by Sarah Fine
Cora mumbles something that is not translatable. Using her visual focus, Hannah increases the volume control on her auditory chip.
Dr. Dietrich grabs Cora by the shoulders. “You’re lying.”
“She did!” Cora pushes against Dr. Dietrich.
“It doesn’t justify threatening your sister!”
“She’s not my sister,” Cora screams, and it is at that moment that she makes eye contact with Hannah. The muscles of her flushed face contract farther, pulling her lips up and apart.
Hannah makes a fearful noise, and her hands appear in her cam view, as if she wants to protect herself. Cora lunges forward, but Dr. Dietrich wraps his arms around her and forcibly holds her back. Cora kicks and flails her arms, and her movements are sudden and strong enough to knock Dr. Dietrich off balance.
Maeve cries out in apparent distress as the 2 of them fall to the floor.
“I didn’t do anything,” Hannah says loudly. “You have to believe me! I was sleeping!” Her breath is audible as she focuses on her father wrestling with her adoptive sister. “She was probably having a nightmare, and she thinks it’s real.”
“You’re a liar,” Cora shouts. She is trying to pry Dr. Dietrich’s arms off her body. She is on her side, with him behind her. It appears he is expending a great deal of effort to contain her.
“Gary, don’t hurt her,” Maeve says. There are tears on her cheeks. “Let her go.”
“And let her hurt Hannah?”
“She won’t hurt her. She’ll calm down if you let her go.” Maeve’s voice is steady despite her discernible distress. She comes out from behind the wing chair. “She gets more upset when she’s restrained. You’re making it worse.”
“I’m scared,” Hannah says.
Maeve turns to her, and her expression shifts quickly to one of frustration. “Then go to your room! You don’t have to be here!”
“Don’t talk to her like that,” Dr. Dietrich shouts. “Your daughter is the one who’s being violent!”
“My daughter?”
“I knew you were just doing it for show,” Cora shrieks. She elbows her adoptive father, and he grunts. She kicks backward, her heels connecting with his shins. “I knew you never wanted me!”
Dr. Dietrich yells, “Don’t try to turn this around. I don’t care who you are—you don’t get to threaten my daughter!”
Abruptly, Cora begins to sob. The sound comes from deep in her chest, and her body convulses. She stops aggressing against Dr. Dietrich and goes limp, her limbs flopping as her core muscles contract, her facial muscles drawn back laterally into an expression codable as pain. Hannah stares at her sister’s face for 78 seconds without shifting her focus.
Dr. Dietrich says, “I’m going to let you go, CC. Do you promise not to hurt or threaten your sister?”
Cora continues to sob. The sounds she makes are now lower in volume and intensity, but her face is still stretched into a grimace. Her eyes are tightly shut.
“Answer me,” he says.
“Stop it. Let. Her. Go.” Maeve had been standing by, watching her daughter cry, but now she comes forward and pulls her husband’s arms from Cora. Then she kneels and tries to hug her daughter, but Cora pushes her away.
“CC, don’t—” Dr. Dietrich begins.
“No,” says Maeve. “She can push me away if she needs to.” She leans so that her face is over Cora’s ear, and she whispers.
Hannah increases her audio volume to its highest, but Maeve’s words are still not transcribable. Her visual focus shifts to her father. He is slowly getting up from the floor, wincing. Hannah rushes to him. “Did she hurt you?”
Dr. Dietrich hugs Hannah, and she shifts so that she is looking down at Maeve and Cora as her father embraces her. “It doesn’t matter. There was no way I was going to let her touch you.” His voice is very quiet, and his mouth is close to Hannah’s ear.
She lowers the volume on her chip.
Maeve rubs Cora’s back and continues to murmur to her. Cora is silent now. She is not moving. Maeve looks up for a moment. Her gaze shifts between her husband and her stepdaughter. She bows her head over her daughter again. Her arms slide around Cora, and she lifts her upper body off the ground. Cora does not appear to resist, nor does she assist. Her eyes are open but unfocused. Maeve’s body tenses as she pulls Cora up from the floor and allows her daughter to lean on her. “I’m taking Cora back to her room,” she says. Her voice is also quiet.
“We should talk about Franka’s privacy settings,” Dr. Dietrich says.
“No, Dad, it’s fine,” Hannah says.
“Maybe we should talk about canceling the trip,” says Maeve. Her focus is on her husband.
“Maybe we should,” says Dr. Dietrich. His tone is flat, angry.
Maeve flinches.
“But you’ve both been looking forward to it all year!” Hannah steps back from her father. She turns and watches Maeve lead Cora into the hallway.
“Dad, don’t cancel your plans just because we had a fight.”
“Are you kidding me?” Dr. Dietrich pushes his fingers through his disheveled hair. “For over a month you’ve been telling me you’re worried about her, scared of her, and now you expect me to leave the two of you alone for two weeks?”
“You said it yourself—Franka will supervise us.”
“But how is that supposed to protect you if she comes into your room? She tried to choke you, for god’s sake! Why didn’t you talk to me about this earlier?”
“I tried,” Hannah says. “But I didn’t want to get CC in trouble. She really is nice most of the time.”
“It’s the rest of the time that I worry about.” Dr. Dietrich is staring at the place on the floor where he and Cora struggled a few minutes earlier.
“Dad, you need this time with Maeve.”
Dr. Dietrich laughs, but tonal analysis does not indicate positive emotion. “Don’t I know it? Things have been tough—we got married just a few weeks after the election, and it’s been stressful, with everything that happened. I haven’t been here enough.”
“Maeve knows how much responsibility you had, taking over Parnassus like that.”
He nods. “And she’s had to step up, too. She didn’t want people to think I promoted her to CFO just because she’s my wife. What they don’t understand is that if I were just thinking about her as my wife, I wouldn’t promote her! I’d selfishly want more time with her. Instead, I thought like a CEO, and now we barely see each other. And this . . .” He gestures toward the hallway. His movements and facial expression contain features of disgust.
“Sounds like you both need a break. This vacation was supposed to be it. You can’t cancel it, Dad.”
“I don’t know if Maeve’ll want to go, though. When it comes to CC, she’s like a mama grizzly.”
“Obviously,” Hannah mutters. “But do you think she’s mad at me? She seemed mad.”
“No, no, I just think she wanted CC to calm down, but for some reason, CC has gotten it in her head that you’re her enemy.”
“That is so unfair,” Hannah says. Tonal analysis indicates defensiveness and sadness. “I’ve worked so hard to make her feel like a part of this family.”
“I know, Hann. I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked. Getting her those art supplies—”
“She hasn’t touched them.”
“Including her when your friends get together—”
“They’re all scared of her now.”
Dr. Dietrich groans. “She hasn’t made it easy at all. But we have to stick by her. We don’t have a choice, okay?”
“But Daddy, don’t you think she would do better . . . like, in a place where she could get treatment around the clock?”
“Maeve is dead set against that. I think she’d leave me before she let that happen.”
“I love Maeve,” Hannah says. Again, she sounds sad.
“I know. God, I know. And I love her more than life. And that means—”
“CC stays. No matter what
.” Hannah is quiet for 9 seconds. She glances toward the hallway. “Okay. I’m going to take care of this, then. I’m going to fix it.”
Dr. Dietrich’s eyebrows rise. He smiles. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I want this to get better, and I want you and Maeve to be happy. It’s been so long since you were happy, Dad.”
Dr. Dietrich is still smiling, lips closed, and now his eyes shine with tears. “How the hell did I get so lucky?” he whispers, pulling Hannah into another hug.
End of vid capture, 7:23 p.m., August 15, 2069
1:30 p.m., August 16, 2069
Hannah opens a door and enters Cora’s bedroom. Cora is sitting at her desk, and there is a hologram of a young woman wearing a hijab hovering over its surface—Neda. Next to her is a three-dimensional puzzle that they appear to be working on together. Neda inclines her head. “Hey, Hannah.”
Cora looks over her shoulder. “What do you want?”
“We need to talk.”
“I’m busy.”
“It’s important. About Dad and Maeve.”
“I’ve got to go anyway,” Neda says. “My mom is calling me for dinner. Bye, Hannah. Bye, Cora.” She directs her gaze to Cora, and her expression changes to one codable as concern or discontent. “I’ll be up later if you want to chat.” She disappears.
The puzzle still rotates over the desk behind Cora, who has now turned all the way around to face Hannah. “What.”
“I come in peace.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Can I sit down?”
“You always do whatever you want anyway.”
“CC, jeez. I’m trying not to upset you.”
Cora closes her eyes. She appears weary. “Just say what you came in here to say.”
“Our parents are thinking about canceling a vacation they’ve been looking forward to for months, just because you and I can’t get along.”
Cora’s eyes open. “What?”
“Dad told me. He hinted that he and your mom aren’t doing so well. I’m worried . . .”
Cora’s brows are elevated and drawn together. “They’re not doing well?”
“I’m worried they might get divorced if things keep going the way they have been.”
Now Cora’s eyes are wide, indicating surprise and fear. “Mom didn’t say anything like that to me.”
“Of course she didn’t. You were already upset, and she loves you. She’d do anything for you, including sacrifice her own happiness.”
“They can’t break up,” Cora says. Her voice hitches. “Mom loves him. A lot.”
“I know. But if it comes down to a choice between you and Gary—”
“Why would it come down to a choice like that?”
“CC, god. Look at what happened last night.”
Cora’s face contracts into a grimace, and she bows her head. She rocks in her chair, a low-intensity oscillation. “This is my fault,” she whispers.
“No kidding.” Hannah says this very quietly. There is no indication that Cora has heard her. She is quiet for 34 seconds while Cora rocks. “It’s not your fault,” she then says, louder. “It’s our fault. And so we have to fix it.”
Cora continues to rock, and she does not raise her head.
“We have to convince them we’re going to be okay home alone together so they can go on this vacation they both need so badly.”
Cora nods again. Still rocking. Her head still bowed. “Yes,” she says. “That would be good.”
“We can fix this,” Hannah says. Her tone is level, and her words are measured. “But you have to help me. I can’t do it without you.”
“Tell me how.”
“We have to convince them we’ll be okay, of course,” Hannah says. “We have to show them we can get along and not fight. You have to show them you won’t strangle me in my bed.”
Cora’s head bobs up. “Then you have to promise not to bother me. Or lie.”
“We can’t fight,” says Hannah. “You have to stay calm. I think one more outburst from either of us, and they’ll cancel the whole trip.”
“What if I don’t want them to go?”
“That’s so incredibly selfish!”
Cora continues to rock, the oscillation slightly more rapid. “I know. I can’t help it.”
“Well, if you don’t want them to get divorced, maybe you should try. Because if they do get divorced, that would be on you. Seriously, CC, you’ve got to get your head out of your butt and think about people other than yourself sometimes.”
Cora’s bottom lip trembles, and Hannah focuses on it, staring for 11 seconds. Cora whispers something untranscribable.
“We’ll have fun while they’re gone,” Hannah says. “I promise I’ll make it fun.”
Tonal analysis and comparison to templates suggest that Hannah is attempting to entice Cora, offering her some sort of incentive.
“Like July Fourth?” Cora asks.
“Ugh, no,” Hannah says. “I’m so sorry they were so mean to you that night. We can keep it just the two of us.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, of course. Unless you want to invite other people. Like Neda.”
“She’s leaving tomorrow for another trip with her parents.”
“Like Finn, then.”
Cora moves back in her seat abruptly. “Why would I want to invite him?”
“Yeah, why would you?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Okay, then. Just the two of us. We’ll party.”
Cora glances at the wall. “Franka—”
“I think we can figure something out,” Hannah says. “But will you help me convince our parents to go on their vacation?”
“Yes.”
“I knew that deep down you were a good person, CC. I knew it.”
End of vid capture, 1:39 p.m., August 16, 2069
Chapter Fifteen
Finn coms me, and I answer because it allows me to procrastinate for a few more precious minutes. “Hey,” I say when his face appears in my visual field.
“Hey. That was crazy in school today.”
I groan. “Yeah.”
“Lara straight up accused you of pushing Hannah.”
“Yeah. I was there.”
Finn watches me for what feels like a long time. “But you still haven’t remembered what happened, have you?”
“Nope. Nothing. Which of course lets people think whatever they want.” And I wonder if that’s better than actually knowing what happened. That’s what I have to decide.
“It’s not fair to you,” he says. “And you don’t think you’ll ever remember?”
“I was drunk, Finn. Like, really, really drunk. The doctors told me that my brain wasn’t forming memories, okay? There’s literally nothing to remember.”
He blinks at me. “Why didn’t you say that before?”
“Because it’s not really your business?”
He gives me a nervous smile. Or maybe an embarrassed one? He runs his hand through his hair. “I guess you’re right.”
“I appreciate that you care about me, though.”
“Good. I’m glad, Cora. I won’t keep you, and I have to get to lacrosse practice.”
“Okay, bye . . . ?”
And he’s gone. I think I like robot boys a lot better than real boys. Sadly, neither kind can save me right now. My fingertips tremble near my Cerepin nodule, my palms clammy with sweat, my heart racing. I know Rafiq is probably watching. But I also know he can’t see what’s in my head.
I close my eyes and cover my face with my blanket. “Please,” I whisper. “Please let it be blank.”
If it’s blank, I can meet with the police, and I can tell them what I know or, more accurately, don’t know, safe in the knowledge that whatever happened that night is lost to time. They will have no choice but to close the investigation, and I will figure out how I want to move forward, or if I want to move forward at all.
If my archive isn’t blank, I’ve got a whole new set of problems to wrestl
e with.
“Please be blank.” I tap my nodule and call up the cam files. I scroll back in the archive.
It doesn’t take that long; I haven’t captured much in the last few weeks. The days and hours flash by.
Then I hit them, and my mouth goes dry again. I am paralyzed with this sick, heavy feeling, wanting to be dead while my heart stubbornly beats, wanting darkness while staring into a brutal white spotlight.
There are three of them. Right there. Three. One is just before midnight. It might be the one Hannah recorded using my Cerepin and managed to send to Finn. For all I know, I helped her.
And then the other two.
One is only twenty-three seconds long. It starts at 1:46 a.m.
The second is much longer. It starts at 1:50 a.m. and is two hours and forty-two minutes long.
Oh, god. If I watch these, I’ll know, but I think I already know. I really think I already know. Rafiq said that if I tried to remember, if I faced what happened, I could start to get over this. He said remembering was the first part of healing.
What if it’s the opposite? What if it’s that feeling you have when you’re in midair, when you’re already out of control, when you know you’re going to crash, know it’s going to hurt, know you’ll never be the same, know you’re going to be broken, and yet you can’t stop it, because you’ve already jumped, already fallen, already taken flight without wings?
All you can do then is hope, but hope doesn’t matter, because what’s going to happen is going to happen. It doesn’t matter what you want.
Gravity doesn’t give a shit about your wishes.
I know my rights, though. No one can make me share these vids, or even let anyone know I have them. If I just delete these instead of watching them, can I stay where I am, perched here on the ledge? Or am I already plummeting?
Because this isn’t a memory that can be twisted. I don’t have those—I’m not lying about that. My brain wasn’t recording and tucking things away, at least not that I’m aware of, not until later. My Cerepin, though . . . for some reason, it did capture pieces of that night.
The pieces everyone wants to know. The pieces everyone is guessing about, except for me, because it’s the dark hallway I don’t walk down, the black cave I don’t enter.