“It is, at that. Just like any other job, it has its ups and downs. At least most of the time what I do affects people positively. I can be grateful for that. But enough about me. How did the end of last week and the beginning of this one go? Any twisters at the Tumbler?”
And so we chatted for a while, mostly me talking. I told him about a particularly weird customer and he laughed so hard that I felt immensely proud of myself. His mood seemed much altered after the story. And it was all because of me, I gloated inside my head, feeling the heat rush to my face in triumphant exaltation.
“The things you store up in that head of yours are the most comical things I’ve ever... Just, you make it seem so incredible to be you, surrounded by them all of the time.”
I had absolutely no idea what to say to that. There was silence over the Comms from both ends.
“To see the world as you see it is truly special.” His voice was thoughtful and firm.
“Thanks, Sam.” I wish I could say something equally as meaningful. But I settled for silly, instead. I always settled for silly- it seemed to be my curse. “You have no IDEA how crazy it gets in here. Sometimes I’m Natalie and other times I’m Nicki and then I’m someone in between- sometimes the three of us get together and have a party.”
He snorted. “Hang in there. It’ll get better.”
“Mmmm.” I nodded, absorbing the meaning behind his words.
He nodded thoughtfully.
I don’t know when I started to know him so well, but I instinctively knew whenever he nodded over the Comms, knew what each pause meant, knew what each sigh denoted. I know him. Because I… care about him. Now I wanted to sigh, but refrained. He would ask, and I didn’t want to tell him the reason why.
The conversation had lagged. Something was definitely up- he was never so dead on the line. He could talk whilst bleeding out from a gun-shot wound, so it must be something besides physical discomfort. It had to be emotional. “Are you doing alright? You sound pretty low.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to keep it from flowing into the rest of my work. Just some things have been getting me down. I should dismiss it though, and ‘do what I can for the living’, you know?”
“Oh my gosh- did someone you care about die?” I felt dread rise in my stomach. If the Comms weren’t cordless, I would be twisting it around my hand right now.
“No! No, no, no. I’m sorry I alarmed you,” he hedged.
“I’m glad.” I waited, chipping the paint patiently off of my door jamb until I remembered it was Tom’s door jamb and hastily shoved my fingers into my pocket.
“It’s just that I- it’s… probably not something I should discuss with another witness.” Nodding again.
Oh. I couldn’t help but feel disappointed. And then I rolled my eyes at myself. The part of me that was disappointed took over and I challenged him. “Sam, you’re the only one in the country who knows both my true identity and the fact that I’m not dead or in some military bunker somewhere. You have to talk to me, too. Friendship is a two way street- if you want me to tell you how I’m really doing, you have to reciprocate.”
There was a low chuckle on the other end. “I did that to myself, didn’t I?”
“Yes!” I laughed. “You did.” I felt the need to be there for him. It was obviously a struggle that he couldn’t tell many people about. “You know, since I’m in the program, you don’t have to worry about me leaking information to anybody,” I coaxed, sweetly.
He laughed again. “No- I trust you just fine, it isn’t that.”
“Good,” I whispered softly. So softly that all of a sudden I hoped he hadn’t heard it.
“Okay.” He was silent, putting his thoughts together. The energy between us crackled. “The thing is; one of my witnesses declined protection yesterday.”
There was a heavy pause as I digested this information.
“She testified two years ago, and we were able to put most of the criminal organization behind bars, but the fact is, we only scratched the surface. They’re still out there, and even in prison they find ways to communicate with their contacts.”
Another heavy moment settled between us, like sediment in the bottom of a reservoir. All of a sudden I seemed to understand. “She’s still on their hit list.” The words were heavy, tumbling out like cards flying off of an electronic card deck shooter, spitting out as I watched in horror at the mess it made.
“And now I can’t protect her anymore.”
“Oh.” I gasped; covering my mouth, wishing it wasn’t so.
“I know.” His voice was muffled.
“I’m so sorry. That’s… I’m so sorry.” I had no words.
“Thank you.” It was a murmur.
We shared silence for a long time.
I wanted to say something, tried to squeeze something magical and perfect out of the air around me, but the truth was I couldn’t. I had nothing to say to make it right. I sighed and squeezed the Comms closer. “I’m so sorry.” I felt so useless, so inadequate. What was the use of words if they couldn’t make things better? What was my use if I couldn’t find the stupid words in the first place to lighten another’s burden? Anger and loathing washed over me and I couldn’t help myself; I cried.
I wasn’t very quiet about it, but it felt almost good to cry. I could at least help share his anguish. That was something, wasn’t it?
When I could speak again, I asked, “Why? Why did she do it?” I ran my free hand across my forehead, getting my wisps of hair away from my poor eyes which were weary and sore.
A deep uneasy breath halted his speech on the other line. “I’m almost afraid to tell you.”
“Why?” I wiped underneath my eyes, trying to save the mascara and then giving up once I saw how much came away on my fingers. I repeated the question dumbly, lost in my sea of troubled waters, so unaware.
“She used to be an artist and poet, before I brought her into the program three years ago. After that, I couldn’t let her make art anymore for fear of it being traced back to her.”
A long pause. “Nicki?’
I couldn’t say anything; my heart had stopped.
CHAPTER EIGHT
4811/11/1/9
This was a problem.
The rest of that week, I walked around in a daze, a personal bubble of thought, where the end of our conversation went on replay, over and over.
I was stuck in a quandary. I was afraid, as usual, but it wasn’t the fuzzy feeling in the back of my brain- the part of me that was paranoid about being followed or watched. It was more insistent. Like there was something I was supposed to be doing.
My head was somewhere else so often that Carrie, typically patient, got exasperated and set me to mopping floors and restocking the lavatory. I didn’t care. It was good to keep my hands busy while my brain caught up.
I shook my head and dialed Sam’s number into the Comms. It was time for the twice weekly check-in. But it could wait... It could wait for tomorrow, couldn’t it? So I pushed his face into the back of my mind where I could pretend I didn’t notice it, and went about the rest of my shift.
~
That night I had a dream.
I woke up strangely; I don’t know why. All of a sudden my eyes were open and the bleary blue numbers on the digital alarm clock sharpened. I stretched, feeling completely awake. The light was not yet grey or peeping through the blinds. Weird. It was earlier than I usually woke up. But I felt fully rested; there was no need to sleep anymore.
I slipped out of the bed and tiptoed across the floor. It was cold. I wasn’t too fond of the chilly wood boards nipping my toes, but I didn’t hurry just the same. I took my time, wrapping my sweater closer.
I couldn’t remember why I woke up. I stood there, in the chill of the morning, and blinked, rubbing my eyes with the heel of my hand. It was completely dark and very disorienting.
I walked into the lavatory absent-mindedly and catching a glimpse of my lips in the mirror, I remembered. It was shocki
ng, but not any more surprising than the nightmares of David trying to shoot me down.
It was a garish dream, one I had never had before. In it, I kept seeing a gigantic pair of Simone’s big red lips, lips I usually admired in the light of day, but by the paradox of my unconsciousness had been made flashy and obnoxious. The dazzling, heavily glossed lips hunted me down, blocking my only exit. “He’s just not that into you,” they said, the lips turning up into a horrifying grin. Without the rest of her face to balance them out- her delicate nose and huge, impishly charming eyes- they took over the whole space in front of me, the building seeming to expand to fit the constantly growing mouth. It was a fearsome sight.
I felt the panic rise within me, and then I spoke. “You’re wrong.” It was a strong sound, confident and sure. Way more confident than I felt. Simone’s whole face appeared, flickering.
Instant relief flooded my body. An impish eye winked and then Simone’s image disappeared leaving me to wake up.
I spent the rest of the day marveling at the dream and at the change I felt.
I felt light; free even. Ready to do something. For the first time in months, I felt a fire inside. It burned brightly, but it was enigmatic. No matter how many times I asked, it would not tell me what it was preparing me for.
I wanted to take a walk and was about to when I remembered that I shouldn’t. It annoyed me. But I pushed the thought down. No doubt, soon I would be scared again, grateful that I had an excuse to hide indoors.
I hoped that whichever part of me won in the end, the scared loser of her past identity or the self-possessed orphan who lived each day as it came, would hurry up.
~
4811/14/1/5
The feeling of irrational boredom and boldness had not faded. It had even been several months, and there was no sign of the trembling leaf I was so capable of turning into at the first sign of a shadow.
I was bent over, scrubbing a toilet, vowing I wasn’t going to do this for the rest of time, when I made up my mind.
No more.
Either David would be caught by the peacekeepers and his crew dragged off to prison with him, or I was going to have to figure out a way to do it myself.
I stood up straight, wiping my (clean) forearm across my eyes and trying in vain to blow some uncooperative hair away.
I found myself in a ridiculous conversation with my subconscious.
What would I do? Improvise.
“Improvise?!!” I snorted, shaking my head. The patron who was washing her hands glanced my way and sped up the process of scrubbing, a bumpy frown impressed on her disgruntled face.
All my fault, I was sure.
What would I do? Just walk around in Cornish, looking for David? And then what if I found him? Say ‘Hello, feel like killing me now?’ How would that solve anything?
Maybe though, if I got him off-balance, kept him guessing, I could be the bait for an even bigger trap- a trap that Sam and the peacekeepers could set and spring.
I paused. Could I really do it? Could I follow through with this? It seemed ludicrous, risky; stupidly so. Could I actually succeed in luring David, a man I still couldn’t think of without feeling hit by a freight train of memories, into a trap without screwing things up?
Did I have the fortitude?
I felt cold resolve fill me, edging into each crevice of my body. I was angry. And not only angry, but ready to strike back. Fed. Up. It would be good to take control of my life and do something about it.
And then what? So what if David got arrested and went to trial. Would I automatically get my life back? That was the goal, wasn’t it? But how was it going to end? How does liberation come about?
With somebody’s death; either Natalie’s or Nicki’s.
The only problem was that I wasn’t sure which one of them I was anymore. The lines had become blurred a long time ago. I sighed, a harsh sound, almost like a growl since my teeth were gritted.
The woman exited, throwing an angry glance behind her as she went.
Was it wise? Of course not.
Was it irrational? Absolutely.
Was I going to hide at the Tumbler for the rest of my pathetic existence? No chance in a blue hell.
~
That night, I looked over the small packet of mementos I had collected so far along this journey. My own journey of hope, I snorted. The packet had several things within. I fingered the little shell that I had found the day of the fire at home. It was the only piece of Myceania, of home, that I had. It had been left, forgotten, in my skirt pocket until I had changed at the prison into Nicki-Ray’s clothes. It was the only part of my past that I had left in the world. I let go of it, hearing it jingle against the other items in the bag. I slipped my fingers back into the envelope and smiled as I touched a familiar piece of cold metal. I pulled it out, letting it shine brilliantly in the low candle light.
The blinds were closed; I was safe from sight. But I wanted so much more- I wanted desperately to run to the windows and yank the blinds aside and jam the windows open and breathe in the thick air. I wanted to take a walk during the middle of the day, whenever and wherever I felt like it. I wanted to sit on the roof and count constellations at night without the possibility of strangers lurking with firearms...
Blue angels, I didn’t even care anymore if they did spot me and do away with me. At least something would happen and this itch in my soul would be satisfied. At least I would be free of this torment, day after day.
Who knew, it might even feel good to be dead. I shuddered at the thought. I knew I did not want to die. There was so much living to be done. But I couldn’t live like a lamb anymore. Better to die as a lion, fighting for my right to live. I squeezed the sharp objects, feeling tears tremble and run down my face as the metal bit into my hand and blood started to drip from the wound. As I watched the thin red streak of droplets slide down my wrist, I knew it was just the first of the blood to be spilled in my own personal war.
I crawled into bed, clothes still smelling fruity from my shift at the Tumbler. Tears lingered in my eyes, spilling over without effort as I turned the metallic necklace pendants over and over in my hand.
Sinking into the comforter was blissful, but as I sprawled on the mattress and flicked out the lights, I had to sit straight back up again.
I was no longer tired; in fact the very exhaustion that had laid me down just a moment earlier had vanished with the thought that popped into my mind.
Emotions are fleeting at best. And I am much better than that.
I rummaged aggressively around for the typewriter in the dark. Switching the light back on, I found it.
I stayed up half the night writing feverishly, writing things that my parents had never known about me, things that my friends needed to understand, and especially letters to Sam and another one to Tom, thanking them for saving my life. I had a hard time writing those last two.
It was funny, I didn’t once think to include Lex or Tasha or Mrado or Jeff. I realized something: they weren’t my friends. They weren’t a part of my life because I had chosen.
I was Nicki-Ray.
I worked until the space behind my left eye throbbed like a knife was hacking away at it. Fuzzy, jagged rick racks of green and yellow and red vibrated and rattled along my line of vision and the blaring light from the bedside lamp bore into my brain and blinded me. That’s when I knew I needed sleep.
Then I messaged Sam. We need to talk tomorrow, was all the information I gave. I crawled under the covers once more, and lay in the soft blankets for a while, staring up at the ceiling. I relaxed, breathing deeply. I felt oddly at peace. This could be the last night I spend, safe, in obscurity.
With my fingers curled tightly around the metal pendants, I fell into a dreamless sleep.
~
4811/14/1/6
“Hey, Nicki. How’s it going down there?”
I took a deep breath, fingering the necklace, wincing as I flexed my wounded hand. I really needed to find some ointment for th
at. The pendants between my fingers burnished in the dayshine, smiting my eyes with their glory. A four-board streamed past. I was surprised there wasn’t more traffic at this time in the daylight. Oh yes… I had skipped work today. “Well, Sam… I actually need to tell you something.”
“Hold up- was that a vehicle I heard?”
“Yes.” I knew what was coming next.
“Wait- are you outside?”
Fortune's Detour: Prequel of the Deka Series by Abigail Schwaig Page 15
