Road to Eugenica (Eugenica Chronicles)

by A. M. Rose

  In an instant, Mom is next to me. Her hair is glued to one side of her face, her normally perfect lipstick smeared in the corners. “What did you do?” She scowls at them. Her hand is damp against my head. Or maybe it’s my head that’s damp.

  “We were checking her vitals, just as you requested.” Pamela pushes a clipboard toward Mom.

  Tears pour from my eyes and spill down each cheek.

  “Alexandrea, everything’s okay. You need to relax.” Mom’s voice is calm, but it doesn’t help.

  Relax? I can’t relax. I can’t even breathe. The heart-rate monitor screams in my ears. Alarms sound. I grab the wires connected to me and try to rip them free. I need to get out of here. I need to find Dad.

  More nurses burst into the room and pull Mom out of the way. I choke on my own tears, bile rising in the back of my mouth. My body shakes as each muscle contracts and releases all at the same time.

  “We need to get her under control,” one nurse yells. She looks scared. That makes two of us.

  I gasp for air and claw at my throat, begging it to open. The nurses talk to me, their voices nothing more than a whisper in the back of my mind. Her dad didn’t make it.

  Mom stands in the doorway, a nurse holding her back. She yells at them, trying to tell everyone what to do. Including me. “Breathe,” she screams but I can’t.

  Her dad didn’t make it. Lights. Screaming. Blood. Sirens. This can’t be real. It has to be a dream. But what happened was nothing like my dream. No snow. No spinning. No Green-eyed man. I try to force myself awake, but reality surrounds me, demanding my attention. I fight against it, but its hold is too strong.

  A huge male nurse tries to push me down into the bed. His hands press firmly on my shoulders. Another female nurse takes out a long syringe and inserts it into one of the tubes still connected to my arm. A few seconds later, my body betrays me. My limbs aren’t connected to my mind, and I have to fight to keep my eyes open. But I have to stay awake. I have to find him.

  “There. Is that better?” A gray-haired man appears over me. Mom’s colleague, Dr. Whiticure. “Alexandrea, do you know where you are?” He stands next to the bed, his dark skin and silver hair blurring together. But I can picture his kind gray eyes and his wrinkle-free skin. Botox special, he calls it.

  It takes all my strength and concentration to nod.

  “Do you remember what happened?”

  I nod again, this time much more easily. I’d do anything to forget.

  Dr. Whiticure takes a small light out from his pocket and shines it into my eyes. “She is responsive. So that is good. I would like to run a few more tests, though.”

  “Let’s give her some time.” Mom moves next to him.

  “Very well. I will be back in a little while.” He pats Mom’s shoulder and leaves the room.

  Mom walks over to me, picks up my hand, and squeezes it tightly in her own. Her hand’s cold, and my hand feels out of place in hers. I don’t have the strength to squeeze back.

  Now it’s just the two of us, but Mom’s eyes are two black holes with nothing behind them. My eyes are an open faucet, salty tears pouring down my face and drenching my shirt.

  She presses my hand to her chest. “It’s going to be okay.”

  Dad didn’t make it. So how’s anything possibly okay? How will it ever be okay again? I open my mouth to ask these very questions, but I can’t. My body falls back into the bed, with the weight of the world on my chest.

  “There you go. Just rest,” Mom says, before consciousness escapes me.

  …

  I’m jolted awake. The cold metal table stings my back and wraps my bones in ice. I’m not where I’m supposed to be. I don’t know why I know this, I just do. Something about the air. It’s not right. Even though I’m inside, it’s too fresh, too perfect. My body’s a lead block. Except that I’m trembling all over; the only thing that’ll move is my eyes no matter how hard I try. My gaze darts around. Where am I?

  Darkness and lights flash just past my line of sight. What looks like a hologram of a computer screen is suspended in the air not far to my left, a man, whom I can’t see his face, types on it, like it’s solid and not a hologram at all. But that doesn’t make sense. Computers don’t just hang in the middle of thin air.

  Above my head is a giant metal oval. At least that’s what it looks like. Numbers and words flash across the surface. Heart rate. Temperature. Glucose level. White blood count. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Something tells me that information is about me, but I don’t know how.

  Aside from that, there’s nothing.

  Except, there’s a presence of something or someone that presses firmly down on me. Causing my lips to quiver and my breathing to quicken.

  The oval above hums, then cracks open. A violet light breaks into a stream and scans me from head to toe and back again. What kind of technology is this? I want to scream, but I can’t make a sound.

  Footsteps echo in the distance and come closer and closer. Who’s there? Who is that? My heart rattles in my chest. A figure appears at my side. Piercing green eyes and a crescent-shaped scar look down at me.

  My fingers dig into the mattress of the hospital bed, grounding me in reality and taking me from the dream I was just in. But it’s still dark, and for a moment he’s there, too. The Green-eyed man stands in the doorway, his crescent scar crinkling with his wicked grin. But as soon as I blink, he’s gone. Vanished. Was he even there at all? I stare at the empty place in the doorway.

  I’m alone.

  I roll onto my side and hug my legs into my chest. Good, I want to be alone. I need to be alone. It’s my punishment for what I’ve caused.

  I never should’ve begged Dad to go out. If I didn’t, we’d be home right now.

  Together.

  But I’m here and he’s gone.

  Gone.

  And I have to live with that. But I don’t know how.

  …

  Days pass, and soon time has lost all meaning, measured only by the number of people who come in and out of my room. Dr. Whiticure and a team have performed every test I’ve ever heard of and even more I haven’t. I should complain. I should tell them to stop. But I don’t care. I’m numb.

  I’ve had body scans, MRIs, CAT scans, and X-rays. So much blood has been drawn I’m surprised I have any left. But they could drain me empty for all it matters. I’ve been poked and prodded with everything imaginable. And hooked up to at least a hundred different machines. Mom wants to make sure I’m okay. Every time a test comes back she asks Dr. Whiticure to do another. He’s probably scared of her. Most everyone here is.

  But no matter what they do to me, I can’t stop my stomach from hurting or get this thickness in my throat to go away. I’ve barely been able to eat anything or even look anyone in the eye. Each night, I cry myself to sleep and am wrenched awake by my new nightmare.

  Mom has tried to convince me it wasn’t my fault, but it’s her job to say these things. And sometimes while I’m here, that’s how I feel, like just another one of her patients.

  She’s trying to make me feel better, I guess. Any mom would. Losing Dad has been hard on her, too. At least that’s what I tell myself. But something about the smile she has plastered on her face shakes me to my core. “We all process things in our own way,” she had said when I asked her how she felt about everything. And I suppose she’s right.

  I let out a deep sigh. Finally, alone. Not that I don’t always feel this way lately, but this is the first time in forever no one is actually in the room with me. I sit and stare out the window. The sky is gray and a steady drizzle of rain comes down, drawing lines on my window as it falls. My eyes focus on the drops of water, and I try to make pictures in my mind, like what I do when I’m in my room at home, but I can’t do it. All I see is rain.

  The door handle to my room turns. I let out a sigh. Great. More tests, most likely, or who knows what they’ll do to me now. Maybe I should ask if they can give me a new heart. This one hurts too
much anyway. But instead, Dylan walks in. He carries a large bouquet of flowers, a white stuffed teddy bear, and a takeout bag from In-n-Out.

  His blond hair is pushed away from his face. A face that tells me everything before he can utter a single word. Dark circles under his eyes and a smile that’s sad and relieved at the same time. He sets everything down on the table next to me and half sits, half leans against my bed facing me, so we’re eye to eye.

  “It’s good to see you.” He grins, but this one doesn’t reach his eyes. “Before you say anything, I talked to your mom.” He pauses for a moment. His eyes scan my face, like he’s deciding if he should continue. I’m not sure if he should. There’s something in his expression I’ve never seen before, and if I guessed I’d say it’s fear. Knowing he’s scared makes me scared, too. “You know you were hit by a drunk driver, right? The cops said he side swiped two cars before hitting you. There was nothing you did wrong… This was not your fault.”

  Part of me thinks this isn’t what he had planned to say, but this I can handle. “I wanted to go. If I didn’t beg him—”

  He leans over me and holds his hand up. A line etches between his brows. “You had no way of knowing this would happen— That asshole was smashed and ran the red light, not you. You didn’t make him drink or get behind the wheel.”

  The lump in my throat grows. I stare at my hands. “But—”

  “No. Look at me.” He dips his head to the side until I lift my face to meet his. “This isn’t me being nice. This isn’t your fault.” His eyes are so intense, it takes a second for me to catch my breath. “Now say it. ‘It’s not my fault.’” Dylan believes what he’s saying. He’s never lied to me. Never. I cling to that as I repeat what he said.

  “It’s not my fault,” I whisper in a voice hoarse with disuse. Something inside me loosens when I say it. “Not my fault.” My eyes fill, but I don’t let any tears escape as I nod.

  He leans over and rests his forehead on mine for a moment. I relish in its warmth. But too soon he’s sitting up. “Now move over.” He pushes me to the side so he can join me in the bed.

  Even though Dylan and I are about the same height, he’s still twice the size of me, so we barely fit on the small bed together. I have to lay half my body on top of him for us both to fit. His arm wraps around me and already I’m more at ease. My head lays on his chest, and I listen to the gentle beat of his heart. Soon the sterile smell of the hospital is replaced with the familiar and comforting smell of Dylan.

  He gently runs his hands through my hair, wrapping my curls around his fingers like he’s done since we were little, but the sensation still sends tingles to my toes, and grabs the remote attached to the bed, clicking on the TV to some Kung-Fu movie. I’d normally complain. Say something like, “Not this crap again.” He’d laugh and have that crooked smile on his face, but he’d change it to something we both agree on. But today I’m quiet. Today I need him next to me more than ever. What we’re watching doesn’t matter.

  My latest dream sits at the edge of my mind. Part of me wants to talk to him about it. To let him tell me, “I’ll take care of you.” But for the first time in days, my throat starts to loosen and my stomach isn’t as tight. So I let it all go and watch without protest.

  He grabs the bag of burgers and fries. “Now eat something, so you can get the hell out of this place.”

  The idea of leaving almost knocks the air out of me. That would mean moving on. Accepting what’s happened.

  I can’t.

  My life will never be the same.

  Chapter Five

  I stand in the middle of my room. Bed unmade, just like that day when I’d been in such a hurry to get out of the house with Dad. What if I’d taken the time to make it? Would a five-minute delay have changed anything? Even thirty seconds. I could’ve done something with my hair for thirty seconds easy.

  No. I can’t go there.

  My flip-flops are on the floor next to my desk, paint, brushes, and art supplies scattered about. But still something’s missing. It isn’t my camera or my collection of records. My calendar’s still hanging on the wall, a big red circle around the date of the New Language concert, along with stubs from all the other concerts Dylan and I have gone to.

  My gaze falls on my jewelry box. I pull the sleeves of Dad’s favorite blue sweater over my hands. The box is pink and childish—the kind with a windup ballerina—and a wobbly line of heart stickers bisects the lid. Last year I found an old tea box I was going to move my jewelry to, but never got around to it.

  I’m ready. Finally, I’m ready. At least I think I am. My hands shake as I tip the lid open and reach inside. The ballerina makes half a turn, and a few notes from “The Blue Danube Waltz” escape into the room. I pull out a small blue velvet jewelry pouch, let the item inside slide into my hand, and gently shut the lid. Then I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at my fisted hand, waiting for the cold metal to warm.

  Acceptance. The last stage of grief. I’ve visited that emotion a few times over the last week and a half, but never has it lingered until today.

  I’ve practically memorized Mom’s book, The Five Stages of Grief. But unlike the book, my stages are all mixed up and don’t come in any sort of order. Bargaining lingered a while and sat close to me at night. Denial and anger came hard and fast. Depression dug its claws into my skin and didn’t let go. I curled up in my bed and cried and cried until my body ran dry.

  Then there were days I felt okay. At first, they were fleeting moments, like when Pamela would sneak in and sit with me. She wouldn’t say much, just hold my hand and bring extra containers of green Jell-O. Those fleeting moments turned to minutes, then hours. And acceptance didn’t seem far away.

  Like today. Days have passed. The funeral came and went. Closed casket, so I couldn’t say a proper goodbye. Couldn’t see Dad’s face one last time, or leave the picture of us inside with him. People brought casseroles, walked through the house, and mumbled their condolences. Their condolences. Ha.

  What do you say to the girl who’s lost her dad? You give her your condolences and hug her, even though she doesn’t hug back. And why should I? It’s not like they were around before. Not like they cared when Dad was still alive.

  Dylan’s been here every day. He brings my schoolwork, sits on my bed, and talks. I listen, but I don’t hear a word he says. My body sits with him, but my mind is far away. Mind and body. Body and mind. Once I was whole, but now I’m two separate pieces. “Autopilot” is what someone called it.

  I wasn’t ready before, but I think I am now.

  My hands shake, but I’m not crying. Not today. I swallow and clench my jaw. No crying, not anymore. Dad wouldn’t want that.

  I uncurl my fingers. And there it is, the last gift Dad ever gave me. I remember the day he got it for me like I’m there now.

  It started like any other Saturday, with a long jog. But instead of going to get coffee and bagels, we ended at Belmont Park, or what we liked to call “paradise.” Roller coasters, carnival games, junk food, and great little boutiques—what more could anyone ask for? Yeah, it screamed “tourist attraction,” but we loved it just the same.

  The scent of the ocean air mixed with the smell of cotton candy, popcorn, and every fried food imaginable made my stomach grumble.

  After we rode some of our favorite coasters, we browsed through the boutiques full of local vendors’ handmade trinkets. Crazy things like underwear with “World’s largest source of natural gas,” scrawled across the butt. Miniature licenses plates that never have my name spelled right. Shot glasses, and ridiculously overpriced bikinis. Next to shelves of equally overpriced sunburn cream.

  I walked past a long glass case full of handmade jewelry, beaded necklaces, and heavy cuff bracelets. But a thick, hammered gold band caught my eye. The vendor, a young woman who didn’t look like she could be much older than me, immediately noticed and pulled it out of the case, asking if I wanted to try it on.

  Before I could refuse, she pushed
her long, silky caramel hair over her shoulder and slipped the ring onto my finger. It was cold and heavy and felt too big.

  “It’s a perfect fit.”

  “No. It’s…” I turned my hand and studied it. She was right. Perfect fit.

  “And it’s lovely.” Her voice was raspy, a smoker’s voice. It didn’t match the flawless texture of her skin, the bronzed glow from her cheeks, or her shiny glossed lips.

  I stared at the ring. At first glance, it didn’t look like anything special, but that’s what I liked about it. It was dull, simple. Kind of like me. Although on closer inspection there were faint lines—dozens of them—that ran across the gold band. “What do the lines mean?”

  “The ring tells a story.” She flips my hand over and back again. “All the lines connect, just like we are all separate beings but we are connected in some way.”

  I was so intrigued, so drawn to her. I didn’t want her to ever stop talking.

  “We’ll take it.” Dad’s deep voice boomed over my shoulder and I jumped. Had he been nearby the whole time?

  I’d forgotten he was there. But there he was. Big smile, dimples showing, cotton candy still stuck in his beard.

  I wrapped my arms around him. “Thanks, Dad! I love you so much.”

  “I love you, too, sport.”

  The girl handed Dad the receipt. I was about to follow him when she grabbed my arm. Her touch was hot, and it made me tremble. But I couldn’t pull away. I didn’t even want to.

  “You have the ability to create great change.” She sounded hopeful, excited even. “Just believe.”

  I didn’t know what she meant then, and I’m still not sure. When we had gotten home I thought the ring was too special to wear, so I put it in my jewelry box. But it’s the last thing Dad gave me, so I slip it on my finger and vow never to take it off. I’ll look at it as a symbol of strength to make great change in my life, to move forward and do whatever will make him proud.