by Lee Davidson
When I get to Tate’s, her bedroom is dark. The blinds are closed and the air smells stale. My stomach flips nervously. Thanks to my night vision, my eyes need no time to adjust and I find her quickly. She’s asleep in the big button chair. In contrast to the soft-green cushion, her eyelids are red, raw, and swollen.
The room shouldn’t be this still. Why is the room so still?
I gasp for air when I figure it out. She isn’t sleeping.
The word repeats with my thundering pulse: Tragedy, Tragedy, Tragedy…
I plow through the room in panic, stopping a couple of times to glance at her frozen body and listen for her breathing. When I finally realize there’s nothing I can do here for Tate, I displace and run as fast as I can to Benson.
“Whoa! What’s up with you?” Anna asks at my abrupt entrance.
“Nothing. Sorry,” I answer, out of breath.
Like always, Clara has to get an eyeful. She scans my entire body before speaking. “You look like you’ve got the hangover from hell. Bad day?”
“You could say that. Have you guys heard of anyone getting a new Tragedy?” I blurt out too fast.
The girls look at me like I’ve grown a third arm and disappoint me with their answers.
Paranoid, I sit in a chair and try to appear calm. “Did you know Tate’s brother is here?” I ask to change the subject.
Clara bites. “Uh…yeah. I also heard you saw the Schedulers.”
“It was no big deal.” Tragedy, Tragedy, Tragedy…
“No big deal? Are you kidding me? Spill!”
Coming here was a huge mistake. “It was nothing.”
Clara flips her hair over her shoulder. “You do realize that no other Satellite has ever seen them, right?”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“None that I’ve ever heard of,” she says.
“Maybe they’ve just kept their mouth shut. By the way, how did you hear about it?”
“Oh, come on. Everyone knows,” Clara says. “You really are Captain Oblivious.”
Anna chokes on her drink from laughing. Seriously? Girls and gossip go together like axles and wheels around this place.
“How many Schedulers were there?” Anna asks, wiping apple juice off her chin.
“A couple hundred, I’d guess.”
“Wow! What did you say to them?” Anna asks.
“I asked them to send Elliott back.”
Clara takes a bite of the carrot she stole from Anna’s tray. “That’s impossible.”
“So I’ve learned.”
“The Schedulers? Man, that had to be something,” Owen says like he’s impressed, sitting down with Liam and Rigby.
I don’t answer and instead trace one of the dark knots on the table. Tragedy, Tragedy, Tragedy…
After shoving an entire cupcake in his mouth, Owen’s muffled voice says, “Dude, you look like crap. I can’t believe your bro-in-law is here!”
“Gross, Owen! Swallow your food before speaking, you swine.” Clara gives him her most disgusted look.
“It’s seafood.” Owen drops his jaw to show her a mouthful of yellow cake. “Get it? See food?”
“Seriously, man,” Rigby sneers with disapproval. “There are ladies present.”
“Thank you!” Clara says.
Rigby sits up straighter and appears pleased that Clara has taken notice of him.
“Anyone hear who the new Legacies are?” Liam asks, shifting in his seat and looking down at his calimeter.
“I heard Liv is one. She looked totally bummed when I saw her,” Owen says.
“Well, Lainie’s stoked,” Clara adds.
“I still don’t get how someone could be excited about leaving all this.”
“Owen, believe it or not, some people want to see their loved ones again,” Liam says.
“Of course someone married would say that. Everyone I want to see is right here.” Owen nips at Anna’s ear.
“You were married?” I ask Liam.
“Yeah.”
“For how long?”
“Nine years.”
“Any kids?”
“A son. Finn,” he answers.
This shocks me. Picturing any of the Satellites living normal lives outside of Progression is difficult.
“Finn was ten so we call him Liam’s little love child,” Clara jokes.
“How’d you die?” I ask.
He looks down at his entwined fingers and his voice is quiet. “I drowned.”
Clara kicks me under the table. “Let’s grab a bite. I haven’t checked out what’s new yet.”
“There’s some decent stuff in there,” Owen says. “But it’s not as good as the chicken,” he whispers to Anna.
“Get a room.” Rigby pulls a new toothpick from his shirt pocket. His raised spirits are no more, probably because Clara and I are getting up from the table together.
“You know, that’s not a bad idea,” Owen agrees, moving his eyebrows up and down at Anna before she punches his arm.
“Come with us, man,” I offer to Rigby, wishing he’d stop seeing me as a threat.
“Nah, I’m good.”
I want to push harder, but I let it go. Clara and I maneuver around the tables to the back of the room. I think about Tate with every step. Tragedy, Tragedy, Tragedy…
“I didn’t want things to get weird back there.” Clara passes me a tray. “Liam doesn’t like to talk about his death. He had some difficulty losing his memories.”
Huh. Me too. “What happened?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager.
She misinterprets my question. “Liam was fishing with Finn and their boat got hung up on some nasty trees. When Liam dove into the water to free the propeller, his arm got caught in some debris. He couldn’t get himself loose. Finn managed to get him untangled and back in the boat, but Liam died a few minutes later.” Clara pauses before putting a plate on her tray. “Man, he was a mess when he got here,” she says, more to herself.
“What about his memories? You mentioned he had difficulty losing them.”
“They stuck around longer than usual, that’s all.”
“Does that happen a lot?”
“Not really.” She bites her lip and eyes the egg roll and steak on my tray—mere props to avoid suspicion. I don’t trust my queasy stomach enough to actually eat anything. “Good choices—although not so great together,” she says with a sour face.
I look from her glossy lips to her salad that’s too many shades of dark green. “Yeah, well…yours looks super filling.”
I decide it’s best to let Liam’s memory thing go (for the sake of keeping my own secret) and we head back to the table. I barely talk, wondering if any of the Satellites in Benson could be Tate’s. I wish Elliott was around so I could pick his brain while he still has his memories, but break ends without any sign of him.
Back on Earth, I don’t catch up on my reading until Ryder falls asleep. As usual, my instructions are to keep him calm. His thunderous snores vibrate through the small bedroom. Surely a couple of minutes away from him couldn’t hurt.
I dig into my bag and say the magic word when my hand finds the frame. The lightning speed no longer bothers me, nor does ghosting through the buildings, trees, and earth. Tate is all that matters. When the pull finally releases, I stumble against my old bedroom wall, shocked by what I witness.
“I miss you, kid,” my dad whispers into a photo album, barely disrupting the still, quiet house. My breathing hitches. He’s the only person who ever called me kid, aside from Willow. Why had I not remembered this?
Unbelievable. The old man is crying. Over me. This is news. He blows his nose on his stained handkerchief. I should probably feel sympathy for him, considering he’s in such a state, but I feel strangely whole for the first time in a while. He actually misses me.
“I miss you, too, Dad,” I say before I can stop myself. My heart swells because I mean it.
Then, remembering why I’m here, the wholeness I feel at seeing my dad’
s grief evaporates. I force my eyes from my him, not wanting to leave yet, but knowing that I must. A second later, I’m soaring over blocks of dark houses spotted with glowing yellow circles. A sleet/snow mix swirls around me but never touches my skin.
I relax when I see Tate asleep in the chair, breathing again. I kneel down and focus my energy around one of the curls resting on her cheek. I tighten the filter, and with feather lightness, I push the lock of hair away from her face. I shift the filter to the left, making her lips so blue that she looks like she has hypothermia. I pull in a deep, anticipatory breath and kiss her. I can’t pull myself away from her peppermint taste. She feels so good, her lips so soft, that I linger around her mouth.
Her lips part slightly and curve upward, but I yank back and spin around when a throat clears.
“What are you doing here?” I demand. Seeing another guy stretched across Tate’s bed irritates me beyond words.
Liam’s speechless when he leaps up and paces to Tate’s desk.
I stare in disbelief when my stupefied mind finally remembers what’s happening here. “You’re Tate’s Satellite?” I blurt out.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, mate,” Liam shoots back.
“That’s not what I meant. You just caught me by surprise.”
I’ve never seen the guy so tense. He’s looking around Tate’s room like we’re about to be invaded by martians. “The better question is, what are you doing here?” he asks.
“Oh, uh…”
“Yeah? Go on.”
Dude, Liam, don’t pee yourself. “I’ve got nothing. I should be with Ryder—”
“Whoa! Rules, man!”
Right. Apparently I’m destined to break them all. What a crying shame. “This is Tate,” I say lamely, because I can’t come up with anything else.
He angrily shakes the book in the air. “Yeah, I got that much.”
He’s got her book! “Can I see that?”
“Are you dim?”
“More like defective.” I look back at Tate. “I still know every detail about her, about our time together—everything.” To claim my territory, I sit on the floor as close to Tate’s chair as possible. “So, can I see it?” I ask, pointing my eyes back to the red book in his hand.
“No bloody way! And I don’t care about your feelings. You need to get out of here! Now!” he adds when I don’t respond.
“Clara told me about your death. She said you had a difficult time forgetting your past, too.”
“Seriously, you’ve got to go!”
“Do you still have any of your memories?”
Liam looks around the room again in a panic and then huffs out a breath. At least his shoulders relax a little. “Just of my death,” he says quickly, looking away.
“Yeah?” I hope my tone is encouraging enough that he will continue.
“Can’t we discuss this later?”
“What’s wrong with now?”
“What’s wrong with now? Are you kidding me?” Liam barks.
“No.”
“If I talk, will you leave?” He soooo wants me to leave.
I pretend to consider and then barely nod.
Liam starts talking fast. “Jonathan thinks the Schedulers wanted me to hold on to the memory of my death for some reason.” His face still looks angry, but this time I have to wonder if his reason has to do with me. “I get to replay my son’s reaction over and over whenever I feel like reminiscing.”
“The Schedulers don’t seem to be going for any kindness awards, do they?”
“Nope. Now will you leave?
I look back at Tate and ignore his question. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m thankful that I still remember, but I’m a mess. I mean, I should be with my Tragedy right now and all I can think about is her. I worry about her every minute I’m away.”
“She’s going to be fine. I’ve got this. You can go now.”
“Thanks.” I say this only to be nice, because no one will ever protect her better than I can.
“Who’s watching your Tragedy?” Liam’s clearly appalled by my reckless behavior.
“You’re right. I should get going,” I answer, avoiding the question.
“Please tell me I’m not going to see you here again.”
I grin.
“Seriously, man!”
I sober up when I look at Tate. “She means everything to me.”
Whether on purpose or not, Liam’s mood lightens. I can only guess this is because I’ve agreed to leave. “I’ll watch over her like she’s my own wife.”
My eyes narrow. “Don’t go that far.”
“Kidding, bloke. Relax!”
I try to laugh, but it doesn’t come out right.
I attend Ryder’s morning Geochemistry class and learn more about element partitioning than I ever cared to know, all the while worrying about Tate. Certainly Liam’s capable of protecting her or he wouldn’t be a Satellite, I assure myself.
After weighing the consequences and mulling over Ryder’s mood today, I decide I can safely leave him as long as he’s with Hannah. As soon as she arrives for lunch, I bolt for Tate’s.
When I walk through the kitchen wall, Tate’s high-pitched shriek raises bumps along every inch of my skin. In a blur, I follow her screams up the stairs and jump over Liam, who’s slumped over and trembling violently in the bathroom doorway.
My mind races, taking in Tate’s skeletal, naked body slowly being swallowed by pink water. I hone my energy around a towel on the floor and bring it to her wrist, applying as much pressure as I can. She moans and her eyes roll back in her head.
“Tate, stay with me! Stay with me,” I plead, leaning over the bathtub.
She looks at me—right at me—not like before. “I just want to be with you,” she whispers. Her eyes are so clear, so intense, that I drop the towel in shock and the pink water devours it. She moans again and her dad runs through my ghost body.
“Tate? Tate, what…oh God!”
The murky water swallows her when I step back. Mr. Jacoby pulls her limp body from the tub and wrestles a towel off the rod, haphazardly wrapping it around her. Tate sprawls across his lap on the small bathroom floor.
Please let her be OK, I plead over and over in my head.
“Tate! Come on, baby, look at me! Mary! Mary, call 911!” Mr. Jacoby yells.
I hear footsteps on the stairs and bury my head into the shower curtain, helpless. When her mom screams, I focus on the floor. My tears evaporate before they hit the muted, checkered linoleum.
“I’m so sorry,” Tate says weakly.
“Mary, call 911! We need an ambulance!”
“Oh God,” Mrs. Jacoby moans as she runs down the hall.
“Hurry,” I plead. “Please hurry.”
“We can’t lose you, too, baby.” When I’m able to look again, Mr. Jacoby is holding Tate tighter, quivering while he rocks her.
The door clicks open downstairs. “Mom? Dad? I’m home!”
Oh, for the love! Throw me a bone! In one bound, I’m down the steps.
“Haze!”
Go watch TV. Go…
My mind is so anesthetized I hardly feel the voltage go through me.
“Block!”
“I’m gonna watch some TV,” Fischer yells up the steps.
“That sounds great, Fish,” Mr. Jacoby responds from upstairs, his voice cracking.
When I get back up to the bathroom, Mrs. Jacoby is wrapping a robe around Tate while Mr. Jacoby keeps pressure on the slices marring Tate’s wrist. I look with disdain at Liam’s broken body; he’s still cowering on the floor. He has the nerve to look up at me with wild, terror-filled eyes.
“I’ve got her, Mary. Go stay with Fish so he doesn’t see this,” Mr. Jacoby orders when the sirens are just a few blocks away.
“Fish,” Tate mumbles weakly.
Mr. Jacoby carries Tate past me and down the stairs, and I follow behind.
“What’s going on, Mom?” Fischer’s voice calls out.
Mr.
Jacoby has to peel Mrs. Jacoby off Tate, which requires a difficult balancing act to maintain his hold on his daughter. “Mary, go!”
Mrs. Jacoby backs out of the foyer and does a decent job of faking strength. “Tate’s not feeling well, honey, that’s all. She’s going to be fine, though.”
I desperately want to believe her.
After Tate’s strapped into the gurney, I bolt up the steps and pull Liam up by his shirt. “Explain!” I spit, slamming him against the wall.
“Grant, I’m sorry,” he says through his shivering.
I slam him again.
“Grant, just listen! Please!” he begs.
“This had better be good,” I say through my teeth, my face a half inch from his. I unclench my fists, and he slides to the floor in a heap of worthlessness.
“I—I was respecting her privacy,” he stammers. “She was just going to take a bath. The next thing I know, she’s wailing and slicing herself up. I blocked her eight times to get her to drop the razor. I didn’t have anymore energy. I’m so sorry, mate.”
“I’m not your mate,” I say above him in a dead voice.
16. It won’t stop hurting
A nurse hooks Tate up to an IV as soon as we’re in the room and rattles off medical-history questions to Tate’s dad. He can’t answer half of them, while I can spew out every one. Another nurse is already at work cleaning Tate’s cuts, which are even deeper than I feared.
A female doctor comes into the room and checks the monitor. “How are you feeling?” she asks Tate.
“OK,” Tate utters in a dry, croaking voice.
“So, what’s been going on?” Ms. Doc slips the stethoscope ends into her ears so she can listen to Tate’s shallow breaths.
Tate shakes her head. “I lost my fiancé a few month ago…” She fidgets with a thread on her robe and swallows. Ms. Doc gives her a sympathetic look.
Tate turns angry then. The color in her face deepens to the shade of red that makes my heart stutter. She always flushed the same color during our make-out sessions, obviously for reasons other than anger.