“What?”
“I need your number so I can contact you. Just because I’m bringing you home doesn’t mean you’re done. You climbed on, and you don’t get to jump off until this train comes to a stop.” He punches the numbers I recite onto the screen of his phone, then slides it back into his pocket. “There’s a lot for you to learn before the rails go red. Once that happens, you and all the Stewards who aren’t on lockdown will be on your own until the Engineers deem it safe to open the doors again. The last lockdown lasted years. Anyone who screws up won’t be around by the time it’s over. I’m not going to let that be you. So don’t talk to anyone you don’t have to or leave your house until you hear from me. Okay?”
I’m still not sure what I believe, but I say, “Yeah. Okay.”
That must have been what he wanted to hear, since Atlas leans over and reaches across me—his arm brushing my shoulder as he grabs the door handle and shoves it open. “Get some sleep. Read. Then think about what you knew before you saw the word ‘verify’ and what you know now. That should keep you busy until I can get back to do the Conductor thing with you.”
The trembling of my legs and the floating fog weaving through my thoughts tell me I need sleep more than just about anything. Still, I don’t move when Atlas sits back in the driver’s seat.
“What?” he asks.
Get out of the car now, I tell myself. Go home and go to sleep and forget about all of this if you can. But I don’t, because there is something I have to know and it can’t wait until tomorrow. “What’s a deadman’s switch?”
His eyes look into the lightening sky. “On a train it’s the fail-safe device that stops the engine and keeps the train from crashing if the operator is unable to do so.”
That much I knew. “What is it for the Stewards?”
His jaw tightens. “It’s a small capsule filled with several types of poisons. From the time it passes through the lips, it takes less than ten minutes before the switch is activated and the Steward is dead.”
Ten
My bike is leaning against the side of the garage when I return home. Someone from the Stewards had taken care of it, just as Atlas had promised hours ago when we first stepped off the bridge and into the shadow-filled rabbit hole from which I have yet to fully emerge.
Everything is quiet as I slip through the door and soundlessly shut it behind me. I peel off my shoes, dump my bags at the foot of my bed, and climb under the covers, hoping to find refuge in unconsciousness. To escape the day and the questions swirling in my mind.
The dream comes as it always does. Mom standing on the sidewalk. The headlights shining bright as the car streaks down the street. Only this time the car doesn’t hit her. This time the vehicle screeches to a stop at the curb.
Two men in dark coats jump out. They slam their doors shut and shout, “Are you Gillian Beckley?”
I scream for her to stop, but she is already placing a small pill on the tip of her tongue and swallowing.
“Mom! No!”
The men running toward her freeze in place. The sidewalk and the buildings and the headlights fade into nothingness until only Mom and I are there in a cloud of white.
“An artist’s job is to look at the world and share the truths they see. I had no choice but to look, and I couldn’t ignore what I saw.” She holds out her hand. “Truth can be dangerous, but it is more dangerous to pretend it’s not there. Be careful.”
My eyes snap open.
Sunlight streams bright through my window as I shove the covers off and glance at the clock.
Nine twenty-two. I slept later than I have since the night the two officers came to break the news about the accident. The smell of coffee wraps itself around me like a warm blanket. Dad is not only awake, he’s also functioning. I blink away the haze of sleep and look down at my clothes, which are damp with sweat, and that’s when all that happened last night comes rushing back.
Dad drinking. Atlas on the bridge. The paintings on the station walls. The Lyceum and the books. My mother’s hidden life and all that it implies.
I slide out from under the covers and check the foot of my bed. Two bags. The red one is mine. The green-striped black one has the two books Atlas told me to read.
I jump at the light rap on the door and shove the bag and the books under the covers as it swings open.
“Hey.” Dad gives me a tense smile. “I heard you moving around and thought you could use this.” He holds out a tall green mug with outlines of paintbrushes pictured on it.
An apology.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the mug. “I didn’t set my alarm.”
“You needed sleep. We both did. It was a long week.” He slides his hands into the front pockets of his khaki pants. “Do you have big plans for today?”
He doesn’t want to talk about last night, which is probably for the best, since I’m not sure what either of us would say.
“I plan on showering and hanging around the house.” I think about the books buried under the mound of covers and Atlas’s instructions to stay inside. What would my father do if he saw the books? He always tried to get Mom to stop painting on canvas out of civic responsibility. Would he report the books, thinking he was doing the right thing? “What are you going to do?”
Dad shrugs. “I thought I might go into work for a few hours. My boss wants to meet on Monday morning. There are some problems. . . .” He shakes his head. “It’s no big deal. I just want to be prepared. And I was thinking that maybe tomorrow morning I’d go for a run.”
“A run?” Something he hasn’t done since Mom died. Something that once was normal.
“What? You think your old man can’t run anymore?” He rakes a hand through his still slightly damp hair and looks down at the floor. “Last night I really let you down. I let us both down.”
My stomach twists. “It’s fine, Dad.”
“No,” he says firmly, putting a hand to his temple—probably trying to calm the throbbing. “Nothing has been fine for a long time. We should be able to talk. You should feel like you can come to me about anything. You should never have to think you have to deal with things alone.”
No, I shouldn’t. But that doesn’t change the fact that I do.
When I don’t respond, Dad gives me a hint of a teasing smile. “Maybe you’d like to come with me when I go for my run?”
Those words, so like the ones he used to ask before Mom died, twine around my heart and tug.
“Have I ever wanted to come running with you?” I say, echoing the past routine.
“There’s always a first time. Maybe next weekend.” His smile widens.
“Yeah,” I answer. “And maybe pigs will fly.”
“They will if you draw them.” And for that second he’s the dad I used to have. The one I trusted with my heart. The one I want to trust with everything I’ve learned now.
But what if Atlas is right about anyone I talk to being put into danger?
Of course, Dad could know some of this already. What if Mom did share some of her secret life? What if keeping the secret is part of the reason he continues to drink despite his promises to stop? Maybe he needs to talk to someone as much as I do.
Before I can stop myself, I ask, “Do you think you should verify that?”
Dad cocks his head to the side. “Should I what?”
I wait for some kind of reaction—fear, recognition. Something to tell me he’s heard the word before. But he just blinks twice as he looks at me. Disappointment stabs deep as I shake my head.
“It’s nothing,” I lie. “Just something we say at school to give each other a hard time.”
“Well, you can give me an even harder time when I’m barely able to move later.” He gives me a smile. “I’m headed to the office now. Let me know if you need me to pick up anything for dinner on my way home.” As he heads down the stairs, I can only stand there holding the coffee-mug peace offering, listening to the back door slam shut.
I change into tan shorts and a
T-shirt that swirls with colors that remind me of the sunrise. Then I take the bag with the books Atlas gave me and go downstairs to the kitchen. Armed with another mug of coffee and a bowl of cereal, I pull out both books. The dictionary I set to the side. The other I place on the table.
United States History, Colonial America through Modern Day.
The faded mustard-yellow cover is slightly dented and the edges of the pages are warped. From the printing date I find inside it seems the “Modern Day” in the title is almost sixty years ago. Reading the table of contents page makes my eyes start to glaze over. Having just been through finals, I have zero desire to wade through dense paragraphs filled with events that happened before I was born. Since I’m certainly not going to read the whole thing without knowing what I’m looking for, I flip to the final chapter of the book, figuring that’s probably the most relevant. Shoving a spoonful of cereal into my mouth, I start reading the chapter titled “The Modern United States and the New Doctrine of Isolationism.”
The chapter is the shortest in the book. It takes up only a handful of slightly worn, occasionally torn, discolored pages. I chew as I read the dull words detailing how worry for national security caused the government to limit internet access to certain websites that the intelligence agencies flagged as suspicious. About the push for Congress to pass a new constitutional amendment declaring English to be the national language and laws that required all applicants for immigration to demonstrate an acceptable proficiency of the language in order to have their request considered.
None of that seems all that shocking. After all, it makes sense that everyone in the country should speak the same language and that there should be only one internet portal to make sure service is reliable and equitable. But the words I’m reading aren’t detailing the same history I’ve been taught. The book details how instead of a unifying language that brought the country together, the law denied citizens who spoke other languages driver’s licenses, jobs, and the right to vote. I flip the page and drop my spoon.
The best art delivers an emotional punch in one glance. The photographs I look at now stop me cold. They’re a series of images—pictures of two tan-skinned men being attacked on the street. One man has fallen to his knees and is covering his head with his hands to ward off the blows from an enraged crowd. The other is looking over his shoulder as he attempts to run. The camera has captured his bloody, bruised face and the despair and fear in his eyes with perfect clarity. Beneath the picture a caption reads: “Violence unleashed against non-English-speaking citizens after passage of Unification through Language Law.”
I push away my bowl and keep flipping the pages. I’m not sure how much time passes as I read about the National Guard being deployed to cities that had a history of violent crime. Environmental laws being passed to curtail paper usage. Foreign aid suspended, leading to a rise of new dictatorships around the world as well as suffering and death to many who no longer had access to doctors, clean water, or food. And the temporary suspension of travel to and from other countries due to a fear of terrorist threats. Which clearly wasn’t temporary because I can’t imagine people in our country choosing to visit anyplace outside of our borders. We have everything anyone would ever want. And it isn’t dangerous here.
Or is it? If people really are disappearing like Atlas says . . .
I want to shove the book away but force myself to keep reading.
While this new policy of shifting attention away from world issues has caused many to worry that other less dependable leaders will fill the void left by the United States’ withdrawal, others applaud the desire to dedicate all tax dollars to efforts inside America’s boundaries. Germany, the United Kingdom, and China have all pledged resources to those countries that no longer receive American financial and military assistance. American politicians have lauded other countries for stepping forward so the United States can finally dedicate its focus to the citizens they feel have been neglected at home.
The last paragraphs talk about widespread protests against the new doctrine. One large protest in Los Angeles got out of hand. Protesters and police officers were killed. Many leaders, including the president, were certain the instigators of the violence were spurred to action by journalists who wished to cause trouble. Which I can’t imagine, since the anchors on both news channels are almost always upbeat as they cover the weather, City Pride Projects, entertainment news, and sports. Nothing that I can imagine ever causing upset. A news report shouldn’t cause that kind of reaction, and if it did, people should never allow that kind of reporting to continue.
But even as I am glad our government was smart enough to put an end to that kind of thing, I hear Atlas’s voice in the back of my mind asking if it really was positive. Is taking away the voices of disagreement on the news similar to removing the words? Does someone choosing what gets reported by the news and what doesn’t limit our freedom?
I don’t know.
Things are peaceful. That’s what’s important. Nothing else should matter.
But maybe it does.
Maybe if the news reported on different stories, I’d know if what Atlas is saying about people disappearing is true. Maybe . . .
I take a deep breath, turn to the beginning of the book, and flip through the pages. There are wars with different names from the ones I was taught. Dozens and dozens of words I have to look up, like “revolution” and “uprising.” And when I find the chapter on World War II that Atlas told me to pay attention to, my heart goes cold.
Some of what we learned was the same, but so much was missing. First, the pictures of people being rounded up into a specific section of the city. Then the trains. The death camps. The bins of shoes left behind by those murdered by their own government. And the people inside Germany and Poland who tried to fight—to get news out about what was happening to those who could help—who hid people who were in danger, wrote papers and painted slogans to change minds. Group by group they were hunted down and killed by those they defied.
They were outnumbered—just like the Stewards.
I pull out my tablet and scroll through my school text just to make sure I am not mistaken about the differences. I’m not. The chapter on World War II is less than half the length of the one in the paper textbook. In fact, it appears that the entire on-screen textbook is half as long, even though it covers an additional eighty years of history. And the final page . . .
I read the words I read only a month or so ago for my history class. Then, I agreed with them. Now . . .
The consolidation of the media and reduction of internet providers combined with the restoration projects of City Pride has cemented the country’s positive return to a shared sense of community and culture. That sense of sameness has helped bridge many cultural and religious divides that have long plagued the country. It is clear from the success of these new laws and programs that government leaders will work to continue this trend.
I shove away from the table and walk down the hallway to my mother’s studio as words swirl in my head.
Limiting what people see on the screen so everyone sees one thing—believes the same ideas—feels wrong. Rose and I have been friends forever. We agree on a lot of things, but we have disagreements. I hate when we fight, but I’ve learned things from our arguments—often things about myself. My mother always told me actively looking and listening were the best ways to learn. I look at the stool I had been sitting on when she demonstrated what she meant.
“What is this?” she asked, showing me a picture on her tablet.
“You took that long to draw a purple square?”
“Is that all it is? Are you actively looking?”
“It’s a square. It’s dark purple. It’s . . .”
She flicked the screen and it rotated just a hair—enough for me to see that there was a whole picture beyond the one she first showed me and the purple square was just one part of the image that lay beyond.
“A good artist always looks at all the angle
s if she wants to really understand what she sees.”
I heard her words. I understood them, but I never applied them to more than art. If I did, then one type of news meant my view of the square was preventing me from seeing the entire picture. If words have been altered, then I can no longer be sure if all I’m seeing is the purple square.
I think about the new version of the dream that haunted me last night.
The car’s lights barreling through the fog.
The pill my mother placed on her lips. The deadman’s switch Atlas described to me as the men from the car lunged toward her.
Everything inside me screams that her death was a terrible accident, but I can’t ignore the missing or changed words in the electronic version of the history book in front of me or forget my mother’s mural on the wall of the train station.
The truth is found when men are free to pursue it.
My mother chose those words. Her hands drew each line and curve. They were the first ones my eyes focused on when I looked at her mural, and I cannot stop thinking of them now.
Atlas told me words were missing from the books I have read. That history is different from what I have always believed. And he insinuated that my mother’s death might not have been an accident.
Trust, but verify.
Those words that I hadn’t known before meeting the Stewards ring like a chorus of brass bells in my head, as if they are instructions that my mother insists I follow. There has to be a way for me to find out the truth.
I go back to the kitchen, dump my dishes in the sink, then grab the books and my tablet and head upstairs. My tablet has barely any charge left. I check my phone, still in my bag at the foot of the bed, and find that it is dead. I plug both in, and as I am pulling up a search window on the tablet screen, the phone buzzes to tell me I have a message. Rose saying she has to work at Gloss today, but she hopes to hear from me soon.
Rose, a friend I’ve trusted all my life. The one I always can count on even when I shove her away. If anyone would understand my confusion and want to help me get to the truth about my mother, it would be Rose. But as much as I want to ask her opinion, the truth is something I have to figure out for myself.
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