While You Were Gone

by Amy K. Nichols

  “You okay?” Germ asks.

  “Yeah.” I tuck my hands into my pockets.

  During the SVOD, I saw a room. In that room was a sketch with a repeating pattern of squares. I saw that same drawing the morning I jumped here, in the notebook of the girl who sits next to me in English. I think that room belongs to the other Eevee. That had to be her I saw during the SVOD at the castle. Why would I see her, though, and be in her room? I don’t even know her.

  But the other Danny might.

  “Whoa.”

  Germ grabs my arm. “Is it happening again?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I was just thinking. What if the other Danny and the other Eevee get together? That would be—”

  Germ’s eyes go wide as the sound of an engine fills my ears. All at once, voices shout, hands grab. Germ’s face twists to anger as I’m dragged backward into a van. A hood slips over my eyes. I hear the doors close, hear the engine rev, hear the tires squeal as we speed away.

  My stomach churns, sick from the motion of the swaying van, but I don’t dare puke with this hood over my head. The hard metal floor digs into my shoulder and hip. Every time I try to get up on my knees, the bouncing of the road tumbles me over again. Exhausted, I lie still instead, saving my strength for whatever’s coming.

  Finally, the van slows. Gravel crunches under the tires. Wherever we are, it’s far from where Germ and I were. Did they get him, too?

  The doors open. As they grab me, I try to make my body weigh more than it does. You want to drag me, you’re gonna drag dead weight. The hood slips away and I see double doors guarded by a man with a gun. Screw this. I take the opposite tack: writhing like an angry cat. None of it matters, though. These guys are strong and they’re good at what they do.

  On the other side of the door the walls are bare. Pockmarks and cracks speckle the concrete floor passing a foot below my face. They lug me down a narrow hallway lined with closed doors. The third door on the left opens and I’m carried through, my feet kicking as two thugs make me stand, clamping my hands to my sides and forcing me upright.

  In the center of the room, taking up most of the tiny space, is a pod. White and shiny, it looks like a clam with its shell open. Blue light ripples across water inside.

  A young guy in scrubs approaches. He’s shorter than me. “Hold still.” When I spit in his face, he closes his eyes and clears his throat. “Thank you. Now hold still.” He reaches up and sticks white electrode pads on my temples.

  “The clothes,” he says, motioning to the two guys before wiping his face with his sleeve.

  Oh, hell no. I fight to push them away, kick out my legs, let my weight drag them down, but they wrestle me to the ground, and in a matter of seconds they’ve stripped me bare. Scrubs sticks two more pads on my chest, one on my side and one on my back. He presses what looks like putty into my ears and gives the goons a nod. They pull me across the cold floor to the pod and lift me like I weigh nothing. I land inside with a sploosh and the lid of the pod closes, swallowing me again in darkness.

  Jonas takes a right, easing the car onto Central. The bell tower of San Xavier rises into the gray sky. Mom chatters away about all the latest news: Dad dealing with the special legislative session, and her own late nights planning the last-minute details of the gala, and isn’t it nice to be able to take a break for some girl time, and how are the paintings coming along?

  I lean forward to peer out the front window. The side of the Phoenix Art Museum rises like a ship out of the concrete. That’s where it all started. That’s where I first met him.

  Jonas slams on the brakes. Mom yelps and does that thing where she flings her arm out to protect me, even though the seat belt holds me in place.

  “Sorry,” Jonas says, watching out the passenger window. “That van came out of nowhere.”

  “Well, be careful.” Mom sits back and crosses her legs.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He inches the car forward, picking up speed after we’re safely through the intersection.

  “As I was saying,” she says, smoothing her skirt, “after dress shopping we need to go to Everly’s to finalize the floral arrangements. There’s so much to do before the gala. It keeps me up at night wondering how it will all get done. But enough of me, honey. How is school?”

  School? I haven’t thought about school in days. I have no idea how school is. Did I miss a test? “Fine. Nothing new.”

  “And the Art Guild jury? Dad said you were trying to put your paintings back together.”

  I think of the box of scraps tucked in the cubby beneath mine at the studio. I squirreled away what was left of Confidante in my room, but I’ve pretty much given up on the rest. And now that I’m busy helping Vivian—the thought of her makes my stomach turn—fix her paintings, I haven’t had time to do anything jury-worthy. “Doesn’t look like that’s going to work after all.”

  She puts her hand on my knee. “I know you’re disappointed. But you can always try again next year.” She’s being kind, but we both know she’s relieved. “Or maybe it’s time to try your hand at something else.”

  Something like treason, Mom? Subversion? Lawlessness? How about fraud? Vivian and I have been giving that one a go. I smile innocently. “Maybe.”

  Mom sits in the mirrored dressing area at Diamond’s, sipping cucumber water while I try on dresses picked out by our personal shopper. “Oh, that one’s lovely. It’s a good color for your skin tone.”

  I turn to examine the back of the dress in the mirror. “I look like a waterfall. And these are hideous.” I fiddle with the rhinestones on the front. “They scream, Look at my boobs.”

  Mom waves a hand. “Fine. Next.”

  I step off the viewing platform and go back to the changing room. The next dress is a deep red with spaghetti straps. Definitely more my style. I slip the waterfall off and put it back on the hanger.

  “So, tell me about this boy,” Mom says, her voice so loud I’m sure she has the attention of the entire store.

  “He’s from school,” I say, pulling the dress over my head. It’s getting so easy to lie.

  “Is he an artist?”

  “Yes.” Only half a lie this time. I reach around to zip up the back, then smooth my hands down the front. This one’s nice. I like it.

  “Is he part of the fine arts studio?”

  “No.” It kind of reminds me of the dress I wore the night of Bosca’s exhibit. It’s a deeper red, though, and has a chiffon overlay. Maybe it will make him think of the night we first met. I lean toward the mirror, pretending I’m leaning toward him.

  “Well, I guess not everyone is talented enough to make it in, right?”

  I roll my eyes. “He’s talented, Mom.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt,” she says, still too loudly. “You’ve always had an eye for the talented ones. You take after me that way….” She chatters on, winding her monologue around to how she met Dad at school and how talented he was, but not in art; no, he had ideas, vision, a passion for steering people toward their potential. I’ve heard the story so many times I know it by heart. He sat behind her in political science class. Every day from the day they met he asked her to go out with him, and every day she said no—“Always play hard to get, honey”—until finally she gave in and he took her to the homecoming dance. “We’ve had our ups and downs,” she says, and I mouth along as she finishes with, “but we make a pretty good team.”

  I pull my hair up to see how it looks. With some sparkly earrings, this will do nicely. I open the door and walk to the platform. Mom clasps her hands in front of her. “Oh, Eve.”

  “Yeah?” I say, twirling to see every side in the mirrors.

  “Your father won’t like the straps, though. Too much skin.”

  “Don’t care.” I pull my hair up again to show her.

  “You look beautiful.” She sounds like she’s going to cry.

  “It’s not like I’m getting married,” I say, letting my hair fall again. “It’s just the gala.”

&n
bsp; “Just the gala?” She takes a sip of cucumber water. “It’s going to be a night to remember.”

  Every cut, every scratch on my body stings, and the water tastes salty. Waves slap against the sides of the pod. My arms reach out as my feet search for the bottom. It isn’t deep. The water is warm, though, and strange. When I stop struggling, it lifts me up. The stinging begins to numb. Soon I don’t feel the water at all. I lie still, listening for any sound outside the pod, but all I can hear is my own breathing. I’m floating in darkness. Lost.

  Lights blink on and I squint. Blue and purple colors splash across the domed ceiling. Despite the earplugs, I hear whispering through the water. A single voice—can’t tell if it’s male or female—starts low: “I feel safe and secure. No one wants to harm me.”

  A second chimes in, also low, echoing the first. “I feel safe and secure. No one wants to harm me.” The voices weave together, a chorus of whispers overlapping, fading in and out with the colors. “Compliance is good. I relinquish control. I feel safe and secure….”

  The colors dazzle my eyes. Swirling in slow circles, they draw me in, pulling me closer. My eyes lose focus and my muscles go slack. The desire to fight slips away. The whispering voices calm my mind.

  This is good. This is good.

  Wait, where am I? I blink. The colors come into focus, then slip away again.

  It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. This is good.

  A sudden cold blooms across my chest. Every muscle contracts. My arms grasp for something to hold but there’s only static in my ears, darkness in my eyes. As I fall, I feel the other Danny pressing through. I force my eyes open and see a warped image of the Rage poster above my bed at the foster house, the slashed screen on my window, the stop sign over the door. Through the static comes Brent’s booming voice. The sound is raw, like feedback through a busted amp. Like the sharpening of knives. It feels like it’ll shred me into pieces.

  I can’t go back there. I won’t.

  My legs kick as I fight the other Danny back. I force air into my frozen lungs, bite down and growl until the pain blooms colors back into my eyes. Blue and purple glow on a white domed ceiling. Waves slap against the walls of the pod. Whispers tell me I feel safe and secure, but now they’re just words, just noise.

  As Jonas drives to the Executive Tower, Mom chatters away about the guest list, the catering, the many things she still has to do. She’s excited, and for good reason, I suppose. All is right in her world. I slip my phone out and check again for missed calls or messages, then, disappointed, put it away.

  “…don’t you think, honey?”

  “Huh?” I have no idea what she’s going on about now. “Yeah. Totally.” Sometimes it’s better to just agree, whatever it is.

  “I think so, too. I figure the more choices we give them, the better. Some people don’t like mushrooms, you know.”

  Ah. She’s circled around to the food again. I stare out the window, watching the buildings, cars, people. A pink-orange sky peeks out between the high-rises. I bet the sun setting over the water is gorgeous right now. Wish I could see it. With Danny. I check my phone again. Still no calls. Wherever he is, I hope he isn’t cooped up somewhere listening to someone rattle on about mushrooms. I look across the car at Mom. Even in the darkening light, I can see she’s beaming. This is her thing. She’s in her element. She feels about this stuff the way I feel about art. Who am I to resent her for that?

  “What?” she says, noticing me smiling at her.

  “Thanks for taking me shopping.”

  “We had a nice time, didn’t we?”

  Our goodbye is short. Jonas pulls into the parking garage and leaves the car running at the curb while he gets the bags from the trunk. “See you soon, honey.” Mom gives me an awkward hug across the backseat. I watch her gather her things and go inside.

  By the time we’re back on the road, the sun has set and night crouches over the city. Jonas steers the car through the last tangles of rush-hour traffic. I peer out at the lights shining down on businesses, neighborhoods. There’s something anxious about them, something eager. Or maybe that’s just me. My hands fidget, clicking the MUTE button on my phone off and on, off and on. When the freeway rises and the blacked-out site of the attack spreads to the south, I sink back into the seat, struck by the stark contrast. For some, the world is all glittering parties and fun. For others, it’s dark and full of fear. For me, somehow, it’s both.

  First they throw me my clothes and watch me get dressed. Then they throw the hood back over my head and load me into the van. I play along, sitting motionless with my back against the metal side. Whatever that was, it was meant to make me obey. It was effective, too. Before the other Danny broke through, I could feel it taking hold. Better pretend it worked or they’ll do it again—or worse—until I really am their monkey.

  The van jolts forward. I try to figure out where we are by the direction of turns, the number of stops, the sounds outside. It’s impossible, though. I don’t know the city well enough. I count two rights, a left and another before losing track.

  Finally, we stop. The doors open. In one swift movement, they pull off the hood and push me out. I crash onto the sidewalk. The tires smoke as the van pulls away.

  I look around. The sky is dark. The street is empty. It must be after curfew. I’ve been gone all day. On the corner is the gas station where Dad filled up the truck before we took the boat out. Which means home is—I turn around—this way.

  When I open the door, Mom, Dad and Germ rush at me. Mom’s eyes are red from crying. They bombard me with questions, with hugs. I hold out my hands, stumble to the nearest chair and collapse.

  I’m home. I’m safe.

  “I ran over here right after,” Germ says, talking fast. “Your dad’s been making calls all day, but—”

  Dad rests a hand on Germ’s shoulder. Mom takes him by the elbow and moves him back so Dad has room to crouch in front of me. He peers into my eyes. “How are you, son?”

  How am I? “Waterlogged.” I take a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” His eyes widen, and I realize I sound like the whispering voices. “No, not fine. I mean, I’m just banged up a bit.”

  Dad stands and nods at Mom. “Hydro.”

  She covers her mouth. Germ puts his arm around her and looks at me like I’m infected with some kind of virus. I push myself up from the chair. “It didn’t work, guys. Whatever it was, I’m fine.”

  They don’t believe me.

  I get in Germ’s face to make him pay attention. “Something happened during that…procedure. When the voices started, it was like my brain switched off and went somewhere else.”

  He gives me a questioning look, then mouths, Really? I nod. He understands.

  Dad exhales, looking up at the ceiling, his hands on his hips. The light casts harsh shadows across his face. “This is my fault.”

  “What?” Germ and I say at the same time.

  “They’re warning me,” he says. “Or punishing me.”

  Mom walks to the stereo and turns on classical, loud. When she returns, the four of us stand in an awkward circle beneath the spinning blades of the ceiling fan.

  “There’s this group,” he says, his voice just under the music. “They approached me about getting involved with…” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Well, let’s just be real here. They’re against the government.”

  Germ and I exchange looks. “You mean like Red December?” I ask.

  “No. Not that bad. But…” He shakes his head. “It started with just meetings. Gripe sessions, venting, that kind of thing. But then it changed. Less complaining, more action, and I agreed to do what I could to delay the installation of the Skylar transmitters.”

  That’s his job?

  “And you know, it worked. For a while. The last bit of hardware was installed on Monday, two whole months late. The guys, though, they came up with a new plan. Something I just couldn’t get behind. When I suggested a different idea,
they kicked me out. Thought I was a government spy.” He shakes his head, a wry smile on his face. “Me. A spy.” Then he puts his hand on my shoulder, “I’m sure this was their way of keeping me quiet. I’m just sorry they took their anger at me out on—” He covers his face with his other hand.

  First time I’ve ever seen him cry.

  “I told you—it didn’t work,” I say, but between the music and his crying, I don’t think he hears me. I wrap my arms around him instead. His shoulders tremble.

  After a few minutes, he steps back, his hand holding my face. Then he inhales sharply and wipes his eyes. “I can’t tell you how good it feels to tell you. The stress has been killing me.”

  I look at Germ. He has a look in his eye that says, Don’t. Mom’s face is resigned. No sign of shock or surprise. “Did you know about this?”

  She nods.

  Unbelievable. All these secrets. They’re like waves that keep crashing into me, throwing me off balance. I open my mouth to speak but Dad says, “The question is, what now? Where do we go from here?”

  “Don’t say it, Parker.” Mom’s tone is stern. “Just don’t even—”

  “I’ve seen smuggled photos, Becca. It’s not as bad as they say.”

  “What’s not?” I ask.

  “Outbound,” Dad says dismissively. I remember the conversation with Germ on our way back from Eevee’s school. Dad isn’t actually considering moving us to the DMZ, is he? “If we stay here,” he says, “we’ll always be—”

  “Look at me!” Mom’s voice rises above the music. She motions to her legs. “Look at me. I can’t.”

  “You’re right.” Dad takes her in his arms and says, “I’m sorry,” again and again.

  “What if it isn’t your fault?” I ask. Germ’s eyes go wide and he shakes his head, but I say it anyway. “What if I’ve been getting their attention?” He throws up his hands and turns away.