by E. J. Noyes
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard your voice show traces of either of those things, Celeste. I think you’re less like her than you imagine you are.”
The observation stops my thoughts in their tracks. Another sip of wine helps to start them up again and after a long ponderous pause, I think I know what she’s saying. I’m trapped in this prison that I constructed for myself. Eventually I’m going to have to use the key that’s been in my pocket the whole time to set myself free. But it’s down so deep that despite a lifetime of fumbling, I haven’t been able to grab it yet.
I search for something to say, something to take me away from my thoughts. “Can I ask you a question?” I half expect her to respond the way Riley always used to, with you just did.
“Of course.”
“Your decade of bad relationships, is that true? You don’t seem like the kind of person who’d have difficulties dating or being in a relationship.” As I say it, I’m imagining her and me dating, being in a relationship, living together outside of this.
Her eyebrows lift until they hit the wool knit of her beanie. “No? Thank you. And yes, it is true. I’ve had three long-term relationships in the past ten years, two of whom cheated on me and basically gave the same reasons—I was distant, secretive, emotionally unavailable.”
“Really? How so? What did they mean?”
She frowns, considers. “My job requires discretion. Most of it is highly confidential, industrial espionage et cetera. I can’t run home to tell my partner what I’ve been doing all day and I guess that sort of carried over into everyday stuff as well. I think when you have to keep secrets, they become your new normal. You get used to not sharing things and people don’t like that, especially not in a romantic relationship.” Olivia sips her wine, holding it in her mouth for a few seconds before she swallows.
Secretive. I don’t really see it. Sure, she’s not constantly throwing out snippets about her life, but that’s to be expected in our situation. Every time we’ve talked, she’s shared something with me. “I suppose not. But from what I know of you, you have other qualities that balance that out. And everyone has secrets.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Sometimes I think I’m too difficult to be with. Too set in my ways.” The skin around her mouth is taut with tension. “Every relationship breakup, it’s been my fault.”
“You can’t think that,” I rebut immediately.
Her laugh is dry, humorless. “Yes I can. I’m the common denominator.”
I can’t imagine how that’s true, can’t imagine why she would think that. I take a few moments to think about it. “Are you the same out there as you are in here?”
“Yes,” she says. “Or, I think I am. This is me. Out there I just have my job, I play tennis once a week, love movies and music, aahhh, hiking and being outdoors but I’m still the same person.” She studies me, the glow of the fire illuminating the side of her face. “Aren’t you?”
“I think this place magnifies everything, so in here I’m me…amplified.” I top up my wineglass, check that she still has some red left in hers. “If you’re the same person out there as you are here then I really don’t understand what you’re saying.”
Her mouth works as though it wants to say something and she’s trying to stop it. When she speaks, her voice is hoarse, as though the words grate against her throat. “About four years ago, my girlfriend committed suicide and her note basically blamed me. Said everything all the others had been saying—I was unavailable, cold, distant, secretive…among other things. She said if I’d been around more, given more of myself to her then she’d have felt needed. I knew she had mental health issues, so did her family, but none of us thought she would…do that.” Olivia glances at me, her expression so wounded that I wonder how something like that could ever heal.
I move closer, rest a tentative hand on her leg. She grabs my hand, squeezes and doesn’t let go. It would be easy for me to offer a comforting word, a platitude or even a lie to try to make her feel better. But those things aren’t fair. So I say nothing, just keep silently holding her hand until she speaks again.
“It was the anniversary of her death a few weeks ago, and I just felt suffocated all of a sudden, like I had to get out and try to set it behind me for good. I know it wasn’t my fault, that it was way bigger than just me, but still…” She inhales a shuddering breath. “And getting away from it has helped, but I can’t help wondering if when I go back, everything will just be the same. If I’ll be the same and destined to fail the same way over and over again.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, staring down at our hands. There’s really nothing else I can say.
“Thank you.” Her thumb strokes the back of my hand. “And I’m sorry, this is so self-pitying.”
“No it’s not. Thank you for telling me.”
“You’re welcome,” she says tightly.
The tension in her is a living thing, and I want to soothe her, to bring her back to the easy conversations we’ve had. “Can I call you Liv instead of Olivia?” I turn to her, study her profile. It’s smooth and strong and mysterious, yet at the same time sweet and kind and thoughtful.
Olivia goes along with my subject change, shoulders dropping as if relieved. “If you’d like. But I think I’ll just keep calling you Celeste. It’s such a beautiful name.”
If Mother is pleased, she doesn’t say. I don’t think she’s used to anyone telling her that she did something right in her miserable, pathetic, toxic life.
Chapter Twelve
I take a few moments, as I have every morning since she arrived, to watch her sleep. Liv sleeps like someone who has no cares or stress, like someone who feels safe. She lies on her side, a hand slung under the pillow and hair loose and curling over it. She snores a little. If I could, I’d burrow under the covers with her for the rest of the week, snuggle the way lovers do on rainy days.
But we aren’t lovers. I don’t even know what we are. When I leave her and quietly close the door of the bedroom, my limbs are heavy with reluctance. She’ll likely still be asleep by the time I come back inside, and I envy her this ability to sleep in. I wander once around the edge of the compound to stretch my limbs and check that everything is as it should be. Not much snow overnight. The weather should hold for a transport within the next few days.
I say the word a few times. “Transport. Transport.” She’s going to leave me. I stand in the white zone with arms limp by my sides, staring out at the world. The world she’s going into while I stay here like an animal at the zoo. But I’ll be out eventually. My cage is not permanent. This small shred of optimism makes me feel marginally better, but I still don’t feel good about it.
Back inside, shower, a mug of tea, a woman still asleep in my bed. Coffee brews, ready for when she wakes, and I’ve left her mug and the sugar set out ready in case I’m still in the computer room. I place all my handwritten pages of notes, numbered and dated, in the drawer of the desk. When I leave, someone will find them and can put that data with all my other data. Assuming it’s even relevant, which I’m not entirely sure it is. I’m not going to tell them that the notes are there. If I tell them I’ve been handwriting things for a week then they will know that Liv has been here for longer than I implied.
I mime playing a piano on the keyboard until I can think of things I want to say. There’s so much but none of it feels appropriate to log. It all feels too personal, too deep, too precious. Eventually I just spill some words to satisfy the Controllers.
I didn’t sleep well last night, possibly because of the news I told Controller B yesterday. For the first time since I came here, I didn’t dream. My dreams are usually so vivid, like in my sleep I’m living the life I can’t in here. Aside from those things everything else in here is normal. I’m afraid someone on the other side of the screen is angry with me because of what happened but it really wasn’t my fault, and I did what was right. I’m sorry if not leaving a bleeding person in the woods ruins the study. And I’m sorry that what I just
said sounds passive-aggressive.
I’ve been thinking about college, about maybe going back. It’s the first time in a few years that I’ve actually thought I could, and that it would be a good idea. When I came here, I was sure I would start back when I had the money, and then I didn’t want to, and now I do. Does everything always go around in circles like that?
Things I miss:
-The sound of seatbelts clicking. I feel like I want to just keep pushing one in and releasing it to listen to that sound over and over.
-Barstools.
-Shadows of buildings in the city.
-Hot dogs, extra mustard.
The log I’m typing fades away, replaced by the messaging system.
Cont D: Good morning, SE9311. How are you?
SE9311: Hello. I’m fine thanks.
Cont D: Do you have anything you need to report?
Yes, I do. I need to report that I want Olivia to stay. I need to report that I don’t like being here anymore, now I know what’s coming. I need to…I don’t even know what I need to do.
SE9311: Nope. All fine.
Cont D: How is Ms. Soldano?
Perfect. Wonderful. Sweet. Kind.
SE9311: She seems OK.
Cont D: I see you’ve already completed a log this morning. Can you please ask Ms. Soldano to come in so we can start the process of getting her home?
I want to scream no, to throw the keyboard against the wall and cut the power cord so there’s no way for them to talk to her. Every time I think these things, I want to slap myself. I have no claim on her, I have no right to ask her to stay. Even if I did, she couldn’t or wouldn’t, and the sooner I jam the truth into the dense matter between my ears the sooner I can move on with what I need to do and then move on with my life.
Cont D: SE9311?
SE9311: She might still be asleep.
Stalling.
Cont D: That’s fine. I’ll wait until she comes in.
SE9311: Sure. Then I guess I’ll see you next time I see you.
Cont D: Indeed. Have an enjoyable day.
Unlikely.
My hands are deep in the pockets of my jeans and as I walk up the hallway, I scratch my thighs through the fabric. Hard and rough. It’s uncomfortable but I need something on the outside to match the bad feeling that’s inside. Olivia is awake and on the couch, both feet propped up on the arm. She’s not reading or drinking her coffee. She’s just staring absently at the wall, twisting a strand of hair around and around two fingers.
“Liv? You can go in and talk to them and record that thing for your family. And they’ll discuss how to get you home.” All the words came out in a rush, like my mouth was making sure my brain wouldn’t intercept what I had to say.
“Oh. Thanks.” Liv hops up, grabs her stick and follows me back to the computer. She looks strange in the computer room chair. Suddenly she sits straighter, seems more serious and even a touch arrogant.
I can almost picture her in another life chairing a meeting of science brains. Doctor Smith, the Bunsen burner in your lab is broken, please don’t use it unless you want to blow up the lab. Doctor Jones, we need more calcium dioxate. Or something. I show her how the messaging system works—it’s not complicated but I want to make sure she’s totally clear. “You good?”
“Yes, I’ve got it, thank you.” She squeezes my hand and all I can think is that from the camera up in the corner they are watching us touching. And I don’t want that because her touching me is my thing, not theirs.
I close the door so I don’t have to listen to her making plans to leave.
“Not fuckin’ surprising she can’t wait to get the hell away from you.” Mother’s fetid breath is on my neck. “Nobody wants to stick around, even your sister died just to get away from you.”
Wow, ouch. “That’s not very nice.”
“Truth hurts, kid.” Mother’s laugh sounds like the Wicked Witch of the West. It echoes through the dwelling then stops as suddenly as it started.
I have no idea how long Liv will be in the computer room doing the thing I don’t want to think about. If I sit and let myself think about being left here while she goes back to her life I’m going to scream. Almost on autopilot, I pull out ingredients for fresh pasta and get to work. It’ll take up an hour of my day, an hour of not thinking about the inevitable.
Making pasta is quick and mindless work and by the time the dough has had its first trip through the rollers, I hear the computer room door closing. The moment Olivia sees what I’m doing, her expression changes from thoughtful to interested. “You make your own pasta?”
“Mhmm, sometimes when I need to switch my brain off. I shared a house with a chef years ago, and she taught me.”
She laughs quietly. “You never said anything when I made mezzelune the other night.” It’s a sweet and teasing accusation that I don’t know how to respond to, and the way she pronounces that Italian word makes my knees rubbery. Liv breaks a small piece of dough from the end of the sheet, squeezes it between her fingertips, rubs them together gently and then pops the dough in her mouth.
I can’t move past the fact that she just ate raw pasta. I’ve eaten dried uncooked pasta, the cheap stuff you get in a packet, crunching the macaroni down quickly because I was so hungry and so afraid Mother would snatch the handful from me. But something about the raw egg in the dough Liv’s eating turns my stomach. I stare at the pinch mark left by her fingertips.
“I like cake batter, remember?” Riley says. “Who cares about raw egg? Food’s food, Cel.”
Olivia nods thoughtfully, her lips curving into a smile. “She taught you well. That is as good as Nonna’s, which is the highest praise I can give anyone.”
“Really?”
Olivia dusts flour from her fingertips back to the granite bench top. “Really.” She slips around to my side of the bench and wraps an arm around my waist. “What sauce should we make to put with it?”
“I don’t know.” I don’t know anything. I can’t make a decision beyond just breathing in and out and existing in this moment where she’s got her arm around me. I feed the dough through the rollers again and in a matter of seconds that tiny imperfection she made has been erased.
* * *
We don’t talk about her extraction beyond confirming that they will collect her in the middle of the night on an as-yet-unspecified day. They’re going to make Olivia wake up at some ungodly hour just to make sure I don’t see how they get here. Despite the fact the whole psych part of the study has gone to shit, the testing of the secret tech is still secret.
I need to plant some seedlings I’ve been cultivating in small pots on a greenhouse shelf, and late in the day we make our way to the greenhouse to do just that. It’s a wonderful afternoon, my favorite kind where the sky is a dense and uniform gray that promises snow. Olivia digs beside me, sitting on a straw mat with her injured leg stretched out and the other leg bent to rest her foot against knee. When I asked if her leg hurt, she shook her head, telling me the skin just pulls a little when she bends her knee. She smiled, adding assurances that it only feels tight but not sore. “What are we planting again?”
I turn to her. “Peppers and zucchini.”
“I make fantastic stuffed peppers.” A muscle in her jaw jumps. She doesn’t need to say it. She won’t be here when the peppers have grown to their full size ready for her fantastic stuffing. “Maybe I’ll write down the recipe for you?” she adds, her voice calm and even.
I nod, scooping dirt back around a seedling. When I place the little stake that says ZUCCHINI in the ground beside it, Liv speaks again. “They said they’ll be here in two days to collect me, and to give you a small delivery to replace what I’ve used.”
“Okay,” I say, because what else can I say?
“Celeste, I—” Her trowel hits something, the sound a muted tik that cuts off whatever she was about to tell me. I glance at her face then down to her hands, which are now scrabbling in the dirt. She holds up a pair of sunglasses,
shakes dirt from the frames and passes them to me. “Are you trying to grow a sunglasses plant?”
I laugh because despite the somberness of our mood it is funny. “Thanks. I lost these…months ago, and I looked everywhere for them.” I hold the glasses up to the clear roof panels, trying to catch some diffuse light. “That arm is all bent now. Useless I guess.”
She regards me thoughtfully. “Not everything that’s damaged should be discarded. Some things are worth keeping even if it doesn’t seem like it.”
The way she’s studying me makes me unsure exactly what she’s talking about. It feels like a metaphor but at the same time, it can’t apply to me. She barely knows me. I’ve only told her the tip of the iceberg, the things that are polite enough to share. Underneath the surface is… No, I don’t want to think about that. In the short time she’s been here, she’s already made me think too much about those things I try to forget. Carefully, I bend the metal arm of the sunglasses straight again.
Together we finish planting until we have two perfect rows of seedlings. I help her stand again and bend to brush dirt from the legs of her pants. Liv swipes her hands over her butt and I turn away, not wanting to watch even this simple, non-sexual thing.
I only have two more days to absorb enough of her to last me for the rest of my time here, and despite what I promised myself, I’m wasting it being sullen and melancholy. This sort of mood sits at odds with me, because I’ve never been one to dwell on the sadness and injustices of a situation. Things are what they are and that’s that. I’m used to disappointment and not getting what I want, but she makes it hard to just let things be and to accept it this time.
Olivia licks her thumb then smilingly rubs the side of my jaw with it. “What’s wrong?”
