by K. M. Szpara
“Yes.”
“Good. Then why don’t you ask me a question after each point I explain to you—even if you don’t have one. How does that sound?”
“Okay.” I can do that.
“Good. Now, Alex isn’t the one who’s really suing you; his father is.” Verónica looks to me for a question, her face unlined, tensionless. No pressure, and yet …
“Um.” I pull the ring of my cuff, again, dragging the diamond chain link by link until Onyx’s hand closes over it. I look at the ceiling and bend my fingers enough that the ring slides free and the chain contracts and Onyx’s hand disappears. “Why?”
“Why, what?” Verónica asks.
“Why is Lex suing me in Alex’s name? Why not do it in his own?”
She sounds pleased: “That’s a good question. Lex is suing you in Alex’s name, it states, because Alex was declared temporarily unfit to stand trial.”
A short burst of laughter escapes me. When I look between Onyx and Verónica, neither of them gets the joke. “Unfit? Alex. My Alex. No. He always knows exactly what he’s doing.”
“Elisha.” Verónica uses my name, once again, with the tone that signals she’s going to explain something basic to me. “Lex is extremely powerful and influential. He knows everyone who runs the city, on a political and judicial level. Donates to their election campaigns and to their foundations. If he wanted a favor, they wouldn’t hesitate. Not to stall a law he didn’t like or endorse a candidate or—”
“Help Lex hurt his son.” My voice fades to a whisper. If he can have a judge call my Alex unfit, there’s nothing he can’t do.
“Exactly. I would guess Alex is fine and has nothing to do with this complaint. He may not even know about it.”
“If you defend me, though, won’t that hurt Alex even more? You said he might not know what’s going on. I love him. I don’t want to hurt him—What if he thinks I’m hurting him? I could never.” I shake my head, clasp my hands in my lap. I only want to make him happy. For us to be happy.
The door swings open and Eugenia enters. She leans against the wall, watching like a hawk perched on one of the old power lines.
“Alex is a plaintiff. You can’t hurt him by defending yourself. There are not usually legal consequences for a plaintiff, if they lose,” Verónica says, as if Eugenia isn’t here.
“Okay,” I say, feeling stupid for having asked. Alex always told me what I needed to know; I’m not good at guessing.
“Good.” Verónica smiles, pleased with me. “Now, in brief, they’re alleging fraud.”
A silent minute passes before I remember to form a question. I know what the word means, but can’t think how I’ve defrauded Alex. I’ve never lied to him, not even when he thought I had. Not even when he wanted me to.
So, I ask, “What kind of fraud?”
Verónica moves her finger from paragraph to paragraph as she explains. “Lex alleges that you targeted Alex to get close to Bishop Laboratories, in an attempt to punish them for hurting your mother.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
I forgot “okay” is no longer enough. “I meant that I understand, but that’s not true. I don’t understand that; I didn’t target Alex.”
“And you don’t believe Bishop Laboratories hurt your mother?”
“No, I do believe that. That part is true.”
Eugenia catches Verónica’s eye, as if they have a secret. Neither shares it with me.
“Good,” Verónica says. “You need to be clear on that point. It’s very important. They’re going to depose you—like an interview that can be used in court—and you will need to answer questions with as much specificity as possible. Their attorneys will use your words against you, in court.”
I feel my heart beating faster and take a deep breath before the rest of my body can catch up. “Okay.” I close my eyes and breathe slowly. “Okay, it’s okay.”
“It is going to be okay,” Verónica echoes. “You’re not alone. Eugenia, Onyx, and I are here with you, and many more people will support you and your family, going forward.”
“Thank you.” I push my middle finger through the loop on my cuff, but don’t pull. I can feel Onyx’s eyes on me. “What else does it say?”
Verónica moves her finger to the next paragraph. “It alleges that you refused Dociline so that you could seduce Alex.”
Seduce Alex? I hear the words—know both of them, but … They don’t belong here. I’m supposed to ask if I don’t understand, but all the answers I imagine are wrong. I don’t want to ask. Don’t want this lawsuit. Want Alex back.
“Are you still with me, Elisha?” Verónica asks.
I whisper, “Yes.”
“It says you convinced him to amend your contract, freeing you from your obligations while also paying off your debt—cheating Alex out of his three million dollars.”
“That’s not what happened,” I say. “I begged him not to take me home, even though I’ve never asked Alex for anything like that, before. I never would have dared, but…” I feel the swell of tears in my eyes. “It hurt.” Remember the sharp jab of my own finger against my sternum. “He did it, anyway. I was quiet the whole time, like he asked, I thought if … if I was good, but he made me sign it. I didn’t even know I was signing my contract until it was too late. I never wanted it. I wanted to stay with him, be his Docile. Alex left me.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that. I intend to argue the exact opposite of their assertions; that it was Alex who manipulated you. I’d like a behavioral expert to examine you—I assume they’ll do the same for Alex—to show that you’re the one struggling; that you did not render Alex unfit for trial by way of seduction.”
Beside me, Onyx snorts. “Imagine a Docile seducing their Patron. How? The power differential is incredible. Even for an off-med, the influence Alex held over Elisha’s life and family.”
“Yes, but that’s how they’ve declared him unfit. Knowing the Second, he only would’ve had to ask a judge. I guarantee they’re going to parade his family and friends out to say Alex isn’t the person he was before meeting Elisha.” Verónica looks at me. “The implication is that something must have changed him, and he spent a lot of time alone with you over the past six months.”
“I didn’t seduce him,” I say, to make sure I’m heard. They have to understand. “I love Alex—and he loves me. He told me.”
“I know you think that, Elisha.” Verónica uses my name like I’m a child.
I’m not. She’s my attorney. She should believe me. “It’s true.”
“Okay,” she says, but I can tell she doesn’t. Why can she say “okay” when I can’t? Why do I have to do more than her?
“I’ll be the bad guy,” Onyx says, turning his chair to face me. “Elisha, you’re not well. Whether he meant to or not, over the past six months, Alex has conditioned you to behave the way he wants you to. To follow his rules. To speak and act in the manner that suits his lifestyle. You’re not the person you used to be.”
“People change, every day.” I hold up Alex’s words like a shield. He used to protect me.
“They do,” he says, “but not like this. He brainwashed you. You need to unlearn what he taught you, if you’re going to make it through this trial. There’s a real danger that you’ll end up back in debt. You could be forced back into the Docile system. Your parents could go to debtors’ prison, Elisha. This is serious.”
Back in debt. Prison. Words I understand—and can Alex’s dad really do that? I signed a contract. I registered for the ODR, left my family. I did everything right and, still, Lex can take it all away from me. From my family. I look between the cuff on my left arm and the bandage on my right. The familiar urge to disappear reasserts itself.
“Can I interrupt?” Eugenia pushes off the wall and paces alongside the table. I’d forgotten she was there.
“Certainly,” Verónica says, looking askance at Onyx.
“No one is going to prison. I just talke
d with Dutch, as well as the rest of our budget committee, and we’ve agreed to set aside the three million dollars to satisfy your family’s debt, should you lose, on the condition that we make certain strides with this case.”
Eugenia stops between me and Verónica. “That money could build several schools, resolve a dozen folks’ debts, upgrade infrastructure in struggling county towns—all of that is important and meaningful. But public perception is priceless. We’ve been trying, for years, to convince this city that Dociline and the Bishops are hurting them, not helping. If we can do that here, other states will follow.”
She squats down, meeting me at eye level. “Help us prove that the Bishops are the frauds and Empower Maryland will cover you, regardless of the verdict. No ODR, no debtors’ prison. Are you in?”
Am I? I can’t afford an attorney on my own. Can’t defend myself without Empower Maryland or Verónica. Despite how lost I feel, this situation is familiar. That someone is asking my consent as if I have a choice. Pay to see a doctor or suffer. Register with the ODR or go to debtors’ prison. Go down on Dutch or be humiliated—punished. Impossible choices I’ve made, if you can call it that.
I know when I say, “Yes,” it’s the same, here.
“Good.” Eugenia smiles as she stands and makes her way to the door. “I think this is going to be good—for all of us.”
51
ELISHA
Fighting is more than Verónica filing our answer, I learn. If I’m going to help them fight the Bishops, I shouldn’t be wearing the clothes Alex bought me. Onyx takes me to the donations closet: a room as big as Alex’s house, packed with clothing, and, already, I feel overwhelmed. Why can’t Verónica tell me what’s best to wear for a trial? I don’t know and can’t pick. A rack of colorful clothes blurs into a rainbow as they slide past, startling me. I jump when Onyx appears on the other side.
“Ask me for help,” Onyx says, a challenge.
“With clothes?”
“No. Ask me to help you deprogram. If you’re going forward with this, you can’t act like a Docile. I’m not sure you want it. Do you know how frustrating it is to engage with you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You know you can’t function without Alex and yet you insist you’re not brainwashed, so which is it? Are you so far gone that you can’t exist without Alexander Bishop or are you an independent person, capable of making your own decisions? Dressing and feeding yourself? Having dreams and desires? Able to ask basic questions and stand up for yourself?”
“I don’t know, okay?” I say. “I don’t know. I need Alex. I…” I look at the endless racks of clothing, or an impossible number of decisions. “You’re right. I don’t know what to do without him. I miss him. I miss doing what he tells me. Making him happy—that made me happy. But I also know he’s not here, for whatever reason, so I need to be able to function without him. He told me, when he was taking me back to the farm, that I needed to find myself. Learn how to be myself again. I’m not sure what that means or how to do it alone. But if that’s what Alex wants, while he’s gone, I’ll do it. I’ll try.”
Onyx stares impatiently at me. “So are you—”
“Please help me,” I say before he can finish. It feels important that I ask before he can tell me to, again.
“Help you, what?”
“Help me”—I still can’t say “deprogram”—“learn who I am, again. How to exist without Alex. How to pick out my own clothes.” When he doesn’t immediately respond, I say, “Please.”
Onyx, with a smirk, says, “Okay, I’ll help you. Pick something.”
“For what?”
“For yourself. But good job asking a question.”
“Thank you.” I wonder how much goodwill that will earn me. Not enough. Maybe if I ask another. “Where will I be wearing it?” Context matters. I would never wear the same outfit to Preakness as to the Silo or eating dinner in.
Onyx shrugs. “Around. Doesn’t matter. Pick whatever you like the best.”
I don’t know what I like the best—and don’t believe him that context doesn’t matter—but I don’t tell him that. What I like are the clothes that Alex bought me. The outfits he picked for me. I liked the tee shirts that were so soft he couldn’t keep his hands off me, and the pink-checkered button-down he always called cute.
“Go on.” Onyx nudges me gently forward.
I decide to browse, first. There’s no rush. This is an exercise. Nothing’s riding on it. Besides, I’ve never shopped for myself, before. On the farm, I wore whatever clothing was donated—usually branded, unless Empower Maryland was in the area—and Alex bought all my clothes for me, after we signed our contract. I’ve literally never seen so many clothes. I have no idea where to start.
“Underwear,” I say to myself, cracking a small smile. That’s an easy one. I find a row of underwear—not used, thankfully. Donated new, in plastic packaging. Alex hates plastic. He probably wouldn’t like any of these.
There are styles to accommodate all types of bodies and genders. High waists, full coverage, briefs, boxers, something that looks like two pieces of string tied together.
“Going for the thong, eh?” Onyx calls from a row over.
I wasn’t, but I feel the heat of blush on my face, as I set it back on the shelf. Would I wear that if Alex gave it to me? I would, I think. I don’t think I would like it, but if he did, that would make up for it.
Instead, I find myself eyeing a pack of boxer briefs, not unlike those I’m wearing, now. The package says they’re ultra-flexible and the man in the picture is holding a gym bag, so I assume they’re for exercising. Can I wear them if I’m not exercising? I think I can. There are no more rules. I can wear whatever I want. With my heart pounding in my ears, I tuck them under my arm and move on to the next section.
“I’ll hold that for you,” Onyx offers. When I hand them over, he says, “Solid choice. What’s next?”
“I don’t know.” I bite my lip and try not to tug on my cuff. “A shirt?”
“What kind of shirt?”
“Um.”
“A tee shirt, button-down, long or short sleeve…” He gestures to a different section. “Blouse?”
“No.”
“You could forgo a shirt, altogether, if you wanted to wear a dress.”
“I’ve never worn a dress before.”
“Nothing’s stopping you.”
“I don’t know.” I run my fingers down the silky black fabric of a cocktail dress. “Not for me—or not for me, now, at least.”
“Fair, but worth considering,” Onyx says. “So, what kind of shirt are you looking for?”
“I think it depends on the pants.”
Onyx jogs backwards over to a different section, and I follow. “Pants it is, then.”
“Comfortable pants.”
“Sweatpants?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Too casual.”
“But you’re not doing anything formal.”
“No, but I’m around a lot of other people, and I want to look nice.”
“What if you try them and love them? Go on. Try them on.” Onyx thrusts a pair of heather-gray sweatpants into my arms before I can object.
They are soft. Comfortable, too, I’d bet. He’s right. I should try them on, if only to know I don’t want to wear them.
“Do you need me to turn around?” Onyx asks.
“You’ve seen me naked,” I say, the edge returning to my voice. I don’t have the energy to be angry with him, anymore. I should be. He deceived me—made me feel bad for him. But, off-med, he knew what he was getting into. He made the choice to be with me, then.
“Just because you’ve experienced something once doesn’t mean you have to every time. You have agency, now, Elisha. You can give consent. Try it.” He asks, again, “Do you need me to turn around?”
Before the choice can overwhelm me, I answer, “No. No, it’s fine. You can stay. I don’t mind. Rea
lly.”
“Okay.”
Onyx holds out an arm for me to steady myself on while I take my pants off. He holds them, as I slide into the legs of the sweatpants. The cotton feels soft and warm on my legs. The elastic not too tight around my hips or ankles.
“Do you like them?”
“Yes.” I’m not lying, either. “I do.” I shift from one leg to the next. Shove my hands into their deep pockets. “But not for now.”
“You can keep them for later.”
“Really?” I feel like a thief, taking more than I need for right now.
“Really. You’re allowed to have more than one set of clothes. At the least, you’re going to need a few sets of casual clothes, pajamas for sleeping—those stalls aren’t the pinnacle of privacy—and suits for court.”
“Court, right.” The reality of why we’re here spoils the moment like old milk poured over fresh oats. I’m picking out clothes so I can go to court because Alex’s family is suing mine. A jury is going to judge me. I can’t look like a fraud. I should pick out something I’d be proud for Alex to see me wear. That he’ll look at and think, That’s my Elisha. My good boy. I don’t tell Onyx that, in case it’s wrong.
With one swift motion, I pull the sweatpants off and drape them over Onyx’s waiting arms. I actually feel most comfortable like this, in underwear and a tee shirt. The gentle compression. The freedom. Is there anything like that I can wear in public?
I look through jeans—ripped jeans, black jeans, baggy jeans. I don’t love them. I feel more at home in the slacks section, flipping through pinks and greens and blues. With these, I can wear button-downs and bow ties and belts and—
“What are these?” I hold up a pair of, well, they look like my exercise bottoms, but nicer. I’m not sure they count as pants. They’re stretchy and soft, sort of like the sweatpants, but much more formfitting.
“Leggings,” Onyx says.
“How do you wear them?”
“On your legs and over your ass.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, come on, I’m messing with you.” Onyx flashes a smile, a dimple forming on his left cheek. “You mean, what do people normally wear them with.”