by E. J. Noyes
But I can’t. I can’t touch her that way and I can’t keep her here. It’s not right, it’s not fair and the longer she stays, the harder it is for me. Eyes burning with tears that want to escape, I slip out from behind her and then leave the bed without waking her. Olivia rolls over, sliding an arm underneath the pillow, the other stretching out to the bare space I just vacated. Her fingers curl against the sheet, then go still.
It’s easier to be strong and convinced about my decision to let her go when I’m away from her. When she’s not grasping my arm as she sleeps, or her feet aren’t tucked between mine for warmth. When she’s not looking at me. When she’s not embracing me.
Easier, but not easy.
She’s been here for eight days. Over a week of holding on to a secret that both nourishes me and eats away at me. It’s time to tell them, but God I do not want to tell them. I want everything but this. I want to spend months getting to know her, learning her secrets, having her tease things from me until we’re so comfortable with one another we’re like a favorite pair of jeans. I just need more time. Time to fill in the gaps of my physical longing with an emotional and intellectual knowledge of her.
But what I want doesn’t matter. It never does. My whole life, all my thoughts and desires have always been pushed aside in whatever circumstance comes along. I’m nothing more than a paper boat cast into the rapids, tossed and turned in turbulent waters until I become pulpy and break apart.
I settle in the chair in front of the computer but don’t log anything, just sit and wait and feel the trembling in my legs. I tap my fingers against the keyboard, not hard enough to actually make letters form on the screen. There’s no rhythm, I’m only listening to the soft clicking. It’s Controller B this morning. B for Bad. Bitter. Broken. Bastards.
Cont B: Good morning, SE9311. How are you?
No point delaying, I launch right in.
SE9311: I’m fine but something’s happened.
Cont B: Are you injured?
SE9311: No but there’s been an incident.
Cont B: What kind of incident? Is any equipment or vital system damaged?
SE9311: No, nothing like that. I
The cursor blinks and blinks and blinks.
Cont B: You what, SE9311? Please respond.
SE9311: Someone is here. A real person.
Cont B: Tell me what happened.
* * *
Twenty minutes later when I exit the computer room, Olivia is on the couch with her head leaned against the back and her eyes closed. She starts and sits up, wiping her mouth with the side of her thumb. “Did you tell them?” she asks quietly.
“Yes.”
“How did it go?”
I shrug, forcing nonchalance when I feel anything but. Inside, where I can let my emotions run rampant, I’m churning with anger and sadness and fear. “Okay. I guess.” Okay is a lie. How can I be okay when all I can think about is her leaving, about being alone again and about how much I want her to hold me?
Most of the session with Controller B was filled with the logistics of getting Olivia home, her health after I shot her, checking my mental well-being and ensuring I have enough supplies to support an extra person until she can be extracted. Extract. To remove or take out, especially by effort or force.
I lost track of how many times I apologized and said that I hoped the experiment wasn’t ruined, but it wasn’t my fault, really and I’m sorry. Each time, Controller B assured me that they know it wasn’t intentional, and apparently everything is fine. Whatever their version of fine is. The Controller wasn’t angry, or surprised, or emotional in any way. I hadn’t expected them to be, because words on a screen can’t be emotional, but I’d expected more of a response than:
Cont B: I understand. We can arrange for her to be collected from the compound and taken to the nearest hospital if required. We will need to coordinate with weather patterns but I imagine it will be within a few days to a week. And yes, we can call or forward a message to her family if she desires, she will just need to provide us with details.
Maybe they are angry but are pretending not to be so they don’t upset me. I didn’t tell Controller B how long Olivia has been here. It’s a lie of omission rather than an outright lie.
“A lie is still a lie, Celeste,” Joanne reminds me. “I want you to think about what you’ve done and then we’re going to talk about why that’s unacceptable, and what your punishment will be.”
My punishment is that I’m going to be alone again. It’s a suitable punishment, because right now I can’t think of anything worse. I rub my temples and slump onto the couch a safe distance away from Olivia. “If you’re still here, they’ll pick you up when they deliver my next supplies.”
“Oh? Okay then. How long is it until your next drop?”
“A week or so, maybe more or less, depending on what the weather is doing. Or you can hike out whenever you want to leave. It’s up to you.” It doesn’t matter how she goes. She’s going and that’s what matters. Stop. This constant stupid self-pitying monologue is a new, generally themed earworm instead of a specific one. It’s tedious and it needs to go away.
“I’ll see how I feel.” She reaches across the gap to place a comforting hand on my thigh, the pressure firm and warm. “What about your, uh…pay and the experiment? Will you leave when I do?”
I turn to her, drawing my leg up so my foot is resting on the couch. “They said they have enough data so it’s not a catastrophe. I didn’t ask about the other.”
“Why not?”
The concept of leaving at the same time as her had never occurred to me until this moment. Psychological experiment aside, I’m still needed to check energy, waste, and food systems. “I didn’t even think of it because of all the tech that’s still here. And the money…” I throw my hands up. “It doesn’t really matter, Olivia. It’s just a little extra cash, so what? I’d forfeit it all if it meant you’d stay.”
As soon as it’s out, I regret saying it and I can’t look at her, because I’m too afraid that what I’ll see is a woman put off by my desperation. As if it were that simple anyway, bartering money for a companion. I’m sickened by my thoughts, as though what she wants means nothing and it’s all about what I want. It’s just lust, I barely know her, I only feel this way because I’ve been alone for so long.
I sigh. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say that.” I chance a quick look at her.
Her thoughts flicker across her face in quick succession. Confusion. Pleasure. Concern. Nothing to indicate she finds me repulsive or creepy. Her expressions are clear and I’m struck by this sudden ability I have to read each one. Starved for so long, I think I’ve become an expert at realizing how important the nuance of an eyebrow lift or a tongue flicking over a lower lip are. She tilts her head to study me. Her smile is shy. Mine is bold and strangely excited.
“What is it?” she asks.
I tell her about my newly acquired skill, trying to make it sound not weird. I’m not sure I’m successful.
Olivia nods thoughtfully, still with that slight smile. “Remind me not to play poker with you if you’re that good at reading me.” She takes my hand, interlacing our fingers. The smile turns puzzled. “You bite your nails.”
“Yes?”
“I hadn’t noticed until just now.”
I turn our joined hands to get a better look. “I never used to but it started a year or so ago.” The same thing Riley used to do, mostly just chewing the edges rather than biting the nails down to stubs.
Staring at her palm pressed to mine, I can’t help the imaginary scenario from unfolding in my head. Remnants of other thoughts or even a dream, where I’m walking down the street holding hands with my girlfriend and our connection is both emotional and physical and I’m complete. Yes, it’s just a dream but it’s all I can think about now—holding Olivia’s hand as we stroll along a sidewalk. Such a normal thing, but I’ll never have it with her.
Olivia squeezes my hand. “Celeste? What is it?
”
I drag my eyes from our intertwined fingers. “Nothing important.” I draw in a shallow breath, force myself to look at her face. “They said you can contact your family or whoever if you need to. You can record a video message and they’ll email it.”
“Great, thank you. I’ll email my father. That will keep my parents from worrying unnecessarily. When?”
“Tomorrow morning I guess, when I do my next log.” Video message. Extraction. Alone. “Excuse me,” I choke out.
Olivia says nothing when I pull my hand from hers as gently as I can and walk away. She doesn’t call after me as I leave the house. I’m dressing on the move, pushing my arms into my jacket sleeves as I jog, then run to the farthest corner of the compound. Facing outward, I draw a deep breath and scream, “Fuck!” into the trees.
Bent almost in half I draw that one word out for as long as I can into a fifteen-second expletive until I have to breathe again. I suck in noisy gasps of air, replacing what I just let out in that childish scream, then straighten my jacket, run my hands through my hair and turn back to the house.
Riley falls into step, her footsteps light on the snow beside me. “Feel better, Cel?”
“No,” I mumble, pushing back into the house. I hang my jacket and slip out of my boots as quietly as I can.
Olivia glances up at me, but says nothing to imply anything’s amiss, that I look deranged or that she heard my scream. But she must have. “Are you hungry?” she asks.
“Not really, no.”
“I’ll make us dinner tonight,” she says as though I hadn’t answered, and then almost in the same breath asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Yes, no, maybe. “I don’t think there’s anything to be said. And I’m not sure you’d understand.” I don’t say it to be cruel, but she’ll never understand how I feel. She can’t know how I’m going to fall apart when she leaves. I want to slap my palm against an ear, as though I could push these thoughts out the other where they’ll fall to the ground and I can stomp on them.
“I might.”
There’s no way she can know, no way she’ll understand. The longing cuts so deeply it feels like I’m about to come apart, and the fear is so overwhelming that I feel physically sick thinking of being by myself again. I can’t tell her. Instead I say, “I…what are you thinking for dinner?”
She holds eye contact with me. “Whatever you want, Celeste.”
The rest of the day is stilted and awful, with all the discomfort mine. I’ve known from the first moment that this was the only way our time together could end, and I should have prepared better for this day. I should have told them that first day and had them collect her right then. I should never have helped her and definitely shouldn’t have shot her.
Despite my wooden, outwardly emotionless behavior, at every opportunity Olivia touches me or pulls me in for a hug. It’s like she knows I need this, that I need to store up this physical contact to carry me through until the end. Eight more months or so. Not so long in the scheme of things. But still long enough.
I’m riding a constant up and down, like a damned amusement ride I can’t get off. All day I go from the despair of knowing she’s leaving, to calm whenever she holds me. We don’t speak. Just hug. She hugs me like she wants to envelop me completely, her body relaxed and comforting. Then she lets me go, smiles at me, and my relaxation dissipates like smoke until I’m back to where I was—fighting myself, the inevitable.
We don’t talk about the past. We exist only in the present. The present is full of quiet time, stolen glances, cooking together, and playing games. The future, probably only another few days of it, is going to be the same and I need to enjoy what I have with her. I will not ruin this precious time by being a sad, grumpy bitch.
“Buck up, Cel.” Riley’s shoulder punch is softer than usual. “Get over it.”
After dinner—cheese and vegetable-filled pasta she made along with an incredibly rich tomato-pasta sauce—we clean up and I pour us each another glass of wine. As she promised, she is indeed enjoying sampling the contents of my wine cellar. She prefers reds and when she found a bottle of twelve-year Barolo yesterday, she was both awestruck and excited. The awe was that I have this bottle and haven’t drunk it yet, and the excitement was because her grandparents are from that region of Italy.
Instead of settling on the couch with her to read or talk as I normally would, I tuck a half-empty bottle of white under my arm and hold a wineglass between my fingers. When I move toward the door Olivia regards me, an eyebrow reaching for her hairline.
“It’s bonfire night,” I explain, standing in the open doorway as I maneuver into my jacket.
“Bonfire night,” she repeats, drawing the words out. “What’s that exactly?”
“Big fire, party with all my friends, get drunk, pass out outside.”
Her smile is slight, not bright. Apparently not a good joke.
I try again. “Burning all my rubbish. I’ll be outside for a while until it dies down so I can keep an eye on the fire.” Burning the place down wouldn’t go over well with The Organization. “Do you need anything before I go?”
“No thank you. I’m good. And I have my stick.”
“Okay, back in a bit. Holler if you need me.” I close the door, put a barrier between us. Distance is good. It will help me get used to being alone again.
The night sky is clear, the air crisp. By any standards it’s a beautiful evening, but no matter how I try, I can’t find a shred of appreciation for it. I tug my beanie down over my ears and make my way over toward the fire pit. I toss a couple of lit matches into the mound of garbage. It doesn’t take long to catch—the gasoline I poured over the pile helps.
The fire is overly large tonight. I sip my wine, close my eyes against the radiating heat and listen to the sound of the fire. Every now and then I add wood to the flames to make it even bigger and better. Without the sound of wood crackling and popping, bonfire night is just a hot smelly letdown.
My head is quiet for once. Nobody’s talking at me. I poke at the fire, ignore the rank fumes and make up my own conversation. Did you know Greer’s dating Linda? Oh, really? Shit, I always thought Linda was a fuck-’em-and-forget-’em gal. Nuh-uh, it’s getting serious, I think she might pop the question. I sip my wine, hold it in my mouth, swallow. Well, damn, another engagement gift I have to buy. I throw the stick into the fire. You’re cracked, Celeste.
Unsteady footsteps over snow. “Celeste?”
I spin my ass on the log so I can face her. “Hey. What are you doing? It’s freezing out here. And it smells pretty gross.”
“Bored and lonely in there without you.” Olivia lowers herself down to sit with her right leg outstretched. Her walking stick rests against the log. Then she’s leaning into me. I tense. An arm slides around my waist. I relax. She’s only doing it for warmth. But how can she be cold in her thick down jacket? The glass of red rests on her knee and when I look down, the firelight through it makes it look like the end of a sunset.
When the sun sets, it finishes things. This thing we have, whatever it is, is almost finished. What an unfortunately timely metaphor I’ve just discovered. If I think about it anymore, I’m going to cry.
I glance around for something to talk about, and with my own wineglass, gesture to the limb she has stretched toward the fire. “How is your leg?” She hasn’t mentioned any issues, and I’ve assumed that means it’s fine. But now I have some desperate need to make sure she’s not going to leave here permanently damaged in some way.
“Fine. I actually think it’s better than I’m giving it credit for, but I don’t want to push it.”
“Mmm,” I murmur around another mouthful of wine. After swallowing, I add, “You’ll see a doctor when you go home, right? Just to be sure?”
“Of course.”
We sit quietly together, her still leaning into me. The silence lengthens. I don’t want silence, I want the sound of her voice. “What’s your middle name?” I ask. I already
know her last name, Soldano, but I want all the parts of her. When she’s gone, I just want to walk around saying her name. I want to walk around remembering what she looked and sounded and felt like.
“Maria,” she answers. Olivia Maria Soldano. Such a beautiful name. After a sip of wine Olivia asks, “What about yours?”
“I don’t have one. Neither did Riley.” Smiling, I stare into the flames. “I think finding just one name for us stretched Mother’s capabilities to the limit.”
“Bitch,” Mother spits.
I jump at the intrusion. She hasn’t been around for a while.
Olivia’s gloved hand tightens on my hip. “Who is it, Celeste?”
“Mother,” I muse. “But it’s okay. She’s not that angry.”
If Olivia thinks I’m strange or even a touch insane, she doesn’t say it. Every time I’ve had a false visitor, she treats it as though it is nothing of consequence. Maybe she has a friend with that disorder, the one where you’re ten people all at once. She sits up a little straighter. “What does she say when she’s angry? What does she sound like?”
I can’t answer that. Mother’s vitriol isn’t the kind of thing I can explain in casual conversation, or even serious conversation. It’s too awful, too embarrassing. I shake my head and gurgle out an, “Uh-uh.” The urge to get up and walk away is almost overwhelming. But there’s nowhere to go that Olivia can’t follow. I turn my attention to the bonfire, jamming a poking stick into the fire to shove a scrap of rubbish back where it belongs.
Olivia’s hand shifts from my hip to my back, her touch steadying me. “It’s okay, Celeste.” Is she saying that it’s okay for me to tell her, or that it’s okay for me not to tell her?
I realize then that I want her to know. I want to give her this little, disgusting piece from my childhood. Maybe she can do something with it, help me figure out where to place it in the jigsaw puzzle of my life. I shift uncomfortably on the log. “She uh, she sounds like me. Same voice. Or maybe I sound like her. Except…whenever she spoke, she always sounded apathetic and angry. I don’t know if it was the drugs, or just her.” I let the stick fall to the ground. “If I’ve got her voice, does that mean I got other parts of her too?”
