Because You'll Never Meet Me

by Leah Thomas

  On the weekends, we traveled to the laboratory, where she served as the medical and experimental director. To my memory, she was the highest authority in the facility. The founder of what seemed to be an international initiative.

  Every weekend, she strapped me into my car seat. Hushed me with a finger to halt my clicking. Then she pulled out into the streets and away from the city. I slept in the car when we traveled. Already, transportation made me uncomfortable. I remember the roads were winding, but I could not see them. It could not have been very far from where we lived. We always arrived within an hour or so. We parked in an underground garage that led directly into the facility.

  You would not believe the ordinariness of the “secret” laboratory you are so curious about, Ollie. It seemed no different from any wing of any given hospital. It smelled like antiseptic, sweetened by a latex-y odor that dried out the nostrils. There was always a receptionist sitting at a counter by the entrance. Magazines littered the tables. Clipboards in slots on the walls. Wheelchairs beside the automatic doors. Several waiting rooms were spread across two floors and a basement level, although there were no windows. The laboratory was fully staffed with scientists. Doctors and nurses and maintenance men and women from every continent. More than all this, though, there were patients. The patients were children. Perhaps they had originally been diseased. Now they were experiments.

  You would not believe how far the laboratory had strayed. The scientists’ nightmarish curiosity had resulted in nightmarish results. Unbelievable results, even. I question my memories. Could the children have been as bizarre as I recall? Or have my Alpträume—my bad dreams—merged with reality?

  Regardless, the other children in the laboratory were not superheroes any more than I am.

  I remember a girl with curly hair. Either I am delusional, or she had a second mouth on the back of her head that she had to feed on a constant basis. Very often, she sat holding a slurpie cup in her hand with a long, twisting straw winding over her shoulder to satiate that maw. At nighttime, she strapped a pacifier to the back of her head.

  Could I have dreamed her up?

  And even she was not the strangest. There was a pale, hairless boy whose arms and legs were jointed the wrong way. He could turn his head around almost 190 degrees, and always did so whenever I passed by. What possible “noble intention” could have resulted in that?

  I have memories, real or no, of dozen-fingered toddlers and a lipless boy who disgorged his esophagus—a parasitic-looking tube lined with two rows of tiny teeth—whenever he wanted to eat. Once I witnessed him devour beef stew in the laboratory cafeteria. The sight of him sucking up chunks of beef was unappetizing. It looked as if a worm had burst from his throat to sip sewage.

  Maybe their ailments were more typical than I recall. Time has warped my recollections. I never spoke to these other children. My mother carried me everywhere when I was small. Perhaps just so I would not speak to them. She would spare a few minutes to tote me around the halls and observation rooms of the complex. I was a trophy. The scientists and doctors she worked with would fawn over me. Prod me. Perform casual, clandestine experiments on the eyeless child.

  There was a man by the name of Dr. Rostschnurrbart who took interest not only in my oddities, but in my well-being also. He would stop us in the hallway every time I arrived.

  “Peekaboo!” he’d say, but cover one of my ears rather than his eyes. He’d use his other hand to hold up a number of fingers. Wait for me to match his number with my own.

  Sometimes my mother would accompany him to rooms full of scanners. My weekly physical. She was always distracted. Always looking away whenever anyone addressed her. I could hear how her stuttering heartbeat matched my own. I could hear it. Even as a toddler it upset me. Rostschnurrbart and the other scientists became disgruntled: her proximity disrupted their results. So she would leave me there alone and attend to work elsewhere.

  She never told me what she was doing. She put her hand on my chest some evenings after work and then her other hand on her own. Looked at me as properly as she ever would, eyes on my chest if not on my face. I believed then that her work was for my sake.

  For the sake of our weak hearts.

  We did not often speak in my family, Ollie. We were never like you.

  I harbor scattered memories of my experiences in the laboratory.

  Every few months, men in suits toured the facility. The doctors were always aflutter in these weeks. Dressing us nicely. Washing our faces. Presenting the best sides of us. Demanding that we smile and wave at visitors from all around the globe.

  I smiled the brightest. Imagine that, Ollie. I felt privileged to be there even as a kindergartner. The scientists were always kind when they sat me down with nodes attached to my scalp and asked me to listen to recordings. When they muffled or plugged my ears and asked me to describe objects on the other side of the room. They claimed other children would envy the microchip behind my left ear: “You’re like an android! So cool!” (Several scientists were native English speakers. That was where I attained English fluency at an early age.)

  Every test was presented as a game.

  I remember playing sports that mostly involved smiling men and women in lab coats throwing various projectiles at me to measure the extent of my reflexes. They cheered when I caught every object they threw at me. Cheered and scribbled on notepads and typed my success into computers. High fives and applause!

  I was so proud. So beloved. And a few of the other children, some of whom never left the facility, took notice.

  When I was eight, Rostschnurrbart sent me to a vending machine with a fistful of coins after my “exceptional work” during a “game” that involved dunking me into a water tank to see how my vision fluctuated underwater. I stood in the hallway, dripping onto the linoleum. Shivering in my bathing suit. Quietly pleased. Torn between potato crisps and a chocolate bar.

  My MBV was alerted to motion behind me. I angled my left ear toward the disturbance.

  “May I help you?” Politely, as I’d been taught.

  The girl with two mouths stood behind me, arms pressed against the sides of her dress.

  “Hello, Prince Moritz.” She popped gum between the teeth in the back of her skull. “Why don’t you ever look at anyone?”

  “Beg pardon. I am always looking.” Rostschnurrbart was teaching me proper manners and social mannerisms. I reminded myself to face her when I spoke to her. I turned around.

  “Why don’t you ever talk to any of us, Prince Moritz? Even in the cafeteria.”

  “Why are you calling me Prince?”

  She didn’t answer but smiled wide. That chewing sound was wearing. I kept seeing the curls of her hair and the creases in the malformed lips in sharp relief. Whether or not I wished to.

  “Well, I should be going back. They’re waiting for me.”

  “They’re always waiting for you.” She giggled.

  Typically I would have left her there. Left her while she smiled beatifically. But my heart thumped with something like hope, Ollie.

  “Would … would you like to come with me? Perhaps you can go swimming, too.”

  “Really?” She closed her eyes and grinned all the wider. Those second teeth still chomped away at that gum. “Ooh, please! We don’t get to do the things you do, Prince Moritz.”

  She took my hand and I forgot to choose my snack.

  I showed her to the observation room that housed the water tank. A shaggy-haired janitor was mopping some of the splashed water from the floor. He looked up as we entered but as usual said nothing.

  “What is she doing here, Moritz?” said Dr. Merrill, peeking out from behind his laptop on the opposite side of the room.

  Merrill was relatively new to the staff. I did not know him well, but he was almost always grinning and bobbing his head in agreement. High-fiving me. He wore large glasses that gave him something of a clownish appearance that was enhanced by the way he flip-flopped along the tiles on overlarge feet
. He tended to cling to my mother, rattling off his ideas for chromosomal manipulation as a means for progressing humanity as a species. One of the zealots, Ollie. Of course Mother hardly noticed him. She was always elsewhere in her head. Studying something kilometers away.

  This was the first time I had ever seen Merrill frown. “Moritz?”

  “Well …” My face grew hot. “I don’t know her name.”

  The girl laughed. “It’s Molly.”

  “I know who she is, Moritz; she belongs in the children’s ward. She shouldn’t be in here.”

  “I was hoping she could play in the pool with me,” I mumbled.

  “This isn’t a playroom.” He gave us another sad-clown frown. “What would your mom say?”

  Dr. Rostschnurrbart came in from the hand-washing room. He blinked at us. His face crinkled into a smile. “Oh, let them have their fun.”

  Merrill returned to his computer. Rostschnurrbart ducked away again while Molly and I approached the water tank. It wasn’t large. Perhaps two meters deep and two meters across.

  “Ladies first. Do you have a bathing suit?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “But that’s all right. I’ll just watch you go in.”

  Somewhere at the back of her head, the mouth gulped and swallowed its gum.

  “All right!” I was always monitored during activities. Her request did not strike me as peculiar.

  All her teeth were bared in a grin as I climbed the slippery ladder and stepped into the lukewarm pool. She perched halfway up the ladder. Looked down at me while I treaded water.

  “Can you see underwater?” she asked as I paddled around.

  “Yes! But the sound waves get slower, so everything becomes blurred.”

  “Really?” she cooed. “Ooh, but I don’t even know how to swim. Please show me!”

  I plugged my nose. Allowed myself a small smile. In the millisecond before I submerged myself in the water, I heard both sets of her teeth grit. Both sets of her lips twisted downward, but it was too late to alter my course. And my hearing was muffled and she was pressing her hand against the top of my head, holding me underwater. I clawed at her arms, but she would not let go, and my heart was skipping, seizing up, panicking—

  Dr. Merrill sat at his computer, eagerly jotting notes about my panicked heart rate as the janitor yanked Molly off me and pulled me out. I was gasping. Ears popping, heart pounding. Tried to steady myself. My heartbeat was all but limping. I could not find air.

  Molly had been thrown to the floor. Her arms were soaking wet. So was her dress. Rostschnurrbart took my hand while the janitor restrained her.

  “It’s your fault,” Molly cried.

  I could not fathom what she meant. Pangs in my chest were restricting my lungs. I wished I could not see how her second mouth at the nape of her neck was hissing and spitting like an angry cat.

  I wished I could not see that my mother was standing in the doorway with cold eyes that certainly meant I would never see Molly at the laboratory again. Maybe she didn’t ever have two mouths; maybe I imagined them. A manifestation of her cruelty. A way to assuage my guilt.

  The thing about having no eyes is you can never close them.

  Sure enough, Molly was not at the laboratory the following weekend. I dared not ask my mother what became of her. I sat with Rostschnurrbart in the cafeteria. The other children sat as far away from me as possible. Not as though I missed their conversation, because when had we ever spoken?

  But their gazes felt malevolent now. My hand trembled. I dropped my spoon.

  “Don’t fret over it,” said Rostschnurrbart, wiping soup from the table. “She tried to hurt you. I should never have left you alone with her.”

  “I wasn’t alone. Dr. Merrill was there. And the janitor.”

  “Herr Farber.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The janitor who saved you. His name’s Herr Farber. Be sure to thank him.”

  “Oh.” I nodded. “Of course.”

  “Chin up, Moritz.”

  “What did I ever do to her? What was my fault?”

  Rostschnurrbart sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nothing. You did nothing wrong.”

  Owen Abend could never know what handing me a pair of goggles meant to me, because he could never know about Molly.

  There are more stories to tell. More unpleasantries to share. Unpleasantries that might explain why I am not trusting. That explain why I am huddled in this room and could not face my reflection even if I could see it.

  I will share them with you, so that you are not alone in unsavory memories. Or, if you would prefer, I will speak only of happy things. Of apple tea and warm day trips to the mining town of Freiberg and, yes, of bacon.

  I am sorry about your party, Ollie. Perhaps it took you sinking into your own despair to give me courage to face mine.

  If you no longer wish to speak to me, for the worm I am and the secrets I keep, I will understand. I am not so different from the scientists. My intentions were noble, but maybe keeping quiet has harmed us.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Coat

  Sure, I’m just going to stop talking to the only person who ever got to know me and didn’t run away. Yeah, that’s likely.

  Moritz! Gah! That was what kids might call a mindfluff. It doesn’t seem to matter anymore that I guessed right about top secret laboratories. It doesn’t sound like science fiction. Like fun. I’m so stupid.

  I should never have joked about needles.

  Thanks for writing me back at last. Thanks for every time you put up with my antics and wrote me. I never thought of you as a void. I guess maybe Liz was right about how I just get stuck in my own head.

  I won’t pretend that your letter didn’t horrify me a bit. I can’t even make funnies about it. (There has to be a plethora of jokes I could make about girls with maybe-extra-mouths trying to drown you, but … I’m not seeing any.)

  Even though I asked you from the start if you knew anything about what sort of, eh, tomfoolery our parents got up to years ago, I never thought you would actually drop that anvil. I’m so used to needling failures!

  How can I criticize you without calling myself Emperor of Hypocrites? All this time I was writing you not just because I have a hard time focusing, but mostly because of what happened to Joe and with Liz. Because I couldn’t really deal all that well.

  Now I’m sighing a bit because of Vergangenheitsbewhatchamacallit, and not only because that word looks totally ridiculous.

  So you spent part of your letter telling me about how German folks have to buck up and work through their issues with their lederhosen strapped tight and their Bier tankards firmly in hand (I haven’t made enough stupid German jokes yet, okay, and it’s been eating me up inside), but then you say that you’re down with it if I can’t deal the same way?

  Look, I’m not German. I’m not even American. I’m Hermit Supreme. And I resent that you think the fine people of Hermitopia can’t move past things, either. You think I’m somehow justified in disliking you from here on in because you didn’t rush to the bedside of the kid who treated you like shit? After people treated you like shit? Give me more credit!

  Just because Owen and Fieke turned out to be crappy friends doesn’t mean I am.

  Who am I to judge?

  Hermit Supreme is a master of making a mess of things.

  After the seizure, Auburn-Stache put me on bed rest. Like I wanted to get up and do anything anyhow. He placed his hand on my forehead and sighed.

  “Oliver, I’m the most broken of records. But your mother does not need this.”

  “Why should you care? You don’t love her.” I don’t know what made me say it. But right then, Auburn-Stache closed his eyes and he didn’t argue.

  All those times I called him a kook, Moritz. I wasn’t really right about it. The more I think about him, the less I remember him laughing. Maybe that’s my fault, too.

  I could see the garage through the window, even from my bed. The
glass was streaked with water. I swear it’s been raining nonstop ever since I last wrote you.

  “What is it, Ollie?”

  I said it fast: “So is she going to die, or what?”

  “We’re all going to die, Ollie.” He didn’t smile. “For now you’ve more pressing worries.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’re young and in love, right?” He put his hand on my shoulder.

  “Or something.”

  “Yes, well. That’s usually what it feels like. Don’t waste it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I already said.” He let me go. “We’re all going to die. Don’t waste it.”

  He got up, but I grabbed his sleeve.

  “Ollie?”

  “Auburn-Stache. Am I selfish?”

  “I’ve never met a soul that wasn’t. I’ve met a lot of people who don’t bother wondering.”

  Auburn-Stache gave me a sedative and went downstairs to talk to Mom. They must have thought I’d fallen asleep, but I’d spat the pills into my hand and shoved them under my fitted sheet beside the others and a sci-fi novel with busty cat people on the cover.

  “Do you think he’ll be all right?”

  “Being a teenager ‘blows a fat one,’ if you recall. Being in love is no better.”

  “Say it ain’t so, Doc.” She sighed. “Nowadays he’s just like his father was.”

  “In what way?”

  “I can never decide whether he’s a big, goofy kid or a small, sad adult.”

  “And is Ollie also incapable of tying his shoes properly?”

  “Tch! God, Greg! I’d almost forgotten that. Seb always made two bunny ears, didn’t he? He was always tripping over his laces. The first day I met him on campus, he was wearing scrubs and a lab coat and glasses. He looked so professional, apart from those damn untied shoes.” Did Mom laugh? “I thought I was the only one who noticed that about him.”

  “Now, now. Breathe in.”

  I don’t have your hearing, but I could hear her wheezing even through the wooden floor.

  “I never thought it would be like this, Greg.”