by Ginger Scott
“These are side effects. Like those things they rattle off in erectile dysfunction commercials or antidepressant ads and shit. Justin?” He finally breaks and glances at me, pedal still pushed to the floor.
“Huh?” His eyes stay on me for a dangerously long time, and I instinctively hold on to the door handle and dashboard as we weave along the road. We haven’t seen a car yet, but I don’t know that one isn’t coming.
“The camera pills, they were real. They’re studying us, our bodies. They want to see what happens to us after whatever shit they probably injected us with gets into our systems. We were roadkill, and they scooped us up for testing.” It sounds nuts as I say it, but at the same time it’s completely plausible. It’s more than plausible; it’s fucking likely.
I click the tablet off and notice the Morpheus logo on the screen saver. That M, it’s familiar.
“Dude, look at this?” I hold the pad closer to his view of the roadway, encouraging him to not enter us in a one-vehicle stock-car race. This beast we’re riding in is probably shaking off parts at this speed.
“That M is all over the hospital room.” Realization casts over his expression, and we are both unraveling the truth at the same time. We’re test subjects, not fall risks. We can’t leave because we’re the control, and Dominica—she’s the variable.
“Hold on,” he says, finally looking forward. Something about the way he locks his elbows in and pushes the gas down all the way makes me feel less at ease than when he wasn’t looking at the road at all.
“I’m holding about everything there is to hold in an El Camino, Justin. What are you thinking?” As we approach the onramp of the freeway, I let go of the door handle to lock my seatbelt in place snug across my waist. I cannot handle feeling another rib crack.
“I’m gonna wake us up,” he warns. I barely have time to protest before he jerks the wheel and sends us straight into a cement barrier.
36
Damsel
(Dominica)
It’s a strange thing, being trapped in your body, able to think and hear without speaking or moving in response. It’s worse than a cage. Cages have views. All I have is darkness. I can’t even dream anymore.
My father’s voice is weak. I’ve never heard it so lifeless and defeated. He had pneumonia last winter and still was able to shout at me about chores from the driver’s side window of his car as he backed out of the driveway on his way to the doctor. Seeing me here, like this—it seems it’s his kryptonite.
“I’m sorry, Dad.” I keep speaking to him in my head, hoping that one of these times the words will come out and he will hear me.
“That boy,” he begins.
He’s been talking about Justin a lot. I’ve listened to him and my mother argue for the last few days about fault and the accident. I know what happened now. All of it.
I know things I need to tell everyone, so they have the full picture. From the sparse scenes in my memory and the bits and pieces I’ve heard my parents discuss, I get the basics of the crash. Icy roads, Kellen’s car and ours, and I was sleeping in the passenger seat without a safety belt on. My father blames Justin for kidnapping me, and my mom blames my father for my running away. She’s righter than he is, but really, it wasn’t only my dad’s dislike for my boyfriend that pushed me to beg Justin to just get in and drive. It was the pressure of everything else—my massive fear of failure and of letting my dad down, of not having the boy I talked to around every day to share those fears with, and this irrational fantasy that if we ran far enough, I could start over and plan my future the right way, without so much risk and loss of everything fun and good in life. In the back of my mind, I always knew we’d have to turn around. More than me, I knew Justin wouldn’t be able to do it to my parents, and the relationship I have with them. It’s the one thing he tells me is worth more than I realize. He’s right about that. I see it now. Justin is worth more than my dad sees, and if I could scream he’d get that, and they could be here together, supporting each other.
“I’m not for this,” my dad continues. He takes a heavy breath, and I wonder what he means. Is he against the treatment I’m getting? Because I’m against that, too. I’m not sure what kind of paperwork he was given, but I almost guarantee there were missing consents. My dad is thorough. He’s in everyone’s business, and if someone is in charge of my care, he glues himself to that person in an annoying but love-wrought fashion.
“Dr. Esher warned it might not be a good idea, more for him than you. Something about Justin seeing you like this pushing him into a guilty headspace, making him blame himself for you being like this. She said it might fuel his depression. But your mom thinks it would be good for you, to hear some voice other than mine or hers. And I don’t know . . .”
He stops, and I wish more than anything I could sit up. I want to respond.
“Yes, yes, yes!” I’m screaming inside my head.
“Doc won’t be here until the afternoon, and I was gonna wait, but the kid, he was awake when I came in this morning so I talked to him about it. Don’t worry, I was nice. Nice for me, anyhow.”
My father spoke to Justin? They talked. Justin . . . is here. He’s close?
“Police finished their investigation, determined nobody was at fault. I guess I should respect the findings of law enforcement, and yeah, before you say it, I understand the physics. I know that ice takes away calculations. I know he probably was being careful. Still . . .”
My dad sniffles, and my heart breaks. He’s crying. I hate the hoarse tone he has to speak with. It’s wrong. This is taking my father away.
“Daddy, it’s okay. It’s okay.” I want to speak!
“You’re my baby girl. Middle child, most like me—the only one your mom let me name. Dominica, child of the Lord. I knew you would be fierce, and I wanted to be sure that an angel was always watching over you. It’s getting hard to believe they are right now, but I’m holding on, baby girl.” He breaks down again, this time taking my hand. I’m begging my body to respond, wishing my hand would squeeze him back. It won’t. I hope I’m at least warm.
“He’s waiting outside. I told the guard he was family. The doctor has been limiting your exposure, worried about your risk. This place has the tightest security I’ve ever seen in a hospital. I guess it’s why they’re the best. Nothing but the best for you, baby. You’ll get better. You listen to him, okay? You listen, and you do what he says.”
There’s a long pause, minutes maybe, and I start to panic inside my cage. I’m lost, scrambling. I want light—to see something, anything.
Justin’s familiar hand covers mine before he speaks, and I cry inside. You can cry tears inside. I have been doing it for days.
“I love you!” I’m screaming again. It’s a silent scream, but he has to feel it. He must because he squeezes my hand harder. He’s close enough to bring my arm to his chest and hold my palm against his cheek. His beard scratches the back of my hand. I want to see his face. His eyes are probably dark and deep, and his body is probably too thin. He doesn’t eat when he’s stressed.
“I need your help, Dom.” His jaw moves against my hand, and he shifts the position so he holds my palm to his forehead. His breath is hot, and it tickles the inside of my wrist. It warms my veins.
“I found it. Our charts, the tablet, the office you destroyed.” He chuckles quietly, and I smile inside. There is nothing sweeter than the crooked smile he makes when he laughs. If I had control of my hand right now, I would move just enough to feel his mouth and the way it bends.
“I don’t know how long your dad is going to let me sit here and talk to you.” He draws in a ragged breath. He’s crying, too. I hate this. I hate this. I hate this. He swallows hard. “I have so much to say, and it seems wrong to spend this time talking about crazy voodoo shit, but Dom, that’s what we’re into. And you’re better at it.”
This is something he says to me often. It’s a sweet inside joke between us, because I’m the one with the good grades and the pro
blem-solving skills. It’s not a joke right now, though. I get that. I want to talk, to solve our problems. I can’t.
“I tried to bring the tablet back. I carried it against my chest, put it inside my shirt. But it’s not here. I had Sal search everywhere. Kellen checked everything, too.”
Kellen is awake! They’re working together!
“I know we moved things inside, from dream to dream. But I need that proof out here—in the real world!” His jaw flexes again, frustration tightening his muscles, but I don’t know how to fix this one. This isn’t laws of physics, it’s magic he’s asking for. The things we can make up in playland don’t have to be built on reality, but out here, there are rules. Unbreakable ones.
“If you can think of something, anything, I’ll do it, Dom. I’ll break into something, break the law . . . take a bullet. Just please come back to me, baby. Please.” His voice is raw, and his body falls forward so his head now rests on my stomach. I feel the weight of it, and rejoice that I can. It means I can feel something, more than the touches of hands. My body works. I am alive.
I want to hold him. I want to move my hand and run it through his hair, feel how soft his beard must be. I wonder if he’s handsome like this.
“You keep fighting. You’re so strong, Dom. Your dad is here, too.” His voice noticeably shifts as my father joins him. I don’t think he’s hiding anything, but he’s trying to be strong and brave for my dad. If I could only show my father how much love is in Justin’s heart. Here he is trying to be strong, to hold up a man who hates him.
Hated him.
If he still hated him, he wouldn’t let him in my room. My father must realize I need Justin, and if it’s something I need, my father will never hate it. He might not ever like it, though. I can live with that. But first, I need to live.
Both men sit at my side, not speaking to one another, but they hold on to each of my hands. I use the power of their love to force my brain awake, more than the little it is. I need to find a way to dream. I need to somehow reach one of them, Justin or Kellen. If this place we are in looks like the school in our dream, then there must be a connection. She must have an office here, and a desk with things locked inside.
Those files, they have to be here. They have to. If I could only dream for one . . . minute.
37
Cowboy
(Kellen)
In a week, I have gone from thinking I’d never walk without the rolling cart to damn near sprinting laps around the nurses’ station. Okay, so it’s not a sprint but more a slow stroll with a cane. A cane is not a full cart with beeping machines trailing behind me.
Rumor is, if I remain stable for twenty-four hours, with good kidney function and some magic number on my blood test, I get to go home.
What an odd paradox.
I am dying to breathe in the mountain air, to touch the side of my horse—her name is Lily, not Old Girl. I want to rest in my own bed under the quilt Mom made with Grandma when I was eleven. I want to practice walking on our land so I can get back to work, so I can save this place that means so much to my family, to me!
But if I leave, I won’t be here to help Dom. I won’t be able to help Justin. I might not know the outcome until it’s too late.
My dad is checking out of his hotel, feeling positive that today is the day. It has to be the day for him. I know it does. His heart has been through too much.
So has Justin’s.
I make my usual stop, helping myself into his room. His friend, Sal, isn’t here today. I take over his chair; it’s wider and more comfortable. I may be walking well, but things still hurt like hell.
Justin holds out his fist and I land mine on top.
“You’re walking pretty well, Cowboy. You could even maybe pass rush, if you know what the hell I mean by that.” He breaths out a laugh and smiles with closed lips, proud of his joke.
He loves making fun of the fact I’m not what he thought. He’s not what I thought, either. He’s actually a pretty solid guy. I’m going to miss him.
“Uh oh. That charm of yours is slipping. You sad?” He knows I’m going home. He’s sad, too, fucker.
I shrug. “Just feels like—”
“Like unfinished business,” he says for me.
I laugh a little, then nod.
“Yeah, I guess so.” Using my cane to leverage my body weight, I get to my feet and move toward his window. He has a view of the Target parking lot. Earlier this week, I watched my dad search for a parking spot there. I told him he should have walked from the hospital.
“You talk to her this morning?” I turn my back to the window and let the sun warm it while I look at my friend.
He shakes his head.
“Her dad is cool with it, but I guess the doctor gets funny about it. Last time I was in there with her, she hovered. Felt, I don’t know, intrusive, I guess?” His expression is defeated, but his eyes are less heavy. He’s been sleeping well. I have, too. Haven’t been able to dream anything I want, though. Just random scenes and junk from my day, like riding the hospital elevator.
“Good ole Dr. Esher,” I say, layering on the thick sarcasm.
“Esher,” he repeats. He rolls his eyes, then stares out his doorway at the shift change happening.
“It’s weird how present she is both here and in our dreams, isn’t it?” he says. We’ve both thought this and talked it through, exhaustively. He’s still trying to find some sort of hole in the way the stories overlap.
“Dude, there are a lot of weird things about this. So many that we’d be able to write books for days about the trippy shit we’ve been through.” I laugh, but it’s not the amused kind. It’s almost a cry. There’s a wound somewhere deep inside me that can’t be fixed from this, maybe not ever.
“Yeah, like, why did you get to go back to your awesome ranch or whatever, and Dom got to be an assassin for hire; meanwhile, all I got was the shitty life I’ve already got, minus the one thing I’m good at—football?” He laughs a little maniacally about it.
“Because I got to live your football life,” I say, just to tease him. He takes the pillow from behind his head and chucks it at me. I raise my cane to deflect it, but all I end up doing is spilling the water pitcher from his table.
“Look how clumsy you are. You probably should stay one more night, just for observation,” he teases. I laugh with him while I bend down to clean up the mess. We both stop laughing at the same time, though. When I sit back up, his eyes are waiting for me. His features are flat. It’s sinking in.
“I’m gonna really miss you, man,” he unloads. I think if he and I weren’t so caught up with trying to be macho men, we’d give in and cry a little. No fuckin’ way am I crying if he doesn’t.
“I know man,” I say back. “Me, too.”
I look at him as long as I can without feeling the heaviness of this moment, and then I leave the chair to grab a stack of paper towels to dry his floor. I glance out his door while I grab a fistful, and think about how much this place looks like the school offices in our dreams.
“You ever wonder why those other rooms are unused and dark?” He sits up and leans forward to see outside his door. I point my cane toward the one directly across from his room, the one with the door shut.
“Son of a bitch.” He twists in his bed and moves his feet to the floor. He takes a few careful steps but stops before leaving his room completely. When we leave the room, people always try to help. It’s irritating. And right now, I think it might interrupt a breakthrough.
“What?” I ask, staring at the locked door, then his face, trying to read his focused expression.
“It’s been here this whole time,” he says, moving back to his bed more quickly, grabbing the hoodie he’s been wearing over his gown when he leaves to visit Dom.
“I’m not with you, Justin. What do you mean, here?” I look back to the room, nothing different about it from the day before. It hasn’t changed in weeks. Ever, as far as I’m aware.
“Esher’s off
ice. That room . . . it’s in the exact same spot. The tablet, the files . . . proof! It has to be in there,” he says, striding through the door. He walks so fast I struggle to catch up. In my periphery, I see one of the nurses ending a phone call to catch up to us and make sure we’re all right. It’s a cover-your-ass thing for them—we can’t fall on their watch.
We’re steps away from the door when the nurse—one I don’t talk to as much—reaches us. “Everything okay? Do you guys have an emergency?” I spin before she can step in front of us, and I do my best to engage her. Smile . . .dimple . . .
“I made him a bet, is all. You know, guy stuff. He was slacking on getting his laps in, and since I’m probably going home, I’ll have more and win. He’s going to need to pay up.” I smirk, ignoring the rattle of the door handle jiggling behind me. The room is locked.
“Funny,” she says, giving me a polite smile that tells me she’s not very impressed by cowboys and charming stories about male bullshit. It was worth a try, and it bought us some time.
“Can I get in this room?” Justin goes for bold behind me.
I grit my teeth and smile through the stress shooting up my blood pressure.
“That’s not your room, you know?” She’s not accusing him, just worried that he’s losing it a little.
“Oh, yeah, I know. I just . . . I want to compare views. Maybe I’ll switch.” He’s a bad liar. I can hear his edginess in every word.
“We don’t really use that room for patients,” she says.
“Right, but, I mean, you could. It’s set up and everything. I just really am tired of the Target parking lot. The city is that way, and maybe I could see the skyline, so . . .” He’s doing his best, which isn’t very good. There’s nothing but a freeway ramp and a line of dead trees out that window; it’s a similar view to mine. She’s gonna make him go back to his room. I feel it coming.