Alone

by E. J. Noyes

  I wait for her to retaliate, but she doesn’t. Dredging up something she’s done and throwing it in her face usually gets rid of her. As I tend to my plants, I imagine the way Mother looks, or rather the way I remember her. She might have been pretty once, I think. Some of my memories have warped over time.

  Riley got all Mother’s physical attributes, or those Mother had before meth and whatever else ruined them. Short with full breasts, curvy hips, straight blond hair. Typical feminine perfection. Even her nose was cute, like a little ski jump. My little sister also got Mother’s predisposition to addiction. Physically—and I like to think mentally and emotionally too—I’m nothing like either of them. Except the color of my eyes, which are a blue so bright and intense I always think they look unnatural.

  I’ve had four lovers tell me I look like an artist, whatever that means. Strong jaw, straight nose. Nondescript brunette hair that curls when there’s moisture in the air. I’m tallish and lanky, small-breasted and wiry. Almost androgynous. I’d be more so if I could bear to cut my hair short, but I can’t. Not since Mother hacked it off when I was five, and five and a half, and seven, and eight and three-quarters, because I had head lice. Lice treatments cost money. For Mother, it was a no-brainer.

  After sparing me from the horror of physically resembling Mother, the universe still saw fit to give me some sort of fuck you and made me sound exactly like her. My voice is deep and gravelly, like I’m a lifelong three-pack-a-day smoker. Talking through closed doors to dealers and addicts, I was mistaken for her over and over again. Even sometimes now when I hear myself, I want to cringe.

  The first few times she spoke to me here I thought it was me, speaking without realizing. So strange, because I haven’t seen or heard her since I was twelve, but I carry her with me in a place I thought inaccessible. The voices trigger unwanted thoughts and feelings. In all my time here, I’ve managed to avoid becoming depressed or at least I think I have. I try not to be self-pitying because while the loneliness is hard it’s also bearable.

  The fact I’d remained fairly stable made me proud, like a warped sort of accomplishment. But the false things flipped everything on its head and now it’s harder to suppress my distress. I can’t pretend I’m not alone because the hallucinations are forcing me to acknowledge and participate in this sad version of my life, Clockwork Orange style.

  My hand is still shaking from Mother’s visit and when I cut the stems of chard, I accidentally nick the side of my forefinger. It’s not deep but it bleeds freely from the straight-edged slice. I stick my finger in my mouth. It tastes like blood and dirt. Earthy and metallic. Not unpleasant.

  My first aid is quick and perfunctory. I hold my clumsily dressed finger up to the webcam while I’m recording my weekly video log, as ordered by Controller B this morning. “I cut myself accidentally because Mother was talking to me.” Even after my quick bouts of speaking aloud earlier, my voice still sounds odd, grating and harsh. I drop my hand to the desk, thumb playing over the rough bandage on my finger. I look around the room then back at the webcam.

  “They’re starting to bother me. I’m scared it’s going to happen more and more often and I’m going to crack. They won’t even have a fucking conversation with me. Just talk at me and leave. I’m still a little…not paranoid but…no, actually yeah I guess I’m paranoid that it’s you guys somehow doing it. I know it can’t be. I know it’s not rational but I still feel like I want to look around for a speaker or something when I hear them.” Because the reality that I have actually lost my mind is harder to accept than the Controllers playing a cruel trick on me.

  For the first time ever, the intense scrutiny of the webcam makes me feel like I’m being judged. Interrogated. I look down at the keyboard. “I’ve been thinking about what’s going to happen when I leave here. How I’m going to talk to people. Little things like that. Taking lovers and being around my friends. I’m worried I’ve forgotten how to be with people.” Tears prickle. I rub the heel of my hands against my eyes. “Other than that, I’ve got nothing else to say. Situation normal.” I stop the recording, send it through without watching it, and leave the computer room.

  My bedroom is sparse but comfortable. Queen bed with a perfect mattress. Dark mahogany furniture to hold books and clothing. They allowed one personal item that wasn’t a forbidden item. I chose a lambskin rug that was given to me by my maternal grandma the day I was born, just a few months before she died. It’s been toted back and forth across the country and set on the bed or couch or floor space of every place I’ve ever slept. Every foster house, each shitty apartment I stayed in, I’d accidentally leave something behind—a toy, a piece of clothing, a piece of myself—but the lambskin somehow made it through. Here it sits atop the neatly made bed, the worn white wool contrasting with the navy blue comforter.

  Navy blue. Riley’s favorite color. Chewing the skin at the corner of my thumbnail, I leave my room and walk back to the computer. I open next month’s requisition form and with one finger, type: New sheets and comforter, not navy blue please.

  Chapter Three

  Sleep. Wake up. Run. I trip on a branch, half hidden by last night’s snowfall, and crash onto my hands and knees. Nothing is broken but my palms are grazed, and I lift both stinging hands to my face to stare at tenacious dirt and small pieces of gravel embedded in my skin. I’ve had worse.

  I ignore the pain and finish my laps, then head back around and up to where the dwelling is situated atop a very small hill. A small spear of morning light breaks through the gray sky and bounces off the windows. Now I have two sunrises—the reflected one in front of me and the real one behind. I play a game with myself, looking at one, then spinning around to find the other. Adult peek-a-boo. Can I catch one of them out? No.

  Heather follows me over to the solar banks, talking the whole time. “Why do you like the sunrise so much, Celeste? Most people would rather be in bed. You’ve always been so weird about early mornings.”

  “Means I’m alive, Heather-Bear. Woke up to see another day.” I keep my head down, eyes on my sneakers. “Why are you here? Did my sister tell you to come and see me?”

  The only response is the sound of wind pushing through the trees. Riley probably did ask Heather to check on me. No…no she couldn’t. Riley is dead. Heather is somewhere else, not here. I’m alone.

  I sweep half an inch of accumulated snow from the bank of solar panels next to the greenhouse then check on the supplies I’ve been ignoring all morning. The trash I left in a neat pile is gone, replaced by a clump of cardboard and Styrofoam boxes strapped together and encased in a webbing sling. The bundle and concrete slab on which it sits are covered with a dusting of snow so light it looks like frost.

  I scuff my shoes over the snow on the concrete. The drop can’t have been here for long and as usual, I slept through the delivery. No tire tracks or marking of any kind in the snow to indicate how it got here. They either use the world’s quietest helicopters or heavy-duty drones. Maybe strong men with pack animals.

  I don’t even know why I care how the supplies get here. Long ago, I concluded the delivery method was probably another part of the experiment, like testing the genetically engineered fruit trees and vegetables, and monitoring the prototype energy and waste removal systems. Everything here is a test, a dozen corporations muscling in to see how their own tech performs. I guess the people running the experiment on my slow mental degradation had to get the money to pay for it somehow.

  Every time I feel a bit of my mind slipping away or feel lonely or sad, I remind myself that I’m going to help someone in the future if they’re stuck on Mars. It’s important I get it right, that I do my best. I might save lives. It’s hard to remember exact details about the study, details that were the bare minimum to begin with. I learned early on, reading the contract and talking to the Controllers, that confidentiality is rule number one here.

  “You and your goddamned secrets,” Mother sneers.

  “Go away, Mother.”


  She hawks and spits. “Little bitch. I fuckin’ hate the way you call me that. Always thinkin’ you’re better than us.”

  I know she hates it, and that’s why I do it. Riley always called her Ma and until I was about seven, I did too. Then I started taking notice of the adults asking—Where is your mother? Does your mother know about that bruise? Does your mother have any clean clothes for you? Is your mother coming to collect you? Has your mother given you anything for lunch?

  Even at that age I could hear the distaste, the disbelief, the disgust, and the way that one word always sounded so accusatory. She was never a Mom or Mommy. She was barely a Ma. Mother fit her better than anything, and I made sure to always say the word the same way those adults said it. And I learned to keep out of her reach when I did.

  I leave my supplies—they’ve already waited for hours, and nobody is going to steal anything—and head back inside to shower, eat, log, check in.

  Cont A: Thank you for yesterday’s logs.

  SE9311: You’re welcome.

  Cont A: Can we discuss your text log?

  SE9311: Absolutely.

  I’ve never been a prude and masturbation is a frequent part of my logs. I wonder if Controller A will show any sort of interest or get flustered. Probably not. By now I know they aren’t interested in the finer details, they only want to know how I’m functioning.

  Cont A: Thank you. You’ve never indicated you miss anything sexual before. Why do you think you added it in now?

  SE9311: Not sure.

  No response. I know my two-word reply isn’t enough for them, and I take a few moments to collect my thoughts, then keep typing.

  SE9311: I was thinking about an old lover yesterday morning. Don’t know exactly why, but that’s my best guess.

  Cont A: Did it stir a physical response?

  SE9311: Yes.

  Cont A: Did you masturbate?

  SE9311: Yes. As noted.

  Cont A: To climax?

  SE9311: Is there any other reason for masturbating?

  No response. I sigh.

  SE9311: Yes. Twice. All my systems are working as intended.

  Cont A: Thank you for the information. I trust you received the supply drop in good order.

  SE9311: I haven’t checked the contents but the drop is there. Thanks.

  A question has been burning at the back of my mind for the past few weeks. I sit in the comfortable leather chair, fingers resting lightly on the keyboard. I like this keyboard. It’s springy to type on. Comfortable under my fingertips. Plain black with no brand markings. Perhaps they’ll let me take it when I leave, or tell me where I can get one of my own.

  Cont A: You look pensive. Is everything all right, SE9311?

  SE9311: Can I ask you something?

  Cont A: Yes, of course.

  The unspoken implication is that I may not get the answer I want, or even get an answer.

  SE9311: My hallucinations. Are they happening when you’d expect or did I crack earlier than anyone else would?

  The cursor blinks and blinks and blinks. I like to think they are deciding how much to share with me because they care about my feelings. The Controllers are impersonal but never impolite. I guess getting your test subject offside isn’t a desirable outcome.

  Cont A: Actually, the arrival of the hallucinations is later than what we’d anticipated.

  I’ve never been precocious enough to be early for anything, and I’m surprised to hear I’m technically ahead of the curve on this one.

  SE9311: Thanks.

  Cont A: You’re welcome. If there’s nothing else, I’ll leave you to it. Have an enjoyable day.

  Now, as always, the day is pretty much mine to do whatever I want. I make a note in today’s log about talking to Controller A and my surprise that I’m apparently doing okay with the whole going crazy thing. I cut an inch off my hair and give myself messy bangs, deciding it looks okay in a trying-too-hard-faux-hipster kind of way.

  The sky has gone completely gray and snow has begun falling again, and I know from experience that the cardboard boxes of my supply drop are going to get soggy and break apart if I don’t get to work. I remove the sling, place it in the storage shed ready to give back to them next month, and start transferring everything on my pull-along cart. Dragging it over rough ground soon has me sweating, and I have to unzip my coat and pull off my beanie. I could hook the cart to the ATV but the exercise makes me feel good and most importantly, takes up time.

  I cart food, both perishables and non-perishables. Sort through toiletries and replacement first aid items like Band-Aids and ibuprofen. Unpack clothing. Find my new sunglasses—three pairs as promised—Oakley, Ray-Ban and one no-brand pair that is very Holly Golightly from Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I slip those on and keep unpacking. Books. Light bulbs. Diesel for my backup power source. Fuel for the ATV. Ammunition. A new set of pretty light purple sheets and cover for my comforter.

  There’s something new and different in the dry ice, and the moment I realize what it is, my mouth waters. A big Lou Malnati’s pizza box. The box tells me “Someone must really like you” and I wonder which Controller organized this treat. Which one of them really likes me? I tear open the box and yank out four different Chicago deep-dish pizzas. Then I cry but I don’t know why.

  After carefully stashing my pizzas in the chest freezer, I continue with my mindless back and forth. It takes an hour or so to finish unpacking everything else until the chest freezer is full of vacuum-sealed meat and frozen vegetables, and the pantry has enough canned and shelf-stable food to last me six months if I’m extravagant. I’ve never gone more than six weeks without a drop, but the fear they might forget me is always there and I’ve been squirreling supplies away this whole time.

  As a reward for finishing my big chore, I choose an apple from the assortment in the fruit box, stretching my mouth as wide as I can to take a massive bite. The fresh fruit and vegetables only last a week or so after the supply drops, and then all I have left is canned or dehydrated or from the limited greenhouse range, leaving me to dream of delivery days and fresh things. I think of the lucky person after me who might use my genetically engineered fruit trees. My fingers are sticky with apple juice. I lick them and nibble the apple right down until only the barest amount of flesh is left around the core.

  Celeste, throw that in the compost, not the—stop.

  It’s Celeste Three’s turn at the Monopoly game we started last night. She rolls a seven and moves the boot forward. Go to Jail. I’m yet to find a game that Three is good at, and I’ve come to the conclusion that she’s awful at everything, and honestly just not very smart. She’s the awkward girl at parties who stands in corners and listens to people say mean things about her. She won’t pay to get out of jail, and would rather try to roll her double or wait three turns. Three never rolls the double because she’s just that bad. But I still like her.

  Celeste One needs an eleven to get Free Parking and collect the cash in the middle. She rolls a ten, lands on New York Avenue and buys it. Now she has two of three orange properties. I’m not in the mood for Celeste Two’s smug shit. Instead, I leave her to wait her turn, tip all the dry ice from the Styrofoam boxes into a bucket and carry it outside with my freshly boiled kettle.

  “Are you going to make the fog, Cel?” Riley’s voice is right against my ear, excited and childish. Her arrival always startles me—my sister has been dead for over five years.

  “Yes.”

  “Just like the play Mrs. Larsen took us to.”

  I nod. “Mhmm. You were so scared, remember?”

  Riley doesn’t respond.

  “Remember? You were so scared that you held my hand all the way home, then you slept in my bed.”

  No answer.

  “Riley? Are you still there?”

  I pour hot water over dry ice and watch a slow, thick fog rolling over the edge of the bucket and along the ground.

  * * *

  Controller A two days in a row. Slightly odd, b
ut not unheard of. Maybe they are pulling double shifts. Maybe she’s got a sick mom with medical bills. Maybe he has a mortgage, or a wife at home about to have a baby. Maybe they really like their job. Or me.

  SE9311: Hi, sorry I’m late.

  Cont A: That’s quite all right. How are you? And happy birthday.

  Shit, I’d totally forgotten today is my birthday. I’m now thirty years old. Am I supposed to feel different? Suddenly wiser? I don’t, but I do feel like I should do something to celebrate. Maybe I’ll bake myself a cake.

  SE9311: I’m good. Thanks for the birthday wishes and the pizza in the supply drop, it’s awesome! Could you please pass along my thanks to whoever organized it?

  There’s a long pause and I imagine it’s because Controller A probably doesn’t know how to respond. I’ve never been so effusive before, but they’ve never sent me authentic deep dish.

  Cont A: You’re welcome, and I’ll be sure to do that. Do you have anything to report?

  SE9311: Nothing, no.

  Cont A: You look tired. Has there been a change to your sleep patterns?

  I stare at my hands on the keyboard. Sleep is one of my unchanged routines. Every night I’m asleep by ten p.m. and awake each morning by six a.m. I don’t even need an alarm clock.

  SE9311: I don’t think so. If I’m waking up during the night, I’m not aware of it.

  Cont A: You’re not becoming ill?

  SE9311: I don’t think so. I’ll keep an eye on myself and be in touch.

  Cont A: Please do. If there’s nothing else, I’ll leave you to continue your day.

  Before I can respond, another message lands.

  Cont A: Enjoy the pizza and your birthday, SE9311.

  The messaging system closes down before I can respond. Controller A is probably still watching me from the camera mounted in the corner. I swivel to face it, give the camera a thumbs-up and a smile. Cheesy but I really am grateful.

  I make a chocolate cake from scratch and slather it with thick, rich frosting, knowing even as I do it, I won’t finish it. No candles. No gifts. No singing. I eat cake for lunch and dinner and breakfast the next morning, then throw the remainder in the trash. Celeste, throw that in—stop. I’ve had my cake and eaten it and now it’s time to move on with my life. If it can be called that.