“Claire?” Amy asked, gripping her shoulder and shaking her out of her reverie. It was rare that she allowed herself the pleasure, and she shook it off more slowly than she would like. That part of her life was finished. Because of the Rhinehardt Corporation, she would never be allowed to see those faraway places again.
“I’m fine,” she said, patting Amy’s hand gently. Claire watched as the concern melted from Amy’s face.
“Well, I think the doc is just checking in on us,” Andre said, watching the scene play out behind Claire’s back.
She glanced over her shoulder and watched as a petite, elderly woman approached the counter with a smile on her face.
“Bienvenida doctora!” she exclaimed, waving Dr. Cans around the counter.
The woman was positively tiny, and she looked even smaller wrapped in her oversized uniform and hair net. Her leathery face was lined in wrinkles, her eyes sunken amidst the folds of her prominent cheeks. She looked like she would be more comfortable swaddled in a thick blanket as she reclined upon her deathbed. But there was a gleam in those faded eyes as she welcomed the doctor into her kitchen. For a woman well beyond retirement age, she looked surprisingly joyful in her circumstances.
As Claire watched, Dr. Cans stepped her fancy pantsuit around the counter. “Como estan los bebes?” she asked curiously.
“They are fine, they are fine,” Luann said, waving her off. “Growing bigger every day. Soon, I will not be able to feed them enough.”
Dr. Cans smiled warmly and Claire turned back towards the others. As far as she knew, the doctor hadn’t come into the common room since her fateful first day. But apparently that wasn’t quite accurate. To be on such good terms with the head cook, she had to have made an effort. She wondered when. And why.
“Well?” Amy asked Miguel.
“Well what?” he asked in confusion. Claire felt the same way. What had she missed?
“Well, what’s in the box?” Amy huffed, pointing towards the small package tucked under his arm on the table. “Claire asked about it before Miss Thing sashayed her expensive shoes in and interrupted our conversation.”
“Oh, right,” Miguel said. He picked up the box and handed it over to Amy. “It’s a book.”
“This,” Amy said, picking it up and waving it in the air, “is not a book. It’s an audiobook. There’s a big difference.”
“Okay,” Miguel agreed, looking like he didn’t understand her point, “it’s an audiobook. Dr. Cans gave it to me at the end of our session yesterday.”
Andre took the package from Amy. “Deciphering the Electromagnetic Spectrum,” he read off the front before shrugging his shoulders and offering it back to Miguel. “Sounds like fun.”
Claire leaned forward and snatched it out of his hand before Miguel could take it. She pulled it close, tipping her glasses forward so she could read the description on the back.
“‘There is more to light than what we see around us every day,’” she read. “‘Electromagnetic radiation encompasses both the visible and the invisible spectrums of light. This book will provide an understanding of the range of frequencies and their corresponding wavelengths, which will act as the base for further study of the field of spectroscopy.’”
Claire looked up at Miguel. “Why would she give you this?”
Miguel shrugged. “She thought it would help me understand what was going on with my eyes. Maybe help me control it a little better.”
“Yes, but why?” Claire asked. “Why would she want you to control it? If you can control it, they can’t.”
It didn’t make any sense. Dr. Cans was here to deconstruct them, so to speak. She had been blunt during their first group session, acknowledging their situation as likely permanent and based on the company’s desire to make money off their conditions. While she might be responsible for diagnosing their conditions and helping them learn to use them, she doubted very much that Rhinehardt wanted them to have access to any information they didn’t need. Information was power, after all.
“Maybe it was a slip?” Amy suggested. “Maybe she wanted Miguel to understand what’s happening inside his head, but she didn’t think through the implications?”
Possibly. Claire conceded she didn’t know the doctor well enough to assume she couldn’t make mistakes, but it was the impression she’d always given.
“What implications?” Miguel asked. He and Andre exchanged twin looks of confusion, and Claire couldn’t help but be relieved by the newfound solidarity she felt between the two of them. Hopefully the peace would last. They needed to be able to work together.
“The implication that you might not only learn to control your symptoms for the company, but that you might possibly be able to control them for yourself.” Amy leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I believe you.”
She looked around at the rest of them, waiting for confirmation that she wasn’t alone. Andre was still looking down at his arms, crossed and resting heavily on the table, but he gave a quick tilt of his head. Claire herself gave a reluctant head nod. It seemed implausible, but still, it was convincing. What was the phrase Dr. Cans had used during the first group session she’d had with them? Improbable, but not impossible.
“Okay then,” Amy said. She glanced around to make sure they were still alone. “We need to consider that this may be a good thing. No, hear me out.” Miguel had opened his mouth as if to correct her on that last point, but she cut him off. “Dr. Cans all but admitted that we are here for good.” Amy grabbed Claire’s hand and gripped it hard. “And I can’t be here forever. I have a child who -,” she broke off, unable to speak.
Claire gave her hand a small squeeze before wiping a single tear from her own face. “What Amy means is that, if you really do have this…gift,” she hesitated, not sure if that was the right word. “If you have this gift, and I think we are all at a point where we believe that you do, then you might be able to use it to find a way out of here.”
“How?” Miguel asked skeptically. “I’m barely functional in the real world. I see colors. Or, well, wavelengths, I guess,” he argued, running his hand over the audiobook Claire had dropped back on the table in front of him. “How will that help the rest of you escape?”
Claire shook her head, frustrated with herself. Miguel was starting to sink back into that deep well of depression he’d been in earlier, and it was playing with her ability to focus.
“Stop that,” she finally snapped. “Pull yourself out of your moroseness and listen to me. You don’t want to leave now because you have no quality of life outside this place. But what if you did? What if?” Claire leaned forward and looked directly into the place where Miguel’s eyes should be. If he was telling the truth, he could see her, even through the blindfold.
“What if,” she went on, holding his gaze, “you could control the symptoms enough to live a functional life, if not a normal one? Would that change your mind about staying here or about giving up?”
Miguel licked his lips nervously, his gaze, or what she assumed was his gaze, never leaving her face. Finally, he said, “Do you think that’s possible? Dr. Cans was pretty clear that it can’t be cured. That I’ll either learn to live with it or, well, I won’t.”
“It can’t be cured?” Andre asked, finally piping back into the conversation. His head lifted and he looked at Miguel. “You’ll have to live with it forever?”
He seemed to be balanced on a wire, waiting intently for Miguel’s answer to decide which way to tip.
“Dr. Cans said that this is the fix. That RNB saved us from our head injuries and that it might not be such an unfair price to pay to live.”
“As though she would know,” Andre muttered, leaning back in his seat. His eyes drifted away again and Claire frowned. This was an Andre with no fight in him. An Andre with no fight was an Andre that was…concerning.
“What do you think she’s doing in there, anyway?” he asked suddenly, jerking his chin in the direction of
the kitchen. They all turned to look. Luann had placed a dish in front of the doctor and was explaining how to heat it up without burning it or drying it out or some such nonsense. Apparently the doctor was taking her empanadas to go.
“I’m sure they will be just fine,” she said to reassure Luann. “Besides, our Mr. Smith has never had empanadas. These are so good that he’ll never even notice the difference.”
Mr. Smith, huh? As in, the Mr. Smith that walked through the clinic every few months, inspecting them and asking after their progress? The Mr. Smith that was slowly growing impatient with their lack thereof?
“She has a date?” Amy asked. “With who? No one’s allowed in or out.”
“If I’m not mistaken,” Claire said slowly, “I believe Mr. Smith is the president of the Rhinehardt Corporation.”
“The company that’s experimenting on us?”
It took a few seconds for them to take that in.
“So, she’s sleeping with the enemy,” Andre stated. “Not surprising. If she’s stupid enough to help Miguel learn how to break out of here, she definitely wasn’t hired for her skills.”
“Suddenly, all of those short skirts and heels-up-to-there make complete sense,” Amy chimed in.
Claire wasn’t so sure. She had seen the doctor interact with both Mr. Anderson and Mr. Smith. Despite how Claire felt about her clothing, she was professional with both. But it was clear that Nathan Anderson wasn’t a fan.
In the past, the doctors before her would cater to both men. Pandering and apologetic, they would blame their lack of progress on the patients. But the first time Dr. Cans had escorted them around the clinic, Mr. Anderson had commented on her predecessors’ lack of results and his despair in seeing that change any time soon, letting his poor opinion show clearly on his face.
It was an intimidation technique that Claire recognized. She had seen it used often on women by the powerful men above them. It had been used on her, once or twice, in her younger years. He was belittling Dr. Cans in front of both her boss and the patients she was responsible for managing, allowing his nonverbal cues to speak as loudly as his words. It impacted the respect that both had for her and would make it much more difficult to do her job. Or it would have, if she had allowed it to.
“I’m not concerned,” she said, waving away his words as easily as if she were swatting a fly. “The other doctors relied too much on cooperation, which we clearly won’t get. I’ve no need of that.”
“No need for cooperation?” Mr. Smith broke in, sounding concerned. “But how do you expect to get results without their cooperation?” He gestured vaguely towards where Claire and the others had sat defensively around the table, backs stiff and glares in full effect.
“Their lack of cooperation, the methods they use to show me just how much fight they have left, tell me all I need to know about their personalities. Between observation and the extremely thorough records we’ve collected on their medical and personal histories, I’ll have enough to develop a treatment plan.”
Treatment Plan being code for marketing plan, of course. The doctor was expected to put together a how-to manual on their symptoms, making them both marketable and profitable. To the company. Not to themselves.
Mr. Smith had not only been mollified by her answer, he’d looked impressed. The firm hand she’d laid on his upper arm while sweeping away his concern had been icing on the cake. But while she had clearly won the boss over, she’d also made an enemy. Claire had watched as Nathan Anderson’s face slowly took on the hue of a volcano, the heat inching further and further towards his hairline. He was used to being in charge. He was not used to having his authority questioned or rebuked. Especially not by a woman, if Claire was guessing. Since that day, both Smith and Anderson had been around more than they had in the past with the other doctors.
“I don’t know,” Claire mused out loud. “She’s an intelligent woman. I would be willing to bet there’s a method to her madness.”
Before she could elaborate further, their discussion was interrupted by the back door of the kitchen opening.
“It must be 7:00,” Miguel said. You could set your watch by the delivery runs to the company. Kitchen deliveries came at 7:00 in the evening on Mondays and Wednesdays and 5:00 in the morning on Fridays. Clinic deliveries were made daily at 2:00.
“I don’t remember our delivery guy being so big,” Amy remarked. They watched as the guy wheeled in a dolly loaded with crates of produce.
“This guy started a couple of weeks ago,” Miguel said. They turned back to the table as the man began to unload the order.
It was a testament to the routine nature of their schedules that Miguel would notice a new delivery man, especially since the prisoners weren’t allowed any contact with workers from the outside world. Or maybe it was a testament to Miguel’s condition that he had noticed the differences right away when the rest of them hadn’t.
The others went back to talking about Miguel learning what he could about his symptoms, but Claire tuned them out. Right now, they were focused on Miguel. But how long could they continue to acknowledge his condition without accepting their own?
Claire turned in her chair, putting her back against the table. They weren’t the only ones. She had refused, point blank, to acknowledge any symptoms, even to herself. There was no validity in the claims. She was perfectly normal, thank you very much.
Yes, she had suffered a terrible head injury. And a most embarrassing one. Caught up in the music of the piece, she had missed her blocking during a rehearsal of Faust. As a rule, she didn’t care much for French operas, much preferring the Italian tragedies. But she wasn’t getting any younger and parts for women of a certain age were dwindling. She had taken on the role of Marthe, guardian to the much younger Marguerite, because it had been offered.
Despite her predilection for Italian, she had become entranced by the music, as she always did. A set piece had been in the wrong place and when she stepped forward, she had tripped, toppling head-first into the orchestra set below the stage. Her husband had informed her, upon her waking, that she had been unconscious for almost two months. Faust had been a huge success, her role farmed out to the next middle-aged contralto waiting in the wings.
There had been bit roles and understudy parts here and there over the next few years, but her career had been essentially ended by the injury. Opera is a demanding discipline and at a certain age, the voice doesn’t come back like it should after being silent for months at a time.
She had already decided that her role in Falstaff would be her final one. The opera was a comedy, which wasn’t ideal, but it was Italian and the role had been offered to her without an audition. She had been coming home from their last stop in Berlin when she’d been abducted from the airport by the man driving her rideshare.
She wondered idly how long it had taken her husband to report her missing. Had he even realized when she was supposed to be home? She’d told him, hadn’t she?
Claire watched as the delivery man finished unpacking the crates and handed Luann a clipboard to sign. This must have been standard procedure because Luann took it without hesitation and signed without looking down. Not that Claire could blame her. The man was really rather engaging. His hat was pulled low over his face but his smile was wide and the deep bass of his voice carried to where Claire sat watching. He kept up the friendly chatter as Luann signed but as she started to hand the clipboard back, his hands, gesturing expressively while he talked, caught the edge, scattering it and the papers clipped to it across the floor.
Both Luann and Dr. Cans dropped to the floor to help collect the papers while the big man shook his head and knelt down beside them. He was still grinning as the women handed him the paperwork. As they rose, the man thanked them both and gestured energetically towards the door. He had obviously not learned his lesson, Claire thought dryly. His storytelling prowess could be weaponized. He’d better not let Rhinehardt see it.
Both women smiled and Luann laughed outr
ight. Claire watched as he dipped his head and wheeled the dolly back out through the door. Claire supposed his delivery truck was parked near the door, in the alley that must run behind the kitchen, although none of the patients were allowed into the kitchen because of its back entrance.
As the thoughts in her head tumbled around each other, she noticed Dr. Cans tuck a tightly folded square of paper into her pocket and thank Luann again for the empanadas. Interesting. Claire was fairly certain Dr. Cans hadn’t had anything in her hand before she’d knelt to help pick up the paperwork scattered across the floor. Where had it come from?
As Dr. Cans swept back towards the common room, she met Claire’s stare and gave her an appraising look. What she saw there was anyone’s guess, although Claire suspected it was the same melancholy that had stolen over Miguel after he realized the finality of his situation. If his symptoms couldn’t be fixed, then neither could Amy and Andre’s. And neither could hers.
She could hear the echo of a laugh inside her head, mocking her. Reminding her that it had been right all along.
Chapter 32
Quincy
“I have something I need to show you,” Quincy announced to the room at large.
Logan and Dave were crowded around the tiny television watching a baseball game, which maybe wasn’t the best time to announce her findings, but she couldn’t wait any longer.
She had them. She knew she did. She’d spent the last two hours doing nothing but thinking through the details, making sure there weren’t any holes or missing information. There weren’t. She had it.
Dave turned from the game. “What is it?” he asked with interest.
Burning Bridges (Shattered Highways Book 2) Page 20
