by K. M. Szpara
“Yes.”
“That’s how I feel watching you make me coffee. I can make it myself; I have two hands.” She holds them up and wiggles her fingers as proof.
“I can make my own, too,” I say.
“Yeah, but you do stuff for other people all day. It’s nice to take a break every now and then.”
“No one else thinks like that.”
“Yeah, well, don’t tell Alex I’m such a sucker.” She chuckles. I check the coffeepot, then clasp my hands to remind myself not to help. “Can you keep a secret?” Jess asks.
“From Alex?” The notion gives me anxiety.
“No, he already knows.”
Oh thank god. “Then, yes.”
Still, Jess leans in and lowers her voice. “I started off as a Docile. Here, in Bishop Labs.”
I gasp. “No.”
“Yes. I inherited my parents’ debt when they died and Alex’s grandmother purchased it. I was such a curious little thing, she offered me an internship after my term. Put myself through school, with this place. When Alex offered me a research job, I knew I could help make Dociline safer and more in line with debtors’ needs, if anyone could. He’s extremely intelligent and his vision is better than his father’s, but folks with direct experience should be involved, I thought. So, here I am.”
“I’ve never heard of a Docile becoming a trillionaire, before.”
“Because it’s impossible without connections. You’re looking at one out of two cases—at least to my knowledge.” She grabs two mugs, cream, and sweetener, then pours a cupful for each of us. I don’t ask who the other case is, even though I’m curious; the matter is obviously private. “So, that’s why I don’t mind doing Dociles favors. Alex does, too, but he can’t let anyone know because of his fancy surname.”
“He never does any favors for me.”
“Never? He didn’t win Dylan for you? I’d say that’s a pretty big favor.” Jess hands me a steaming mug. “Bigger than a cup of coffee.”
* * *
Alex is quiet during the drive home, but my chest pulses with the warm thud of my heart. No matter where I look, I see Dylan staring at me—through me. I break the silence. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes.”
“Is Dylan mad at me?”
“No,” Alex says. “I explained the situation to her. She understands.”
I unravel the diamond chain on my cuff and twirl it around my finger. “She acted like something was wrong with me, though. Is there?”
“No, you’ve been very good, lately.”
“Then, why did Dylan ask if she’d end up like me, as if that’s a bad thing?”
Alex stares out the window for a minute. “She hasn’t seen you in six months.” He slides a comforting hand over my leg. “Everyone changes; everyone grows. We’re a new version of ourselves, every day.”
I nod my head and replay his words. That sounds right. I have changed, but how could I not have? I’m surviving. If I’m honest with myself, life’s easier, lately. Alex is warmer, time faster—which is good. Alex just said I’ve been very good. And his opinion is the only one that matters.
21
ALEX
Elisha’s caseworker smiles for the first time—probably all day—when she sees him. Age lines crease her face. It’s been six months since he first entered this building, since he met her—met me. Six months since we signed a contract. Since I paid off his family debts in exchange for the rest of his life. Dociles are required to visit home for a weekend every six months. This date felt like it would never come, and yet here we are: customers in this building where I’m usually in charge.
I make a point to make a good impression with Elisha’s caseworker. With a quick glance at her name tag, I say, “Pleasure to meet you, Carol,” and shake her hand before she can even stand up. “Alexander Bishop the Third.”
She rises to meet me. “You must be Elisha’s Patron.” Carol is a middle-aged Latina woman, who manages to look down at me despite being a head shorter. She has the power to remove Elisha from my custody, if he were to say I violated any of his rights. But I haven’t and he wouldn’t, so she can’t.
“I am,” I say.
She doesn’t smile at me like she does at Elisha. I know a fake when I see it. “I’ll have to ask you to wait outside.”
“I—” I know that, but by saying it, she makes me look foolish. “Yes, of course.” I rub my hand over the back of Elisha’s neck, keeping my eyes on Carol. “Find me when you’re finished.”
“Okay.” He barely finishes the word before I peck a kiss on his lips. Used to public affections, he returns it.
“Thank you, Carol.” I flash her a pretty grin and close the door behind me.
I consider asking my Patron Liaison, Charlene, whether I can have Elisha’s caseworker changed. Haven’t seen her since Preakness, but she’s ambitious and I’m a Bishop.
The lone wooden bench is full of other Patrons. I join them, waiting like a husband whose partner is in labor. One at a time, their Dociles emerge, eyes still glossy as their last injection wears off. They’re supposed to come at the end of their Dociline cycle so they’re more honest. No on-med would speak badly of their Patron.
Finally, Carol and Elisha emerge from her office, animated with conversation. His demeanor snaps back like a rubber band when he sees me—docile. Carol has to tap his shoulder to regain his attention.
“I can take it from here,” I say, smoothing a hand through his hair and down his back. Reclaiming him.
“Patrons shouldn’t interact with their Dociles’ families,” Carol says.
“Anonymity of surname,” I say. “Third Right. I know the rules.”
“I know the rules, too, Dr. Bishop. I’ve worked here since you were a boy. You are not allowed to interact with your Docile’s family.”
“I’m not going to introduce myself to them, Carol. My family has been a part of this institution for a century. I don’t need you to tell me what I’m allowed to do. I am this place.”
“I should report this to my supervisor.”
“Please do.” I stare at Carol until her shoulders slump and the fire in her eyes goes out.
Finally, she turns to Elisha and says, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, just nervous to see my family.”
That’s not what she meant. She was giving him an out. I wonder how hard she pushed him to demonize me during his interview. I am definitely going to look into reforming some of their “rules,” here, alongside the structural renovations.
“Thank you, Carol.” I hold out my hand to her. “I assure you, Elisha is in good hands.”
She forces herself to take it. I have no sympathy for her, having forced myself through far more precarious social situations. Who does this caseworker think she is, challenging me—in public, at that? She has no idea how hard I’ve worked with him over the past six months. The anxiety this whole ordeal has caused. I rearranged my whole life for Elisha.
“Don’t forget to contact me if you need anything, Elisha,” she says.
“I look forward to seeing you again in six months.” I address her even though she ignores me. “Come on.” I push Elisha forward by the small of his back.
You’d think I bent him over the wooden bench and fucked him, the way Carol glares at me. She can’t do anything. Any inspector would praise the conditions in which I keep Elisha: well fed, educated, creatively enriched. Sexually satisfied.
I smirk to myself as Carol grows smaller behind us. She shouldn’t work here if she can’t handle it.
“Third floor,” I tell Elisha as we near a recently fixed elevator, courtesy of Bishop Labs.
He presses the appropriate button and we rise, quickly, a soft tone signaling our arrival. Halfway down the long marble hall, there’s a thick yellow line painted across the floor, up the walls, and along the ceiling, forming a bright square. Bold black text painted over the yellow states: “NO PATRONS BEYOND THIS POINT.” On the other side, fami
lies huddle around plastic furniture and drink water from waxy cups. First thing Monday, I’m going to advise our contractors to make their area more comfortable. Show people we don’t only care about the Patrons’ experience, but the debtors’, as well.
Elisha’s eyes fix on a middle-aged man with a freshly shaven face who holds his daughter’s shoulders while they watch another Docile cross the yellow line toward her family. The other Docile hugs her family with the awkwardly smooth gestures of someone still coming off their biweekly dose. When Formula 3.0 releases, that will not be an issue.
The man I assume is Elisha’s dad rubs his daughter’s shoulders, as if she’s about to enter a boxing ring. When she glimpses us, her whole body tenses. Mine responds. I turn my back to them to avoid their gaze. If I haven’t crossed the yellow line, why does it feel like I’ve broken a law?
“Take this.” I stuff a thousand dollars into Elisha’s pocket—cash withdrawn specially for this. I’ll need to add him to one of my bank accounts as an approved spender, before his next visit home. “Two hundred for a taxi to take you and your family home. Another two hundred for your trip back, Monday morning; you can call this number.” I hand him the card of a taxi service. “Another two hundred so they don’t have to walk into the city, next time. Tip the drivers. I overestimated the cost, so no one would have to worry about having enough. Your family can keep whatever’s left. I’ll pick you up at the ODR at eight a.m.”
Elisha pats his stuffed pocket, then stutters, “Th-thank you, I…” He shakes his head; he wants to refuse the money. “We don’t have a phone. We can’t—I can’t call a taxi.”
“Oh, um.” Doesn’t have a phone. It didn’t even occur to me—everyone does. I try not to wonder what else his family doesn’t have. “I’ll schedule one for you, seven a.m. What’s your address?” He does have an address. I hope. I fumble with the notepad on my phone more than necessary so I don’t have to look at him.
“I can meet the car at Exit 31. On 83 South.”
“Okay.” I don’t pry further.
Across the yellow line, his sister slips away. “Come on, Dad! Let me—”
“Go on.” I want to kiss him, but shame stills my lips. The gesture would be inappropriate in front of his family. We are not lovers.
Elisha walks the first few steps before running. He crosses the yellow line like the end of the Preakness Stakes and throws his arms around his sister. I loiter for a moment, making sure he’s okay. His dad looks him over, relieved that he isn’t distant, like the other Docile. When Elisha pulls the money from his pocket, his father clamps his hands over the wad, as if someone might steal it. Elisha points casually in my direction, trying to explain. When his dad catches my eye, I know it’s time for me to go. Carol was right.
22
ELISHA
“Are you…” Dad pulls me away from Abby and checks me almost as thoroughly as the doctor does.
“Am I what?” I ask, then realize. “Oh, no. I refused Dociline.”
“Oh, thank god.” He throws his arms around me. “I don’t know if I could handle it—if you—”
I hold him tight, breathing in the sweat and firewood scent that lingers in the overgrown waves of his hair. “If I what?”
Dad lets me go and lowers his voice. “If you ended up like your mother.”
I won’t end up like him, will I? I flinch.
Alex’s words kick in, and I recite them for myself as much as my dad. “You haven’t seen me in six months.”
“Tell me about it. We have a lot of catching up to do. Better start walking while it’s still early.”
“We don’t have to.” I take the cash Alex gave me out of my pocket and hand it to Dad. “I have money for a taxi.”
He shoves the bills in his pocket, glancing at the other families like they might steal it. “Where’d you get that?”
I point past the yellow line. “Alex gave it to me.”
“Your Patron?”
“Yes.”
“And you took it?”
“Of course.” But Dad doesn’t seem to understand. “He wants us to have more time together.”
When I glance over the yellow line, Alex is gone.
* * *
Dad cringes when I pry two of the hundred-dollar bills from his hand and give it to the driver. I nudge Abby out ahead of us.
“Thank you, you can keep the change.” I shut the door and wave the cab off. Dust and dirt form a cloud behind its spinning tires.
“We should have walked,” Dad says. “Saved the money.”
I hate how much his words hurt. His doubt and distrust. Why would he reject the gift of time that Alex has given us? But I hear worse from trillionaires, regularly, so if I can ignore them, I can ignore Dad.
I throw an arm around Abby’s shoulders. It’s only been six months, but already she looks taller, her shoulders broader, hands rougher. The first signs of acne dapple her perpetually sun-pink skin. Her bangs hang wavy and uneven over her eyes. She hugs me against her as hard as I do, her smaller fingers digging into my side.
“You turned into a teenager while I was gone. Next time I’m here you’ll be a grown woman.”
Abby laughs like I remember Mom used to. No wonder she took the same name. Dad’s face remains blank.
“I’ve missed you,” she says.
“I’ve missed you, too.”
I push the front door open, relieved that I do not have to pass Tom to enter my own home. The single room that serves as our living room, kitchen, and dining room is exactly the way I left it, except—“Where’s Mom?”
“She’s with Nora,” Dad says. “Abby, why don’t you run and tell them Elisha’s here.”
Dylan and Nora Falstaff. David Burns. Abby, Elisha, and Abigail Wilder. My family. Our surnames sound foreign after six months of disuse; I make a point to remember them.
“Nora! Mom!” Abby breaks into a run, disappearing through the door.
Dad and I stand in silence. He breaks it by striking a match and lighting the wood in the stove. I hand him the kettle—still half-full—and we wait for it to boil.
“So, uh.” Dad grabs two mugs and a metal coffee tin that no longer holds coffee, but leaves and buds for tea. “That was him, huh? Alexander Bishop ‘the Third.’” He pronounces the suffix like it’s make-believe.
My family got a copy of the contract in the mail, so Dad already knows the details. “Yes,” I say, anyway.
Dad shoves mint and tea leaves into two little pouches and tosses them in the mugs. I take one and say, “Thank you.”
“What’s he do?”
“Alex?” I consider my answer carefully. I wouldn’t lie, but the exact truth might hurt Dad more than help him. “Research,” I say. “He’s a scientist.”
“How old is he?”
“Thirty.”
Dad nods. “Could be worse.”
I do not tell him how right he is. How lucky I am to be with Alex rather than Dutch or Mariah.
“He feed you?”
I laugh at that. “He has to. Second Right.”
Dad holds his free hand up. “You hear things. I won’t lie, I was relieved not to have to send your sister.” Bubbling water interrupts us. Dad and I reach for the kettle at the same time. “I’ve got it.” He pours steaming water into our cups.
I suppress the itch to help. To feel useful. “Thank you.”
My tea doesn’t have a chance to cool before Abby bursts through the door. Nora follows and points Mom in the right direction. “Come now, Abigail, you remember Elisha.”
Mom wears the soft smile I see on every other Docile’s face along with faded jeans and a World Foods branded tee shirt. “Hello, Elisha.” She hugs me, gently, not at all like she hasn’t seen me for six months.
But I squeeze her and kiss her cheek. “Miss you,” I say quietly. There’s no catching up with Mom; we’re not sure how much she remembers day to day, and she seems to enjoy everything she does equally.
“Come here, you.” Nora pulls
me into an even stronger hug that smells like sunflower oil and earth. Her brown skin is warmer than I remember, probably burnt judging by the state of my mother’s; the two must’ve been in the garden under the sun, all day. “We’re all happy to see you,” she says, “even those of us who don’t say it.”
“Thank you. I’m glad to be—” Home. The word is “home,” but it feels wrong. Even the letters don’t come out right in my head. “—here. And to see you all.” That part is true.
“Well,” Dad says. “The farm was putting together a surprise party for you—”
“Dad!”
“David!”
Abby and Nora shout at the same time, jumping up from where they leaned against the wall.
“Oh, calm down,” he says. “It’ll still be fun.”
They both huff and busy themselves with their own tea.
“Look, I thought we wouldn’t be home until tonight. But since we took a taxi”—he strains to treat the word like any other—“everyone’s still getting their work and party preparations done, your sister and me included. Do you mind spending a few hours with Nora and your mother?”
“Not at all,” I say.
“And try to act surprised, later, will you?” He ruffles my hair—which I immediately fix—sets his mug down, and tugs Abby to follow him. She whines and drags her feet, letting the door slam behind them.
“Abigail, why don’t you tidy up,” Nora says. Not that there’s much, but Mom will go over the same spots until you tell her to stop.
“Okay,” she says.
Nora gulps her tea and stares at her boots, waits until the only sound is the swish-swish of Mom’s broom. “Dylan registered.”
“I know.”
She looks at me with hope in her eyes. “Did you—have you—”
“Seen her? Yes.” I smile and relax, hoping my expression will comfort her. “She’s safe.”
“Thank god.” Nora presses her hand to her chest. “I worried, you know? We didn’t have too much debt left…” Not after her husband killed himself while under a Patron’s care, she doesn’t say. “But the creditors came by a few times, and we knew the cops would be next. You gave her that strength, Elisha.”