Irene blinked a few more times. "I understand."
Donatello beamed at her like a proud father, but his delight didn’t last. He turned again to his bare bookcases and stared at them. "What a waste," he mumbled to himself, and Irene got the sense he was talking more about her than the books he needed to give away.
Chapter 22
From a hallway window, Chris watched as Irene took a seat in a classroom filled with nothing more than desks and an old, green chalkboard. Irene was one of twenty or so students in the class. Up and down the hall, the view was the same. Classrooms were filled with children, teens, and adults all brought to the camp to be reeducated.
Chris was surprised by the numbers. How there could be so many troublemakers needing their memories erased was astounding to him. It seemed The Discord was a much larger group than he'd previously considered.
"Oh man," Chris heard someone say to his right. He looked over to see a young man carrying a large manual out of the bathroom. Ambling Chris's way, the man kept his freehand on the wall as if needing it to steady himself. "Oh man, I ate something bad last night," he said, coming closer, revealing his pale face and weary-looking eyes. He glanced through the classroom glass. "Oh man, I can't teach today." He reached out toward Chris and took hold of his security pass. "Close enough, Chris Parks," he said as he allowed Chris's pass to slide from his hand. Punching the manual into Chris's stomach, he turned and started walking cautiously back to the restroom. "You're going to have to teach for me today."
Chris looked at the manual. "What? Wait. But I'm not a teacher."
"Just read Section One to them. Trust me. They'll think you're . . . brilliant." The man hurried away, disappearing back into the restroom.
Chris peered down the hall both ways looking for anyone who could do the job. Seeing no one, he paused. After a minute of trying to think of a way out of the situation, he hoisted the manual up into his arms, opened the door, and slowly entered the classroom.
Irene tilted her head, looking bewildered as he moved behind the teacher's desk. He shook his head as if to chastise her reaction. She lowered her head and stared at the top of her desk.
He watched her for a few seconds more and then dropped the manual onto the teacher's desk. "Um," he said and turned to the chalkboard. As he did, a memory flowed easily and without pain into his mind. It was of his early school days. He remembered his teachers writing their names on the board as their first act before starting the new school year.
He picked up a piece of chalk. "Class, my name is Mr. Parks." He drew two quick lines under his name for emphasis and attempted to put aside the feeling that the name he'd just written didn't quite fit him. He looked to the students, who all had smaller versions of the manual in front of them.
"We will begin with Section One. Please follow along as I read." He opened his manual. The class mimicked him, making one loud thud with the covers of their books. He hesitated, taken aback by the motion done in unison. He cleared his throat, which sounded on edge even to him. "Section One. 'As you have been told, you were exposed to chemical agent IA17 while residing in Sector 14 during the war. This chemical caused great harm to your mind.'"
Chris lifted his eyes from the page. He'd never heard that cover story before. He glanced at Irene, who was already watching him. It was apparent she disapproved and was adding the story to The Firsts' already long list of supposed lies. But Chris understood that the point of the story was to give a reason for the undesirables' memory loss. Providing such an explanation would keep them from asking too many questions.
He returned to where he'd left off. "'Some of you experienced similar fates but by other means. However, you are all here because you can no longer recall your previous lives.
"'We, The Firsts,'" Chris pointed at himself, "'were there to assist you initially. Now we are here once more to help so that you can help us build a stronger, more peaceful society.'" The section ended with an instruction for the teacher to read a bolded question below the text to the class. "'Do you want a more peaceful society?'" Chris asked the class. He peered up only to find the students looking confused.
"What is war?" one male student asked.
Chris filled his cheeks with air and exhaled loudly. This was going to be more difficult than he'd previously thought. "War is—"
"War is when people don't like each other, and they fight," said a female student, sitting near the line of windows that made up the fourth wall in the room.
"That's right." Chris stood and moved around his desk, slightly relieved. Thankfully, not all of the students would be slow learners. He scanned the room to see if everyone understood, but unfortunately, there were still a few puzzled looks, including one on the face of the student who'd originally asked the question. Chris pinched the top of the man's hand. "When I do that, what does that make you feel like doing?"
The student pulled his hand away and scowled. "That hurt."
"Yes, it was supposed to, but what does that make you feel like doing?"
The student seemed to think about this. "It makes me want to do the same to you."
"Yes, and that's war." Chris watched as the realization came over a number of the students' faces. The reaction was surprisingly satisfying.
"Stop that," someone yelled from the back of the class. Chris looked there just as a female student slapped another in the face. A punch to the arm followed.
"Hey, quit it!" Chris shouted.
"But I'm making war," said the female student who'd slapped the other. "It's fun."
Another male student, farther up the row, shoved the woman next to him. In retaliation, she picked up her book and whacked him with it. Like a fast-spreading virus, the chaos expanded. Chris stood still, unsure of what to do. In the corner of his eye, he saw Irene put her hand to her mouth, apparently trying to hold back a laugh. "Class, you need to stop!" he shouted, and to his relief, some of the commotion died down. "We need to have peace!"
"Why?" asked the student who he'd pinched.
"Because The Firsts want you to," Chris countered loudly, but it did little to further quiet the mayhem. Chris ran his hand through his hair as he stumped back toward the teacher's desk as if it were an oasis. Then, having an idea, he turned to the class again, "Because God wants you to." As Chris spoke the words, a strange feeling came over him that his faith was not a memory returning, but something that had remained with him even after he had Mac process him.
"God?" asked a woman seated in the front row, interrupting Chris's thoughts. "Who is . . . God?"
The question caused about half the class to pause.
"God is—"
"Good grief, man!"
Chris twisted about and saw the young man who'd dumped the manual and the class on him. He was slightly keeled over at the door with his hand clutching his stomach. "What are you doing?" he asked as he straightened and walked gingerly toward the teacher's desk. "We don't teach religious or spiritual notions here." The man returned his hand to his stomach and puffed out some air. "I told you . . . just follow the manual, man."
"Yeah, well, one of the students asked a question, and things got out of control."
Chris could hear Irene snicker from behind him.
"Class!" the teacher hollered. "Return to your seats." The young man stood stoically in front of the chalkboard as the students moved back to their desks. "I'll be taking over the lesson. Say goodbye to Mr. Parks."
"Goodbye, Mr. Parks," the class sang as one.
"You're lucky I'm a good teacher," the man said, giving Chris a stern look. "Otherwise, they'd all probably need to be re-processed."
"Well, I never said I was a teacher—man." Chris slammed the door behind him.
Chapter 23
Irene sat alone in a small cubicle. Her new job, provided by The Firsts, was to serve as a secretary to Nick Tyler, a logistics department manager. In her new position, she was responsible for scheduling Nick's calendar that consisted mostly of meetings and travel to and from the various n
ew locations. Balancing his to-do list would have been challenging for anyone who'd lost most of their memories. But, for Irene, it was generally routine, if not monotonous work. Nevertheless, she did her best to portray herself as someone who'd been processed just two weeks prior.
At first, she played this up well, pretending not to understand Nick's directions or inserting mistakes into her work here and there so as not to appear too competent. But as she watched others around her evolve into becoming more capable, particularly Denise, who sat next to her, Irene began to act accordingly, at least in the office.
Nick seemed to notice. As time went on, he increased her workload by giving her personal errands to run, such as making dinner reservations for him and his wife or setting up play dates for his twin sons.
He was a nice enough boss, even-tempered and easy to get along with. After about the third day, he started calling her by her real name, ending the preferred practice of referring to her, in the office, by The Firsts' impersonal number of H29537. He complained it didn't slide off the tongue. Irene knew he'd gotten into trouble over it; she'd heard him on the phone arguing that The Firsts shouldn't continue to treat her as an outcast for something she no longer remembered doing.
"Irene, did you contact the boys' middle school about next year's enrollment?" Nick asked as he flipped through a pile of papers in his hands.
"I called several times, but I kept getting a busy signal," Irene said from behind her computer, "so I went down yesterday during lunch. Both Sam and Nathaniel are signed up for next year."
"Perfect. What would I do without you?"
Irene smiled. What would your lazy wife do without me? But Irene kept those thoughts to herself because she knew she needed to garner information from Nick in the hopes of tracking down her daughters.
On her fourth day of working for him, she noticed an anomaly in how The Firsts labeled their new locations. The majority was named after famous, or from her perspective, infamous members of The Firsts such as Irene’s new location, Mayfield City, named after the Mayfield family, who designed and managed the reeducation camps.
Unlike Mayfield City, other locations simply had a code, not a name, associated with them. It was possible that The Firsts had run out of despicable characters to label their new cities after, but what was strange about it was that the codes were not connected to addresses. That was odd for a logistics department.
She decided to ask Nick about it as he stood beside her.
"Don't concern yourself with that, Irene," he replied after pausing and looking away as if he was embarrassed by the question. "Just enter the code as described."
Before Irene could press him further, Denise mumbled something from the other side of her cubicle wall.
"What did she say?" Irene asked Nick.
"This is my little one," Denise said more clearly, before Nick could answer Irene. "This is Florence," Denise continued.
Nick started toward Denise's cubicle, as her outbursts grew louder.
Irene stood to see Denise pick up a stapler and aimed it at Nick.
"Now, Denise, put that down," he said as he slowly moved closer.
"Why didn't anyone tell me about Florence? Why didn't you tell me, Nick?" "Florence? I don't know who Florence is, Denise. And I suspect neither do you."
Denise searched her desk with her free hand until she appeared to spot something among the scattered papers. Picking up a newspaper page, she pointed to a picture of Mayfield City's new mayor. "This is Florence. This is my daughter. She came to me in my dreams."
"Denise, that's our mayor. That's Amber Mayfield. That's not your daughter."
Denise slowly lowered the stapler. At first, Irene wondered if she was giving up the fight, but then Irene saw the reason for Denise's retreat. Two large security men were coming her way. One twisted the stapler from her hand. The other seized hold of her arms.
"Let go of me! I want to see my daughter," she cried.
The men dragged her through the office and out the door in a matter of seconds. The room fell silent, and the process was so swift it made Irene doubt if the incident had even occurred. But the evidence was all over the floor and Denise's desk.
Seeming to recognize the horror on Irene's face, Nick paused in front of her as he headed back to his office. "That sometimes happens here," he said and continued to his office. He shut the door behind him, which was something he rarely did.
Irene began to clean up the mess left behind by her coworker. She reached for the newspaper page, which had fallen to the floor. She studied Amber's picture. The resemblance to Denise was uncanny, particularly around the eyes. Could it be that Denise remembered her daughter even after being processed? Did she possess the same Gift of Remembering just like Chris? Were there others like them? There might be, but perhaps they kept their memories to themselves, fearing they'd be processed once more.
After straightening up Denise's area, Irene returned to her desk. Noticing Nick observing her through his office window, she pretended to type. But her need to playact was short-lived.
At the hallway door, four uniformed men barged into Dean Kessler's office. Two raised guns at Dean, who tossed his phone to his desk. Irene couldn't hear what was being said, but Dean interlocked his hands behind his head as one of the men hauled Dean out the door. In less than a minute, all five disappeared into the hallway.
Nick stepped from his office. He put his hands on his hips and stared in the direction of his colleague's work area. He tightened his tie and turned to Irene. "That sometimes happens here too." He pointed at her computer. "It's best just to get back to work."
Irene nodded obediently, but it was evident to her that The Firsts' so-called perfect society wasn't so perfect after all.
…
Life for the average worker in the new city where Chris's daughter Tia resided was probably rather dismal. But it was a different situation for people like Tia. From the view of her mansion, Chris noted several industrial complexes and a dozen or so nondescript cement high-rises standing in a row downtown.
Their imposing structures overshadowed the main avenue that ran east to The Firsts' new headquarters and west to an expansive domain where the more fortunate among The Firsts' workers were provided land. On those parcels of land stood numerous mansions in various stages of construction. They were of such diverse styles that it looked as if the entire world had settled within the small valley surrounded by a massive wall. This was just one of several new locations that The Firsts had constructed with such speed Chris wondered how they'd done it.
"What do you think?" Tia asked, coming to stand beside him.
"It's impressive," Chris said, feeling a little uneasy about giving the compliment. "It's amazing what The Firsts have accomplished."
Tia grinned, seeming to notice his apprehension. "Well, it's not so much what you see but what you don't see that counts."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm talking about the plumbing, the reliable water, and the sewage treatment systems, not to mention the electricity that stays on when it's supposed to."
"That certainly is a benefit."
"Plus, do you hear that?"
"What?"
She placed her hand on his upper back. "Peace."
Chris smiled in kind and returned his attention to the wall circling the city. Was it built to keep people out or keep people in? It was a traitorous question, so he kept it to himself and asked another. "If the high-rises are for The Firsts' workers, where do they send the less desirables—the ones who needed to be processed by force?
Tia huffed out a laugh and let her arm fall to her side. "You mean like Irene Duncan?"
Chris looked at her. "Well, yeah."
"Don't worry about her, father. Your request to have her remain close-at-hand was approved. She's been provided an apartment and a job in logistics to keep her busy and . . . out of trouble. Of course, her memories of being a Discord leader have been eradicated, but sometimes people's natures have a way of . .
. reemerging."
"Well, I'm sure her new job will keep her from causing any more problems." He was doing it again, lying to his daughter. But, oddly enough, it was getting easier. "So you wanted to talk to me about something?"
Tia strolled away. Her high heels clicked on the marble floor as she went. "I heard about your recent performance in the classroom. In fact, there was a video of it."
Chris clenched his jaw, remembering the incident of being made to take over the class. "That's embarrassing."
"No one is faulting you for your lack of teaching skills," Tia said as she poured a drink. "Care for any?"
Chris shook his head. "Glad to hear that."
"What I do fault you for is your ongoing adherence to the idea of . . . " She pointed up into the air with her glass as if mentioning the word was even absurd to her. "Since you're one of The Firsts now, you can't give the populace—a people we're trying to keep at peace—such divisive ideas. If we did that, we'd soon have all kinds of factions warring over this creed or that doctrine. Surely you must see that religion is the source of most conflicts."
Chris moved to her. "I agree that the idea of—" he pointed in the air, mocking Tia's gesture, "has caused a great number of wars. But my guess is the idea has stopped just as many."
Tia's smile deflated.
"People need something higher to believe in than themselves." Chris decided to push the issue further. His faith in God had begun to feel even more tangible to him than it had back in the classroom.
"They do have something higher to put their faith in." Tia raised her glass to take a sip. "They have us."
A sense of disappointment filled every corner of Chris's body. Tia's mother, her real mother, would have been crushed to hear such a pronouncement. He remembered enough about Irene—the bedside prayers and Bible stories she told late at night—to know that passing her faith on to her children was extremely important to her. "Tia, I don't know how you've—"
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