by E. J. Noyes
She laughs. “Thirty-five, and yes, I know. My musical tastes are a constant source of teasing from friends.”
Five years older than me. “Just not what I expected, that’s all.”
“What music do you like then?”
“Everything,” I answer quickly and honestly.
Olivia stares at me, her forehead creasing. “Eclectic tastes. I’m not surprised.”
Nodding, I swallow hard and excuse myself, but not before I give her phone back. Being near her, talking about something as normal as music is too uncomfortable right now. I need to get away from her kind eyes and gentle questioning. I step into my boots and push my arms into my coat as I’m walking out the door. I’m still too weak and congested, still too tight-chested and gross-feeling to go for a run, but I need to check the solar panels and greenhouse. Or just do something, anything to get a little distance.
All the exterior systems are in order. The air burns my lungs but not in that clear, revitalizing way I crave. I hide out in the greenhouse for ten minutes, checking my plants and picking greens for dinner. Still edgy and anxious, I make my way over the snow toward Hug Tree. The bark is cold against my cheek. Eyes closed, I indulge myself and pretend I’m hugging a woman and she’s hugging me back. For a few long moments, I can almost feel what it would be like to have arms around me again. A warm body. Curves and breasts. I clutch tighter, as though I could pull myself inside the trunk of the tree.
On my way back, I see Olivia at the window where she’s watching me shuffle back to the house. The door opens as I approach and she ushers me inside. “All systems working as intended?”
I tug off my beanie and set the bucket of fresh produce on the floor. “Yep.”
Closing the door behind me, she asks casually, “What were you doing down there?”
“With what?” Scuffing my boots on the mat, I shrug out of my jacket.
“That tree.”
“Oh. Uh, nothing.” Just hugging it, you know. Totally normal.
Olivia leans against the wall, keeping weight off her injured leg. She grins, slow and sure of herself. “I saw you. It didn’t look like nothing.”
The heat starts at my neck and works its way to my ears. Caught me. “I was…hugging it.”
“Hugging it.” Olivia’s raised eyebrow turns the statement to a question.
“Yes. Hugging.” I lift both hands in a helpless gesture. “Sometimes I just need to hug and there’s nobody here, so something had to substitute for someone.”
“When did you start doing that?” she quietly asks.
I kick out of my boots. “About four or five months after I got here. Before that I tried hugging pillows and wrapping my arms around my torso and squeezing hard, but neither felt quite right. So…Hug Tree.”
“That’s really clever of you.” There’s a touch of sadness interwoven with what sounds like admiration.
I blush like she’s just given me a Nobel Peace Prize, and offer a quiet, “Thanks.”
Riley giggles in my ear. “You haven’t cured cancer, Cel. You just figured out how to hug a tree trunk.” Her voice turns wistful. “You give really good hugs though. I miss them.”
My houseguest pushes away from the wall and takes a step toward me. “Well, I have two perfectly good arms and a torso if you’d like something reciprocal.”
Unconsciously, I cross both arms across my chest. “You barely know me. Why would you hug me?”
She measures her words carefully. “You’re right, but I know if I’d been living the way you have, I’d hug the first person I saw even if they were a hobo on the street.”
I smile faintly. “Well you certainly aren’t a hobo.”
Olivia returns my smile. “No, I’m not.”
Taking a deep breath, I relax my arms to my sides. I can’t deny the appeal of having someone hold me. Especially when I feel so cruddy from my cold. I imagine warmth nestling against me and arms enfolding my body. A face pressed into my neck. Trying to ignore the trembling in my arms, I agree, “Well, all right then. I mean, if you don’t mind.”
Her response is barely audible. “I don’t mind.”
I exhale, long and soft. “I’d really like that.” I take a small step forward then pause, giving her a chance to back out if she wants to. Olivia makes no move to step away, but rests the walking stick against the wall, opens her arms and waits for me to close the gap.
My tentative arms sneak around her waist and then I’m stalled, unsure what to do next. But it’s Olivia who pulls us closer together and the moment her arms lock around my back, something inside me shakes loose. The tension and loneliness of the past years are released in a single heartbeat.
I hold on like she’s a life preserver, registering every sensation—the pressure of her arms around my back, the feeling of breasts against mine, the gentle movement of her body under my fingers, the mix of scents in my nose. I bury my face in Olivia’s hair, not caring that it isn’t polite to nuzzle someone who’s virtually a stranger. But it’s not sexual or even sensual. It’s just nurturing and it’s warm and it’s safe and it feels incredible.
Olivia doesn’t shy away. If anything, she holds on tighter, her hands tracing meaningless patterns over my back. The pressure isn’t frightening, she’s not forcing me or constricting me. She’s just holding me. I burst into tears.
“It’s okay,” she soothes, her words low in my ear. “You’re okay.” Her nose is brushing against my neck as I cry.
I don’t know how long I cry but when I feel like I can talk again, I pull back and swipe at my eyes with the heels of my hands. Between my cold and my tears I can barely breathe. “God, I’m so sorry. How embarrassing.”
But Olivia’s face holds no judgment or mocking, only soft understanding and compassion. “No, Celeste, not embarrassing. I think it’s a perfectly normal response.” She takes a halting, hopping step forward to place a hand on my shoulder. “And I’m more than happy to do it again, but for now I really need to sit down.” She smiles and starts hobbling with her stick toward the couch.
“Shit, of course. I’m so sorry.” I fish in my pocket for a tissue then wait until she’s a little way away before I blow my nose.
She’s on the couch with her bad leg angled up on the coffee table. “Don’t be sorry, Celeste.” She pats the seat beside her, leaving her hand resting on the seat, palm up as though in invitation. “Human contact is such a funny thing. We think we don’t need it. Until we realize we do.” Her voice is soft, almost contemplative.
I lower myself down beside her and after a moment, take the hand on offer. Running my thumb over her soft skin, I revel in the contact. There’s heat under my thumb, drawing itself into my body to warm me. To renew me. I lift my eyes to find Olivia watching me and when I speak, my voice cracks. “I do need it.”
Chapter Ten
I’ve had the cold for three days and I’m feeling much better, but still not normal. Or whatever normal is for me. When I tried to move back to sleep permanently on the couch, Olivia became so insistent that I stay in the bed where it’s comfortable that I gave in with barely any internal debate. What’s the point? I want it. She insisted. I even slept better last night, probably less worried about accidentally touching her in my sleep.
She changed her dressing again this morning and told me the edges were starting to scab over. Then she invited me to take a look. No thank you. Olivia laughed, and then in a quiet voice said, “Everything seems to be healing really well. I might be able to walk out in another week.”
I choked on my response, and all I could get out was a strangled, “Mhmm.” Please not yet. I’m not ready. The truth hangs over my head like a stone about to drop. It’s not a question of if, but when. It’s always been inevitable, I’ve always known that I would have to tell the Controllers and start the process of getting her home. The process of taking her away from me. I don’t want to, but I have to. Whenever I think about telling the Controllers my secret, my guilt becomes so overwhelming I have to make myse
lf stop thinking about it in case I start choking.
“You’re a really bad liar, Cel,” Riley reminds me. “But it’s okay, because I’m good enough for the both of us.”
I’m not a bad liar, I rebut indignantly in my head. It’s just that I don’t like lying about everyday stuff. It’s only for important things, remember? Like no, I’m not going to tell the cops, and yes Riley and I are fine so you can go away now please. My arm aches, and I rub my palm along my skin as if I could rub the past away.
I leave Olivia at the kitchen table with her breakfast and coffee and take my own mug into the computer room. The Controller is already there, a message waiting on the screen for me like an accusation.
Cont E: Hello, SE9311. How are you?
Controller E? Who the hell is this?
SE9311: Hi. You’re new. Who are you?
Cont E: I’m Controller E.
SE9311: Obviously. Why are you here?
Cont E: There’s been some changes in the monitoring department.
SE9311: Changes like what?
Cont E: Staff turnover.
SE9311: Who got turned over?
Cont E: A staff member.
Nice sidestep, E. Clearly I’m not going to get any more from them.
SE9311: I see. I assume it won’t affect my daily routine?
Cont E: Not at all. Can we discuss the content of yesterday’s logs?
I look to the closed door of the computer room then catch myself. Don’t want to give the secret away. I sniff hard which sets off a tickle in my throat that I have to clear by coughing. As soon as I’m done, I snatch my hand from my mouth and type an answer.
SE9311: Sure thing.
Cont E: Are you okay?
SE9311: Yeah, sorry. I got a big whiff of bleach while cleaning the bathroom earlier and I think it’s messing with my lungs and sinuses.
Riley is right. I’m bad at lying and I hate it, but I can’t tell them about Olivia because I just don’t know how.
Cont E: Perhaps open some windows to clear the air? And be sure to let us know if anything out of the ordinary happens with your health as a consequence of the cleaning products.
SE9311: Will do.
After I close down the system it dawns on me that I haven’t seen Controller A in a while. A couple of weeks maybe? So I guess it was Controller A who got turned over. I hope they moved on to other things, something better than asking how I’m feeling every day. I hope so. I can’t think of anything worse than keeping track of my tedious life.
Maybe they really did have a wife who had a baby and now they are taking some time off. Extended overseas vacation. Maybe Controller E is actually Controller A because they got sick of being A. But Controller E doesn’t seem like Controller A, who was always nice and seemed a little more willing to talk to me than the others.
Maybe they had a car accident. Maybe they grew bored with reviewing logs. Maybe they stole pens from The Organization and were fired. Affair with the boss. Fight with a colleague. There’re hundreds of possibilities but I’ll never know for sure. I’m surprised to find I care. I’m also surprised to find I’m a little annoyed and upset that Controller A never said goodbye to me.
By the time I finish, Olivia has relocated to the couch. She glances up from her book, smiles, but doesn’t say anything. I sit at the end of the table, away from the game of Scrabble Olivia’s winning. Slowly I add words to my private pages of handwritten logs of all the things I can’t tell the Controllers.
The words are for them eventually, but also for my own benefit. I’ve logged every action and most of my thoughts for so long that not getting them out makes me feel like they’re going to grow into something so huge I won’t be able to contain it. Somewhere in my time here, my handwriting morphed into a barely legible scrawl and it hasn’t become any better this past week. Idly I wonder if I’ll keep a journal when I leave.
“Remember that time I read your diary, Cel?” Riley asks, all apologetic.
I nod and make a small sound of agreement under my breath.
“You were so angry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done it.”
No, she shouldn’t have. She shouldn’t have done a lot of things, but she did and there’s nothing I can do about it now.
I stare at the words, trying to make enough sense of what’s in my head to put the rest of it on the page. I stare at Olivia, hoping for inspiration. As though drawn by my gaze, she looks up and out of nowhere says, “I think I’ll make soup for dinner.”
“Sounds great,” I respond, for lack of an articulate response.
She spends the afternoon cooking, hopping from the couch to the kitchen to stir and check and add things. She won’t let me help. When I ask her why she’s going to so much trouble instead of eating canned soup, she tells me I need to eat something wholesome if I want to get better more quickly.
Olivia promises it will taste wonderful, despite using frozen chicken and a mix of fresh and dried vegetables. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her exactly what I want to taste. The hum of arousal under my skin that started when I first touched her a week ago is steadily getting worse, and I’m sure the only thing keeping it suppressed is the cold.
“Wish I was there to help, Celeste,” Alli teases. “Remember how you like me to—”
Olivia interrupts. “Celeste, could you help me with this soup pot, please? I can’t manage it with my stick.”
“It’s ready?” Dumb question. She wouldn’t ask for help unless it was.
“Sure is.” She points a stern forefinger at me but she’s smiling. “No excuses. You’re eating.”
Dinner is excellent and I tell her so. My praise seems to please her, even more so when I take another small helping. Then I salt it liberally, as I do all my food, and the pleased expression turns to a frown. She grumbles, “You eat too much salt.”
I almost tell her that it’s not really something she should be worrying about, but opt for a neutral response. “Maybe I do.”
Emotions play over her face. First there’s concern, then an almost defiance like she’s going to push her point but knows it’s not hers to push because she’s not my lover or my friend. Finally she settles on a sort of pleading expression, as though she’s genuinely upset by my excessive salt intake. She’s adorable. I can’t stop staring.
Olivia cants her head to the left. “What? Have I got food on my face?” She wipes her mouth with the back of a hand, and even this quick gesture is graceful. She’s elegant, beautiful, and she doesn’t deserve to be stuck here, cooped up with me.
“No. Not at all.” I bite my lip and make a swift subject change, but it’s really not one for the better. “I’m sorry, it’s rude of me to stare but I can’t help it. I, it’s, um…you’re just…sweet, and beautiful.” As soon as the words are out I want to snatch them back. “Jesus, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I mean it’s true, but I shouldn’t have said it.”
“Don’t worry about it, Celeste, really. It’s quite flattering, thank you.” She looks like she’s trying not to smile but the unmistakable lift in her cheek gives her away. “I’m not opposed to you staring if it helps make up for these years of being alone.”
But I want more than staring. I want touching. I want it so much that the need has become constant and overwhelming, and I’m forever censoring my body. She gives me things that I’m sure she doesn’t even realize and with every piece I get, I want more. I want to give her pieces of me too. No, scratch that. I want her to want pieces of me.
“Bit soon for imagining white picket fences, isn’t it, Celeste?” Alli asks.
“Hush up, Allison. You’re so old-fashioned with your wanting to wait until it’s perfect,” Heather grumbles. “Don’t listen to her, Celeste. Sometimes when you know, you know.”
But I don’t know. None of my feelings can be trusted. With my eyes on the placemat, I take a mouthful of soup, daintily the way Joanne taught me. The rest of our meal is eaten in silence. Once I’m done with dinner dishes, I settle o
n the couch to write down some of what I’m feeling about her. About us. No, Celeste, there is no us. It’s her and it’s me. We are two separate things.
While I write, she showers. I hear the water running and I think of her in there. Naked. Hands running over her skin. The ever-present pulse gets more insistent. It wouldn’t take me long, I could just slip my hand between my legs and take care of it in less than a minute.
“Celeste?”
I sit up, snatching my hand away from where it’s almost under the waistband of my pants. “Yes?”
“Would you mind coming in here to have a look at this please?”
That is not going to help my current situation. I hop up and rush to the doorway of the bathroom where she’s wrapped in a towel, leaning over to examine her leg. “What do you think?” she asks.
“It…looks okay?” I swallow my revulsion and lingering guilt. “Better than before.”
She gently touches the skin at the edge of the wound. “I might leave it without a dressing.”
I nod and turn away to drink some water from the bathroom sink to ease my dry mouth. Lifting my shirt to dry my lips I see her watching me in the bathroom mirror. Our eyes meet. “What?” I ask.
“Just you, drinking straight from the faucet. I don’t really know anyone who does that.”
“Yeah I know, it’s gross. Sorry. Old habit I can’t seem to break.” I glance down at the sink. “We uh, didn’t always have cups. Mother thought spending money on that sort of thing was stupid when booze came in its own ready-made drinking vessel.”
She doesn’t say anything but reaches out to touch my shoulder. Ever since we hugged, she seems to touch me more. A brush against my arm or a squeeze of my hand. Her hand lingers on me longer than it needs to but it’s not long enough.
Olivia hobbles out of the bathroom with her stick, and I watch her progress until she reaches the bedroom, closing the door so she can dress. I don’t worry so much about staring at her now because she watches me too—while I’m cooking, checking equipment, flossing and brushing my teeth, eating peanut butter from the jar and doing dishes as she dries them. We’re existing in a weird gray space of forced but comfortable domesticity. I really need to tell the Controllers about her because we are not housemates, and getting as comfortable as I am is dangerous.