It goes to sleep and forgets, but she does not.
She leaves fast, before they can figure out what she did to the doctor. It won’t be long before they come for her. There is video. Lulu is dead. They’ll figure it out. They’ll lock her up, or worse.
She thinks about Canada. It would make her father proud. But she doesn’t have the paperwork to leave the state. She could take a train to Westchester, but she’s broke. Besides, they’ll run her name through the CEM Database. An idea occurs to her, and she likes it. She could walk. She’s good at that. She’ll insert a double filter and cross the Triborough at night when they won’t see her walking the old pedestrian path. She’ll sleep during the day and walk as long as it takes. She’ll visit those places she’s heard about, where there is grass and dirt. Where there are animals, and birdsongs, and she doesn’t need a filter.
But do places like that exist anymore?
She goes home first. The apartment door is wide open, and her father’s ashes are scattered on the coffee table. The television is loud. She packs a bag full of filters and vitamin-enriched fluff. Wears it on her shoulders like a mechanical lung. “Mom?” she calls.
Drea is lying on the bed. The bottle of vitamins is empty. Trina’s first thought is a bad one. But then Drea opens her eyes. “Sweetie,” she moans. “I got lost and had to find a nice policeman to take me home. They put this on my arm, so it doesn’t happen again.” Drea lifts her wrist, where a barcode has been branded into her skin. “You’d think they’d just write the address. But nobody likes words anymore, do they?”
Trina sits down on the bed. Her mom doesn’t move. Her head is upside-down, which makes her look like an alien. “I’m in trouble,” she says.
Drea blinks. Her fingernails are dirty. Or maybe ashy.
The camera’s light is green, just like the doctor’s, and she thinks about smashing it. She’d like to say: I’m leaving. Come with me, mom! But this conversation is being recorded, so instead she stands. “I’ll remember both of you,” she says.
Drea smiles. “How nice.”
She’s walking backward out the door, like this is a movie in rewind. They haven’t really lived in this hole for three years. Her mother isn’t really a junkie. She didn’t really rat her father out to the CEM, and get him killed. She isn’t really leaving all that she’s ever known.
“Bye, Mom,” she croaks as she crosses the threshold. Then she’s running down the steps.
The streets are red, and the sky is ashes. Inside her, a girl is chewing the scenery. She’s ripping down all the old pictures, and making everything blank. A girl is yelling and shouting and crying. And breathing. And running. And thinking. And regretting. And remembering. This girl is her.
Feet pounding, she doesn’t stop until she’s out of breath. When she looks up, a crowd of people has amassed under the Triborough Bridge in Astoria Park. Have they come to arrest her so soon? No, she remembers. It’s Patriot Day.
All along the street and sidewalk are floodlights, gurneys, and the sound of drills. The streets look wet, and at first she thinks it’s water, but no, it’s blood. People stand in lines one-hundred men deep, waiting for the messy operation. Scalp wounds bleed. Her sneakers are red.
When the sky explodes, she thinks at first that it’s another bomb. But then there are colors: red, white, and blue. Heads bobble in unison, thousands, and peer into the light. She notices now the men with guns. They’re here to make sure that everybody, even the people who try to back out, get their ports.
She pushes through the crowd and gets onto the bridge. The road is so thick with people that she can hardly move. Still, she pushes. There are others, she notices, who do not look at the bright lights in the sky. They navigate the crowd, and try to make their faces blank, but they can’t. They’re terrified, just like her. One in one hundred. Maybe one in a thousand, but still, she spots them. Still, they exist.
Have there always been others, only she’s never noticed them before? Only, she’s never been one of them before? She knows the secret now and it has nothing to do with the doctor. The way to remember is to stop forcing yourself to forget.
The people like her make their way across the bridge while the rest stand still, and block the way. Some are alone, others in small groups of three or four. Heads bent, chests pounding, they steer through the immobile throng. She thinks they’re all headed for the same place. Canada or free Vermont. A few are wearing neck kerchiefs, and she realizes it’s because they have no ports.
Remember, her father told her. And she will do so much more than that.
She doesn’t know it’s happening until her breath comes ragged. She’s running along the bridge in blood-stained shoes. She’s not sure, but it seems like she’s the first. Others follow. Soon, half the bridge is shaking, pounding. There aren’t many of them, but they’re determined. They are running. It feels so good, the air slapping her face. She was born for this, to run. She will keep running, until she is far away. Until she can watch the fireworks of Patriot Day from some place free.
THE GHOST OF LILLIAN BLISS
By Rio Youers
It is quite without abashment that I tell you about my summers at Wickington Manor, and the ghost of Lillian Bliss. She was, unquestionably, a rare and wondrous girl, and the most delightful friend one could hope for. Her energy was like the spring in the grass, or the white-gold corona that circles the sun. A fractious mind might opine that Lily was the fruit of imagination, and while it is true that my soul is given to fancy, I can assure you that Lily was very real. Indeed, were it not for my uncle’s illness, I would always have summered at Wickington, and Lily would have been my friend for many more years. But to every thing there is a season. My time with Lillian Bliss was brief, but altogether magical. She was, for three unforgettable summers, my purpose under heaven.
I should declare, at this point, that I recount this aspect of my childhood from a place of restraint. I am regarded with consideration, as well I should be, but there is yet a pallour to the walls, and an uncertain undertone to the staff, that impresses upon me a definite misgiving. I feel abandoned and adrift. The medication is frequent and coarse, but I take it without quarrel. But oh, I am old now, and these spaces seem smaller. It is a worrisome thing to touch the walls to make sure they are real. One day I will reach out and feel nothing.
Were it not for memory, I fear my heart would grow pale. It is indeed a gift to close one’s eyes and see again the treasures of your life, and to have them before you, as bright as shells. My husband was an esteemed surgeon. His hands gave life, but never more than in acts of love. We were married in 1884 (against the wishes of my father, who had intended I marry the young Earl of Bellington), and lived many wonderful years together. I am with him often, in reverie, and experience his gifted touch over and over. But no matter how clear the memories (and in part because of them), I miss him terribly, and always when the walls are closest.
Life, love, and children. So much glimmer when I close my eyes. It strengthens one’s soul to truly feel that you have lived, and the vestiges of your time are like the colours in a painting. Lily once told me that I should live every day like I was planting a flower, to leave behind a singular thing of strength and beauty, that in the end you could turn and see a meadow of luxuriant colour. I have come close to the end, I know. The flowers of my life sway behind me. I fear only that when I turn I shall become blinded.
And there will be foxgloves. A dazzling crop of them, bowing their tear-shaped heads. The ghost of Lillian Bliss will be standing amongst them. She will be waiting for me.
It is a peculiar thing to be born of nobility. My father, the Viscount Eshley of Greater Bledlow, was an individual of such high renown that the parlour of our splendid home seemed always engaged by personage seeking his approval, wisdom, or companionship. His passions were hunting and travel, and he was famous (or infamous, in accordance with your view) for marrying the two. He bested the great beasts of East Africa and India, and his trophy room was
adorned with a great many curious creatures. The head of a spectacular seven-hundred-pound Bengal tiger held pride-of-place, and how he delighted in regaling his conquest of the mighty animal to friends and associates, and always with youthful zeal. I should not forget that he was Master of Foxhounds for the Buckinghamshire Hunt. How handsome he looked in his scarlet coat, the four brass buttons polished to a high sheen. All three of my brothers joined him as soon as they could ride with confidence, and all partook of the blooding ritual, as was proper for any noble young master.
I was his only daughter, and I wanted for little. I had the most beautiful clothes, the most enchanting toys. My horse was a half-Arabian Palomino mare, and I would ride her upon our acreage in the company of young dukes and duchesses, and even, on one occasion, alongside Prince Waldemar of Prussia, grandson to our own Queen Victoria, less than a year before he would succumb to diphtheria at the tender age of eleven.
I feel closer to that blithe, brilliant young girl than I have for many years. The memories were always there, but they seemed faded during the passage of marriage and motherhood, but now that I am old and alone, they are distinct again. I have startled myself on occasion, turning to the mirror, expecting to see a radiant girl with shimmering, corn-silk hair, but have instead faced a passé dowager with rheumy eyes and skin like dough. Time is such prankish thing that I fail to recollect events of the week passed, and yet can hear again the whinny of my mare as she was drawn to rein, or smell the musty steam lifting from her flank. It is without effort that I revisit the seasons of my youth, and in particular the three summers I lived at Wickington Manor. At times it feels as though I am there again, and I am forced to bring myself into the present by touching the walls that surround me. One swift, finger-light touch is all it takes, and then I am home, where the medication tastes like sulphur and one can sometimes hear the other ladies crying in adjoining rooms.
My uncle was a large, stooped man, as though he were built of two different pieces, and the upper piece was decidedly heavier. His eyes were a threatening shade of green, and such a countenance should have been intimidating to a young girl, but there was in his manner a certain gentleness that exceeded all menace. I loved him dearly, not least because he enthused in sharing with me the tomfoolery that he and my father engaged in as children, but also, and more importantly, because he never doubted me when I talked with him about the ghost of Lillian Bliss.
His home, Wickington Manor, was a magnificent Tudor house built in the seventeenth century, with an array of deep rooms that I never tired of exploring. The gardens were a delicate selection of flora, with a colourful parterre, two great ponds, and a walk-in aviary designed to blend with the surroundings. If not for the constant chatter of the many birds, one could pass-by the aviary without knowing it was there at all.
It was once written of Wickington Manor, “There is within a whisper of ease, as though all whom have lived there have lived peacefully. Such rarity of calm is restorative to the soul. Indeed, amidst the symmetry of its gardens, I should declare that Wickington Manor is the jewel of the Cotswolds.”
I first encountered the ghost of Lillian Bliss within the great hall. She was sitting upon the dais, her small fingers tracing the bands of her crinoline. A desperately pretty girl, with inquisitive blue eyes and a spill of auburn curls, and I should have thought her a girl like any other were it not for the fact that I could see the legs of my uncle’s dining table directly through her. I frowned, feeling not afraid. I was eight years of age at the time, and knew nothing of fear. I gathered my own skirts and stepped quickly toward her.
“I say, little girl … should you be here?” I queried.
“My dearest Abigail,” said she. “I live here, and ought you be calling me little, when you are only little yourself?”
I stopped and planted my hands on my hips, quite taken aback. She had thrice-surprised me, and with so few words. Firstly, with the affrontedness of her tone, to which I was not accustomed. Secondly, by saying that she lived at Wickington, when I knew that she did not. Thirdly, by speaking my name.
I was at a loss for words, a rare occasion, although a multitude of questions, all of them curt, chased through my mind. I narrowed my eyes to indicate displeasure, and saw the little girl smile. She had a wonderful face, such pale skin, and her eyes were like tiny drops of the sky. There must have been something amusing about my expression, because she began to laugh. A delicious, contagious sound, and I felt the tight bud of my mouth relax into a long smile. She clapped her hands. I could see the boards of the dais through her legs.
“You are an odd girl,” I said, and found myself laughing alongside her until there were precious tears in my eyes. Once the laughter had abated, I said, “Who are you? And how do you know my name?”
“I am Lillian Bliss,” she replied, plucking at her over-skirt and inclining her head, as though to curtsy. “I am the only child of Lord William Charles Bliss, Second Earl of Waterend, who preceded your uncle as proprietor of Wickington, and spent many happy years here.”
“The daughter of an Earl,” I interjected. “A Lady, then.”
“Indeed,” she affirmed. “The Lady Bliss, if you will.”
“And how do you know my name, Lady Bliss?” I enquired again.
Her smile touched me inside, like the flicker of a lamp. “I would ask that you call me Lily,” said she. “And I know much about you, dearest Abigail; I have watched you since your arrival and have hoped that you could see me. I so desperately want a friend. Wickington can be awfully lonely, you know.”
“See you?” I said. “But of course I can see you.” I looked at her closely, aware that she was as transparent as a reflection upon glass. “You are an odd girl,” I said again. “Lady or not.”
“Would you be my friend, Abigail?” she asked sweetly. “I should say that you need one, too.”
“I have many friends,” I said.
“At Wickington?”
“I have not long been here,” I said. “But yes, Lily, I shall be your friend. We must be the same age, and I dare say you know this splendid house very well. I should like someone to show me its secrets.”
“Of course.” She pushed off the dais and stood before me, the crinoline lifting her skirts outward. I wondered why she would wear such a beautiful dress, seemingly without occasion. I, too, had many wonderful garments, but they were saved for going to town, or to church, or if my parents were entertaining. Lily must have noted my curiosity, because she curtsied again, and then twirled.
“Isn’t it the most delightful dress?” she said. I could see the lathes of the bay window though her body. Her skirts flowered. She twirled down the length of the hall, fairly dancing, fading in and out. For one long moment she disappeared completely, and all I could hear was her laughter. She reappeared at my side. Her cheeks were touched with tiny pink roses.
“We’ll have such fun,” she said. “Oh, Abigail, I’m so delighted you’re here.”
I nodded, once more at a loss for words. My inquisitive mind still simmered with questions, far too many to ask. Lily plucked up her skirts and started to twirl again. I smiled at her exuberance, and then followed.
There are a great many things for which I am grateful. To have lived a long and rewarding life, above all. To have shared in the love of the most remarkable man. To have mothered three healthy, brilliant children, and to have watched them become strong individuals, but with those particular likenesses that are unique to family. Also, as I have mentioned, to have my memories. So many wonderful flowers.
Apperception, and the capacity for lucid and educated thought, is doubtless the greatest blessing for one who enters the evening of life. I will sometimes sit in my room and hear the other residents talk to themselves or bemoan some imagined hardship. The function room is a place of varied sentiments, with plastic plants and a faux brick wall to affect rustic charm, and a wide window offering a view of the gardens. It is lovely to visit of a morning and watch the residents reading or playing some
simple game. Conversely, there are moments that challenge the heart, watching these stricken, pitiful creatures sit alone, staring into some cruel space, and knowing that their minds are drifting in and out, like the ghost of Lillian Bliss as she twirled in the great hall.
It is, then, most upsetting when incident contradicts greater knowledge. I will on occasion receive letters that, although addressed to me, are clearly intended for some other person. People who claim to be my friends, of whom I have no recollection. Acquaintances of my darling husband, obviously frauds, who suggest that they worked with him at such-and-such a factory, or would share a tipple with him at this-and-that social club. Upsetting, because my husband was one of the most renowned surgeons in the land and most certainly not wont to ‘share a tipple’ at any social club. He was a fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons of England and would engage on a social basis with only his peers.
Last week (I can’t remember the day; it’s the little things that slip one’s mind) I was visited by an attractive, middle-aged woman who claimed to be my daughter.
“I do apologize,” I said, “if you think me rude, but I have no idea who you are.”
She had a kindly face. The tip of her nose was slightly off-centre, but this was the only imperfection. Her eyes were large and, yes, the same light brown colour as mine. She had very straight teeth. Very white. She nodded, and then smiled, and then pointed to the flowers she had brought with her and placed in a vase.
“Do you like them?” she asked. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
Lilies and carnations. Yellow and white. Healing colours. “Yes. I like them very much. And thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Who are you exactly?”
“I’m Lesley. Your daughter.”
“Lesley? Where’s Mary?”
“Mary?” She frowned. A furrow appeared between her eyebrows. Another similarity. My head started to ache, and I instinctively reached to touch the wall.
Mister October - Volume Two Page 26