by Britney King
“We just want you to be happy.”
Breathe.
“Are you eating? You look thin…”
“I’m fine, mom.”
“Are you feeling all right? You’re home early…”
“I said I was fine.”
“Good. There’s something I need to talk to you about, actually.”
I plop down on the new ugly sofa that has replaced my old minimalist one. Emily would have loved that couch. This one she’d set on fire before she let it touch her precious skin.
“Your father and I have someone we want you to meet.”
“No.”
“He’s in the middle of a campaign, Elliot. We don’t ask you for much. But this—this is important.”
I choke out a laugh. And before I know it, I can’t stop. “You’re not using me as a prop, mom. That ship has sailed, I’m afraid.”
“You just have to have an open mind about these things, Elliot. You’re forty-one years old. You can’t stay single forever.”
I stare at the wall. “I’m not single.”
“Emily is not in love with you,” she says. “You have to move on.”
“Stop.”
“You know how people talk, son. Morals may be more relaxed than ever. But not where politics are concerned. We can’t have people suggesting that you’re a failure.”
On the second day of my mother’s occupation, my father drops by. It’s unexpected, although I should have seen it coming. Nothing my father does is without a plan. He wants to know how the deal is coming, and he says he has someone he wants me to meet.
“We have reservations downstairs in fifteen minutes. Go put on a suit,” he says, and I feel the rage building. I thought he’d meant in the future.
“I’m not up for entertaining. Look at me.”
“I am looking at you. My guess is it was the transients. We really need to tighten our laws on panhandling. I say we buy ’em all bus tickets. Let Houston have them. Better yet, send them to California. The weather’s nicer there. Get dressed, Elliot,” he says.
So I do. In slacks and a button-down, I am by far the most underdressed person at the table.
Friends of my parents join us. Unsurprisingly, their daughter comes too. Shockingly, she is single.
Her father wants to know about the formula I am selling. My mother does all the talking. I spend my time intermittently checking Instalook. My parents apologize for my rudeness in a way that doesn’t sound like an apology at all.
Elliot’s a busy man, they say. In demand, they say. You know how it goes.
The fifth, or maybe it’s the fifteenth time I check, my heart nearly stops. She accepted the friend request. Which means my parents are right—I’m about to get a whole lot busier.
First, I have to get my mother out of my apartment. The best way to do that: Invite their friend’s daughter up for a drink, which is synonymous for sex. It’s a risky move, shitting where you eat. But Emily has just posted a family shot from the beach, so what else am I supposed to do?
She accepts my invitation for a drink. She doesn’t believe in sex before marriage.
But she believes in blow jobs. And that’s even better.
Chapter Thirteen
Vanessa
Maybe I’ve been here for five days. Maybe seven. It could be ten. I have no way of knowing. It’s worse than that, though. They stopped my vitamins. There is no pleasure, no happiness to be found in a place like this. Withdrawal is something fierce.
Mostly, I pass the hours in a fetal position. In between puking my guts up, the chills and the cold sweats, I manage on occasion to almost sleep. If you can call it that. Maybe I’m just hallucinating.
I have to get up. If I lie here, I’ll rot. If I lie here, I’ll lose my mind. Using the cushion on the wall, I pull myself up to a standing position. I can feel eyes on me. I know they are watching. My legs nearly buckle under the weight of the rest of me. Not that there is an excess of that. My ribs show through the thin gown. The twelve-by-twelve padded room has forced me to be frail and thin to match. It’s amazing how fast it happens.
I lock my knees in place. They continue to shake.
I refuse to let them see me struggle. Step by step, I push myself to walk in circles around the small space. I count eleven “laps” total before I have to lie down. My head is swimming, and my vision blurs. I need water— something I thought I’d never say again after the pool incident.
Mostly, I pass the time by thinking of Matthew. Not that I allow myself long. Small increments, one or two memories at most. You can’t think about the things that hurt and expect to make it out of here alive.
No one around here seems to know anything for sure, but I’ve heard stories. The members who spend their time ruminating over what they’re missing tend to be the first to disappear. Weakness is being trained out of us. To show anything other than compliance can literally mean life or death. What kind of death, I can’t say.
There are rumors about what happens when the panel deems there is no hope for a member’s reprogramming, but nothing that any of us can go so far as to prove. I’ve heard different accounts: death by lethal injection, hangings, a plastic bag or a belt left in a cell, the slitting of a wrist. Some say they starve you. Others swear they’ve been tested by a knife left at their bedside—they say they let you decide. Not that it matters how it’s handled. Like I said, the weak die. One way or another.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“I failed,” I say to her. My voice hides lies well. The truth is, any minor infraction can land you here. For women in the congregation, it can be something as minor as needing a makeover or as major as deception. New Hope does not take betrayal of its principles lightly. They specialize in making examples out of traitors.
This is why during shock therapy there was an audience watching behind the glass. This was why during “water therapy” there were women seated by the pool.
I study the woman opposite me as she jots down notes. It’s nice to finally see another person, even if it has to be her. A man opens the door, and she looks up, notices me staring. He mentions a deli nearby, asks if she’s up for lunch. I don’t recognize his face, but then, why would I? Here, women are separated from the men, so if I hadn’t heard stories, I wouldn’t even know there was such a place for reforming the opposite sex.
“Failure can often be avoided,” she says finally. There is a bright green smoothie just behind her, just out of reach. I’ve never seen something so colorful. She notices me staring.
“Hungry?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think you failed, Vanessa?”
“I don’t know,” I say. It’s easier to lie if you’ve just offered a bit of truth.
She lets out a long sigh, removes her glasses, and places them on the desk. It’s all for show. She doesn’t need the glasses. She hides behind them. They make her feel smart. Anyone within New Hope—anyone with her status—is eligible for vision correction. It isn’t a choice. “Let me just say, as your advisor, it would be beneficial if you were to cooperate with us.”
“I told you already. I don’t know the answer, Mrs. Banks. I don’t know why the assignment failed.”
“Please,” she counters. “Call me Ann.”
She jots something else down. I lean forward to see if I can get a better look. Not that I care. I want to know what day it is. I want to know how long I’ve been here.
Finally, she stops and looks up. “Are you suggesting the intelligence was bad?”
I know better. “I’m not suggesting anything.”
“Exactly,” she says. “You’re not giving us much to go on. That’s why you’re still here.”
I notice the files on her desk. I force myself to focus on the fact that each one represents a real person. I’m not supposed to care. And maybe I don’t. It’s easy to forget about humanity in here. They can take a lot from me. They can take everything, strip it away layer by layer. Or all at once. But if I let them
take that, I’m afraid there will be nothing left.
“How would you say your reprogramming is going?”
“Good.” My voice comes out mild. Weak. I clear my throat. “Good.”
“So you understand that New Hope can not allow for this kind of—” She glances down at her desk and then back at me. “For this kind of mediocrity.”
“I understand.”
“And what do you have to say for yourself?”
“Nothing.”
“What would you like the leaders to know?”
“That I wish it had gone differently.”
“We wish it had gone differently, too. But the good news is the rejuvenation center is here for times like these. We’re here to help. You’re in the right place, Vanessa.”
“I’m thirsty,” I say. “May I have some water?”
“Not yet. We need to get a few things squared away first…”
My throat is so dry. It burns.
“How would you rate your sexual prowess with women?”
“My prowess?”
“How experienced are you?”
“I’ve completed several assignments in the past,” I tell her, pointing to my file. “I’m sure it’s in there.”
“Sometimes it’s nice to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”
I sit up straighter. Arch my back. “I would say…I’m very good.”
“So you understand women? You understand their wants and their desires?”
“For the most part.”
“That doesn’t instill much confidence in me, Mrs. Bolton.”
I don’t respond. There’s nothing to say.
Mrs. Ann Banks cocks her head. “I think what the panel…what the leaders are going to want to see…is proof.”
Two aides wheel me down a long corridor when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. I do a double-take because at first, I don’t recognize the woman as myself. Her hair is too matted, her eyes too sunken, her face too gaunt. They don’t tell me where they are taking me. I do not have the strength to ask.
I have survived on lettuce and three ounces of water for at least three days. I count the days by counting the meals. Three trays a day.
I’ve received nine. It’s possible they are messing with me. They do that sometimes, to keep us on our toes. Particularly the Sirens.
We come to an abrupt stop. A door is buzzed open. One of the aides pushes me through.
“So glad you could join us, Mrs. Bolton.”
All eyes are on me. I count the women. Twelve in total, not including the staff.
“Welcome to circle time,” the aide says.
“Ladies, help me to welcome Mrs. Bolton,” Mrs. Jane says. I’m familiar with her. She’s one of the nicer ones, which doesn’t say much.
“Welcome, Mrs. Bolton,” they chant in unison.
Mrs. Jane asks me to stand. “You aren’t an invalid,” she says. “If you’re well enough to be here, you’re well enough to stand.”
I brace myself against the wheelchair and attempt to push myself up. My elbows wobble. They give as soon as any weight is placed on them. Eventually, I fall back into the chair. I have walked in circles inside the padded room. I have tried jumping jacks, leg lifts, anything to keep up strength. Maybe none of it matters.
Maybe this time they beat me.
“Stand, I said,” Mrs. Jane orders.
I try again. This time I lock my knees and squeeze my thighs together. My calves burn. Everything feels like it’s on fire.
“Now there, you see? This is what true willpower looks like ladies. Willpower is very important in upholding our code of ethics, wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Bolton?”
I nod my head.
“Willpower is essential to everything, even when —especially when—the going gets tough. Is it not?”
“It is,” I say.
“God is going to test us. The devil is going to test us. But God is stronger, is he not?”
“He is.”
“Very well.”
My left ankle buckles, but I catch myself on the chair. No one moves to help me. They know better.
Mrs. Jane presses her lips to one another. “We thought you might do us the pleasure of reciting the code of honor.”
This is a test. I know the words by heart.
“One,” I say. “Seek mastery in all areas.”
“Good,” she says. “Now go on.”
“Two: Never ignore a friend in need.”
“Three: Submit to a cause greater than oneself.”
“Four: Remain obedient to furthering the mission.” I pause. My legs tremble.
“Keep going,” Mrs. Jane says impatiently. “You haven’t forgotten, have you?”
“Five: Never abandon a group to which you owe your success. Six, serve your leaders with unwavering devotion. Seven: Your honor is more important than your life.” My voice gives.
Mrs. Jane nods at me to keep going.
“Eight: Never deny your spouse what is rightfully theirs. Strength is found in submission.” My voice cracks. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. The words won’t come, but they’re there. Right on the tip of my tongue. “Nine,” I finally manage. “Family is the cornerstone of everything. Care for them faithfully.”
I collapse onto the floor. Two men come and haul me up by my armpits. I don’t stop speaking this time. “Ten: the world is governed by appearances. Act accordingly. Eleven: Cleanse your home. Purify your heart.” I don’t even know if actual words are coming out. I don’t know if anyone can hear me. I keep going anyway. “Twelve: your body is your temple. Treat it as such. Thirteen: keep counsel; guard your reputation with your life. Fourteen: Never fear harming another with just cause.”
My head is spinning. I am going to throw up. I am going to pass out. “Fifteen: seek like-minded individuals to walk the path of greatness.”
The room goes dark. I say the words, if only to myself.
“Sixteen: Strive for excellence at all costs.”
The unexplainable is always easier to believe than the truth.
I am wheeled into a room with a table and chairs and nothing else. Sitting at the table, hands folded, is my sponsor, Melanie. Adam must have told her I was here. Only he could authorize clearance to let her in.
“Oh, V,” she cries, taking one look at me. “What have you done now?”
I don’t answer. I’m still groggy.
“Why couldn’t you have just given the damn speech?”
“I got drunk.” I don’t know how much she knows. I do know they are monitoring our conversation.
Her face falls, but she recovers quickly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to pretend anymore, V.” She shakes her head as her eyes scan me from head to toe. She knows. “I’ve come to help you.”
I offer the answer that will help me most, “I’m fine.”
“The Siren program was my idea.”
I should be devastated—offended even. Melanie is supposed to be my friend. But I’m not either of those things because we both know we aren’t friends. Also, she’s lying. The Siren program was around long before her.
“I don’t understand.”
“The assignment…it was my idea.”
I fold my hands and place them on the table, mirroring her.
“Marcia Louis is in a fantastic position at a pharmaceutical company. New Hope needed an “in.” She was supposed to be it.”
I realize why she’s here. If I admit that I could have succeeded, they will know for sure I am lying about what took place that night. “I’m not going to try again, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“And why not?”
“She wasn’t into me. I don’t think she’s into women at all. But if you want to test it, you’re going to have to send someone else.”
“You know that’s not your call, V.”
“I can save you the trouble. If you give me the assignment, I’ll just end up here again.”
“That’s not very optimist
ic of you.”
I pivot. I’m interested to see how much she knows. “Who is handling my clients? While I’m in here?”
“Abigail.”
“Abigail?” This seems unlikely. I don’t know a lot about her, but I’m pretty sure she’s a bit old to play the parts I play.
“Don’t think too much. Just accept the punishment and do better next time.”
“Melanie,” I say, reaching for her arm. “I need you to do something for me. I’ll do whatever you want, if you can do this one thing…”
“What?”
“I need to get a green Hot Wheels truck to Matty.”
“Please. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. I’ve never asked you for anything before”.
“I’d have to ask Adam.”
I tighten my grip on her wrist. “Mel. Please. Gina takes him to the park on Tuesdays at 10:00 a.m. All you have to do is drop it by.”
She scoots away, removing herself from my grasp. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I don’t believe her, so I say, “If you wanted to be smart about things, you wouldn’t assign me or anyone else to Marcia Louis. There’s someone else…”
“Someone else?”
“Competition…someone she’s interested in. Someone she pointed out to me. A business associate, I think.”
Melanie eyes me skeptically. “She pointed him out? Just like that?”
“I think he’s a better target.”
He’s poison. He’s a heartless bastard.
Her lips press to one another, forming a hard line. “I’m sure you’re wrong about that. If a better target existed, that would have been your assignment. Adam wouldn’t make such a mistake.”
I nod. If she only knew what Adam was really capable of.
Chapter Fourteen
Elliot
It’s a shame that I have to watch my back. I don’t know who to trust, but I can’t say this is anything new. Also, liars really should deal in cash. That’s what springs to mind when I spot the familiar slope of her shoulders. Someone should probably tell her that, and I see no reason why that person shouldn’t be me.