Wanda gasps. Gets it. They’d been doing it for her. Dosing her on the sly.
Miss Philips sees she understands. “We couldn’t have you all shakey-quakey-skin-fall-offy in the hospital, now could we?”
“You’re lying.” Wanda wants it to be true.
Miss Philips just shrugs. Smiles. Fine. Don’t believe me.
Wanda is crestfallen. Just like that, the sudden miraculous cure she hadn’t even known she wanted? Vanishes. Nothing has changed. She hasn’t kicked. The cravings will return. She will need the goo again. She can almost feel it creeping up on her now.
The trailer door opens. Mr. Bolton backs down the steps. Carrying an unconscious Marshall by the legs. Following him out the door is Mr. Rothstein. Arms wrapped under Marshall’s arms. Around his chest.
Marshall’s exposed skin has been wound in plastic wrap. Tightly as possible. It’s holding him together. His blood still finds its way out any opening it can. Drips beneath him. Landing in dry sand. Wanda’s not sure she wants to re-enter her trailer any time soon.
The old men carry him to the van. Load him into the back.
“Say goodbye to your little buddy, Wanda.” Miss Philips plays to the hidden audience. Gives Wanda’s arm an extra twist for good measure.
Through gritted teeth, Wanda whispers: “Take me, too.”
Miss Philips laughs. “Don’t be stupid.”
“If I’m not cured-- If you guys have a place. Where you help people get off that shit... You have to take me there. I don’t care if I do end up like him. I want to kick. Before it’s too late.” She looks back at the older woman. Sees something on her face almost like compassion. It doesn’t fit. Uncomfortable, it quickly departs.
“Wanda... It’s already too late.” She releases Wanda’s arm. Steps away. “Besides... You’re far more useful to us in your current condition.”
Wanda stays on her knees. “Maybe I’ll just have to do it on my own, then.”
“I welcome you to try.” Miss Philips picks up her four-footed cane. “I suppose it’s possible. Theoretically.”
With her remaining hand free once again, Wanda’s first order of business is to scratch at the dressing growing more loose and dirty around the end of her partial-forearm
Miss Philips shakes her head. “But you really should knock off that nonsense. Before you do your hand lasting damage.”
“My hand. Right.”
“Think about those dirty fingers you’re using to scratch your wound while it’s healing. Itching’s a sign of infection, Wanda. Maybe you need to drop back in on Dr. Ramsey. See about getting it looked at. Re-dressed.”
“Maybe I’ll just take my chances.”
She flinches as the old lady comes closer. Plants her cane. Leans down. Whispers: “We’re pleased you called. It goes a long way to re-establishing the trust we once had.” She smiles. To anyone watching this should seem like a final threat being made. “To that end, we’ve already spoken to Delia regarding recompense.”
Wanda frowns. “You heard me a minute ago, right? I don’t want it anymore.”
Miss Philips shrugs. “Nevertheless.”
She walks to the van. Leaning on her unnecessary cane the whole way. Gets in.
Wanda doesn’t bother getting up until well after they’re gone. Just sits in the dust.
Scratching.
CHAPTER TWENTY
BGeezWhiz94: nice vid.
MandiDunlop: Oh my G--! You don’t even know. That video was so amazing. Not everyone would do that, and you should kno Aaron would be proud that you did. Give me a call sometime. xx
IncimentallyYours: Totally made me cry.
CottlestonPi: u should jst no he will miss u as much. ur awesome.
AllisonRand: You are the amazing person. The best. Aaron was so lucky to have you be his best friend. Don’t ever forget that.
Harbinger: Sacrifice begets sacrifice. You too will have your part to play in the final reckoning.
HunnyBons: That video was some sweet. Thanks back to you.
~
The likes pile on. Hundreds of tiny blue thumbs-up of appreciation for Max’s video. Comments on his comments on their comments. Thanking Max for acknowledging their own worthless opinions. Every pling alert driving him closer to re-shooting his video as originally planned. After a while, he turns off all further notifications.
Max stretches his sore limbs. Aching now from too much bed-rest. He rolls out from under his covers. Stands. Carries his tablet to the window. Climbs through. Onto the roof of the garage.
Into sunlight.
He plops down on hot shingles. Turns up the brightness on his screen. Goes through his games. Bored with all of them. No enthusiasm for looking up fresh ones. No credit to pay for them if he did.
He opens the e-reader. A book already on-the-go. Tries, but can’t follow. Not recalling any part of the story he’s supposedly been reading. Gives up. What’s the point?
He’s bored. Antsy. As sure a sign as any that his recuperation is coming to its close. Physically, anyway. Fortunately, he’s starting the day shift tomorrow. Moved from nights until they can find him a new partner. It may take a while. Not so easy to enlist folks into the Circle these days.
Max opens and closes a dozen other apps, in hopes of piquing his own interest before clicking the little stamped snail-mail envelope that stands for email. It’s been a month at least since last checking. None of his friends use it anymore. Outside of spambots, does anyone? People he cares about either text or DM.
Today, he finds ninety-seven unread emails waiting in his inbox. Scanning the subject lines, he finds trips, medications and plastic surgery on offer. But one email without any subject at all grabs his attention instantly when he sees who it’s from.
FROM: AARON COATES-LESGUETTES
Sent the day of the explosion. After meeting on that very garage roof, but before their shift began at the lighthouse. Max pauses before clicking the mail. If it turns out to be spam or a virus, he will very likely lose his shit. He’s almost afraid to open Aaron’s message from beyond the grave.
Then, he gets over it. Click.
Hey Max,
Assuming you check your email before work (or ever)...
Take a look at the attachment, and let’s talk about it tonight.
Yes, it’s real. Yes, I’m sure.
Assuming you don’t check your email... You’re a dumbass.
Much love,
Aaron
PS You’re a dumbass either way.
Max re-reads the short message three times. Clenching his teeth to keep from tearing up. Until his temples begin to ache. Finally, he regains control enough to check the attachment: CircleHistory-Vol01_excerpt03.pdf
Max clicks DOWNLOAD.
Watches the hourglass spin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Really, this should come as no shock to anybody, Carla. Every one of our polls has shown: An overwhelming majority of born Islanders are one hundred percent in favor of our continued independence from the mainland.” Mrs. Rutherford addresses the interviewer. But looks directly into the camera. “How can we pretend to be surprised then, when citizens express their dissatisfaction in a system that ignores such a commonly held conviction?”
She glances past the camera. Sees Ren, a short distance away. Talking on his phone. But still watching. Good. Nearby, Deputy Schilling stands with arms crossed. When he catches her eye, he winks.
Carla Grayson - Channel Eight Local News - points the microphone at her own vacuum-plumped lips. “You’re saying the anti-bridge protesters are representative of the general public?”
“I think it’s clear to anyone: These well-meaning demonstrators simply want their voices heard. Whatever our personal political stance... Who among us doesn’t feel the same?”
Behind Mrs. Rutherford, the men and women chained to the bridge continue to chant. Wave their homemade signs. Most are now seated. Cross-legged on the concrete. Conserving their energy.
“I don’t
care who you are, everyone wants to have a voice. Nobody wants to cede responsibility to Big-Government. And I’m including myself, but I think most Islanders would agree...” She sees Ren. Moving away through the crowd. Headed for the gates. Where a taxi has just pulled up. “If it concerns our citizens, we’re more than willing to be held accountable, and we expect to be allowed to make our own decisions without interference from a board room in some far-off Big City.”
She looks for Deputy Schilling. He’s noticed, too. Trailing behind Ren at a discreet distance.
“We want to remain autonomous, and some of us - like this brave and vocal contingent standing up for themselves here today? They’re no longer willing to give up their right to speak freely on the subject.”
Ren climbs into the taxi. Schilling looks back at Mrs. Rutherford. A question in his eyes. Awaiting authorization.
“So, Mrs. Rutherford... Are we to take it you support this protest?”
She nods. Apparently in answer to the interviewer’s question. Schilling nods back. Trots over to his patrol car. When he’s in, she looks back into the camera.
“Whether I agree with their position or not, I absolutely support the right of every Islander to speak their own mind. Freely and without fear of repercussion. It’s my belief that - like these men and women - more citizens should make use of the liberties bestowed upon us. Rise up and publicly give voice to their conscience. If we do not insist on being heard, we stand at risk of being ignored... By those who will otherwise prove to be unwilling... To listen.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Eight feet long. Eight feet wide. Eight feet deep.
Another hole.
This one in an open field. Not due to be worked for another two seasons. The low-point in a valley, encircled on all sides by hills.
The top rung of a metal ladder peeks over its edge. Shudders slightly as Mr. Hunter climbs up. Out. The sun beats down on the field. No shelter or shade to escape it. The big man’s bald head and shirtless torso lobster red from exposure. Beaded with sweat. Blackened with soil. He goes over to his Jeep. Lifts a control panel from the hood. Presses a button.
The Jeep’s winch turns. Retracts the towline.
Above the hole - hanging from a temporary framework of thick pvc pipes - the line circles a block-and-tackle. As it pulls, it lifts a rubber garbage can into view. When it has fully risen, the man stops the winch.
Returning to the frame, he slides the pulleys along the upper pipe until the can is over solid ground. Releases. It drops with a solid thud. He grabs a handle. Drags it a short distance from the dig. Tips it. Dumps thirty gallons of rich earth at the base of a large mound. Everything removed so far. Eight cubic feet. No small amount of dirt.
Passing the Jeep, he kicks the winch release open without pausing. Returns to the hole. Drops the can in. Grabbing the end of the towline, he climbs down the ladder.
There, he finds his wife, hard at work. Shovelling. A second garbage can, nearly-filled. When he taps her shoulder, she stops. Steps aside without so much as a glance behind her. Pulls a nearly empty bottle of water from the back pocket of her overalls. Drains it as her man switches cans. Replaces full with empty.
While he attaches the towline, she stretches her muscles. Peruses the results of her efforts.
Hm. She frowns. Goes to the ladder. Moves it. Flat against the wall. Feet touching bottom. Near its top rung, a spray painted red band marks eight feet. The hole is a few inches deeper.
The little woman groans. Looks over at the man. He sees it too. Their work is done.
She resets the ladder. Grabs her shovel. Kicks over the empty. Climbs out.
He dumps the full can where it stands. Slides it into the other. Heaves both together. Up and out of the hole. Then, follows them. Pulls the ladder out after him.
The little woman unfolds a tablecloth-sized topographic map of the island. Spreads it over the hood of the Jeep. Ten red-marker circles have been drawn onto it. Six have been scratched out. She pulls a marker from the bib of her overalls. Makes it seven.
Behind her, Mr. Hunter disassembles the frame. While he works, she pours over the map. Deciding - amongst their diminishing options - where they will be digging next.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“That was some intro, kiddo.”
Netty’s friendly face is a relief. After being inundated with handshakes from strangers who ‘knew your dad from a boy’ and had ‘always wondered after ‘im’ Dawn’s grateful to see someone she knows. If only for a few days.
“A little warning might’ve been nice.” She leans back. Lots of room at her otherwise empty picnic table. People have been eager to meet her, but not much more. “How’s Max doing?”
Netty tenses up. Glances around, before sitting down next to Dawn. Speaks quietly. “I appreciate you asking, Dawn, but... It’s probably best not to talk too much about the boy who survived the same accident that claimed Aaron’s life.”
Dawn goes white. She hadn’t thought about it at all.
Netty shakes her head. “It’s okay. No harm, no foul.” She leans in close. “And, honestly? I have no idea. He’s home. Healing. Beyond that...” She shrugs. Leans back. Returns to normal volume. “I see your dad opted not to come.” A foregone conclusion confirmed.
“No, he was going to. He couldn’t. There was trouble at the bridge.”
Netty frowns. “What kind of trouble?”
“Protesters. Chained themselves down and everything.”
Netty stands. Pulls out her phone. “Sorry Dawn. I kinda have to check in with my office. They really should’ve given me the heads-up on this.” She’s off before Dawn can say goodbye. Plugging an ear against the din. Looking for privacy.
Dawn sighs. On her own again.
A tap on the shoulder corrects that. She turns. Faces a pear-shaped man and his inverted pear-shaped wife. Dawn wants nothing more than to push the couple together to see if their shapes interlock.
“Dawn, we’re the Dolberts.” The man extends a hand. She accepts it. “I’m Jean-Paul. My wife, Angelica.”
Angelica puts a hand on Dawn’s arm. “Oh, she’s a right beauty. Must take after the mother, more’s the better.”
Dawn half-smiles at the nudge-nudge.
Still holding her hand, the man shakes it again. “Knew yer dad from a boy, we did.”
From the number of hands she’s shaken, Dawn guesses most Islanders did.
~
Wanda sneaks in without anyone seeing. Via the kitchen entrance. Walks smoothly through the chaos. A path she’s followed all her life. Unlike her older siblings, Wanda never actually worked in the family restaurant, but she’d grown up with it as part of her extended playground, making her an old pro at dodging amongst the ebb and flow of kitchen workers.
Nearly to the restaurant floor, she’s hit by a wave of anxiety. Chickens out. Ducks into the washroom. Third stall. Against the wall. A refuge she’d resorted to so many times before. Usually, in order to quickly brace herself with a stripe of goo. Calm her nerves. Empty-handed, today.
She’d avoided glancing in the mirrors as she entered. Knows exactly what she’d see: Her dirty, disheveled self. Scratching incessantly at the stump halfway down her left forearm. In a hoodie and camo pants. No more appropriately attired than when she left the hospital that morning. She would’ve been substantially better off had she just gone directly to the funeral in the first place. Goony smiley-face shirt or no.
Up on the toilet tank. Feet on the seat. So strange to sit there without a little bottle and brush in hand. Feeling none of that need. That all-consuming desire. Clear-headed, for once. Enough to know she won’t be welcomed out in the restaurant. Not after missing the funeral. Her presence now will only stir things up. Is it possible? Could she actually be making a logical decision to avoid trouble? To do the smart thing? The unselfish thing? How unlike her.
Maybe this is how things are, off the goo. Making wise decisions. No problems but itchiness. She could live with that.
/>
She rolls back her sleeve. Digs under the dressing. Her stump aching. Miss Philips might be right. It could be infected. Wanda had left the hospital against their recommendations. Maybe she should go back. Get it looked at. Cleaned up. Redressed. Before she ended up needing more amputated. All the way down to the elbow. Or worse.
And she can talk to Dr. Ramsey about being cured. Or why she was feeling cured. Find out what he’d done. How he’d totally stopped the cravings. Even temporarily.
So, it’s decided: She’ll sneak back out again. Avoid the whole crazy drama. Go back to the hospital. Just in case. If anyone asks why she didn’t show at Aaron’s funeral or reception, she’ll just explain: She didn’t want her missing appendage to steal attention away from what’s important.
A good plan. Wanda wonders what crucial element she’s forgotten.
~
“And Schilling was already on his way there? Why was he already on his way there?”
Netty has found a quiet place for her call. Quieter. A little hallway. Out of the chaos of the restaurant’s main floor. Now only in the path of staff headed into the kitchen. Or anyone using the washrooms. Fortunately, no one had been in need since she’d planted herself there.
“Said he was swinging by to check out their first day back on the job.” Even over the phone, Netty can hear the dispatcher chewing the end of her pen as she talks. “Just in case.”
“He said that, Millie? Just in case?”
“Yep... Oh! You think they sent him? You think it was the--”
“If I did think that, I’d still know better than to suggest it over the phone.”
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK TWO Page 7
