my homework.”
“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. My friend, Hunter, will be coming to dinner tomorrow.”
“Hunter?” I ask, searching my memory.
“I don’t think you would remember him. He’s my work friend, and he’s been very supportive this whole time. I think we’re becoming more than friends.”
I blink several times and swallow. She never dated anyone before, at least, not according to my sketchy memory.
“Is he your first boyfriend?” I ask.
She laughs. “Since your father, yes. Dr. Harget told me only your memories of the past several months have been affected by your depression. You can trust your memories from before that.”
I crack a smile. “Good.”
She stands from the table and picks up our plates. “Let me know if you need any help with your homework.”
“Thanks,” I say, standing and scooting my chair under the table.
A spotless bedroom, not the norm at all, greets me. In the past two days, I allowed some disorder to return to it, but it hasn’t become the bedroom I remember.
I pull out my books and work on my citizenship homework with little effort. I don’t even have to open my code book to respond to the questions. I write all correct answers. For science, I try to read and stay focused, but a distraction, like an itch, captures my concentration. I used to do this with someone else. It wasn’t Og. Who else could it be?
I close the book and a sinking feeling overtakes me. I was used to the emptiness of the apartment before. Petra used to live here with us before she went off to the university. I last saw her months ago for Holiday. We usually don’t celebrate Holiday because of the expense, but she brou
ght food and gifts.
Gifts. My sketchbook. Where is it? I open my dresser drawers, finding pajamas, socks, and undergarments. I search my backpack but find only textbooks. Where else could it be?
My gut instinct tells me to look under the bed, and there it is—at the far back against the wall. In the lamp light beside my bed, I open the sketchbook with aching curiosity. What sketches did I draw in my depression? Strange creatures or nightmarish scenes? The first sketch, Petra’s face, makes my eyes sting. She died in a horse carriage accident, but how? Who was responsible? When did it happen? I haven’t yet gathered up the courage to ask Mom.
I turn to the next page in the sketchbook and find an image of Mom sleeping in her bed. The next page holds a dog in the cobblestone street drinking from a puddle of water. The next drawings are similar to this, scenes around school and Gideon with a few other doodles, but the one after them startles me in its complete contrast.
Unfamiliar eyes stare into my own. A slight smile curls the soft lips. Light, penciled hair surrounds the forehead of the cutest guy I’ve ever seen. I flip to the next page and find the boy again, standing under an oak tree. Again, he’s on the next page with his hair tucked under a toboggan. I discover the same handsome face on the next dozen or more pages. Who is this? Is he real? I have no answers for these questions. I’ve never seen this guy before in my life.
►▼◄
I run, my heart pounding a million beats per minute. The tree limbs and bushes grab at my legs. With each breath, I gasp, struggling to keep my pace. Something chases me through the forest, something dark and noisy. It makes the earth tremble with each step, drawing ever closer.
“Raissa, hurry!” the boy yells, a few feet ahead of me.
He is the one from the sketches, wearing a blue shirt and brown shorts. His feet are bare and bloody.
“Run!” he screams.
His eyes widen in terror. His bangs are drenched in sweat. I reach for his hand and grasp it. We jump over logs and dodge tree branches. My legs become heavier and heavier. I can’t keep up with him. My hand slips out of his, and he disappears ahead.
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