Awakening

by Shannon Duffy

  I quickly nod and jump to my feet, not wanting Mom to pick up the vibe I’m obviously sending out. “This is perfect,” I say, in the most excited-sounding voice I can muster. “I’m just…um…excited. And surprised.” I hug her tightly and add, “I better get to class and back home so I can make myself pretty for Asher. I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.”

  My dad pinches my cheek with a wink. “It’s not possible for you to disappoint, honey.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  Mom eyes me carefully, then smiles. “Okay, go on to school and I’ll have some outfits laid out for you to choose from when you get home.” She beams. “I’ll even ask Coral and Shia to come over and help out if Coral’s feeling up to it. Would you like that?”

  I smile at the sentiment. It would be good to see the Monroes again—to have my life return to some sort of normal. “That would be great.” I grab a protein bar and head out, flinching with guilt as I close the door behind me.

  I trudge to my bike, my previous hopes for the day dashed. Dread for the group date, and watching Asher and Little Miss Sexy pretend they don’t want each other, follows me with every step.

  The first year of nursing studies is spent solely at university. After that, students transfer to the hospital where we are broken up into groups of six. Combining more studies with on-the-job training, we rotate on different floors of the hospital. Written in my agenda today is a notice that we’re to begin a new field. Last month, we studied and worked on the surgery floor. This month, we’re to meet in the third-floor psychiatric ward, which is especially important to me, since it’s the field of nursing I’m to specialize in once I graduate. I even had to take self-defense and combat classes to prepare for this line of nursing because the patients can behave so unpredictably with their mental instability. The thought of violent behavior sends my stomach spiraling, so I push the thoughts aside, hoping it will never come to that.

  I spend the entire tram ride to Mercy Hospital telling myself I’ll make the best of my situation and focus on the positive. The Monroes are home, my dreams have lost their strangeness, Mom is happy, and Asher wasn’t so bad at the pre-binding ceremony. Maybe I read things wrong with the dark-haired girl. Or, at the very least, I can hold on to the hope that whatever they share between them will fade away with time.

  Things will be all right, I tell myself—but as for Darian? I can’t help but wonder if he’s okay and where he’s been sleeping. There have been no further broadcasts of home invasions. My insides knot and I take a deep breath. An image of his blue eyes and playful grin flashes through my mind, and I squeeze my eyes, willing it away. Sweat prickles at the base of my neck, and I force back the lump growing in my throat.

  When I arrive in front of the towering, gray-brick hospital, I stop to pull my fingers through my hair, combing it up into a ponytail, then clip my ID tag onto my pale yellow uniform. As usual, the main entranceway is busy and filled with chatter. Not to mention cold. Hospitals are always kept cool to cut down on the spread of bacteria. Goose bumps prickle along my skin and I take a few minutes to look around and gather myself. People scoot by me, and a medley of scents like ammonia and other cleaning solvents fills my nose.

  “Watch it!” someone shouts.

  My head snaps around to see Mr. Williams, one of the hospital’s sanitation workers, scolding a bot that just slammed into him. The hospital bots have pore-like receptacles all along their metal surfaces. The receptacles detect even the smallest amount of microbes or bacteria, and notify the crew exactly how to remove it.

  You’d think the bots could clean the mess, too, but The Protectorate insists there’s nothing like having the human component on the job to be successful, and that bots will never take over our society. In the past, when people complained about doing menial work, The Protectorate pulled footage from its archives of a horrible time in our history. The footage, which is labeled The Terminator, depicts a period where bot-types tried to take over the world, and almost succeeded. After that, nobody complained, their belief that The Protectorate knows best reaffirmed.

  I’ve gotten to know Mr. Williams over the last several months as the smiling face that always greets me. He turns to face me and instantly his frown slides into a smile. His bushy black caterpillar eyebrows disappear underneath his white brimmed hat, and his dark, short curls are tucked neatly beneath the matching netting that hangs beneath the hat. “Hello, Desiree,” he says with a laugh. “Ol’ Diesel here’s a bit overzealous.” He points to his copper-colored bot, whose red light at the end of his pointer finger is now blinking rapidly and aimed at the floor near Mr. Williams’s feet.

  “Fungi microorganism,” Diesel says in a manufactured voice.

  I can’t help but giggle at the bot’s enthusiasm for germs.

  “I’m on ’er,” Mr. Williams huffs at the bot, first squirting the floor with what I assume is some anti-fungal disinfectant, then stepping aside from Diesel and winking at me.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh,” I say.

  Other sanitation crews scurry around us, followed by their respective bots.

  “No problem, he’s kind of a funny li’l guy.” He laughs, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “Oh!” Mr. Williams slips his hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out a clear, small box that looks a bit scratched on the surface. Inside, it’s filled with multi-colored tubes of paint. A smile tugs at his lips. “For you.”

  My hand instantly clasps my mouth, eyes growing wide. “Really?” I ask.

  He nods. “Yes, ma’am.” He sighs and smiles again. “It was Henry’s.”

  My excitement wilts, remembering the photograph of his son that he keeps in his pocket and has shown me often. I drop my hand to squeeze his, still clutching the box. “I can’t take that, Mr. Williams. You should keep it forever.”

  Henry—a One like Darian—had reached the age of twenty-five last year and had to go in for termination. The Williamses are from the south and, after Henry died, Mr. and Mrs. Williams moved to Tower in an attempt to start fresh and to enjoy their remaining time.

  Although Mr. Williams is a lucky number Seven, he doesn’t have much time left either, I figure. I’ve never been bold enough to ask exactly how old he is, but he looks like one of the eldest in our society. I figure he must be nearing fifty-five.

  He places the box inside a large pocket on my uniform and pats my shoulder. “You’re special, just like Henry. You go on now and take it. He’d like nobody to have it more than you—a fellow artist.” He grins again, this time warm and without the trace of melancholy. “Now, you head on up to class before you’re late, ya hear?”

  I check my watch. I’ve dawdled too long. If I don’t hustle, I’ll be late and my teacher, Mrs. Vickers, will send me home.

  I pat my pocket where he placed the box of paints. “Thank you.” I smile and hurry past him. “I’ll make good use of it, I promise,” I say over my shoulder.

  “Contamination,” Diesel drones.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m on it,” Mr. Williams replies.

  I look at the floor where some dirt has fallen, probably from someone’s shoe. I chuckle as I dash off to the elevator. I’m grateful that the bots are able to catch the microorganisms in their tiniest forms, whether they’re harmful or not.

  When I exit the elevator, I head to room 3136, as my agenda instructs. Mrs. Vickers stands at the head of the room, leaning against her desk quietly, her navy uniform skimming her willowy figure.

  I slide into one of the desks and pull my data-com from my bag, placing it on the desk in front of me. Four of the other students are here, but I quickly realize that Sage, my partner, hasn’t shown up yet. I bite my lip, wondering where he is, hoping he won’t leave me alone on my first day on a new unit.

  Finally, after several moments, Sage appears. He flashes a grin from the door and I heave a sigh of relief. We aren’t just partners—we’re friends. Between being vomited on and giving our first bed bath to our patients together, we’ve bonded. Sage plops into
a seat behind me, gasping for air. I turn, sticking my tongue out at him and quickly twist back around.

  Mrs. Vickers peers up at the clock on the wall and back at Sage. “You continue to cut it ridiculously close, Mr. Sims. I suggest you get yourself more organized if you intend on becoming a good nurse.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I just—”

  “I just nothing, Mr. Sims,” she snaps. “There’s no time for excuses in this career. Do you understand? If you’re late with a medication, it could be detrimental to your patients. Excuses won’t matter then, now will they?”

  “No, ma’am.” I hear him shift in his desk behind me. “Sorry.”

  She clears her throat. “Well now, everyone pull out your data-com and let’s get started.” She lifts hers from the desk and taps it. It beeps and lights up, echoed by a series of return beeps as we all turn ours on. “Today you will be encountering patients with varying mental issues. I’m telexing each of you the profile of your assigned patients now.” She pauses, taps at her screen, and instantly a man’s picture pops up on my screen.

  He looks about forty or so, and the picture is taken from his hospital room. His gown droops off one shoulder, his gaze lingering absently out the window.

  Clinical Depression flashes beside his picture as notice of his diagnosis. It’s a very rare disease that I’ve not encountered before.

  I hear a small gasp from Sage behind me, but before I can turn around to see what’s startled him, Mrs. Vickers continues. “You should each have your assignments now. Refresh yourself on your patient’s diagnosis, read through their files on your data-com, and get to work. Don’t forget you and your partner are a team. And if there’s anything you don’t understand, I expect you to call me.”

  She pauses and looks around the class. “It’s the same drill as the other floors you’ve worked on, but these patients, of course, can be more unpredictable with their disease process.” She jabs her stylus wand into the air. “Be understanding, but firm. Their treatment is mandatory, even though they may not always understand. Once treatment has been completed, they will thank you, trust me.”

  She heaves herself up to sit at the edge of her desk, facing us. “This month you’ll begin injectable substances. Your patients have been assigned specifically because they require such elements. You will be responsible for their basic care, and be able to see firsthand how different disease processes can affect the mind.” She taps her data-com screen and it powers down, then eyes each one of us carefully. “But don’t worry; no injections are to be given without my supervision. I’ll be there to assist each of you with your first go at it tomorrow.” She stands and claps her hands. “Off you go now.”

  Once outside the classroom, Sage grips my wrist. He tugs me around the other students, rushes us down the hall, and stops outside a patient’s room.

  “Hey,” I say, snatching my arm back. “Not so fast.” I rub my wrist and lean against a cart filled with gloves, gowns, and other precautions garb. “What’s up?” I search Sage’s startled brown eyes that are rimmed with black tattooed liner, his usual unique style.

  He looks over his shoulder, peeking into the patient’s room directly behind us, and back at me. He runs a hand back through his blond faux-hawk, inhales deeply, then taps his data-com screen. “Girl, look at who I’ve got for a patient.”

  “Relax, Sage. Why are you rushing around? It’s not like it’s some big secret. The patient was assigned to you after all.”

  He tilts his head and raises his eyebrows in a “wait for it” look.

  A young woman’s picture pops up, arms strapped to the railings of her bed, eyes wide. The memory of Coral strapped to the stretcher during her Terrorscape punishment rushes through my mind, causing a shiver along my spine. I squint at the screen, reading the diagnosis. The word precautions flashes in red. Underneath is the word psychosis, along with its definition:

  Psychosis is a mental disorder characterized by symptoms such as delusions or hallucinations that indicate impaired contact with reality.

  I slide my finger along the screen to scroll down and read further.

  In other words, they are unable to distinguish fantasy from the reality of the external world. They believe that the hallucinations, and/or delusions they experience, are very real, and the patient may behave and communicate in an inappropriate and incoherent fashion.

  “Okay…” I say leaning back against the wall. A staff nurse brushes by us with her medication cart, startling me with the rumble of its wheels. I press closer to Sage and whisper, “What’s the big deal? So your patient is delusional…” I roll my eyes. “We are on the psychiatric ward.”

  “You’re so kidding me right now, aren’t you?” He huffs and waves a hand through the air. “Oh, please. Look closer at her picture.” He eyes the screen, then looks back at me like I’m the one who should be admitted to this floor. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Tell me you don’t recognize that mess of a tattooed mole on her face.” He presses his thumb and pointer fingers at the edges of the image, widening her photograph.

  I lean in for a closer look. Her short, blond hair is messy, tangled, and her dark brown eyes are wild. Then I see what Sage is referring to. A tattooed mole sits above her lip that looks like the color has warped into something more tinged with purple than the intended brown or black it should be. A sick feeling has settled inside me as my mind reels with recognition. Mrs. Walsh is a famous newscaster. She works for The Protectorate and is highly educated and renowned, even at the young age of twenty-seven. She and her husband have one daughter. The last time I saw a photo of them, the little girl was about nine, so I figure she must have gotten pregnant shortly after she was bound. “Is that really—”

  “Shh.” He jerks his thumb toward the room behind us that he just peeked into. “If we want to know what’s up in Ellery Walsh’s life—the Mrs. Walsh—we best be quiet. If the other students find out who I’ve been assigned to, they’ll be jealous and complain to Mrs. Vickers.” He places one hand on his now-jutted-out hip and winks. “We don’t want to share in the glory of healing her, now do we?” Sage cracks a small smile.

  Mrs. Walsh is barely recognizable in the hospital photograph without her trademark bright red lips, crisp black eyeliner, and perky smile. There have only ever been a couple of photos showing her botched tattoo job. She obviously always pencils over it to cover the color distortion.

  Leave it to Sage to notice, of course. His fashion sense would exceed even the finest designer’s. He’s never without the latest fashion magazine or a sketchpad of his own designs.

  I run my finger along her image on the screen. “Poor woman. How did this happen?”

  Sage pulls the data-com away from me, shuts it off, and places a hand on my arm. “Listen, Desiree. I feel bad, too. I don’t want to see anyone in that state. That’s why we’re lucky we get to help her, right?”

  He’s right. Whether it’s Ellery Walsh or not, nobody deserves to have this happen to them. If I can help her get better, I fully intend to.

  A piercing screech comes from Mrs. Walsh’s room.

  “My baby! Bring back my baby!”

  Chapter Twelve

  I bolt toward her room, but Sage tugs me back by the elbow and points at the cart full of masks and gowns.

  “She’s on precautions,” he says, brows pinched together. “She must be contagious.”

  Cursing myself for being so stupid, we quickly don gowns, gloves, masks, and caps before rushing into her room. Mrs. Walsh is thrashing in her bed, eyes wild and bloodshot. I hurry around to her far side and shove the Syncro-Drifter back against the wall, away from where it hovers above her head. The time display on it has been set to shut off at nine a.m. That was about thirty minutes ago, so I assume she has been lying quietly until a moment ago.

  The room is so cold, I’m about to ask Sage to get her a blanket until I notice her face is beaded with sweat. I squeeze her hand that is strapped down, now poking out from the side rail of her bed. “Mrs. Wals
h, it’s okay,” I say softly. “Please calm down.”

  She groans and shakes her head. Her face is ashen, eyes bloodshot.

  Sage has taken his place on her other side, pushing a stray strand of hair away from her eyes. “You’re at Mercy Hospital, Mrs. Walsh. You’re not feeling well right now, but I promise we’re going to make you better.” He pours a glass of lemon water from a jug that sits on her nightstand into a plastic cup. Bringing it to her mouth, he says, “Here, have a drink.” He nods toward the glass encouragingly and smiles. I smile at him. Sage is one of the sweetest guys I know.

  Mrs. Walsh grunts and jerks her head, knocking the glass away and sprinkling drops of water over her white sheets. “You don’t understand,” she whimpers. “They’ve taken my baby!”

  I furrow my eyebrows toward Sage, then look back at her and squeeze her hand again. “Mrs. Walsh, do you mean your daughter?” I say gently. “She’s about nine, right?”

  She heaves a sigh, looks up at me with watery brown eyes. “My daughter Tiki is eight. And no, I’m not talking about her. It’s my baby boy, Jax. He’s six months old. He’s—he’s… Help!” she screams, hysterical again.

  “You don’t have a boy, Mrs. Walsh, you only have Tiki,” Sage breaks in and I know he just wants to calm her down, but I don’t think telling her she’s delusional is going to help her right now, so I shake my head firmly at him.

  But it’s too late, the damage is done. She screams again, louder this time. I feel helpless standing here. Doing nothing. Whatever her antidote is, they need to give it now, to make her right again. Everyone knows she has a daughter, not a son.

  Nobody has two children.

  My parents didn’t have me and Sophia, and she didn’t have Tiki and Jax. Women are sterilized after giving birth to their first child. So, it’s not possible, right?