by J. Andersen
A middle-aged man steps out from a back room. He’s dressed in the signature white lab coat of nearly everyone who works here. A set of black wire-rimmed glasses sits on the end of his ruddy nose, and when he sees us standing there near the door, he takes them off, folds them, and places them in the pocket of his lab coat. How odd that my gran is disposed of because of old age and a few aches and pains, yet they keep this man around, whose vision is obviously not perfect.
“May I help you?” The tenor of his voice is calm and friendly, but the look in his eyes shows he’s not impressed with visitors in his morgue.
Micah unfolds a piece of paper the receptionist gave him before he dragged me away from ripping her apart. “We have permission to view the body of Ms. Emma Dennard.”
The man steps forward, takes the glasses out of his pocket, unfolds them and places them on his face to read the document. “Who granted this permission?” Dr. B. Johnson is embroidered into his coat in dark blue thread.
“This is Kate, her great-granddaughter.”
“Who granted the permission?” he repeats.
“The signature is on the bottom of the paper.”
“Dr. Rosenberg.” Dr. Johnson purses his lips then lets out a thin puff of air. “Fine. Box thirty-two.” Without another word, he retreats to the back room.
I look at Micah. “Thanks.”
“Any time.”
Box thirty-two is located near the end of the middle row. Micah’s hand rests on the handle. “You sure you want to see this?”
No. But I swallow the lump in my throat and wait for him to pull her out of that metal cage.
The sharp click of the handle against steel echoes in my ears, as does the clacking of the rollers as Micah yanks the slab out from the wall. I’m sure I’ll be haunted by the sounds for as long as I live. The shape of her body is covered with a blue sheet. At least it isn’t the papery stuff that covers everything else around here. I’m glad they have the decency to use fabric. But I have to admit, I’m beginning to hate the color blue.
My shaking fingers won’t let me uncover her. They hover above the top of the sheet, trembling. I bite my lip to stop the quivering that’s spread there from my hands.
“Here, let me.” Micah’s long fingers gently grasp the sheet above Gran’s head and carefully fold it just beneath her face. One naked shoulder sticks out from under the cloth.
Her soft, wrinkled skin has a plastic look to it. And her hair, normally combed and smoothed back behind her ears is lying wildly across the silver beneath her. Reaching out, I tuck a lock around her ear and hold my palm to her face, just like I used to when she sat next to me. Somewhere deep inside of me I expect her to move, to lean her cheek into my hand and tell me I’m the only one who touches her like that, but she’s still. Frozen.
I want to be strong, but when the tears well up on my eyelids, I can’t stop them from spilling over. “I’m so sorry, Gran.” A single tear falls onto the sheet, turning it a deep blue.
She knew this day was coming. Warned me of it, even. Told me they were trying to get rid of them early. The last of the Wombers. I should have seen the signs when the others were taken away, but I was too busy to notice.
With all the other Wombers, an announcement of death was given shortly after. I’d have recognized that for sure. Now that I think about it, I remember reading a few death notices. But I brushed them off. Gran said they were going to be releasing the Wombers once a month until they were gone. But Gran wasn’t scheduled for another few months. That meant one thing: She either died of natural causes or they killed her to keep her quiet.
My bet is on the latter.
“Kate,” Micah whispers. “You’ve got that look on your face. What’re you thinking?”
“She knew something, Micah. Something big. And we have to figure out what it was.”
I lean down and kiss her forehead. “I’ll figure it out, Gran. Promise.”
We cover her up and seal the door tight.
“You know what this means, don’t you, Micah?”
“What?”
“We have to get Brody out of The Institute as soon as possible.”
“I know.”
THIRTY THREE
SECRET MESSAGES AND GIFTS FROM BEYOND
OPENING THE DOOR TO my house is like entering the morgue all over again. Only I feel the heat of fury rising from my father’s frame instead of the cold morgue air. It’s hard to determine how my dad will react. When he’s really upset, the rage barrels out of him like a torrent of waves crashing on the ocean shore. It just takes a lot for him to get to that point. “Where the hell have you been?”
Ocean wave. He never speaks to me like this.
“At the morgue,” I reply. “Giving my respects.”
My answer catches him by surprise, but he’s still angry. “You should have told us where you were going. Your mother and I have been worried sick.”
My mother’s silence is her way of cussing me out. Not as effective as she thinks.
I decide not to antagonize him further. “Sorry, Dad. When Mom called, I freaked. I had to see for myself.” I slide into a chair next to my mother. “Had to see if it was true.”
He softens, knowing I loved her, too. “Sorry. I’m upset.”
I nod. “I know.” Right now, the last thing I want to do is have some sentimental family moment. Gran is dead and never coming back, and I’m pretty sure The Institute got rid of her because she knew something. All I want to do at this moment is have some time alone to think. “Can I take dinner in my room?”
“Sure, honey,” my mother says to my father’s disapproval. But I’ve already heard her approval and responded, my feet hitting the stairs in a matter of seconds.
“I just need some time to myself,” I say as I head to the stairs. Explaining isn’t necessary; they are going through the same loss. But I feel the need anyway.
***
In my room, I curl up on my bed and click on the lamp on the bedside table. Reaching up to the pendant on my neck, I roll it under my fingers over and over, turning it from one side to the other. My mind wanders back to the recent times I spent with Gran, and I snicker as I remember her arguing with Micah about the messages in the stars. It was just after her Starry Night picture was taken away. The day she gave me this necklace. She was so insistent that there were words in the stars and not pictures. It was almost comical.
I spring upright in bed. Words in the stars. She gave it to me right after her painting was taken away for being … what did she say? Broken.
That’s it! She was trying to tell me way back then, but I didn’t listen. With fumbling fingers, I unhook the clasp and pull it from around my neck. Flipping it over and over, I find nothing unusual. It’s a small turtle with a jade shell and four tiny feet sticking out from the corners. But there has to be something more to it. A secret compartment somewhere. It makes sense, really. A person her age would have no use for something like paper and pens. Personal notes are all but obsolete. Besides, with her mind the way The Institute believes it was, she would have no need to write a letter or make contact with any remaining relatives. Which is why she had to make do with what she had. The paper from the Starry Night print.
I finger the pendant again. Its long oval shape is raised in the middle, but I can’t see an opening. There’s no clasp or edge to indicate it’s anything more than a pendant. But I know it’s here somewhere. Maybe there’s a hidden message in the shell. Letters woven so intricately into the lines that to the naked eye, one might not notice. No. That doesn’t make any sense. She used the paper from the painting. I’m positive.
I move closer to the light and hold the metal nearer to its beams, squinting to see if anything stands out, and that’s when I see it. A darker shadow creases along the under edge of the shell right next to the turtle’s right front foot. At first I figure it’s just dirt. This thing is probably a hundred years old, a
nd it’s bound to collect a bit of grime here and there, but scratching at it with my thumbnail doesn’t loosen anything so it must be a shadow. I scratch again then press in on the edge of the shell. Nothing.
There’s a pin on the bed stand, which I grab to scratch any excess dirt around the creases. It’s a bit more successful, and I manage to remove a small glob of petrified goo. Picking away at the filth makes each section of the turtle shell stand out, but when I press each lightly, still nothing happens.
Even pressing each of the feet does nothing. How on earth does this thing open? Or maybe it doesn’t. Turtle … turtle … That’s it! Turtles pull their heads into their shells for protection. With a press of its nose, the head sinks into the shell and the oval shell cracks open at the neck.
I was right. It is a locket.
Two fingernails on either side should do the trick. In seconds, I’ve pried the locket open. Onto my lap falls a tiny paper folded to fit inside. It’s not yellowed or worn as I might have expected, being in such an old locket. No. It’s new paper. Crisp and neatly folded.
A secret message.
Unfolding the paper gently, I smooth it out over the tabletop, rubbing out the wrinkles. One edge is torn around while the other two are straight and come to a point on one side. I was right. It’s been ripped from the corner of something.
There’s no ink. Gran would have had no access to a pen of any sort, but I can see she scratched the letters with something. A fingernail, maybe. In the depressed lines, it’s a little darker like she attempted to smudge the lines with some sort of dirt to make it easier to read.
Written in my gran’s scratches are these words:
Bring the little one there.
I hear myself gasp. Gran knew. She knew about my son. How is that possible? Did she see some paperwork? Hear a conversation? I hadn’t talked to her in weeks, so I knew it wasn’t me. This was what she found out. That I had a son, and The Institute was using unapproved DNA. It had to be.
“I told her.” My dad stands in the doorway, his voice choked with emotion. “She found out about the unapproved DNA use and confided in me. Wanted to get a message back to … so I told her what I knew.”
My dad and I have shared things, suspicions, in the past, but something about this moment is different. It’s a chain reaction that can’t be stopped. We’re on the verge of something big, and I’m stuck in the middle of it.
“How did they find out? Are you okay? Has anyone questioned you?”
He clears his throat and sniffs lightly. “I’m fine. I told her I couldn’t get a message out right then, but I’d do it as soon as I could. Pretty sure she found someone else to take her message, but she chose the wrong person.”
“Do you know who?” My stomach churns at the thought of Gran desperate enough to trust someone she didn’t know.
“No. But because of it, I’m off the hook. No one knows she asked me.”
Gasping, I feel in my spirit it’s true. All the details come together. She found out and wanted to send me a message, so she ripped the only thing she could find to write on. They discovered it, which is why they took the painting. They just didn’t know where to find what she’d written. That’s why she gave me the necklace that day. She had to get rid of the evidence. But she had to let the elders of the Hidden City know, too. She trusted someone to carry a message, and they betrayed her. My son’s existence is the secret that caused Gran’s death. The guilt rushes over me, forcing the air from my lungs.
And suddenly, the realization hits me in the pit of my stomach.
It will cause my death as well.
“Dad, we can’t let them get away with this.”
“It’s too late, Katie-Did. She’s gone.”
“Then let’s do something about it. Honor her memory.”
“What do you propose? I already buried your ID beneath several layers of encryption. No one will know you’re the mother.”
“When the time comes, I need you to delete his entire existence.”
“What are you planning, Kate?”
My whole life, my dad has been my hero. Now, as I think back on all the stories he used to tell, I realize he’s been preparing me for something like this. Something big that will change my whole life.
“I’m going to take him to the Hidden City.”
Dad doesn’t even look surprised. “Can you do it?” he asks.
“I hope so.”
“Me, too.”
THIRTY FOUR
ASSIGNMENTS
TARYN PLOPS DOWN NEXT to me and scans her ID card to order lunch.
Pulling her compact out of her bag, she places it on the table. “I hear we get our late gestation disposal assignments today.”
Oh Yippie! “Where’d you hear that?” I ask, sipping my coffee in an attempt to hide the contempt I feel through silent sarcasm.
“Overheard Professor Donovan and Limbert talking. Exciting, don’t you think?”
“Yeah.” I try to act it by pasting a fake smile on my face, but how can I possibly be excited about disposing of an innocent child? Not exactly my idea of a fun time. And since I discovered the message in the locket Gran gave me, I’ve been trying to figure out just how my life’s ambition of being a creation scientist is supposed to play out now. I can’t save every child marked for disposal like I plan to save my son. Sure I can try to avoid disposal days like Micah does, but if I’m going to be doing this the rest of my life, the chances are someone will notice my odd avoidance techniques. Why couldn’t they have separated the job into creation scientists and disposal technicians? That way, the sick and twisted who like to destroy things could have their enjoyment.
“So, who’d you get?” I ask, not thinking.
“Who?”
“When, I mean when.”
“Three weeks from Thursday. And, your Micah’s going to be there, too.”
“Cool.”
“It’s going to be so incredible to be doing these procedures. I mean, it’s kind of gross when you think about it, but it means we’re moving up, you know. One step closer to Creation Engineer. Once we learn these procedures, they’ll move on to the actual creation part of the Creation Unit. I bet they weed out the weaklings by doing all the gross stuff like disposals first. Whoever can withstand that is sure to do well with the rest of it.” She laughs.
I must look like I’m not paying attention because she gives me a funny look. “You gonna check yours?”
Act normal. Don’t be scared or freaked out, Kate, I tell myself, opening my compact on the table in front of us. I scan through the memo I’ve received in my inbox, noting names and dates. “I have the day after you. With Professor Donovan.”
“Who’s the lab assistant? Is it Micah?”
“No, Tom Stonemill.” I crinkle my nose. “Who’s that?”
“New guy. Just received his promotion a few weeks ago. Don’t you remember? Limbert introduced us in class.”
“Oh, that guy.” I fake a response because I have no idea what she’s talking about. Taryn smiles lightly.
“So, how old is the fetus in yours?” I slide my compact next to hers and compare data. “Let’s see.”
Then as I’m making comparisons, Taryn asks a question that catches me off guard. “Ever wonder who they belong to?”
“Whaddya mean?”
“Well, they have to use someone’s DNA to create the suckers. And those poor saps don’t even know they have a kid up for disposal. They’re only informed when there’s a viable kid.” She finishes off her sandwich and wipes the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “The couples must know it’s a possibility when they apply, but imagine what it would be like if they had to be informed every time there was a mistake.”
“Heh. Yeah. That’d be crazy.” It’s times like this when I wonder if Taryn isn’t a sympathizer. How many times have I heard her talk about the way we all look alike and how boring that is or about how they treat my gran is unfair. Even some of her reactions during the different disposals
have made me wonder. I want to tell her what I know. Tell her about Micah’s fake tattoo and his secret lab and our plan to steal the unviable and my son, but I hold back. If she knew, even if she is a sympathizer, it’d make things more difficult for her. I’d hate myself if I put her in a dangerous position.
We’re silent for a moment as we scan each other’s assignment. Date, time, blah, blah. Procedural assistants: Taryn Black, Micah Pennington, Dr. Dane Donovan. There are some other names I don’t recognize. Probably lab rats hoping to observe.
“You’re with Micah,” I say.
“Yeah, I already mentioned that. Too bad I don’t have the hots for him like you do.”
Laughing, I keep reading. Age of fetus: thirty-six weeks. Wow, that’s late. Maybe they were hoping for a viable. No, The Institute wouldn’t have assigned the disposal to a student already if they weren’t sure. Reason to dispose: Low birth weight. Poor lung development. Blood markers. Identification number: 1298732.
I gasp and then cough.
“What?” Taryn asks.
“Nothing.” I cough as I look at her inquisitive eyes. “I just swallowed wrong.”
“You okay?”
“Mmm hmm,” I lie. But nothing is going to be okay.
In a little over three weeks, my best friend is going to kill my son.
THIRTY FIVE
LISTENING
“T, CAN YOU LET Professor Limbert know I won’t be in class today? I’m suddenly not feeling well.” I’m packing my compact back into my bag as I stand up. Taryn gives me a funny look.
“O-kay,” she draws out the word like she’s never heard it before. “You were fine just a minute ago. What’s wrong now?”
Nothing like pointing out the obvious. I brush off the crumbs stuck to my hands. “Insta-headache. And I think whatever I ate this morning must have been bad. My stomach is doing flips. I’d like to use the bathroom and lie down.”
