Docile

by K. M. Szpara

  I swallow and look at my feet. “Unforgivable.”

  “At least you know it.” Then, she pats my leg. Reassurance I don’t deserve. “Elisha will get through this. He’s a good boy.”

  “I used to tell him that, all the time. Happiest I’ve ever seen him.”

  “How sad.” She says it like she means it. “You’d like Elisha. I hope you get to meet him.”

  I bite my lip to keep myself quiet. It doesn’t matter that she’s right. I don’t really know Elisha. I only know the person I made him into. But I can’t believe it was all a lie. Who knows what Elisha might’ve become if he could’ve afforded private tutoring, a university degree, formal arts, and athletic training. He might’ve liked the piano, regardless. Maybe I only helped the keys under his fingers.

  The EMTs emerge with their gear. “He’s going to be fine,” one says. “Just be careful with him.”

  “Thank you.” I shake their hands. “You can send me the bill.” After I sign the paperwork, I show them out.

  Nora ladles broth into a mug and sets it on the table. “You’re going to be here awhile.”

  “You don’t have to feed me.” My stomach growls, while I try to remember the last time I ate.

  “I don’t care if you have a hundred billion dollars, Dr. Bishop. I’m still a mother and you’re still a son.”

  I sit, smiling for the first time since I arrived. I have more than a hundred billion dollars. “Please, call me Alex.”

  “All right, then, Alex, eat. No one’s child goes hungry in my house.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I glance over my shoulder at Elisha’s door before sipping the warm broth.

  Still closed.

  * * *

  When the door finally creaks open, Nora and I both look up. It’s David. Alone. He beckons Nora over, speaks quietly into her ear, and rubs her back before he walks off, not giving me a single look.

  Nora stands between the open door and its frame. “Alex, why don’t you take a walk. Get some fresh air. I won’t forget about you.”

  She wants privacy—I get it. And I don’t blame her. She watches me stand and leave the small house, closing the door behind me. I stand in front of it, for a minute, eyes closed, listening for Elisha’s voice. Any hint that he still exists. I hear only a murmur in Nora’s comforting tone and the creak of hinges.

  Then, I leave. Shove my hands into my pockets and kick a stone across the dirt path before following. I don’t want to stray too far. Can’t be too many people in Elisha’s community who want to talk to a Bishop. The ones whose company holds their loved ones’ contracts, whose laboratory manufactures Dociline.

  They wouldn’t take it if they didn’t think it was useful. I wouldn’t keep working on it if I didn’t feel the same. If he’d taken it, Elisha would never have …

  I round the side of the house and look over the potted herbs. Not sure how long they need me gone, I stop and smell each one. Pluck a mint leaf. Chew on it, while I walk. A woman sits on a stool behind the next house, a bucket of laundry between her knees. She stares straight ahead with a calm smile on her face, not once looking at me as I draw closer.

  I nod politely, acknowledging her. “Hi.”

  “Hello,” she says in a soft voice that reminds me of my elevator.

  I stop. This is Elisha’s house. I face the woman. “Pardon me, but are you Elisha’s mother?”

  “Yes, Elisha,” she says, still raking a shirt over the washing board.

  He’d said she was disabled. Like she was still on Dociline, despite having come off it a while ago. But she seems normal to me, pleasant enough. “I’m Alex.” I hold out my hand and hers rises to take it, straight from the wash, still dripping and soapy.

  “Hi, Alex.”

  When she doesn’t introduce herself, I say, “What’s your name? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “My name is Abigail.”

  “Nice to meet you, Abigail.” I let go of her hand and she returns to her washing. There’s something about the way she looks at me, or how she doesn’t. Her eyeline passes an inch to the right of my face, off into the countryside. “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

  “Okay.”

  “Elisha seems to think the Dociline never fully left your system, though—” I gesture to the laundry. “You’re clearly fine.”

  “That’s nice.” Her gaze lingers off to the side. Response unsettling, but not indicative of anything. Yet.

  I’m nervous when I ask, “What’s your favorite color?”

  “Yes.”

  My stomach drops. “What did you eat for breakfast?”

  “I like breakfast.”

  “But, what did you eat?”

  “Okay.”

  Oh no. A chill works its way up my spine, in the humid evening air. That is not an answer. It’s a canned phrase. “Abigail—”

  “My name is Abigail.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and press my fingertips against my forehead. Elisha told me she was like this, and I called him a liar. I punished him for lying to me, because it couldn’t be true. Dociline shouldn’t do this to a person. If she has another condition—something I can treat. Actually help her. I would, for Elisha. To help him, one of the only ways I know how. I should ask. If I can help—

  I stumble when someone grabs the back of my shirt.

  “You get the fuck away from my wife!”

  Pain explodes through my face—transforms into a dull throb that burns through my cheek and pounds in my eye socket. I can feel my heartbeat in my teeth. When I crack open my eyes, Elisha’s father is massaging his hand.

  He kneels beside Abigail, sliding a hand over her cheek. Looks into her eyes as if there’s anything in there.

  I struggle upward, holding my jaw. “I can—”

  When he jumps to his feet, I hold my hands in the air and back up. Something warm trickles from my nostril. Blood or snot. I wipe the back of my hand against my nose, wincing at the sharp pain that shoots up the middle of my face. Yep, blood.

  “I don’t think she’s well. I can help her. Or I’d like to try. If you’d let me—”

  “The fuck you will.”

  I brace for his attack, but he stands like a wall in front of Abigail.

  “You think you can help her? You did this to her! You broke her, and my son.” Tears well up in his eyes. He wipes them away, wipes the sweat from his forehead through his hair. “I don’t ever want to see you again, Bishop. You stay the—”

  “David!” Nora slows to a stop, in the middle of the dirt path. Her glare catches David as if a spotlight. She pushes her sleeves up, wipes her arm across her forehead, as if that will wipe away the stress and exhaustion of the situation.

  David softens. His shoulders slump as he appeals to her. “I don’t want him near Abigail, Nora. Or Elisha.”

  “I could help her,” I say before David can continue. While I have Nora’s attention. She seems the more reasonable of the two. “If you let me bring her to my laboratory, I can run some tests and—”

  “No.” She crosses her arms. “If I had it my way, you wouldn’t be allowed within a mile of my family. But Elisha’s asking for you.”

  “Absolutely not,” David says.

  I resolve to see Elisha whether or not his father gives me permission, before Nora says, “You didn’t exactly help Elisha when he asked you to, David. Despite everything, Alex rushed up here to help Elisha when he called. If Elisha wants to see him, he can.” She gestures for me to go, like air traffic control.

  I stop listening when I round the corner. David’s right. I did break Elisha. Abigail … I swallow any thought of that being my fault, my family’s fault. That there could be others like her, out there. We don’t observe Dociles after their contracted terms. ODR regulations don’t allow us. Maybe they should. I don’t know, anymore.

  All I know is Elisha’s waiting for me when I go to him. Standing in the middle of the room with his arms folded, trying to hide his bandaged wrist. On the other, he st
ill wears the rose-gold cuff I locked on, six months ago.

  He opens his mouth to speak, but fails. Bites his lip. Glances at the bloodstain on the bed. Now that I’m standing in front of him on as equal a footing as possible, I don’t know what to say, either.

  “I didn’t do it right,” he says, quietly.

  “Good,” I say. “I never wanted this. I wanted you to heal, but…” Shame warms my face. I run a hand through my hair and force myself to look up from my feet. “It was stupid and selfish of me to think you could do that on your own, especially here. For me to abandon you after months of training and expect you to find your feet without help. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, in a voice just like his mother’s.

  “No. You have nothing to apologize for.” I work up the guts to go to him. Take his trembling hands in mine and kiss his fingers until they relax and warm. He smells different, like earth and salt and grass. Like blood. I hold his right arm, fingers and elbow, examining the bandage around his wrist. “It’s okay if you don’t know what to say. But don’t be sorry. This isn’t your fault.”

  “Okay.”

  “Fuck.” I sigh, tightening my hold. I feel him wince, and jerk my hands away, remembering his wound.

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  This is harder than I thought. “No. You don’t have to please me, anymore, Elisha. You can say what you feel. You don’t have to say ‘okay’ or ‘sorry’ if you don’t mean them. My opinion doesn’t matter, anymore.”

  “Oh.” He chokes the syllable out and steps back. “But you came. Why…” He looks to me for permission to ask the rest of his question.

  “Ask. Ask me anything you want.” I deserve an inquisition.

  “Why did you come?”

  “You called me. Did no one tell you?” They may not have known.

  “No.” He shakes his head. “I heard your voice in my head. I thought—I thought I was imagining you.”

  “No.” I reach out for him, gently this time. “I’m real.”

  Elisha wraps his arms around me and buries his head in my chest. His body shudders. My chest warms with his breath and tears. I kiss his forehead and wait until he unwinds. When I feel his breathing steady, I loosen my hold. Allow him to step back.

  “I should go.” I hate myself for saying it, but it’s what’s right. I have to let him recover. I don’t hold his contract anymore and his parents clearly don’t want me around. Not that I could stay here, if I wanted. Dad knows I’m gone—I snuck out in the middle of an interview. My mother’s probably heard. Mariah, Dutch, Jess? I didn’t tell anyone where I was going.

  “Okay.” Elisha wipes his nose on his sleeve. “I’ll get my things.”

  My heart plummets. “Elisha, you can’t. I can’t.” I clear my throat. “Believe me when I tell you I want nothing more than to bring you home with me.”

  “Then, I don’t understand.”

  “I hurt you, Elisha. Every second you’re with me, I hurt you more—change you more. You become less of yourself. That’s why you can’t be with me.”

  “But I can’t not be with you. I don’t know how.” He looks away, blinking rapidly. “I need you. I love you,” he adds, quietly.

  “I know you think you do.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because it’s true. I changed you. Made you feel loyalty or admiration. Made you dependent. I want you to be able to make your own decisions.”

  “Then, why won’t you let me make this decision? I want to go home with you.”

  “Do you, though? Would a rational person want to go home with someone who hurt them?”

  His eyes wander while he works out the correct answer. “No? I don’t know? I can’t stay here. Please, I don’t know how to—what to—” Elisha crosses his arms and digs his nails into his skin. Closes his eyes. Creases his forehead.

  He’s right. He can’t stay here. Fuck, he tried to kill himself because he couldn’t function without me. He needs to be guided back to himself. Can I do this, though? Untrain him? Teach him how to be himself when I don’t even know who he was?

  “When will I be rational?” Elisha twirls the diamond chain around his finger—a lingering reminder of my patronage.

  The real answer is that he won’t be rational for a while. But he needs to know he has agency. “Now,” I say. “You’re capable of making decisions right now.”

  “Then I want to go home with you, please.” He can’t resist that “please.”

  And I can’t resist him. “Okay. As long as your father says—”

  Elisha’s already shaking his head before I can finish. “I’m not a dependent. I don’t need his permission.”

  My face relaxes into a smile. It’s almost like having a real conversation with him. “Okay. But it would be respectful to tell Nora where you’re going, since she cared for you. Go find her. I’ll gather your things.”

  “Yes, Alex.” And like that, Elisha’s back in old habits.

  * * *

  Once Elisha leaves to find Nora, I call a taxi. Don’t want to call my building for a car and risk my father showing up. He won’t—can’t—understand our relationship.

  “You’re taking him back, aren’t you?” A girl in her early teens leans against the door, arms crossed. Wavy brown hair hangs in her face.

  “Yes,” I say. “But it was his decision.”

  “He’s not very good at making decisions, though, is he?” She kicks at the floor with leather boots that are too big. Like they belonged to an older sibling. An older brother.

  “You’re Abby.”

  “None of your business.”

  I sling Elisha’s small bag over my shoulder. “Fair enough.”

  She follows me outside. “When are you bringing him back?”

  “None of your business,” I say, without stopping. The taxi texts to let me know it’s close.

  “Of course it’s my business. He’s my brother!” That stops me. She sighs. “Yes, I’m Abby, and yes, I know who you are. It’s not fair that he’s going back into the city with you when I’m not even allowed to see him. Our dad hasn’t let me talk to him since he’s been home. He doesn’t want me becoming like him and Mom.”

  “Their situations are different.”

  “Yeah, but they’re both your fault.”

  I resist the impulse to defend Dociline. To tell Abby her mother is an outlier. That she probably had a pre-existing condition she should’ve alerted her doctor to when she was considering Dociline. Now is not the time.

  Elisha closes the gate to a small garden and jogs toward us. From the other side, the taxi pulls up.

  “So, when are you bringing him back?”

  “I don’t know. Honestly. When he’s better and only if he wants to return. It’s up to him.”

  “Better?” Abby crosses her arms. “Do you even know what that means?”

  No, but I don’t say that.

  “I think he’ll be better when he hates you,” she says. “Because he should.”

  I said the same to Jess—and myself—but when his sister says it, a shiver ripples over my skin.

  “There you are,” Elisha says, coming up behind Abby. “Nora didn’t know—”

  She hugs him so hard it muffles his words. I turn around, give them a moment. The taxi doesn’t. It honks and I wave at the driver, hoping they’ll wait.

  I feel Elisha beside me. When I glance over my shoulder, Abby’s heading toward their house.

  He’ll be better when he hates you.

  He sits beside me in the cab—in the middle seat, so he can lean against me—and I hold him tight. He rides the rest of the way into the city with his eyes closed. Fixed on the back of the scratched leather driver’s seat, mine remain open.

  * * *

  I rouse Elisha when we pull up to my building—our building. Rain patters against the window. I need to start thinking of “mine” as “ours” if we’re going to be truly equal. Elisha’s not the only one who needs to cha
nge.

  “Wait for me inside,” I say, then add, “if you want.” We’ve been alone for less than an hour and already I’m fucking it up. Elisha thinks I’m equipped for this, but I could very well not be.

  “Of course I will.” He squeezes my hand, then runs through the rain, closing the door behind him.

  I press my index finger to the payment pad and wait for a beep that doesn’t come.

  The driver swivels in her seat and taps the machine. “Fingerprint reader is wonky, sometimes. You have to run your card.”

  I swipe my matte black card.

  We wait.

  “Maybe the other side,” she says, leaning even farther into the back seat to look. Her plastic flamingo earrings dangle in the way of my view.

  Any side should work, but I go through the motions so she has no reason to doubt me. Finally, the machine beeps an affirmative jingle. The driver’s dashboard lights up. She slides back into her seat and taps it, processing the payment or whatever cab companies do.

  “I’ve got a message from your bank. Says your payment requires secondary authorization?”

  Before I can tell her the problem’s on her end, the dash beeps again.

  “Wait, there it goes,” she says. “If you want to leave a tip, now’s the time, hon.”

  Tacky.

  I breathe in and blow out my revulsion before leaving a one hundred percent tip. “For your trouble,” I say, then get out and slam the door behind me.

  Elisha stands under the marble awning. His eyes dart nervously at the front doors.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Nothing.” He puts a damp arm around me.

  For the first time in months, I can’t tell if he’s lying. He wouldn’t—not so soon.

  But he could.

  I have to choose to believe him, now. Believe that he tells me the truth because he loves me. I kiss the top of his head. Thread my fingers through his.

  When we push the front doors open and walk into the lobby, Dutch is talking to Tom. He’s drenched and disheveled, shirt sleeves pushed haphazardly over his elbows, hair sticking up, bow tie hanging loosely from either end of his collar.