by M. D. Waters
He glances between me and the now shut room. “Of course. What can I do for you?”
I lift my right hand. “My wrist has been aching a little. From painting, maybe. I was hoping for a pain reliever?”
We stop in the epicenter. The male staff flow around us like water around rock. I let Dr. Travista examine my wrist, which is perfectly fine, watching him carefully through my lashes. His expression gives nothing away, so I imagine he does not feel caught in his lie. This can only mean I have been successful in fooling him, which is surprising considering I am screaming on the inside. The woman he claims to love, Jodi, is alive, and I am dying to find out what has happened to her.
Dr. Travista releases my hand. “There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong, but we could take some images—”
“It is only a little throbbing.”
He studies me for a protracted moment, then nods. “All right. Pain reliever it is, then. But if the pain persists, I will have to insist on images.”
I nod. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”
Dr. Travista leads me down the hallway toward his office, and we pass the same lounge with the same beige furniture and red pillows, but one thing is not the same. A girl with a man I have never seen before. She stares out the window over the snow-white day with blank eyes. Her cropped blond hair is short like a man’s and she is very, very thin. I think she is no more than skin over bones.
Whoa, She says. Somebody needs to feed the waif.
The man wears a nice suit like one Declan might wear. He is not as tall as my husband but is just as well groomed. His face is set into hard lines and every part of me wishes to run, but I am frozen by the sight of yet another woman. After all this time of seeing not a single woman outside my dreams, I see two in one day, and neither of them seems capable of interaction.
“My name is Chuck,” the man says. “I’m your husband.”
She does not respond, and his face flushes a deep purple. He slams a palm to the table between them and she does not blink. She only stares.
Orderlies rush by me, grazing my shoulder, followed soon by Dr. Travista. They move as if I do not exist.
“Patience,” Dr. Travista tells this man. “You can’t rush her progress, and you must take special care not to frighten her.”
The orderlies lift the woman from her chair and lead her away.
A hand slips into mine and I jump. “Declan,” I say breathily, holding a hand over my drumming heart. “When did you arrive?”
“A little while ago.” He answers me but watches the scene inside the room. “I see you’ve stumbled across your new floor mate.”
Which one? “Floor mate?”
He wraps an arm over my shoulder and maneuvers me toward my bedroom. “Her name is Ruby. She had an accident like you.”
“Like me?” I stop and turn to watch the orderlies lead Ruby down the hall. She does not take a single step without the guidance of one of the orderlies. “Declan, was I like that, too?”
He is hesitant to answer but finally says, “Yes. It’s the most difficult time.” He lifts my chin to take back my attention, smiles in that soft, loving way of his, and brushes my hair back. “You’re much better now. And if Chuck is patient, Ruby will be better, too.”
Movement nearby grabs our attention and we turn to see Dr. Travista leaving the lounge with Chuck. The man does a double take when he sees me and leaves the doctor’s side without a word. Dr. Travista’s mouth freezes in the middle of a sentence but he follows a moment later.
My muscles lock and warning bells go off in my head. I do not know this man, but his reaction to his wife a moment ago tells me he is not a kind person. And he is heading right for me.
Declan angles to stand in front of me. “Charles,” he says in a cool tone.
The man points a stubby finger around my husband at me. “I want to talk to her.”
“No.” Simple. Direct.
He lays fisted hands on his hips, making his suit jacket flare. “I need to know I’m not wasting my money.”
Declan glances back at me very quickly. “You aren’t.”
Chuck or Charles narrows his eyes. “The video—”
“Watch what you say in front of my wife,” Declan says, and this time his even tone sends icicles over my spine.
Chuck’s gaze jumps between Declan and me. “I need more proof. I don’t like wasting my time. You never said it would be like”—he waves absently toward the lounge—“that.”
“Didn’t I?” Warning laces Declan’s tone.
Danger, danger, She says.
No kidding. I have no idea what this is about, but I do not want to be here anymore.
I touch Declan’s arm with only my fingertips, afraid anything more would turn the anger on me. “I wish to go to my room.”
His gaze never leaves Charles’s. “Good idea. I will see you there shortly.”
CHAPTER 11
Ruby sits in the lounge staring out the window for the third day in a row. Her husband has not been back and I am sad for her. Declan is gone more now, but he was around when I needed him most. I need no further proof to see the difference between what kind of man her husband is and what kind mine is.
I am hesitant but resolved to get to know her. “Hello,” I say.
She blinks one time, but there is no sign that she knows I am even here.
“My name is Emma. Your name is Ruby.”
She swallows and blinks again. Her eyes are lovely: light brown with flecks of gold and green. Her light pink lips part to say one word. “Ruby.”
I smile. “Yes, that is right. Ruby is a pretty name.”
“Pretty.”
Dr. Travista appears in the doorway and comes to a stop. His eyes widen when he sees me, and I am about to stand because he must not want me talking to this woman. Instead, he nods to show me he approves.
“You are named for a gemstone,” I say. “One of my favorites. The color is red. Would you like to see red?”
I do not wait for the answer she will not give me. I move to my painting supplies and drag what I need over. I have been painting winter landscapes to please Declan. I have painted enough beaches, though I am saddened by this decision for reasons I cannot explain.
Today, for Ruby, I paint a red desert. I bring it to life from memory. Not because I recall being in a desert, but because I have seen the landmark in a book. Ayers Rock in Australia. I find it easy to give this place life, but as with the winter landscapes, I do not feel as though I belong there.
I belong on the beach with sand between my toes and cool surf flooding my feet. I can almost feel the water receding and claiming the sand below me.
• • •
The packed sand slid away from either side of my feet and I stood as long as I dared, testing the strength of my dissolving foundation. I lasted a long time.
I closed my eyes and lost myself in the peaceful surroundings—the warm surf over my feet, a gentle breeze lifting my hair, the caw of seagulls. Crashing waves.
Arms surrounded my waist and a bristly chin nuzzled my neck.
I linked the fingers of my left hand with his right. On the webbing between my thumb and index finger, a tiny brand marred my skin—linked hearts. The luckenbooth on my left hand matched the one on his right hand.
His thumb played with mine, his skin a shade lighter, as he planted soft kisses on my neck.
I pressed my back into him as his arms tightened. He smelled of soap and a gentle musk. He smelled of home. He smelled of mine.
“How much longer do you plan to stand out here?” he asked in a near whisper.
He wanted me to come inside so we could make love. He wasn’t fooling anyone.
I bit my lip as I smiled and continued watching the surf. “I was thinking a few more days at least.”
He chuckled, and it came from somewhere deep, making me tingle in places only he could connect with. “You’re cruel.”
“You love me, Mr. Tucker.”
“With every part of
my soul, Ms. Wade,” he agreed.
• • •
I begin to turn toward the man in this waking dream, my heart warm and pounding, and find myself sliding out of my chair. The shock of reality, the sterile recycled air and scent of acrylic paint, turns my blood cold. I am back in the lounge, and Ruby watches me paint, but I have not set brush to canvas in some time. The painting sits half-finished, and I no longer have the desire to give it life.
Life is on a beach.
As another woman.
With another man.
Who is not my husband.
• • •
I sit alone at a table in the lounge. Dr. Travista gave me a tablet and unlocked only one file out of what could be hundreds. I understand why now. I am frustrated and angry and no longer focused on each individual picture. I swipe my finger over each one, skipping to the next, waiting for one to offer some shred of recognition.
I do not remember my wedding.
Our wedding took place on a mountain, just as Declan said. My dress is not as lovely as he claimed: long, lacy sleeves and a heart-shaped front, full skirt made of silk. I do not think this is my taste. No, I do not feel this is my taste.
Our honeymoon pictures are just as infuriating. A villa in Tuscany. I have been to Italy?
Not unless you suddenly lost your fear of flying, She says.
Just the idea of flying in a plane sends cold shivers of fear over my spine, and beads of sweat break out across my hairline. Flying is not natural. My feet belong on the ground. No question.
But I look happy, I think.
That you do, She agrees.
Maybe I took a sedative to get to Italy. It is possible I was knocked out the entire trip.
Anything’s possible, She says dryly. Obviously.
We could have taken a teleporter. Though the idea of this, too, does not sound much better. Splitting into millions of pieces cannot possibly be safe.
There’s human advancement, and then there’s science fiction. You’re grasping.
She does not continue and I am glad. She is making my mood worse.
I cannot blame it all on Her, or even the pictures I do not recognize. Since the last waking memory of the man on the beach, I feel frustrated. Even if I had seen his face, because I called him Mr. Tucker, I know for certain he was not Declan. He was not my husband.
To recall the love I felt for this man makes me heavy with guilt because what I feel for Declan is merely a glimmer of that.
And then there are the brands on our hands. A brand I do not even have, a name that is not mine, so this cannot be me, but . . .
It does not matter. They are only dreams of someone else’s life. Vivid dreams, but dreams nonetheless.
I turn off the tablet and slide it away. Near me, in a chair facing the outside, Ruby slides fingers over the skin of her cheek, then looks at them, then returns them. She does this several times.
“Skin,” I tell her and she looks at me with a thin line between her eyes. I touch my cheek. “See? I have the same thing. Would you like to feel?”
She does not answer, but I move close to her and she reaches out. Her fingers are very soft, far softer than mine. Soft like finely ground powder is soft.
I let her touch me like this for a long time. Soon she moves on to analyze our hands and fingers. I remember discovering these parts for myself. It was hard to grasp how they were meant to do so many other things. Now I paint and write and touch.
“Skin,” she whispers.
“Yes,” I say.
“Emma.” The male voice startles me and I turn toward it. Dr. Travista waves me over, then jerks his head toward the hallway.
I follow him out and find Ruby’s husband, Chuck, ambling our way. He narrows his eyes when he sees me in the angry way I am growing accustomed to. I do not understand the reason for this emotion, but he is beginning to scare me. I hope to never find myself alone with this man. So far, I have been very lucky to avoid this.
I avert my eyes and whisper, “Why does he hate me?”
Dr. Travista takes me gently by the elbow. “He doesn’t understand why you are well and his wife isn’t.”
“But she will be, will she not?”
“Yes, of course, but it takes a lot of time and patience. And she doesn’t respond to him the way she responds to you. He doesn’t like that, either.”
“He is not kind to her.”
Dr. Travista’s lips form thin lines. “No. He isn’t.”
I am not surprised he agrees with me after seeing how he enters Jodi’s room on a daily basis calling her “dear.” He must still love her if he continues to care for her after all this time.
“How is Ruby progressing?” I ask.
He smiles down at me. “Slowly, but I’m not concerned.”
“Are her nightmares bad?”
He seems taken aback by this question. “I almost forgot about that. She doesn’t have nightmares the way you did.”
Now I am the one surprised and stop walking. “Really?”
He laughs at my response. “Really.”
I drop my gaze, dejected. “That does not seem fair.”
Dr. Travista wraps an arm around my shoulders and brings us back into a stroll. “You are well now; that’s all that matters. Speaking of which, how would you like to go home?”
I stop again. “If you are teasing me, this is a cruel trick.”
“Oh, I’m not teasing. Probationary, of course. You’ll spend your nights at home and return during the day for observation. I’m sure Ruby will appreciate your company as well.”
I am so excited that I hug Dr. Travista. It is uncomfortable for both of us, but I am unable to stop it from happening. I would hug anyone who happens to walk by.
“Starting tonight,” he says when I release him. “Declan will be by to pick you up shortly.”
Warm tears brim my eyes. “I feel this is a dream.”
“Not a dream. This is very much reality, my dear Emma.”
I hug him again. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
He pushes me away. “Don’t thank me just yet. As I said, this is probationary. The second I think you’re regressing, you’ll be back.”
“I will not regress,” I say, and I hope this is true.
“Let’s hope not. I’ll see you in the morning first thing.” He raises both bushy eyebrows to be sure I understand.
“Yes. Your office, first thing.” I bite my lip and attempt to bury the overlarge smile longing to beam and take out the entire floor. “The very second I arrive.”
• • •
The ground rumbled under my feet and I braced my back to the wall. I couldn’t make them out, but the single-man aircraft sounded in the night sky, dropping missiles over the outskirts of the compound. The deadly projectiles carefully avoided the compound itself. And us. Fire lifted into the sky and licked at a dark cloud obscuring what remained of the stars.
“They made it,” Foster said.
I nodded. “Better late than never.”
Foster waved an arm in the air. “Let’s go!”
I closed my eyes for a moment and prayed. Each time I did this, the risk of never making it home hit me too late to turn back. It was always harder when I left him behind. But I left him with memories of a warm bed and a soft touch. It was always like this when the other had to go out. We made love as if it would be the last time. The unspoken rule.
Foster tapped my arm and I opened my eyes.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yeah, let’s do this already. The sooner we’re done, the sooner I can get home.”
CHAPTER 12
My nerves are on high alert while Declan walks me toward the transporter room I only recently discovered—this is what Declan has just recently called it. I grip his hand so tight he must suffer from a loss of feeling, but he does not seem to mind. In fact, I think his hand grips mine tighter than usual as well.
The doors to the transporter room slide open soundlessly and a man in white ex
iting the room steps out of our way. His head bows once to us. “Mr. Burke.”
He does not greet me, but nobody ever does. I am used to this.
Declan leads us to the left and swings open a door in the tube.
“Is it safe?” I ask and swallow hard against a dry throat.
He laughs. “Yes. Very.”
Declan nudges me inside and the floor gives slightly under me. With the addition of his weight, it bounces more, turning my stomach. A set of projected numbers appears on the surface of the clear tube in red and I now know why the floor moves. It measures our weight. Total mass, water, body fat, and even our clothes are calculated.
“You’re going to smell something funny,” Declan whispers. “It’s only a numbing agent. Without it, this would hurt like hell.”
I want to whimper and beg to get off. I think I would rather fly in a plane. “What if it doesn’t work?”
He squeezes my hand. “It will.”
A projected numeric pad appears beside our calculations and he says, “This is where you enter the port number.”
Unclench, She says. I promise you won’t feel a thing.
Says the imaginary person in my head.
She laughs.
Then I smell it. The spearmint is aromatic at first, but I quickly realize it covers something rancid that upsets my stomach. In a millisecond, I am completely numb. Like I am only a set of floating eyes.
I try to speak but cannot feel my mouth or tongue, or even my lungs to breathe. Panic sets in instantly, but the outside world shivers and appears to melt, then blends into different colors. Fluorescent lights become a natural, brilliant white light. The view slows and solidifies. The blinding white is sun reflecting off snow, and it is everywhere.
Startled, I step back so quickly I hit my head against the clear tube. My feeling is back and a tiny headache spreads from the back of my head toward my eyes. Declan holds me in the space of a heartbeat.
“Are you all right? I know it’s strange, but—”
“The snow,” I gasp out. “You didn’t tell me about the snow.”
“It’s outside.” He sounds confused.
I peer around him and relief fills me. We are indoors, but the outside walls are giant windows. The walls—what there are of them—are pale wood slats with black knots. A kitchen is equipped with only a single counter. A thin breakfast bar stands between that and a sunken living room. Toward the back, a bed is visible through an open door.