Life First: (Dystopian series, book 1)

by RJ Crayton

  He turns and points to me. I try my best to look sympathetic. “Please do the right thing. Find Ms. Reed guilty but treatable so that she can get well and help bring another life into FoSS.”

  With that, Albert returns to his seat. It was short, simple and to the point. It was eloquent, too. But it doesn’t seem like enough. The rest of the hearing is a blur to me. The judge issues some instructions, the jury leaves, and I am taken back to my cell.

  Chapter 31: Don’t Worry? Ha!

  Uncle Albert tells me not to worry, that there is nothing I can do at this point. Once things are in the hands of the jury, all I can do is wait. So, I try that. I sit in my cell and try not to worry. I rub my belly and talk to the baby, who I’ve dubbed Peanut. I’m not sure if it’s a boy or a girl, obviously, but Peanut seems like it could go either way.

  The hearing ended at 4 p.m., so I eat, talk to Peanut a bit, and pretty much wait for Luke. When he arrives at 8, he doesn’t speak to me, not even, “Hi,” which is weird. Then, at 9:40, he turns on his guard’s walkie-talkie and asks permission to go on a 10-minute break. Once permission is granted, he leaves and doesn’t come back until 2 minutes ‘til lights out.

  I lie on my bed block, anxiously awaiting the darkness, so I can break our silence. Once the lights fade, I sit up and speak. “What’s going on?”

  He shushes me.

  I sit there and wait for what feels like an eternity, but in reality may be just 5 minutes, before Luke finally comes over. I slide over to make room for him on the block.

  “What happened?”

  I hear him swoosh in a breath, then he adopts a cheerful tone. “Kelsey, you worry too much,” he says. “Nothing happened. I just needed to check my messages.”

  I worry too much! He has to be kidding. “Since when do you need to check your messages after you’ve arrived?”

  He answers too quickly, as if he had it already prepared. “I was waiting on a call, and it hadn’t come. That’s it. I just wanted to check for it.”

  What could be that important? “A call from whom?”

  “Dr. Grant.”

  “Oh,” I manage. Well, I suppose that makes sense. I’d wondered from the moment I’d seen him with the good doctor, what exactly Luke did for him. Our first encounter in the lab made his job seem mysterious and secret. On our first date, he’d told me he really just did filing, talked to patients who were concerned, and escorted patients to Dr. Grant’s lab in Peoria. I asked him why he’d made it sound so mysterious earlier, and admitted it was just so I’d go out with him. I sorta bought that explanation. But, then on our fourth date, I got a glimpse of what Luke really did for Dr. Grant. It was what he said, but in a more intimate way than I had expected. He had two mobile phones: one for personal calls, and one for calls related to Dr. Grant. And that phone, he was often replacing. He’d say he needed a new number, or new information associated with it. It didn’t matter, though, he said, because only Dr. Grant’s answering service had the number.

  On that fourth date, he received a call from the answering service, and even though we were hot and heavy in a make out session, he took the call. He up and left me. Went to the other room to call a patient back and then spent 45 minutes talking with her on the phone. I was more than a little miffed when he returned. He apologized profusely and said his job involved talking to the patients when they were having a hard time with something. And this patient was.

  He gave me that apologetic face, the one with the sad eyes, those beyond-appealing dimples, the face that makes him look like he ought to be forgiven anything. So, I forgave him. It wasn’t until I realized he and Dr. Grant helped women who needed treatment that would likely end their pregnancies that I became aware of just how important Luke’s job was. These women were alone in a society that told them what they were doing was the ultimate wrong. They had no one to turn to, except Dr. Grant and Luke. Often not their husbands or family members. So, Luke would often take their calls, chat with them, help them. And on occasion, he would ferry medications to them — things they couldn’t go to a pharmacy to get, things Dr. Grant had put together himself in his lab. On rare occasions, Luke would accompany a woman who wanted to defect to Peoria. Any FoSS citizen can renounce his or her citizenship and move to Peoria, with two exceptions: a person who has been marked but not yet donated and a person who is pregnant. In both cases, you had to wait to leave FoSS. The marked person had to make their donation first. And the pregnant woman had to give birth to the child first. FoSS found it acceptable to allow a mother to leave with her new child, but not until it was safely outside the womb and protected from Peoria’s “pagan laws.”

  Once in Peoria, a woman is welcome to stay at the Grant House before moving on. He’s only done it twice, but it is enough that Luke knows the ropes and wasn’t afraid to accompany me there when I decided to flee.

  Dr. Grant and Luke always worked so well together. It is odd he wouldn’t call Luke back. “Is it very important, the reason you need to talk to Dr. Grant?”

  There is a second of hesitation, then, “Not really.” Luke shifts a bit in his seat, jostling me. “I’ve just gotten used to him returning my calls. With him and me keeping our distance so the connection isn’t made to you, it’s probably for the best, him not calling me.” He is using his reassuring voice, yet his comments don’t reassure me.

  Luke wraps his arms around me, gives me a gentle squeeze, then kisses my ear. “So, how are you? I heard they closed on your case today, and the jury will start deliberating tomorrow. Does Albert have any inkling which way they might go?”

  I shake my head, and because I am nestled in Luke’s arm, end up rubbing against his chest. “No,” I whisper. “He said it’s out of our hands now. I think he did a pretty good job with what he had. The question really is whether they want to give me another shot, me and Peanut.”

  “Peanut?”

  A little giggle slips out. I guess it is a silly name. “Yeah, I’ve started calling the baby Peanut.”

  A moment of silence, then he lets go of me and backs away slightly. “Wait,” he says, perturbed. “You named the baby without me?”

  “No,” I counter quickly. I hadn’t expected that reaction. I try to recover, grabbing hold of one of the hands he’d moved away. “No, of course not. This is just the in-utero name. We’ll pick an outside world name together, once we know if it’s a boy or a girl. I just think Peanut goes either way and is nice. But, if you don’t like Peanut, we can pick something else for in-utero.”

  More silence from him, then finally a chuckle, as he resumes his earlier position, wrapping his arms back around me. “Peanut’s nice,” he says. “For in-utero, at least.” He hesitates. “Unless you like Ingo?”

  I scrunch up my face, glad the darkness hides my expression. Ingo! Is that a boy’s or a girl’s name? Either way, it is sooooo not right for Peanut. Hopefully he’s joking. “Umm, I think I like Peanut,” is all I say. Ingo? Seriously? He has to be joking.

  He rubs my tummy, and I am so glad Luke is here with me. The closeness we are sharing now suddenly gives way to the terror that it will be gone tomorrow if the jury deems me a sociopath. “Luke, what do the people on the outside say about me, about the trial?”

  With a shove-it-under-the-rug tone, he says, “I don’t know, Kelsey. It doesn’t matter. Don’t worry about what other people think.”

  I take his hand off my belly and tuck it into my own. “You do know what they’re saying, Luke! You go out there every day. You have to hear something about it. We promised no more secrets. Tell me,” I say. Softly, I add, “Please.”

  He sighs, then speaks in a voice so low I can barely hear him. “I don’t want to say, Kelsey, because what they think about you is my fault.”

  I am taken aback. I don’t understand. “What are they thinking? And how can it be your fault?”

  He continues in the whisper. “Your father didn’t talk about me, and you didn’t testify because you couldn’t talk about me, and now they think you’re promi
scuous and probably faking the illness.”

  The fact that people think I am a whore is not great by any means, but I find it more disturbing that Luke is blaming himself for it. “It’s not your fault, Luke,” I tell him. “I’d gladly let everyone think I’d single-handedly brought back HIV if it meant you could stay in here with me at night. I couldn’t be in here without you, so I don’t care what they think.”

  He gives me a soft kiss on the top of my head. I squeeze his hand. “It’s alright, Luke. We knew it would be an uphill battle,” I say. “Besides, we’ve got your backup plan, right? Even if they convict, we’ve got an alternative.”

  “Yeah,” he says with an utter lack of enthusiasm.

  “Don’t get down, Luke. I know it’s tough to keep your spirits up when something doesn’t go our way, but we have to. And I know your plan will work. We just have to get to Dr. Grant’s lab, and then you can break me out. The sentence won’t matter?”

  I smile and rub my thumb in gentle circular motions on his hand, hoping to restore his confidence. I don’t want him to feel so down. I want him to have a positive outlook. It is the only thing that is keeping me sane in here, knowing that Luke and my father have a backup plan. That even in the face of the worst, it will be OK.

  “Kelsey,” he says softly. “You should probably get some sleep — you and Peanut.”

  He starts to gently ease himself away, yet it feels abrupt and ominous. It worries me. “Are you getting up because you want me to get some sleep or because you’re worried about the backup plan and you don’t want to tell me?”

  Luke stops moving, and for a few seconds, we are both completely still as the question hangs in the air. Finally, he says, “I’m not really worried, but, understandably, I have anxiety as things get closer, Kelsey. It’s not for you to worry about, OK?”

  “’K,” I manage to say, though it isn’t. I am the one who will be spending time in a long-term facility if things go wrong. But, they do have a plan, I tell myself. Luke, my Dad and Dr. Grant. They have a plan.

  Then a horrible thought occurs, and I pull away from Luke. “You don’t think Dr. Grant is backing out on us, do you? You don’t think that’s why he won’t return your call?”

  More silence, as if all life has been sucked out of this tiny cell. As if it is truly a vacuum, not just pitch black due to the absence of light, but pitch black due to the absence of everything. “Kelsey,” he says after too much time has passed. “You worry too much. Dr. Grant does what he does because of your mother. He would never let you down.”

  The words come out forcefully, yet something in his tone makes me doubt them. And why is he so desperate to talk to Dr. Grant if he isn’t worried? “He took that money, that grant money from the governor.”

  “Of course he did. That just made it look like he was cooperating with authorities,” Luke retorts. “His testimony was fine in the end, wasn’t it?”

  Luke’s words make sense, but something about them, about the way he says them, rings hollow, as if he doesn’t really believe it, but hopes I will. Seeking to cut to the heart of the matter, I ask plainly: “Are you sure we can trust Dr. Grant?”

  He finds my hand again rubs it lightly. “It doesn’t matter if I’m sure or not, or if Dr. Grant is on your side or isn’t. What I am sure of is that you won’t go into a long-term facility, and they won’t take Peanut from us,” he says. “I promise.”

  He isn’t sure of Dr. Grant, but he is promising the impossible: that I will somehow escape, no matter what. “You can’t promise that, Luke,” I say weakly.

  “Yes I can. I’ve never broken a promise to you, and I promise you I will get you outta here.”

  Those words have Luke’s confidence, but for the first time, I am not sure I believe him.

  * * *

  Luke can tell I am unnerved by the Dr. Grant situation, even though he insists I shouldn’t be. He decides to live dangerously for much of the night, holding me as I drift in and out of sleep and promising me that I won’t die in a holding facility, stripped of my child and then my organs. By the time morning comes, I am hoping he is right, hoping I am not foolish to believe.

  Right before he leaves, he whispers to me: “I’ll be back tonight. Promise. And no matter what else happens, I’m going to get you and Peanut outta here.”

  Chapter 32: Waiting

  After Luke leaves, there is nothing to do but wait. There are no meetings with Albert or my father. There is nothing to discuss until the jury comes back.

  So, I am alone, and it feels like a slow form of torture. Luke was right. The short-term unit of the holding facility can drive you as mad as the long-term. The white walls, the lack of any movable objects, not even a piece of paper, is driving me mad. I want to pick something up, to hold something, yet there is nothing. Not a pencil, or a blanket, a piece of paper, a magazine, a yoyo. Nothing.

  I would play with my hair, but, of course they have taken that, too. My God, this place is awful. Staring at four white walls is insanity. I wish I’d received television or reading privileges. That would at least help pass the time. Instead, I sit alone with my thoughts. And my thoughts are all about my fate. Will I be sentenced here permanently? Will my womb be ripped from my abdomen? Will I be gutted of all usable organs?

  Being alone with my thoughts is so not working. I need to figure out how to center myself, to think of better things. Finally, I decide to think of Luke. To imagine what life will be like if I get out of here. Luke and I in Peoria. Happy, together, with four kidneys between us. Six kidneys, once peanut is born.

  There is a knock at the door. I look up. Saying “come in” would be the appropriate thing to do in modern society. The polite thing to do. But this place is far from modern society, or anything polite. The person — whoever it is — will enter whether I consent or not.

  I sit silently on my block, staring at the door, waiting for my father or Albert to enter. The door opens a moment later.

  I grin as wide as the moon. “Susan,” I say, leaping from my bed block and barreling toward her, as she rolls herself into the room. I kneel in front of her wheelchair, lean in and hug her. She kisses my cheek, then rakes her hand across my fuzzy head.

  “Nice look,” she says.

  “Yeah, I did it just so I could say ‘I’m peachy’ when people ask how I’m doing.”

  She laughs, then coughs, then laughs again. “That was a really bad joke.”

  “I know. Only my best friend would laugh at such an awful joke.” I beam at her, elated she has come to see me. I take a step back get a good look at her.

  She seems weaker than I remember. Her red hair is darker, more the color of dried leaves than a flaming inferno. There are circles under her eyes, and her complexion is pale and wan. I wish she were her old self, that this hadn’t happened to her. Everyone else’s life was put before Susan’s. Now she is like this, a shadow of her former self. The government that commanded she put life first said hers didn’t matter. It only cared if she were going to die, not if her quality of life were poor.

  I feel the anger rising in me, still, after more than a year, and determine I must let it pass. Susan doesn’t want me angry. She’s moved on.

  “So,” I say conversationally, “What brings you here, today?”

  She raises an eyebrow and gives me a cat-ate-the-canary grin. “Didn’t you know? Holding Facilities are like the new malls. Everyone just pops right in to visit an inmate, see what organs are available, pick one up.”

  I chuckle. “Now, who’s making bad jokes?”

  She gives her trademark tooth-filled smile. I respond in kind.

  Part of me doesn’t even care why she is here. I have missed this, this thing we have, this easygoing wonderful place we go to when we’re together. I am glad to have it back, even in here. Yet, the other part of me wishes she had not come. This is no place for her.

  The room is quiet, neither of us quite knowing what to say to each other in a place like this, a place where neither of us belongs, a pl
ace neither of us wants to be. Finally, Susan clears her throat, and our eyes meet.

  “I have a question,” she says. “And I want you to be honest with me.”

  What an odd request. I am always honest with Susan. No, not about how I feel about what had happened to her. That is not something I can really be honest with her about, and not make her feel bad. I think she knows I put on a front for her. If you put her life on the line and asked, “how does Kelsey feel?” she could tell you my true sentiments. This is one subject we negotiated a comfortable lie on. But, in other things, in the important things, I am always honest with Susan. I agree to be truthful, not sure what she could possibly want to ask me about.

  “What were the chances of your survival when you jumped in the lake to save me?”

  I am stark still, frozen momentarily by the question. I hadn’t expected it, but I know where she is headed. I used to wonder if she’d realized what I’d done that day. In the end, I assumed she hadn’t, that my story had fooled her just like it had my father, the camp director, and everyone else.

  “The chances for an average swimmer to survive were 87 percent. Well within the acceptable range.”

  She sighs, then says, “I asked you to be honest with me.”

  So, she is looking for the answer I don’t want to give. I promised honesty, so I have to ‘fess up. “I was a below average swimmer, and based on the results of the swimming test I’d taken two days earlier, my chances were 56 percent.”

  “Did you know that at the time?”

  I shrug, look down at the endless white I’m standing upon. “I don’t know. Maybe the thought ran through my head, but I knew I could hit the average swimmer’s speed. So, I went with that.” Her face remains expressionless. I still have no inkling why she brought this up today, of all days.

  “Why do you ask, Susan? After all these years, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re alive and I’m alive. The odds on that day aren’t important.”