by DK Andrews
a good person. I have to admit it feels very weird to hear. I would never consider myself a good person. I hate Gloria with every fiber of my being, and that alone should exclude me from the “good people” group.
The Novus center begins to appear on the horizon, and my heart starts to race.
“Novus center?” I ask. “We’re going to Novus center?”
“Yes,” she smiles.
We pull into the parking lot at the back of the building.
“We’re just in time, “she says, turning off her engine. “He will arrive soon.”
“Ready?” she smiles.
“Yes.”
“You’ll need to wear this,” she says, reaching for a white lab coat in the back seat.
“What do I need that for?”
“So I can take you inside.”
The pinching feeling inside my stomach gives way to anxiety: I’m going inside the center where life is being received.
“We will have to go through the back,” she says, tucking my hair back. “Good thing you look mature for your age.”
“Great,” I mumble. I hesitantly put on the coat, and Dr. Kismen sticks a key card into my front pocket.
“Now you belong here,” she says.
We exit the car and walk toward the building. I avoid making eye contact with anyone.
“You look suspicious,” she says, jerking my hand. “Just breath, OK? Try to relax.”
“Sorry, I’m just nervous.” I touch my temple and apply slight pressure with my finger.
“Let’s keep moving,” she says firmly.
I don’t know what to expect. What will I see inside?
Dr. Kismen swipes one of her many key cards, and she walks confidently ahead when I nervously trudge behind her. As we walk inside, we are greeted by along the clean magnolia corridor. The hallway has as much personality as the rest of the Novus center. The ceiling is made from polystyrene squares laid out in a grid-like fashion. Everything is so new and spotless that I feel like the whole building must have just gotten beamed here from someplace dirt is outlawed. People dressed in a medical uniforms move calmly, with purpose, from room to room. There are vases of flowers and beautiful framed pieces of art on the walls. The air has an undertone of an ocean breeze—it’s quite pleasant. Somehow the aroma captures everything good: the hope of a new life and the excitement of new beginnings. Novus center is so different from Ultima. If Ultima looked and felt like Novus, surely people would second-guess their decisions.
As I observe my surroundings and inhale the incredible scent. We get approached by a nurse. I put my head down right away in an attempt to escape this encounter. I can only picture the glossy shine on my forehead that’s been formed in an instance. This pleasant nurse can probably be able to see her reflection in it. Salty drops are starting to invade my eyes. The sweat is overwhelming.
“Good morning Dr. Kismen,” the nurse says cheerily. “Didn’t expect to you see you here today.”
We are totally going to get busted.
“Yes,” Dr. Kismen replies, “it’s been a very busy couple of weeks. I had to take on an intern. Need to show her around—introduce her to all the procedures and protocols.”
“Right on!” The nurse looks at me and smiles. “You are very lucky to have Deanna as your mentor.”
I force a smile, but the lump in my throat prevents me from talking.
“What’s your name?” the nurse asks.
I panic and look over at Dr. Kismen.
“Her name is Meghan,” she answers for me.“We really should be going now; the procedure is about to begin.” She places her hand on my forearm and smiles at the nurse. “It was very nice talking to you, Gina.”
“You too, Dr. Kismen. It was nice meeting you, Meghan.”
I nod to her as she walks away, exhaling for the first time in what seems like minutes.
I thought I would suffocate. During this brief random conversation, I held my breath the entire time. As Deanna and I keep moving, my sweat is a welcome addition now, it’s cooling my body.
“This way,” Dr. Kismen says as we turn a corner.
We approach an elevator and wait for it to arrive. Everything feels like a dream. Some people live their lives so uneventfully—each day the same as the day before. My life was like that until I stumbled across the billboard advertising The Conversion and I signed the LifeTrans contract.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks me while we enter the elevator.
“Everything,” I answer.
“Are you nervous?”
“Yes, I am.” I bite a piece of cuticle off my index finger. “Novus is very different from Ultima,” I say.
“It sure is,” she agrees. “Stays are shorter, healing faster, depression negligible. Turns out we're animals after all, and our ‘habitat’ matters—our mental and physical health are too intertwined to separate. We have to give the people here hope—strength to fight and go on.”
“Right,” I say. “So where are we going?”
“Intensive Care unit, first,” she answers.
“Intensive Care unit? What for?”
“Be patient,” she says soothingly as we exit the elevator. “You will see momentarily.”
We come up to the light brown door, and she scans her card to unlock it.
“Please come in.” She holds the door open and waits for me to enter. As we walk in, an automatic light turns on.
This room reminds me of the glass room where I have my daily Mentior sessions. The walls are pale white—no pictures. There is a small desk by the curtain that covers the front wall. Computers and medical equipment fill the corners of the room.
Dr. Kismen walks in front of the desk, and opens the curtain, uncovering a glass wall. I come up beside her to see inside.
The light is bright on the other side. The room has cartoon characters, and a forest painted on the walls. The bed appears to be a rustic bamboo, but I assume it’s still metal underneath. On the bed, there is a small body connected to different gadgets by so many cords. Beside the bed, there is a sad couple sitting and mourning her lifeless body. I swallow the lump in my throat—seeing this picture makes me sick to my stomach.
“They can’t see us,” Dr. Kismen reassures me. “The glass is one-sided.”
“Who’s in the bed?” I ask. My voice breaks from sadness.
“Sophie,” she replies.
“Sophie?!” I say in despair, touching the glass, trying to reach for her, to hold her close to my heart.
“Yes,” she says. “And those are her parents by her side, waiting for their little girl to receive life.”
“But in Mentior she’s healthy and happy!” I protest.
“Because that’s how she sees herself,” she explains, “healthy and happy. You see, Receivers can control how they look in Mentior—Dators can’t.”
“What happened to her?” I ask.
“Very bad injury. She’s currently in an induced coma. She would not be able to go on for much longer if she didn’t receive a new life.”
“Induced coma? Why?”
“It’s used to protect the brain and to connect to Mentior.”
I catch a glimpse of the eyes of Sophie’s mother as she unintentionally looks at me. Her gloomy gaze reminds me of Nicole’s—full of misery and agony.
“Is she waiting for my life?” I ask, turning to Dr. Kismen. My knees feel weak. I need to get control of my breathing.
“Something you must remember is that the people who pay the most get longest lives. Your lifespan is like gold to most of the Receivers. Unfortunately, Sophie’s parents are completely drained, financially. They’ve been fighting for Sophie’s life for so long, and they don't have much left. They sold their house and all of their possessions. They would never have been able to afford your life.”
“Whose life is she getting, then?”
I close my eyes and wait for a response.
“Nicole’s,” she answers solemnly. “Her parents were only able to af
ford a life span of 30 to 35 years.”
“It’s awful how you talk about a Dator’s life as just a product to sell,” I say.
“Well—” she says, trying to find the words. “It’s the reality of the situation. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”
“No, I get it. Reality can be brutal—that’s why I chose to leave it.”
Life, reality—they are not fair. Why is Sophie lying in a hospital bed right now? What did her parents do to deserve this?
“Do they have other kids?” I ask Dr. Kismen. I imagine another child might act as some kind of safety valve for them.
“No, she’s the only one they’ve got,” she says, fixing her eyes on Sophie.
“Do you have any kids, Dr. Kismen?” I ask.
“No,” she answers shortly.
I don’t need to say anything more, she wants to be silent right now. I watch Sophie’s mother. The tears flow unchecked down her cheeks. She just sits there, still as a statue, while the magnitude of her sorrow sweeps over her. Her grief seems to surge with every exhalation, always reaching higher peaks—never sufficiently soothed by her long intakes of this ocean breeze air. I just know that she would move heaven and earth for Sophie if she had the power. She would surely give her own life—any time, any place—if The Conversion process allowed it.
I look back at Dr. Kismen. “What does grief feel like?”
“Grief?” She pauses. “Hard to explain, I guess. When Damien left, I felt empty. It felt like a hollow in my heart—a sheer nothingness that somehow took over threatened to suck my soul in entirely. It gave me a heavy feeling, like the weight of the world, was resting on my shoulders. And there was nothing I could do to get out from under it. A deep hole in my heart, the shape of the one I