Chase

by Kate Breuer

  Another nurse joins us. “Call me Nurse Nicole,” she announces—far too perky for my taste.

  Together the nurses narrate everything they are doing to make me feel at ease. They play little games with Willow to keep her entertained throughout the process. They check her weight, her height, her temperature, then go through a few more tests to check her reflexes and cognitive ability.

  After what feels like an hour of prodding and probing, Nurse Nicole holds a small pen-like device to the back of Willow’s neck, right at the small indenture where the spine and the skull connect. They have stopped their play-by-play.

  “What is this test for?” I ask, working hard to keep my tone casual.

  Nurse Colette looks up at me and smiles. This time, the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just a little test to check on something. Don’t worry about it.”

  I clench my fists and stand rooted to the spot. It takes all my effort not to interrupt them or argue with her. I don’t like them doing anything to Willow I don’t understand. But they think I have no reason to mistrust them, so I can’t follow my instincts. I must remain quiet.

  Nurse Nicole puts the pen into an opening in the wall. The device pulses a few different colors, then turns off. Colette taps a glass pane on the wall and pulls up a few graphics. I am too far away to make out any details, and when I take a step closer, the other nurse casually takes a step to block the screen from view.

  The nurses exchange a glance.

  Something is wrong. What are they not telling me? I feel my nails dig into my palms until they nearly break through the skin. I force myself to relax my hands.

  “Mrs. Hunter?” Colette asks. “Would you please return to the waiting area? We’ll be taking Willow upstairs for a few more tests.” She sees the look of worry on my face and adds, “Don’t worry. We’ll have her right back to you.”

  Nicole smiles at me, but her eyes remain untouched.

  I can’t leave Willow. But, even more, I cannot make a scene that might endanger her. I swallow hard.

  “Mrs. Hunter?” Nurse Colette repeats.

  How long have I been staring at the woman? I take a deep breath, glance at Willow to make sure she’s not scared, then nod.

  Before I can think about anything else to say or do, Nicole ushers me out of the room. The door hums shut behind me, and I feel as if Willow is suddenly a million miles away, impossible to reach.

  I don’t want to go back to the waiting room, so I slide down the wall with my back against it. I pull in my knees and hug them tightly. I’m not sure I’m allowed to stay here, but it makes me feel a little closer to Willow.

  The nurses don’t follow me out. Either they took the back door, or they never left the room. When no one comes to get me, I fall into a kind of stupor of worry and half-waking dreams filled with horrible scenarios of what could be happening to Willow.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here when the door next to me whirs open. No one comes out, but I can hear voices inside now. I strain my ears to catch every word.

  “Her genes are perfect. I don’t think this one is going home for long.” Nicole’s perky voice carries into the hallway.

  I gasp and put a hand over my mouth to stifle the sound. I hold my breath and expect someone to find me, but no one comes.

  “Oh, Mr. Goodman is going to be so pleased when he returns from his trip next week.” Colette is just as excited. “We’ll have to wait for the blood results, but I’m sure the experiment was successful.”

  The experiment. The words echo through my mind.

  “The poor mother—” Nurse Nicole begins, but I don’t wait for her to finish her sentence.

  I jolt upright and tiptoe toward the waiting hall. I stop in front of the sliding door, regain my composure, and step through as casually as I can manage. I don’t want to attract any attention. I find a seat and resist a breakdown. I tilt my head back against the wall and fight the tears.

  What the hell is going on? What experiment? Are they talking about my little girl? My thoughts are rattling around my brain like leaves caught in a thunderstorm, and there is nothing I can do to collect them.

  I look around the room in an attempt to find something to calm myself. Another nurse walks past, the man with the bleeding arm following her. Blood is dripping from his wound. Has he been outside all this time?

  A small robot slides out of a wall and whirs toward the blood on the floor. It drives over the stain a few times, then vanishes back into the hole in the wall. A panel slides shut behind it, and there is no reminder that blood was spilled here—not even a wet spot on the floor.

  After what feels like an eternity, Nicole and Colette appear through the sliding door, Willow between them. She holds up a lollipop, and I am relieved to see her happy and in one piece. I want to hug her and hold her, but I will have to wait until we are out of here.

  The nurses smile at me, and I try to convince myself they were talking about someone else’s daughter. The thought makes me hate myself a little. No one deserves that. Then I catch a closer look at the nurses’ smiles, and I know they are pretending. It hits me like a blow to the stomach.

  They were definitely talking about Willow. It takes all my strength to return the smile.

  “Mrs. Hunter, your daughter is ready to go. We were unable to finish part of her bloodwork, so you will have to come back next Friday when Mr. Goodman, the head of our laboratory team, is back. We’ve already scheduled you an appointment,” Colette informs me.

  Nicole hands me a small card printed with Willow’s appointment information and her prescription. I force another smile and nod as I put the card in my pocket.

  I finally take Willow’s hand. There is no way I am bringing her back here next week. Mr. Goodman—whoever he is—isn’t going anywhere near my daughter.

  6

  Nate

  When I wake up, Liz is gone. I suspect she snuck out as soon as I was asleep to be with her mother. I feel the first signs of a hangover. My body feels heavy. I get up and my head throbs.

  I shuffle into the kitchen and open the fridge door. The sandwich Liz gave me last night sits neatly wrapped on the top shelf. I grab a bottle of water from the door and close the fridge. I am thankful Liz has provided me with breakfast, but my stomach churns at the thought of eating it. Later, maybe.

  I sit down on the couch and hold my head. I relive my father’s announcement from last night. My body tenses. I want nothing more than to walk over to my father’s house and punch him square in the face. Using me to bolster his fucking career. Assaulting Liz’s mother. He would deserve it.

  Does he really care this little for me?

  It’s time to get over my everlasting need to prove myself to my father. He doesn’t give a shit. Never will. My father keeps showing he doesn’t care. Yet I crave his approval. It’s fucked up.

  Unexpectedly, the doorbell rings. The wall next to the door lights up. Zeke smiles sheepishly into the camera above. His face is distorted by the extreme wide angle of the lens. Why doesn’t he just come in? He’s not usually one to ring the doorbell—or even knock.

  I don’t feel like getting up. I grunt at the screen to open the door, and it buzzes open despite my less than clear instructions.

  Zeke pushes the door open and greets me with a bright grin. “Come on, mate. We’re going to the gym.”

  It’s not a question. I know Liz has sent him. I am sure she knew I would be angry when I woke up.

  “Get up, lazy ass,” Zeke goes on and prods me. “You need to punch something.”

  He knows me well. “The only thing I want to punch is my father’s face.”

  “Not an option, I’m afraid.” Zeke grabs my arm and pulls me up.

  I realize I have no choice and let him push me through the door. I’ve known Zeke long enough to know when it is pointless to argue.

  The bright light outside hurts my eyes, and I put up a hand to shield them. I don’t realize how far we’ve walked until Zeke opens the door to
the gym. We pass the climbing area and walk through a door at the back. The boxing gym is empty.

  With way more enthusiasm than is called for, Zeke throws over my boxing gloves from my locker. I pull them on begrudgingly and walk over to the bags.

  Each hit releases my anger. The first hits make my head throb and my stomach churn. I relish the pain. I let my rage fuel my punches. After a while, my head clears and the nausea fades.

  I pause to catch my breath. When it stabilizes, I attack the bag to release the last bit of steam. Zeke laughs as he works his own heavy bag. I probably look like a child throwing a tantrum.

  When I am completely exhausted, I collapse next to him on the mat. The stench of sweat follows me. I pant heavily.

  “How did the rest of the night go?” I ask, turning my head sideways to look at him. “Were you back soon enough, or was Isabel pissed?”

  Zeke grunts. “Oh, don’t get me started on that woman. I needed to punch something at least as much as you did.”

  “What happened?”

  “When I got back—and you know I wasn’t gone more than maybe ten minutes—she was standing outside with her girlfriends. They were gossiping, as usual.

  “Out of nowhere, she starts yelling at me, asking me where I’ve been. I told her I walked you home, and that pissed her off even more. Yelled at me, saying I care more about you than her or the baby.” He shakes his head and continues, “She stormed off into the ballroom, girlfriends at her heels. Each and every one of them looked daggers at me before they walked inside. Damn women.”

  I can feel Zeke’s anger building up. Something tells me he’ll be back at the punching bag soon.

  “Dead silence this morning at breakfast. She’s crazy, that one. You know I care about Sophie. But it’s tough. You know it is. I didn’t want a baby. Fuck, I didn’t even want to fuck Isabel.” He falls silent. I know he is waiting for a response, but there is nothing I can say.

  When I don’t speak, he continues, “Not that there’s a woman out there I would want to fuck. But—what can I tell you?—the woman is hot when she’s angry, and in this fucked-up world, what else am I supposed to do?”

  I shush him. It is dangerous to talk like that. “Careful what you say in here,” I warn in a whisper and point at the cameras. “I wouldn’t put it past them to have audio as well. You don’t want them hearing you say those things.”

  Zeke looks as if he couldn’t care less but shuts up nonetheless.

  “Want to go to my place and talk it through?” I ask, and Zeke shrugs.

  Before we can pack up, Derec walks in. Just seeing the guy makes me angry. The urge to punch someone comes back immediately.

  Before I know it, I yell, “Ey, Derec! You look like your stupid little wife didn’t let you fuck her last night!” I know it’s a low blow, and I am half ashamed of saying it. It does feel good to start a fight, though.

  Zeke groans next to me.

  Derec barrels toward me, looking ready to attack, but Zeke stops him with one arm.

  “If you guys want to kill each other, you’ll do it the proper way. In the ring. Best of three wins.”

  Derec struggles against his grip a few more times. When he can’t get to me, he nods and shrugs Zeke off. I pick up my gloves from where I left them on the floor.

  “No gloves,” Derec demands.

  I throw them down and nod. I’m too angry to hesitate. Zeke looks uncomfortable.

  Derec and I climb onto the platform. His face is red with anger as we square off.

  “Ten.” Zeke’s booming voice fills the room.

  I readjust the wrappings on my hands.

  “Nine. Eight.”

  I look up at Derec and find him staring at me.

  “Seven.”

  Derec jumps up and down a few times, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

  “Six. Five. Four.”

  I have to work hard to resist the temptation to lash out at Derec early. I take a deep breath. If I get impatient, I’ll get sloppy.

  “Three. Two.”

  My muscles tense. I am ready.

  “One. Go.”

  Derec and I circle each other. Hands raised in front of our faces. Death stares.

  Derec steps forward, and I get ready to defend myself. He jumps back a moment later. I watch the man balance his weight from left to right. Teasing me to throw the first punch.

  His face is a mask. I know Derec hates me as much as I hate him. But he’s damn good at hiding it.

  “So? Was I right? Stupid wife not in the mood last night?” I taunt.

  A flicker of annoyance shows on Derec’s dark face.

  “Is that boy even yours, or is she getting it somewhere else?”

  I did it. Derec can’t hide his anger any longer. “Don’t you dare,” he growls.

  “Don’t blame her. Who would want to fuck your ugly face?”

  Each insult makes Derec’s eyebrows furrow more, until they touch in the middle. One long yellow line on the man’s dark face. “Shut your face, asshole,” Derec hisses through clenched teeth.

  I laugh. It’s not funny. I do it to make Derec angry. He loses concentration when he’s angry.

  I have never won a fight against him before, but that doesn’t mean I will stop trying. Whenever we got paired during PCR training, he beat me easily. Too easily. Today I might have a chance.

  Derec launches at me. He throws punch after punch. I duck and land a heavy hit to his stomach.

  Derec wrestles me to the ground. I land on my back with a thud. He throws a punch at me, but I manage to push him off.

  We struggle and roll around until we reach the edge of the platform. I give a final shove to get Derec off me, and he lands outside the ring with a grunt.

  He aims a kick at my face from below. I am a little too slow at pulling back and feel his shoe scratch along my jaw.

  I jump off the podium and land on top of him. Derec has been waiting for it. He rolls to the side and flings himself on top of me. He pins me down. I struggle against his weight. I reach for Derec’s throat.

  He hits me square in the stomach. The air leaves my lungs, and I desperately pant to replace it. Derec aims for my face. I pull my arms up in time.

  He grabs my arms and pins them onto my chest with one hand. My wrists strain painfully. Derec pulls back his elbow.

  Before his fist hits my face, Zeke grabs Derec’s arm and throws him off me.

  “Enough. You win. Get out of here.” The authority in Zeke’s voice would have been enough to make anyone cower. It doesn’t matter that Derec is our superior at work. Zeke could knock him out with one punch.

  Before Derec can react, Zeke grabs me by the arm and pulls me out of the room. He probably saved me from a broken jaw. I don’t care. I want to go back and hurt Derec more. It’s almost as good as hurting my father.

  But with Zeke’s grip tight on my upper arm, I have no choice but to follow him outside. The sunshine warms my back and pushes away some of the anger.

  “Can I let go?” Zeke asks when we arrive at my house. I nod, and he lets go.

  I have blood on my knuckles. And I need a shower. Instead I walk through to the backyard. I sit down in one of the chairs outside. Zeke joins me with two beers.

  “It’s ten in the morning, dude,” I say but accept the drink nonetheless. I open the cap on the table and gulp down the liquid. Zeke sits down and takes an equally large gulp.

  With a pronounced sigh, I put the bottle down. I undo the wrappings around my hand. I discard the bloodied fabric onto the ground.

  We drink our beers and watch the people out for their morning walks in the park behind my house. I think it’s weird to have a park with no trees, but whoever designed the park sure knew how to do rosebushes. They sit in neat lines in a perfect circle around the Government Complex. Filling the space before the inner wall.

  The Inner Circle behind it is filled with the hospital, office buildings, and family homes. Zeke and Isabel have a beautiful home there—though Zeke is rar
ely there to enjoy it.

  There are three more walls making up the city: one wall to separate the Inner from Middle Circle, one to separate the Outer Circle, and the final wall surrounds the entire city.

  I’ve never gone beyond the Inner Circle. My father makes sure my PCR assignments keep me in the Government Complex as much as possible. The occasional job gets me into the Inner Circle but never outside its wall.

  “Ever wonder what it’s like in the Middle and Outer Circles?” I ask.

  Zeke shrugs. “Dunno, probably more of the same.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Can’t be. You can see the tall buildings from some of the places in the Inner Circle and the rooftop garden. They live in apartments, not houses.” I take another sip of my beer. “I wonder what else is different.”

  I’ll never find out with my father keeping me on a short leash.

  “I’d tell you if I knew.” Zeke shrugs.

  “My father knows you would. Otherwise, you’d be out working the fun jobs. Instead, we barely ever get any assignments. It’s bullshit.”

  Zeke laughs dryly. “I mean, I’m not sorry we barely have to work for our livelihood but . . .” His voice trails off.

  We sit and drink silently until our bottles are empty. I get up to grab us some water. I feel like another beer, but it is morning. Liz wouldn’t approve. I hand a glass to Zeke and sit back down.

  “What did you want to say earlier? About Isabel, I mean.”

  Zeke doesn’t look happy at the change of subject. He takes a long time to answer.

  “I don’t know. I don’t get the woman. No idea what she expects. I mean, we were matched—no fairytale there. But did she really think we would fall in love and live happily ever after just because they threw us into a house together?

  “She doesn’t know I’m gay, and I’m not stupid enough to tell her. But still . . . we never liked each other before. Why would that change when we live together?”