7
30 YEARS EARLIER
Her hand was tiring, so Isla put down her pen to read over what she’d written in her lab journal. It had been a long day of work, with at least twenty new earth samples, and all of them needed a completed fifth-level analysis. Rocking on her heels, feeling the consequences of hours of standing in one spot, she scowled at the new set of samples waiting to be analyzed. Swiping the back of her hand over her brow, she frowned when the lights on the wall told her to keep moving, to keep working.
With the list of the day’s activities written in her journal, Isla turned to her terminal to enter the data. The dark glass showed a warped image of the lab behind her. She glimpsed her reflection, thinking that she didn’t look a hundred years old. The lab journals beneath her desk would lead her to believe otherwise. So who was right?
But I feel at least one hundred today, she thought, and showed a hint of a smile before waving her hand across the glassy panel. Immediately, her mirror image was gone as the screen came alive. A white flash settled to a cool black background and rows of green text. She scanned the screen, finding the blinking line right where she’d left it during her last data entry. From the bottom of the terminal, an animated keypad popped into place, and she began tapping the screen, entering the data.
Simple, really, she thought as she tapped the screen. Some days the work was a chore, with the fun of it drained and distant. Today was one of those days, and the sooner she was finished, the sooner she’d be back to her room.
As she transcribed her day from the lab journal, her thoughts drifted to the farming floor, and to the memories of working with Nolan after class. Her mind then went to their younger years: playing in the Commune building’s courtyard, dodging outstretched hands in pickup games of fast-tag.
Flipping the page of her journal, she reached over and ripped the corner, finishing that day and readying it for the next. When she turned back to the terminal screen, she found that she’d inadvertently typed Nolan’s name in place of one her notes. And not just his name, but also the date.
Isla shook her head, remembering that today was Nolan’s birthday. That realization must have been present in the recesses of her mind, causing her fingers to enter his name. She paused, feeling some recognition of the day was in order.
I’d never forget your birthday. Never.
“Happy birthday, Nolan. I love you.” She spoke to an empty lab.
Tapping the terminal’s screen, she moved the blinking cursor and started to correct the data entry. She typed over the letters of his name and his birthdate, but stopped when she came upon what followed. Immediately following his birthdate, she’d also entered the date of his death. She gripped her hands again as images of his death came into her mind.
I’m tired is all, she thought, and pushed the images away, eager to fix the errors on the screen. You can’t wander like this.
Isla cleared the dates and paged up the screen, checking her work. When she reached the top, she saw that entering Nolan’s name hadn’t been her only mistake. She’d foolishly entered all of today’s notes under today’s date, but of the previous year—thereby overwriting all of those older journal entries that had already been there. She thumped the desk with her hand, frustrated by the careless error. Her hopes of going back to her room were dashed; she’d have to stay and fix this before leaving.
The thought of the previous year’s journal reignited her anxiety. She’d never been able to explain to herself how she’d authored a hundred years of lab journals, so she’d simply stopped looking at them. Yet her memory of this place was fresh again, beginning when she’d woken and expected to find the mortician staring down at her. But he wasn’t there; nobody was. Isla pulled her arms close to her chest, protecting herself, expecting the memory of what she’d done to open the wounds of the past.
“You’re not doing this again,” she scolded herself. “Not now!” Isla pushed her arms down and closed her eyes. You’re fine. Just fix the mistake and get some rest. Taking a step back from her desk, she stretched out her arms and lowered her middle, trying to pull out the knots forming in her back.
It’s a mystery… at least a hundred years old, she thought as a shelf full of lab journals came into view. Having pored over some of the journals, she had no doubt about who had written them: they were all hers. Word for word, letter for letter, her scratchy writing had started and ended each page. And there was no mistaking who’d been tearing the corners off the completed pages.
Isla knelt to pull the lab journal from the previous year. She’d need it to re-enter the data that she’d overwritten, and finish the day.
“Details and counts,” she mumbled. “If they’re not exact, then there’s no reason to enter them.” She laid the previous year’s lab journal beside the current one and pinched the bitten corners, fanning them, until she found the date she was looking for.
Running her finger down the page, she came across Nolan’s name. The sight was unexpected and surprising. Bewildered, she brushed her hand over the inky black, checking her handwriting.
I never wrote this. Shaking her head, she studied the handwriting, confirming it, adding certainty, conviction. But of course you did! And it wasn’t just his name, she’d also written his date of birth, and then the date of his death.
Quickly she pulled the journal from the previous year, and turned again to the same month and day. The dusty scent of aged parchment irritated her nose. Again, she found that she’d written Nolan’s name. But there was something else, something different in this lab journal entry: a single letter: “E”.
Isla spent the next ten minutes on the floor of her lab, pulling each of the lab journals, navigating the years, going backward. Each year on Nolan’s birthday, she’d written his name, and the two dates that meant the most to her, but she’d also written a clue. When she pieced the clues together, she came up with a single word: “reanimate”. The word was repeated every ten years.
Isla’s breathing was heavy; thick and congested. Loose pieces of parchment hung in the air, tortured victims of her aggressive search through the old journals. When she stood, she felt the wetness on her cheeks. She’d cried through each year’s revelation. But these weren’t the manic tears of a person losing her mind. No, she had proof of having been here for the last one hundred years. But why were the letters staggered, and what did “reanimate” mean?
Her suspicions blazed. The letters were staggered to keep the obvious from being seen. She’d cautiously sent herself a message from a hundred years ago.
“R-E-A-N-I-M-A-T-E,” she spelled aloud. Her focus turned to the large steel door, standing alone at the back of the lab. She looked at the portal window—a lonely eye, blinking at her as one of the mechanical arms swung by.
“I have to go in there,” she said, her tone flat and exacting. “I have to go in there, and look at the blood vials.” Then her heart fell to the deepest pit in her stomach, as she wondered if she’d had these same revelations before. Maybe a hundred times she’d asked the same questions. And then she wondered whether she’d already been inside the blood vault. Had she already found the answers?
8
“How can this be?” Declan asked, and then immediately clanked his spoon against the bowl, digging for another mouthful. “And what is this?” He lifted his head, grinning, eager to hear the name. Sammi’s heart warmed as she watched Declan devour what she’d given him. She wanted to please him, to give him everything she could. This was their home, and this last month had been like a dream: making love, playing games, and eating all the deliciousness the food dispenser could conjure up for them.
But she could sense that Declan was growing anxious, becoming more curious every day. He wanted to know more about this magical place. He had questions she couldn’t answer. A sour feeling came to her then, and it wasn’t something that she could easily fix. She liked where they were, and didn’t want to change what they had.
Why does he want to know? she wondered, and
then pushed the question out of her head, returning her attention to the far more important task at hand: eating dessert.
“It’s called ice cream, and it’s wonderful, isn’t it?”
Declan kept his eyes on hers, and nodded, agreeing. She loved his eyes. But it was different now, wasn’t it?
We’re bonded. Things are supposed to be different. While Declan had questions, Sammi was content. And this place isn’t so different from the dwelling we would have had at the Commune, is it? She shrugged, and thought of the rule that had been lifted. In fact, to the best of her knowledge, it never existed here at all. Unlike in their Commune, here there was no limit to how long they could try to have a family. And then she wondered when she’d last seen a baby, or even a toddler or a child? Sammi stole a quick glimpse at the lights above the door, but there were no answers waiting for her. The only thing she saw was that it’d be time to go soon; she could feel it.
“What’s this one called?” Declan asked. His words sounded garbled as he swished the ice cream in his mouth. When a chunk of the sweetness fell to his chin, he began to laugh, his expression turning playful.
“What you have is called Rocky Road, and what I have is called Mint Chocolate Chip,” she answered, and then kissed his chin, tasting the chocolaty remains.
She leaned up to his ear, and whispered to him. “Maybe later we can share more than the ice cream?”
Declan slumped back, his lips thinned, replacing his smile. “Are you going to work again?” he asked, but then continued, “When can I leave? And when can I see my family again?” Sammi could feel the edginess, impatience coming off of him like the cold of the ice cream. She set their bowls down and took his face between her hands, shaking her head.
“I don’t know. Not yet, anyway.” She cautiously looked to the lights, but they had nothing to say.
Why can’t he hear them like I do? Why doesn’t he know what to do? She stared, looking for an answer. How many times had he looked? Dozens, and still nothing. She snapped her head back, frustrated by the silence. She glared into his eyes, and saw him retreat. Dropping her hands, she fidgeted with her fingers. Embarrassment rose; she could feel the heat creep up inside her coveralls.
“Declan, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be frustrated,” she said. He nodded. She glimpsed the lights, which flickered in a sequence that she already knew: it was time to work. “I don’t know why you’re not being told what to do, like I am. It’s simple, and the work is simple, and…”
She stopped when he raised his hand. He watched the sequence of lights, and turned back to her.
“I know, Sammi. I just need to know more, and I need to see my family,” he said, and then motioned to the lights, adding, “You better get going… I know you can’t be late.”
Sammi’s heart leaped into her throat. He’d read the lights; he’d heard them like she had. Eyes wide, she turned with a smile toward him. But as quick as the elation came, it was gone. Declan shook his head.
“I still can’t hear them, Sammi. Sorry. But I can recognize some of the sequences. Time for you to go, right?” he asked. She collapsed into his arms, offering no warning, and kissed him hard.
“I can only guess how tired you must be of this room. I just know it will work out. I don’t know how, but it will. Okay?” Declan pulled his head back until their eyes settled on one another.
“Sammi, all I want is you. I’m sorry if I’ve become impatient.”
“But waiting has been fun, right?” she asked, and then brushed her tongue against his in a quick, but gentle kiss. He nodded, laughing.
As she approached the door, Sammi remembered that she had gotten him a gift. It was perfect for their one-month anniversary, celebrating their bond. She ran to the empty wall and pressed her palm firmly until it clicked. From the center emerged a table and chair, not so unlike their desks from their classroom. Declan’s expression told her that he was intrigued.
“You mean we’ve had that in the wall the whole time?” he asked, and then raised his brow as she hurriedly nodded.
“But wait, there’s more. What good is a desk and chair without something to do?” she asked him. Racing to the end of the bed, she reached underneath and pulled out a bag. Sammi pulled out a stack of parchment. The corners were precise and the edges were clean. She watched Declan’s smile draw downward, and for a moment she hesitated. But what she saw wasn’t sadness or anger: it was wonderment. She realized that he’d never seen the likes of this parchment.
“It’s called paper,” she blurted. “It’s the same as our parchment from the Commune, but better. It isn’t soft or gray. And best of all, there’s more of it than you’ll ever be able to use.”
By the time she’d finished, he was already at the desk, running his fingers along the edge. He picked up a single sheet, bringing it to his nose, inhaling the scent with a smile.
“Sammi,” he began, but his words were choked. He cleared his throat, and then placed his hand on hers. “When you died, I participated in your cleaning and passing. In my pocket, I had the piece of writing stone you’d given me. Do you remember that?”
Nodding her head, she pulled his hands together and pressed them to her heart. “I remember that.”
“When you were cleaned and ready for passing, I made a promise that I’d never write again.”
Sammi flinched. Anger came to her, and she squeezed his hands together, shaking her head. “Declan, you don’t get to keep that promise. I’m here, and I’m alive, and…” she started, but then lost her words in the guilt of his decision. “You don’t get to keep that promise! Okay?”
“I know,” he answered with understanding in his eyes and confirmation in his smile. “I’m trying to tell you that I’m going to write. I’m trying to tell you… thank you.”
Sammi slapped his chest, and then moved back to the bag to give him more gifts. “No more writing stones. These are called pens and pencils. No more writing stones. The pencils are the ones that look like wood, and have a kind of writing stone inside them. And these are called index cards. You can write notes on them, instead of using the paper… to help you organize things.”
Sammi felt the snap of Declan’s hand closing on the index cards, pulling them from her grip. Shocked, she looked at him as he turned the cards over in his hands.
“Well, you’re welcome,” she said timidly. “I hope you get some writing done today.”
As she prepared to leave, she felt his touch on her arm. He’d placed the index cards on the desk, and pulled her closer to him.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m just… I’m excited. Thank you again, for thinking of me, and for getting these for me.”
“I love you, Declan,” she answered, kissing him before turning to leave.
“Sammi?”
He was back at the desk, looking down at what she’d brought. When he turned to her, he asked, “Where are my coveralls? The ones from home?” His question stung her. But it wasn’t the question that stung—it was that he still considered their Commune as home. She wanted to correct him. To tell him that this was their home now.
“Why would you want them?” she mocked, and spun around to show off her clean, white coveralls. “Why would you ever want those, instead of these?”
“It’s the writing stone,” he answered, his words were hurried and direct. “The one you gave me that morning, on the day… well, you know. I’d like to write with it a little, before I try to use one of the things you got for me.”
Above her, the lights on the wall played out the sequence from earlier, repeating the instructions for her to go. Sammi’s breath became short; the urge to listen and to leave became stronger.
“I’m sorry, I have to go to work,” she said, hearing the shakiness in her voice. “I know this must seem silly, but we’re never late.” Pointing to the bed, she motioned to the drawers where their coveralls were stored. “Check in there, okay?” The lights played back faster. Sammi’s heart raced, as though trying to match the
sequence. Her reaction felt forced, artificial, and a strange sense came over her: fear.
******
Declan said nothing as he watched Sammi stammer in front of the door, pointing to the drawers under their bed. She spun around once, nodded to the lights, and then did a quick spin back and waved her hand. When she was ready, she paused once more in front of the door where bands of lights grew from gray to white, rapidly flashing twice before the door opened. A rush of air flowed in as Sammi left, washing over his face just as the sounds of activity gripped his ears. Footsteps were the first thing he thought of. Not laughing, or talking—just footsteps.
Declan stretched his neck as far as he could, trying to see down the corridor while the door remained open. The steady sound of marching feet came from the rows of people walking past. None seemed interested in looking at him; instead, they kept their heads straight, firm, and their eyes glued to the lights on the walls. And like so many times before, what he saw left him feeling unsettled and wary.
When the door closed, so too did his concern. Maybe it was just paranoia—that is what he wanted to think, anyway.
Well, that’s going to change, he decided while searching the drawers for his coveralls. Near the bottom, beneath the iridescent whites, he found his old clothes. They stood out against the others; a blemish next to clothes so clean. Was that all he was? Was that all that their Commune was: a blemish? He couldn’t help but compare this place—this seemingly perfect society—to his home.
Searching through his coveralls, he found Sammi’s writing stone. With it he found her lock of hair. A twinge of guilt pressed him for having left it packed away in a drawer. On the day of her cleaning and passing, he’d promised to forever hold onto Sammi’s lock of hair. Without thinking, he now kissed it, held it tightly in his hand. It was only sentimental, but he somehow felt a little more whole.
Blinded By Sight (Gray Series Book 3) Page 6