by Lee Davidson
Scene twelve: Grant’s funeral. Again, sad. This seems to be the theme. All six of us watch Elliott chase and then try to console Tate as Grant’s casket, back in the distance, is lowered into the ground.
Lucky number thirteen…and thankfully the last: the kitchen massacre. The phone rings and news comes through the line about Elliott’s death. Tate’s mom goes ballistic, Tate’s dad goes ballistic, Tate goes ballistic, and finally Cutest-Kid-Ever goes ballistic. The end.
Dramatic, exhausted sigh.
Back in the round room, I get ready to sing Lavender’s closing words like I always do, Thank you for your time and best of luck in your assignment, but instead the room spins again and then stops with another door.
What in the world?
Lavender’s voice breaks the silence. “The doors that follow represent Tate’s post-Satellite journey. To protect the privacy of the Satellite and uphold the integrity of this organization, the Satellite will remain invisible.”
Sweet Lavender must be unaware that no one’s keeping secrets these days.
I shift in the tight space, wanting to disappear, or at the very least stretch my arms more than an inch, while Lavender directs us to 2011.
There won’t be any stretching happening in this hallway, that’s for sure. The real scene is playing out through the doorway, but our crowd is too big to squeeze into the bathroom.
We do our best to move around so everyone can get a peek. Poor Jackson’s jumping up and down to try to see over Billy. I’d offer to put him on my shoulders if I didn’t think it would hurt his ego.
On the bathroom floor, Tate’s dad is rocking her like a child. My glimpse of the bathtub turns out to be a mistake. I hate blood.
I jerk my face away from the pink water and the blood-streaked tile floor and swallow bile. Lawson, the Godsend who he is, pushes his shoulder against mine to shove my body away from the door. He keeps his body pressed against me, purposely making a wall to shield Jackson from the gruesome scene as well.
“Tate, come on baby, look at me!” Tate’s dad says and then yells for Tate’s mom to call 911.
Mrs. Jacoby runs through all of us before disappearing into the master bedroom.
Liam explained this scene to me before, minus all the gory details. How strange knowing both he and Grant were here for this.
When we’re thrown back into the stone well, the Elite volume is set to mute.
Next scene: same year, same house, different room. Mental Tate is back with a vengeance. She cracks a vase into the wall, screams at Mom, then at Dad, and then at—Oh no she doesn’t! Bejesus Tate!—Cutest-Kid-Ever.
We enter the circular room like dirt into a vacuum. We exit like zombies.
The next three scenes are all the same: Tate destroys things. A burned photo album follows smashed CDs and a few broken picture frames. I play a game of Find Liam, but he wins. There’s no trace of him anywhere in the room.
We go in, we come out.
This door is different because before the movie reel plays out, I know what’s coming. I stole Liam’s tocket and ended up in this same place with Tate. It feels odd to be watching now. In a second, Tate’s going to bash her engagement ring on the bridge railing with a hammer. The diamond that must have cost a modest carpenter a whole bunch of money will drop into the river. The gold band will follow, along with Tate’s breakdown of the century. Watching now, I can pick out the moment my block gets Tate off the railing before she darn near follows the ring. There’s not a doubt in my mind that the poor girl would do anything to have that ring back now.
Lavender announces our last door. Hallelujah!
From where the six of us stand in Tate’s parent’s bedroom, Tate is a dream in her white, fairy tale dress. Lawson and Billy step closer to the bed before Cutest-Kid-Ever walks through them.
Cutest-Kid-Ever stops, frightened beyond words. When the bride turns away from the floor length oval dressing mirror, the picture-perfect image is gone. The thick globs of black make-up around her red eyes have run down her chest and bled into the satin bodice.
“Are-are you OK?” Cutest-Kid-Ever stammers.
“Get out!” Bride of Frankenstein yells.
Cutest-Kid-Ever leaves, but he sobs louder than he can run.
I’m not heartless, I’m really not, but when Tate hurts her brother like this, I’d like to put my boot straight up her—
The stone chamber sucks me in before I can finish my thought. This is probably for the best.
Mentally exhausted, I sing the words with Lavender in my head instead of out loud. “Thank you for your time and best of luck in your assignment.”
The six of us become Play-doh again, mashing together like the Spaghetti Factory in reverse as we’re jerked upward. My arm intertwines with someone’s knee and pops. I’d scream if a miscellaneous elbow weren’t shoved in my mouth. I hope that’s just an elbow, anyway.
“You all have some kinks to work out,” Lawson says to Jonathan when we finally land.
Jonathan takes inventory of our pipe-cleaner-like bodies and nods. “My hope is we won’t be repeating this process in the near future.”
I second that.
Using my left hand, I untie my sweatshirt and roll the sleeve into the best ball I can manage. I shove the thick material into my mouth. “Fix me.”
“With pleasure M’lady,” Billy says.
My scream is muffled when he snaps my shoulder back into its rightful place. Twenty seconds later, I’m pain-free. I spit my sweatshirt out, tie the sleeves around my waist, and mumble my thanks to Billy.
“Let us make our way back to the field,” Jonathan says when we are all healed and standing upright.
We follow him along the trek I’ve made so many times I could walk it blindfolded. Like always when I’m around Progression during working hours, the silence in the usually busy lobby makes me lonely.
The fresh air relaxes me when we step through the courtyard doors because the breeze smells amazing, like laundry and sunshine. Troy, of course, would say sunshine doesn’t smell, but it absolutely does.
Jackson skips beside me. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” I push away my thoughts of Troy and hope Jackson’s not going to fall into another joke telling fit.
Jonathan points us to the bleachers, throws a black T-shirt at Reed and flannel button-up at Jackson, neither of which he was carrying a minute ago.
“New ink?” I ask when Reed strips off his torn shirt. Woven fluidly through his other tattoos, an emerald trail of smoke runs diagonally down his back. It ends at a vibrant teal star on the side of his ribs.
He nods. “You like?”
I approve. “Very fitting.”
“Hey guys, I was thinking about some ink myself. What do you think?” Jackson shows us his boney torso in all its glory.
I mockingly shade my eyes with my hand. “Forget the tats, Jack. Go for a little Vitamin D, instead.”
Jackson sizes up his own pale chest. “I’m serious.”
“So am I!”
Jackson laughs at my joke while Reed hops up and sits on the bleacher behind me.
“I was thinking about a skull. You know, something really manly.” Jackson raises his arm over his head, making his ribs jut out. “A samurai sword would be pretty tight. Or maybe a snake. Or I could work them all in. Maybe something like…”
Jonathan clears his throat and Jackson obliges, buttons up his new shirt and sits next to me. Lawson sits on my other side, sandwiching me like meat between an elephant and a mouse.
“As I mentioned, this is experimental. We cannot be sure about the effectiveness of this method, nor the outcome. This is new territory for all involved.” Jonathan pauses. “We believe Tatum will attempt to take her own life within the next twenty four hours. We have four Satellites on her assignment to delay this action so we can properly train. For the first time in our Satellite history, we are going to perform a group block.”
A group what?
Jonathan, unlike the rest of us, remains cool and collected. “Let me correct myself, we are going to attempt to perform a group block.”
No way! Getting six people to block at the exact same time will be impossible.
“As you can imagine, a block of this magnitude will be difficult.”
No, Jonathan, impossible. It will be impossible!
“The thought transfer has to be precisely timed. We have two purposes for this block. The first and foremost is to keep Tatum alive. Secondly, we must break the connection between her and Grant.”
My expression betrays me, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Jonathan.
“This is the only way that Tatum Jacoby will be able to move on and live out the path intended for her.”
I barely hear him. “It’s not possible,” I whisper before I can stop myself. My voice is laced with hope. There’s no way this could really work, could it? I shake my head. No, no way.
“Willow’s right,” Evelynn adds.
Billy clears his throat. “Yeah, it’s not like we’re trying to make the girl dance. You’re talking about some serious mind bending.”
“Indeed. Which is why it will take so many of you, and also why we chose our best team for this task. The Schedulers and I share your concerns. Tatum is an interesting study. We expect Tragedies to stray from their course and we plan accordingly. Tatum has diverted from her course before, but we managed to steer her back. Now, despite our interventions, she is again breaking away from her path, and this time she is more reckless than ever. We cannot allow her to be a danger to herself. Her life is too significant.”
But Tate’s actually been better the past few days. I have to tell Jonathan this.
Jonathan rubs the bridge of his nose. “There is an inexplicable connection between Tatum and Grant that is keeping us from making progress. We do not know how a block of this magnitude will affect someone’s mind, but we must take that risk. The Schedulers and I agree this is our only option.”
No one says anything. I gulp loudly when I try to swallow down my conflicting thoughts.
One of my first conversations with Grant was about his memories. He was terrified when I told him he was going to forget Tate. How can I be a part of breaking a connection that shouldn’t have been broken to begin with? Or should it have?
What will happen to Tate if I do? She’s showing real signs of recovery when Grant is there. What will happen to Grant if I don’t? Just being in her presence is destroying him. The guy may burn to death, and he doesn’t even seem to care.
“I would like to open this session by blocking in groups of twos and expanding from there,” Jonathan says. “Billy and Jackson, please block Evelynn; Lawson and Willow, block Reed. Let’s begin.”
The group dismantles as instructed. I stall by putting my sweatshirt on.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” I ask Jonathan when the others are out of earshot.
“Sure.”
“Tate’s getting better.”
Jonathan pauses a moment. “How so?”
“Her attitude has improved. She’s even playing with Fisher again.”
“Have you noticed what may be contributing to this change?”
I study the spiky blades of grass around my left boot. What can I say? Actually, yes, Jonathan. I brought Grant with me and his presence brightened her mood?
“I think if she just had a little more time…” Why can’t I just tell him? Sure, I’ll be in trouble, but he’ll at least know that Grant can help Tate. Maybe he could even fix Grant’s scars so Grant could visit Tate on a regular basis.
What am I thinking? That’s the most absurd—
“Do not be deceived by a few good days. Tatum’s lack of progress is worrisome and her future is beginning to shift. It is paramount that we intervene now before the opportunity to do so is lost.”
Maybe Jonathan is right. Maybe this is what needs to happen.
“Do you have something you’d like to say?”
I remain mute for an uncomfortable amount of time. Eventually. I shake my head and walk away.
“How do you want to play this?” Lawson, asks in his get-down-to-business way when I reach him and Reed. His eyes, though, are extra glassy.
“You want me to come at you guys?”
Lawson agrees and they both mistake my silence as a yes. My intuition rebels because breaking the connection between Grant and Tate feels so fallacious.
Looking at Evelynn, Billy, and Jackson, already working far away, I change my thought pattern to something more helpful. I think I can, I think I can…my thoughts repeat like The Little Engine That Could, Mya’s favorite bedtime story.
Lawson and I stand side by side about fifteen yards from Reed.
“One, two, three,” Lawson counts.
“Haze,” we say in unison.
The rippling bubble forms around me and shoots across the lawn to my target. Lawson’s filter does the same. When my filter overlaps with his two feet in front of Reed, the ripples move strangely faster.
I jump when Lawson’s voice echoes in my head. “Stop, stop, stop,” he repeats.
Stop, stop, stop, I think along with Lawson, but his deep voice is distracting and my thoughts are unable to get in the same rhythm.
Reed runs through Lawson’s filter before I can yell “Block.”
My filter disappears and I lunge in front of Lawson, making my shoulder connect with Reed’s.
Reed trips and stumbles into Lawson’s chest. “Dude, you’re a horse.”
Lawson gives his best smile, which is about half of a normal person’s. “Seriously, sister, you didn’t think I had that?”
Of course I knew he had it. “Just trying to get in on the fun.”
Reed straightens his shirt. “I could hear your voices in my head. It was weird.”
“Interesting.” Jonathan says from behind us. “Did you feel persuaded?”
Reed shrugs. “Not really.”
“Try again,” Jonathan says sternly and begins walking toward the other group.
We do as we’re told, with the same results.
“I think the problem is our timing,” I explain to Lawson. “I can’t get in tune with you. How about this? After we give the order, count to three in your head before starting your thought.”
Lawson agrees and we go again. This time Lawson’s voice plays along with mine, but before I feel any pain or break the connection, Reed smacks into Lawson’s chest. No good.
Rinse, lather, repeat.
I shake my head. “We’re not convincing him.”
“Maybe we need to be louder,” Lawson offers.
“Worth a shot, I guess.”
When we go this time, I refrain from jumping a foot in the air when Lawson’s roar intertwines with my higher pitched yell. The jolt that hits me sends my body flying backwards.
Beside me on the grass, twenty feet from Reed, Lawson groans and rolls to his side.
We both manage to sit up in time to see Jonathan jogging to us. “What happened?”
“Dude,” Lawson mumbles.
Still feeling stunned, I take Jonathan’s outstretched hand. “That block gave us a zap from Hades.”
Jonathan hoists me up and then helps Lawson.
“Did you sever the connection?” Jonathan asks us.
“The pain was too much,” I explain.
Jonathan rubs the dent in his chin for a full minute.
“No offense, but this isn’t going to work.”
Jonathan is not happy with my statement. “Failure is imminent if we are not united with a concordant goal.” The whole gang has gathered around and Jonathan’s intent eyes stop on mine. “Are we in agreement regarding the purpose of this mission?”
The others silently agree with their heads, but I remain motionless.
“Willow, a word, please?”
I trudge behind Jonathan, away from the others. He sto
ps and puts his hand on my shoulder.
I swallow. “I still don’t believe Grant and Tate’s connection is meant to be broken.”
“Their connection is inhibiting Tatum from following the path she needs to lead now.”
“Grant is a part of her. He’s wrapped around every darn cell in her body. She needs him.”
And he needs her. The image of the disgusting lesion on the kid’s chest creeps in my head. I don’t dare mention this to Jonathan now. The man doesn’t need any more fuel to feed his plan.
Jonathan pauses for a long time. “Would you agree that Troy is a part of you?”
“Yes, of course, but what—”
“What happened with your connection to Troy when you joined us?”
Oh, for the love—fight fair!
“I forgot him,” I whisper to my boots until I find my full voice. “This is different. Their connection should have been broken the natural way, not the way Tate ripped it apart. Now she’s trying to reconnect with him. Jonathan, she needs him. They need each other. Why can’t you see that?”
Jonathan remains unnervingly calm.
“Come on, Jonathan! Why can’t you see this for what it is?”
Maybe he’s uncertain, but he stands his ground. “This is necessary for Tatum. She’s not in a healthy place. You know that as well as I do. She will still remember Grant. We are only removing the emotional connection she feels towards him.”
“These measures are extreme.”
“Without an intervention, we risk her life ending prematurely.”
“It hasn’t been that long.”
“Willow,” he pauses sympathetically. “Tatum’s made very little progress and her condition is deteriorating more each day. Keeping her alive must be our top priority now. Given the circumstances, I understand the emotional strain this places on you and I will respect your decision if you choose to decline. The choice belongs to you, and you alone.”
How can I say no? What kind of impression would I be giving the others? What if I’m wrong about Grant and Tate?
“I’m in,” I finally whisper.
When I look back up at Jonathan, his nod is solemn. “Please understand as we move forward, there’s no room for indecision.”