The Collapse: Time Bomb

by Penelope Wright

  The tech pushes me into a room and swings the door shut behind us.

  “My name’s Dave. I’ll be doing your ultrasound. How mobile are you?”

  “Well, I came here in a wheelchair. You tell me.”

  Dave rolls his eyes. “That’s no indication. Everyone’s on wheels in this place. Keeps the transport guys employed.”

  I glance at the corners of the room. Spying no cameras, I shrug. “I’m all right.”

  “I see you play your cards close to the vest,” Dave says, and a mental image of the silver vest I was wearing when I first met Carlos flashes through my mind. I feel a searing sense of loss. That janitor reminded me so much of Carlos. For an instant I miss him so much I can almost taste it, bitter, like copper shavings in my mouth. But Carlos is gone, along with that vest and everything else I arrived here with. I breathe deeply and try to drain my mind of the thoughts that flood it like filthy churning water.

  Dave doesn’t seem to notice my mental turmoil. “I don’t blame ya. It’s easy to develop trust issues in this place. Hop yourself on up on that table then, and let’s get your kidneys under the wand.”

  I jerk myself to a standing position, lean on the edge of the table, then swing my legs up and around so that they stick straight out on front of me. It feels so good to move my body without unnecessary help. The tightness in my chest loosens and my next deep breath doesn’t feel so forced.

  “Great job,” the tech says. “I’m going to adjust the table and get this show on the road. We’ll be done here in no time.”

  I lie on the table and try not to squirm when the tech smears jelly on my torso and rubs a wand all over me. I count seconds to keep my mind occupied and prevent it from slipping back to a dark place of loss and longing. I’ve counted to nine hundred and twelve when Dave puts his wand away. He dusts his hands together. “We have to wait for the radiologist’s report for it to be official, but your kidneys look fine to me.” He wipes the jelly off my body with a soft cloth. “You’re all done. Mount your trusty steed and I’ll gallop you back to the lobby.”

  I’m pretty sure he means ‘get in the wheelchair,’ so I scoot off the table, straighten out my hospital gown, and reluctantly climb aboard. I’d rather walk, but even more than that, I’d rather not argue with anyone, so I just do as I’m told.

  “She’s all set,” the tech tells the receptionist. The janitor called her “Anna,” I remember. Anna holds a finger in the air while she cradles a phone to her ear and nods, like the person on the other end can see her. I sit alone in the sterile lobby. There’s nothing for me to do, and I’m sick and tired of counting, so I memorize a fire evacuation route diagram for about one thousand years. Anna finally hangs up the phone, then picks it right back up and punches a few buttons. “I’ll page transport for you.”

  I flash her a ‘thumbs sideways,’ and she knits her eyebrows at me. Maybe that only works on doctors. After what feels like forever, Anna makes a snorting noise. “Hmpf.” She frowns at her telephone, references her computer screen, then looks back at her phone. She picks up the phone and punches at the keypad, then sets it back in its cradle. She looks over at me. “Transport’s not answering the page.”

  She frowns, stands up, and puts her hand on her abdomen. “I don’t have anybody scheduled for the next thirty minutes, I’m starving, I need a cigarette, and they’re not answering. Figures.”

  The janitor lopes around the corner. “I got that microwave cleaned out for you, but the smell was still there, so I took everything out of the fridge and bleached it to within an inch of its life. Problem solved.”

  Anna dimples at him. “You’re the best. The. Best.”

  “I overheard you can’t get a hold of transport. I can push her back to wherever she goes so you can take your break. She doesn’t look too complicated.”

  “Oh, would you?” Anna slaps her palms on her desktop. “She’s got an IV pole and a pulse oximeter, so we honestly don’t need a real transporter, just someone to push the chair to the right place.”

  The janitor spares a look at me. “What do you think? Okay if I push you around?”

  My breath catches in a giant bubble in my throat as Carlos’s brown eyes lock on to mine. I swallow hard. “That’s fine with me.”

  Neither of us says a word as Carlos wheels me briskly down the hallway and into a waiting elevator. As soon as the doors slide shut, Carlos rips off his mask and presses his finger on the ‘B’ button. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pager. “I liberated this from the transporter after she dropped you off.”

  My eyes widen and I say the first thing that pops into my head. “I thought you didn’t steal.”

  Carlos steps in front of my wheelchair and crouches so we’re eye to eye. “I don’t usually. But I know how to when it’s important.” He places his hands over mine. “Here’s the deal. We don’t have much time. We’ve got one shot to bust you out of here, and it’s right now. So you’ve got to decide. Are you with me?”

  “Bust me out? It’s boring and yeah, I don’t like it here, but why would I do that? They’re taking care of me.”

  Carlos’s lip curls. “Your doctor is a legit guy, and he’s protected you as much as he can. But you’re healthy now. Healthy enough for them to arrest you.”

  My breath catches in my throat, and Carlos continues. “Remember the people the doctor warned you about, the ones waiting in your room when you get back?”

  I shake my head. “It didn’t seem like a warning.” The elevator bumps to a soft stop and the doors open. Carlos pushes me out into an empty hallway and parks me in a recessed area with men’s and women’s restrooms on either side and a water fountain in the middle. He kneels in front of me again.

  “I was outside your room listening. You can stick your head in the sand all you want, but people from the sheriff’s office don’t just stop by and visit everyone. I pulled up your medical records one night when no one was looking. You had drugs in your system they can’t even identify. Detectives from the sheriff’s office are waiting for you right now, and they’ll arrest you the instant you get back to your room.”

  “What?” I feel my eyes grow big in my head. “What’s a sheriff? I thought those guys were just notepad people.”

  Carlos’s eyes grow as wide as mine must be. “Seriously, Lita? A sheriff is a cop. They’re going to take you to juvie.”

  I stop breathing. “I can’t go to juvie. I’ll drown in juvie.”

  Carlos nods curtly. “Yeah, most people do. So you can leave right now, with me, or you can go back to your room and leave in handcuffs. Your choice.”

  I stare into his eyes, trying to see all the way through and into his brain, as if his thoughts would be written there for me to read. But they’re not, and all I see are his earnest, intelligent brown eyes and the tension knotting his forehead. “I’m with you.”

  Carlos lets out a breath. “Okay. We’ve already wasted too much time. I’ve got to pull your IV. It might hurt a little bit coming out.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut tight. “Do it.”

  I feel pressure and a slight pain in my hand, and I look down. The IV is gone. “Wow. It hurt more when the nurse did it the last time.”

  “Maybe next time I’ll pretend to be a nurse instead of a janitor.”

  “You don’t work here?”

  Carlos scoffs and flips his ID badge. “Steven Sylvester will never get paid for all the overtime he’s been pulling, especially on the radiology floor. When I couldn’t lurk in your unit, I hung out there. I knew they’d bring you in for that ultrasound sometime, so I got in good with the staff.”

  A woman brushes past us and enters the restroom. Carlos frowns at the door as it swings shut, but he shakes it off and turns back to me. “Can you walk?”

  “I haven’t tried too much, but I feel strong inside,” I say softly. “So, yeah, I think so.”

  “Okay, when they realize you’re gone, they’ll be looking for a girl in a wheelchair – a patient. So we need to switc
h places. You’re walking out and pushing me.” Carlos reaches into a plastic bag and pulls out the slippery red dress. “I saved this for you.”

  Inexplicably, my eyes fill with tears and I reach for the fabric.

  Carlos points me to the women’s room. “Wheel yourself in there since that woman already saw us. I’ll take the IV pull and leave it in a stall in the men’s room. Change into the dress. I’ll meet you right back out here. If anyone else comes into the bathroom, don’t act weird. Just try to blend in with the walls.”

  I’m about to ask him what he means by that, but he gives me a gentle push in the direction of the women’s room. “The faster, the better.”

  I enter and wheel down to the last stall, the large one that accommodates my chair. The other person in the restroom is making all sorts of strange noises, which are creepy but helpful in muffling the sounds I’m making as I untie my hospital gown and stuff it in the chair’s back pocket. I slide the dress over my head and it falls just above my knees. The top stretches tight across my breasts. I don’t remember it fitting that way before. It’s also snugger around the waist. I keep my hospital slippers on; I have no other footwear. I’m not tired at all. I feel a surge of confidence. I’ll be able to push Carlos out of here, no problem. The outer restroom door makes a noise as someone pushes it open. I wait for them to go into a stall, but they don’t. Carlos said to be quick. Ugh. I’m torn by indecision, but finally I exit the stall and push the wheelchair ahead of me.

  A woman stands at the mirror picking at her eye, pulling down her lower lid and rubbing her finger in the pocket below her eyeball. Carlos told me not to be weird. I avert my eyes and walk past her, knowing I’m not going to blend into the beige wall in this silky red dress.

  “Aren’t you going to wash your hands?” a nasal voice nips.

  My gaze flashes to the mirror. The woman massages one eyeball and glares at me with the other.

  My brow wrinkles. “I was just changing my clothes.” I don’t owe this woman any explanations, I think. Why am I defending myself? I frown and reach to open the door, but the wheelchair is in my way.

  The woman gives an exaggerated sigh and slaps the silver square on the side of the wall. The door opens itself with a hum.

  Carlos is waiting for me. His eyes widen when he sees me. “Wow. That dress.”

  “What about it?” I ask defensively.

  “Nothing, you just look…” Carlos shifts from foot to foot. “When I first met you, you reminded me of my foster sister, but you don’t anymore.”

  I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but the eye-rubbing woman comes out of the bathroom and scans us up and down suspiciously.

  Carlos sinks into the wheelchair. “Thanks, babe. I guess I do still need it,” he says.

  The woman pulls a rectangle out of her pocket and starts tapping on it. Cell phone, my memory supplies unexpectedly. I’ve trained on one.

  “Take me upstairs for a smoke, baby,” Carlos says in a silky voice that is not his own.

  “Okay, moonbeam,” I reply.

  “Moonbeam?” Carlos mutters as I wheel him away toward the elevators.

  “You called me ‘baby,’ I thought we were doing pet names. Like as part of our disguise.”

  “Now you’re reminding me of my foster sister again. She’s the only other person who’s ever called me ‘moonbeam’ and it sounded weird then too.”

  “It felt right,” I hiss, punching the up button to call the elevator. I’m so embarrassed and twisted up inside that I don’t even remember to be afraid of the elevator when the doors glide open. I just shove him on irritably.

  “I like it. I aged out of the foster care system over a year ago, but I was in it for a long time. My foster sister was the only cool thing about state care.”

  My stomach moves around as the elevator lifts us upward, but only briefly. The doors swish open, and it’s a busy floor. People crisscross in every direction, dressed in all sorts of colorful clothing.

  Carlos turns his head and speaks out of the side of his mouth. “We’ve already taken way too long. We gotta get out of here.”

  “Which way?”

  “Left, down the hall, then right at the double glass doors.”

  The words have no sooner left his mouth than the intercom blares to life in the hallway. “Code Pink, all staff, Code Pink. Please be on the look out for a female teenager in a wheelchair. She is endangered. All staff, Code Pink.”

  Carlos twists his head around to look at me. “Can you run?” My mouth stretches into what probably looks like a crazy grin, and he nods affirmatively. “Do it.” I streak down the hallway, pushing Carlos at top speed. We burst through the double glass doors and out onto the street. “Hang a left,” he crows. I turn so sharply, the wheelchair skitters onto its side and dumps my passenger on the sidewalk. He rolls and springs to his feet. “Run!”

  Our footsteps hammer the sidewalk, his tread heavier than mine, as I’m still only in paper hospital booties, but my legs pump and I gulp lungfuls of delectable air. I feel like I’m flying and I’m not even scared that I’m going downhill.

  “This way.” Carlos gasps and darts down a narrow little side street snaking between two tall buildings.

  “She’s going down the alley!” a man shouts behind us, and I stumble with an overwhelming feeling that this has all happened to me before.

  But then Carlos grabs my hand and squeezes. He emits a war cry of exhilarated laughter, and the spell is broken. I join in, and now we’re flying, and the shouting male voices fade out as we leave them far behind.

  We don’t stop running until we reach flat ground, and it takes us even longer to stop laughing. Every time I think I have a grip on myself, my eyes meet Carlos’s and I dissolve into giggles again.

  Carlos bends at the waist and puts his hands on his knees. I sprawl on my back on a park bench and throw my hands over my eyes, my shoulders shaking with laughter. After a few minutes, I’m finally able to catch my breath, and I sit up, taking notice of the world around me for what feels like the first time.

  There are people everywhere, walking on the cobbled streets, coming in and out of doorways. Most clutch packages, but not all. At least half the people peer at cell phones or hold them to their ears. These people are smartly dressed in clean clothes, their hair smooth and shining. Other people are less spiffily put together but seem to have more things. Beady-eyed, feathered creatures strut about, pecking at the street, nibbling at things that I can’t see.

  Carlos sits down beside me, and we rest in companionable silence. After a minute, I glance over my shoulder. “Do you think they’ll keep chasing us?”

  Carlos shakes his head. “Nah. Cops have short attention spans, and nobody cares about homeless kids. If they’d caught you back there, you’d be on your way to juvie for sure, but nobody’s going to lose any sleep hunting you down. They’ve got you pegged as a drug addict. I’m sure they figure they’ll have another opportunity to arrest you soon.”

  “No, they won’t.”

  Carlos cocks his head. “I believe you. You were sick when we met, but not dope sick. I don’t know what happened to you, but I don’t think it was drugs.”

  “What do you think happened to me?” I ask.

  Carlos slings his arm on the back of the bench and crosses his ankle over his knee. His lower legs are tan, poking out of his olive green shorts. He has a drawing of a key on his ankle. He rubs it absently with his thumb, but it doesn’t wipe away. “I don’t know. The infection in your port might have burned through the part of your brain that holds long-term memories. Or maybe you did have cancer, and the experimental high dose radiation they gave you cured you immediately but wiped all your memories. Or maybe you found out something you weren’t supposed to, like you wandered into some secret nuclear test site or alien laboratory and the Feds erased your memory. If you wanna go the ‘conspiracy theory’ route, I can come up with dozens of ’em. But if we’re keeping it simple, maybe the radiation and your m
emory issues have nothing to do with each other. Could be you just hit your head really hard when you crashed into my tent, and if I’d met you ten seconds before, you could have told me everything about yourself.”

  I stare at a gray brick building across the street. A woman saunters out, swinging a silver plastic bag from her wrist, and something about the motion makes my pulse throb faster for a beat. I shake my head and sigh. “Sometimes I feel like I’m about to have a flood of memories, like there’s just a thin plastic film holding everything back, like it’s all right there, just barely out of reach. It feels so familiar, like I’ve done it all before, like it’s already happened once.”

  “Déjà vu?”

  “Déjà huh?”

  “What you’re describing. That’s what it’s called. The feeling that something has happened exactly the same way before, and that you’re reliving it.”

  “I didn’t know there was a word for all that. But I should have, huh?”

  Carlos shrugs. “Typically, yeah.”

  I raise my knees, putting my feet on the bench and wrapping my arms around them. “I feel like nothing about me is typical.”

  “You are definitely not run-of-the-mill.”

  “I’m going to use context clues and guess that’s another phrase that means ‘typical’?”

  “You got it.”

  “Why does it mean that?”

  “Hmm. Run-of-the-mill. Um, actually, I have no idea why it means that. Sounds like someone who’s in charge of a mill when you really think about it.”

  I offer him a lopsided smile. “I guess I don’t feel so bad for not knowing it if you can’t explain it any better than that.”

  Carlos grins and stands up. “Come on. Why don’t we walk around, and I’ll show you all sorts of stuff you should already know. I’ll do such a good job, you’ll feel like you were born in this city.”

  “Okay. First question.” I point to the creatures with spindly feet. “What are those?”

  Carlos does a mediocre job of keeping his eyes from bugging out of his head. “Those are pigeons.”