by Jim Kroepfl
I chuckle. “Touché. This is what happens when you like the smart girl.”
Lake cocks her head. “Did you just admit to liking me?”
I never make that kind of mistake. Never. I’ve been telling myself I only think of Lake as a friend, but you can only fool yourself for so long. The truth is, I do like her. A lot. And that’s the problem. I can’t.
“Of course I like you,” I say. “We’re friends.”
“Stryker, friends don’t usually hold hands.” Her eyes gesture down to my hands, which still haven’t released hers.
I carefully set her hands on her lap. “Interactions are different here.” So much for my keen ability to think on my feet. I’m only glad Bjorn didn’t witness my barely believable explanation.
“So … are you telling me you don’t want to be more than friends?”
Somehow, I’ve lost control of this conversation. We’re here to talk about her memory issue, not us. “We can’t get involved.”
“There was nothing in the Agreement forbidding Nobels from being in a relationship.”
I run my fingers through my hair. “It would be a distraction from our work.” Even I don’t believe myself.
“You’re wrong. It’s counter-productive to work like we are. We need to add an element of fun to our awake-lives. If we don’t, the stove … the stress only compounds. And don’t look at me like that. I realize I stammered, which is my point.”
Despite the fact that I agree with everything she said, I say, “Lake, I don’t want to ruin what we have.”
“I concur.”
“You do?”
Lake gets up, not looking at all upset. “I needed to understand where we stand. Now I know.”
Is she for real, or is she that much better than me at hiding her feelings? “Then, we’re good?”
“We’re great. And thanks for making me come out here. I’m feeling calmer.”
I watch as she stops to smell a rose. She smiles to herself, then heads back to The Flem. Is she really fine with us being friends? Because I’m not sure I am. I want to take it back. Tell her how I really feel. Hold her in my arms and kiss her.
But that can never happen.
When I joined the Program, I made a promise to myself: I will never put someone in harm’s way again. Bjorn’s and my mission will anger some people, and I know only too well what can happen. I can’t let anyone get close to me. It won’t make up for what I did, but it’ll stop another person I love from getting hurt.
I should’ve told Lake the truth, but it’s still too hard to talk about. I also should’ve made Lake promise she’ll talk to Deborah. I should’ve done a lot of things differently.
The guilt that never goes away feels like it’s burying me alive.
Lake
While Stryker was striving to convince me we should only be friends, I realized he was right. When he was holding my hand, I felt nothing. No spark. No rush of heat. One force that causes attraction is magnetic force, which is electrical currents. Magnetic attraction is what causes opposites to attract. Stryker and I may be too similar. Orfyn on the other hand …
I’m not sure what to do about him. My head wants to shield me while my heart is threatening to break my promise to myself.
I pass Marty’s door and take a moment to appreciate the Space Needle that appears to be bursting out from it. Orfyn painted it from a bird’s eye view, complete with hilariously dressed tourists on the platform. Far below, ferries cross the Puget Sound, leaving tiny white wakes. It doesn’t take much imagination to feel the wind tangling my hair as I hover above Seattle with the other seagulls. Orfyn is truly talented.
Marty’s door is ajar. We’re not close. In fact, I’m not sure if we’ve ever had an actual conversation, but he was obviously upset the other day. We all need to identify ways to de-stress, and I plan to create a list of ways we can have more fun and share it with everyone at the next meeting. I chuckle at the thought of Anna taking up knitting.
“Are you in there, Marty?” I call out.
When he doesn’t appear, I peek in. It’s a disaster. The towers of books stacked on the floor compete with the plates of pizza bones and discarded clothes, which helps explain the funky smell. A walk outside would do Marty good—and air him out.
Cecil is headed my way and acting as if he hasn’t noticed me, even though we’re the only ones in the hallway.
“Have you seen Marty?” I ask.
He stops and regards me in his usual annoyed manner. “He’s in the library, I think.”
The I think was a nice touch, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they can pinpoint our location at all times. “I’m glad. He needs a break.”
“I’m not sure if he’s eaten. Do me a favor and get him a snack from the dining hall.”
Marty hasn’t eaten? That’s always the first thing he does after a dream session. “I’m happy to.”
When I get to the end of the hall, I look right, left, then right again. “Cecil?” I yell as he’s rounding the corner.
“What is it now?”
“Which way is the dining hall?”
He looks at me oddly, then returns.
“All these hallways look the same and it’s easy to get lost,” I explain, then realize it’s true. Yesterday, I couldn’t find Deborah’s office, which I visit daily.
“It can be confusing,” Cecil says without a trace of sarcasm, confirming my observation. “Turn right, and then take a left.”
“Thanks.”
He doesn’t move to leave. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
He stares down at me skeptically.
I clear my throat. “I’m a little tired. I’ve been putting in a lot of hours.”
“Tell Deborah if something like this happens again.”
“Sure.” My disorientation is only a side effect of my exhaustion. Taking a break with Marty is exactly what we both need.
I make my way to The Flem’s expansive library without a problem. Wooden tables with green-hooded reading lamps are arranged in the center of the room, and tucked away in the corners are upholstered chairs. There are an impressive number of periodicals for each of our disciplines, along with a large fiction selection, not that I’ve had much time to read. I smile while recalling my favorite Gandhi quote: Be the change you wish to see in the world. I grab an interesting-looking book and ruffle the pages under my nose, inhaling one of my favorite smells. I’ve missed reading for pleasure.
I tuck the book under my arm and search each aisle until I reach the end without seeing anyone. I yell, “Marty?” feeling like I’m breaking a sacred rule, even though there isn’t a librarian around to shush me.
Then I hear something. A low moaning, like the sound of an injured animal. Goosebumps sprout along my arms. I follow the sound and spot something behind one of the chairs. My breath catches when I push it aside.
“Marty?”
He’s rocking back and forth, making a keening sound.
I kneel across from him. “Marty, tell me what’s wrong.” He doesn’t look at me or speak. I inspect his huddled body. No blood or torn clothing, but I can’t see his face. “Marty, please look at me.” When he doesn’t react, I gently touch his chin and lift his head. His face is tear-streaked, and snot dribbles over his quivering lips.
“Did someone hurt you?”
He doesn’t meet my eyes, but he stops making that awful noise.
“I’m going to get help.”
“Leave me alone.” His voice reminds me of a wounded bird’s.
“Did something happen with … ” I can’t seem to remember the name of the famous writer implanted in him. “Your Mentor?”
When he lifts his head, his eyes are as lifeless as a doll’s. “Don’t have it.”
“Did you lose something?”
“Never had it.”
“What?”
“Talent.” Fresh tears slide down his cheeks.
&
nbsp; “Marty, you’re being too hard on yourself. You were picked as the Nobel for … for Literature for a reason.”
“Disappointing everyone.”
“No, you’re not. You’ve been working more hours than any of us.”
Marty drops his head into his arms, and I can barely hear him. “Not enough.”
He’s spinning. I need to help him regain perspective. “There’s a pretty place outside I want to show you. That’s why I came to get you.”
“Can’t,” he says.
“The creek isn’t far. Come on. You’ll feel better after a walk.”
“You don’t get it.” His eyes grasp onto mine. They’re filled with desperation.
“Marty, I’m trying. Help me understand.”
He takes a deep breath, as if speaking requires more energy than he has. “It’s not right.”
“Your novel?”
“No!”
It feels as if I’ve lost my grip on his lifeline. “Please, Marty. Tell me what’s not right.”
“The first paragraph,” he whispers, as if betraying a life-or-death secret.
“But you’ve written other parts you like, right?”
He shakes his head.
“You’ve only been working on the first paragraph?”
He nods while running his sleeve across his nose, leaving a trail of snot.
I want to confront Marty’s Mentor—whatever his name is, and if he had a body—to make him realize he’s pushing Marty past his limits. And what about his Guardian? Cecil has to realize how distressed Marty is.
“What if you took a break from writing and—”
Marty’s shrill laugh causes the rest of my suggestion to scurry into hiding. He pulls himself up like he’s not used to carrying his own weight. His waist is at my eye level, and I notice the series of holes punched into his belt. He’s withering away.
I didn’t stop by the dining hall. How could I have forgotten? “How about we get something to eat?”
“Not hungry.”
He’s always hungry. “What about a Big Bang Theory rerun? We both could use a good laugh.”
“Can’t. It’s not perfect.” He moves down the aisle of books like it takes monumental effort to place one foot in front of the other.
I feel useless as I watch Marty leave. No! I can help him. I march to the wing that contains our Guardians’ offices, needing to retrace my steps, and knock.
“What?”
I take it as an invitation to enter.
“You need to do something about … Marty’s Mentor,” I tell Cecil, making sure it sounds like a demand and not a request. It’s unnerving that I can’t remember his Mentor’s name. I read one of his books in ninth grade.
Cecil raises his eyes from his computer screen. “Did we have an appointment?”
“You need to have Marty talk to his Mentor about shortening his dream sessions.”
“I’m sorry, but I think you’re mistaken about our roles here. I don’t report to you.”
I clench my toes to stand my ground. “I’m worried about Marty. He’s acting as if he’s having a nervous breakdown.”
“So now you’re an expert on mental health?”
“He has to have lost twenty pounds.”
“I’ve been monitoring his weight, and it’s within the acceptable standards.”
“Cecil, I found him crying in the lipstick … I mean, library.”
“It’s healthy to let off a little steam. He’ll be fine by morning.” Cecil waves his hand to dismiss me. “Shut the door.”
“It’s not only his weight. He’s—”
“Fine. I’ll run a few more tests. Now let me get back to work.”
I knock on Deborah’s office door, but she doesn’t answer. I try the handle and find it locked. I’ll talk to her about Marty first thing in the morning to make her aware of my concerns.
When I pass his door, there’s a wrinkled T-shirt hanging from the handle and turbulent snores coming from behind the painting of the Space Needle. He’s already back at work.
The Darwinians
“We may have another problem,” the raven-haired man states.
The man with the beard sighs. “What is it now?”
“The Nobel for Chemistry is exhibiting strange behavior.”
“Define strange.”
“Deborah and Cecil have observed signs of memory loss,” the raven-haired man says. “I told you I thought something like this might happen.”
“That’s what my father would call closing the barn door after the horse got out,” the woman says.
“Might I warn you both against making unfounded speculations,” the bearded man says.
The woman pointedly looks at him. “You didn’t know about her pre-existing condition, did you?”
“That’s preposterous!”
“I believe you, sir,” the raven-haired man says. “However, it may be wise to shorten our test phase for Procedure Omega-Sixteen.”
“Are you implying what I think you are?”
“I’m merely ensuring our team is adequately prepared, should the need arise.”
“And what happens to our colleagues then?” the bearded man asks.
“Exactly,” the woman says. “Besides, I can’t sign off on potentially inflicting the same outcome on another child. When I think about what happened to those other children—”
“They signed the Agreement,” the raven-haired man cuts in.
The woman’s breathing is wet and labored. “This isn’t about hiding behind our legal rights. We need to protect them. It’s our moral obligation.”
“If you believe that, I don’t know how you can justify what you plan to do.”
“That is entirely different.”
Lake
I wake with the feeling that I’m supposed to do something. But what?
I grab my journal from the night stand and record the events from last night’s dream session. Whatever I need to do remains elusive.
God, I could use a cigarette.
My head snaps up. I don’t smoke. Never have. But that same bizarre thought has been in my mind for days. I grab a piece of gum and chew until the disgusting craving lessens. Why would I want a cigarette? The smell makes me gag.
It’s time for my daily debrief. I focus on the route and reach Deborah’s office without a misstep. I stand outside her door, basking in the accomplishment I wouldn’t have thought twice about last week. Should I listen to Stryker and tell her what I’ve been experiencing? A wave of relief washes through me. That’s what I couldn’t remember. Stryker said he needed to have more fun, and we were going to create a list, or was I supposed to do that? I wish I had my journal to jog my memory. From now on, I’ll keep it with me.
Deborah looks up from her computer with a smile. “Come on in, Lake.”
I grab a pen off her desk and scribble on my hand List of fun.
“What are you doing?” she asks with a tight smile.
“Reminding myself of something.”
The telltale worry line between her eyebrows appears. “Are you having problems remembering things?”
“It only happens when I’m tired, which shouldn’t be an issue considering how much I’ve been sleeping.”
“I suspect the two internal biological mechanisms that regulate your awake and sleep, circadian rhythm and sleep/wake homeostasis, are being disrupted because your body isn’t naturally waking on its own. I’ll prescribe something that might help.” She types something into the computer.
I should’ve brought it up sooner. I’ll be feeling better in no time.
Deborah refocuses on me. “I’ve also been noticing small changes in your speech pattern.”
My stomach clenches. I didn’t think it was obvious. “It started a few days ago, but every once in a while it’s been … challenging to find the right word.”
I study her face for a reaction, but there is none. A good sign.
“Have you noticed anything else?” she asks, apparently unconcerned.
I could lie, but I’ve always tried to be honest in my debriefs—except about Sophie’s continued belief that she’ll be rid of me after the semester ends. “I got lost on the way to your office, but that only happened once. Twice. But everyone gets turned around sometimes.”
She nods again. “Cecil mentioned that to me.”
Glad I told the truth.
Deborah’s theory is since my thoughts are co-mingled with Sophie’s, my brain is still learning how to extract information when I’m awake. She assures me my glutamate and gamma-aminobutyric acid transmitters are at acceptable levels so my excitation and inhibition—my E/I balance—is properly controlling my flexible behavior and cognition. It’s a relief my brain activity is functioning properly, but no one else seems to be having memory issues. Or they could be and aren’t admitting to it.
Deborah has always been honest with me, and I want to believe her when she tells me not to be concerned. But I did forget parts of Orfyn’s story. It was disconcerting because I’ve always had a great memory, tired or not. I was embarrassed, and maybe a little worried. I should apologize to Orfyn for getting angry.
When I’m back in my room, I transfer the reminder about my fun list onto a fresh page in my journal. Then I sketch out a map of The Flem, which is pointless since I’ve lived here for almost a month, but I do it anyway. As long as I have my journal, I won’t get lost. Feeling more in control, I head to the dining hall, journal in hand.
I take a moment to admire Orfyn’s water lilies. He transformed the dining hall into a place I now enjoy spending time. Jules is at a table, her ever-present copy of Capitalism and Freedom lying next to her barely eaten chicken nuggets. The rest of us eat like marathoners. I don’t know how she hasn’t withered away. A twinge of a memory surfaces, then flees too quickly to grab hold of. Was it about runners? Chicken?
“Alex was released from the infirmary today,” says the girl who’s always in the know.