Escaping Grace: A Turning Grace Novel

by Davis, J. Q.

  What is that smell?

  But the point was that she lied to me, and I didn’t understand why. Why couldn’t she be honest with me? Why did she make me find out on my own? And in the worst way possible!

  God, that smells so good!

  My face flushed and I could feel that I was getting angry…and even more hungry. I would just have to talk to her when I was ready.

  A knock at my door prompted me to turn around, and the smell of something delicious made my stomach growl loudly.

  A short, tan woman wearing a floral uniform walked in wheeling a cart full of food. My hunger levels raised, and I began to sweat.

  “Miss Grace, you lunch,” she said softly with a deep, Latin accent.

  Words couldn’t form in my throat. I was feeling faint…and pretty surprised at how quick the service was.

  I didn’t see her leave the room, or even hear the door shut. My eyes darted to the plates full of hamburgers, French fries, chicken tenders, pasta, cupcakes, and brownies.

  I didn’t think. My legs uncontrollably moved my body over to the cart. My arms uncontrollably reached out. My hands uncontrollably dug into the steaming hot wonderment of the only thing that mattered most at that moment.

  I scooped the pasta up with my fingers, smashing it into my open mouth. I had to chew violently and quickly to get the food down my esophagus, to feed the unholy desire for nourishment. My body was gradually needing and wanting more and more as the days passed. And when I had it, there was nothing I wanted more.

  I closed my eyes in satisfaction as I shoveled every last morsel on each plate into my mouth. This food was incredible, but anytime I was hungry, the thought of what I’d eaten the night before I came here entered my mind. Nothing could compare since then.

  And I often thought to myself, would I ever be able to taste that again?

  I finally opened my eyes to the empty plates in front of me. I didn’t even bother to move from where I was. I was still standing at the cart.

  My stomach rumbled a bit before letting out a small growl. Apparently, this food was not enough.

  A knock at my door broke me out of my grub trance.

  I opened it to a serious look from Number One. “Grace, Dr. Roberson would like to see you now.”

  “Okay.”

  “Please follow me.”

  I followed Number One out of the Laguna hut and across the courtyard to the other side of the compound. Over on this side were two more huts that looked exactly like mine from the outside. One was labeled MALIBU and the other, NEWPORT. I could see movement in the Newport hut through open, window-like cutouts in the front and focused real hard to see if I could get a better view. Although I wasn’t ready to meet anyone just yet, I still wanted to see what the other people looked liked. For some reason, I was still half-expecting to see a horde of zombies shuffling aimlessly through the courtyard with backpacks on their backs as if it were an ordinary day at school.

  I quickstepped to match Number One’s pace when I realized my nosiness was making me fall behind. “What are these huts for?”

  “Malibu is the common area. Newport is the mess hall,” he answered firmly.

  After another two minutes, we approached the two-story structure that I could see from the balcony. As we walked up closer, I confirmed that this building was definitely made out of concrete.

  Above the door was a large, silver Z that stuck out of the wall. Number One swiped a card on the door before we entered a tiny, enclosed foyer. He then typed on a keypad next to the large steel door and stood stiffly, facing forward and looking up at a small, round camera embedded into the wall.

  A low buzz rang out and Number One opened the door. Once inside, we walked over to a receptionist sitting at a desk.

  “Good afternoon, Robin,” Number One greeted (without a smile). “This is Grace Watkins. Dr. Roberson requested the appointment be moved up sooner.”

  The thin woman wearing glasses smiled at Number One softly. “It’s nice to see you again.” She batted her long eyelashes at him before glancing at me. “Hello, Grace. Welcome to Everlasting Paradise.”

  I smiled back and fought the urge to shutter. The name of this place just did not sit well with me.

  She picked up her phone and dialed one number. “Grace is in.”

  After a short pause, she responded, “Yes, sir,” and hung up the phone. “Okay, Grace. He’s ready to see you.”

  Number One nodded at the receptionist. She gave a sweet smile and nodded back, her eyes looking up over her glasses at him. I wasn’t an expert on flirting, but by the way her eyes twinkled when she gazed into his, I thought that maybe there could be some kind of love connection there. But when I looked at Number One, he kept true to his serious demeanor and didn’t seem to give her another thought. He led the way past what seemed to be like a waiting room, down a hall and to an elevator.

  When we stepped in, he pressed the number two button.

  “I think she likes you.”

  He didn’t say anything. Instead, there was silence until the elevator door opened into another waiting room area, with another receptionist sitting at a desk directly in front of us.

  This receptionist was quite a bit older than the first. She was wearing glasses too, but the ones with the chain dangling on each side. Her hair was salt and pepper-colored and wrapped in a neat French twist. She looked up at us.

  “Hello, Grace. Please have a seat and Dr. Roberson will be out to get you shortly,” she said in the nicest tone I have ever heard anyone speak. I briefly wondered how long she has worked for Dr. Roberson. She just seemed to be a seasoned employee. Not because she was older, but because she had this kind of seniority manner about her. Maybe it was her perfect posture or the fact that she looked to be really busy.

  I sat down in one of the chairs in the waiting area and Number One stood by the elevator doors. Did he ever sit down?

  Moments later, Dr. Roberson appeared from behind a wall.

  “Ahh, Grace! Welcome to the Z lab!”

  I stood up.

  He leaned over the receptionist’s desk and laid a hand on her back, setting down a folder with the other. “Beverly, will you please have Dr. Charles look over these?”

  Beverly nodded.

  “Thank you.” He turned toward Number one and gave him a quick nod before waltzing over to me and wrapping his arm around my shoulder.

  “Come. Come with me so we can get these pesky tests out of the way.”

  “Tests?” I mumbled. Anxiety washed over me instantly.

  Chapter 3

  The Testing

  He led me behind the wall and through a glass door.

  Holy science lab!

  It was like another world. Glass doors, desks, computers, lab equipment, lab coats…

  I peered around as much as I could and caught glimpses of people in each individual room standing around talking, sitting at computers, pouring green substances into beakers, talking on phones, writing in folders…

  Everyone was doing something. Things that looked important. Things that reminded me of something you’d see on TV. It was a scene straight out of a Sci-fi movie. Like in my comic books! Was I at S.T.A.R. Labs?

  We walked past each room, all of which were walled by glass. At the end of the hall, Dr. Roberson opened a door to a small, hospital-like room that wasn’t see-through, probably for privacy.

  There was a desk with a computer and a stool. Next to it was a long chair cushioned from top to bottom. I have never been to a doctor because my mother was one and always examined me herself, but I was assuming this was the basic examining room at your local doctor’s office. Actually now that I thought about it, she never took me to a doctor because I was half-dead. I was sure that would pose a problem.

  Damn her lies!

  “Okay, Grace. Hop up on the table and we will get started.”

  “Um…what exactly are you starting?” I asked as I took a seat.

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry. We’re going to st
art out with some simple tests. We’ll give you a hearing test, an eye exam, check your blood pressure, your reflexes, blood work…just things like that. It’s routine procedure for us to get a better understanding of what we are working with.”

  He started up his computer and began typing.

  “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  “Not necessarily, no.”

  “Is any of it going to hurt?” I asked, feeling my anxiety levels elevate higher and higher as he spoke to me.

  Dr. Roberson turned his head and glanced at me above the rim of his gold-framed glasses.

  Before answering, he wheeled his stool closer, giving me all of his attention.

  “Grace, as you know, your situation is very complex.” He placed his hand on my knee. “Every single person before you who has sat on this examining table for the first time was frightened. However, when you meet the others, you will see that they are well and healthy and that we take very great care of our subjects. We are here to help you. Our duty…my duty, is to get you permanently out of the point of no longer feeling the hunger and pains and fatigue you were feeling before.”

  “But what about what I did? What I did to Sonny…and Phoebe?” I asked, fighting back the tears that were now stinging the corner of my eyes. I didn’t really want to talk about it, and I haven’t since it happened. But for some reason, sitting on this table was making me feel very vulnerable. I desperately needed to know what happened to them.

  “Oh, Grace. Sonny Westwood is going to be fine.”

  My heart skipped. Although he was telling me this, I still didn’t know if I should believe it.

  “Now, Phoebe Morgan. Her body was removed and given to her family so that they can give her a proper burial. We have also compensated her family and taken care of all finances for her funeral services.” His tone was sincere.

  I could no longer fight back the tears. Hearing the words “Phoebe” and “funeral” in the same sentence was just too hard. The question of what he said happened to her crossed my mind. How could he possibly come up with a story for her death? Her body was…what I did to her was… I couldn’t even come up with something on my own! The last sight I had of her body was hard to think about, but it looked like it was something a wild animal would do. A wild, vicious, starving animal.

  I decided I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want know. I knew what really happened, and hearing lies about it would never change that.

  Dr. Roberson reached over to his desk for a tissue and handed it to me.

  “And Eric?” I asked through my sobs. I didn’t even know his last name.

  “Eric Hanson was also removed and given to his family for a proper burial,” he answered. “I know what happened was unfortunate. And although you don’t see it now, what happened to Sonny and Phoebe and Eric led you here, to a place where we can help your sudden and uncontrollable urges so it does not happen again.”

  I couldn’t look at him. My eyes stared down at my fidgeting fingers.

  “Grace,” he said in a low tone. “You are in good hands now. You just have to trust me. Can you do that?”

  I looked him in the eyes. I scanned them, as I had done in the past in a desperate search to find some reason to trust him. I could never find it before.

  But I was here now. This was home now. And what else did I have to lose?

  After a long pause, I gave in to my deep hesitations. I nodded, and gave him the answer he was looking for.

  His lips turned up into a wide smile, showing his gloriously white teeth. “Wonderful. Now, let’s get this over with, shall we?”

  He wheeled back over to his desk, and I took a deep breath.

  The tests were performed, just as Dr. Roberson explained. The first test was an eye exam. Standing away at a distance, I was told to read the letters on a chart, covering one eye at a time. The second test was a hearing exam. I was sent into a tiny room where I wore headphones and was told to raise my hand in the air every time I could hear high and low beeps in each ear, separately and together. Next was the reflex test. While sitting on the examining table, Dr. Roberson used a metal, triangular-shaped tool to repeatedly tap my kneecaps. Every time he tapped, my leg would involuntarily rise up about an inch.

  This was followed by the blood tests. A young man wearing slacks, a dress shirt, a tie, and a lab coat came into the examining room with a small cart. He gently lifted the sleeve of my t-shirt and tied a rubber tourniquet around the upper portion of my arm.

  “Can you make a fist for me?”

  I nodded and did so.

  Before reaching for an alcohol wipe and the needle in his cart, he searched for a proper vein. Once found, he wiped it clean.

  “This might sting a little, mostly because of the alcohol swab I just used. But it will be done before you know it.”

  I looked away. I didn’t remember ever getting blood work done, but my hunch was that if I actually saw the needle go in, it would hurt more.

  I felt a pinch.

  “Okay, you can relax your hand.”

  I could hear the suction of every tube that he attached and pulled from the needle. There were about thirteen total.

  When he was done, he pulled the needle from my arm and wrapped it with a sort of sticky, rubbery, nude-colored type of tape.

  “All done,” he smiled.

  Next, I was examined by Dr. Roberson again. He checked my blood pressure by using a cuff on my arm and my heartbeat by using some kind of clip with a red light that attached to my finger.

  I looked over at the monitor for this one, remembering when he and my mother were explaining to me that my heart rate was lower than it should be due to my condition. I did some research on this while we were traveling and apparently a normal heart rate for a girl my age was sixty to hundred beats per minute.

  The number next to the little heart symbol read twenty-seven.

  He then instructed me to breathe in and out while he listened to my chest with his stethoscope. After taking in a few deep breaths, I was told to lie back on the table, where he preceded to tap on my belly and reach up to my throat to gently press down.

  “Okay, Grace. You can sit back up.”

  “Is that it?” I asked, hoping that it would be.

  Without looking up from his computer, he answered, “Not quite.” He stood up from the stool and walked over to me. “Everything seems to be right on track, but there is one last thing we have to do.”

  The number on the heart monitor changed to twenty-eight, then twenty-nine.

  Dr. Roberson glanced over at it. “No, no, Grace. No need for alarm. For this part of the test, you will be asleep.”

  “Asleep?”

  “Yes. You won’t feel a thing. When you wake up, you might feel a bit groggy. But that’s simply because of the medication we will give you to help you sleep.” He was speaking slowly, as if he were explaining this to a five-year-old.

  “Why do I need to be asleep? What are you going to do?” I, on the other hand, was speaking too fast.

  “Well, we need to check your sleep patterns. We are going to give you something to help you fall asleep. When you finally do, myself and a couple of my colleagues will monitor your heart rate and your brain waves. You’ll keep this clip on your finger, and we will attach some little stickers to your head. Once we are done, you’ll be awake. It’s as simple as that.”

  I stared at him a moment.

  It’s only a test, Grace. Be brave.

  I took a deep breath. “Okay.”

  “Great.” He turned around and reached into the drawer of the desk, pulling out a needle. “I’m going to give you a shot in the neck. You’ll feel a slight sting.”

  He moved my hair out of the way and quickly stuck me. I didn’t even have time to prepare myself.

  “Go ahead and lie back for me,” he said softly, gently pushing my shoulder down toward the table.

  Right as I began to move, the room seemed to have caved in. I allowed myself to fall into the cushion o
f the table, feeling as though I would never reach it.

  Once I finally did, my body relaxed and I felt almost paralyzed. I stared up at the ceiling, seeing in my peripheral vision that everything was beginning to darken. My eyelids grew heavier and heavier, and before I could think another thought, I—

  ~~~~

  My eyes fluttered open.

  I was lying on my side, covered with a fluffy down comforter. I rolled onto my back, feeling a twinge of pain on the right side of my abdomen.

  I winced and lifted my shirt to see if I could find the source, but the room was dark. Instead I rubbed the area with my hand, but felt nothing.

  I slowly maneuvered myself into a sitting position. The movements made me feel dizzy. Dr. Roberson said I would still feel a little groggy.

  I stood up slowly and tried to focus my eyes into the darkness. When they finally did, I reached over to the floor lamp in the far corner of the room. With one flick, the room illuminated and I suddenly realized that I was in my suite.

  How did I get here?

  I rubbed my face, hoping for some reason that would help me to remember. I was still in my clothes from earlier…and since I got on this island now that I thought about it. A shower seemed like a good idea.

  As I walked past the glass sliding door, the thought of some fresh air actually seemed like a better idea.

  Walking slowly to it, I unlocked the door and slid it open. A cool, salty draft of the night air instantly sent a chill through my body before I stepped out. There was a lit Tiki torch beside my patio and a row of them leading to the beach.

  I sat down on a wicker bench and laid my head back, closing my eyes.

  I was exhausted. The last three days were a rollercoaster of dark thoughts, anxiety, sorrow, and worry. The entire trip consisted of me thinking about what happened the night before I left, and of Tristen.