by M. D. Waters
I sit up, curiosity piqued by only one thing he has said. The other I could come back to later. “Fertility is questionable? How so?”
He shrugs very slightly. “That seems to be the big enigma for us all. Nobody can seem to pinpoint the exact reason, so they blame it on Mother Nature. Her way of compensating for the overpopulation of our species.
“Unfortunately, we’d already begun taking the steps to take care of this ourselves. Globally limiting families to one child, and at that time—oh, I’d say this started roughly two hundred years ago—couples could change the sex of their child to whatever they wanted. Men wanted their family lines to continue, you see, so they chose male children more often than not.
“The women who are fertile these days,” he continues while he stands and moves to one of his bookcases, “are only fertile into their late twenties, early thirties at most. It isn’t disease or genetics, just the unfortunate way things have progressed.”
“But if you have the ability to change a child’s sex, why not make more girls?” I say when I am sure his long explanation has ended.
He finds the book he was looking for and pulls it free, then heads back to his chair. “It has been outlawed after what happened last time. We do not want to risk a shortage of boys. Forcing nature to do our bidding is a risky business.”
“I see.”
He hands me the heavy book, then sits. “You are blessed with the ability to bear children, so you don’t have to worry about it. At least not for a few years yet. You’re still young.”
I am unable to respond because I am staring at the very book Dr. Sonya Toro was reading in my last nightmare. And Dr. Travista wrote it. Under the title Infertility in the New Era, it reads, Our Steps to a Cure.
My head feels light, but I cannot allow Dr. Travista to realize anything is wrong. He will ask too many questions, so I shift my focus back to his last statement in order to continue the conversation. “Does Declan know?”
“That you can carry a child? Of course. I told him right away. This has been a concern of his since the accident.”
I bite my lip and shift my weight in the chair. “I wish to know about this accident.”
He stands and pats my shoulder. “You should focus on your future, on becoming better so you can go home.”
He is good at diversion.
I want to be better.
I will be better.
• • •
We reached the outer walls and everyone wordlessly painted themselves into the dark stone structure and shadow. I glanced to either side of me, settling on Foster’s cool expression. His gaze searched high and I followed it to the empty night sky. This close to the compound, the glow of lights drowned out the cluster of stars.
“Where are they?” he asked.
“They’ll come.” I was confident they would, but the timing was off. I didn’t like it. “They’ll come,” I repeated.
Foster nodded.
“And if not, we’ll just create our own diversion.”
I grinned, and his tilted smile followed a moment later. “No doubt it’ll be better, too.”
“At the very least it’ll be more fun.”
His elbow knocked into my side. “You’re the only person I know who can turn war into a good time.”
“Somebody has to.”
“Might as well be you.”
• • •
Discovering the door and its subsequent hallway days before opens my eyes to what I have been missing with my focus so narrowed on nightmares I would rather forget, my husband, and returning home. With fewer visits from Declan these days, I have plenty of opportunities to enlighten myself.
I find a new exhilaration in my daily garden walk. Not because of the exercise it affords or because of the flowers and their amazing aroma, but because of what I learn in my covert search. I find ways to listen to conversations before anyone realizes I stand nearby, learning names and, in very few cases, about families.
This is how I learn the workers in blue lab coats are botanists studying the medicinal applications of the plants in the greenhouse garden. I suppose it makes sense to employ this type of study in a hospital.
Once I satisfy my garden walk, I take leisurely strolls through the corridors, keeping to the far wall, well away from the half windows lining the outside walls. The nearly white sky tells me there has been a heavy snowfall.
I pass men—I am the only woman here—in various colors of lab coats: white, pale blue, and bright red. Dr. Travista and the other doctors who assist him wear white. While there is a concentration of white lab coats in my set of hallways, the occasional red coat appears and pays me special attention. They think I have not noticed because I pretend to study any one of the multiple abstract paintings, fingering the dips of paint, the texture of the canvas. In reality, I watch everyone’s destination, and in particular Dr. Travista’s.
I have a good view near a cross section of the hallway that splits to three others. Each white hallway is identical to the next. I do not leave my hallway. Not yet, anyway.
Dr. Travista visits one room in particular across this epicenter every day. He never knocks or begs permission to enter this room as he does mine. Instead, he enters with a “Hello, dear. How are you feeling today?” Then the door slides behind him and I learn nothing else, but my instinct tells me I am not the only patient on this floor as I have long believed.
• • •
“Do you like the paintings, Emma?”
I sit with my back to the windows in Dr. Travista’s office, my sweater wrapped tightly around me. This question, though simple enough, tells me the red-coated men are not only watching me but reporting my actions. I have suspected they are security and now know for certain. “Yes, I like them very much.”
“Would you like one in your room?”
I cannot bear to have even one of these atrocious abstracts hang near my photograph of the sea. “No, thank you.”
“If you change your mind . . .”
I smile at him. “I will let you know.”
• • •
I find paint and canvas in my room. Below the easel is a tan drop cloth. I should be exasperated by this gesture because I have shown no interest in painting. Perched on the edge of my bed, I study the simple setup for a long time. My fingers scratch slowly up and down my thighs, itching to touch a brush, and I bite my lip. Can I do this?
Just try it, She tells me. You might like it.
Her nudging sends another image to my mind, one where I stand and knock it all to the ground, but I cannot bring myself to do this. It feels very wrong. Wasteful. That, and I realize I would like to try it.
Standing, I approach the table and rifle through a box of ten white tubes with colors on the ends indicating the hue inside. A rectangular board with a hole in one corner. A cup full of brushes. A jar of water. Folded blue rags.
It feels natural to slide my thumb through the hole in the board and squeeze on the colors: titanium white, cadmium yellow medium, cadmium orange, cadmium red medium, alizarin crimson, phthalo green, phthalo blue, dioxazine purple, burnt sienna, and ivory black.
Beginner colors, She says.
I am a beginner, I say.
She does not respond.
I study the blank canvas for a long moment and am resolved to mimic one of the paintings in the halls, but another idea forms. I do not know if I can do it, but I can only try. If I try something, I am one step closer to my goal.
Freedom, She says.
Diversion, I think, which is only a fancy word for appeasing my curiosity about the hallways and their occupants.
I choose a brush. Before I realize what I am doing, I am mixing colors and making long strokes over the surface of the canvas. I angle the tip of the brush in ways to smudge the lines, which changes the look and texture of the paint.
I am surprised when I am done, and I have no sense of how much time has passed. I have painted the sea. A beach with an archway wound in soft white fabric flowi
ng in a breeze. Indigo flower petals litter the sand. The sun dips low in the background, casting the sky in burnt oranges and reds.
And carefully, very carefully, almost unseen to the naked eye, I have painted a symbol into the peaks and dips of the sand: intertwined hearts. My mind conjures the word “luckenbooth.” It is near the bottom left corner and almost obscured in beach grass.
It’s beautiful, She says. You’ve captured it almost exactly.
CHAPTER 10
Noah finds the metal chair and opens it. The legs vibrate audibly over the tile as he places it in front of my tube. He stands over the metal seat, hesitating, eyeing it as if he thinks it may swallow him whole. At last, he eases down and settles in.
His hair is short now and looks closer to brown than blond. The waves are hidden in this shorter cut, and the top is styled with messy lifts and spikes. It is the first time I have seen him so cleanly shaven, and this makes him look nice. Handsome.
When he looks up at me, it is in silence, and I really study him for the first time. He has a sharply angled chin and nice, full lips. His nose is narrow. His eyes, wide set, are a shocking shade of amber surrounded by thick, dark lashes. The almond shape angles down on either side, dipping into smile lines.
Yes, he is handsome. Very handsome.
He leans forward on his knees. His gaze finds the floor, and a minute later, he hoods his eyes with a hand. His back heaves and jerks and I realize he is crying. My captor, the man who will not let me go, cries. I do not understand this change of events.
Where is the angry man from before? Him, I understood.
When the door opens a minute later, Sonya strolls in with a small entourage of men. They all come to an abrupt stop and Sonya’s arm flies up to hold the others back. A moment later, she ushers them back out of the room, asking for a few minutes alone.
Noah pinches his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He runs a hand over his face and sighs. “Sorry,” he says. “I thought you’d be gone for a while.”
“My schedule changed. I’m glad you came.”
He looks up at me and his eyes are an amber flame.
“And you cleaned up,” she adds.
“Yeah. Thought it would make me feel human again.” One side of his mouth jerks, threatening a smile that never comes. His eyes cast down again. “I’m still numb.”
Sonya rolls a round stool over and straddles it. She is close enough to touch him but does not. “We all are. It was a shock to everyone.”
His face crumbles and he presses his forehead into his palms. “My wife is dead.”
The words hold a heavy release in them, and there is shock enough on Sonya’s face at hearing them said aloud that she turns away from him. From me. She does not look but reaches a hand out and lays it unmoving on his heaving shoulder.
“She was the best of all of us,” he says after a while. “The strongest.”
“A part of her lives on,” Sonya whispers.
Noah nods and looks up at me. Tears stream unhindered over his cheeks. It seems to take everything he has to utter the following words. “Her name is Adrienne.”
• • •
I run to forget the dream. It is no longer a nightmare. I do not know when this changed, but I am no longer frightened of Noah. He is sad. They all are. I feel their sadness as if it is my own, and I do not understand why. It is only a dream and, given a name, has nothing to do with me.
Adrienne.
It is a beautiful name, She says, and She is as sad as they are.
Declan enters the room and smiles broadly at me. My heart leaps at the sight of him, and I run into his open arms. He does not seem to mind my sweat-coated skin even though he wears a nice suit. He kisses me and swings me up into his strong arms.
“I have missed you. Where have you been?” I ask breathlessly, fingering back hair that has fallen over his forehead.
“Oh, don’t ask,” he growls and sets me on my feet. “Business, but it’s over now. I called to check on you every day. Arthur said you’re painting?”
I nod. “Yes. I like it.”
“And good at it from what I understand. I can’t wait to see.”
A new weight sinks in my stomach. “I did not paint before now?” Even I have to admit my paintings are good. I assumed Dr. Travista left everything knowing I would pick the hobby back up.
“Not in the time I’ve known you,” he says, then his hand strokes my cheek and pinches my chin to angle my head up more. His lips press to my forehead and the tip of my nose. Finally, my lips. “I missed you.”
“Then you did not miss much,” I say and laugh.
His expression turns serious. “I missed everything.”
I cup his neck in my palms and bring his lips back to mine. They are warm and pliable and, when his tongue strokes mine a moment later, hungry.
I come to my senses—not an easy feat—and push away from him. “I should shower. I am going to ruin your nice suit.” It is the dark blue today. My favorite.
“I don’t care about my suit, but while you do that, I’ll just check in with Arthur.”
We stroll hand in hand to my floor, where we part outside my room. It takes only a moment to retrieve a clean set of scrubs and another ten minutes to shower.
I walk into my room, towel-drying my hair, and find Declan flipping through the canvases leaning against one wall. Dr. Travista says he will have someone come by to hang them for me.
“You like beaches,” he says. It is not a question.
My chest tightens and I have an urge to explain, as if he has caught me doing something bad, but why should I? I have done nothing wrong. They are only beaches.
“It is the photograph.” I point to the wall behind me, where the photograph of the ocean hangs. “I have spent many nights wondering what the rest of that beach must look like.”
He nods, and when he smiles at me, it is tight. His eyelids narrow slightly. “You’re very talented, Emma.”
Questions are burning a trail through me, none of which he will have the answer to if my painting is new for him, too. Like where I learned to paint. Why I am drawn to the beach and why he seems disturbed by it.
Questions best left unsaid, She says, and I am inclined to agree for once. There is something about this that bothers my husband, and I do not want to fuel this fire.
I lay down my towel and force myself to smile. “Thank you. I will try painting something new. Is there anything you would like to see?”
His expression softens and he takes me into his arms. “The mountains. Do you have any memory of our home yet?”
I shake my head. “No. Not yet.”
“I will bring you some pictures. Arthur says it is a good time to try and jog your memory.”
My smile is genuine now. “Really? I cannot wait.”
• • •
Today I decide to leave the safety of my hallway. Dr. Travista has already disappeared into the room with the woman he calls “dear.” I spy a painting near the cross section and do not waste time.
Act like you belong, She says. That’s the key.
I do. At least, I hope I do. I run my fingers over the paintings as I pass, stopping to analyze paint strokes. It is everything I do in my hallway.
I am nearing my goal and passing the door I suspect to be a room for travel, where all the colors enter or exit. I slow my pace only a little, hoping the door will slide open and give me a peek inside. In my peripheral, the silver doors slide apart and two white lab coats emerge. As casually as I can manage, I kneel and lift a pant leg to scratch my ankle. It is enough to allow me the view of several rows of clear plastic tubes that reach from floor to ceiling and are large enough to hold up to three people, if I had to guess.
Those take you out of the building, She tells me. Probably to other floors, too. They’re teleportation units. Teleport. Teleporting. Teleportation. You know, teleporters.
Teleporters?
There is the sensation that She is now rolling Her eyes. They split you into a
million different pieces and send your bits to your destination. You tell it where you want to port and it sends you there. Get it? Tell—a—port.
This gives me pause and I blink at the painting I finally come to without really looking at it. That sounds dangerous.
She sighs. It used to be. Eons of years ago.
I know She exaggerates about eons. She is using Her sarcastic, bored voice. She is never patient with my questions.
This is how I will get home, I say.
Yes, Padawan learner. This is how you will get home.
What is a Pa—
Never mind.
“Mrs. Burke.”
I turn to face the red coat, whom I somehow had not noticed before. “Yes?”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to escort you back to your section of the hospital.”
“I am waiting on Dr. Travista.” I cannot let this man take me back when I am so close.
“I’m only doing my job, ma’am. Please come with me.”
Squaring my shoulders, I begin to refuse a second time, but behind me, the hospital room door slides aside. Dr. Travista begins to exit, his head bent to look at a tablet computer he holds. I look past him to the woman sitting in a wheelchair and bite back a gasp. She looks a lot older, her brown hair streaked with gray, but I have stared and stared at her picture for months.
Jodi. The woman Dr. Travista said died, or so I thought. His exact words were “has been gone,” but how else was I supposed to interpret that? And maybe he had not lied, because she sits limp in a chair, jaw slack, her stare devoid of life.
I shift my focus to the red coat, who refuses to leave, the moment I see Dr. Travista raise his head in my peripheral.
“Emma?” He is quick to steer me away by the elbow. “What are you doing here?” He waves off the disgruntled red coat as if batting at a fly.
“I apologize for bothering you,” I say. I am finding it difficult to focus on the lie I have devised, but I manage what I hope is an apologetic smile. “I saw you enter this room and tried to catch you. Was it okay that I waited?”