He looks down before he goes on, and then he speaks slowly and deliberately.
“You all know 1st John 3:17. ‘But if anyone has the world‘s goods and sees his brother in need, yet closes his heart against him, how does God‘s love abide in him?’ And you know Galatians 6:2: ‘Bear one another‘s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.’ And perhaps most relevant in this case, Romans 15:1: ‘We who are strong have an obligation to bear with the failings of the weak.’”
Ouch, Dad.
“This is worldly trouble that has no place here. Let’s keep that trouble where it belongs, at a distance. If anyone comes here in search of Phebe and Mila, I ask you to follow Paul’s exhortation to ‘obey God rather than men’ and send them away unsatisfied.”
There is quiet from the group for a long moment.
My father’s voice drops. “And, as many of you have heard, my son James is unwell. We don’t know what ails him or how to cure it. And so we ask for your prayers at this time.”
Heads bow in unison. A few moments into the silence, I find myself praying, too, for the first time in years.
Dear God, if You exist and if You can be bothered to care about these things, would You please, please, please save my brother and make him a normal pain in the butt again? Please? I will never, ever complain about him again if You could… please… bring him back to us. And please help us get out of this mess we’re in.
My eyes are brimming with tears when my father says, “Amen.” The word echoes through the group, and I mutter it, too.
My father pauses for a moment. “I have one more thing to ask of you. Because of Mila and Phebe, the authorities may come here looking for Jamie. Are there any among you who would open your house to our son to keep him hidden and safe?”
Most of the people have blank faces, but I see an older lady, Sister Friesen, nudging her husband in the ribs repeatedly until finally he says, albeit grudgingly, “We’ll take him in.”
“God bless you for that,” Dad says.
Then a middle-aged man stands. I remember him—Brother Tillitzki, a decent, hardworking man. “With respect, Brother Bernhart, and I’m reluctant to even mention this, but I feel I ought to… I got the word through the postman this afternoon, and they’re saying your girl and this other person, Mila—that they killed a woman last night on their way out of Atlanta.”
Murmurs rise up, and I exchange shocked glances with Mila.
Someone asks, “Who did they say they killed?”
“I don’t remember the name exactly. Some foreign-sounding name. It was a woman doctor.”
A woman doctor with a foreign-sounding name…
I’m on my feet, blurting out, “Dr. Abadi?”
Brother Tillitzki shifts uncomfortably and nods. “Yes, that was it.”
“Oh God!” I cry out.
Mila stands and supports me as my knees almost give way. “What happened to her?” Mila asks the man. Her voice is steady, but her face is pale.
Brother Tillitzki seems to have trouble getting it out. “Shot to death in her own home.”
Various people call out to God or utter prayers. I struggle to hold back tears. She had two young children, I remember—a boy and a girl.
“Are her children okay?” I ask through my choked-back sobs.
“Well, I don’t know that,” Brother Tillitzki says uncomfortably. “But the postman didn’t say anything about that, so I’m going to guess they’re all right.”
“We didn’t do it,” Mila says steadily. “They’re blaming us because they’re trying to get us out of the picture. It’s all part of the same scheme.”
“Look at them,” my father pronounces soberly. “You can see from my daughter’s reaction that she had nothing to do with this. Look at these two girls and use your common sense. These are not the sort of girls who shoot people.”
I realize it’s to my advantage at this particular moment that I can’t stop my tears, and that makes me feel even weirder about it. I’m usually the strong one.
The women look at their husbands, who nod slowly.
After a long moment, one of the elderly men, whose name escapes me at the moment, stands slowly, his frame both rigid and fragile. He speaks slowly, in a gruff voice. “First Corinthians 1:10: ‘I appeal to you, brothers, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree, and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the same mind and the same judgment.’” He looks around. There’s not a sound in the room.
Brother Tillitzki sits down, looking relieved to be done with it.
Finding no disagreement, the elderly man sits, too.
My father picks up his hymnal. “We’ll start with #152.”
He takes his seat, and the room fills with the sound of hymnals opening. I glance up in time to see my mom escort Mrs. Bremer to a seat. She’s beaming with pleasure to see all these people.
Moments later, voices break out into song.
Thirteen
Mila to Slava Knyazev:
You killed Dr. Abadi.
Slava:
Yes. I‘m sorry about that. Pinning HAD on you three and then killing you was the original plan. That was before I took over the project yesterday, on Friday. And I can still save you two, but I wasn‘t able to save her.
Mila:
Then why did you try to kill Phoebe Wednesday? You hadn’t started pinning HAD on us yet.
Slava:
Tried to kill Phoebe Wednesday? You mean her seizure? That was an accident. Actually, we‘re not entirely sure what happened. It was probably a side effect of the aversion programming we added with the second wave of HAD. We wanted to discourage people from doing too much work on Navis while we tried to solve the problem. We‘re still not sure how Phoebe withstood the migraines up to that point or how the seizure occurred.
I apologize for that seizure, by the way. We may not have intended it or foreseen it, but it shouldn‘t have happened.
By the way, they’re saying that your attempts to hack into my Navi tonight have been skillful. I agree that it would be very useful for you to be able to get in. I consider myself fortunate that Peake has invested in extra security for its executives. But listen, this is going to go so much easier for all of us if we just work together. We can bring about an end to this whole thing, and fast.
So do we have a deal?
Mila taps her fingertips on the keyboard, thinking. Then she closes the email conversation.
That night, as soon as everyone goes home, we move Jamie over to the basement of Sister Friesen’s house. The big farmhouses out here are spaced out to give room for the gardens and farmland, but there are usually one or two neighbors a short jog away, and Sister Friesen is the nearest neighbor to the west. My father and Brother Friesen take Jamie over unceremoniously in a wheelbarrow, which irks me, but we don’t have a stretcher, and he doesn’t have any spinal injuries, so I can’t complain.
I explain to Sister Friesen that I’ll come over every two hours during the day to check on him and do the caretaking, but she convinces me to alternate shifts with her so that we each do it every four hours during the day. She says she’ll check on him once during the night as well. People around here are savvy and self-sufficient, so I just tell her what needs to be done and what to watch out for.
After I do the caretaking for Jamie, I go back home. Mila has already gone to her room, so I miss telling her good night. I can see from under her door that the light is on, but I don’t want to bother her while she’s working. I go in my room and throw myself across the bed and stare at the ceiling.
My schedule has been thrown off by the short sleep last night and then this afternoon’s accidental nap. And it’s too quiet here. I have no Navi, there are no books to read, and there are no chores I’m allowed to do. I’m desperate for distraction. But I eventually find myself at my old desk with a pen and paper in hand, doodling while I think. It feels satisfyingly rebellious, wasting paper and ink on something that is of no use and no glory to
God.
I think, of course, about Dr. Abadi.
It seems like they’ve taken the gloves off, whoever “they” are. And that’s part of what’s bothering me, I realize as I shiver with anxiety. I don’t know who “they” are.
I remember some of the crackpot theories that people put out there in the past couple of weeks—the government, big corporations, foreign governments, terrorists, domestic terrorists. The list of possible crazies is pretty long. Whoever it is, it seems clear now that they want to put an end to what Mila and I are doing. And they’ll kill us for it.
They’ll kill us.
I’ve been a little distracted by the threat of prison lately—silly me—but of course that’s not the worst thing I have to worry about here. That seizure I had wasn’t an accident. Mila told me that.
Oh my God… those migraines I was having… Did they really have anything to do with caffeine or rebound headaches, or were the people behind this thing already trying to stop me?
I put my head down on the paper, too demoralized to even doodle. Of course. If I hadn’t been so distracted by the work we were doing with Jamie, I would’ve put it together. They only started as soon as I started trying to help Jamie. And although I’ve always been prone to headaches and even mild migraines, I’ve never had migraines that severe or that frequently before.
They were already in my head. Trying to stop me.
I wonder why they even bothered to shoot Dr. Abadi. They could have fried her brain like they tried to do to me.
But no, they might have had a harder time pinning it on us that way. I wonder if they managed to get my fingerprints onto the gun somehow.
I feel deadened and numb by the realization that Dr. Abadi faced that particular, terrifying death because of us.
I realize I’m shivering—it’s colder up here in Ohio—and I get into bed and try to go to sleep. But I keep thinking about Dr. Abadi and Jamie and Navis and green jumpsuits and Mr. Pataky and the escape from the hospital and Greenpeace magnetic decals and red wigs and Brother Tillitzky and everything else, and it’s no good.
Sometime after one in the morning, I get up to go to bathroom, and as I tiptoe back down the hallway—the floors creak too much in this old wood house—I can see from underneath the door that Mila’s light is still on.
I can’t help myself. I tap and say, “It’s Phoebe.”
I hear soft rustling sounds and the snap of Mila’s laptop closing. “Come in,” she answers.
I enter and close the door behind me. “I can’t sleep,” I whisper. “And we have to be quiet. Sound carries in this house.”
“I can’t sleep, either,” she says, matching my volume. “Come sit.” She moves her laptop to make room for me on the bed.
“I can’t stop thinking about Dr. Abadi,” I say as I climb under the blanket to try to stop the shaking that’s partly from the cold and partly from anxiety. “She was murdered, right? I mean, obviously she was murdered, but I mean… it’s the people behind all this, right? The same people?”
“I think so,” Mila says distantly.
“They’re going to come after us, too, aren’t they? I knew the police would come, but these other people, they’ll come, too.”
“I don’t think they’ll find us soon,” she says, not looking at me. “I think the trail I laid was convincing enough for the moment. And no one here has a Navi that can be hacked into or tracked. I’ve been spoofing my own connection to other servers all over the world, so they won’t be able to pick up on the fact that suddenly someone here is on the ‘net.”
“You’re brilliant,” I tell her for the second time.
She only shakes her head slightly. “Do you trust the people here not to give us away?”
I have to think about that one for a few minutes. “Not a hundred percent, no. People here are… It’s a different world. Plain people are so thoroughly out of touch with the real world that their own petty issues are all that matter to them. This community split from another one twenty years ago over whether, according to the Bible, men have to shave their beards or not. Seriously, these people decided that they couldn’t worship under the same roof with men who didn’t shave.”
Mila nods slowly.
“So, if someone has a bone to pick with my father, they might tell just to be vindictive. Or because they think it’s the wrong decision and they can’t live with it. Hell, we may have the bishop here tomorrow telling my parents that they have to kick us out or be excommunicated themselves.”
Seeing Mila looking increasingly worried, I touch her hand. “But… I don’t think they will. Honestly. I’m venting because I get so frustrated with these people. But…” I let out a slow breath and lower my voice again, as it has been creeping up in volume. “Probably they won’t. I mean, that’s the whole reason I came here, right? They’re good about uniting against the outside world. And you heard my dad. He made a good argument.”
With a sigh, Mila sets her laptop aside. She lies down, pulling the blankets up, and I do, too, a foot or two separating our bodies.
“God, I can’t even believe that this is happening,” I say. “I’m not… this isn’t me. Jesus. I’m not a criminal. I’m not even some… civil disobedience–type person. I’ve never broken the law on purpose before. And it’s freaking me out to be between the good guys and the bad guys, in this muddy middle ground.”
“You’re with the good guys,” Mila says. In answer to my questioning look, she explains, “Now that Jamie’s safe, you keep talking about clearing our names. But you know this isn’t about that. You’re trying to stop this thing. You’re trying to save the lives of all of the people who have been affected.”
I nod. “Of course that’s true. I can’t think straight right now, that’s all.”
Looking down, she says, “You care about people in a way I wish I could. I know I’m supposed to, but…”
I stare at her, wishing I knew what to say. “You do, too, care,” I say.
She stares at me helplessly, and a twinge of doubt hits me. “Okay,” I say, “so maybe you’re a bit out of practice.”
I grin reassuringly.
She studies my face for a moment, and her expression shifts. “Honestly, though,” she says. “I feel like something in me is broken. Or maybe just… deeply asleep. But maybe… I think maybe something about you is waking it up.”
I stare at her, touched and totally at a loss for words this time.
When she speaks again, her voice is unexpectedly soft. “I’d feel better if you stayed here tonight. I’m not used to sleeping alone.”
I must have a funny expression on my face, because she suddenly breaks out into muted laughter. “Cat-Phoebe,” she splutters as quietly as she can. “Usually, cat-Phoebe sleeps with me.”
My face heats up.
“You’re blushing,” she says.
“Am not!” I insist, absurdly, since my face is practically aflame. I hide my face with the blanket for a second, but that’s even more absurd, so I pull it back down. I can’t believe I was thinking about Mila and sex and got caught doing so, and now I can’t seem to stop.
“Anyway,” I say, “that’s fine. I can be cat-Phoebe tonight, I suppose.”
She nods. “Okay. Then we should try to go to sleep. It’s late.”
She rolls away, blows out the kerosene lamp, and then rolls back onto her back and pulls up the covers. She chuckles again once or twice before settling down.
I roll onto my back as well and study the ceiling, letting my eyes adjust.
I can sense that she’s still wide awake, and I know I am. But I try to settle my breathing and relax. I’m so exhausted, I should think that I would be able to fall asleep now. But there’s something about the nearness of Mila that makes me want to stay awake to savor it.
I feel and hear Mila shift. She’s rolled over to face me, and without thinking, I turn to face her.
Her eyes are still open, too, and we study each other. It’s so much darker here than in the city, but
enough moonlight comes in through the curtains above the bed to allow us to see each other in shades of gray.
I admire her eyes, her lips. Her gaze skips around my face, too, and I wonder what she’s thinking. I don’t want to speak, to break the spell of this suddenly intimate moment. I grin again, remembering the misunderstanding about sleeping alone. I am thinking about this woman and sex. I am. I can’t seem to help it.
I find myself shifting closer, nearer. And then she lifts up the blanket as if it were an invitation, and I slide over, right next to her, the blanket over us both, and then our bodies are intertwined, her leg over mine, my arm over hers. I feel a sense of rightness I cannot remember ever feeling before. In an instant, I forget everything else.
She looks at me, and I at her. I’m wondering if she feels this same pleasure. There’s something in her eyes I’ve never seen before, but I don’t quite recognize it. She glances at my lips, and I glance at hers, and then I bring my lips to hers, or perhaps she meets me halfway, and then my whole world is her warm kiss.
Her lips are so soft and smooth, more so than any man’s I’ve ever touched, and smaller, yet more full. So perfectly kissable. Her breath has the scent of sweet mint from her toothpaste.
A few small kisses, each one longer than the others, and then we’re both pulling away and looking at each other again.
She releases a slight sigh—the tiniest moan—and it sounds like desire.
My breath catches, and suddenly I’m hungry for more—more kisses, more Mila. I pull her to me. She returns my kisses with a like hunger, and we press our bodies together. I feel her breasts against mine, her hips against mine, the tantalizing hollow between her legs where normally by now I would feel the swell of a certain part of a man’s anatomy against me. But this is unlike any moment I’ve shared with a man. There is desire, but there is no hurry, and I kiss her lips again, nibble them this time.
Absence of Mind Page 24
