by Britney King
“It doesn’t make you a bad person for wanting something for yourself.”
Her brow furrows. “When did you get so wise?”
I don’t answer. She flips through photos.
“My son,” she tells me, pausing. She holds the phone toward my face.
“He looks like you.”
She laughs. “Poor kid.”
“He’s lucky.”
Her face scrunches up. She wants to believe me. They usually do.
“Wait. Is that your husband?” I use my finger to scroll back to a photo of her and a man. I know him. Well, not really. But I’ve seen that face before. Just the other night, in fact.
When she flips back to it and holds it up, she says, “No, that’s nobody.” She studies the photo carefully. I do too. The two of them are at a business dinner. A black-tie function, she mentions. “He looks nice, doesn’t he?”
I glance at her phone and shrug.
She chews at her lip. “He’s very charming…”
I shift to get a better perspective. “I can see that.”
“He’s poison, is what he is.” Her eyes meet mine. “A heartless bastard.”
I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know why I’m doing what I’m about to do. It’s never happened before, and it must never happen again. My hands shake as I tap the delete button. I don’t know what’s come over me. I should stop there, while there’s still hope. But that’s not what I do. I scroll through the file that contains the deleted videos on my phone. I erase it from the deleted folder. It might as well have never existed.
I guess there’s a first time for everything.
I text Sean the photo of her. Fully clothed. No luck, I wrote. She wasn’t open.
I copy the text and send it to Adam’s assistant.
The following morning, I wake up in the rejuvenation center.
Chapter Ten
Elliot
The sun is already sinking in the summer sky by the time I emerge from the lab. I’m late. My nemesis has insisted we meet at a restaurant of her choosing, which requires driving halfway across town. I agreed in haste, which is always the wrong way to go about a thing. But there’s something about the competition that I’ve always loved. I was in the middle of something at the lab when her text came through, and if traffic is any indication of how the rest of it will go, I should have known better. Multitasking is merely the opportunity to screw up more than one thing at a time.
In any case, my good mood lingered from a productive afternoon. I saw photos on Instalook. Thank the engineering gods for creating the ability to tag. My wife can block me, but her lover’s friends can’t. Long story short, they attended some backyard barbecue a few weeks ago. There were three photos of my lovely wife. She wasn’t smiling in any of them.
Nothing, not traffic nor Marcia Louis insisting on dinner, can screw that up.
When I arrive, she’s seated at a center table, which irks me because she knows I like to hang out on the fringes. She offers a half-wave and a big smile, unfitting, considering my tardiness.
“Sorry,” I say as the maître d’ discards me at the table.
She watches me sit.
“You haven’t ordered a drink?”
She looks over at me while simultaneously massaging her temples. “Alcohol is the last thing I need.”
“I’ll have a water as well,” I say to the server.
A menu is offered. As I study it, my mouth waters. My appetite has come back. A good day in the lab and knowing my wife is unhappy can have that effect.
“So you don’t hate it then,” Marcia says, reading me.
I glance around the place and shrug. “So far, so good.”
“I hear there’s an offer on the table.”
“Did you know that during a person’s lifetime they’ll produce enough saliva to fill two swimming pools?”
She cocks her head. We’ve known each other a long time, so nothing I say surprises her. “Is that so?”
“It is.”
“Elliot.” She says my name like she’s going to reel me back in. If only she weren’t so good at it. “I heard you’re close to closing.”
“Did you?”
“Nathan said things are progressing with the contract.”
Ah, there it is. Just needed to know where the leak was. I should have figured. “You should ask him, then.”
She purses her lips. “I’m asking you.”
“I have nothing to say.”
I glance at the menu. I glance at my watch. If I wrap this up quickly there’s still time to get back to the lab. I’ll probably spend the night there. “The brain is much more active at night than during the day,” I offer.
She says nothing.
We order. The food comes. We discuss banal industry stuff. Nothing that interests me.
As I’m settling the bill, she places her hand on my wrist. “For what it’s worth—”
“One hundred and sixty-eight dollars.”
She looks confused. “What?”
“That’s what the meal was worth.”
“Jesus. Elliot.” She shakes her head. “Can’t you be serious, even for a second?”
“That was serious. What’s more serious than a Benjamin and a half for a couple of salads and cheap pasta? They’re not messing around here.”
“Stop.”
I scoot my chair back.
“What I was trying to say is if you don’t feel like this is the right deal, you shouldn’t take it.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Just a hunch.”
“Why do you care so much?”
“As a friend, I have an idea of what that formula is worth. Provided it does what it promises.”
“But we aren’t friends, Marcia. Are we?”
She sips her water and then quickly checks her phone before looking up. “You don’t have to be so patronizing, Elliot.”
“I thought that was called honesty.”
“Oh, you want honesty? Well, how about this— some things,” she says, with a tilt of her head. “Some things shouldn’t be sold.”
Small things can have monstrous effects. Chaos theory. It’s said that a hurricane can be initiated by something as small as a distant butterfly flapping its wings several weeks earlier—the butterfly effect. As humans, we like the idea of defining cause and effect. It speaks to our larger expectation that the world should be comprehensible—that everything happens for a reason, and that we can pinpoint all those reasons, however small they may be. But nature itself defies this expectation. The truth is, it’s extremely hard to calculate anything with certainty.
Unfortunately, no one really wants to hear how radically random and unpredictable the world really is.
I know because the officer leaning over my gurney has just repeated his question for the third time. Do you know who might have done this? He peers down at me.
The last thing I remember is walking through the parking garage on my way to my car. I’d had dinner with my business manager, walked Marcia to her car, and had taken the stairs to the sixth floor.
Did I notice anything out of the ordinary?
I shake my head.
He repeats the question again. Asks if I’m sure.
I’m not. I can’t recall much one way or the other.
He rapid-fires from there. Has anyone made threats against me? Is there anything I can think of that would want to make a person do me harm?
No. Maybe. Who knows?
Did I see their face?
No.
Notice any distinguishing characteristics?
No.
Tattoos? Scars?
No. And no.
And finally, if I think of anything, will I call him?
Sure.
He leaves. Eventually a doctor comes in. He pulls up my X-ray on a screen. My eyes won’t focus. It’s freezing in here. He introduces himself. Terms like shock and skull fracture are thrown around.
He says other things too. Most of them I don’
t hear. What I do hear are intermittent voices chattering in my head. A feedback loop on repeat.
Give me your phone. Wallet. Kick him again. Do you want to die?
When I open my eyes, the doctor is pointing. My ribs are bruised but not broken. There’s a fracture to my skull behind my left ear. They want to keep me overnight for observation. They’ll give me something for pain, if I want. Do I have any questions?
I shake my head.
Do you want to die?
I don’t sleep.
There are too many nurses coming and going, checking on things. I don’t feel safe here. I don’t feel safe anywhere.
If I am going to die, it’s going to be on my terms.
When I close my eyes, I see it play out over and over. It’s like I’m hovering above and not the guy on the ground getting the shit kicked out of him. There are three of them. One kicks me repeatedly. I cover my head with my hands. Hurry. Get his wallet. Phone. Keys.
Everything is muffled. Everything plays in slow motion.
I try to recall what else was said. Details like what they were wearing. I can’t. But they have my keys, my phone, and my wallet, so it’d better come to me soon.
I make a mental note of things that need to be taken care of. Locks that need to be changed. Credit cards that need to be canceled. I need to get out of here. There will be no good deed today. I need to get back to the lab. I need to make arrangements for my phone to be wiped clean. I need to hear her voice.
They took even that from me. Whoever has done this will pay, no matter how random it might have been.
When I open my eyes, someone is standing over me. I startle before I realize it’s a nurse. Pain shoots through my torso; I feel it all the way to my fingertips. She offers a knowing look. “Just need to record your vitals.”
“What time is it?”
“Three forty-five or so.”
“I need to get out of here.”
“We’ll see about that. In the meantime, I called your next of kin.”
Perfect.
Another calming smile. “Your scan was not completely conclusive. It’s possible there’s a bleed in your brain. Basic protocol is that we’re prepared for an emergency.”
I don’t respond. I’m too busy considering what lies ahead. I’d incorrectly assumed this was the worst thing that could happen. Perhaps I was wrong.
Sleep comes in fits and spurts. The morphine helps, but the pain is there on the fringes, where it hangs out and rears its head, just when I think it’s gone for good. At some point in the night, I awaken to a man in business attire standing at my bed. Maybe this is death coming to meet me. Maybe this is the devil himself. Whoever he is, he hasn’t come alone. Behind him, a woman is seated in the chair, staring at her phone. “Hello, Elliot,” he says rocking on his heels.
He knows my name. Of course, he does. I can’t place his face, but morphine isn’t helping with my focus. I don’t like the look of him.
“I wish we’d gotten the chance to meet under better circumstances—”
“It appears we haven’t,” I say, cutting to the chase. “What can I do for you?”
“Oh, you can do a great deal for me…for us…actually,” he replies, gesturing toward the woman, who stands. “But then, we can do a great deal for you as well.”
The woman takes two quick steps to reach my bedside, where they stand shoulder to shoulder. “We’re here to offer you protection,” she says, and my eyes shift toward the man.
“Who are you? And what makes you think I need protection.”
The man laughs smugly. “Look at you.”
I shift, and pain shoots through my torso. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Consider us friends.” The woman smiles. I notice how attractive she is now that I get a better look. “We’re here to help.”
“I don’t need help.”
“Your appearance suggests otherwise.”
As I reach for the call button, the man clears his throat. “Word has it that you’re sitting on a pretty significant chunk of change‚ not to mention some lucrative patents.”
The woman leans in, edging him out. “Any idea who would want to hurt you?”
I don’t offer a response. I couldn’t shrug, not even if I wanted to. I can at least manage the call button.
“It could literally be anyone,” the man says to her before turning his attention to me. “Just last night, you insulted a man in a bar…your history with women is…let’s see…”—he pauses long enough to rub at his chin—“quite colorful…and there is no shortage of issues on the home front. Am I warm?”
“It’s not his home anymore,” the woman murmurs.
I press the call button once more. Something in his eyes flickers, and mine follow. I see that it’s been disconnected from the wall. “Like I said,” he tells me. “We’re here to help.”
The woman places her hand on my arm. “We can offer you twenty-four-hour protection.”
“Hell,” he says to her. “We can do better than that. We can probably even get his family back.”
I press a button so the bed rises to a semi-seated position. Movement hurts like hell. “It sounds like a lovely offer,” I say to them both. “But I don’t need your help. The police have everything under control.”
“Oh, but Mr. Parker, that’s where you’re wrong. You have no idea just how much help you’re going to need when all is said and done.”
The woman squeezes my arm. “That’s if you’re even alive.”
My eyes widen. I’m not sure whether to be surprised or amused.
“And that lovely wife and that cute little girl of yours…” He grins. “You might want to consider them in all of this.”
And just like that, I’m no longer amused. I remove my forearm from the woman’s grip. “In all of what?”
He white knuckles the side of my hospital bed. “You see, Elliot. When you have things other people want, it’s not so hard for them to come in and take them, is it? Surely, you’ve learned enough about that already.”
“And you’re asking for what in return for your…help?”
He nods like we’re getting somewhere. “I’m sure we can work something out.”
“Tell you what,” I offer, motioning toward the door. “Leave your business card, and I’ll get back with you at a better time.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he says. “We know where to find you.”
Chapter Eleven
Vanessa
The human nose has the ability to distinguish and recall fifty thousand scents. This could explain how I know where I am even before I open my eyes to the bright fluorescent lights. My body knows by the sights, the smells, the feel of this place. It’s aware—keenly aware—of what happens here. It’s not the kind of thing you ever really wash out of your system.
I pull the sheets over my head and try to go back to sleep, even though I realize the impossibility of such a thing. Sleep may be elusive, but that doesn’t mean I’m in a hurry to get up.
My stomach cramps and seizes, and my head aches. Not just because of the fear or my predicament. It’s been days since I’ve had a substantial meal. But there won’t be breakfast. Not even the smoothie the place is known for. Not for me. Not today.
Breakfast or not, I know they’ll come eventually. They always do.
The beds in the rejuvenation center have sensors. If you’re lucky enough to have a bed, that is. They know when you’re awake. They know your sleep cycles. They know everything.
So it isn’t long before they’re at my door, in my room, gesturing me from the illusion of safety that the bed provides.
“Up and out,” the aide calls. “You know the drill.” I don’t recognize her. Often the aides are men. For the muscle, I presume.
I do as she asks. Sometimes they’re nicer when you comply. Unspoken brownie points.
“Do you know the time?” I ask. I want to know if Matthew is up. I want something to occupy my mind so my body gets through the re
st of it.
She doesn’t answer me—she simply grabs the underside of my forearm and leads me to the door.
I only fully begin to realize the severity of what I’ve done when the aide stops at the familiar door. It isn’t labeled, but I don’t need a sign to know what lies behind it. Shock therapy.
The aide turns to me, and with her eyes, she practically wills me not to cause any trouble. It’s more of a plea than a warning, and I don’t mean to, but I drag my feet through the doorway. It’s pure instinct. She says, “As long as it is day, we must do the works of him who sent me.”
I recognize it as John 9:4. It tells me nothing. It tells me everything.
She leads me through the door. I want to be brave and prideful—I do. But my body is fighting me on that one. It wants to resist. She’s three times my size, and I’m weak anyhow. I could run, but there’s nowhere to go. The center is well prepared for the scenario. So far as I know, no one has ever escaped. Not alive. I’ve heard about the accidental deaths. Here they call them “suicides,” and maybe it’s not a stretch. Most of the time you just want it to end.
I bite my tongue to keep from begging. I can’t show weakness. In the church’s eyes, weakness and guilt go hand in hand. I know this. It’s what keeps me alive.
Understanding what got me here is the same thing that will get me out. They want to know why I failed the mission. They want to teach me a lesson.
Survival is a tricky thing. You have to remember.
It helps to know what to expect, even if you’d prefer not to see it coming. This is what I know: I’ll have pissed myself before this is over. I’ll end up a drooling and incoherent shell of myself. And if I have not passed out by the end, then I’ll know it will most definitely get worse before it gets better.
If it does get better.
Later, when I am carted off to the pool, it’s Matthew I’m thinking of.
I think of the Hot Wheels truck he will never get if I die. So when I’m forced down onto my knees, I don’t fight. I think of the questions he might ask even as a fist knots itself in my hair. I wonder if he’ll remember me, as I am dunked face-first over the side of the pool. Maybe it would be better if he didn’t. Until I think about what they’ll tell him about where I’ve gone. He’ll never really know the truth. I need him to know the truth. Which is why I fight back. There is no choice when you’re drowning. Your body knows what to do, even if your brain knows it’s useless. The body does not give up as easily as the mind.
