by Pam Eaton
“Made a phone call and they set it up. Guess they didn’t want to waste any time,” I tell him. Now that I think about it, it was all pretty quick. But given what happened in the woods, maybe that’s not such a bad thing.
My eyes focus back on Gregory. He seems to be studying me. Probably because I’m still holding his hand! What is wrong with me? I’ve become one of those seriously awkward people. Well, at least when I’m around him. I feel my face flame as I drop his hand. “Sorry,” I say.
“This way.” He motions back to the elevator. And I could kiss him for ignoring my sudden issues with touching people I hardly know. They’re going to throw me out of here on account of not passing any psychological tests today.
We step in and the doors close. Sealing us in. Classical music plays softly overhead. I thought all awkwardness would fade, but I guess karma hates me today, because the elevator is covered in mirrors. So now I can’t covertly check him out. I can’t do anything but stare at myself like some narcissistic jerk. And apparently I’m a super twitchy person; who knew? Obviously Gregory does now, since all my fidgety movements are on display. Like what the hell is going on with my left eye? Am I having a stroke?
“Nervous?” he asks.
“No,” I lie. I’m so freaking nervous I can’t even come up with any good replies.
I watch in the mirror as his green eyes crinkle and his lips thin. He’s totally trying to rein in his laughter. “Be like Elsa, man. Let it go,” I tell him, and yes that definitely sounded a lot cheesier coming out of my mouth than in my brain. But really, if I was in an elevator with someone acting like me, I wouldn’t be able to contain myself.
He lets out a deep laugh. I think I’m in love.
The elevator dings, bringing us to our destination. And all the humor that was between us is gone. He clears his throat and then steps aside, letting me exit first. Such a gentleman.
“Soooo what’s next?” I ask. I’m not really liking the fact that I have no clue what to expect.
“You’ll be starting the physical portion first,” he tells me, all business now.
We enter a hall devoid of color and originality. Stark white walls, white tiled floors, florescent lights lining the ceiling. The waiting room had paintings at least, but apparently down here white is the only thing allowed.
“Physical?” I ask.
His eyes finally meet mine. “Just standard protocol.”
“Of course, standard protocol.” I make air quotes around the last bit. “Is that code for poking, prodding, experimenting?”
He smiles slightly and shakes his head like I’m being ridiculous. “Just your normal doctor’s physical. With a little running on the treadmill.”
My steps falter. Maybe what happened in the woods was a fluke. “Everything okay?” he asks, lightly touching my arm.
“Yeah. Totally. Perfect.” I nod my head, trying to convince him as well as myself.
“Okay.” He draws out the word.
I give him a bright, forced smile. And then I point at it. “See? Wouldn’t be smiling if I wasn’t okay.”
He stares at me, his features drawn. But he comes to some conclusion, because we keep walking down the bleak hallway.
As we approach a set of double doors, he swipes a badge from inside his pants pocket and we walk inside. “This is a little more extensive physical than average. I’m going to show you to a locker room where you’ll find clothes to change into.”
Awesome. I hadn’t even thought about needing a change of clothes. I figured it would be just like getting a physical for school, and you don’t need a change of clothes for that. “How do you know what size I need?”
A smile lights up his gorgeous face. “Well, Miss Hunter, this is the government. What don’t we know?”
I guess he’s right, but it’s still freaking creepy. He opens another door and leaves me to walk into the locker room. “I’ll be waiting right here for you after you change.”
I nod and proceed in. Around the corner, on a bench is a pair of shorts, shirt, socks, and a pair of shoes. Even the shoes are the right size. Bizarre.
I step out of the locker room and find Gregory leaning against the wall. He has to be model. Who knew leaning could look so attractive? Have to get him do it more often.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Guess so. Any tips?” I ask.
“Don’t fall on your face,” he tells me.
My mouth falls open and I have to scramble to catch up with him. “Did you just make a joke?”
“Why does that shock you? I’m not a cyborg.” No, just a gorgeous man. He needs a flaw. That stumble the other day doesn’t even count.
He stops in front of a metal door. “I’ll come and get you after you’re done. And don’t worry, Dr. Wilkes is a good guy. No top-secret government experiments will happen today.”
“Today?” I ask, my voice rising to an unattractive octave.
He opens the door and we walk into a large room. It looks like an operating room had a baby with an interrogation room. One whole wall is the kind of large mirror that you always see in cop shows. A treadmill takes up another corner, along with an exam table and some machines whose purpose is beyond me.
Standing in the center of the room in a white lab coat is an older man with a clipboard. His face is round, as is the rest of his body. His hair matches the color of the walls, white as snow.
“Hello, Rebecca.” Dr. Wilkes extends his hand to me, and it’s like touching an ice cube. I quickly drop it.
He gives a deep laugh. It’s like watching Santa. “Sorry about that, forget sometimes.”
Umm, okay?
“Don’t worry, Gregory. I’ll let you know when I’m done,” Dr. Wilkes says and then he waves a hand behind him. A lady steps out from behind him. Where did she come from? “This is my assistant, Carrie. She’ll be taking notes today too.”
At least it won’t be just the two of us alone. In the creepy lab. In the bowels of the FBI.
Gregory gives me a wink and leaves me alone with Mr. Freeze.
“Why don’t you hop up on the table and we’ll get started,” he says, interrupting my inner monologue.
Fifteen minutes later and now I know exactly how a lab rat feels. I’ve never been poked and prodded so much in my life. Of course, there was the standard blood pressure, listening to my lungs, taking my temperature, and weighing me. But did he really have to take that much blood? And was it really necessary to pinch my sides to see how much body fat I have? It took everything in me not to stare at the mirror to see if I could see past it. I’ve watched enough movies to know that there’s a good chance someone’s back there, but I’ll never be able to tell. And I’d rather not be remembered as the girl who put her face up to the glass.
“Let’s get you on that treadmill now,” he tells me as his eyes stay focused on his clipboard.
Freezing for a minute, I’m not sure what to do. Walking and jogging aren’t the issue, but what if he wants me to sprint? I haven’t dared since the woods.
I take a deep breath and walk over to it. I keep chanting to myself, They’re here to help me, over and over in my mind.
“All right, I’m just going to attach some electrodes to you so we can monitor you heart rate.”
“Okay, doc,” I tell him and it causes him to smile. He should smile more often; it would help with the creepy-basement-government-facility vibe I get from this room.
I step onto the treadmill and try to swallow the lump in my throat. I start off at a walking pace and slowly he speeds me up to a slight jog. Okay, this is not too bad. I can definitely handle this. Nothing weird seems to be happening.
He leans over and ups the speed. Spoke too soon.
Every minute he increases my speed one mph, and before I know it, I’m in an all-out sprint. I can scarcely feel the ground anymore with my feet. It’s like I’m barely skimming the treadmill. I’m literally running on air. And I kind of wonder if my legs look like they’re going a mile a minute. I try so
hard to keep composure in my face and I sneak a peek at the doctor, but he’s just writing on his clipboard like he doesn’t even notice anything strange. Like there isn’t a girl who looks like one of those cartoons. Because my legs are definitely pumping in the air.
He decreases the speed gradually. My hands rest on my hips as I drag in deep breaths. I tilt my head back and my eyes snag on the mirror. Crap. My gaze sharpens on the glass. I clench my hands, hoping to stop their shaking. Maybe no one is behind the mirror and I’m just over reacting. Maybe it’s just a mirror after all and not one of those two-way ones. Maybe no one can see me drenched in sweat and in desperate need of a lung transplant right now.
I know they know about me, but feeling the need to hide about it is a hard thing to stop.
The doctor snaps me back into reality. “Okay, Rebecca, we’re going to have you do an obstacle course now. Just follow me to the next room and we can begin.”
I groan and shuffle after the doctor to the other room. The room is larger than I expected, and the size alone makes me feel tired. There are ropes courses, climbing walls, and large boulders. Who would have thought that this building would hold these types of rooms?
The scope of everything in this room is overwhelming. I really hope they don’t expect me to do all of this, because that would be crazy. “I know this room seems a little intimidating, but don’t worry. We just want to see how fast you can scale this wall,” he assures me.
He points to the wall and my calves start to ache. Of course they want me scale that wall. You know, just an average day at the FBI. Not only do I have to scale it; they’re going to time me on top of that. Someone better be prepared to pick me up off the floor when I’m done.
I look at the rest of it, though. “Thank goodness. For a minute there I thought you were going to have me do the entire room. I’m not Wonder Woman.”
The doctor laughs and takes me to the starting place. “On the count of three. One...two...three!”
I sprint as fast as I can for the wall, grabbing the rope dangling from it. Up I go at an amazing speed, but a feeling washes over my body. It’s the same sensation as when I was sprinting, but my body feels charged, like lightning. It’s almost as if I fly over the wall and land on the other side. I would totally be an amazing pole vaulter now.
The doctor just stands there, taking notes, blank face. Did he not just witness the amazingness of my wall climb? “All right, I am going to show you back to the locker room so you can freshen up and change. Mr. Johnson will be waiting for you once you’re done,” he tells me.
I guess the first hurdle of the day is done. What’s next?
Nine
Fully dressed and hair fixed, I leave the locker room to find Gregory. I stop short—he’s not alone. Ania stands next to him. Unfortunately, they make a striking pair, but she has to be older than him. “Rebecca,” she says in her thick accent.
“Germany?” I ask.
Her face pulls into a sneer. Come on! Even that’s pretty.
“Poland,” she tells me, totally offended.
“Sorry.” What did I do?
She waves away my comment.
“It’d be like if we assumed you were Canadian,” Gregory tells me.
“Ah,” I say, nodding my head. I still don’t get it. I’ll just make sure never to make that mistake again.
They turn in unison to walk down the hall, their movements in sync. They must work together a lot. We move down another dull hallway, and after a few turns we end up at a large wooden door. It stands out starkly against the continuous white.
Gregory opens the door and we enter a small conference room. A long table occupies most of the space, and at the very end is a man who looks close in age to my grandfather. There’s nothing extraordinary about him. He still has most of his hair, but it’s grey. He’s average height and build, but his eyes change his whole demeanor. The way he looks at you, there’s no doubt about who is in control in this room. “Rebecca Hunter, meet Mr. Smith,” Gregory informs me.
Ah yes, the man with the unoriginal name. He stands from his chair; his body is rigid as if at attention. He extends his hand for me to shake and I hesitantly accept. “It is very nice to meet you, Rebecca. Please, have a seat.”
Our hands touch, and that same electrical feeling I felt with Gregory engulfs me. So much for hoping we were unique. I release his hand and then shake out my own. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it,” Mr. Smith says in a companionable way.
We all lower ourselves into seats around the table. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions for us. And we’ll get to them, but I’d like to ask mine first. Okay?”
“All right.” I rub my palms up and down my pant legs.
“How’s school?” he asks.
School? Seriously. They bring me all the way down here to ask about that? “It’s fine. It’s school.” I’m not really sure what type of answers he’s looking for.
“Do you enjoy it? Participate in sports? Friends?” he continues.
“Does anyone really enjoy school?” I ask and look to Ania and Gregory for their agreement, but they’ve both got straight faces. All right, no help from them.
“Uh, it’s fine. Kind of necessary since I want to go college. I’ve got some friends.” Who currently aren’t talking to me because I dropped off the face of the earth. But it seems necessary right now. “I play sports. I actually had a basketball scholarship in the works until I tore my ACL last season.” All my hopes were ripped away when that happened.
“Have you always taken pleasure in playing sports?” Mr. Smith interrupts my thoughts.
“Yes. Ever since I can remember, my grandfather has had me actively playing some sport.”
What I don’t tell him, since he didn’t ask, is that sports have been my outlet for anger, especially around my birthdays and holidays when my mom never called. I would either go out back and shoot hoops or run. I think that was the other reason my grandpa put me in sports. I probably would have been a terror otherwise.
“How’s your relationship with your parents?” he asks.
“I’m sorry?” I ask, because I’m not sure I heard him right.
“Just wondering about your feelings concerning your parents,” he tells me. But this doesn’t make sense. He should know they’re dead. And whoa, a little personal, guy.
“Both of my parents died,” I tell him. And I know my voice is patronizing, but come on. This is the whole reason they dragged me down here. Well, maybe not dragged, but heavily suggested.
“Yes, our condolences on that,” he says, and I’m confused. Is this a test? Is he trying to get me to answer a certain way? “How about before your mom died?” he asks.
I shift in my seat. These are super personal questions. “Well, I didn’t really have a relationship with my mom. My dad’s parents raised me. And that’s a great relationship.”
“So you never had any contact with your mother?” he asks while leaning toward me.
My palms begin to sweat and I try to dry them on my pants, but it’s like I have a faucet for hands. Why does he keep asking me about my mom? I shrug. “Not really. Drugs and alcohol were more important to her than me. She wasn’t the best at keeping in touch. You guys have to know about her.”
Mr. Smith looks over at Gregory, who nods as if in agreement. What does that look mean? Goosebumps break out across my arms and a cold fist squeezes my heart. Ania rises from her chair with an air of authority. She walks to the door and locks it, making me flinch. Fear begins to bubble up in the pit of my stomach. My throat tightens and it feels like all the air in the room has been sucked out. I grip the table. There is no escape out of the room. I try to stand, but Mr. Smith puts a hand on my shoulder as if to comfort me. Where the heck did he come from? All I want to do is scream and run. Gregory shakes his head in warning, and then a firm pressure plops me back into my seat. Mr. Smith turns his eyes on me.
“And she never told you about us?” he asks.
What on earth do t
hey want? I tilt my head to the side, puzzled. “What…what are you trying to ask me?”
He leans toward me and his eyes become intense, only for a second, before they’re back to questioning. I don’t know what answer he is looking for. “It’s very important that you tell us everything,” he says.
I start fidgeting in my seat. I keep shifting my glance between the three of them. Ania is still at the door standing guard and Mr. Smith reigns over me. “All you have to do is ask my grandpa. I can’t remember the last time I saw her. There’s never been any discussion about any of this. She left me in the dark. You guys came to me and told me to come here and learn more about what’s going on.” Now I’m getting pissed. They may be trying to appear calm, but this still has the feeling of an interrogation.
Mr. Smith shakes his head and frowns at me. “Well, we do know about your mother. You seem to choose your words wisely like she did. I knew Linda personally.”
My stomach drops and it feels like someone pushed all the air out of my lungs. He knew my mom. And it makes me grab for that stupid coin I put in my pocket.
I shift my gaze between the three of them again. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. They all seem so calm, but I must look like a rabid animal trying to find a way out. How could he know my mother? I didn’t even know her. What kind of life did she live that they would know her? But after finding that sobriety chip and newspaper article, what else don’t I know?
Gregory’s stare stays steady on me, but he’s not giving anything away. I’m on the verge of either crying or screaming. Probably screaming. My eyes shoot toward the door, still locked. “We know that your mother was special, and we know that since she has passed away, you have become special yourself,” Mr. Smith tells me slowly like I’m a little kid.
Is having a super power not special enough? I feel more like a freak than someone special, and my mother was far from anything good. What makes me mad, though, is that these complete strangers know more about her than I do. My eyes harden as I take in Mr. Smith. My muscles tighten in rage and my breath becomes harsh from trying to control my rising temper. “Why don’t you tell me what was so special about my mother,” I spit out.
