The Grief Keeper

by Alexandra Villasante

  “No, I am confused. I mean to say another thing.”

  “You’re sure you didn’t see or hear anything during the transfer?” Indranie’s dark, serious eyes burn into mine.

  “No, I’m sorry. When I am confused, my English is also confused.” I smile to cover how much I hate admitting that. “Why is it that it came all of a sudden?”

  “The transfer happens whenever test subject A—that’s the donor—has a triggered grief event.” We walk back to where we were sitting. The man who was at our table, the soldier, is gone.

  “What’s that mean?” Asking questions makes me feel less helpless, like a kite caught in a windstorm. And it leads Indranie away from her doubts.

  She opens her notebook.

  “When a traumatic thing happens to a person, it doesn’t just happen the one time, or at least, that’s not how the mind perceives it. There is the initial impact on the brain and nervous system . . .” She draws a circle on a blank page in her notebook. “Then, every time the person is reminded of the trauma, there are shock waves.” She makes lines around the circle, like dropping a stone into a lake. The lines of the circle break apart and move out farther and farther until they disappear. Ondulaciones. I know there’s an English word for that, but I can’t remember it.

  “Sometimes, those ripples,” she points to the lines around the circle, “those can trigger another wave of grief or sadness.”

  Ripples. That’s the word.

  Indranie looks up from her drawing. “How do you feel now?”

  My face is damp from my tears, and my eyes feel hot from crying. My chest feels scooped out, like the skin of an avocado. I search for the panic, for any trace of those bad feelings, for the sounds and colors. I don’t find any. In fact, I feel a little like smiling.

  “I feel good. That can’t be right, can it?” I even feel hungry. I pick up half my sandwich. It’s so good, even cold.

  Indranie smiles, relieved. “It is right. And it’s a relief that you experience those good feelings. Dr. Deng hypothesized—do you know what that means? It means he made a guess on what would happen when test subject B absorbed the grief event. He guessed that once the event passed, your own body would boost the ‘good’ chemicals, like endorphins and dopamine, to compensate, which is what is making you feel better now.” She pauses, frowning at the table. “That won’t always happen. The CTS device is designed to funnel those ‘good chemicals’ you are making back to the donor, completing the loop.” She draws a circle of arrows. “Negative feelings travel to the receiver, triggering positive feelings to compensate; positive feelings travel to the donor, improving mood and alleviating suffering.” She shows me the drawing. I have lost track of which part of the circle I am, but I don’t mind.

  I don’t just feel better—I feel wonderful. Happy and positive. I’m sure this is going to be the fastest month ever. But I think of something that makes me stop.

  “If negative things make ripples in the donor, will they make ripples in me? Will I keep having my own bad memories?” I have shut the door on many of my memories. I don’t want the door open again.

  “No. That’s the best part of the technology. Grief is often triggered by memories. If you miss a beloved grandmother who has just died, thinking of her will trigger the feelings of grief and loss. The more you think of her, the more your memories of her come up, and the more the grief echoes and ripples, making you suffer more. But you, Marisol, don’t have those memories of test subject A. You don’t remember his mother or his war or whatever happened to him. So, you feel the emotions, but they don’t lead anywhere. Does that make sense?”

  “A little,” I say. I decide I won’t mention the sounds and colors, the dust and orange sun. It is the first test, and it may be nothing. If I mention it, and they are worried about it, they might take away this proposition. And what does it matter if I see or hear things along with the feelings? They are not my sights and sounds. I can ignore them.

  I’m very hungry now, and I ask Indranie if I can eat her fruit cup. She pushes the fruit to me. “What happened to test subject A? Did someone die?”

  Indranie crosses her arms, considering. “No. In this case, it was something else. I’m not able to say. When you start your monthlong test, you won’t know what the cause of grief is there either.”

  The first taste of fruit, an orange in jarabe, is so bright and sour that the flavor pops against my tongue. It is delicious. “Do you know who my test person will be? Have you met him?”

  Indranie looks away. “We have a few possible candidates we’re speaking to. Not everyone is keen on the idea.”

  “Who wouldn’t want their grief taken away?”

  “It’s not that, I don’t think. Though I imagine some people believe that grief is necessary. And maybe it is for some. But we’re talking about people who are not able to process their grief, their trauma, in a productive way. This isn’t the normal, everyday kind of grief. This is the kind of grief that could destroy someone.”

  I can tell from her face that she isn’t thinking of me or even of test subject A. Her eyes are focused on the pink-and-white tree blossoms, but I don’t think she sees them.

  “Will it destroy me?” I ask.

  She snaps back to attention, sitting up straighter. She takes the plastic wrap off her salad. “No, Marisol. I will make sure it doesn’t.”

  I feel a wave of something. Ansiedad, worry, something. I wonder for a moment if these feelings are mine, or if they belong to another person with a leg cuff. I wonder how I’ll ever be able to tell.

  “Are you having second thoughts?” Indranie asks. But she can’t be serious. What is a little grief in exchange for safety?

  “Absolutely not.”

  * * *

  It’s the middle of the night when Indranie comes to our room, turning on the light to wake us.

  “Come on, girls,” she says, shaking Gabi awake.

  “What’s happening?” I ask, sitting up.

  “Come on, get dressed. You can sleep on the way if you want.” She leaves the room, a sense of urgency in her movements.

  We get up quickly, my body remembering how to move at a moment’s notice. Clothes have been left out for us, but everything else has been packed. Within a few minutes, we’re in Indranie’s car, and her assistant, Traci, is driving. Gabi is disappointed we are not driving in Traci’s fancy car.

  I watch as Indranie looks at her phone intently, moving her thumb along the screen.

  “Where are we going?” I ask. Indranie and Traci are so serious. Something must have gone wrong with the experiment. Maybe they don’t need us anymore. Or maybe I’ve done something wrong.

  “Please, just tell me if you are sending us back.” The words choke out of me.

  Indranie turns to me, her face surprised. “No, no, of course not. I’m sorry. We’re trying to move fast—I didn’t even think about explaining things to you.” She pushes her black hair out of her face. It doesn’t look like Indranie has slept at all. “We have a candidate for the test program. A donor. Someone your own age who has suffered a serious traumatic event. We have been asked to move fast because the donor is in distress.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” I say. I know the word distress means trouble, or more than that. Angustia maybe? Anguish? But still I think the word means more.

  “It means that the donor is in danger of hurting herself.”

  Two years ago, on Cedar Hollow, Amber’s best friend, Aimee, was in distress. She took medicine meant for her mother. She almost died, but Amber found her in time.

  “Suicide.”

  “Suicidal, yes.” She tells Traci to make the next left before facing me again. “This is going to be hard, Marisol. I’m not going to lie to you. We have you, a strong, capable person. But it’s going to be hard.”

  “What if I fail?”

  “You won’t fai
l. You’ll do just fine, I promise. Remember what we talked about? You will have the feelings but not the memories attached to those feelings. There are times in our lives when we feel things, when we’re sad or feel sick, and we don’t know why we feel them. This will be like that, except you’ll know that they aren’t your feelings at all. And that you’re helping someone else.”

  “So she doesn’t hurt herself?”

  “That’s it. You could be helping to save a life.”

  Chapter 8

  There’s a river here too. Or maybe it’s the same river that runs near the Capitol. I can’t tell how far we’ve gone, though we have been driving for more than an hour. Here, the river is surrounded by trees, not buildings. Black iron gates lead to a courtyard. We stop in front of an enormous house.

  A suddenly alert Gabi climbs out of the car. I wonder how she can sleep at the strangest times, in the most uncomfortable places, only to be wide awake a moment later. Though my head is heavy with sleep, my chest buzzes with anxiety. I don’t know how to feel.

  The house is inmensa. Not even the houses in Cedar Hollow were as grand as this. White columns stand on either side of a wide door painted black, and a light hanging down, an old-fashioned linterna, casts a soft glow on us as we approach the door. A voice calls, “Ms. Patel?”

  Indranie turns toward a separate building to the right of the main house. I thought it was a different house before, but now I see it’s connected.

  An old man waves us to this smaller house.

  “In the carriage house?” Indranie asks.

  “I think it is better, yes,” the man says. “We can take care of them better here.” Next to him is a tiny, thin woman in a bathrobe.

  “This is Manolo Borges and his wife, Olga. They are caretakers here,” Indranie explains.

  “Señoritas,” Manolo says with a nod of his head. As we pass through the door of what Manolo has called the carriage house, I hear Olga Borges say “pobrecitas” under her breath.

  The carriage house is only small when compared with the other house. In reality, this house has two levels, large rooms, and a kitchen that still, at this late hour, smells like baking bread. I follow Indranie, who follows Manolo, up the stairs. Gabi is behind me, dragging her feet. I keep checking on her because I’m so tired. Anything can happen when you are tired.

  Manolo opens a door to a bedroom with two beds. Gabi picks a bed, climbs in, and turns her back to us, as if sleep is the only thing she has energy for.

  “That girl likes her sleep,” Traci whispers as she places our small bags on the floor next to the bed.

  “She was always una dormilona,” I say. “A sleepyhead.”

  We follow Manolo out of the room. Once the door is closed, Indranie stops me. She hands me a cell phone in a bright red case. It has a horse on it and the word Ferrari written in yellow.

  “I bet you can guess who helped me pick out the phone case,” she says. “It could have been worse. It could have been a unicorn.”

  I smile.

  “My phone number is right there.” She shows me how to find her number. It’s not hard. It’s the only one. I don’t know anyone else.

  She seems to realize this and quickly types in two more numbers.

  “Dr. Deng is here.” She points to his number. “If anything happens with how you feel, if anything feels overwhelming or wrong, call Dr. Deng, and he will get you the help you need. You can always call me, but if I can’t answer, call Dr. Deng.”

  I nod.

  “And then you can call Traci in any emergency too. She’ll know where I am, okay?”

  I nod again.

  “I’ll come by tomorrow to see how you’re doing.”

  “What?” She can’t be leaving.

  “I’m sure you’re tired, Marisol. I’ll leave you to rest.”

  “But you said it was an emergency. That someone’s life is in danger. In distress. That’s why we rushed here in the middle of the night.” I thought I’d be starting right away. I made myself ready—as ready as I could ever be.

  Indranie stops, her hand on the banister. She looks embarrassed. I wonder what she has to be avergonzada about.

  “It’s not that the danger isn’t urgent; it is. But it seems like the donor is, um, stable for now. So not to worry, okay?” She smiles weakly.

  “Okay,” I say, because I’m afraid she’ll think I’m being rude if I keep questioning her. I say good night and disappear into our room. I stand, listening to my breath rise and fall unsteadily. I hear Indranie’s footsteps down the stairs and then the front door closing. And finally, Gabi’s soft little snores.

  I’m not alone. I have Gabi. I will be all right. I climb into bed with Gabi, even though there is a bed for each of us, and fall asleep feeling her breath in my ear.

  * * *

  I wake up with a feeling, tight in my chest, that something is wrong. It’s like a bad dream that my body remembers, even though I can’t.

  Gabi stretches her arms above her head.

  “Soñe que nos mudamos.”

  “We did move,” I tell her in English. “It wasn’t a dream.”

  “Oh,” she says. “Where are we?”

  “In a carriage house.”

  She blinks her owl eyes at me. “A house for carriages? You mean a garage? Wait. ¿Carruajes? Like in the old fairy stories?”

  “Yes, carriage means carruaje, but I don’t think it means that now. It’s like a big house, but it’s next to a much bigger house.” I sit up and tie my hair back with the hair band I left on my wrist last night.

  “Where are we?”

  “Virginia,” I say, which is what Indranie told me last night.

  “Is that in Washington?”

  I frown. “I don’t think so. But it’s nearby. They’re starting the experiment. The real one. No more tests.”

  Gabi stretches out on her stomach, her head propped on her hands. “You’re not scared?”

  “No. Why should I be?”

  “I don’t understand how you do it. Nothing scares you. Not Antonio, not the coyotes, not this thing on your leg.” I don’t look at her. I don’t want her to see how much everything scares me to death. “I would be a crying mess. Mantequita, remember?” she says with a shrug.

  Mantequita is what Pablo called us when we would cry or show we were afraid. Butter, because we were soft. “No, you wouldn’t. You’re just as brave as I am. Braver.”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. You know what Mamá said before we left?”

  I shake my head.

  “She said you’d take care of me. I told her I would take care of you too, but she said no, leave that to you. She doesn’t think I can do anything.”

  “You are her pequeñita. She thinks it’s your job to be taken care of and to cause trouble.” I smile. “You are good at that last part.”

  “So, my job is to be a pain?”

  “Yes. That’s your job. You are excellent.”

  She tosses a pillow in my face just as I grab her foot and pull. She shrieks like a cat whose tail has just been stepped on, and we laugh as we wrestle.

  A knock on the door stops us. “¿Todo bien?”

  “¡Sí!” we say in unison, then break into giggles.

  “Good. We are having breakfast downstairs,” a woman says. “Come down, okay, nenas?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Sí,” Gabi says, and I shove her off the bed.

  Downstairs, there’s a large table in the kitchen, which is so white and clean that it makes my tired eyes squint. Instead of the colorful cereal Indranie gave us in the penthouse, Olga Borges serves us enough cooked breakfast for a family of twelve.

  There are scrambled eggs, rice and beans—Cristianos y Moros, Olga calls them—fried plantains, slices of white cheese, and lots of fruit. Manolo serves us coffee, half a cup, mixe
d with hot milk and sugar. Everything tastes amazing and a little like home. When we are full, Manolo leaves for work.

  “Where does Señor Borges work?” Gabi asks Olga.

  “Es jardinero. Trabaja aquí en la casa.”

  “Can you speak English to Gabi, Mrs. Borges? Please?” I know I sound rude. And Olga’s face confirms that she thinks so too. She answers slowly.

  “Of course I can. I speak English very well. I have been here for twenty years. Does Gabriela not understand Spanish?”

  “Yes, we both do. But Gabi needs to practice. We want to sound American.”

  Olga’s mouth turns down with distaste. “You sound American already. Maybe too much.”

  “Please?” I ask again.

  “Yes, okay,” she says with a shrug. She’s a skinny woman with a face so wrinkled and brown that it’s hard to tell her age. With her white hair in a neat bun, she’s the kind of woman I would have seen every day on our street, wearing a faded dress and straw chanclas on her feet. But here she is wearing a large pink T-shirt that says FRIDAYS MAKE ME HAPPY and black leggings.

  “Well, Manny is a gardener. He works here on the house grounds,” Olga says.

  “And you?” Gabi asks.

  “I help in the big house. I clean, but not the windows or high things. I’m too old for that. A maid does that. I also cook for Rey because she is very picky now. She only wants my cooking.” Olga grabs a kitchen towel and wipes down the already spotless counters.

  “Who is Rey?” I ask.

  “Rey is Mr. Warner’s daughter.” Olga takes in the confused looks on our faces. “This is Mr. Warner’s house. He’s a very important person. He has a big pharmaceutical company. Usually, he is in Washington. But he lives here with his family.” Olga lowers her eyes. “Well, only Rey now. Pobre Riley, que Dios le bendiga,” she says, crossing herself.

  I don’t know what to say. Is Mr. Warner the donor who will give me his grief? Indranie said it was someone my age, so maybe it’s his daughter, Rey. Gabi takes a plantain off my plate, and I push the rest of my breakfast toward her.