Twisting Minds

by Tessonja Odette

  “Can you afford to tear open your stitches? Return for multiple treatments to fight infection from lack of care? Can you afford to break another glass? Get even sicker than you already are?”

  I hate that her words ring true, but I don’t say anything.

  Dr. Shelia sighs and turns away from me toward the chair. I close my eyes against angry tears, hoping she’s decided to leave.

  “Tell me about your mother,” she says quietly.

  I open my eyes. Through my swimming vision, I see she has pulled up the chair alongside the bed. I feel like we’re in her office, she in her chair, me lying on her couch. I realize what she’s trying to do, and I want to argue. I want her to leave. But the tears have already begun, and the mention of my mother is threatening to tear a sob from me.

  “Or, perhaps, start with your father.”

  That fills me with dread. I try not to think about him. About what his absence did to us. It’s not like it was his fault. He didn’t mean to die.

  “How about this,” Dr. Shelia says. “Talk to me now, and I’ll cancel your appointment with me tomorrow. You’ll have the full day off to recover. You can return to the Public District as soon as you wake up in the morning.”

  Does she not realize how badly I hate idle time? Time spent alone with my thoughts? Time spent not working off my probation? But the thought of not having to see her again tomorrow makes me consider the bargain.

  She must see the resignation on my face. “Your parents became Elites when you were eleven, is this correct?”

  I nod.

  “How did this come about?”

  The question seems so benign, but it bears a heavy burden. The weight of it crushes my chest. I consider answering her question but I’m still so angry with her.

  “You can talk to me, Claire. It will make you feel better. How did you become an Elite?”

  My words come out almost a whisper. “My mom and dad got promoted.”

  “What jobs were they in before?”

  “My dad was in finance. My mom was in law. They both worked at small tech companies here in the Select District most of my life.”

  “Where did they get promoted?”

  I remember it so clearly. The joy of realizing we were moving up not only a rung but an entire class of citizenship. “Santoro Pharm.”

  “That must have been prestigious for you.”

  It was. Santoro Corp is a huge pharmaceutical company. Back then, they were just beginning to expand into pharming when they acquired some of the biggest and most barren plots of land outside Seattle. Their chemists were already famous for numerous breakthroughs, producing crops and slaughter animals that not only withstood the toxicity of the outlands but grew at alarming rates. My parents could hardly believe their luck when their applications were accepted. My dad was hired as Santoro Pharm’s Chief Financial Adviser while my mom became their resident lawyer.

  “How did it end?”

  The end. It’s funny she would call it that. It’s how I’ve always considered my father’s death. The end of everything. Everything good and stable. Life as I knew it. “There was an accident,” I tell her. I’m surprised when my voice doesn’t shake, until I realize that terrifying numbness is back, covering my emotions like a shroud. Still, I continue. “Mom and Dad were visiting the pharm for business. Mom was in the fields. Dad was near the buildings. There was an explosion in one of the buildings. My dad died from it.”

  “How did that affect you?”

  “Our income was cut in half. My mom had to work twice as hard. She couldn’t keep it up. We fell back down to Select.”

  Dr. Shelia barely blinks as she watches me. “Then what happened?”

  “My mom got sick. Turns out, the explosion produced a toxic gas. Even though she’d been wearing a hazmat suit in the field, it didn’t protect her enough. She got lung cancer. No matter what the doctors did, they could only slow its progress. She was able to work less and less. Some days she couldn’t get out of bed. We slipped down further and further until we had nothing left. We had to accept the Tithe.”

  “That’s when you became Public citizens.”

  I nod. “By then, Mom couldn’t work at all. We lived off credits, thinking she would get better and be able to work again, use her connections to get back into law. She didn’t get better. She got worse and worse, while her treatments got more and more intense.”

  “And then she stopped accepting treatment.”

  I can feel the protective numbness slipping away, shattering beneath the ache in my throat. “Eight months ago.”

  “Why?”

  Agony ripples from my head to my toes, but it isn’t the physical sort. It’s emotional. The kind that comes from devastating truth. “She did it for me.”

  Dr. Shelia’s voice is as soft as a caress. “She knew her death was inevitable. She didn’t want you to suffer for her debt.”

  A sob escapes my lips. “I told her I didn’t care. I told her I wanted her to live as long as possible, no matter what the consequences were.”

  “But she didn’t listen, did she?” Dr. Shelia says. “She let herself go so that you could have a chance at a better life. She knew you’d be treated with more leniency if you were still a minor when she died.”

  “I hated her for it.”

  “Why?”

  My voice sounds so unlike me. More like a dying animal. “Because she loved me too much.”

  Dr. Shelia leans forward. “You don’t believe you were worth her sacrifice.”

  “I wasn’t! I’m not.” My chest aches with the truth of my words. “I would have given anything to have her with me longer. But she wanted more for me.”

  “Is that why you work so hard? You want to prove you were worth her sacrifice?”

  I shake my head. “I’ll never be worth her sacrifice, but if I can get my probation over with, I’ll at least be doing what she wanted me to do. I’ll be who she wanted me to be.”

  “And who did she want you to be?”

  I shrug. “Better than this. She wanted me to rise. If I can become a Select again, I know I’ll be what she wanted for me.”

  “You don’t want that for yourself?”

  For myself? Why does she keep saying things like this, like my wants and comfort mean anything while I’m still a probationary?

  “Claire, your mother loved you.” I hate the warmth in her tone. I’ve heard softness from her, gentleness too. But never this warmth. It’s too much. “She may have wanted better for you, but she never wanted you to hurt yourself to get there.”

  You don’t know what she wanted, I think to myself. You don’t know anything about her, or me, or anything.

  She continues. “She sacrificed herself for you because, to her, you were worth her life.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “But you were. You don’t get to decide what her sacrifice was worth. Only she could. She wanted to be at peace, and she wanted you to live a better life than it could have been if she’d extended her suffering.”

  Suffering. That word breaks me. Tears stream down my face as sobs erupt from my chest. Dr. Shelia is right. My mom was suffering during her final years. She continued her painful, unsuccessful treatments for me. Then she let herself die for me. Everything she did was for me.

  “She loved you so much,” Dr. Shelia whispers. “If you can’t love yourself, you make everything she ever did for you mean nothing.”

  I cover my face with my hands, only mildly aware of the bandage wrapping my palm. “How? How do I love myself when I’m to blame for her suffering in life and her choice for death?”

  “You aren’t to blame. She made her own choices. You need to accept that. If you can’t love yourself, at least start caring about your body. What would your mother think if she could see you now? If she knew you weren’t sleeping? If she could see you working well past your body’s threshold?”

  My gut takes a dive and I pull my hands from my face. She’s right again. My mom wouldn’t be proud of a
ny of this. She’d be horrified. I’ve been pushing myself because I thought it’s what she wanted. But I was lying to myself. This isn’t what she wanted, and I know it. This is what I wanted. To punish myself for how much she loved me.

  “If you want to honor your mother’s memory, then start loving you the way she loved you,” Dr. Shelia says, then leans back in her chair. We fall into silence as my sobs subside and my tears begin to evaporate.

  When I find my words again, my mouth is dry. “You really think I should quit some of my jobs?”

  Dr. Shelia’s face is full of sympathy. “You don’t have many choices, at least where your immediate future is concerned. You can’t wash dishes with your hand like that.”

  I open my mouth to argue, to tell her about Molly and her single arm, then think better of it.

  “If I had my way,” she says, “you’d keep only your laundry job at the hotel, but perhaps add a day or two. I don’t want you working more than five days a week. Once you regain your health, you can return to your previous jobs, one at a time, if you desire.”

  I feel hollow at the thought of giving up on my plan. On what I’d convinced myself was my mom’s plan. But this isn’t what my mom wanted.

  “Okay,” I finally say.

  Dr. Shelia smiles, relief clear on her face. “You’re making the right choice. Would you like me to arrange everything for you?”

  I think about turning in my resignation letter to Mr. Evans as well as my supervisor at the Bistro and shudder. Then I think about Molly, my heart sinking when I realize I won’t be able to see her at work anymore. She was my first true friend as a Public. But she isn’t my only friend. I have Darren too. Darren! I consider the hour it must be, and I realize he has no idea where I am. Did he wait for me on the rail platform like I did for him? Is he angry? Worried? The thoughts clear the remnants of sorrow from my head, and I’m suddenly eager to be alone. “Yes, please, I would appreciate you taking care of my resignation if you don’t mind.”

  “I told you, Claire, I’m your advocate.”

  “Thank you.” I pause and consider how best to ask my next question without revealing my desperation. “Do you happen to know where my reader is? There’s someone I need to let know I’m okay.”

  “They likely took it when they checked you in,” she says as she stands. “I’ll approve your overnight stay on my way out and have someone bring you your things.”

  I do my best to grin. “I appreciate that.”

  Dr. Shelia considers me for a few seconds before reaching into her purse. “I know you haven’t wanted to take medication before now.” She withdraws her hand, and in it are two pill bottles. She places them on the bed next to me. “But now that you are committed to taking better care of yourself, I want you to start taking them. I’ve had both your prescriptions refilled because I want you to double the original prescribed dosage.”

  My stomach twists with nausea as I calculate the cost of the refills. However, I’m too emotionally spent to dwell on it for long. I reach a reluctant hand for the bottles. Once within my grasp, I study them. One is the sedative. Blue gel caps. The other is the antidepressant. White.

  “Two pills of each, night and day,” she says, then moves to the sink to fill a paper cup with water. She hands it to me. “I want you to start taking them tonight.”

  I look from her to the bottles in my hand. What’s the point of avoiding it now? I’ve already proven I’m a hazard to myself without them. Besides, I have no job the next morning to go to, no reason to fear any side effects. If I have a bad reaction, at least I’m already at the hospital.

  I accept the water and down two pills of each.

  I don’t feel any different as I watch Dr. Shelia leave. As I wait for the nurse to bring me my reader. As I rattle off a message to Darren in response to three of his.

  Once the message is sent, I place my reader beside me. A sudden calm falls over me. Is it relief from knowing I was able to contact Darren? The emptiness after having such a deep cry? Or is it the pills?

  I don’t have time to answer.

  Sleep is already taking me.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I wake feeling the same way I did last time I got a full night of sleep. Groggy but rested. There’s also a lightness in my chest, a feeling that some of the emotional burden I’ve been carrying around has disappeared. I look around the room and find that the IV has been removed and my backpack and clothes are in a neat pile on the chair that Dr. Shelia sat in last night. My reader is still next to me on the bed.

  I reach for it, opening my messages. There’s one from Dr. Shelia, saying my resignations from the two restaurants have been confirmed. She also says she’s requested an extra shift for me in the hotel laundry room that she’s confident I’ll be approved for. I try not to calculate how much less I’ll be earning from now on.

  My remaining messages are from Darren, saying how relieved he is that I’m okay and asking when he can see me again. I tell him I’ll be off all day today, and we can meet up when he gets off work. His message comes through before I can put my reader back down.

  Darren: I’ll see you tonight. Your place.

  I smile, then close my messages and check the time. It’s almost noon. Noon! I must have slept almost twelve hours! My heart hammers in my chest and anxiety floods me before I remind myself I’m not on a schedule. It doesn’t matter how late I slept.

  I slowly rise from the bed, testing my body’s reaction. No pain, no nausea, no headache. I move to the chair and begin to dress myself. As I’m sliding my feet into my sneakers, a nurse enters.

  “Good, you’re awake,” she says in a monotone. “Your psychiatrist requested you be allowed to stay until you wake on your own. How do you feel?”

  “I feel great.” I’m amazed that it’s the truth.

  “Your stitches will dissolve once your wound has healed. Are you ready to check out?”

  Her words send a sinking to my gut, reminding me of all the credits I’ll be charged from my treatment, not to mention my extended stay. Luckily, when I check out, they charge me without telling me my total.

  I leave the Public wing of the hospital and make my way back to the city streets. It’s strange retracing my steps that I took last night, down the hill, past the Salish. I feel as if it wasn’t me, bleeding, staggering, fighting to stay upright. I shudder when I recall the blood pouring out of my hand, the shards of glass in the sink.

  I feel a wave of gratitude for whatever medications they pumped me full of at the hospital. Yesterday’s illness feels like a dream now.

  By the time I return to the Public District, I feel a pinch of exhaustion. Instead of walking home, like I normally would when I’m not on a schedule, I take the bus back to the housing centers. I stop at the corner store by my apartment building and pick up some food. A can of soup. An apple. A bag of carrots. I rarely ever spend credits on produce, but I know it’s what my body needs.

  My stomach is growling by the time I make it back to my room. Once inside, I attack my food, enjoying the bright flavors and crunch of the produce. The soup is less enjoyable, but it makes me feel comfortably full. By the time I’m finished, I’m tired again.

  I lay back on my bed, surprised how much yesterday has taken out of me, even after getting a full night of sleep. Then again, when I was a Select, it would take me days to recover from illness. Why should it be any different now? With a sigh, I close my eyes and think about Darren.

  IT’S ALMOST CURFEW when I hear a knock at my door. With a blanket over my shoulders, I answer the door, smiling when I see Darren’s face.

  “I brought dinner again,” he says, holding up a plastic bag like last time.

  “Good, I’m starved.” I stand aside, but he hesitates at my doorway.

  “Actually, I had another idea,” he says. “How would you feel about some fresh air?”

  “What do you mean?” I look beyond him, at the dark apartments rising around us toward the night sky. The late August air feels crisp
, but not unpleasant. Still, there isn’t anywhere to go outdoors that doesn’t violate curfew.

  He grins and holds out his hand. “Trust me.”

  I lift a suspicious brow before slipping on my shoes and putting my hand in his. “Fine. Just don’t get me in trouble.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He leads us along the corridor in front of my room, past the other doors, the quiet windows. At the end, there’s a staircase. I think he’s going to lead us down, but he goes up instead. After a dozen or so flights, I begin to slow, feeling tiredness kicking in again. He pauses, arm steady behind my back as he waits for me to catch my breath. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

  “I’m fine.” This time it isn’t a lie. Besides, I’m too curious now. I want to see where he’s taking me. “Let’s just take it slow.”

  We continue up the remaining flights of stairs until we reach the top floor. There, another corridor leads to more rooms. He turns right, opening an unmarked door. I’m surprised when I see yet another staircase, this one of thin, creaking metal. Darren turns toward me, just as I realize where we’re going. “You first?”

  I climb the stairs. At the top, the roof opens into a flat expanse. A light breeze whips my hair from my face and tugs at the hem of my shirt.

  Darren follows up the stairs and stops behind me, pointing at the sky above. “Look.”

  I tip my head and stare at the black sky dotted with stars. Stars! It’s been years since I’ve taken time to look at the night sky like this instead of out of worry or fear of the looming curfew. But for beauty. Joy. Curiosity. Stars.

  He leads me to the center of the roof where he unpacks his backpack, laying out a blanket, our dinner, and two cups. Then he pulls out a bottle of wine, and I gasp.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Same place I keep getting our dinner.”

  My mouth hangs open. “How many credits is this costing you?”

  He shrugs. “Nothing.”

  I cross my arms narrowing my eyes at him. “How is that possible?”