by Schow, Ryan
“My mother was a professional singer, you know.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“When she was putting me to bed at night, when I was a kid, she’d sing to me,” she says, her face breaking into a moment of sweet delight. “One night, I started singing with her, and that’s how I discovered my voice.”
“Where’s your mother now?”
Her face falls flat, the color washed away. “Dead.”
I’m startled by her nonchalant, almost unemotional response. I don’t show it, though. Instead I ask how it happened.
“I found her on a Saturday morning when I was ten. She was in the tub. She’d slit her wrists.” She’s staring straight ahead when she says this. No emotion. Completely monotone. “I guess I sing to remind myself of her. Sometimes I hear her voice in mine and it’s comforting, you know? Like I have somehow preserved a piece of her in me.”
“That’s really beautiful, Maggie,” I say. “And really sad, too.”
She doesn’t say anything back, but I’m not expecting her to either. I just can’t believe this is the same girl from last semester, the one who could sometimes be chipper and bubbly, the same girl who helped me find my friends. She turns away from me, looking out the window at everything and nothing. Is she reflecting? I wonder if she’s crying.
The traffic on I-80 is spotty here and there, but mostly it’s a perfect flow. Even the day is bright with a big blue sky that seems to go on forever.
“Sounds like you loved her a lot.”
“She was selfish to leave me and my father like that. But she was sick also. She had to be. I mean, to do something like that and know the only people in the world who love you are going to find you dead in a tub of your own blood…”
“I’m sorry, Maggie.”
So much for light conversation.
“The music industry took her soul, you know. Just like it’s going to take mine. It already has.”
“If her memory brings as much pain as it does happiness,” I ask, “then why sing?”
“Because something inside me refuses to do anything else. My voice, my mother’s voice, it has to be heard. I wish this weren’t the case, but I guess I’m just stupid like that.”
“You’re not stupid, Maggie. Not one bit.”
Box Trauma and the Fractured Mind
1
Standing in the concrete hallway of the Richmond, California branch of Monarch Enterprises, Shelton Gotlieb pressed his thumb to the new biometric reader and waited. A second later the light clicked from red to green and the metal door unlatched itself with a weighted clack. He stepped inside the enormous, climate controlled room where seventeen extra small, coffin-sized boxes housed seventeen children in various states of dissociation. There was nothing like being locked in a small box for days without food, water or sufficient air to fracture the mind.
Fractured minds led to multiple personalities. A child with multiple personalities, especially if that child can be controlled by professional handlers, laid the foundation for a reliable child assassin.
Gotlieb fought the urge to hold his nose. Rather than breathe shallow, he inhaled deeply, forcing himself to accept the over-ripe conditions. The air held a damp, urine smell. It burned thick with fecal odor and the stink of unwashed bodies.
Unofficially, Gotlieb thought of the room as a tomb for the undead. Officially it was called the Coffin Room. The Coffin Room was one of the most important rooms in the entire facility.
Coffin Trauma, or Box Trauma, kept each child’s multiple personality whole and in tact, and it did so without the steady need for human-administered trauma. Being locked in a box for long periods of time without food, water or a proper toilet was just as torturous as electro-shock therapy, physical and mental torture, sleep deprivation or rape. Intense emotional and violent trauma is what kept the amnesic walls strong.
“Defining the amnesic walls” was the process of keeping one personality from knowing about the others. A child-assassin who couldn’t keep their multiple personalities separate was useless. With the exception of the Gem alter—or the system’s managing personality—one personality could never know about the other. Should “integration” occur, all kinds of chaos in the body would ensue, making it difficult for the system to properly carry out its specified tasks. In other words, if interrogated, the asset (child; slave; assassin) might compromise himself, Monarch Enterprises and/or the client.
That would be bad for business. It would be detrimental.
From one of the coffins in the back of the room came the muffled sounds of crying. Gotlieb turned his eyes and ears to the source of the noise. The crying went on and on. The sobbing and the sniffling. It could sometimes be like that. He felt himself relax. With these wondrous sounds came a deep and lasting satisfaction, one that swam syrupy slow through his abdomen like just-melted honey.
The crying stopped.
Gotlieb’s state changed; he became dour.
When the crying didn’t continue, he headed for a different, more specific box. He unclasped the metal latches. The ventilated lid popped softly in the near silence. He opened the box. Inside lay the boy. The eyes were open. Gotlieb snapped his fingers in the creature’s face. Nothing registered.
“You could be a doll in a box,” he said into the crush of silence. “A doll on display, for all the world to see and no one would have the slightest clue what you’re capable of.”
Gotlieb’s gaze slid to the pulsing in the boy’s neck. Not dead.
Good.
Sometimes children died in the boxes. Mostly, they didn’t.
“Wake up,” he said.
The thing about some of these kids was trauma made them sleep with their eyes open. This one was no different.
“Wake up.”
The sleeping boy with the opened eyes shifted ever so slowly, his nostrils flaring the tiniest bit, his eyes blinking slow, labored, then faster. He took a breath. Flexed his fingers and his toes.
“Wake up.”
The third command brought the boy fully into awareness. He looked directly at his new handler, but said nothing. He simply awaited orders.
Gotlieb recited a certain series of commands, accessing one part of the boy the same way you use a password to unlock a program on a computer. Then: “Delta 1A, rise.”
Something in the boy’s face changed, like a ghost easing comfortably into his pupils. Whatever made up the soul of Delta 1A just slammed headlong into the inside of the boy’s face. Gotlieb felt a small charge within him, the same as he always did when a slave was ready to do his bidding.
The child’s face moved into a curved, almost mischievous grin. “Yes,” the mouth said, like an excited whisper. The boy’s expression made him seem so much older than his teenage years suggested.
“We must prepare for your next mission. Are you ready?”
“I am,” the boy’s mouth said, his grin held eerily in place.
“Good, then we shall start training.”
“We shall start training,” the boy’s mouth echoed. “For what, may I ask?”
“It’s not your place to ask questions,” Gotlieb said with a fair amount of disappointment. “Your only task is to follow orders.”
“My only task is to follow orders,” the boy’s mouth echoed.
Playing Impossible to Get
1
I’m looking forward to seeing my father, although in the back of my mind I’m wondering how he’ll act when I see him. The thing about being a genetically modified kid is you’re still you, but the you that you knew before, it sort of melds with the DNA of the perfect-looking clone or clones used to enhance you. We inherit the personality traits that lie dormant within them, even though our core personality is still mostly intact.
For me, one of my clones is vengeful and brash. This is new. I was a sarcastic kid when I was a big fat fatty with a love for ice cream, candy and chemically enhanced, over-processed foods. With the new DNA, my sarcasm has only grown worse. My appetite, however
, has all but died. Athleticism is a trait bred into all clones, I’m told. That I’m more adventurous, more bold, and somewhat violent, which I think are all alpha tendencies from the male clone used in my creation, is of no surprise to me. This is the key to me. I’m no longer weak.
I’m still pissed off at Gerhard, though. I never wanted to be a boy, not even the twenty percent Gerhard said I was. Asshole. The look on his face when he told me this, it was the kind of cruelty I’ve come to expect from him. I think he was hoping I’d check between my legs for a penis.
Gerhard said this was a stipulation of my father’s. He said this would provide me with business instincts for when he leaves me his fortune. I suppose there’s a certain logic to his thinking, not that I’m all that thrilled about it. Trust me, joy was never my first reaction.
My father clearly doesn’t want me squandering his life’s treasures on purses, shoes and things like pink Bentley’s or houses in the Hamptons. My best guess is he wants me to make something of myself, and perhaps trump his successes with some hard-fought victories of my own. That’s what all rich people want for their kids, isn’t it? Someone to further their legacy?
At least, that was what the fresh-out-of-the-wrapper version of my father wanted. Now that he’s been Christian Swann for nearly half a year, will he be different, or the same?
When I get home, I swear to Jesus, he’d better not be stoned. Or drunk with a harem of topless women. Or playing Xbox in his undies for heaven’s sake. Honestly, who he is now, I can’t say. But I shudder to think.
“You know my father’s like us,” I tell Maggie. “Which is to say, I don’t know exactly how he’ll be. He’s kind of like a social twenty-something in the body of a forty year old who’s really well into his fifties.”
Maggie smiles, but not real big. She’s either nervous or ambivalent. Or perhaps she’s pushing other thoughts away. I swear I’d pay a small fortune right now to know what is going on in that pretty little head of hers!
“I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry in advance.”
“Don’t worry about your dad,” she says, soft, distant.
“He’s just so unpredictable,” I say. “It drives me crazy sometimes.”
We pull into my neighborhood and right when my house comes into view, I see Margaret’s Bentley parked in the driveway. I can’t stop the groan that boils up from my throat automatic.
“What?” Maggie asks.
“The monster. That’s her car. The Bentley.”
We walk inside and there’s Margaret, waiting to greet me like some damn welcoming committee I’d rather not suffer.
“Hi honey!” she says, overly excited. Not at all herself. She hugs me and kisses my cheek and it’s so not her I’m not sure what to do. My sphincter puckers. It wasn’t the reaction she wanted, but if she plans on channeling Martha Stewart, she can’t expect me to be all sweet and gushy about it.
Margaret eyes Maggie, smiles wide and says, “Now who is this gorgeous young lady?”
“This is Maggie,” I say, sullen. “She’s a friend from school.”
Margaret introduces herself; they shake hands and she says, “Any friend of Abby’s.”
I hate to admit it, but Margaret actually looks good. And even though she’s officially gone over the top too much, overly nice and fake is preferential to cruel and cutting. That and she doesn’t smell at all like booze.
My father is there to greet us, too, and already I see he’s on his best behavior. He looks…stately, reserved. Not so carefree. I told him Maggie was coming to stay with us for the summer and asked that he not act like some kind of wanna-be gangster or worse, a college man-whore in an adult’s body. He said he would make me proud. That he’d come into his own since I went back to school.
I wasn’t sure I believed him on the phone; perhaps he finally got his shit together, although deep down, I’m kind of hoping he didn’t. I might miss the strange side of the new him I once saw.
For now, he’s coming across as charming and handsome and, well, fatherly. If I’m breathing a huge sigh of relief, it’s because I care more about him than Margaret. Everyone I know knows she is a freaking monster. I’m not exactly shy about reciting that fact. As for Margaret, we’ll see how long this charade lasts. Could she be on uppers?
It’s possible.
The thing about the monster is she has this way of screwing up a good thing. It’s her modus operandi. And it’s my M.O. to level her with pent up teenage angst. If anything, just to see how far I can bend her before she breaks. I don’t want to be this way, but honestly, I can’t help it.
I say, “You can’t be over here, Margaret. Me and dad are on the down low.” Her eyes widen, like I just gave away our secret, or said the worst thing ever. “It’s okay, Maggie’s a GMK, too.”
Margaret says, “A what?”
“A genetically modified kid,” Maggie explains, as if it’s no biggie. “One of Gerhard’s dolls.”
One of Gerhard’s dolls? I haven’t heard it put like that before. I guess we all have our own way of viewing ourselves now that we’re…different. Now that we’re…improved.
“Oh,” Margaret says, appraising her with new eyes. “Really?”
“Absolutely.”
I say, “Margaret, you’ve got your own home and your new boy toy, yet here you are. Why is that?”
“I wanted to welcome you home,” she says, fighting the urge to appear taken aback. My father flashes me a look I plainly ignore, then tries to mask it with a genial smile.
“So you say,” I reply.
Maggie says, “Thank you for letting me stay this summer, Mrs. Van Duyn.”
“Don’t thank her,” I say. “This isn’t her house. It’s my dad’s house.” Looking at Margaret, I say, “Speaking of this not being your house, where is Fifty Shades of Grey? Am I ever going to meet this ass clown who doubles as a home-wrecker?”
“Abby,” my father warns. Again, I dismiss him, although I’ve officially stepped over the line and I know it.
It’s hard to stop pushing her. “Or is he too busy trolling the country club for other men’s wives?” I ask. Yep. That’s the cherry on top.
“That’s enough!” my father snaps. Ladies and gentleman, Mr. Stately has left the building. In his place stands the father-type, willing and able to defend the floozy who renounced him.
“That’s low, Abby,” Margaret scoffs, “even for you.”
“Go away, Margaret,” I say, as if bored. “And take your bag of tricks with you.”
I know it’s not healthy to hate, and I know she’s now working for the Mother of the Year award, but sometimes, there’s that unforgiving part of me who just can’t keep her big mouth shut.
The angry silence is heavy enough to crush bugs. Margaret’s eyes are bulging with disbelief, embarrassment and anger, and my father…let’s just say he’s not gunning for Team Abby anymore.
Yes, I’m ashamed. It’s settling in. For a second, I can’t even sneak a look at Maggie because for that one long moment I’m thinking twice about having been so rude to Margaret in front of her. There was no tension in the room except what I shoved into it with my animosity. Something like regret starts to work its way inside me.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I should be more diligent about keeping my feelings to myself.”
“I just wish you didn’t have those feelings at all,” Margaret says, the Holly Homemaker act all gone now. With my apology, the tension starts to leave my father’s face.
“Well, you know what they say,” I announce, that little voice in the back of my head telling me to seriously shut the hell up, that what I’m about to say is reckless on a multitude of levels, “wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which fills up faster.”
Margaret and my father both scoff out loud and make a big deal of me talking like that and I simply shrug my shoulders and say, “I’m a genetically modified kid. It’s not really my fault. It’s the boy in me. So technically, dad, this is your fault
.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Margaret snaps.
“Actually it’s not,” I say, my eyes boring right into my father’s.
Maggie clears her throat loudly and we all turn to look at her. She smiles and says, “Abby, if you’ll show me to your room, I can let you guys have some privacy.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” my father says.
Big sigh, roll of the eyes. “This is my fault,” I finally admit, lightheartedly. “Sorry Margaret. Sorry, dad.” Then turning to Maggie, I say, “I’m most sorry to you, Mags.”
Margaret and my father are trading confused looks when I take Maggie with me to my bedroom. I hear the engine in Margaret’s Bentley turn over a few minutes later and then she’s gone. At last! In the silence I’m left wondering if I should stop giving her such a hard time. But if I do, will I naively fall for her newly minted charm? Will she then suck me in and turn on me like she has done so many times before? I don’t know.
Probably.
There’s a part of me who wants to trust her, but there’s that smaller, younger part of me who’s terrified to open up. To become vulnerable. Am I still so desperate for her love? I don’t know.
Maybe.
God, I think so.
2
Mags and I are heading to town to Oren’s Hummus Shop on University Avenue where they serve the most amazing Mediterranean food when I see Jacob pulling into his driveway. He’s with a friend I don’t recognize. Jacob sees me. Shit. He brightens immediately. With everything I did at the end of the semester, me kissing Jake (Professor Teller), and then kissing Damien like right after that, I’m not really itching for more boys in my life right now.
Jacob hops out of his car, crosses the lawn and comes over and says, “I was wondering when you’d get home.” He gives me a hug and a kiss dangerously close to my mouth, then introduces me to his friend, Chad. Chad’s not really my type of guy. I introduce them to Maggie, who’s acting like she could give a f*ck less. Chad is alright looking, but he’s short and stocky, which is so not my thing. I think it’s because he looks like a wrestler, which is just so…Ew.