by Nina Laurin
But back when I had to integrate into normal society—at least from eight until four p.m. five days a week—she was beside herself. The moment I’d step over the threshold she’d descend on me, bombarding me with questions, trying to suss out if I’d been seduced by the Devil’s works. What did I learn, what did the teachers say and do, but, especially, who did I talk to, hang out with, play with?
She had nothing to worry about. The moment I first set foot inside the school gates in my secondhand, ill-fitting clothes and shoes with holes, I became a target. Hardly surprising, when even the Sunday School kids kept their distance from me, somehow figuring out that I wasn’t like them. That whiff of crazy from Therese rubbed off on me, and children are great at picking up on these things. If ever a new child joined the group on the playground, someone would elbow her in the ribs soon enough, whispering in her ear, Don’t play with her, she’s weeeeeird.
Regular school was no exception. I couldn’t keep up with their conversations about Barbies and Pokémon cards. I became the butt of jokes. Kids avoided going near my desk like it was contaminated.
I should have hated it and longed to run back under Therese’s skirts. But instead, I was fascinated. I was too consumed with wanting to be my tormentors to loathe them. Even as my classmates spat on me and tripped me up in hallways, my envy was stronger than anything, even my hatred.
And pretty soon, I had a chance to join the world I longed for.
By that time, second grade, I had a pretty good idea that my relationship with my mother—or rather Therese’s relationship with me—wasn’t the same as what most kids my age had with their parents. Therese rarely showed love or even the most basic affection. Only after starting second grade did I understand this had something to do with that dad I was never allowed to mention. My one innocent question about my dad cost me a whole evening in the corner. Some girl in my class had heard from her mom, who knew some school worker, that when she enrolled me, Therese requested that the field for my father’s name be left blank. And I remembered enough from the Bible reading lessons to put two and two together. Therese hated me because of that. Because I, myself, was proof of some kind of deadly sin.
The children in my class caught on with remarkable speed. They called my mom a Jesus freak—the first time I’d ever heard that term—and me, devil-spawn. My desk went from contaminated to cursed. One girl in particular—the very same one who started the rumors—victimized me the most. The pleasure she took from it was evident, from her wicked grin to the evil gleam in her eyes any time she glimpsed me, and whenever I saw those I knew I was about to be subjected to some new ordeal.
And so, one day, I took advantage of a moment of inattention and stole her prized possession, some sort of pencil box made of bright plastic, with buttons that played music and a little built-in calculator. She turned away just as I was passing by, as always, discreet, shrinking into myself, and for once, she didn’t notice me. I slipped the pencil box right off her desk and stuffed it in my pocket.
Long story short, she had an absolute fit when she realized her thingamajig was missing. No matter that she would have forgotten about it by next week, and it would be gathering dust at the bottom of her school bag, replaced in her favor by some new toy. But right now, it was gone, and something had to be done quickly. They searched everyone in class and found the pencil box.
Later, at home, was the first and only time Therese ever hit me.
Honestly, it’s surprising it didn’t happen sooner. And it definitely wasn’t out of love for me that Therese had kept her hands off me thus far. But she hit me that evening. Or, rather, slapped me—slapped me hard enough that my head snapped sideways.
My ears were ringing, and, shocked by the suddenness of it as much as the pain, I spun around and ran from the room. Maybe I ran too fast, in the apartment that was too small and cluttered. But I tripped and fell and hit my head on the side of a table. The next day, I had to go to school with a bruise.
And that’s when I did something I’d never thought possible before. When a teacher asked me about the bruise, I flat-out told her it was my mom who hit me.
I still don’t know what possessed me. It wasn’t an outright lie—she did hit me; it just didn’t cause the bruise. And it was the perfect way to draw attention away from what I had done, for which I had already been given detention for the whole week. I didn’t exactly think my little lie of omission would get me out of detention. But I needed something. The bruise was something.
Little did I know the far-reaching consequences my fib would have. I only had the vaguest idea why I ended up in regular school after all. I remembered the conversation with the social worker, who had been nice and friendly and smiling, so I didn’t suspect any underlying motivations.
For once, the machine whirred into action with frightening efficiency, and by the end of the week, I was whisked away from Therese’s care and placed with a foster family.
I would spend several months with them, a time that is mostly lost in a fog of sheer wonderment. I got a set of cheap but clean clothes from the local department store, I ate boxed macaroni and cheese three nights a week and breaded chicken fillets the rest of the time, and watched cartoons with four other children. It was utterly incredible, and I couldn’t believe my luck.
Although I didn’t know this at the time, Therese went into a frenzy to prove to social services that she was a fit mother. She attended those classes they signed her up for, she rented a new apartment, and got rid of the hoarded clutter. I don’t know how sincere it all was, whether she really decided to change or it was all an act. But if so, why go to such lengths to get me back when she didn’t much care for me in the first place? When I certainly didn’t need or want her to?
But get me back she did, and one fine day, I returned to her with my possessions folded neatly in an old suitcase provided by a special charity organization. The first days were strange, the Therese I knew and the new, social-services-approved Therese warring within the small space of the new apartment. There was a TV now, which stayed off most of the time. There was nutritious food beyond plain oatmeal and peanut butter on toast—to this day I still can’t stand the sight of peanut butter, and for the longest time, I pretended to be allergic to it. I had clothes that fit. Therese was polite to me, the way one is to an exchange student. At first, every day I expected her to ask me why I lied, whether I remembered what a grave sin lying was, and whether I had repented.
But she never asked. I guess she knew she wouldn’t like the answer.
With the new apartment came a new school district and a new school, which meant the end of the bullying. Not just because my clothes were better and my lunches didn’t call attention to them with their shabbiness. This time, I was smarter. I learned to hide from people the things I didn’t want them to see. Things were so much better now, and all I did was tell a little white lie.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Anna Finch is here to see you, Cecelia. Should I let her in?”
My initial reflex is to say no. To send a message to Anna-fucking-Finch that I’m out, that I’m away on vacation to Honduras for the rest of the year, that I died, whatever. Or better yet, to tell Anna Finch to please go to hell.
But then I think about it. “Sure,” I say.
“Very well, Cecelia. Anna Finch has been notified. She’s at the door.”
I go and let her in. She’s wearing a suit again but a different one. Still in a similar style, and, by the looks of it, just as expensive. Only now her hair is down, and she’s wearing less makeup. I can see her freckles.
“Hello,” she says. When she’s not screeching or spewing insults, her voice is poised, pleasant. Something is very corporate about it. It’s the voice of a person who gets promotions. “Cecelia? I apologize for dropping in on you like this. So kind of you to let me in.”
She holds out a wine bottle. What is she playing at now? I’m in my own house. She can’t have another fit. I remember Clarisse’s words: The house will
protect its inhabitants from any threat, internal or external. So if she plans to break that wine bottle over my head—
“A little offering. I wasn’t sure what to get so I decided to go with a sure value. It’s a Burgundy. A good year.”
“Thank you,” I say, deciding to play it safe and find out what she wants before I do anything rash.
“I’m going to cut to the chase. I wanted to apologize to you for my unseemly outburst. I know I behaved in an appalling way, and it was unwarranted. Your car malfunctioned, that’s all. There was no reason to react the way I did.”
It sounds rehearsed as hell, and I can picture her perfectly, composing it on her tablet beforehand, her short but manicured nails tapping softly at the screen. But the way she delivers it has a ring of honesty to it. And of course, there’s her face. It turns a little bit pink. A redhead’s skin isn’t good at lying and deception.
“I understand,” I say. “You had your child in the car. I think I would have reacted the same way.”
“We’re mothers,” she says, latching on to this thing we have in common, for lack of anything else. “We’ll do anything for our children. My daughter is Rebecca. She’s in the Little Munchkins group.”
Taryn was in the Little Munchkins group herself until she turned three recently. Now she’s in Little Tots, ages three to five. I tell Anna this, and she nods.
“This is what I appreciate so much about this place. The safety for my baby. So I hope you can understand why I overreacted.”
I nod. I very much would have liked to leave it at that but the polite thing to do is to offer her a coffee or something. I do, half hoping she’ll refuse. But she nods emphatically. “Great idea. I had a hectic morning and could use a little coffee. Rebecca still wakes up to eat at night sometimes.”
“Oh, I remember. I don’t miss that.”
We share a somewhat awkward laugh. The coffee machine takes Anna’s order, which Anna rattles off with the flawless confidence of someone who’s been living in Venture for a while. It whirs quietly as it makes our coffees, and I keep an eye on it for any signs of weirdness. But the macchiato and my usual double-long come out perfect.
Forty-five minutes later, we’re uncorking the wine bottle she brought. It’s early afternoon, a bit too early to be drinking, but what the heck. It turns out that Anna is one of the early adopters, living in Venture for three years now, since before her daughter was born.
“There’s no better place to have kids,” she now tells me with unshakable confidence. She swirls the wine in her glass. “It’s like—I’m not a religious person, or even a spiritual person, so don’t get me wrong—but it’s like something out there heard my prayers. You know? Pointed me to this place.”
I nod. “IntelTech just contacted us. They found Scott through his work. They said they were looking for young families to test a groundbreaking new project.”
“I was skeptical at first,” says Anna. “But we tried it for six months, and I was ready to buy. So we did.”
I lower my gaze to my wineglass.
“Is everything okay?” she asks. “Did I say something—”
“No.” I take a sip of my wine. “It’s just, you seem so sure. We haven’t decided yet if we’re buying.”
“Seriously, you should,” she says. Her face is starting to flush a bit. “The first and only thing that went wrong in three years was a dent in my bumper. In what other place in the world can you boast that?”
“I guess you’re right.”
“I owe this to myself,” she says. “And to Rebecca. When we met with Clarisse, I just had a good gut feeling. I just knew this was the place for us.”
“Really?” I chuckle. “To tell you the truth, Clarisse kind of gave me the heebie-jeebies. Something about her, something Stepford-y. And that assistant of hers is like a robot.”
Anna gives a hearty laugh. It’s a surprising laugh, coming from someone like her, all thin and dry and brittle-looking. “Stepford-y? My God, Cecelia. People are just afraid of what they don’t understand. Or they just can’t afford it and are forced to live in crummy, crime-riddled boroughs so they disguise their envy as social consciousness. Remember how everyone was boycotting Nike in the nineties? And then they made enough money to afford nice things and got over it so fast.”
She looks smug.
“What about privacy?” I ask.
“Privacy? You don’t think any of us have any privacy, do you? In 2020. But I hear you. My husband was the same way at first, and it took some persuading. But what can I say? Persuading is what I do for a living so I’m good at it.”
I don’t tell her that I can kind of understand her husband. And I’m starting to worry about my own family—about Scott, who seems as eager to careen down the slippery slope as Anna, and about Taryn, who will grow up in this place, so completely disconnected from the real world.
“The whole world will be like this in five years,” says Anna. “We’re just lucky enough to live in it now.”
* * *
As I show her out, I can’t help but wonder. We exchanged our contact info. Not that it was necessary because Saya would have uploaded it onto our respective phones if I’d only asked. Anna told me about a stroller-moms group that she was a part of. Didn’t explicitly invite me to join but mentioned where they had their weekly meetups: in the gazebo at the techy local park. I said I’d give it some thought. Taryn is a bit old for that now. The only way she’ll sit complacently in a stroller for hours is if I put a tablet in her hands.
I didn’t share with Anna any of my suspicions about the house and the mysterious Lydia with the taste for syrupy coffee drinks. I kind of got the feeling she’d laugh at me and think I was delusional. And this is the first time I make a connection with anyone here, superficial as it is. Who knows, perhaps Anna and Scott are both right. This is the future, Taryn’s future, and I might as well embrace it.
“Saya,” I speak up.
“Yes, Cecelia?”
“Who lives in the big glass house behind ours?”
“I’m afraid I’m not authorized to share that information, Cecelia.”
I shrug. Of course.
“Saya, who lived here before we did?”
“I don’t understand the question, Cecelia.”
“Who is Lydia? Do you know a Lydia?”
A moment of silence. Then: “I know several Lydias. Which one do you mean?” And the voice proceeds to list actresses and other people of note.
“Is there a Lydia living in Venture?”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that information, Cecelia.”
Uh-huh. How surprising. “Can’t you run some sort of check?”
“You should address IntelTech for that information.”
Figures.
“Saya, have you ever hurt anyone?”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Would you ever hurt anyone?”
“I do not understand the question.”
“If they were trying to hurt me, for instance? Would you hurt someone?”
“You should address IntelTech for that information. Cecelia, it’s time to get Taryn from day care in thirty minutes. Scott has left work and will be home in approximately forty-seven minutes, due to light traffic. Do you want me to start supper?”
I heave a sigh. “No.”
“Have I been helpful with your inquiries, Cecelia?”
What do you think?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
At exactly six o’clock, Jessica clocks out. At IntelTech there’s no “clocking out” in the traditional sense, and nothing resembling old-fashioned time cards is in sight. Like every other employee, she clocks out with the chip embedded in her wrist. She doesn’t need to scan it. It auto-scans on her way into the parking lot beneath the building and again when she drives out onto the street.
IntelTech issues cars to their employees, the same model of pristine white electric vehicle for everyone except for the higher-ups who get an SUV. There’s
the option of housing too. Jessica could be living in Venture, in a special apartment building—not for free but at a discount. But Jessica’s mother is ill, and she has to live with her so she didn’t take advantage of the offer. She knows it’s not seen well at work, and she lives in fear of the day when they offer the housing to her mother as well, and then Jessica won’t have any reason to live away from SmartBlock.
But until then. Until then…
She drives down perfectly manicured streets, past picture-perfect houses and lawns and parks. Pleasant classical music pours from the speakers of her car. Finally, she arrives at the Venture city limit and taps an icon on the dashboard. The gate opens and lets her out, back into the real world.
Yes, Venture and all its technological wonders is separated from its neighbors with a gate and a fence. The fence is concealed by a beautiful, verdant hedge but it’s there nonetheless. A literal gated community. Reemerging into the world outside is like flipping a switch. Or exiting a beautifully crafted simulation into a postapocalyptic wasteland that is reality.
She drives down a road badly in need of repairs, her teeth clacking together every time she hits one of the many potholes. Garbage cans are overflowing, and the houses have filthy windows and crumbling brick exteriors. In this part of town, far from the city core and too close to the industrial area, poor families and immigrants live in dilapidated double- and triple-deckers. They have about as much of a chance of making it inside the fence as they have of getting to the moon.
Jessica grits her teeth but doesn’t let her guard down for the entire drive home, not even when she takes the ramp onto the highway or when she makes the turn onto her street. She lives with her mother in a little bungalow that’s been looking like it needs a little love lately. Jessica has no time to clean and maintain. She should pay someone but her salary isn’t as big as most would think. IntelTech is only generous to the people who don’t really need their generosity.