There was a long pause before the voice sounded again. "You are lying, Mrs. Duncan."
Irene's breath caught. The monitor to her right beeped. A solution began to stream its way down a tube to her arm. She attempted to yank herself free from the IV, but it was no use. Drowsiness overcame her, and she fell back onto her pillow.
…
Coming to, Irene put her hand to her brow, and she realized her arms were free from their holds. She glanced down and noticed someone had put her back into her street clothes. She nearly began to cry. Recognizing her clothing meant she still held onto her memory.
Feeling both relief and some confusion, she put her feet to the floor. But her head swirled, and she found she was too dizzy to walk the distance to the door. After a moment's rest, she made a second attempt but stopped, catching a glimpse of a young man peeking through the small window of the entryway.
The man strolled into the room, smiling, wearing a white shirt with grey dress pants. "Mrs. Duncan, you have a meeting with Mr. Donatello."
Irene rubbed her forehead. "With who?"
"With Mr. Donatello."
Irene dropped her head. "Well, you can tell Mr. Donatello that I'm not up to it today."
The young man kept smiling. "I believe you'll want to hear what he has to say. It concerns your husband and daughters."
Irene understood the manipulation. "Well, if it's about my husband and my three girls, then by all means."
This time, the young man's smile cracked a little, and he gestured in the direction of the door.
He led Irene down a hall to an elevator, which took them up a few floors. As the doors opened, the building's interior walls were no longer institutional green but covered in dark mahogany paneling. Down the hall, they came to a tiny room that contained bookshelves and a wooden desk situated in front of a large window.
"Have a seat." The young man pointed to a chair near the desk. "Mr. Donatello will be with you shortly."
After the man exited the room, Irene stood and moved around the desk to the window. She hoped that looking out it would help her determine where she was inside the large, mazelike hospital complex.
The view of rubble, bombed-out structures, and partially reconstructed buildings that had been abandoned months ago was a dreary sight and one she recognized. It was apparent she was on the top floor of the east side of the building.
"You're not thinking of escaping out the window, are you, Mrs. Duncan? It's a long way down," an older man in a suit with a beard commented as he entered the room. His husky size made it difficult for him to navigate the tight quarters. He shoved his way around the desk and stood next to the leather chair situated behind it. "Please," he said, motioning for Irene to take the other seat.
Irene moved toward the chair. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?" she asked, managing to keep her emotions in check.
"Well, you already know, you were scheduled to be processed."
"Against my will."
The man cleared his throat. "Yes, everyone is to be processed, now," he stated, looking down at his desk. "But, as you may have guessed," he continued, returning his attention to her, "something went wrong."
"You mean, something went right."
He cleared his throat once more. "I can see how you would think that."
"Where are you keeping my family?" she asked, feeling she'd gained the upper hand.
"We will get to that momentarily. But like I said, something did go wrong with your processing." Donatello paused and appeared to observe her. "Do you believe in God?"
Irene frowned at the unexpected question.
"Before the war," he continued, seeming unaffected by her reaction, "I didn't believe in an omnipotent being. But after witnessing the horrors of the war, I've come to think there must be something of equal good to balance out all the evil." He twisted his chair about and peered out the window as if to emphasize his thoughtfulness.
But Irene's face soured further. It was apparent he was trying to connect with her, but his attempt had failed. He'd been lazy in his research about her faith. There was no balance in the universe. God was above all.
He turned his chair back around to face her. "The reason your processing went haywire is because you have what is referred to as 'The Gift of Remembering.' Of course, we don't call it a gift, those who have it do.
"The condition is rare, but it does happen. It has something to do with the connections in the mind being reestablished after they've been severed." He shuffled a few papers on his desk. "Anyway, I never took much interest in the details." He stopped and looked her in the eye for what Irene realized was perhaps the first time. "Those few individuals that have it are given a choice."
Irene leaned forward slightly. "A choice?"
"Yes." He grimaced just a little as he answered.
"What's the choice?"
"The choice is between having an operation or . . . joining The Firsts."
Irene slid back in her chair. The Firsts. She knew who they were—a bunch of so-called educated men and women who were the first to take charge of the pocket of civilization still left alive in the country after the war. They promised elections, but the elections never came. They apparently were now the ones leading the forced processing on the population.
"You once served with President Malone before the conflict, didn't you? You were an advisor."
Irene recollected the long hours that had kept her from her family. She wished now she could have that time back.
"We could use someone like you," Donatello said. "We need individuals who can think under pressure. People who can keep their cool in the most difficult of situations, sort of how you are—"
"Doing now?"
"Yes."
"It will never work," she said as if reverting to her days of advising the president.
"What won't work?"
"Erasing people's memories to lessen the possibility of war. It's pointless. You're fighting against human nature. There will always be conflict."
"Oh, you misunderstand, Irene," he said, lifting his chin. "The initial processing is not the only thing we do. People are sent to reeducation camps, relocated, and monitored for any signs of discord. If they become unruly, we simply process them again. Some temperamental people have been processed up to three times already. It's quick and easy and only takes an hour." Donatello picked up a familiar-looking brochure—a similar one to what Kent had brought home—and tossed it in Irene's direction.
He chuckled at his jaded remark, but his merriment ended as he went on. "It began innocently enough. It was a way to forget the war. That's when I became involved. I was one of the first to witness how it helped people get past those events.
"But The Firsts realized that allowing people to decide what they wanted to remember and what they wanted to forget just wasn't working for them. It didn’t keep the peace. Despite the population's overall attitude toward disputes, there were still skirmishes breaking out, particularly over limited resources. And those little battles would have eventually led to another large conflict." Donatello scratched his beard roughly. "So the solution became—"
"To delete everything," Irene said softly, her emotions resurging as she thought about her husband.
"Not exactly, The Firsts still wanted individuals to remember skills that would be useful to society and sometimes other essential things, such as identity. The difference was we were now the ones choosing which memories were to be wiped clean. We were able to calibrate the technology to erase what we wanted with nearly a 100% success rate except, of course, for the ones with the gift." Donatello folded his hands on his lap. "That was how we knew you were lying after you woke up. You claimed you couldn't recall your name when you should have. We didn't remove that memory from your mind." He looked at her, nearly grinning.
"Anyway, in our test studies, everything turned out so well when we got to decide what was to be deleted. Everything was pleasant for the person and those around them. Nevertheless, as I see i
t, the unpleasantness comes into play in how some of The Firsts are going about it. As you probably have noticed yourself, the approach of some is rather abrupt and unsympathetic. I suppose they figure the person won't remember. But in doing it that way, we forget our humanity." Donatello shifted his attention to his bookshelves. After a pause, he glanced back at her. "That's where I believe you can help. You can get us back to doing things in a humane way."
Irene looked down and grinded her teeth. Her anger was trying to push its way up and out into the room, but she needed to keep it at bay.
Donatello sighed loudly. "Did you know I was acquainted with your husband?"
Irene tilted her head. "My husband knew a lot of men during the war."
Donatello pivoted in his chair. "Well, I worked in intelligence, but we did interact occasionally. He was a good man."
Irene's face warmed. "He's still a good man."
"Well, with everything that has happened . . ."
Irene glared. "The fact that my husband can no longer remember who he is does not change how heroic he was during the war or what kind of man he still is."
"Well, perhaps that was not the best way to phrase it. My point in mentioning it is that I feel a kind of responsibility for you."
Irene gave him a flat smile. "Then, just let me go."
"Now, Mrs. Duncan, you know I can't do that. Look around. They don't give little offices like this to those in power."
Irene frowned at him. "I believe you're someone with a great deal of power. I think this whole conversation has been a sham. My guess is you're actually a recruiter for The Firsts. You're someone who specializes in manipulation and who thinks he holds just enough power to convince me to join."
Donatello scrutinized her. "I'm only trying to convince you to join The Firsts because the alternative is . . ."
"What?"
"Appalling."
Irene scoffed. "What could be more appalling than what you've done to me already by taking my family away?"
"If you refuse to join them, they will surgically remove the part of the brain that allows you to retain memory. The result will be that you will do something, but minutes later, you won't remember having done it. You'll learn a new skill and—"
Irene held out her hand as if to quiet him. "I get it."
"But if you decide to join," Donatello said, leaning toward her, "you will see your family."
Irene felt the vein on her neck beginning to pulsate. For anyone else, the choice would have been obvious. Join. But Irene had principles. "Was my husband given a choice?" she asked—her jaw tightening.
"By the time your husband came to see us, he was already a broken man. He made the choice willingly to be processed."
"And what about my daughters?"
"Your husband brought them along. I cannot say if they came freely or not. But by then, it was no longer an option not to be processed. As it stands now, your entire family has been processed and relocated to various sites."
The vein on Irene's neck pounded so hard she lifted her hand to soothe it and herself. It did neither. "And that's why I can't join," she said, letting her hand drop to her lap.
Donatello's gaze fell to the surface of his desk. His mortification actually appeared to be sincere. "Well, that is your choice." He reached beneath his desk, seeming to press something.
Within seconds, the same burly men Irene had seen before appeared at the door. They took hold of her arms and yanked her to her feet.
She frantically jolted about her weight.
"These men will escort you to your cell," Donatello said, still looking downcast, "where you will wait for your operation."
Chapter 3
Irene had been in the cell for weeks. On one of the walls surrounding her was the word, remember written in red, capital letters. Someone, perhaps a guard, tried to wash away the pronouncement, but the attempt failed, leaving the statement smeared, which only made it appear foreboding.
Irene knew she could not obey the apparent call to rebellion. She had been told that she would shortly undergo the operation that would permanently take away her ability to remember anything.
She covered her face with her hands and tried to reassure herself that worse things could have happened to her during the war when countless individuals were exposed to chemical warfare. Shutting her eyes tightly, she was grateful that at least that recollection would be erased.
Hearing someone unlocking the cell, she glimpsed up. As the door swung open, a guard, holding a metal cup and plate, advanced toward her.
This was not the usual procedure. The guard normally just handed those items to her through a small cutout in the door. She moved back toward the wall, but the guard kept approaching.
"Do you want out or not?" he whispered, leaning even more into her personal space.
"What?"
"I'm here to rescue you. Do you want to be rescued or not?" he asked.
It was neither the time nor place for such an attitude, but Irene returned the man's sentiment with a bit of sarcasm, "Oh no, I'd rather stay here and get my mind wiped clean."
"Well, in that case," the man said straight-faced and turned to leave.
Irene grasped his arm, unsure if he was joking or if he was just a simpleton who didn't understand the subtleties of sarcasm. He glanced back at her, revealing a smile.
"Good grief, who are you?" she asked, letting go of his arm.
"That doesn't matter now. What matters is that I'm here to rescue you—obviously. Now, put these on." The man pulled out a guard's uniform hidden beneath his shirt. As if he were a gentleman, he twisted about to face the door.
Irene just stood there holding the garment in her hand. "Do you know where my family is?"
The man glanced back over his shoulder and frowned perhaps at Irene's inaction. "I'm afraid your family is in the hands of The Firsts, but you'll never get the chance to see them again if I don't get you out of here. Now, put that uniform on, so I can do just that."
Irene peered down at the clothes and then at the man's back. She needed to make a decision. Stay here or trust this stranger. She began to disrobe.
"They run a pretty loose ship here," the man explained, still turned away from her. "At least, until you arrive at the outer doors."
"I'm done," she offered, causing him to face her. "So what do we do when we get to the outer doors?"
"Oh, we're not going that way, Irene," he said with a sly grin as he led her from the cell out into the corridor.
A couple of guards came around the corner, and Irene held her breath as they briskly walked by them. She glimpsed down at her uniform. It had done its job. Her rescuer nodded at her, seeming pleased as well.
Crossing to the other side of the room, he pointed at a single door set among a series of exits. "Go through there," he said, looking about seemingly for signs of other guards.
She did as he instructed and found herself in a metal stairwell. She glanced up the steps. "You're not going to make me jump off the roof, are you?"
He looked at her blankly. "You're not suggesting I'm crazy, are you?"
"I don't know. Are you?"
"No, because I have a better way out." He began to descend the stairwell as Irene followed. Once he reached the bottom step, he walked about the poorly lit basement as if searching for something on the cement floor.
"What are you looking for?"
"Found it." He knelt and slowly slid back a man cover positioned at the far side of the space.
Irene came closer and read the etched metal on the cover. "You got to be kidding me. This is your 'better way out'?"
Breathing hard, apparently from the excursion of lifting the metal cover, he glanced up at her. "You're free to stay behind," he offered, holding out his hand for her to take, "but I doubt you'll find a safer way out of here."
She stepped closer. "Let's not go through that again." She placed her foot on the first rung of the ladder that descended into the opening. "You just need to reconsider what you def
ine as better. That's all."
As the smell of stagnant water grew more intense and the light became dimmer the deeper she descended, Irene held tighter to each rung. Arriving at what seemed like the end of the ladder, she outstretched her foot to search for the floor. Not feeling anything to step on safely, she pulled herself up and pressed firmly against the metal rungs.
"You'll need to jump," he explained from above her.
"What?" Irene questioned, knowing she'd heard what he'd said but asked merely to stall.
"You'll need to jump from the ladder. It's only about a two-foot drop."
Irene held on tighter.
"I don't know about you, but I don't want to live out the rest of my life on this ladder," he complained, descending farther.
Irene knew he was right and let go. She dropped into an inch or two of water, causing it to splash up on her arms. "I assumed that was going to be unpleasant—and it was."
Her rescuer followed, creating an even bigger splash. He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket after wiping his hands on his pants. "It's only greywater. It isn't sewage."
Irene pinched her nose after breathing in the surrounding air. "Still stinks."
He shined the flashlight in his face as he pursed his lips at her. He then pointed it to the left, lighting up a long cement tunnel. "Okay, it's this way."
"But there's light at the end of the tunnel—that way." Irene motioned to the right.
He stopped and aimed the flashlight at her. "Do you think I would come all this way and not know which way to go?" He paused for a second and then marched away in the direction he'd indicated.
Irene dropped her hands and relented. The last thing she wanted was to be left behind in a dark tunnel. She followed him closely as his flashlight showed the way.
Together they moved forward through the dampness. Irene's shoes were already soaked through, and she could feel the wetness slowly working its way up her pants. "How much farther?" she asked, trying not to sound ungrateful but knowing she was.
"We should see some light up ahead just around this corner."
As they made the sharp turn, he halted.
The Gift of Remembering Page 2