by J. Andersen
I can’t quite piece together everything that’s just happened. Should I go in and see if Micah’s okay? What if he regains consciousness and tells them what I’ve done? I can’t go in there. Besides, the men promised me he’d be okay. Anything I do now will just interfere. Even the doctor said he’d take care of Micah.
That’s good. They’ll fix him up right as rain.
TWENTY TWO
UNDER THE SURFACE
BY THE TIME I get home, it’s late. Way past curfew, which can only mean one thing: my mother will be up waiting for me with a reprimand on her lips. When she sees my blood-covered shirt, she’s going to freak.
Creeping in the back door as quietly as I can, I make it to the bathroom and am taking off my shirt before I hear her.
“What happened to you? Why are you home so late? Do you realize I’ll have to report you?” The look on her face is a mixture of fear and anger, and I know there’s no lying my way out of this one. There never is. Dealing with my mother is a game of telling just enough truth not to lie, and just enough lie to still tell the truth. Her eyelids peel back revealing something close to terror when she sees my blood-stained clothing covering the bathroom floor. “Kate! Are you all right?” She rushes toward me, lightly pressing her fingers around my skin to check for cuts.
I pull away, not wanting her so close to me, afraid she can smell my deception. I wasn’t supposed to go to the Outer Lands. “Yeah, Mom, I’m fine. Micah fell and hit his head. We had to take him to the hospital for stitches.” See, it’s not a lie.
“We?”
Crap! “I ... I mean I took him. He was bleeding pretty badly, and I got it all over me.”
She calms down an inkling. “Is he okay?”
“I think so. They’re keeping him overnight in the hospital wing at The Institute. I’m going to head over there tomorrow or the next day to see how he is.” Nice save, Kate. No need to mention he was attempting to abduct you in the process.
“Get cleaned up and head to bed. Be sure to let your father know you’re home. He’s been worried sick. I’ll notify the database about your condition.”
“Sure, Mom.” I’m glad I kept my story straight. The whole ‘partial truth’ stuff is getting easier every day. Let’s just hope she continues to believe it.
The first thing I do when I have a second of privacy is cut the zip tie still dangling from my wrist and bury it deep in the garbage. After changing into my pajamas, I pick up the clothing covering the bathroom floor and carry it to the laundry room, but one look at the items, and I decide there’s no saving any of them, so instead, I shove them in the trash with the zip tie. Taking the garbage out will make my mother happy. Note to self: Find a new favorite pair of jeans soon.
Then I remember the paper. Digging through garbage isn’t my idea of a fun time, but there has to be something about that paper. The jeans rest on the top of the pile, and I find the paper still tucked into the back pocket where I left it.
Back in my bedroom, I can get some privacy. I flop down on my bed and pull my feet cross-legged to examine the paper. It’s folded like the butterfly Micah gave me in the lab that day and like the fish I found on the shelf at the library. This one’s a little harder to distinguish. Its folds aren’t as crisp, indicating a quick fold.
Looking closer, I turn it over a few times and see that it’s a turtle. Okay. There has to be something more. Why would the guy from the truck give me a folded turtle? Maybe there’s something written inside.
Unfolding it is painstaking because I don’t want to rip the paper. Not if there’s a message of some sort inside. Finally, after several minutes, I spread the paper flat.
It’s blank.
Blank? Really?
The utter exhaustion from an emotional day and frustration from this supposed message threatens to overwhelm me, so I flop back on my bed, ready to give in.
It isn’t long before I hear a soft knock on my door.
“Kate? Can I come in?”
“Mmm hmm. It’s open.”
He crosses my room, sits on the edge of my bed and places his hand on my calf. “Your mother told me what happened. You okay?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
Then he gets that look in his eye. “What really happened?”
We’ve had this conversation many times before, and I still can’t figure out how my dad knows these things. It’s like he’s got a sixth sense about situations. “Micah said some stuff, and I freaked. Threw a rock at his head.” My father’s lips pull back into a subtle ‘atta girl’ smile, but he controls it while I continue. “Then right before he collapsed he told me something else. Something about the NBRs.”
“Which was …?”
I shake my head and stare at the ceiling. “I don’t know, Dad. I don’t feel right saying anything until I figure it out for myself first.” He pats my leg as if to tell me he understands. “Let’s just say there are more Natural Born in our community than Great Gran and her friends.”
The soft smile pulls back into a huge grin, revealing the pride that’s bursting from within him. “Honey, I could have told you that a long time ago.”
Those words pique my interest, and I sit up, ready to inquire more, but Dad gently pushes me back down. “You take a few days to figure things out in your head. Then we’ll talk … after you’ve gotten some rest. Let me leave you with this before I go: there’s always more to a person than what they portray on the outside, no matter how hard they control themselves.”
“Dad, what do you know about turtles?”
His face scrunches up in question, and he shrugs. “Turtles? Um, they’re reptiles with hard shells?”
“Dad, I’m serious. Is there something significant about them?”
“Significant how?”
“I don’t know. Like, do they represent something?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Like in stories, how some animals are symbols of death and stuff.”
“What’s this about, Kate?” Dad sits on the end of my bed and pats my foot.
“I’m not sure. I just need to find out if there’s any sort of message or symbol attached to the turtle.”
“I’ve never read anything about it, but Gran used to have this tiny glass turtle that sat on her shelf. She always said it reminded her of herself because some turtles are supposed to live over a hundred years. She said she was going to live that long despite being a Natural Born and prove The Institute wrong. Then she’d tap the glass shell with her fingernail and say, ‘I’ll do whatever I can to protect you just like this shell protects the animal inside.’”
Dad stares off into the corner, glassy-eyed. “Hmm. I haven’t thought of that in a long while.”
He leans down to kiss my forehead through his prickly beard. “Does that help?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Well, it’s all I got for now.” He pats my foot again and stands to leave. “Love you, Katie-Did.”
I search his face for a clue to what he’s talking about, but he’s too well-practiced at hiding his thoughts. “Love you, too, Dad.”
I lay there for a few minutes, fingering the pendant around my neck and digesting Dad’s words. Protection and long life.
Maybe it was a message after all.
TWENTY THREE
GENERATIONAL ADVICE
SITTING IN MICAH’S HOSPITAL room a few days after he was admitted seems wrong somehow, considering I am the one who put him here. But after all these weeks of knowing him, I feel it’s the least I can do. I brought flowers with me and leave them sitting on the bedside table in case he wakes up when I’m not here. It’s a pitiful way to apologize, but it’s all I have so far. I feel horrible leaving him here alone when no one else knows he’s even hurt. It’s then I realize I don’t know what Micah does with his spare time, not that he has much. His family is gone, killed in that crash. He told me that a long time ago, but what about friends? Have I ever seen him hanging out at Meg’s Café or downt
own at any of the local restaurants? Except that one time I ran into him on my date with Saul, but he was alone then.
Being the cause of his injuries, it seems like I’m mocking him as I watch the nurses bandage his head again. Thankfully, he’s sleeping, so he won’t even know I’m here.
It isn’t long after I’ve been here that a pair of young soldiers walks in.
“Can I help you?” I say, hoping to sound like I should be here instead of just assuaging my guilt.
“We were told to come speak to the girl who was with Mr. Pennington at the time of his accident.” The way the guy says ‘accident’ makes it sound like he knows it’s not an accident. “I’m assuming that would be you.”
“What would you like to know?” I stand and cross to a small table near the window, hoping our voices won’t wake Micah. The two men follow me.
“We’d like to hear what happened. From your perspective. It’s for the accident report.”
I wring my hands, trying to remember what I told the doctor and the guys on the back of the truck. Best to keep my story straight. “Not much to tell,” I say. “We were out there doing research for the lab, and Mr. Pennington fell, hitting his head on a rock.”
“You were in the Outer Lands for research?”
Gulp. “Yes.”
“Do you have the paperwork to allow you passage beyond the borders?” the stockier man asks, looking from his compact to me and back again. These sound like normal questions they might ask, but I can’t help but wonder if they’re fishing for something else.
“Mr. Pennington must have it. I’m sure he’d taken care of that sort of thing. I was assisting him.”
The taller of the two spoke up. “No Outer Lands Pass was found on Mr. Pennington when his clothes were discarded. Can you explain that?”
“No. I can’t. Perhaps they were lost in the chaos of bringing Mr. Pennington in?” I try to sound confident, but I’m sure they sense the apprehension in my voice. I hope they don’t find out the truth.
At the same time, they both look at me as if I’ve said something horrible. Which I have. No one accuses The Institute of making an error as small as losing paperwork. It doesn’t happen. And I realize I’ve made a grave mistake. “I mean, perhaps Micah left it at home or at the lab. There has to be some explanation.”
“I’m sure,” the one says. “We’ll be returning shortly to speak with Mr. Pennington once he awakes. Miss …”
“Dennard. Kate Dennard.”
“Miss Dennard.” As he says my name, he jots something in his compact with the stylus. Immediately after, they leave.
I can’t stay here anymore. I need a break, so I head to the cafeteria for another cup of coffee. By the time the elevator doors open up to the third floor again, I can hear her voice coming from the hallway. Great, just what I need. More confusion. I must be imagining things, so I peek my head around the corner. What I see loosens the grip on my coffee. The whole cup falls to the floor in a whoosh, sending the milky brown liquid splattering across the tiles. Holding only a few napkins, I sop up what I can. In that moment, I’m brought back to a time long ago. She’s standing over me with a towel in one hand, cleaning up my spilled cup of juice. I’m crying, sure that I’ll be punished, but she takes my chin in her hands and says, “No use crying over spilled milk.” “It’s juice,” I say. She smiles, and we both laugh. Then she tells me to go play outside. And just like that, everything is right as rain.
Bringing myself back to the present, I toss the soggy mess into the garbage. The floor is still slick with coffee, but I don’t care. I have to get back to Micah’s room. Now.
With each step, her voice grows louder. She’s still trying to speak in whispers, but with her hearing the way it is, her whispers aren’t exactly quiet. Thankfully, the nurses’ station is empty and the family walking down the hall doesn’t seem to be interested.
“You need to be more careful,” she says. “Ending up here isn’t exactly a good way to not draw attention to yourself. What were you thinking?” She’s not even being careful. Not worried about sounding out of it.
He lowers his voice. “It’s not like I planned it this way, Emma. I didn’t have another choice. They never got my message. I tried to explain, but Kate didn’t take the news very well. Though, I can’t say I blame her.”
My name. They’re talking about me! Suddenly a sickening feeling clenches my stomach into a tight knot. Barging in would obviously stop their conversation, but maybe if I lag near the door for a minute, I might learn something else. Like whatever the heck they’re talking about.
“Sounds like my Katie-Did. She’s pretty good at being distrustful of everyone. I think I taught her that. Apparently, a little too well.”
“So this is your fault.” Micah lets out a low chuckle. “She reminds me so much of my mom. Strong-headed. Intelligent. Beautiful … suspicious.”
“You were sucked in the moment you met her, weren’t you?”
“Do you blame me, Emma?”
“Not in the least. And don’t worry, you’ll snag her eventually. Just keep up that Pennington charm you’ve shown me.”
“Can’t read it in books; can’t buy it in stores.”
Gran laughs.
“I just wish I could convince her.”
“You will, my dear. You will.”
Micah changes the subject. “Have you found out anything new?”
“Nothing yet, but I hear the nurses talking about him so it won’t be long before they drop a name. All I know is he’s a big wig in The Institute’s research center. So, be careful, Micah. Watch your back as you’re working there.”
That’s it. I’ve heard enough. In another step, I enter the room.
“Gran, what are you doing up here? Let me get you down to your room,” I say, putting on our senile-grandmother/concerned-granddaughter act. “She must not be feeling well,” I say to Micah as I put a hand on either side of her shoulders.
She’s sitting in her wheelchair on the far side of the bed, leaning close to his head to talk. Smart move if she doesn’t want anyone to hear, but not careful enough. I look toward the video camera installed in every room and hope this one doesn’t record sound. It must not. Gran would be more careful than that. She knows what The Institute is like. To them, it would look like she was wandering the halls again, talking to the neighbors.
“Katie-Did,” she whispers, looking at the chain around my neck with a wry smile, “I like this one. Don’t you worry.” She nods toward Micah, and smiles, scrunching up her nose. It makes her eyes twinkle lightly before they disappear into her wrinkles. Suddenly, her shoulders slump and her voice changes. It’s louder and more distant. “This one, he’s handsome. Very handsome. A good boy. Handsome boy. Looks a little black around the eyes, though.” She wheels up closer to his face and yells, “How’d you get so black around yer eyes, boy?” Her frail hand gently slaps his forearm. “You get those eyes healed up so you can see better, okay boy? Maybe you can see my Katie-Did. She’s a pretty girl. Nice, too. Very pretty. She doesn’t have black eyes, but I think you’d like her.”
When she backs away, I notice a young, frazzled nurse rushing through the doorway.
“Ms. Dennard, what’re you doing up here? If they find you here, Dr. Matthews will have my head.”
Must be a nursing student. They’re the only ones who’d make mistakes like this.
Gran smiles at the girl. “Needed to stretch my legs. Go for a little walk.” Laughing, she pats her withered legs sitting snugly in her wheelchair. She turns to Micah. “I saw this boy in here. He needed some company. All alone. Very handsome, though, don’t you think?” Her face flashes the truth for a moment, but she quickly masks it with an empty grin and a far-off look. She pinches his cheek and pats his arm with her bony hand. “Poor boy. Wanted to talk. I told him to be careful. Don’t talk to strangers. Strangers are bad.” Gran wa
ggles her finger at the nurse as she repeats those last instructions. The gesture only adds to her act.
Gran is a great actress. When she gets going on one of her “dementia rants,” no one would ever know she knows what’s going on.
Micah speaks up. “I don’t know what happened, nurse. I woke up to this woman chattering beside my bed. She’s been going on about strangers and letting my eyes heal and being handsome. I figured it’d just be better to let her go. She wasn’t doing any harm.”
“She’s one of the Wombers. Must’ve wandered out and up a floor. Sorry about that.” The nurse grabs the wheelchair handles and speaks to my gran again. She obviously doesn’t know who I am. Maybe she’s new. “Let’s get you back to your room, shall we, Ms. Dennard?”
“My room. Yes. I like my room very much. It’s purple, you know. Lilac, we used to call it. Pretty flowers they are. Sweet smelling. Makes my allergies go crazy.”
Gran’s voice, still going on about flowers or some such thing, disappears down the hallway as the nurse returns her to her room. I turn to Micah, who sports a sheepish grin and an I-told-you-so look.
“So … protection and long life, huh?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The turtle. All folded up, like the fish at the library and the butterfly at the lab. I figured it out. Long life … protection. You were trying to tell me I could trust you.”
His eyebrows squish together. “I didn’t send you a turtle. How would I have done that when I was bleeding and unconscious?”
Inhaling deeply calms my instantly agitated nerves. “I don’t know. I figured you set it up beforehand or something.”
If Micah didn’t send it, who did? And does it still mean what I think it means?
“When did you get it?”
“When those men dropped you off here. One of them helped me out of the truck and slipped it into my hand.”
The blood rushes from Micah’s face, and he looks about ready to throw up.
