Satellite: The Satellite Trilogy, Part I

by Lee Davidson

When I finally raised my eyes, she was truly broken.

  “I get it. You don’t want to marry me anymore. Stop blaming the disease,” she whispered.

  Fighting against the pain, I held her as tightly as I could. “I do want to marry you. I love you.”

  “Then why won’t you?”

  “Because I’m dying. I know you don’t want to believe it, but I am. I can feel it.”

  “How can you say that? How can you just give up?” True to form—always the glass-half-full girl—she had fooled herself that there was still hope for me.

  “I’m not giving up—I’m being realistic!” I barked in frustration. I was fighting, but an exceedingly stronger force kept defeating me. Her tears softened my anger. “I promise we’ll get married if I beat this.” Lying to her was nearly impossible, but I knew I’d never see her walk down the aisle.

  She’d buried her head in my shoulder then, and I had silently cried with her. Not marrying her was painful, but making her a widow was…I couldn’t do that to her. I loved her too much.

  My biggest regret, the one I couldn’t tell Clara earlier, claws at my insides. Why hadn’t I just gone along with the wedding plans? Knowing it was never going to happen anyway, knowing deep down that I was going to die, I could have at least postponed killing Tate’s dream. Failing in her attempt to save me, she’d had so little to hold on to. I should have given her that.

  I push away my stinging tears with the back of my hand and suck in a deep breath. Early morning light cuts through the gaps in the living room curtain, and Ryder’s breathing has reached chainsaw volume. If he ever gets married, his snoring is going to make his wife crazy. Willow’s mom tiptoes in to check on Ryder and then retreats back up the stairs.

  I stretch and rub my palms against my jeans, but a small hole makes my hand stop. Springing up, I unbuckle my belt. A second later, my jeans are around my ankles. My finger trails over the raised, tear-shaped lesion on my right knee and then jerks back from the heat of the scar. It’s a twin in every way to the new scar on my chest.

  Laughing out loud seals that fact that I’m officially crazy, but I don’t care. Tate’s tear burned me again, which means we still have a physical connection, however screwed up it may be. It also means that seeing her while I code is every bit as real as seeing her in person.

  I yank my jeans up when I hear keys jingle in the door.

  Mya stomps the snow off her boots on the kitchen doormat while I’m still buckling my belt. “Hey, Ry—wake up! It’s almost eleven o’clock.”

  Already? I glance at the mantel clock. Maybe this day isn’t going to drag after all.

  She curses before coming into the living room. “Hey, kid—get up,” she says, shaking Ryder’s shoulder.

  Both Mya and I leap back when he comes to. “What?” he shouts, spinning around the room.

  “Chill. It’s just me.”

  “Oh. Hey, twerp.” He rubs his eyes, but then the color drains from his face and he falls back into the chair.

  “We need to be at the funeral home in an hour,” Mya says.

  He pushes himself up slowly this time, like he’s made of concrete. “Let me get a shower,” he says with zero enthusiasm.

  She glances at his hand. “I’m guessing you didn’t even ice it.”

  Ryder pretends to not hear her and walks out of the room.

  Mya mumbles her disapproval on her way to the wall of pictures. She traces her finger along one of Willow’s photos. “Please take care of him,” she whispers before exiting the room.

  I resume my place on the sofa and focus on the rhythmic clock, trying to keep Tate out of my head. From the kitchen, Mya’s conversation with her grandparents spills into the living room. Ryder and I join them in under ten minutes.

  “I like what you’ve done with the place,” Mya says dryly, glancing at the peppered wall as she passes by.

  Feeling more prepared than yesterday, I wait in the small office for Ryder’s forecasted outburst. I picture my mom and dad in place of Mya and Ryder, planning my funeral. After a while, I have to shut my imagination off because my thoughts become too painful.

  “We would like a lot of hydrangeas placed around the casket,” Mya tells the funeral director, a diminutive man with a bad comb-over.

  “Mmm, that’s sweet. Red roses will be more appropriate,” he responds smugly, scribbling in his leather notebook.

  Mya leans forward to see what he’s writing. Her tone is harsher when she says, “I appreciate your input; however, we would like hydrangeas.”

  “My dear, hydrangeas are difficult to get this time of year. Roses will be the most suitable.”

  I only know two things about flowers: they are a waste of money (those were Tate’s words; ironically, she always beamed when I bought them for her), and roses are insanely unoriginal (also Tate’s words). I’m not sure what Mya’s deal is, other than she’s a woman.

  Mya forces her sour expression back and takes a deep breath.

  Ryder jumps in. “No, the most suitable flowers for my dad are hydrangeas.”

  “How about white roses, then?” the man offers.

  “We said hydrangeas,” Ryder manages through clenched teeth. My muscles tense. Here it comes.

  The director looks up from his notebook. “It’s going to be very expensive. Certainly you have a budget to maintain.”

  Ryder bolts up, dumping his chair behind him.

  I focus and give the order that puts the rippled filter around us.

  Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm.

  Zap! My mind freezes in pain before I yell the severing command. “Block!”

  Ryder reaches behind him and rights his chair. “We would like hydrangeas,” he says firmly, sitting back down and burning his stare into the funeral director.

  “Hydrangeas will be beautiful. How many?” The director’s voice hitches, and he offers what I think is supposed to be a smile.

  I block Ryder two more times: once for road rage and once before he kills the kitchen wall again during an emotional outburst.

  When Hannah returns his car, she insists (demands) on taking Ryder to the ER to get his hand checked. He’s smart enough not to argue. We’re all back two hours later, with Ryder bandaged and sporting a high-fashion sling.

  “What am I going to do without him?” he groans.

  Beside him at the kitchen table, Hannah comfortingly rubs his arm. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

  “He’s all I had. He was my best friend.”

  I think about my own dad. Best friend is the last title that comes to mind.

  “You have Mya and her family.”

  “Exactly. Her family. She has her own responsibilities to keep her busy.”

  “They’re your family, too,” Hannah says in a softer voice. “And don’t forget about your grandparents.”

  Ryder looks around the room. “I feel so alone.” He pauses and then whispers, “I’ve never felt so alone.”

  I know the feeling. Unlike Ryder, though, I keep my tears under wraps. My old man would be so proud. This almost makes me want to cry just to spite him.

  Poor Hannah looks like she doesn’t know what to do. She rubs Ryder’s back and stays quiet.

  I push the shut-up button when my calimeter buzzes. The lights go off, and Ryder and Hannah freeze at the kitchen table like wax sculptures. Ryder’s expression is so desolate, his eyes so dead. He no longer resembles the guy I watched in the flashbacks.

  For the first time, I wish the rapid pull would carry me faster. “Willow!” I yell when I land.

  No answer.

  Wasting no time, I trade clothes (choosing Tate’s favorite dark blue hoodie), dump my backpack on the sofa, and grab the picture frame. With the magic word, it’s back down I go. When I land, I notice my previously disheveled bed is now made, the dark green comforter smooth and perfect the way my mom always wished I could make a bed. Seeing my room back in order makes me hopeful that maybe my mom is doing better.

&
nbsp; Knowing I have to go, I don’t waste another minute. I’m in Tate’s backyard after a quick flight. I pass through the empty kitchen and bound up the steps, but the violin stops me. I spin and thunder back down the stairs and into the study.

  Tate’s arms aren’t much wider than the violin bow, and her face is still marred by the black makeup. Still, it’s encouraging to see her writing. After she scribbles a few notes in her book on the music stand, the bow screeches across the strings at a speed I’ve never seen. When she whips it away and freezes, the hairs on my neck raise.

  I spend too much time watching the music sheets float under the desk. Even before the first vase has finished crunching, she’s grabbing another one.

  I don’t remember pulling my energy in, but I’m yelling, “Haze!” an instant later.

  Stop. Stop. Stop.

  I groan from the fire and try to claw at my new scars, but the paralyzing current won’t release me to extinguish the flames. Frozen, I clench my teeth and force my eyes on Tate.

  She falls to her knees after I finally spit the word severing the command. The vase rolls from her hand and thuds on the floor. I stagger back and slide down the wall, even more wrecked than when I blocked Willow. Thankfully, the fire in my scars is gone, because I don’t have the strength to lift my arms to rub them.

  Paralyzed by exhaustion, I watch Tate return to her violin and, as if the situation could get any more twisted, I pretend I’m alive with her. “I wish I could have married you,” I whisper when she finishes her song.

  She lifts her chin. “Grant?” Her voice is so quiet. Did I imagine it?

  She closes her eyes and breathes through her nose.

  I use all my energy to crawl to her. “I’m here, Tate. I’m here!” She opens her eyes, and my heart thunders into overdrive.

  “Can you hear me?”

  She swallows, puts her chin on the violin, and plays another song.

  Willow’s nose is touching mine when I open my eyes.

  I stumble back, and the sofa clotheslines me at the calves. “Jeez, woman! You scared me!” I say, looking up from my crooked position on the cushion.

  She swings my backpack on two fingers. “Forget something?”

  Gulp! “That’s actually what I came back for.” My dad would have a conniption if he knew all the lies I was telling lately.

  She juggles the granite rock in her other hand. “Cut the crap, kid. You have some explaining to do.”

  13. We’ll eventually fix that mind of yours

  “Can’t you just drop it?” I say to Willow, trying to play it cool while frantically scrambling for an excuse.

  “You don’t know me at all, do you?” she asks, pacing back and forth.

  “Apparently not, Elite.”

  She flings around and points a finger at me. “Don’t even try to turn this on me. Where were you?”

  “On my assignment. Where else would I be?” Please buy it. Please buy it.

  She, of course, doesn’t buy this, and juggles my tocket again. “Spill it, kid.”

  “I went to see Tate.” Did those words just come out of my mouth? I’ve lost my mind! I shrink back in preparation for Willow’s wrath. This moment was clearly not the best time for my integrity to make an appearance.

  “You what?”

  Unless I want her to sock me, it’s probably best not to repeat it.

  “What? I mean—how? Wait—what?” she stammers, twisting her fingers through her dreads.

  “You’re blubbering,” I point out.

  “You’re killing me here!”

  “Technically, I’m not.”

  “Stop making jokes!” Her face grows two shades darker.

  I try to maintain a calm and collected demeanor by sliding my hands into my hoodie pocket and casually shrugging my shoulders in a “it’s no big deal” kind of way.

  “Why? How?” she demands.

  “Which one do you want me to answer?”

  “Both!”

  “Because I had to see her. I used my picture frame.”

  By her expression, the lightbulb just flicked on. Odd. I thought the idea seemed like a given.

  “I can’t believe it!”

  “You can’t believe I did it, or you can’t believe you didn’t think of it?” I am relaxed now, relieved to have the secret out of the closet.

  Her eyes narrow. “That you did it!”

  “Oh, come on. Admit it. You wish you’d thought of it first.”

  “No, I don’t! It’s against the rules!”

  “I don’t remember that rule.” And who cares, anyway? It’s not like the Schedulers cared when they ruined my life, so why should I follow their absurd rules?

  “Hello? Rule number five. You’re still connecting to your past.”

  “Oh. Huh.” I look up at the ceiling. “Yeah, I guess there’s that. I thought you were going to say rule number one.”

  “Oh, please tell me you didn’t block her?”

  Because Willow’s reaction is seriously funny, I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling.

  “You did?” She twists her hands tighter into her nest of hair and paces. “What were you thinking? Do you know how bad this makes me look? I’m your Legacy, for crying out loud! You’re preposterous—absolutely preposterous! You’re not cut out for this. Satellites don’t run around breaking the rules. What is wrong with you?”

  “Are you finished?” I ask when she finally shuts up.

  “No, I’m not finished! You’re supposed to be on your assignment. What was your Tragedy doing while you were playing house with your fiancée?”

  “I wasn’t playing house!” I take a deep breath to bring my voice back to a normal level. “I went during break. Come on, I’m not that stupid.”

  “Pffttt.”

  “Why doesn’t Tate have a Satellite?” I whisper. The thought hadn’t even occurred to me until now.

  “She must not need one.”

  I hardly hear her over my pounding chest. I lunge out of the sofa, convinced I’m going to vomit. When Willow pushes me back down, I throw my head between my knees and suck deep breaths.

  “Calm down, kid. This is a good thing,” she says from beside me, rubbing my back.

  “She needs one,” I muffle into my knees. I lift my head and stare at the bookshelf. “You should see her. She’s a frigging wreck. I had to block her so she wouldn’t destroy the study.”

  “Listen to me—you cannot ever do that again. Do you understand? You’re too green to realize the effects this could have.”

  “She needs someone protecting her,” I protest.

  “If she needed someone, the Schedulers would have given her someone. A impressively high number of people can get through the grieving process on their own.” She pauses for a long time. “You can’t go back there.”

  When I don’t answer, she says, “I’m serious. You don’t even have her book to know her path.”

  My heart jumps. Turning slowly to Willow, I try to control my heartbeat. “She has a book?”

  “Of course she has a book. Everyone has a book.”

  “How do I get it?”

  “Well, let’s see. You could just march up to the Schedulers and demand it.”

  “Really?” I would love to have some words with them anyhow.

  She smacks my arm. “No, not really!”

  “You’re awfully testy for someone who just reunited with her husband.”

  Willow darn near bursts with joy at the new topic. She can’t contain herself, though she tries. “Don’t change the subject.”

  A subject change is exactly what I need. If this conversation continues, so will the lies, because I’m not staying away from Tate. “Is he just like you remember?”

  “Yeah.” She bites. “My memories came back like a punch in the face. Only good.”

  I snicker at her metaphor and follow her into the kitchen.

  “Want one?” she asks, holding up a mug.

  “Sure.”

  She dunks a teabag in the
hot water and passes me the cup. I figure now is probably not the time to argue for coffee.

  I nod at the colorful new addition on the counter. “What’s that?” I ask, taking a tentative sip of my tea.

  “It’s a hydrangea. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  I nearly spray hot water out my nose, but choke it down instead.

  Willow looks concerned. “You all right?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I mumble, looking away from the bluish-purple flower in the vase. “Wrong pipe.” I fake a cough, and she gives me a funny look. “Where’d you get it?” I ask.

  “Troy. They were our wedding flowers.” She taps her head with her finger. “I remember,” she says, obviously thrilled. “So, Reed had another thought about coding. He thinks you’re trying to reach Tate, which I now realize you are,” she adds narrowly.

  I open my mouth, but she cuts me off.

  “I don’t want to hear it. You need to code before you collapse. You look rotten, kid. Are you up for trying again and maybe not thinking of Tate this time?”

  Now that I can see Tate for real, I’m open to trying something different. “Why not?”

  Willow drops her spoon in the sink and when she heads down the hall, I dump my wretched tea down the drain.

  When we’re seated on the mats, she says, “OK, let your mind go blank. I’d love to make a joke, but apparently that actually is difficult for you.”

  “Funny.”

  “I know, right?”

  I close my eyes and after a couple of minutes, I confess, “I can’t get her out of my head.”

  “Try counting backward from one hundred.”

  This is her advice? She may as well have said start counting sheep.

  “You don’t have to do it out loud,” she says to my expression. “It gives your mind something simple to focus on.”

  Reluctantly, I do as she suggests, and the last number I reach is seventy-three before the blackness around me changes. I recognize where I am immediately and shift to look at the tree stand supporting me. Twenty feet below, the wooded area opens into a vast field covered with dead leaves. Birds and squirrels go about their business as if I’m not here. Then, what has to be the world’s highest-scoring buck walks into the clearing. He moves slowly, and I watch his muscled body, entranced. I’ve never seen a buck like him, except maybe in a dream.