Antitype

by M. D. Waters

  Gabriel lifts a glass of champagne to toast. “Congratulations, Dad. You’ve added yet another strapping young man to the family.”

  Everyone adds their cheer with a raised glass.

  Everyone but me. “What’s the plan now?” I ask Dad.

  Dad chuckles as the clinking of glasses comes to a standstill. His gaze jumps around the table, while his smile holds perfectly still. His attention ends on me. “Always so eager to get to the point.”

  I lean back in my chair and hook an elbow over the back. “Come on, Dad. You’ve reached your quota. You’re going to announce it at some point tonight anyway. May as well get it over with now.”

  Dad bites the end off a piece of asparagus, chews, then grins. “All right.” His tone can only be classified as overexcited. “You caught me. I’ve filed for a divorce.”

  No one looks surprised, least of all me. Rebecca refuses to tear her gaze away from her plate, where she pushes three bites of chicken breast around with a fork.

  What Dad says next does surprise me. “Marco and I spoke. He’s decided to take Annabelle now that Hannah’s been declared unfit for marriage.”

  I scoot away from the table, the legs of my chair vibrating loudly on the tile. “Declared unfit? When?” Last I spoke to Updike, he was still looking into the matter but had nothing concrete to report.

  “Not long after we last spoke about her condition.” He takes a bite of his chicken and chews slowly. Attentively. Moans and says, “This dinner is wonderful.”

  I feel sick. He’s completely given up on Hannah. His own daughter. “I have an early morning,” I tell the table, throwing my cloth napkin on my full plate. “Thank you for dinner.”

  Gabriel follows me into the hallway. “Hold up,” he whispers.

  I slow but don’t stop completely. “What is it?”

  “Let me take your meetings tomorrow. I know you have a couple big ones, but I’ve been getting myself acquainted with everything, and I think I can do it. No, I know I can.”

  I stop. Swivel around. “What’s this about? I thought you had some end-of-summer thing tomorrow with friends.”

  “I’ll cancel. It’s no big deal.”

  I still don’t understand, and I’m as curious as hell about why Gabriel would suddenly give up his free time to take my workload for a day. “Why would you do this?”

  His eyes lower to the beige carpet. “You’ve been tied up and distant for two days, and I know it’s because you’re trying to fix this Hannah situation. The more work keeps you busy, the longer it’ll take. I want Hannah out and well as much as you do.” He waves a hand toward the dining room. “Dad’s clearly moved on.” He meets my eyes. “You think you can help her?”

  Aaron appears around the corner, his expression tight. “What’s this noise about my sister?”

  New cracks fissure through my foundation. He looks so much like Hannah. Black hair, pale blue eyes. He lacks her experience, though, despite being two years older. She sees things, has seen things, he’ll never understand.

  Gabe grips my shoulder. “I got this. And I’ve got your back tomorrow. You do what you need to, all right?”

  I let out a breath and study him. He really believes he can do this. “You sure? Dad’ll kill us both if anything goes wrong.”

  He grins. “It’s just a couple client meetings. I gotta get my feet wet sometime.”

  I nod. “Yeah, okay, but if anything happens, you call me. I’ll come right in.”

  Aaron stands beside us, arms folded. Thick waves of hair lay over his forehead, nearly reaching his eyes. “Anything I can help with? I have an exam tomorrow, but I can reschedule.”

  “No, don’t. Everything else goes on as planned. Let me worry about Hannah.” I grip his arm. “Gabe will fill you in on the details.”

  • • •

  Bridget Schwab, my mother, teleports directly into my apartment. The open floor plan still smells of the fresh white paint that covers the walls and columns forming makeshift corners to the living room. Opaque shades cordon off the early morning, lighting the twelve narrow floor-to-ceiling windows.

  She stares at the empty space, combing fingers through her shoulder-length dark blond hair. She angles a brow at me. “Usually, when you invite a guest to your new place, certain expectations need to be followed. Like providing furniture.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  Her smile lights the brown in her eyes. “I’m just happy you called. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  I laugh. “If I were?”

  “I’d talk to Henry,” she says matter-of-factly.

  I nod. Her husband is nothing like Dad. Henry’s taken very good care of my mother since marrying her twenty years ago. They haven’t had any children but seem happy. I just wish Henry didn’t move her all over the world the way he does. He has a lot of family money and gets bored very easily. I guess I should count my blessings. He held to his marriage vows.

  I nod at a spot beside a three-quarter wall separating the kitchen from the living room. “Sit with me? I have something to tell you.”

  We sit with our backs to the wall, Mom’s skirt tucked tight under her, legs bent toward me and ankles crossed. She gives me devoted attention, which makes it hard to look at her.

  “You can’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you,” I start.

  “They’d have to torture it out of me, and even then I wouldn’t tell.”

  I take only a single heartbeat before saying, “I’ve been working with the resistance.”

  Mom blinks twice, then shifts her gaze away. “I think I’ll stand for this.”

  I rest my elbows on upturned knees, watching her as she paces in front of me. “It was meant to be a means to an end. Get Hannah and the girls out and across the border to somewhere safe. I tried getting out a few months ago, but it isn’t as easy as I thought. As it turns out, I’m no longer sure I want that anymore. That, and I need their help now more than ever.”

  She pauses to look down at me. A war rages in her eyes. I’m walking a dangerous line. Working with the resistance can get me killed. Working for Dad, maintaining a public profile while doing so, can get me killed. But if anyone will understand where I’m coming from, it’s her.

  “I need your help too,” I say.

  “Name it.”

  “I’m getting the girls out, and it doesn’t look like Hannah will be able to take care of them. The resistance puts the rescued girls into adoptive homes in the west. I don’t want them split up.”

  “What’s wrong with Hannah?” She pales as I explain and returns to sit beside me. When I’m finished, she says, “My God, Noah. What can I do?”

  “Help me find them a home. You or Henry must know people who would be willing to take all three girls.”

  She nibbles her lip, nodding slowly. “Let me make some calls. We know a couple in Oregon. Henry will be happy to help.” She cuts her eyes at me. “There’s no love lost between him and your father. Whatever he can do to slight James, he will.”

  “Just don’t tell him about—”

  Her hands fly up to stop me. “I won’t. That’s your secret to tell. One you shouldn’t tell another living soul.”

  I nod. “When will you find out? The raid is early next month.”

  “That’s not a lot of time.”

  “I know.”

  She sighs. “I’ll have something concrete by the end of the week.”

  We stand and hug. My chin rests perfectly on the crown of her head. “Thanks, Mom.”

  She looks up and pats my cheek. “Promise you’ll be careful.”

  “Promise.”

  • • •

  I teleport into the underground resistance hub. I don’t know its exact location, but I know it’s under Baltimore, Maryland, and part of the mid-Atlantic region. The room is small and holds twelve telepo
rter tubes in three rows of four. Sentry guards in resistance standard-issue black sit on high stools bookending a silver door. They stand as I appear, arcing rifles over their shoulders on the off chance I’m an unexpected enemy.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Updike is expecting me,” I say.

  One elbows the square switch that opens the door with a hydraulic hiss. I pass into the boxlike stone hallways. A chill belies the late summer several feet over our heads, and the air smells stale.

  Two corridors later, tapping feet precede a friendly voice. “Noah.”

  I pause for Dr. Sonya Toro, who smiles and jogs to a stop in front of me. She’s a tall woman about my age, dark-skinned, and the closest friend I’ve got around here. We joined up at roughly the same time but come from very different backgrounds. She grew up in California and joined because she heard the resistance was short on medical help.

  Sonya twists her long black hair at the nape of a slim neck. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

  It’s hard not to return her bright smile. She’s a very attractive woman. Full lips, large eyes, high cheekbones encased in delicate bone structure. “I’ve been busy.”

  “I heard. I know about Hannah. The lieutenant colonel had me look over her records.”

  I can’t look at her anymore. My heartbeat floods my ears, drowning out the sounds of passing conversations and boot steps. “And?”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers, then takes my hand. Her fingers are warm where they apply pressure. “They’ve diagnosed her with dissociative identity disorder. It’s extremely rare.”

  I give her a blank stare, trying to understand, while my heart begins a stuttered pound. “Dissa-what?”

  “Multiple personality disorder.”

  The compression building behind my eyes and throbbing at my temples is almost too much. “Oh my God.”

  “It explains her lapses in memory. Why she’d be fine one minute and confused the next. Easily distracted. Daydreaming, even.” She squeezes my hand. “The prognosis isn’t good.”

  A tall figure stops beside us. Nate Updike stares at Sonya. “You told him?”

  She nods. “What can I do?” she asks me.

  She’s sweet, and I wish I had an answer to that. To Nate, I ask, “Is there a way to get her out? Somewhere where I can make the decisions for her medical care? I don’t want my dad in charge.”

  “I can make some calls,” Sonya tells Nate. “With the right documents and signatures, we can get her moved fairly quickly.”

  Updike nods. “Do it.”

  With one last smile at me, Sonya leaves us alone.

  “Thank you,” I tell Nate.

  He frowns. “I wish I could do more. I’m sorry.” He claps my shoulder. “You look like you could use a drink. Come on.”

  I follow him to his office, where he closes us inside a plain room with gray metal furnishings. Most are pretty battered and used. Hand-me-downs from however many generations. A single personal item hangs in a frame on the wall. A photo of a young woman holding a young girl. Both have dark hair and olive-toned skin.

  Nate hands me a glass with a shot of clear alcohol. Vodka, according to the sharp smell. “I’m going to tell you something I don’t share with a lot of people,” he says, then props a hip on the front of his desk. He nods at the photo. “I do this for them.”

  “Wife and daughter?” I guess.

  He nods. “Angela and Whitney. Whit was only three when that was taken.” A black cloud passes over his eyes and seeps down into his body, turning him rigid. “A couple months after I took that picture, they were killed fighting men hired to capture fertile women and return them to the east for breeding.” His eyes pinch shut. “I wasn’t there, and I can only imagine how hard Angela fought back after seeing—” His chin lowers; his lips pout. “Anyway. I joined up right after that.”

  He looks up to where I stand in stunned silence. “Joining the resistance wasn’t casual dinner conversation. It isn’t for a lot of us. We’re all driven by the same intense need to protect. To do something good. To do something that matters. We just have different stories. Some worse than others.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because you’re one of us, whether you choose to believe that or not. But I was wrong to try pushing you into this. I need you in the game one hundred percent, and you won’t be if you’re still hung up on family obligations. So take all the time you need.” He taps his glass to mine and swallows his shot. “We’ll still be here for you when you’re ready.”

  SEPTEMBER

  Declan

  Dad claps and shakes my shoulder. “Happy birthday, son.”

  The living room and outside patio fill with raised glasses and birthday wishes. My cheeks warm, but I nod and smile. “Thanks, Dad.”

  The party resumes, conversations picking up where they left off.

  “Do you like your present?” Dad asks.

  I look at the set of sculptures. An abstract family carved into stone. Granite from the look of it. One is a husband, the other a mother with child. They’re extremely heavy, and not exactly the trip to Italy I’d hoped he’d sanction today. I’ve done everything he’s asked and more.

  I lift the mother half of the sculpture and turn her over in my hands. “They’re gr—”

  The bottom-heavy rock falls from my hands and shatters the glass table, startling the room. Shards scatter all over the carpet. I bend quickly to pick up the sculpture and nick my middle finger.

  Dad retrieves and inspects the stone, while I apply pressure to my small cut with my thumb. With the lift of his brows, lines crease from one temple to the other. “Well, that was money well spent. Not a scratch.”

  “Sorry about the table,” I say, moving for the housekeeper.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Dad pulls me aside and sets the stone on another table. A waitress passes by with champagne flutes and he takes two. “To you, and the performance you gave me over the summer.”

  Tension flowers open in my chest and breathes in relief. I smile. “Thank you.”

  “I have to admit, I didn’t expect you to do so well.”

  “Despite what you think, I’ve actually paid attention over the years.”

  He holds up a hand, palm facing me, his mouth set in a line. “I didn’t expect Jacob to do so well either.”

  It’s as if I’ve dropped the second sculpture right into my stomach. “You’re actually considering . . . Dad,” I gust out on a breath.

  What am I doing? Fighting for a company I don’t want? Because this no longer feels like fighting to keep Jacob out of it. I killed myself this summer to prove my worth. For my father. A man lost his restaurant. Jacob and I sacrificed what little of our friendship there was to lose.

  Dad sighs and glances around. He lowers his voice to say, “You’re the man I wanted. But Jacob’s the man I want. I’m sorry, son.”

  He pats my arm and shoulders past me.

  I can’t move. Can’t breathe. I’m an iceberg breaking from a centuries-old home in a calm sea. My arm falls and my fingers let loose the full glass of champagne. The flute thunks on the carpet.

  I lost everything.

  Mitch appears to my right, thick brows pinched. “He didn’t choose you, did he?”

  I shake my head, my jaw clenched too tight to respond any other way. My body temperature rises and my tense muscles vibrate more with every passing second. I need to sink my fist into something solid.

  Mitch glances around the room. “You know what would make you feel better?”

  “Jacob,” I say, following his train of thought. I have frustrations like I’ve never experienced before, and I know just where they should land. That motherfucker played dirty. Why shouldn’t I, now that I have nothing left to protect? “Where is he?”

  Ella appears behind Mitch, apparently having heard every word. “I
saw him go upstairs right before the toast.”

  Mitch slaps my shoulder and nods toward the staircase. “Give him a good welcome-to-the-company greeting for both of us. Unless you want some help?”

  “Fuck no. He’s mine.”

  He nods. “Want us to pack you a bag or anything? You’ll need to leave right after. You can stay with us.”

  “No, but I might take you up on that offer. Dad’s going to kick me out for this.”

  Ella smiles. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you need.”

  “Go,” Mitch says. “Enjoy.”

  Several guests try stopping me with birthday wishes as I walk past, but my rage is too focused. I can’t hear anything other than the heartbeat thrumming past my ears. I think Dad calls my name, but I can’t be sure.

  I don’t remember making it up the stairs, or how many steps I take down the hallway until sounds finally start to register. Familiar sounds. It’s the ball all over again. Muffled cries. Sobbed pleas. Cursed threats.

  Each step forward lengthens in stride until I’m running into my home office. My personal space. The last thing I expect to ever see behind that door is a woman bent over my desk. She’s one of the waitresses from downstairs, her little red dress hiked up to her waist. Black eyeliner smudges her tear-stained cheeks. Blood leaks from the corner of her mouth.

  And Jacob . . . He’s raping her.

  I’m too late this time.

  “Help me,” she cries, waking me up.

  The rage burning inside me doubles. Triples. The room blurs as my attention zeroes in on the bastard whom I can’t allow into my company. I won’t let him tarnish my name. My reputation.

  Jacob doesn’t see me until it’s too late. I yank him away from the girl by the hair. She yelps and I’m vaguely aware that I’m yelling at her to get out. To find Mitch. He’ll take care of her. He’s the only one I trust.