Hungry

by H. A. Swain

  Basil moves so fast that I hear the door wheesh before I realize he’s gone. I turn and gape at the late evening sun spilling across the threshold. I run after him, but by the time I get to the open doorway, he’s nowhere to be seen. The driveway, the walkway, the sidewalk, and the street are empty and quiet as if he’s disappeared. “Basil!” I yell and start to run outside, but Mom catches my wrist.

  “No!” she shouts and drags me back into the house. “You’re going to rehab!” I struggle against her, but she’s surprisingly strong. She gives me one more yank then commands the door to close and lock.

  * * *

  Ahimsa glowers at us from the main screen in the living room. “What the hell was she doing there? How long has she been a part of that group?” she bellows at my mother. “Don’t you have any control over her for god’s sake!”

  Mom paces the room, trying to assure Ahimsa that she’s just as surprised as anyone by my deplorable behavior. I hug a pillow on the couch, fighting back tears while Grandma strokes my arm and assures me that everything is going to be okay. But I know it’s not, because I’ll never see Basil again. Even if I could find him, he won’t want anything to do with me after what my mother said.

  “She’s right there in the footage,” Ahimsa complains. “We’ve gone through the images one by one, and there she is plain as day, running out with some boy we can’t identify. There’s no way we can deny it. I looked at her location data. It puts here there at the time of the arrests.”

  “Last time I checked, it’s still legal to go to a meeting!” I snap.

  Mom spins around horrified while Ahimsa leans so close to her camera that her beaky face looms large in our living room. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, Thalia. Those people are a danger to society. And your involvement could cause all kinds of problems for your family. For me. For One World.” She leans back and shakes her head in disgust. “Top execs’ kid at a resistance meeting.” She looks at my mom. “You have to take her in and let security question her.” She turns to me. “And you,” she says jabbing her finger at the camera. “You have to tell them everything you know about that boy.”

  “No.” I hug the pillow tighter. “I won’t tell them anything.” Of course, the truth is, I know nearly nothing about him. He was gone so fast that I wonder if he were just a hologram in some game I was playing.

  “Now, Thalia,” Grandma says, nervously patting my leg. “You need to cooperate so we can straighten out this mess. I’m sure you didn’t mean to do any harm. You were at the wrong place at the wrong time.” She looks at Ahimsa. “She only met him a few days ago. She didn’t know what she was doing.”

  Mom balls up her fists and squeezes her eyes shut as if she’s trying to stop herself from exploding, then she shouts, “It’s the genetic mutation! And her Synthamil formula isn’t working right. It’s all tied together. Impulsive, erratic behavior. Strong emotions. Poor judgment. Being drawn into the nonsense of the Analogs and that boy. This … this … this attitude!” she shouts, waving her arms at me. “She needs to go to Dr. Demeter’s rehab facility right this minute so we can get her straightened out.”

  “We had a deal!” I shout at her.

  “You broke our deal the minute you stepped foot in that meeting,” Mom says.

  “That might work, actually.” Ahimsa sits back with her arms crossed and thinks for a moment. “If you commit her tonight, we can avoid involving security just yet. We’ll say she was targeted by Analog operatives because she’s mentally ill and vulnerable. Then we find that kid. What’s his name? Brazil?”

  Mom takes a deep breath and nods. “It’s a good plan.”

  “I’m not mentally ill!” I shout, but they ignore me. “Grandma?”

  “I’ll call Dr. Demeter to make arrangements,” Mom tells Ahimsa. “You work on finding the boy.”

  “Where’s Dad?” I shout. “You can’t drag me away without talking to him first!”

  “He’s in a meeting,” Ahimsa says coolly. “I’ll fill him in when it’s over.”

  Grandma throws her arm protectively around my shoulder. “You really should speak to Max first,” she says to my mother.

  “Max will agree with me,” Mom says as she stomps down the hall to my room. “I’m going to pack a bag for Thalia.”

  “Don’t let her do this to me, Grandma,” I beg.

  Grandma holds my shoulders. I see tears glistening on the edges of her eyes. “Listen, honey, it’s going to be okay. It’s probably for the best right now. We’ll get you out of harm’s way. Just go to Dr. Demeter’s and sit tight while we work out all the kinks.”

  “But Basil…”

  “Oh honey,” Grandma says and pulls me into a hug. “I don’t think he’s the kind of boy you want to get mixed up with.”

  “She’s right,” Ahimsa says smugly from the screen. “He’s trouble. They’re all trouble. And you’re just lucky we got you out in time.”

  * * *

  “I know you’re angry,” my mother says after she locks us in her Smaurto. My grandmother stands on our stoop, sweater wrapped tightly around her body, waving sadly to me as we pull away. Before we left, I begged her to get a hold of Dad, which she promised to do.

  “I know you think I’m punishing you, but I’m not, Thalia,” Mom tries to explain. “I’m trying to help you. If your body was ailing, I would do everything I could to make you get better. This is no different.”

  “Of course it’s different,” I insist. “I’m not sick!”

  “Your mind is sick,” Mom says gently as if I’m a child with a fever who wants to go outside to play.

  “No. I’m making choices you and your boss don’t agree with.”

  Mom shakes her head, refusing to believe me. “You’re not behaving this way on purpose. Your brain is misfiring.”

  “The only misfire my brain made was to trust you.”

  Mom winces. “Thalia, honey, your brain chemistry is not optimized right now. That’s all I’m saying. We just need to tweak your inocs and Synthamil formula to get you optimized again so all those desires you’re feeling to eat and well, um, the emotions you have for that boy, are turned down to a safe level. Don’t you agree?”

  “No,” I snap, arms crossed and jaw set.

  She gives me a pitying look. “I know you can’t understand this now, but this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I hope someday you’ll believe me and you’ll know that I did this to protect you.”

  “You’re covering your own ass,” I mumble, then I get quiet. I won’t look at her again or talk to her because she’s made up her mind, and nothing I can do will change it.

  I stare out the window as we travel via surface streets toward what used to be the heart of the city before it was destroyed. The ribbon of elevated highway that goes from my house to the EntertainArena surrounds this area. When I was little, it was filled with mountains of twisted steel and shattered glass from fallen skyscrapers. Most of the wreckage has been removed, but a few shells remain standing. Giant green letters, HOLE FOO ARK, hang loosely from the hull of an abandoned building curved like the prow of ghost ship floating nowhere. W, D, and a smattering of other fallen letters litter the ground. We zip past an old bike shop, a cleaner, a bank, and a hardware store. Lights out. Most of the inventory looted long ago. Will I be left and forgotten like all this? The Smaurto turns onto a street that cuts through an area of new construction. The reminders of the crumbled past have been razed and replaced by signs that read THE FUTURE BEGINS NOW WITH ONE WORLD CONSTRUCTION CORP!

  “Look,” Mom says gently. “We aren’t even that far from home. As soon as Dr. Demeter says it’s okay, we’ll come visit you every day.”

  “Don’t bother,” I tell her. “Dad will get me out.”

  “No, Thalia. This time Dad will be on my side.”

  We approach a low-slung, dome-shaped building glowing in the pinks and purples of the fading evening sky. Windows encircling the top reflect the gaudy glare of the EA, which can’t b
e more than two miles away on the other side of the highway, but it might as well be in outer space once they lock me up. The building itself sits on a flat expanse of land surrounded by hologram shrubs blooming with pink and yellow flowers, probably programmed to last all year long, as if the seasons never change and time never passes here. I wonder who is behind those curved walls and how long they’ve been in there.

  My mind skips to Basil. I remember his face contorting when he learned my name, the panic in his eyes when my mom threatened to turn him in. I know I should be happy that he escaped, but all I can think is, Why didn’t he take me with him? For a moment, I wonder if my mom is right. Was he using me? I wish I knew how to get in touch with him so I could apologize and tell him that had I known my mother would act like this, I would have never brought him to my house. I press my forehead against the window. For his sake, I hope we never see each other again.

  That realization makes my body ache with sadness.

  The Smaurto stops in front of the walkway leading to Dr. Demeter’s facility. Mom looks up, chin held high. She has pulled herself together but I’m falling apart. My hands shake. My legs are weak. I fight the urge to cry. “Please,” I whimper. “Please don’t do this.”

  She stares ahead at two men dressed in identical pale green pants and shirts who walk to meet the Smaurto. They position themselves by my door. Mom hands me my bag.

  My stomach contracts like someone just punched me in the gut. “You’re not coming in with me?”

  She shakes her head. “Dr. Demeter asked me not to.”

  One of the men peers in and nods at my mother, who commands my door open.

  “I love you,” she says and reaches for my shoulder.

  I push her hand away. “I hate you.” I climb out and the men escort me to the entrance.

  * * *

  Deep red carpet inside the dome muffles the sound of our footsteps once the men accompany me inside. On either side of the entryway are identical waiting areas with low ceilings, ash gray walls, and dark overstuffed furniture, where I imagine nervous families wait for news about their flawed loved ones. I turn to see if my mother has driven off yet, happy to be rid of me, but the floor-to-ceiling windows are covered by heavy dark curtains. The only natural light comes through the door, a small portal to the world outside, which is closing fast. It shuts with a decisive clunk, then I hear automated dead bolts grind into place.

  Dr. Demeter waits in a straight-backed chair, impatiently jiggling his shiny wing tip shoe. He rises and extends his hand as we approach. “Welcome, Thalia. Glad you made it,” he says, as if I’ve come for a weekend getaway. “I hear you had an exciting evening.”

  I drop his hand and stare at him. “Are you being sarcastic?”

  He shakes his head. “Oh no! Not at all. I’m sincere when I say your adventure in the Outer Loop sounds quite interesting. I’d like to hear more about it.” He smiles at the men flanking me. “Thank you, Ravi. Thank you, Sar. I’ll take it from here.”

  They nod and push through the double doors ahead of us where one takes a staircase up and the other down. Dr. Demeter leads me to the left, into a tunnel-like hallway. I notice an identical hall to the right. I imagine you could walk endlessly in circles here.

  “On this floor we have patient rooms and treatment rooms.” Dr. Demeter motions to closed doors on either side of the curved hall. “And upstairs we have our labs.”

  “Do you give everyone a personal tour?” I ask him sarcastically.

  “No,” he says with a small laugh. “As I told you in my office, I’ve taken a personal interest in your case.”

  “I don’t expect special treatment because of who my mother is,” I snap at him.

  “And I’ll expect the same things out of you as I do of all my patients,” he says. Then he stops and studies me for a moment. “I do hope you’ll learn to trust me, Thalia. The better our relationship, the more quickly you’ll recover.”

  “The only thing wrong with me is that I’m here,” I tell him.

  “Aha!” he says with a grin. “I’ll be sure to note that on your chart. But for now we’ll just drop your bag in your room, then I’ll take you to join some other guests.”

  “Guests?” I say. “That’s quite a euphemism.”

  Dr. Demeter actually laughs at my smart-ass comment. “What would you have me call them?” he asks. “Inmates?”

  “Well … I … uh,” I stutter, surprised by his sense of humor.

  “Here we are.” He opens a door on the right then flicks on the light to a sparsely furnished room with a single bed, a squat dresser with four drawers, and a small square sink beside a door marked URINAL.

  “Are there cameras here?” I ask, peering into the corners.

  He shakes his head. “No, we don’t wish to invade your personal privacy. If someone is deemed a threat to herself or others, she might go into an observation room, but otherwise, we’d like you to feel at home.”

  “Home?” I say as I drop my bag on the bed. “I have no intention of being here that long.”

  Again Dr. Demeter surprises me by smiling and says, “I hope you’re right.” Then he turns. “Come, I believe there’s an art-therapy group meeting now that you might enjoy.”

  I follow him with my head cocked to the side, trying to imagine what he means.

  He sees my confusion. “We’ve found that expressing emotions through art or conversation can help break the cycle of compulsive feelings. So we encourage our guests to do something creative every day.”

  “Sounds like an Analog meeting,” I say half to myself as we walk the circle.

  He glances at me sideways. “I hear Ms. Gignon had a bite to eat.”

  This catches me off guard, and I nearly laugh. “Maybe she needs to be your guest.”

  “You know,” he says almost absentmindedly, “she may be on to something. Humans are meant to eat after all.”

  “Too bad there’s no food,” I say.

  He turns his head sharply. “And what if there were? Would you eat it?”

  “Wouldn’t that make me crazy?” I counter. “What did you call it? OCD?”

  He thinks on this for a second, then he says, “Historically mental illness has been the name for anything science couldn’t explain about human behavior. The more we learn about the brain, the less we categorize as crazy.”

  “Just as long as you can optimize that brain chemistry, huh?” I quip, mocking my mother.

  “Yes,” he says with a smile. “Very well put!”

  I can’t help but roll my eyes.

  “Shall we?” he says, pointing to a closed door.

  * * *

  Inside the brightly lit room, people sit around circular tables covered with colorful scraps of what might be paper. There are girls younger than me. Guys who are probably in their twenties. A few men and women most likely pushing thirty, but the only person my parents’ age is an orderly helping someone on the other side of the room.

  “What are they doing?” I ask.

  “Making collages, I believe,” Dr. Demeter tells me.

  I watch the people in the room, but nobody seems to be creating anything. Most of them stare blankly at the wall or rock back and forth, humming or muttering to themselves. One guy punches himself in the forehead over and over.

  “Why are they all so out of it?” I ask as my stomach tightens with fear.

  “First we have to suppress that urge to eat using psychotropic drugs,” Dr. Demeter explains. “This breaks the cycle, then we can start rebuilding the personality through alternative therapies such as this.” He glances at me and sees that I am utterly horrified. “Oh, but don’t worry,” he says clapping me on the shoulder. “This will not be your experience. Most of these people are late in the stages of their illness. They’ve been through so much. Their families have turned them out. Many of them have been in jail. These are some of the hardest cases, but we caught yours early and will only have to tweak your Synthamil cocktail to … how did you put it—optimize
your brain chemistry.

  “Would you like to meet one of my most successful guests?” Dr. Demeter asks.

  I don’t answer because the idea that anyone in this room is a success story makes my stomach churn.

  “Haza,” Dr. Demeter calls. A short, round girl a little older than I am looks up and beams when she hears Dr. Demeter’s voice. “Oh, Dr. D!” she says and rushes to greet him. He opens his arms so she can wrap him in a hug and lay her cheek against his chest. Her frizzy gold hair looks like a ratty rug against his neatly ironed shirt. I can’t believe he’s allowing her to touch him like that. She’s not a child. “Is it time?”

  “Soon, soon.” He pats her on the back. “I have to prepare the lab. While you’re waiting, I’d like you to meet our newest guest, Thalia.”

  Haza looks me up and down like a frightened child clinging to her father.

  “It’s okay,” Dr. Demeter assures her. “She’s here to get better, just like you. Why don’t you take her to your table and introduce her to your friends?” He pries her arms away from his body and gives her a little push in my direction. She stumbles toward me on stiff legs.

  * * *

  I pull up a chair between Haza and a girl called Zara who has spiky dark hair, the ends of which are fading magenta. At first I think she’s younger than I am, but when I look at her eyes, I see the worry lines of someone much older. Across from us a skinny, shifty-eyed boy huddles in his chair, avoiding eye contact. The orderly, who introduces herself as Shira, hands me a large blank sheet of slick paperlike material and a little tube of something sticky, then she goes to tend another “guest” who’s gotten the sticky stuff in her hair.

  “Did you hear what he said?” Haza asks, reaching into the jumble of scraps in the center of the table. “I’m going up to the lab tonight.”

  “Who gives a crap?” Zara says, ripping purple scraps into ragged strips. I’m relieved to hear someone else talk, even if she is incredibly hostile. She smears the sticky stuff on the back of the scraps then smacks them down on her piece of paper, which is nearly covered corner to corner with jagged shapes.