“You’re coming with me,” he says as he stands.
“I was just—” I begin, but he walks away, back toward the park. I hurry to follow, afraid of where we’re heading and what might be in store for me, but more afraid of the consequences if I don’t go.
Crosby taps the identification patch on his shirt. The patch glows for a moment before emitting a bright beam of light that illuminates our way through the now total darkness.
It takes a slow jog to keep up with his long strides. “That’s cool,” I say.
“You know what’s not cool? That stunt you just pulled.”
“I—”
“It’s one thing to hide out in your room for a while. We all understand. But to disappear? For hours? That is not acceptable.”
“I was in the park.”
“That’s not the point,” he snaps. “The point is you were unaccounted for during a session. On your second day.”
“Sorry,” I say before falling silent.
Crosby opens the door to a small conference room and directs me to sit.
“Stay put,” he says. “I’ll be back in a few.”
The agonizing minutes tick by. The walk to the admin building seemed endless and awful, but this is worse. What kind of punishment can they dish out when you’re dead? Another psychiatric intervention? Some sort of afterlife lobotomy to keep me in line?
When I’ve nearly reached the jumping out of my skin point in my panic cycle, Crosby returns.
With Gideon.
“What’s he doing here?” I push back in my chair, adding a meager foot of distance between us.
“Just relax,” Gideon says, holding up his hands. “No orb this time.” He takes a seat across the table and Crosby chooses the chair next to me.
“He’s agreed to join us because he wants to help,” Crosby tells me.
“After what he did? You call that help?” My trembling voice betrays my defiance.
“It wasn’t personal,” Gideon says. “Just doing my job.”
“So I’m not a lost cause anymore?”
His dark eyes are unreadable. “We’ll see.”
“You are going to be quiet and listen.” Crosby jabs his index fingertip against the tabletop. “This rebellious streak ends now.”
Gideon rubs his hands together like they’re cold. “March 30, 1919. That was the day our lives were supposed to be back to normal. We stepped off the Aquitania and onto a chilly pier in New York Harbor, and that was it. Here’s your duffel, there’s the city. No job offers, no transitional care, nothing. One of the new brides who steamed back from England with us was kind enough to sew up the leg on all my pants for me, but no help from dear old Uncle Sam for this doughboy.”
“World War One?” I ask.
He nods. “Hundred and Sixty-Fifth Infantry, Machine Gun Company.”
I struggle to find a connection. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I’ll get to that. Just listen.” He continues, “It didn’t just stop. The nightmares, the pain, they never left us. And in those days, there was nothing—no support groups, no real treatment. Shell shock, they called it.
“I did okay controlling my pain at first. I thought I knew what I was doing. Just a little to take the edge off. But heroin doesn’t work like that. A little can turn into a lot before you know what’s hit you. However bad it was, though, it sure as hell beat being sober.
“In the end, the war, the pain, and the drugs combined in a lethal cocktail. You know what comes next. I found myself on a train, but unlike you, I was thirty-five years old, so off to the big city I went.”
“Beats the dorms,” I say. “Why do the adults get to go to the city, anyway? I mean, if it’s so dangerous that we can’t go, why do they get to? What makes somebody four months older than me so much more prepared for the big, bad dangers?”
“Have you ever been to New York City?” Crosby asks.
“Twice.”
“You know how it has nice neighborhoods, but there are parts of the city you wouldn’t dare set foot in?”
“Well, yeah,” I say. “That’s true anywhere.”
“Exactly. The sectors that house the adult transitional population in Atman City are perfectly safe. The City Guard makes sure of that. But venture out of the authorized zones, and you’re asking for trouble.” He points an accusing finger at me. “And I’m getting tired of you asking about it. I don’t want to hear another word.”
I lean back in my chair, sulking, while Gideon picks up where he left off.
“It took me ten years to get my leg back,” he says. “Adults take a lot longer to move on, and the simple act of getting my blown-off leg to join me here took a decade.”
My voice softens. “What happened to you really sucks.” I sit up straight. “But I have all my limbs. I wasn’t in a war. I never even tried pot, much less heroin. I don’t see how this relates to me.”
He lets out a harsh laugh. “I was just like you. I thought I had everything figured out. Thought the rules didn’t apply to me. Figured I was going to do things my own way, and do you want to guess how long it took me to get my ticket?”
I shrug.
“Twenty-six years.”
The number makes my head spin. “You’re lying,” I say weakly.
“He’s not,” Crosby says.
“You’re starting down a dangerous path, Dez.” Gideon leans forward in his chair. “Don’t repeat my mistakes.”
“So that’s why you brought me here? I blow off a couple of pointless meetings, and you decide to try and scare me into compliance?” I stand. “Look, I’m really sorry for what you went through, Gideon, but I’m not you.”
“Suit yourself.” Gideon pushes back from the table. “Good luck, Crosby.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Crosby’s anger wanes in the walk back to the dorms, transitioning to concern. He again stresses the importance of following the rules, sticking with the program, participating in the schedule, and, of course, the “three A’s.”
Too drained to fight, I simply nod and agree, promising to try harder.
He holds the lobby door open for me. “I know you had a rocky start, but Gideon’s not such a bad guy. He gave you some good advice, and would be a great resource if you’d let him.”
I snort in derision. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that one.”
“That one? So you’re saying you agree with me on something?” He gives me a friendly elbow.
We reach the bank of elevators in the lobby. “I think I can make the rest of the trip on my own.”
“That’s not in the cards, Little Miss Runaway. You are not to leave my sight until you close the door to your room for DSR.”
“That’s Little Ms. Runaway, if you don’t mind.” A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.
Crosby bows in deference. “My apologies.” The doors open, and he holds out his arm, ushering me aboard.
“I really hate elevators.”
“Get used to it, kiddo. There are no stairs, so it’s the only way up or down.”
“The only way up, anyway.” I shudder at the memory of Charlie’s plunge.
The doors open to a deserted floor ninety-five. Franklin, back at his table in the common area, looks up from a stack of paperwork when he hears us approach.
Great. Another lecture.
But he and Crosby simply exchange a nod as we pass. “Don’t worry,” Crosby says. “The reprimands are over. For tonight, anyway.”
True to his word, Crosby walks me all the way to my door, and watches as I shut it behind me.
I lean back against the door, weary and longing for home. Seeking out a distraction—anything, really—from my plummeting mood, I find Hannah’s left a pamphlet on the table by the message center. “Link-Bursts and You: The Thread That Binds.” I open it.
The teenage soul is a delicate instrument, sensitive to both the experiences of the newly dead as well as the life left behind. On occasion, these worlds collide, resulting in a
burst of life-energy colliding with the decedent’s soul. If you have suffered from a link-burst, it is important to first recognize the burst is not your fault. It can be a frightening experience for both the receiver of the link-burst as well as those who witness it. There are no wrong feelings, and open discussion without shame is in order. Your resident advisor is an important first contact…
Now I know what happens to the people who write those awful guidance office brochures—“Your Unique Body,” “Understanding Your Blossoming Emotions,” “Jenny Has a Secret”—when they die. They are doomed to an eternity of pamphlet writing. Serves them right. I drop the leaflet in the trash.
Hannah is lounging on the couch in her pajamas. “You okay? What happened?”
I make a beeline for my bed and collapse face down. “Tomorrow,” I say, my words muffled by the pillows. “Ask me tomorrow.”
DSR pulls me in before another thought crosses my mind.
The woman with the dark hair and the brilliant blue uniform appears again, her face set in a frown. “Desiree,” she says. “It has been a day of challenges and misdeeds. Unwise choices were made, and dangerous desires were indulged. The course you set will steer you either into a path of success and happiness or into an endless cycle of disappointment and stagnation. The choice is yours. You will be given all the tools you need for success, but they are of no use without a determined mind and a willing spirit.
“Tonight, we will begin examining seemingly insignificant details in your life that played a role in the events leading to your death. When you understand and accept the why of your life’s end, you’ll reach a milestone on your journey toward releasing your grip on the living world.”
It’s the winter leading into the year I turn sixteen. Dad and I sit in the car on a chilly Sunday morning in the deserted parking lot of the high school.
“Take off your gloves,” he tells me from the passenger seat. “Those are too thick and fuzzy to hang on to the steering wheel properly.” He grabs a pair of my mom’s gloves from the center console. “Try these.”
Grumbling, I pull off my nice, warm, fleece-lined gloves and pull on her thin polyester pair. “I’m going to freeze,” I say. “Hard to drive when you’re dying of hypothermia.”
Dad’s big laugh fills the car.
“How can she stand these things?” I wiggle my fingers, fighting off the creeping numbness.
“I guess our next car will have to have a heated steering wheel, huh?”
A strong wind buffets the car, making me cringe. “You want me to drive us to the dealership?”
Dad puts on his stern face, the one that doesn’t fool anybody. “You know why we’re out here today, and it’s not to go car shopping.”
“Not one other person in my driver’s ‘ed’ class has to do this.” I check the parking lot through the windshield. “I just hope nobody sees me out here.”
“If you can’t control a car in a skid, you have no business driving in a Wisconsin winter. I can’t in good conscience let you get your license until you’ve mastered it.”
“Fine,” I say, knowing an argument with the world’s most stubborn man is pointless.
“First you’re going to get a little speed going,” Dad says. “And then I want you to turn the wheel as you hit the brakes so we’ll slide. The things to remember when you’re skidding are to keep your foot off the gas and brakes until you’ve slowed down, and to turn the wheel in the direction you want the car to go. And don’t panic. Got it?”
“Do we really have to do this? It seems pointless. I mean, what are the odds of me remembering any of this if it actually happens?”
“Not if, when. Everybody skids. That’s why we practice—so it becomes second nature.”
My frozen hand shifts the car into drive. A comedy of errors unfolds as we slide around the parking lot, me squealing in alarm as the car spins out of control again and again. …
The mystery woman returns for a moment. “A crucial step in the early stages of letting go is to recognize the impact of critical life events that follow us throughout our lives and into our deaths.”
Next I’m taken to a dark, rain-soaked highway. Although I have no memory of it, I’m familiar enough with the events to know what I’m about to see. My mind braces for the overload of anxiety, but none comes. The disconnected calm remains and I watch the events unfold with curiosity rather than dread.
Lightning slashes across the sky, illuminating an old but still functioning drive-in movie theater along the side of the road. The marquee entices passers-by: TWISTER/MISSION IMPOSSIBLE DOUBLE FEATURE—$15/CARLOAD.
The wind howls as a tiny blue hatchback, more rust than paint, comes into view. It seems impossible that a car so small and broken-down could be traveling so fast, but it clips along with reckless speed. The highway takes a sharp turn just before the drive-in, and the car is going too fast to negotiate the slippery corner. I know full well the driver is too distraught from the recent loss of her husband to act in a rational or safe way. I know how this will end—with the death of my birth mother.
The car skids sideways and begins to roll, tumbling like a toy before hitting the concession stand with incredible force. The driver is thrown from her vehicle like a ragdoll and lands twenty feet or more from the wreckage.
Like bio-mom, like daughter. …
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“What are you doing?”
“Thinking.”
Charlie stands behind me, looking down. I’m sprawled in a big, comfy chair in a far corner of the library, waiting for the start of Morning Meditation and hiding from Hannah’s questions about what happened last night.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Looking for you.”
“Success! You found me.” I smile even though he’s dragged me out of my thoughts. I’d let him drag me just about anywhere.
He takes a seat next to my feet where they’re propped up on the windowsill “What’s on your mind?”
“Well, for starters, there’s a woman occupying my DSR time.”
Charlie’s eyebrows dart up. “A woman? That’s hot.”
I give his leg a nudge with my foot. “Funny.”
“So who is she?”
“I have no idea. I mean, she wears a staff uniform, but beyond that? No clue. She shows up and lectures me about complying, and tells me about the steps of moving on.”
“That’s weird,” he says.
“Tell me about it. And what’s weirder? Yesterday, Kay acted like she didn’t know what they did to me when … ”
“When you were with RPS?”
I nod, embarrassed.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You were there a couple of hours, right?” He leans back against the window. “You happen to be hanging out with Mr. Two Month Placement.”
“Really?”
“When you go out enough windows, it’s a pretty big red flag that you need ‘additional psychiatric services.’ So you know I’m speaking from experience when I say this: keep after them. If there’s one thing I’ve learned here, it’s that the squeaky wheel gets the grease.”
“They performed some procedure on me. I’m assuming this mystery woman has something to do with it, and I want to know exactly what they did. They better tell me, because I can be pretty persistent.”
“I can tell.” Charlie runs his fingers along the windowsill. “You made it sound like there was something else on your mind, too.”
“There is. That.” I point toward the window and the beautiful view. “Have you ever been?”
“You mean to Atman City?”
“What other city is there?”
“Good point.”
“So, have you?”
He scratches his chin as he ponders my question. “Actually, no.”
“Why not?”
He shrugs. “I guess it never occurred to me. After my first week of hiding in bed, I was too busy flinging myself off of tall buildings and choking on orange segments. Franklin, K
ay, and Crosby have all made it clear that I broke enough rules during that little stint, so the whole ‘strictly forbidden’ thing is a pretty good deterrent.”
“Doesn’t ‘forbidden’ seem a bit arbitrary?”
“I’m sure they have their reasons.”
“Aren’t you the least bit curious?”
“I don’t know, maybe.”
“It’s just … ” I look out the window. “I mean, look at it. It’s beautiful.”
“That it is.”
“Don’t you want to know what’s there and why we’re not supposed to see it?”
“They say the adults have apartments there, and I would imagine the staff all live in the city, too. I’m sure it’s a bunch of housing and maybe some places to eat. A cafeteria is a cafeteria, though.”
“Why would they want us to stay away from that? There’s got to be more. What about the danger they keep warning us about? What danger can there be when we’re all dead?”
Charlie tilts his head back, looking weary. “We have enough to worry about here on ninety-five. Why waste your time trying to figure out a place we can’t even go?”
“They’re hiding something from us. Maybe it’s important. Maybe it explains all the weird rules around here.”
“Your level of interest is exhausting. I don’t know how you can keep up the energy required to run your brain at warp speed like that.”
“So, no interest at all in going to Atman City?” I squint, giving him a thorough appraisal.
“Why? You planning a field trip?” He squints back, mocking me. But it’s cute, so I let it slide.
“Something like that. You want to join me?”
“I’m not so sure I’m willing to risk the long-term placement with RPS that getting caught would guarantee me.” He hops down from the window. “Besides, I don’t think I can fit it in my busy schedule of meetings with Kay and foosball training.”
My feet drop to the floor. “Don’t forget the time you spend eating Frisbee-sized doughnuts.”
Life, A.D. Page 12
