by Caela Carter
I can’t stop staring at his beard.
His head is completely bald, so the lights reflect off it. His eyes are pale blue like the sky in the middle of the day when the sun is blocking out most of its color. His skin is pale, almost like he could belong Inside. And his beard—which curls across his face from ear to ear, over his chin and above his upper lip—is yellow. It’s a shade of yellow I haven’t seen before except for one place: my own head.
It makes me want to hop off this table and pull a chair over in front of him, and stand on it, and take a bit of my hair between my fingers and pull it away from my head and hold it up against his chin to see how close the color really is.
I watch the beard open and close as Uncle Alan takes a big breath and comes into the gloriously bright Doctor Room.
“Zylynn,” he says. That’s all. He’s staring at me. I’m staring at his beard.
The room is so still I start to get itchy. Finally I say “yes” because I just have to get through this one thing, then I can ask to go home.
“I haven’t seen you since you were—” He holds his hands only about a foot apart. “I haven’t seen you since my sister . . . since Tessie—”
“I know.” Louis’s voice is suddenly loud and between us.
Uncle Alan turns to Louis where he sits in one of the chairs next to the bed and the words run over and over in my head. I haven’t seen you since Tessie . . . I haven’t seen you since Tessie . . .
Tessie . . . Tessie . . . Tessie . . .
Was he talking to me? It sounded like it. Was Uncle Alan saying he’s seen me before somehow?
Tessie . . . Tessie . . . Tessie . . .
Why does that sound so familiar?
“I didn’t think I’d ever get to . . .” Uncle Alan is looking at Louis now, his words coming choppy and staticky out of his mouth.
“I know, I know,” Louis says again.
Then, suddenly, everyone is crying. Louis is crying and clutching Uncle Alan, their backs jerking as they take loud breaths in between sobs, Charita is mumbling into a tissue in her chair while black tears run over her cheeks, and I’ve never seen so many people cry and I’ve never seen any man who is so big cry and I’ve never been in a room like this and
Tessie . . . Tessie . . . Tessie . . .
And, and, and I’m not afraid of Uncle Alan. I’m really not. His beard is my color. His eyes are so kind. His office is so bright. But I’m afraid that I’m not afraid because he’s on the Outside in Darkness where there are Liars and everything gets twisted in my brain and twisted in my brain and twisted in my brain until
Tessie . . . Tessie . . . Tessie . . .
Until, then, something leaks over my cheeks and I’m crying too and I know I’ve cried before but I think I must have been very small because I don’t remember it feeling like this, this wet on my cheeks, this gooey in my nose, this loud in my chest, this exhausting in my brain so
Tessie . . . Tessie . . . Tessie . . .
Charita stands to hand me the box of tissues and when I put my hand out for one I think she thinks I’m reaching for her or maybe I am reaching for her because then she’s on the table next to me and my head is on her shoulder and her arm is squeezing me and it’s like she doesn’t care that tears and snot are spilling all over her T-shirt and Louis and Uncle Alan are still holding each other and I don’t know why I’m crying but maybe
Tessie . . . Tessie . . . Tessie . . .
I’m crying because I want to know why I’m crying and I want to know what crying hard feels like and if the Darkness can make me cry then maybe it can also make me laugh and if it can I want to know that and I want to know more about these people like why Louis’s eyes look like mine and why Uncle Alan has my hair on his chin and why I like Charita best even though she has nothing of mine and
Tessie . . . Tessie . . . Tessie . . .
It’s scary because I’m not supposed to want to know anything about anything.
Curiosity is leaking out my eyes.
It feels like we stop crying all at once and everyone takes a huge breath. The three of them sputter into a short burst of laughter and I wonder how they do it and if laughing could be so close to crying.
When Charita gets up, I lie back on the table, even though no one told me to. I take another deep breath.
I never knew crying would feel this good. Or having cried. I can’t believe it. How relaxed my shoulders are. How loose my joints are. My arms and legs feel like jelly. My heart is slow and steady.
So when Louis sits down next to Charita, and Uncle Alan opens the folder and smiles at me, I feel that pinch in my cheek again.
“How old are you now, Zylynn?”
“Twelve,” I say. “Thirteen in four days.”
My voice sounds more like my own than it has in a long, long time. Or, maybe, ever.
Uncle Alan does the same things as Brother Tomlinkin with the blood and the headphones and the hammer that doesn’t hurt. He asks a lot of questions and I answer them all. And not because Louis and Charita said I have to. Only because I’m so relaxed I’m not thinking.
When I’m done, they ask me to go sit back in the waiting room. I hop off the table and leave the little room with the bright lamps. The door closes behind me.
Then I realize I don’t know what a waiting room is.
I freeze with the door to my back and then I hear Uncle Alan heave a huge sigh. “Well,” I hear him say. “I don’t know why I think this but something in my gut tells me she’s going to be OK. She’s a tough cookie.”
Charita is crying again. “Those bruises!” she says. “All over her.”
“Yeah,” Uncle Alan says. “But they’ll heal. They already are. She’s malnourished. There might be some more news when we get the blood work back from the lab. She’s probably anemic from the lack of good food, which means she bruises easily . . . I’m not saying those bruises are the normal wear and tear of childhood . . . they’re . . . awful . . . just . . . I was dreading worse.”
They’re talking about me. This is kind of like when the words sneak into the Pink Stripes Room but also kind of not like that because I could walk away this time but my feet don’t move.
“Healthy food, lots of food, a multivitamin, a calcium supplement, and a steady routine will go a long way,” Uncle Alan says. “I found a specialist for you guys. Here, take her card. Therapy will be a priority, a big one, probably for the rest of her life.”
Therapy (n.): the treatment of disease or disorders, as by some remedial, rehabilitating, or curative process
Another one I didn’t know that I didn’t really know.
“Of course,” Charita says.
“But she, this therapist, says not yet. Let her get used to things at home first. Spend as much time as a family as possible. You should call the therapist soon, though. She’ll have some tips for you two.”
“Thanks,” Louis says.
“Really, nourishment will do a whole lot of good for her now,” Uncle Alan says. “We start there. It’s going to take time, but it’s going to be OK.”
“It’s going to be OK,” Louis says, his voice barely a whisper.
Then there’s a hand on the doorknob and I scurry down the hall. I don’t think they catch me.
When we’re back in the car—Louis behind the steering wheel, Charita next to him, me in the seat behind her—I see her squeeze his hand and nod.
“So, Zylynn, do you want to tell me where it is you’d like to go now?”
I stare at him in the little mirror over his head and my heart hammers in my chest: Home, home, home . . .
But I’m still thinking Tessie . . . Tessie . . . Tessie . . .
Why is that word sticking to me like too-long hair after a sweaty Exercise?
Louis is still talking. “Grandma and Grandpa will be happy to stay at our house all day, so we can keep this little outing going,” he says.
Home. Take me home. That’s what I’m supposed to say. That’s what Father would want me to say.
>
Something is sad about thinking that, even though it’s what I want.
It is. I promise.
“I . . . Will you . . . Can we . . . Can I . . .”
I’m going to say it. I know I’m going to say it.
But then Charita interrupts me and says, “Or maybe we should go to lunch first? After we eat, you can tell us what you were thinking of.”
I know I should ask them to take me back to the compound right now. I don’t deserve another meal. My stomach folds in on itself. If I say “home” I won’t eat for a long, long time. I skipped breakfast for Uncle Alan.
“Lunch,” I choose. Lunch, then home.
I bite my bottom lip so hard it bleeds. Is this enough punishment, Father?
Twelve
THE ROAD VIBRATES AGAINST THE TIRES: Tessie . . . Tessie . . . Tessie . . .
The wind rattles the window: Tessie . . . Tessie . . . Tessie . . .
My brain whispers to my ears: Tessie . . . Tessie . . . Tessie . . .
We are quiet in the car.
Thirteen
GOING OUT TO LUNCH MEANS EATING somewhere that’s not Louis’s and Charita’s and Elsie’s and Junior’s and Jakey’s kitchen and it means that Charita and Louis sit instead of stand at counters and shout about food over their shoulders. The three of us sit at a round wooden table in a room full of Outsiders sitting at other tables. The sun is streaming in through the window and the smell of food is everywhere and the flowers in the middle of the table are the most colors I’ve ever seen all pushed together, so I decide not to be afraid.
After lunch I will ask them to take me home. I’ll go back Inside with a full stomach so my punishment will not hurt as badly.
A lady wrapped in pockets comes to our table with a notebook in her palm.
Something white and squishy is crushed between her teeth. She snaps it in her mouth. “Can I get you folks started with some drinks?”
I look at her. Her hair is light and wispy with a reddish-pinkish hue. It’s not like mine. It’s not like Uncle Alan’s.
Louis speaks at her and she writes something down.
“Zylynn,” Charita says. “What would you like to drink, honey?”
My eyes go wide. No, not honey. Honey is delicious but it’s sticky and gooey and it’s not good unless you also have water to drink. It’s kind of liquid-y, but it’s not meant for drinking.
If she wants to give me honey, OK, but I can’t drink it. I take a deep breath and say it: “No, not to drink.”
No. Have I ever said that word in my life?
Charita looks confused. So do Louis and the woman wrapped in pockets.
“What?” the woman says.
I’ve lost track of how many words I’ve left out here now. I’ve given up.
“I can’t drink honey,” I say. “It’s too gooey.”
Charita and Louis laugh and the woman wrapped in pockets turns a little pink. “I wasn’t offering you honey,” Charita says. “It’s a nickname. I was calling you ‘honey.’ It’s a term of affection.”
Nickname (n.): a name added to or substituted for the proper name of a person, place, etc., as in affection, ridicule, or familiarity
Affection (n.): fond attachment or devotion, positive feeling or emotion
I nod. I sort of understand.
“So, honey,” Charita says, smiling at me and I realize I’m smiling back. “What would you like to drink?”
I nod. I can do this. “Milk,” I say. It’s better than water.
The pocket lady snaps that white stuff again. She doesn’t look at me. “Whole, half, skim, one percent or two percent?” she says.
At the same time Louis says, “Are you sure you don’t want to try soda?”
“Louis!” Charita says, almost like she’s angry but she’s still smiling.
“What?” Louis says. “You heard Alan; she can use all the calories she can get.”
“All the calcium she can get too,” Charita says.
Louis shrugs. He’s smiling. She’s smiling. “We’re celebrating,” he says.
I’m still smiling even though I don’t know what they’re talking about, what we’re celebrating. Then I’m smiling because I realize that I’m smiling.
I’m not smiling. I’m lying to them, I promise.
“Soda,” I say. I don’t know what it is, but it’s easier than figuring out that other question the Pocket Lady was asking in percentages.
“Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite, ginger ale, Dr Pepper, orange, grape, or root beer?” The woman is still tapping her pen against her notebook, waiting for me to answer.
Why does Outside have so many choices? And how can all of these choices be so terrible? How can the Outside be full of lies when I’m making the decisions? Is the Darkness making me lie to myself?
Is that what happened to Jaycia? Did she choose things and lie to herself until she forgot us? And now she’s stuck here. But she’s thirteen now. So she doesn’t have the choices and the food anymore. The Darkness addicted her and now she’s stuck, doomed and tortured.
I look at Charita until she answers “root beer” for me.
It’s in front of me quickly, brown and bubbling and tasting like liquefied sugar, delicious.
Charita nudges Louis and hands me a piece of plastic with words on it. “Honey,” she says. We all smile. “This is what they serve for lunch. These are your options. Can you read it and decide what you’d like?”
She’s speaking, slowly, carefully, like it’s really important what I choose.
I look at the plastic she’s put in front of me. I know what it is, but I’ve never seen one before.
Menu (n.): a list of the dishes served at a meal; bill of fare
I stare and stare and my brain sways in my head. It’s like an Outside Studies Vocabulary List for my taste buds. Spaghetti, hamburger, club sandwich, BLT, French fries, onion rings, chicken salad, macaroni salad, potato salad. How can there be so many kinds of salad?
I read the whole thing, once, twice, three times and I must be looking at it for a long time because when I take a break to sip my root beer, Louis and Charita are staring at me.
“Can you decide for me?” I ask quietly.
Charita sucks air quickly up her nose. Louis shakes his head, his face getting red.
Charita reaches across the table for my hand. I let her rest hers on top of mine.
Touching: that’s different about the Outside too. And I like it. Evil, Liar, dirty? Or does it matter if I’m also lying to myself?
I cannot be thinking this way. I have to go home. After lunch.
“Zylynn,” Charita says, slowly again. “Is it too hard to read?”
They think I’m stupid.
“I know how to read,” I burst. The words are hot and loud in my mouth. I didn’t know I could make words that loud. “I know what hamburger is and what spaghetti is and what chicken salad is,” I say. Even though I don’t. Whoever heard of salad made from a chicken? “I want a hamburger,” I say. Because I do. I want everything.
I yank my hand from under Charita’s and brace myself against the back of the seat. I’m sure she’ll slap me now. Or Louis will. Or they’ll take away my lunch. Or something. There will be a punishment for being so loud.
Instead, Louis and Charita share another smile. “You can have whatever you want,” he says.
When the Pocket Lady comes back I tell her I’ll have the hamburger and the spaghetti. She looks confused but Louis says, “Give them to her. Both.” His words don’t sound soft when he talks to her.
She shrugs and disappears. The clicking of her shoes against the wood floor, the slurping through the straw as Charita and Louis take a sip, the hushed words of the strangers at tables nearby, they all say Tessie . . . Tessie . . . Tessie . . . in my ears.
I haven’t seen you since Tessie . . .
“So, Uncle Alan had a lot to say in there today,” Charita says. “Does anybody have any questions?”
She’s being nice. I’m getting used to it
that she’s usually being nice. But I know anybody really means me.
Louis nods. “And you’ve been here for almost a week now. It must be pretty overwhelming. Any questions for us, Zylynn?”
Who is Tessie?
That’s what Curiosity wants to ask. She’s crawling onto my tongue, trying to make me form the syllables, ask the question. And I think Louis and Charita can give her the answer. They know who Tessie is. I think they’d tell me. And I think it might be the truth. And I think I’d know if they were lying. Because I think there might be something I’m starting to remember.
My mouth is open, ready to ask, but all of my sounds stay deep inside me, terrified. Because I think it’s something I used to know. And once I know I’m afraid I’ll never not-know again.
When can I go home?
That’s what I should ask. But there’s still my hamburger and spaghetti. There’s still the taste of BLT and chicken tenders and French fries to learn. There’s still the feeling of laughter in my throat, of making someone else smile, of crying so hard until I’m relaxed again. There’s still a million more games on the tablet and all of the colors that I haven’t seen against my skin.
I can feel these things changing me, mixing me up until I’m a different Zylynn. Or until I am Zylynn, my own separate thing with edges and fingers, with a voice and a brain, instead of a blurry part of the Light.
I need to ask to go home before I break off even more, spinning into the Darkness like a star falling from the sky.
I need to get home before three and a half more days go by. I need to be there for my Thirteenth Ceremony. I need to be there so that I can keep going to school and start to train for the Work the day after, to win new souls. I need to be there so that I can move into the Teen Girls’ Dorm in the second circle. I need to be there at my Thirteenth Ceremony so that I can still be there when I turn twenty and I’m able to go back into the Darkness, armed with the ability to beat it.
I need to get Inside before I’m stuck in Darkness for good.
Itheera stood in the back of the Chapel, a slip of a silhouette in the doorways with the setting sun shining bright behind her. We strained to see her from the front stone benches where the girls sat, but we couldn’t crane our necks around enough. We fidgeted with our fingers and the hems of our white shorts and T-shirts. It was dark in the Chapel. Not pitch-black, but the lights were out and the sinking sun in the high windows made the air gray and foggy. The dark was OK, because Father Prophet said it was, but it still made us nervous.