The Haven

by Carol Lynch Williams

  And in holding Gideon’s warm hand. In standing near him.

  Gideon grabbed the first doorknob we came to. I walked so close, I was almost on his heels. I could have tripped over him. He pushed the door open.

  The space was dark. Pitch-black.

  “Hold on,” Gideon said, slipping into the room and pulling me behind him. “Don’t let the door shut or we may get locked in here.”

  That wouldn’t do. “Okay,” I said. I stayed by the entrance.

  The flashlight snapped on. Stainless-steel refrigerators ran along one wall. Cabinets and countertops were on the opposite side of the room. Was this a kitchen? Where was the stove?

  Gideon did something with the doorknob, and allowed the door to close all the way.

  “Wait!” I said, the word coming out in a panic.

  “It’s okay. I made sure we could get out. Find a light switch. And let’s be quick about this.”

  I ran a slow hand over the wall next to the entrance and found two switches. “Got it,” I said.

  “Turn it on.”

  “I … I don’t want to.”

  “Shiloh.” Gideon sounded frustrated. “We have to hurry.”

  “I know. But I’m scared.”

  Gideon put his arm around my shoulder and squeezed me closer. “Me, too,” he said, whispering. The words went into my hair. I heard him swallow. Saw him squeeze his eyes closed. “But we need this information for the outside world. And we need to get back to Abigail and Daniel.”

  “Right.” Still I hesitated. Then I flipped on the light. I peeked out at the room. Only the countertops were illuminated.

  The refrigerators gleamed in the semidarkness. Not one fingerprint. The fronts seemed to have been buffed. I followed Gideon, raised my hand, and opened the first appliance. A strong, almost sour smell rushed out with the cold air, turning my stomach.

  I saw trays. Large and small trays. Covered with plastic wrap.

  “Parts.” Gideon’s voice came from far away, somewhere near the ceiling.

  I recognized the hands first.

  Two in each small tray.

  Colorless.

  Were those noses? Skin? What was that? Three jars of eyes?

  “Leftover pieces,” he said. “To be disposed of. Maybe. Or used in some kind of research.”

  In slow motion, I turned. Gideon stood right there beside me.

  How could he float? And then the words leftover pieces. I heard the opening and closing of doors.

  “These all hold parts. Tissue. Joints and limbs. Organs. Maybe the Recipients to these parts are dead.” Gideon sounded shaky.

  “Why do you say that?” My mouth was doing that moving-on-its-own thing. How had the words come from me? I could taste the smell from the fridge.

  Gideon peered over my shoulder, then pulled me back so he could shut the door. The room fell into semidarkness again. His grip was too tight.

  “I don’t know. But I would think you’d have to keep transplant tissue alive in some way. Not cold like this.”

  I swallowed. His eyes were as blue as the painful sky had been today.

  “Who is it? Who are they?” A swarm of bees tumbled in my chest. “Could this be Elizabeth? Or Isaac?”

  “You can’t ask that,” Gideon said. “Let’s go.”

  “Could it?” My heart battered at my ribs. I pulled the refrigerator door open. Was she in here? My roommate? I heaved and clasped my hand over my mouth.

  “You can’t think that, Shiloh. We have to leave. Now.”

  Nothing looked familiar in these parts. Nothing looked like Elizabeth. I pushed the door shut. Stepped to the next refrigerator, opened it.

  “No,” I said. “No.”

  There were several jugs labeled COMPOST. Gallon jugs. The kind I fed plants from.

  Were these? Were these bits and pieces? Ground-up parts?

  Gideon pushed the refrigerator shut. “We’re going.”

  We flipped off the lights, opened the door leading to the hall, then went to the next room. Again, it was dark. Again Gideon ran the flashlight around the room.

  Body parts.

  Elizabeth.

  Don’t think of her.

  Isaac.

  Ground into fertilizer.

  In the next room, the walls were almost bare, but this time, in the middle, was a bed with rails on one side. There was equipment everywhere—a large light was centered over the bed, with a neck that allowed the bulb to move closer to or farther away from whatever might be lying there.

  Pain hit me like a bat, like when I tried to clean the Tonic from my body. I dropped to one knee. “Ow ow ow.”

  “What Shiloh?”

  “The headache. It’s back.”

  He cupped my face, but the pain was so bad, I could hardly feel his touch.

  “Shiloh,” he said.

  I couldn’t move.

  “Look at me.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Pay attention to what I tell you.”

  I tried to concentrate on Gideon. I felt the warmth of his palms on my cheeks. “It’s a memory,” he said. “It’s happened to me a couple times when I wind up in places I shouldn’t be. Knocked me on my back. Do you hear me? It’s only a memory.”

  A memory.

  Yes.

  I scrunched my forehead. “I’ve been here,” I said. “I’ve been on that table.”

  I’ve changed my mind.

  She looks too much like my daughter.

  For Victoria.

  Gideon wrapped his arm around me, pulled me to my feet. He held me so close, I felt his body all down the side of my body. My head pounded.

  I was exhausted from what I had seen. From what I remembered.

  “There’s a basement exit,” Gideon said as we rushed to get back to everyone else. “I noticed it the other day.”

  I could almost not see. I stumbled as he flicked out the light.

  We prowled around, my eyes blurred more than normal in the dark, until we found an EXIT sign and stairs leading down a floor. The farther we moved from the room, from the memory, the less intense the headache became, until all the pain was gone.

  “More rooms to explore here,” I said.

  Gideon slowed. “Are you up to it?”

  “I don’t want to ever come back here,” I said. “Let’s do it now. Get it over with.” Where was Elizabeth? Had my heart failed me?

  They were recovery rooms. That’s what a posted sign said. One door stood open. Thin light fell out into the hall.

  “We’ll check there,” Gideon said.

  He caught my hand again. My skin felt almost hot from his touch. Too many thoughts ran through my head. Dr. King and Elizabeth. Mr. Tremmel and Ms. Iverson. Abigail pressing her lips to Daniel’s. And I would dream forever of those body parts.

  “Hurry,” I said. The hairs on my arms stood up. Panic swirled through me.

  In the dimness of the hall, I saw Gideon nod. We crept to the door. Peeked in.

  I saw someone, an older male, lying on the bed, tubes and wires, monitors and machines hooked up to him.

  Gideon took a step forward, dropping my hand. He motioned me back. My pulse quickened. Three steps into the room. Pause. Turn. Back away. Silence roared in my ears.

  I could see the form on the bed clearly now. I staggered. An older Gideon.

  My Gideon stepped back next to me. He moved so fast, I thought for sure my arm would be separated from my shoulder.

  Down the hall. Down another set of stairs. Farther away. Farther.

  “Wait,” I said. My lips tingled. “Slow down. Please.”

  Ahead of us, the way out.

  “Wait,” I said, “that was you.”

  Gideon shook his head. “No,” he said. “It was Adam.” Tears streamed down his face.

  “That was you.” I was panting. “An older you.”

  But Gideon never stopped.

  HAVEN

  HOSPITAL&HALLS

  Where You Matter

  Established 20
20

  Note to all Staff

  We are getting closer to the problem. Thanks to those who have stepped forward and helped in this investigation. You will be compensated.

  Please be aware of unusual movement at night.

  All reports need to be made to school officials.

  Do not try to stop any uprising on your own, as this could be dangerous.

  I carry my prepared suitcase.

  We walk out the back door.

  Across the lawn. I could turn around and run back to Abigail. Run to safety. To our room.

  Keys out. Jangling. My mouth full of fear.

  Two people ahead.

  They don’t speak.

  I see the table. There’s a woman and an older man and Dr. King. He’s dressed like a surgeon.

  “Don’t struggle.” He puts the mask over my face.

  But I fight. I slap at his hands, scratch at a Nurse. Kick the tray of surgical instruments.

  “Count back from a hundred, Shiloh,” he says, and holds my head still. His grip is tight. Someone straps my feet and hands down.

  And there is a voice.

  That voice.

  I try to look at her.

  The one on the table. It’s me on the table.

  “I’ve changed my mind. She looks too much like my daughter.”

  “You paid for it.”

  “I know, but…”

  A man’s voice now. “For Victoria, Ann. We’re doing it for Victoria.”

  “Yes, I know. But it may not work.”

  “Breathe, Shiloh.”

  “We have to keep Victoria alive.”

  “Just this once.”

  “Promise me, never again.”

  “I promise.”

  “Count back from a hundred.”

  “It isn’t human,” Dr. King says. “It’s made by me, not created by you.”

  I don’t breathe until I have to.

  20

  Eyes in jars watched me. A rush of cold poured through my bones. When my feet hit the carpeted floor, I awoke.

  “What is it, Shiloh?” Abigail asked.

  Outside, the sky turned the color of early morning.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Sorry.” I climbed back into bed.

  “Dreaming?”

  “I don’t think so.” I shook my head.

  “You screamed.”

  “It was real, I think. A memory. Not a dream.” I still felt the mask on my face, the straps that had held me down.

  Abigail went silent. She cleared her throat. When she spoke, her voice wavered a bit. “The Tonic keeps the truth of our operations away. I remember bits of mine, too. Like—” Again she cleared her throat. “—like how Dr. King said my arm wasn’t mine. That the arm could be used for the Recipient who’d been crushed in an accident. How he told someone that the surgery wouldn’t leave even a bit of a scar. Not one at all.”

  Neither of us spoke. And then, “I’m scared,” I whispered. “I’m scared, Abigail. Last night was too real.”

  “Me, too,” she said. I saw her swallow, like the pause might give her a bit of strength. “That’s why we fight. So we can get out of here. Be free. And we don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

  * * *

  Without the Tonic, school became exciting. I loved classes (though I was sometimes tired), loved learning. I fell into gathering facts. Not even bad dreams—or awful memories—or body parts—could take away the joy of stuffing information into my brain.

  English was my favorite time. I wanted to memorize every quote, and with the Tonic gone it felt like my brain worked smoother, remembered more. Ms. Iverson had the walls decorated with posters telling us to READ! There were pictures of famous authors—some who are Terminals like us. Just looking at all those writers made my heart quiet down, made me almost forget Dr. King, the refrigerators in the back building, the older Gideon. I felt wide-eyed as I waited for Ms. Iverson to speak about literature each day.

  “John Steinbeck,” Ms. Iverson said, “was a Terminal himself.” His photo in the book didn’t show he looked different. But Terminals could lose any body part, not just something above the shoulders.

  Ms. Iverson pressed the paperback to her chest like this book meant something to her. Could that be? Could we care for more than each other? Even for books? “He writes of Terminals in Of Mice and Men. So far, we’ve met several. Who are they?”

  “Candy,” Matthew said. “He’s missing the hand.” Matthew held up both his arms that ended in pinkish stubs right above the elbows. “Plus he’s old and weathered.”

  I’d seen Matthew almost every day of our lives, and of course since this operation, but today, when he held his arms up, I gasped.

  “Good,” Ms. Iverson said. “Who else?”

  What was left of Matthew’s arms looked so raw, a powerful sensation flooded through me, one I didn’t recognize, and I thought I’d have to stand, walk out, maybe even get to the bathroom.

  “Curley. He’s a Terminal in ways that aren’t the same as what happens to us.” This was Jeremiah speaking. I’d never realized just how dark and shiny his hair was. “You know, his handicap is in his head—in his meanness.”

  “I’m proud of you for keeping up with your Braille, Jeremiah. I know this is new to you. But you’re doing terrific.” Ms. Iverson nodded and stepped away from her desk.

  “And what about Lennie?” she asked. “Tell me more about him.”

  Matthew spoke again. “Lennie represents the world. We may be Terminal, but all of us here are smart. We have big goals.”

  “Like Gideon said the other day,” I said, “maybe one of us will change our futures.”

  Ms. Iverson glanced at me.

  “You remember that, Shiloh?” she asked. “You remember Gideon talking about those things?”

  “Umm.” I parted my lips. Nodded.

  “Have you told anyone what Gideon said?”

  “No.”

  In the front of the classroom, Daniel scowled. Gideon seemed not to care. I could see his profile. His face didn’t change at all.

  “It’s best not to say anything,” Ms. Iverson said. “It’s best for everyone.”

  “Yes. All right.”

  “Other comments,” Ms. Iverson said.

  Daniel spoke. “The world doesn’t think. The Whole are like Lennie.”

  I could almost hear him say, If we want cures, we’re going to have to come up with them ourselves. Like he did when the four of us met together.

  “Interesting idea, Daniel. Let’s keep reading.”

  Before, I was jumpy and afraid when the doors to the dining room opened in their slow way and Principal Harrison and Dr. King walked in carrying someone’s files. Or if Terminals came too close. Or if I didn’t eat everything on my plate. Or if I remembered something I shouldn’t, or dreamed what I wasn’t allowed to dream.

  The fear changed. Became controllable. Like being almost caught by Ms. Iverson for remembering. Heart-pounding for the moment and then gone. The anxiety didn’t linger. The strange thing was I hadn’t known I was afraid until the fear was gone. I was used to one thing, so used to it, I didn’t know a difference until the burden was removed.

  Sitting there in class, only a few Terminals knowing, I thought of Principal Harrison and Dr. King. I saw them in a different way. Before, I thought they protected me. Now, they were the enemy. It was like I had been the Recipient of some new body part. They didn’t care about us here. Not one of the Whole did.

  How much money did they make off us? What were Daniel’s legs worth? How much had Abigail’s arm gotten them? What had my lung cost? I squeezed my pencil until it snapped in half.

  Ms. Iverson set the book on her desk. “So what I want is an essay today. Just two hundred and fifty words. I want it on how you are different from Lennie. I want this essay on what Daniel said—how you listen to each other.”

  A nod here or there.

  “Do you need another pencil, Shiloh?” Ms. Iverson asked.

  I clasped
my hands together until they hurt. Shook my head no. Then I pulled out paper and, using the nub of the pencil, started an essay that proved I knew nothing when really I was starting to discover everything.

  * * *

  That night, essay done and waiting in my folder, I changed into the clothes we would sneak around the buildings in. In her corner of the room, Abigail did, too.

  “I hope we learn something tonight,” I said. My whisper seemed loud in the room, not at all cottony like I hoped for. As the Tonic left us our hearing got better. I wasn’t used to this yet.

  “Shhh!” Abigail said.

  From outside our room, I heard a sound. Someone?

  Yes! A gruff voice.

  “Bed,” Abigail said.

  I slowed long enough to kick my just-put-on shoes into the closet and then I climbed into bed, pulling the covers to my neck and turning my back to the door.

  There was the low murmur of voices. Ms. Iverson. She sounded upset. What was she doing awake at this hour? And who was with her? Mr. Tremmel again? Gosh, I hoped not.

  But these weren’t happy voices. This sounded like an argument.

  Abigail settled in bed as our door swung open.

  A flashlight beam moved across the room. I saw it reflect off the window. Saw the shadow of two people in the doorway, mirrored in the glass. I heard Ms. Iverson say, “They’re asleep, I tell you.”

  Dr. King’s voice—what was he doing here?—followed the light. Blood pounded through my veins. In my ears, low and deep. Act normal, I thought. Fake I was asleep. That I had taken the Tonic. That I wasn’t changed. Regular, deep breaths.

  What would I do if he came to my bed, pulled back the covers, and saw me in my street clothes? I gasped in a small bit of air.

  “I told you,” he said, “I thought I should check this room and I always go with my instincts.”

  “And I told you,” Ms. Iverson said, “they’re asleep. Look at them.”

  Dr. King stood at the foot of Elizabeth’s empty bed. I could see him in the window, could tell from his voice where he was. “We’ll have a new Terminal for this bed soon,” he said.

  What?

  Oh, Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth wasn’t coming back.

  I fought myself to breathe in a regular pattern. Now he stood at Mary’s bed. He moved to Abigail’s. What was she doing? Where was my nightgown? Had I folded it? It wasn’t under my pillow. Was it on the floor?