by Lee Davidson
I pull my hand away and tug Meggie’s book out of my bag for a diversion. “Speaking of sprinting drills,” I say to change the subject and nod towards the ceiling, “why are things so painful up there? I can run, heck even fly around on my assignments all day and feel nothing close to that kind of torture.”
He shifts positions on the hospital floor, crossing his legs, and I keep my thoughts about contamination to myself. A floor littered with remnants of bodily fluids would obviously never affect either of us. Still, out of habit I opt for the chair in the corner while Lawson talks.
“In Progression our bodies are physically the same as when we were alive. That’s why sprinting drills are so effective.”
Effective is one word for it, although that wouldn’t be my first choice.
“Here on Earth the normal rules don’t apply. Our bodies transform as we displace, allowing us to walk through walls and all that.”
“Then why is blocking equally torturous in both places?”
Lawson thinks this is humorous even though nothing I’ve said is funny. “Blocking is a mental pain.”
“So mental pain works the same on Earth and in Progression?”
He nods.
“Does it ever dull?”
I take his laugh as a no.
I ramble a question of much less importance. “If our bodies are the same as when we were alive, why aren’t we ever hungry?”
“Because we’re dead. Food is a survival necessity for the physical body to thrive and grow. Yes, our bodies are the same as when we were alive, but now we’re in a frozen state. The same goes for sleep; there’s no need to recharge our physical body.” He taps his head. “All we have to recharge are our minds, which is why we code. Really, though, I wonder if our muscle pain is a trick our minds play on us. Either way, coding certainly makes us more comfortable.”
It did, I think, but keep this to myself. Recalling how sweaty coding has made me lately, I smell my armpits out of habit, knowing I should smell terrible, but don’t. “And as for showering and using the bathroom?”
He smirks at this. “I guess someone figured Satellites wouldn’t have time to be bothered with such things in Progression.”
By opening his assignment book, Lawson cues to me that he’s done talking. I mimic him and read through Meggie’s day. Dr. Brown enters and settles in for another therapy session, this time with Brody in attendance because he’s awakened from his drugged state.
Lawson and I are silent through the late afternoon and evening, only speaking to block. Brody and Meggie are quiet as well, except for their occasional sobbing outbursts, which are to be expected when they are forced to trudge through this kind of hell.
Max comes by around noon the next day carrying a pizza box, but I’m sure no one will be eating. He’s taller than even Lawson, but lankier—of course, anyone would appear lanky next to the giant. Max is a male version of his sister, but he seems younger than Meggie now because Meggie has aged in the past forty-eight hours.
I keep my head down and wring my hands together when Meggie disappears under Max’s arms for a crying fit. Brody joins the tear-fest and the threesome’s hysterics bring pain to my stomach. I wish I could take all this away.
A third voice joins in when Lawson and I are blocking.
Fire-red Whitfield, standing in the door frame, smiles and nods when the block is complete. “Hey y’all,” she says and drops her bag by my chair.
“How you doing, girl?” Lawson says.
“Swell, honey. You?”
“Really? You’re going to go there?”
She grins like she gets whatever the heck that means and says in her deep-south accent, “Hey Grant, didn’t expect to see you here. Your first Elite assignment?”
I nod.
“Well, by the looks of it, it’s going to be a doozy.” She hops herself up on the narrow counter by the miniature sink and studies her fingernails.
“Tell me about it,” I say under my breath before I give up my chair to Max and squeeze myself into the corner between Lawson and Whitfield.
A couple of hours and a few blocks later, a doctor joins the already crowded but very quiet room. He places a metal chart under his arm and says Brody’s lungs are clear. After explaining that a nurse will need to change the bandages on Brody’s hand one more time, he shares the news I’ve been waiting for: no more hospital!
“Where will we go?” Meggie says to no one in particular when the doctor is gone.
“To Mom’s, of course,” Max whispers.
Meggie rubs the bridge of her nose before nodding. My energy comes as soon as her eye twitches. I finish the block, the rippling wall of water evaporates, and Meggie’s sobs have been soothed. For now.
“Not bad on the fly,” Whitfield says, obviously not seeing my muscles spasm.
“Thanks,” I manage, and put my bag on my shoulder.
I follow Meggie to the nurses’ station down the hall and my calimeter buzzes when she’s asking questions about Brody’s at-home care. Lawson and Whitfield are at my side when we’re launched through the roof of the hospital. Together, Whitfield, who has blurred into a bright orange streak, combined with Lawson’s red trail are like rocketing embers.
Wanting to code after another exhausting jaunt, I eye the hallway suspiciously and weigh the odds of having a normal session. Unsure, I twist my back until my spine pops. Better, but not good enough.
On my way down the hall, I stop at the closet for a quick wardrobe change. This happens to be long enough to reconsider my decision about coding. I collect my bag and am out the door before I can change my mind again.
Benson’s still only about half full when I walk in, but the noise level coming from the lobby behind me rumbles as the body count grows.
“You’re back,” I say to Willow when I reach the table.
She looks terrible, even aside from her dreads and tattoos, which are sufficiently terrible on their own. She and Liam cut off their whispered, top-secret conversation and her expression transforms to so-beyond-enthusiastic it’s unnatural, even for her.
I slide into the chair beside hers. “You all right?”
She drops her zeal down a notch. “Fine,” she says through a plastic smile and squeezes my arm. “How you doin’?”
Suspicious because she’s holding her breath, I answer slowly. “OK.”
“Cool. Wanna eat?”
“You’re being weirder than usual.”
“I’m fine! Come on.” Willow pushes up from the table and strides away in fast-forward.
“You sure you’re OK?” I ask when I catch up to her.
“Totally good. Just famished.”
We enter the menagerie of delectables and she backs her claim by filling her entire tray with food, consisting mostly of chocolate.
“I’m surprised to see you again,” I tell her on the way back to the table.
“Just working on those loose ends,” she says, putting her plastic smile back on.
“A previous assignment?”
“Mmm. No biggie. A couple more days should straighten it out. Haven’t I ever told you that when you’re a Satellite, it’s forever?”
“Yeah, I’m sure you’ve mentioned that. So, what’s Troy doing in the meantime?”
“He’s staying busy fixing up a Chevelle. It’s a total piece. You should see it.”
“Lucky guy to have such a supportive wife.”
She laughs, appearing normal for the first time today. Back at the table, though, she doesn’t touch her food even though she claimed she was “famished.” Her conversations with everyone (minus Liam, who has reverted to his no-talk policy) seem forced. Something’s up.
Giving in to the idea that maybe I’m just being paranoid, I turn to the only person, aside from Liam, who’s not participating in the conversation. “Have you talked to her?” I ask.
Rigby brings his attention back to our table and pulls the toothpick out of his mouth.
“Huh?” He straightens. “Sorry, I was zoning. Tough day. What’s new with you?”
“Come on, man, you’re not fooling anyone. She’s cute. Go talk to her.”
“Nah.” His jaw tightens around the toothpick.
“Why not?”
His eyes move back to Whitfield a few tables over. “We couldn’t possibly have anything in common.”
“Are you kidding? Go talk to her!” I push him hard enough that he falls off the side of his chair. Since Clara’s not here to hold his attention, now is as good of a time as any. Instead of decking me, he accepts the persuasion, though he shoots a malevolent look back at me on his way to her table. She’d better be nice or I’ll never hear the end of it. I don’t relax until Whitfield motions for him to sit next to her.
My attention moves to the Ford versus Chevy debate happening between Willow and Owen. Despite having my own stance on the issue, I keep my mouth shut, refusing to agree openly with the nut. This is difficult because defending Chevrolet has always been one of my favorite things to do, especially with my old man.
My thoughts turn to my parents, hoping they are all right, and a prickle of loneliness settles in my stomach. I force myself to eat and try not to think about them, but I don’t have much success. My mind wanders to my carpenter days and working with my dad. He was tough, no doubt about it. I’m amazed it was cancer that killed me because back in the day I was certain it was going to be the old man, possibly from working me to death or launching a tool at me when I screwed something up.
I shift to happier thoughts by putting my mom in the spotlight, but this turns out to make me feel even worse. I would give anything to hug her or to have a conversation across the kitchen counter like the millions we had over the years while she cooked for Dad and me.
Break ends too soon, severing my homesick thoughts, and the room clears as everyone heads back to their nightmares. No paranoia about it, Willow is definitely avoiding eye contact when I tell her goodbye. She disappears before I’ve even retrieved Meggie’s locket.
Even though Liam would probably rather see a proctologist than talk to me, I ask anyway. “Liam, you got a minute?”
He gives me his attention like he’s actually willing to listen.
“I’m sorry if I did something to offend you.”
The room of Satellites quickly empties.
“You still don’t believe me about Tate, do you?”
I really don’t want this make-believe girl to be the subject of a conversation that will surely go nowhere. “I’m sorry,” is the only nice thing I can think of to say.
“Tate’s not doing well. She misses you and Elliott. That’s why Willow’s back, you know?” Liam scans the room. Only a handful of Satellites remain, congregated closer to the entryway.
My irritation no longer stays hidden. “I respect the protection that you want to give your Tragedy, but there’s no way I was engaged.”
Liam’s voice raises a notch. “What would I gain by making this up?”
I open my mouth, but then close it because I have no response.
Liam’s face fills with pity, bringing back memories of my human life that I’d rather not have. This angers me. I’m not the guy with cancer that everyone felt sorry for anymore. I never want to be that guy again. “Even if I believed you, what good would it do?” I bark. “It’s not like I’ll ever be able to go back to that life.” I force myself to calm the erupting emotions building inside me. Could this be why I didn’t want to die?
NO!
No. I’ve never been in love, and if I had, it’s an event that I certainly would have remembered.
“I know I’m treating you unfairly,” Liam says. “It’s just that I liked the person you were. Not at first, I’ll admit, but those feelings you had for Tate, the feelings she had for you, they were all so real.”
I stay quiet when he pauses.
“What bothers me most is that I had those same feelings for my wife. I wish my memories were stronger, but at least a few are still there. You don’t remember Tate at all. Maybe if I had never seen you with her, this wouldn’t bother me so much, but I did. The way you were with her…she was everything to you. You’ve become this insensitive prick who thinks he’s better than everyone.”
“Hey!” I argue. “I don’t think I’m better than anyone! You should have been chosen to be an Elite before me. I don’t deserve it. I don’t even want it!” I force my volume down. “Liam, half the time I don’t even know what I’m doing here, let alone as an Elite. You should see me down there, I’m a mess compared to the others. I’m not good at this and I’m so afraid I’m going to fail my Tragedy.” A churning inside me settles as I admit my fear not only to Liam, but to myself as well.
I suck in a few long breaths.
“I just wish you remembered her,” Liam says slowly.
I say the only thing that seems honest. “If what you say about me and her is true, I agree.”
Liam nods like he understands, or at the very least, no longer appears to hate me. “Don’t tell Willow I told you any of this, OK?”
After agreeing, I remember Meggie. “I have to go. Are we cool?”
After considering, Liam says, “Yeah, we’re cool.” He digs his hand in his pocket, retrieving a silver ring that only fits the first knuckle of his index finger.
“Liam?”
“Yeah?”
“Is Tate going to be all right?”
My question catches him off guard. “I hope so,” he answers and then whispers the word that drops him through the hardwood floor.
“Displace,” I say when he’s gone.
I land at the nurses’ station and the scrub-clad mannequins have already come back to life, looking busy while Meggie fills out paperwork. When she and I are back in Brody’s crowded room, Dr. Brown comes in to say his goodbyes, leaving his business card with instructions to call if there is anything he can do to help them. Bringing back Meggie’s family would be a start, but the ever-empathetic Schedulers have ensured that will never happen.
When the doc leaves, Meggie opens a pill bottle, shakes two out, and gives one to Brody. He tips back the paper cup of water like a shot glass. Bottoms up. Anger sparks inside me because there’s no pill in the world that could ease their pain.
Brody’s new threads must be compliments of Max because the green T-shirt falls almost to his knees and his pants are cuffed at the bottom.
Lawson’s sitting in the corner consumed in his book. Whitfield pulls out hers and her freckles are almost glowing. A possible love connection between her and Rigby, maybe? For Rigby’s sake, I hope so. Someone around here should be happy.
I dig out my own book and read until the pages go blank. Lawson and Whitfield appear to share my lack of enthusiasm about the upcoming funeral planning.
Twenty minutes later, we’re trudging through the sterile-smelling hallways behind our Tragedies.
“You coming?” Whitfield says.
After realizing I’ve stopped and am staring at a bald-headed boy as he passes us, I turn away and jog to catch up to the group. The sun is setting when we exit the building and my eyes narrow at the sight of Max’s car. Been there, done that, and no way am I doing it again.
“You couldn’t bring your SUV?” Meggie whines.
“Ryan’s got it. He took Nancy and Janine shopping. You and Brody need new clothes.” He neglects to mention that nothing survived the torching, though Meggie and Brody have probably already figured this out.
The door creaks when Max wrenches it open. The only thing spacious about the primer-black car is the amount of room it leaves between the cars parked on either side. Max negotiates himself into the driver’s seat like a magician, reaches over and unlocks the passenger door, and slouches until he can fully straighten his head behind the steering wheel.
Meggie sighs and, even less gracefully, climbs into the backseat.
“Just like old times.” Brody’s joke doesn’t lighten the m
ood like I wish it would.
Whitfield nods toward the car as it backs out.
“No way,” I say dully.
Whitfield shrugs indifferently and disappears through the hatchback. Her red ponytail shows up a second later next to Meggie in the backseat. Lawson and I fly behind the toy car into the setting sun, stopping for half a dozen red lights.
Fifteen minutes later, Max turns into a neighborhood of homes so near one another they almost touch. Very few of them have been updated. Of the handful of houses that actually have landscaping, most would be better off without. Ryan pulls up the cracked driveway behind an equally small, silver car under the carport. The sun is hidden by the house, but there’s enough light to see that the home is, hands down, the nicest on the street. Only a few patches of grass are brown, unlike the surrounding yards, which are mostly dirt.
We file through the front door and even with the Extreme Home Makeover that’s happened, I recognize the inside. No way can this place hold good memories for Meggie. I seriously doubt she would have chosen this as her home, had her own not been roasted.
My eyes lock on the corner of the living room; the image of a young Meggie taking cover under her mom is rooted in my brain like an old tree. The walls have been covered over with celery-green paint. I force my eyes back on Meggie and repress the bloody image of her mom’s battered face.
Within two minutes, Lawson and I are blocking. Meggie gains control after four blocks and falls onto the faded, pink and yellow plaid sofa. Lawson is still blocking Brody. What I wouldn’t give to yank the emotional triggers off the walls. The photographs, mostly of their kids, just mock what’s been stolen from this family.
Whitfield fidgets and picks at her nails while Max hovers around the door. “Megs, I’m gonna get out of here, OK?” he says in a desperate tone.
In a daze, Meggie turns to her brother. “Huh?” She pauses. “Oh. Yeah, sure.”
Brody, much to Lawson’s relief, falls beside Meggie on the sofa.
Max’s hand is already strangling the doorknob. “Ryan will be by later, hopefully with some new clothes. I’ll come over tomorrow morning so we can get to the…for the…um…arrangements.” He doesn’t want to say the bad word: funeral. I don’t blame him.
