During a hasty lunch of bread and olives, she pushed all the angry and uncomfortable thoughts away. Instead, she thought about the freedom she had gained for herself. She considered how she would spend her first of fourteen evenings of invisibility. Part of her time, at least, she simply had to spend drifting insubstantially in the sea. Just thinking about doing this made her cares seem to slip away.
Martina had always loved the sea. Several of the compounds where the children had grown up were located on islands. Dr. Helmann must have controlled dozens of private islands. Most had been tropical, but there had been one cold winter at what Martina believed had been the Hebrides or the Faroe Islands (canned foods had been labeled with EU nutritional information) and another cold winter spent somewhere between Kamchatka and the Aleutians (labels had been written alternately in Japanese, Russian, and, occasionally, English.)
The children had been taught the map of the world as it existed, but they had also been made to memorize the world as Helmann planned it. While he had chosen new names for the continents, countries, and so on, Helmann had not given new names to the oceans and seas, contenting himself with re-christening only a handful of bays and lakes.
So Martina found herself living in a world where oceans and seas provided consistency—they were called what she expected them to be called. She didn’t have to remind herself, as she did with France, that it was not to be called “Valle de Girard” when she referred to it in conversation. But the truth was that she would have loved the sea no matter how many different names she’d been forced to memorize.
There was something about the push and pull of the tide, of the individual waves, that drew her. It was as if the sea was speaking to her in a tongue she had known and forgotten. And so, tonight, she knew how she would spend her first hours of freedom.
Her lunch break finished, Martina returned to work. Although she worked late (as usual), the hours passed swiftly. Released at twenty-three hundred hours, Martina made her way along the Avenue Jean Médecin, turning right at the Boulevard Victor Hugo (because she liked The Hunchback of Notre Dame) and then turning left at the Rue de Congrès so as to avoid the Musée Masséna. (The wrought iron fencing provided her with a too-similar reminder of her own enclosed and gated childhood.)
She came to the broad Promenade des Anglais, empty of vehicles, mopeds, and bicyclists alike. A clock, glowing red inside a shop selling tobacco and sweets, told her it was nearly midnight. All was quiet.
Down, down, down the stone steps leading from the street level to the beach. The noise of the sea increased with each step toward the pebble-and-rock strewn shore. She paused for a moment to listen to the sucking sound as the retreating wave claimed all the rounded stones it could grasp. Before the next crashing upheaval of water and rock, she had turned invisible.
The metallic tang of sea nearly vanished with her flesh, but so, too, did the faint scent of urine, human and canine, at the base of the stairs. She could no longer feel the chill of the late May night in the air. But she had other things to feel. She allowed her feet to pass just below the topmost layer of sea-smoothed stones that composed the beach. The rocky surface was difficult to navigate when she had limbs, but to drag her invisible “feet” through the layered stones was magical. Like walking through a million grains of polished rice. As good as one of her foster mother’s foot massages. The sensation tickled through her and she felt lighter of heart than she had since, well, since last night. Why were all of her best memories from times she hadn’t been inside her body?
She didn’t really want to answer that question.
Instead, she made her way into the sea. This was even better than passing ankle-deep through rocks and pebbles. The lack of cold always caught her off guard; she lived still in the expectation that the sea would chill her somehow. It didn’t. It couldn’t. There was no “her” to chill at the moment. She laughed (internally, anyway) remembering a trick her brother Georg had played upon her and her siblings.
Come on, come on! Georg had called. You’ve got to see this. You won’t believe what I can do!
The siblings had marched expectantly to the shore of whatever sea surrounded them at the time. The Caribbean? Yes, probably. The water had been azure, the sand golden, the air redolent with humidity. The four—no, five; Katrin had still been alive—stood in a row above the line where the sea lapped against the shore.
Closer! Closer! Georg had insisted.
The five inched closer to the water, not wanting to dampen their shoes. Dr. Helmann was to arrive in the next hour. There would be a military-style review of the family groups.
Watch me, Georg called. He turned invisible—it was one of the rare days the children’s medication was allowed to wear free. Probably so that they would form additional positive associations with their shared Father, Dr. Girard Helmann, Future Savior of Mankind.
The children had watched for Georg, and then there had been a thunderous clap, almost like the report of gunfire. The five on the beach discovered they were covered in salt water.
Georg stood in the shallows, laughing and pointing.
You’ll get us all in trouble, Günter had said, angry.
Martina had stared in horror at her soaked shoes, the wet state of her best dress.
Georg had crossed his arms. Glared at them all.
You’re no fun, he said. And then he disappeared and did it again—rematerializing in the water with a thunderous clap as the water was displaced by his solid form. They were wetter than ever.
And then Hansel had laughed. His laugh had always been the most infectious of all of them. I want to try it, he said.
Me, too, Katrin said, giggling as she shook water from her dress.
Martina wanted to try it as well, but she held back, still hoping her dress might be returned to its pristine state if she walked away now. She caught Günter’s eyes. Let’s go, she mouthed. He turned and the two of them left the beach.
Martina!
It was Hansel.
Martina, come back! It’s fun! You’ll like it!
Yes, but she hadn’t liked the punishment that came after.
That was a very long time ago, she reminded herself, gazing at the palm-lined Promenade des Anglais above the beach at Nice.
Martina!
She could still hear Hansel’s voice, all these years later.
Martina!
It was so real. So crisp. Memory was a terrible thing, at times.
Quiet, you! she called to her remembrances. Martina meant to enjoy her evening’s freedom, not wallow in the sorrows of the past.
Martina! Martina! Please!
Shuddering, she forced herself to listen instead to the dragging, clawing sound of the rocks being drawn out with a retreating wave. The cries grew fainter. She plunged “under” the water, feeling the thousand fingers, like she imagined it would feel if you could be caressed by a bed of sea anemone.
Ah! The sea was marvelous. She spun and dove and surfaced until the sound of her brother’s voice faded. She was one with the surging waves. She was the sea itself. Ah! The ebb and flow of it. She let herself be pulled by the tide, back and forth, in and out. So primal. So relaxing.
This was what she wanted: this freedom. This was what she spent her days thinking of, her nights dreaming of.
But not only this.
Martina wanted freedom, but she missed the close-knit union of her family, the absolute knowledge that her brothers would do anything for her, as she would do for them. When had that changed? And why? She didn’t know, but Mon Dieu, it was terrible to live without it, without the sense of camaraderie, the certainty that alongside her brothers and sisters, she would accomplish great things and make the world a better place.
In the back of her mind, she still heard Hansel’s voice. Calling, calling.
She needed to let go. She needed to find her own way. She needed to stop thinking and just enjoy the beautiful night.
She looked up at the heavens, forcing herself to pick out favo
rite constellations. Dr. Helmann had re-named the constellations as well, of course. She actually liked some of his names better than the “real” names. Hammerhand for Orion; The Good Mother for Ursa Major; Firedrake for the Scorpion. Well, that world was not to be. Martina sighed, rolled over, dove under the water, and made for shore, solidifying as she cleared the waves. Her brother’s imagined cries cut off abruptly, replaced by a lone gull, shrieking into the night.
9
HOMESICKNESS
Nice, France
Martina was running late. She’d grabbed four and a half hours of sleep following a night spent redistributing wealth. A single mother of two was about to discover a new bike to replace the one lost to thieves last week. The thieves themselves had suffered a few losses as well, which allowed Martina to deposit loaves of bread and jars of olives in half a dozen households, along with bars of soap and tubes of toothpaste.
It was fun playing la fée marraine, but even fairy-godmothers needed a bit of rest.
She was going to need to turn invisible to get to work on time as it was. Grabbing a sweater for later (it had been cold last night), she calmed her mind with a bit of Mendelssohn and disappeared. Along the city rues and boulevards, Martina whooshed past—and through—the morning commuters, gliding fast as a speed skater to her destination. If speed skaters had rocket launchers on the bottoms of their ice skates. Martina smiled to herself as she rushed invisibly into the clinic, stopping inside the linen closet, usually empty this time of day.
Unfortunately it wasn’t empty at the moment.
Merde! She cursed loudly. Or rather, as loudly as one could curse inside one’s own head.
Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up, she thought, watching the nurse choose between two identical dressing gowns. At last, one was judged superior and the nurse moved to exit the closet, closing the door softly behind her.
Finally.
Martina looked around her to make sure she wouldn’t displace anything when she solidified. Coming solid in the sea, as Georg had done all those years ago, was one thing, but coming solid in a pile of linens was—
Martina!
Martina looked around. She was alone.
She solidified, but not before hearing one final anguished cry. Martina! It’s me! Hansel!
“Enough of that,” she muttered to herself as she pushed out of the closet and began her day’s work. Clearly, she was remembering Hansel because she was lonely. Clearly, she should make an effort to spend more time with Friedrich and Günter.
But they were always busy, busy with new friends or maybe even girlfriends. Of course she was hearing voices; everyone she knew had left her, in one way or another. Friedrich and Günter were just the latest in a long series of losses. Not even her worst. That distinction belonged to Matteo.
Matteo. Two years later and it still hurt like your hand glancing off a red-hot heating element. First, nothing, and then roaring, mind-numbing pain. She couldn’t think of Matteo. Not now. Not later. Not ever.
The day at the clinic dragged on. Martina kept her ears open, listening for patients in need of a fairy godmother. She would be able to accomplish so much in the next couple of weeks while no one could see her. It was better to think about that than about what she didn’t have anymore.
Perhaps she would move away, if Pfeffer agreed. There was nothing, really, to keep her in Nice. Nothing but memories of a past that wasn’t coming back. A past she wouldn’t want back anyway.
The day wound to a close. It was an early night. Eight o’clock and still dusk outside. Martina wandered the path she’d taken last night, ending at the top of the stairs leading from the Promenade des Anglais to the beach. This time she didn’t descend. Down below, someone was collapsing the orchard of blue and white striped umbrellas set out for moneyed tourists stubborn enough to call the rock-strewn shore a beach. Two small dogs barked at the retreating waves and then ran from the incoming ones. Mothers called to their children to come out of the water: Come out, come out; it’s time for dinner.
Though her childhood had been strange compared to most, she’d had a mother who called her in each night to eat. Helmann didn’t allow birth mothers to raise their own children—too much temptation to exhibit favoritism. Her own birth mother had raised someone else’s children, she supposed. Or had been let go entirely. There was no way of knowing, but a little quick math told you Dr. Helmann didn’t keep all the birth mothers around after they had borne his children.
Martina felt a fresh wave of homesickness. She’d known many homes, of course, scattered across the globe. But home was supposed to be the place where your family surrounded you, the place where your heart lived. She didn’t have that anymore. Although, who knew, maybe Friedrich and Günter would come home tonight. Maybe things would get better, eventually.
She turned her back on the sea. Its swelling and retreating waves held no comfort for her this evening.
A few rounds of playing fée marraine and then off to bed.
~ ~ ~
The next morning when her eyes worked their way open, she couldn’t remember having fallen asleep. The clock on the table beside her bed flashed angry red numerals at her. Her alarm. It had gone off and she’d missed it. She was going to be late. Her supervisor had scolded her yesterday for it. She didn’t need Pfeffer to hear bad reports about her performance right now.
After a hasty change of clothing, she turned invisible and raced as though wild dogs were chasing her. (Something all Helmann’s children had actual experience with, thanks to his obsession with survival training.) She entered the building with half a minute to spare.
And immediately began to hear voices again.
Martina! Please! It’s me, Hansel.
Her invisible hand flew to her invisible mouth. It was Hansel.
As in, it was really Hansel.
After all these months. Was he alone? Was Georg with him?
Hansel? Her mind reached out for that of her brother, once so close to her.
Martina! Yes! It’s me, Hansel. We need your help.
Martina glanced at the clinic clock. She was going to be marked late. Again.
Hansel, I can’t talk right now. Come to the clinic. I mean, you’re here already, but I need you to come the regular way. Pretend to be a patient. I’ll work it out so I can see you. Say you have splinters—that’s something they always send my way.
Martina couldn’t wait for her brother’s response. She had to clock in now.
She came solid in the ladies cloakroom. Passing outside, she said good morning to her supervisor.
And waited for Hansel to come to the clinic.
When the entire day passed with no sign of her brother, she began to worry. When she finished work and slipped outside the confines of her body, she found out why Hansel hadn’t come to the clinic.
He couldn’t. He was trapped, invisibly.
10
BROTHERS
Nice, France
What do you mean you can’t turn visible? demanded Martina. Her brother had followed her home, becoming loudly audible as soon as she had slipped out of her body.
I mean just what I said. I can’t. Neither can Georg.
Hansel was being ridiculous.
No one in Nice will recognize you, replied Martina. Well, Friedrich and Günter might. Except, Martina hadn’t laid eyes on either of them for over a week. Brothers. They were royal pains in the—
Hansel’s voice interrupted her internal tirade. I don’t care about being recognized. When I say I can’t come solid, I mean it would kill me if I did.
Martina would have rolled her eyes, if she had any. It would kill you to become solid so we can have a face-to-face conversation?
Hansel clarified. Martina, we failed. Georg and I failed to find or manufacture any more of the medicine that keeps us healthy. We don’t … Hansel hesitated. Martina sensed he was considering withholding information.
And then Hansel seemed to decide to share what he had hesitated over. We don’t need the e
nzyme treatments as often as Pfeffer administers them. Georg and I think it’s just another of the lies designed to keep us in their control. For awhile, we were hopeful the whole thing was one big lie—that we didn’t actually need the so-called therapies to stay healthy. But we do need them. Georg got sick. Really sick. We researched the symptoms. Hansel hesitated again. Why was he so reluctant to share information? Didn’t he trust her?
No, thought Martina. He doesn’t trust me. Not like he used to. She masked the thoughts with a counting exercise, something she’d done in the old days to keep her brothers out of her thoughts.
Hansel continued. The symptoms are consistent with a lysosomal storage disease, we think. There’s one called Paucher disease that results from a deficiency of AGA—that’s Alpha glycosidase—and we think AGA might be what we need. Georg got sick before I did. I wanted to take him to the hospital and let them sort everything out, but there would have been questions about our identity since we don’t have any—
Identification, said Martina, finishing his thought. It was the problem all of them shared. All of them but Friedrich and Günter. Martina cursed Helmann for the thousandth time, for yet another injury that had outlived him. Of course, this was an injury Pfeffer could have easily righted. Martina’s anger flared against him, as well.
Right, said Hansel. So I told Georg to go invisible. You remember how we don’t get sick—
Martina completed the thought: When we’re invisible. Yes, I remember the lessons as well as you. How’s Georg doing?
Hansel hesitated. Well … he’s fine. I mean, fine as long as he stays invisible. Just like me. I lasted another three days after the day he got really sick. And then I got the same initial symptoms. Martina, it’s evil, what’s been done to us. I’m telling you, it’s evil.
Martina nodded. Then, realizing no one could see that, she said, Yes. I know. How do you go about getting fake identification papers? Any idea?
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