by E. J. Noyes
Cringing, I draw my shoulders up to my ears. Every time I react to the voices, I see Olivia’s expression change. She knows something is weird, that I’m weird and possibly unstable. I inhale. Chill out, Celeste. “No, thank you. And I don’t have butter or margarine, sorry. There’s no point when I don’t eat bread.” I set the slice of bread on a plate for her.
She picks up the conversation without mentioning my odd reaction. “What about olive oil?”
“Yes, I have that.” I fetch the bottle of extra virgin for her, then watch as she makes a small puddle on the plate. Pieces of bread are broken and lightly dipped in oil. The thought of eating that is loathsome. But I sit at the table and watch her anyway, simultaneously fascinated and repulsed.
She chews her snack and watches me watching her. Her upper lip glistens until she wipes her tongue over it to clean the trace of oil away, and I’m surprised by the sudden overreaction of my body to her unconscious action. I’m wet. I cross my legs and try to ignore it. With Olivia here, I can’t do anything about my arousal.
“Slut.” Mother laughs.
I cross my arms and try to ignore her too. “I need to tell the Controllers you’re here. I don’t want to.”
The bread pauses halfway to her mouth. “I can imagine it’s a difficult decision for you.”
I shrug, trying desperately to seem like it doesn’t matter. Like she doesn’t matter. “The longer I leave it, the harder it’s going to be. I feel like I’m hiding weed in my bedroom or something.”
She hastily swallows so she can laugh. “Thanks for the comparison.” Olivia rubs her fingers together over the plate. “When will you tell them?”
I look at her fingertips. There are still some tiny crumbs on them. I hate bread, but I’d put those fingers in my mouth and suck every trace of bread and oil from them. “Tomorrow. I’ll tell them tomorrow.”
It’s only a day aw— Stop.
Chapter Eight
When I wake with a runny nose and a raw throat, I know I won’t be telling the Controllers about Olivia today. I’ve got a goddamned cold—the first one I’ve had since I got here. “Ungh,” I say to nobody, rolling over and nearly falling off the couch.
The barely-there headache I was ignoring when I went to bed—or to couch, rather—has intensified into a deep pounding through my temples, and I feel so shitty that for a moment I think I might cry. I shuffle to the bathroom to wash my sticky face, scrub at my eyes and supplement my morning vitamin tablets with two Tylenol before I stuff a handful of tissues into the pocket of my sweats and go to check on Olivia. She’s sleeping, uncovered to the waist, lying on her left side with an arm under the pillow and the other slung off the bed.
It’s light enough to see her face and check the rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing. I watch her for a few moments then close the door as quietly as I can and go back to the lounge. She’ll call me when she wakes and needs my assistance getting up.
My nose and eyes water furiously but a hand to forehead check confirms that I don’t have a fever. Then again, I’m not a doctor so who knows, and hands on skin aren’t exactly accurate science. I make tea with honey, and lemon juice from a squeeze bottle, then wander down to the basement to search my supplies for some decongestant. There’s nothing. Of course not. Viruses are spread by people, and there should have been nobody to make me sick so why would I need that?
I trudge back upstairs, collapse on the couch again and cover myself with the blanket. Huddling under it makes me feel marginally better. Not going outside. Not running. Not doing anything except feeling sorry for myself. How am I going to explain this when the Controllers see me on the camera at check-in time? Hangover? Emotional? I guess I could fake crying. At least it’d be an excuse for constant eye wiping and nose blowing. Sniffing hard, I fumble in my pocket for a tissue.
Joanne, my adoptive mom, reminds me, “Don’t sniff, Celeste. Blow your nose like a grown-up. That’s a good girl.”
This is the first time Joanne’s visited me here, and for a moment I wish she was really here to fuss over me and make my favorite pumpkin soup and tuck me in just right. My eyes drift closed again. So tired. Just going to nap for a few minutes until it’s time to check in or Olivia needs help.
I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep for when I wake to Olivia’s call of, “Celeste?”
“Yeah?” I rasp.
Her words echo down the hallway. “Can I get a little help please?”
“I’m coming.” The words stick in my throat, hoarse and barely audible. I swallow and try again. “Coming.”
I trudge into my room. She’s already got the covers off and when she sees me, her morning smile dies on her lips. “Is everything okay? Are you ill?” That’s the second time she’s asked me that question.
I shake my head. No not okay, not no I’m not sick. “I think I’ve got a cold.”
Olivia looks horrified. “Oh shit. That might be my fault. I’m really sorry, I’ve been half-ignoring a mild one for a week or so.” The look of horror turns to one of interest. “I’d have thought I wouldn’t be contagious. Maybe your immune system isn’t as strong as it should be. Or I was asymptomatic for a while.”
Here I was thinking the slight stuffiness in her voice was from secretly crying or something. “Fascinating,” I murmur, offering her a weak hand. “You wouldn’t happen to have any leftover decongestant or something I could use, please?”
She takes my hand and pulls herself up. “Sure. In my pack, front pocket. Why don’t you grab them while I’m in the bathroom?” Her hands are on my shoulders. I’m sick, gross and I don’t want her to touch me. Olivia either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that I’m clammy and snotty.
While she’s in the bathroom, I grab the pills from her pack. Here I am in her things again, trying hard not to look. But I want to. I want to paw through her bag and stare at what she thought important enough to bring on her hiking trip. Sometime last week, she stopped at a Walgreens and bought something for her cold. Walgreens. The corner of happy and healthy. What a weird slogan for someone who’s sick. With a handful of water from the kitchen sink I swallow pills and make my way back to the bathroom.
“Did you find them?”
“I did. Thanks.” I gesture at the shower. “Did you want…?” Before I finish the question, my hand flops to my side. You’re pathetic, Celeste. It’s a cold, not Ebola.
“Please.”
She showers by herself and dresses with my help. It’s easier this time, not to look at her, to pretend that I’m fine with touching her. I make breakfast, though Olivia insists she’s perfectly capable of doing it herself. I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t want her in my kitchen, messing up my things or because I want to show her that I make really good scrambled eggs. Half my eggs are already gone. I can’t bring myself to care—there’re many boxes of powdered eggs and she’s worth it.
For breakfast I pick at cereal and take a shower while she’s eating. Last night, before I was sick, I thought I’d masturbate the first chance I got. This is my chance and I don’t even feel like it. Typical. I sneak into the computer room for morning check-in, still hiding my secret.
Cont C: Good morning. How are you?
SE9311: Good. It’s pretty cold outside. I just came in from a run.
Hopefully they’ll accept my preemptive explanation as the reason why my eyes and nose are red. Cold. As in temperature not virus.
Cont C: Do you have anything to report?
SE9311: Nope.
I’m desperate to blow my nose. Instead I sniff, trying to make it look like I’m just drawing a deep breath. Snot clogs the back of my throat, making me nauseated.
Cont C: When are you planning on video logging this week?
Shit. Shit.
SE9311: In a few days when I’ve got something to talk about other than Scrabble.
Cont C: I’ve always found your word choices enlightening, SE9311.
SE9311: I’m pleased I can teach you something.
&n
bsp; Cont C: If there’s nothing else, I’ll leave you be.
Damn, I was so close to getting a response to my joke. I wonder if Controller C is smiling.
SE9311: There’s nothing else.
Cont C: Have a nice day.
The screen changes back to my regular logging program and I quickly write out a log.
Things I miss:
-Driving cars - speeding a little.
-Standing under streetlights.
-Being in a crowded place.
Last night I dreamed I was home. Not that shitty apartment on Henderson, but home. With Joanne. She kept trying to tell me something about Mother, but I couldn’t hear her, like my ears were blocked with cement. It was weird, I was my age now but she’d just adopted me. Haven’t dreamt about Joanne in years. Not sure why I would now. Maybe tied to the voices. Riley wasn’t there.
Even after all this time, typing my sister’s name sends a pang of anguish through my body like a shockwave. I log off and leave the room before the bile sitting at the back of my throat breaks free. Olivia glances up from the book she’s reading on the couch. “Everything okay?”
I nod, pour myself a glass of water, drink half of it and carry the rest over to the couch to sit beside her. Her fingers move to the corner of the page like she’s going to fold it down. Then she pauses and I can see the cogs turning. It’s not her book. It’s not really my book either and I don’t care if she dog-ears it because I do the same thing. But before I can tell her it’s okay, she sets the novel facedown without marking her spot. “Did you tell them about me?”
“No. I meant to, really, and I will in a day or two when I don’t feel so miserable.” I glance at her, knowing how pathetic I must look. “I’m sorry. I can if you want, I can go in there right now and tell them to come get you.”
“No, it’s fine, really. I get it. I’m still feeling kind of weak myself and a few more days won’t hurt.”
“Mmm, and I think I’d just like a little company while I’m sick.”
She smiles at that while Riley mutters unhappily in my ear, “You got soft, Cel. You didn’t want me around when Ma did those things to your jaw and your arm, but here you are begging for someone to stay when it’s just a stupid cold.”
Before I can stop myself, my face twists into an annoyed expression at my sister’s intrusion. I want to yell that she was so little and there was nothing she could do to help me on either of those occasions. But I don’t. I clench my teeth down on the words, rubbing absently at my right forearm which has predictably begun aching.
Olivia’s concern is clear. “Celeste? What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” I force myself to stop rubbing my arm.
“You look like you’re…not here.”
I laugh, which sets off a coughing fit. Turned away from her, I cover my mouth and cough until my lungs hurt. Not here. Not here. I’m here all the time. I can’t get away from here.
I shuffle sideways until I’m what I deem a polite distance from her. It’s still close enough that I feel a connective arc between us. Probably my imagination. She touches my arm and I flinch, until I realize she’s checking how hot I am. Her grip is light, moving around my forearm, then her hand comes to my forehead. She smiles. “You’re warm. I think you should take that sweater off.”
I shake my head. The smile dims a little, and after a moment Olivia makes a concession. “Well, take some Tylenol and drink plenty of fluids.” As if I don’t know how to deal with a cold.
“I’m doing that.”
“Good.” She taps her fingers lightly on the back of the couch. “Do you mind if we talk some more?”
I run a fingertip around the rim of my water glass. “Sure, I’d like that.” Talking is amazing.
She shifts her injured leg to rest on the coffee table. “What did your family think of you doing this?” Her free arm sweeps, indicating the general space around us. “Can’t be easy for you to be away from them.”
“I don’t have family. My birth mother is a drug addict who I have to assume is still alive somewhere. My sister, or rather the only sibling I know of, is dead. I had various foster families but I’ve been out of contact with them for years. And my adoptive mom is also dead.” I don’t mean it to, but everything comes out as a dispassionate statement of facts.
Olivia doesn’t falter. “And your father?”
I keep my gaze steady. “Not sure. Mother didn’t know. Could be a junkie friend of hers, a dealer, or some guy she fucked in an alley for a couple of bucks to buy a hit of meth.” I’m suddenly aware of my words sounding self-pitying when they aren’t really. It’s just that I’ve told my story so many times over the years, it’s become nothing more than a tedious anecdote.
“Oh, Celeste. That must be hard for you.” Though it’s only the third day, I’ve learned the change in her tone when she’s upset about something on my behalf. I heard it a lot that first day in the small hours of the morning in my bedroom when I told her about my time here.
“It’s fine. Really. It was all so long ago.”
“I just, I still can’t wrap my head around it. How have you coped being in here by yourself all these years? How is it that you’re not totally batshit crazy by now?”
I tuck my legs underneath myself. “Maybe I am but I’m just really good at hiding it.” Ha. Ha. No, really.
The words seemed to catch Olivia off guard. I smile and slowly, she returns it.
“You’re teasing me,” she accuses, though the grin makes it clear she’s not bothered.
“Just a little. You’re too easy.” I let the innuendo stand between us. I’m surprised at how easily flirting has come back to me—natural as breathing. Natural as breathing was before my nose was clogged with mucus, that is.
“Maybe I am. It’s not the first time I’ve been told that.” And it’s easy for her too, it would seem.
I tap my fingernails against the glass, my thoughts suddenly turning somber. “You know, I think maybe I am a little bit crazy. These past few months, I’ve been…imagining things.” Even as I say it, I’m not sure why I’m telling her.
Realization dawns on her face that I’m not joking or teasing now. “What kind of things?” She leans forward, seemingly unperturbed by my revelation.
“People I know talking to me, touching me. Stuff like that.” I set the glass down, turn away from her and quickly blow my nose.
Olivia shifts on the couch. “Seems like a logical thing. In the absence of companionship, your brain makes it up for you. …where from afar all voices and scenes come back.”
I can do nothing but stare at her, dumbfounded. When I find my voice, I blurt, “That’s part of Childhood’s Retreat by Robert Duncan! You know it?”
“Yes. It’s one of my favorites.”
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Mine too.” I cough into the crook of my elbow.
Her smile is cautious. “You don’t strike me as a poetry lover.”
“Really? I love poetry. It’s fluid, engaging…easy. You don’t have to understand a poem to enjoy it.” My fingers trace a triangle on the arm of the couch. “You don’t think I’m crazy or anything do you? Because I’m interacting with stuff I know isn’t real?”
“No, I don’t. I think you’ve done what you needed to do in order to survive.”
In order to survive. I guess that’s the theme of my whole life. There’s a long pause where we’re just looking at each other until eventually, she asks, “Are you afraid?”
“Of what?”
“The voices.”
I answer without pause. “No.” It’s the truth. “I’m frustrated and upset. But not afraid.” I can’t be afraid of something that’s not real.
* * *
Olivia is right-handed, like me. She’s a research scientist, working on cutting-edge chemistry stuff for drug companies. Her last name is Soldano. Her favorite color is purple. She likes to be the thimble in Monopoly, which suits me because Celestes One/Two/Three don’t like that piece. T
here’s so much we can talk about, even though we barely know each other. But I have to ration it out or I’m going to get overwhelmed by all this knowing.
I’ve learned what I’m calling her guilty-grateful look, a sheepish kind of smile whenever she takes the antibiotics or pills for pain. She also gets that look whenever she asks me for help moving to and from the bathroom, and when she agrees if I ask her if she wants something to eat. It’s as though she feels she’s a burden, when the reality is that she’s anything but.
I haven’t asked if she’s married, attached or has kids. I don’t know if she’s a dog or cat person. I do know that she seems to really like coffee—so far I’ve counted an average of four mugs per day. No tea, thank you, she said when I offered, following up by telling me she’s never drunk a cup of tea in her life. She mock-shuddered and I thought about teasing her by tossing a teabag at her. But I didn’t because we’re not that kind of friends. We’ve reached polite acquaintance stage, like where you can be left alone with the friend of a friend at a party and no longer feel uncomfortable about it. About the talking that is. I’m still twitchy about touching her, partly because I want to so badly that trying to keep myself from going further has my nerves firing.
After lunch, I help her back into the bedroom to rest more comfortably than on the couch. I can tell her leg is bothering her, though Olivia assures me there’s no heat in it to indicate an infection and aside from the stiffness and dull pain she feels good. I know now to leave her with a glass of water. “Call out when you need me. I’m going to nap on the couch until dinner.”
She fidgets with the pillows. “Why not sleep in here? I’m sure you’ve got a fever and sleeping on the couch isn’t going to do you any good.”
“I…can’t.” A sneeze can travel six feet, landing on anyone in—stop.
“Why not?”
Please don’t make me explain it to you. Don’t make me tell you I can’t stand to be so close to you. It’s uncomfortable. I don’t trust myself. But Olivia is already shuffling closer to the edge of the bed, pulling the other side of the duvet down for me. That side is my side where I always start my night of sleep before I end up sprawled in the middle of the mattress. She looks expectantly at me, her hand smoothing the sheets.