by Cote Smith
“Check for yourself.” Emile stood up, but Vince told him to sit, in a firm tone that momentarily drew the attention of the other patrons. “You still don’t understand. Why would you go running off when the answer is right in front of you?” He uncrossed his legs and sat up straight, as if steadying himself for meditation. “Please, go ahead,” he said. “I’m an open book.”
Emile sat back down. He felt the grains of sand beneath his feet, as a wave rushed toward him. He saw the door to his dorm building. It burst open and Claire walked out, bundled up against the early morning in the beige sweater he loved, a yellow scarf around her neck. Vince was waiting for her. Claire tried to brush past, but he grabbed her by the arm. They needed to talk. There was nothing to talk about. You went too far. I did what I was told. You were supposed to observe. He needed a reason to stay. That’s why?
A pause. A relaxing of Vince’s hand.
He has no idea what he’s capable of.
How do you know? Did you see it?
I don’t do that anymore.
So you’ve said.
You don’t believe me.
Everybody dreams.
Vince opened his eyes. The ocean disappeared, but Emile felt like he was drowning.
Emile grabbed the table with both hands, a piece of debris that could keep him afloat. “You must’ve known,” Vince said. “You must’ve seen it.”
Emile could only shake his head. He couldn’t. He hadn’t been able to.
“Is that so?” Vince laughed, quietly, as if enjoying some private joke. “Well, yes, she used to be a percipient. Then she stopped dreaming.”
“But she stayed?”
“She made a deal. A good one, I would say. She could continue living here, the best home she’d ever known, and all she had to do was everything we ever asked.”
“You sent her to me,” Emile said.
“Don’t get upset,” Vince said. “We’re all sent by someone.”
Emile slammed his hand on the table. “Why would you do that?”
“I understand you’re angry,” Vince said. “Right now you’re probably thinking you’ll leave. That you’ll go find your brother. But how will you explain to him that come the spring semester he has to find another way to pay for college?”
“You said—”
“Did you ever sign anything? Did we?”
Emile wanted to hit the table again. He wanted to stand up and throw the table across the room.
“I’ll tell you what,” Vince said. “You complete one more experiment for us, as instructed, and you can go. And your brother can remain where he is, fully funded.”
“No,” Emile said, more out of anger than any actual consideration. “I don’t believe anything you say.”
Vince smiled. “How about this? You’ll start the experiment tonight, and in the morning I’ll take you to the man in charge. If you don’t trust me anymore, if you don’t believe in the kingdom, maybe you’ll believe in the king.”
Emile searched Vince’s mind. He saw the office Jacob had visited, where the voice had persuaded him to leave Emile behind.
The big man, Max had called him. “Who is he?” Emile asked.
Vince’s mind closed the door of the man’s office. “You see,” Vince said, his eyes shifting. “There are still some mysteries worth sticking around for.”
* * *
When Emile reported to the lab that night, he was electric with anger. They had gotten rid of Claire. Worse, for the moment, there was nothing he could do about it. Not without ruining his brother’s life, again. Emile was trapped, just like the percipients.
In the lab, a young woman was waiting for him. She guided Emile down the hall and into the interview room, her mind quiet. Inside the room, on one of the tables, there was a small black leather case. The woman asked Emile to sit in a chair and to please roll up his sleeve. Emile hesitated, but obeyed. The sooner he did, the sooner he could talk to the big man, find out what happened to Claire. And from there, who knows.
The woman opened the case, though she kept her back to Emile, concealing its contents. Finally she turned to him, holding a small clear bottle and a rag. She dabbed the rag with the rubbing alcohol and swabbed the inside of Emile’s elbow.
Emile closed his eyes. He pretended the woman was Claire.
“What is it for?”
“The instructions come after.”
A pinch, followed by a burn. The woman smiled with her mouth closed, not fully like Claire.
She opened the door and led Emile down the hall to Brenda’s room. The woman knocked.
A moment later the door opened, and Brenda stood before them in laboratory scrubs. Brenda did not protest when the woman entered first, or when the woman pulled out a second needle. The woman turned to Emile, who was still waiting at the threshold.
“Please, come sit down.” She pulled out a chair from the small desk opposite Brenda’s bed.
“What did you give us?”
“A little brain boost,” the woman said. “In five minutes, Brenda will be asleep. When she is asleep, I want you to talk to her, but do not speak. Do you understand?”
Emile’s mind began to swim. He was on the beach but he was alone. No one was waiting for him in the water.
“You’re beginning to feel it,” the woman said. “That’s my cue to leave. Don’t forget what I told you.” Emile watched the door shut. He turned to Brenda, whose face beamed with haloed light. Golden streaks whose warmth Emile could both see and feel. He blinked his eyes but the light did not disappear.
“Brenda,” he said, but he wasn’t sure if his mouth had moved. He touched his lips with his fingers, the tips of which had started to tingle. Emile felt his heart race, his skin twitch, his mind bend. He moved toward the door, but the handle had disappeared.
Don’t forget what I told you, the woman said. The woman says. The woman will say.
Emile sat back down. He watched Brenda sleep, her back now turned to him, but then he also watched himself wrap his arms around Claire. No, Brenda. He wanted to confess something to her. He felt a heavy burden in his chest and became desperate to unload it.
Talk to her, the woman says. But do not speak.
He began. Part of me is glad they’re gone. Austin. Jacob. My mother. He showed Brenda his dorm room, the bare walls and desk. He showed her the typewriter, the letters he still wrote to Jacob but never sent, because he didn’t want his brother to know how much he needed him. Jacob had disappointed him, hadn’t he? He had wanted to leave him. He had disappeared.
Brenda kicked. Her husband returned after his own disappearance, a string of nights spent at the casino. He didn’t say a word as he stumbled into the shower. Dad had a bad day at work, Brenda would say to her daughter. Mommy feels it too. She would kiss the crown of her head. She would tell her daughter everything is going to be all right, despite the dream she had the night before.
We can’t see the future, Emile said. Emile says. Emile will say.
But of course we can. We just have to listen.
* * *
When Emile came to, he was alone. He rubbed the injection site on his arm, which had purpled into a bruise. A moment later, the woman from the night before entered. Emile’s head throbbed, and it was difficult to look directly at the woman’s face, hovering over him.
“How are you feeling?” the woman said. She sat at the foot of Emile’s bed and opened her black case.
“What was the point of that?” Emile asked. He was unsure what happened last night, what he had done, or how any of it furthered the experiment with Brenda.
The woman cuffed his arm and took his blood pressure. She made him open his mouth and say “ahh.” When she was finished, she took a small notepad out of her case. “Now then, Emile. Tell me about your dreams.”
“What?”
“Tell me everything you remember.”
Emile felt a stab of panic. “What’s going on here?”
The woman patted his knee. “I’m reading the s
cript I was given. You understand.”
Emile stood up. More of the room started to come into focus. There weren’t any windows, not even on the door.
“I need to leave.”
“You will. But not yet. The drug needs time to wear off. You should be back to normal by tomorrow.”
“You’re keeping me here?”
“We’re asking you to stay, for your own well-being.”
“Vince said—”
The woman raised an eyebrow at the mention of Vince’s name, and a wave crashed over Emile’s feet. He saw Vince sitting next to the woman, in one of the chapel pews, giving her orders.
“How about I come back tonight, yes? When you’re feeling more like yourself.”
The woman was gone, in between blinks. Emile rubbed his eyes, willing the drug to wear off.
* * *
It felt as if hours had passed. He jumped out of bed to try the locked door. He yelled for someone to let him out.
Sit down, a voice said, startling Emile. He looked at the ceiling. He put his ear to the door.
You’re not going anywhere.
This time, he recognized the voice as his own. The words wormed deep into his mind. He couldn’t claw them out no matter how hard he tried. He sat down on the bed, his heart pounding in his head.
You wanted this, the voice said. Remember? You knew what would happen when Jacob left. You knew because you saw it. On Max’s face. You might have looked the other way, but you knew. They will never let you go.
Emile lay down, though he didn’t close his eyes.
This is your life now, the voice said. This was your life. This will always be your life.
* * *
The woman did not come back that night, or the next morning. No one came that afternoon, when his worry was replaced by hunger, or that night when both were surpassed by thirst. His stomach ached as though it was caving in on itself, and still the woman did not return. Emile felt completely hollowed out, and when he pounded on the door, screaming for someone to please tell him what was going on, he could feel his words echo around his empty insides.
On the third day—or was it the fourth?—Emile sat on his knees, hunched over the toilet. His dry-heaving was interrupted by a knock. The night before—or was it that morning?—he decided that he would hit the woman if she came at him with that needle again. And if she refused to give him answers about what was going on, when he could leave, he would grab her by the throat, or beat her until she gave in, like he’d done to the boys at Lost 80.
But when the door opened, it was Vince who entered, not the woman. In his hands was a tray of what smelled like the most delicious food—mashed potatoes, maybe, warm rolls, meat slathered in gravy—all of it shielded with a metal cover, so only a tiny cloud of steam could escape. Vince began with an apology.
“For the nature of the experiment,” he said. He glanced at the toilet and grimaced.
“You write the script,” Emile said, his eyes fixed on the tray. His body told him to remain calm, until the tray was offered. “Anyway, I did what you said. So we’re done.”
“You did. Thank you. But the experiment isn’t over.”
“It is. I’m saying it is.”
“That’s your choice, of course.”
“Is it? Or is that another one of the things you just say and everyone pretends is true?” Emile sat on his hands so he wouldn’t be tempted to grab the tray. “No one leaves unless you want them to.”
Vince stood up, displeased. “We have to finish the experiment. Sleep on it. Pray. Whatever it takes. When you’re ready, call for me, and we’ll break bread.” He picked up the tray, stole a roll from the plate, and chewed it slowly. He left, though the smell of dinner remained, and would torture Emile well into the next day.
* * *
It was the pain that woke him next. It felt like his stomach, and everything attached to it, were mutinying. If Emile wasn’t going to provide what they needed to survive, they would gnaw their way out. They would agree to anything Vince proposed.
Or was it the knock? At first, he wasn’t sure he’d really heard it, his body was shaking so loudly. But then the door creaked open, and Emile willed himself to sit up, so that he could quickly agree to whatever Vince wanted.
“Emile?” the woman whispered. She was empty-handed.
“Yes,” Emile said. He was angry now, angry that the woman had nothing in her hands. Not a tray of food, nor her black case, nothing that would bring an end to the experiment.
The woman stepped closer. “Hey,” she said, “look at me.”
Emile did as he was told. It was a moment before he realized what he saw, before his mind could put the woman’s features, all of which he had secretly memorized while she was asleep, in their proper places. He started with her smile.
“Claire?”
She was dressed in scrubs, though they were clearly a size or three too big. He had never seen anyone so beautiful.
“They said you were gone.”
“I was. I am. I brought you Jell-O.”
“Jell-O?”
“We have to go. Can you stand?”
He scooped the cup of Jell-O into his mouth with his hand and let Claire put his arm around her to prop him up. “Ready?”
Emile laughed. He couldn’t help it. He laughed loudly, even though he knew what this was. An escape. A rescue. He laughed because it was impossible. A dream. He had taken the needle and gotten lost in his own fantasy.
Claire wiped the Jell-O from his lips and kissed him. “Gross. Why did I get lime?”
The kiss jump-started Emile’s mind, which cycled to the memory of the movie he and Claire had seen together, the man wandering Mars alone, dying the same way.
“I don’t want to die on Mars,” Emile said.
“Me either,” Claire said, as she carried him toward the door.
“What about Brenda?”
They were in the hallway now. The long and empty corridor was before them.
“Brenda is Brenda. They’ll never let her go.”
She pushed him forward, and he told himself not to look as they walked by Brenda’s door. And he didn’t. But he felt her as they walked by the front desk clerk, to whom Claire gave a knowing nod, and even now, as Claire carried Emile up the stairs and out the door into the bracing cold. And still, even now, as they sped down the mountain in a car Emile assumed to be stolen. All that time, the link between Emile and Brenda, which the drug had successfully forged, glowed within his mind. They must’ve continued giving Brenda the injections, Emile thought, turning her mind into a super antenna, a beacon buoy, blinking in the dark. How long, he wondered, would he receive her signals? How long would he feel the pull of her current?
Emile didn’t ask where they were going until hours later, as they drove deep into the night. The sky was starless and the moon hidden. The car had to make its own light. In the morning they would still be driving, but when the sun rose, there would be no mountains, or real scenery of any kind, in sight. Only a flat orange landscape, and Emile would make a joke about a large rock being his new best friend.
“I don’t know where I’m going,” Claire said. “Except away from there. That’s all that matters.”
Emile looked out the window, at the nothingness blazing by. He felt surprisingly calm. Against Claire’s wishes, they had stopped and grabbed some burgers and fries to go, and although he had the distinct feeling he would throw all of it up later—too much, too soon, Claire would say—at the moment he was content. He bought a Polaroid camera from a gift shop nearby and made Claire pose for a picture.
“I want to find my brother,” Emile said. It was hard for him to admit, but it felt good once he finally confessed that whatever was next for him, he didn’t want to face it alone. He explained that Jacob had never written him back after the first postcard all those months ago.
“He didn’t write back because he never received your letters. Neither did that Ginny person.” She kept her eyes on the road. “Ever
ything you typed on your little typewriter went to the incinerator.”
Emile thought of the fireplaces in the Eldridge’s many lobbies. He pictured Vince reading the letters out loud to Claire, laughing, then tossing them into the fire. He tried to clear the image from his mind, as it reminded him that Claire had worked for Vince, which he didn’t like to think about, even if she had no choice.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “We had to. You know, hotel policy. Anyway, you can’t go to your brother. They’ll be looking for you there.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“We’ll drive the rest of the night, then I’m going to drop you off at the smallest town I can find.”
“You’re not staying.”
Claire frowned. “My mother is sick. I need to make sure she’s okay.” She put her hand on Emile’s knee, thought better of it, and returned it to the wheel. “I can check on your brother. Later.”
“They’ll be looking for you too,” Emile said.
“I know. But I’m better at this than you.”
Emile looked at her with wonder. He wanted to be upset with her. But she had come back for him when no one else had, not even Jacob.
Emile watched the sun rise in the passenger mirror, painfully, a sober reminder of the sleep they’d forgone. Eventually Claire exited the highway and found a small town they had never heard of, and if Emile wasn’t going to stay there, he knew it would be someplace like it.
“You could always take a peek,” she said, “if you’re still curious.” They were parked in front of a gas station that had yet to open. Claire shut off the engine. “Or is that still cheating?”
Emile rolled down his window. It was still early, but the air was already much warmer here than it ever was in Archer Park.
“I tried,” Emile said. “That night after the movie.”
Claire rolled down her own window and looked away, perhaps thinking of what Emile had said that night at the park, about how the most difficult people to read were those plagued with pain. It had been the wrong thing to say.