A second, solid-wood door is the only option for going farther inside this building. This time, I go first.
The door pushes open easily, and I’m immediately struck by an intense smell. A faint scent of chemicals, but it’s overpowered by a musk of decay.
There’s only one thing in this room.
A small, square pool.
Sixty-Five
Jake
HYDRO-RETINENTIA.
I don’t recognize the name, but I think I know what this is.
The smell is terrible. Death kind of terrible.
“Shit,” Markus complains. “I liked it better out in the rain.”
“No,” Eaton says. “This is exactly where we want to be.”
There is nothing more to the room except the pool—a square measuring maybe a hundred square feet—and a narrow surrounding deck. The side closest to us contains a set of metal bars angling down toward the water, and I’m assuming there are steps descending into the pool. I limp up to the edge and peer in. After all these years, there’s still water in here, though it’s not the kind of water anyone would want to swim in. It’s the water of a bayou pond, dark green, a thick film of slime on top.
Fucking disgusting.
“That’s the worst swimming pool I’ve even seen,” Elle says.
“It’s not for swimming,” I say.
Landis takes a few steps forward and stands next to me, looking down. “It’s a therapy pool. In fact, it’s one of the most important parts of my parents’ work, and the one part of the program we didn’t replicate. Couldn’t replicate.”
“We intended to,” Eaton says. “But the complexities of getting you to agree to it presented a problem.” He goes up to the edge, squats, and breathes in the stench.
“Therapy for what?” Clara asks.
I recall the words from the Dear Landis letter. The author wrote about this pool. The unconventional teaching methods that focused on an intimate understanding of death.
“Two minutes,” I say. “We had to hold our breath underwater for two minutes here. It was a part of the program. The books, the pills, the pool.”
Clara looks down into the brackish water and then looks at me.
“So that’s why,” she says.
“Why what?” Landis asks.
“I used to hold my breath underwater when I was taking baths as a teenager,” Clara says. “Sometimes…sometimes I would remember things.”
“What things?”
She shakes her head but doesn’t answer.
Elle speaks before Landis can continue questioning Clara.
“Two minutes? That’s a long time. And they made you do that as kids?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Eaton snaps. “You’re not like us.” He walks along the edge of the small pool and breathes it in as if smelling the sweetest nectar and not murky rot. “Yes, this is important.”
Elle takes a few steps and stands next to me. She leans in closely. “We need to do something about Eaton.”
“I know,” I reply.
“It’s a balance,” Eaton continues, seemingly talking to himself. “A balance of the chemical stimulus, the visual stimulus, and the water therapy. The program never succeeded for us as children because the Müllers died. Our memories were wiped so no one could ever know what was being done to us. But the roots remained.” He turns to me. “We all feel it. We’ve always felt it. It’s just a matter of finding that balance. Now, we have the final piece. It has to be here. This pool. This water.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I say.
“It’s the one thing we never incorporated into what we’ve been trying to achieve over the past year.” He points to the murky water. “We need to re-create a therapy session. We need to get into the pool. All of us.”
Elle points at my leg. “Are you crazy? He can’t get in that water… He’s got a gunshot wound. That pool has more bacteria than water. He’ll get an infection in seconds.”
Landis takes off his hat, tosses it to the deck. Then he removes his coat and lets it drop. When he starts unbuttoning his shirt, Clara says, “Wait, you’re not really doing this, are you?”
“Eaton’s right,” Landis replies. “It’s the one variable we didn’t replicate. This place…this campus. The whole area is a trigger. Just because Eaton and I aren’t remembering anything right now, I agree something could happen by replicating a hydro-retinentia session. Particularly here, in the original pool.”
“Look at the water,” Clara says. “It’s filthy. And probably freezing cold.”
His shirt is now off, and his torso is lean and toned, like a welterweight. He begins unbuckling his belt.
“Clara, I know this is difficult. But think of what you’ve already experienced here. You’ve remembered things. You had a profound shift in your thoughts, and your suicidal impulses instantly disappeared the moment you found the school.” He slides his pants off, revealing boxers, which he then casually takes off, along with his socks.
Landis is now completely naked.
“Shit, man,” Elle says. “Seriously?”
Landis clearly doesn’t care about modesty in this moment. He’s in his own world.
I realize there’s no gun along with Landis’s pile of clothes. He carried one in the hotel, so he either left it there or in the car. Markus still has two guns, but at least Landis isn’t armed.
“When I got that letter,” Landis continues, locked on Clara, “our teacher thought there was a chance to get our memories back. Now we know it’s possible. You’re the evidence of that. If there’s still a chance it could happen for me, I need to try.”
“And then what?” I ask. “If you find out who killed your parents, so what? What’s your plan then?”
He glances over at me, and his eyes are the color of glacier water. “I just want to see them, Jake.”
Without answering, Landis walks to the metal support rails and takes the first step down into the pool. He descends slowly but with a steady, smooth motion. No reaction to the temperature or the filth of the water. Once in, he turns and faces us, and the water level comes up to his navel.
Eaton starts taking off his shirt.
“This is fucked up,” Elle says.
Shirt off, Eaton barks at her. “You don’t have to approve, and fortunately for you, you don’t even need to join us. You’re not one of us.”
The man is a scarecrow. Pale skin, lanky arms, desperately underweight. Ribs protrude.
“Clara, Jake, you too,” he says. Eaton strips to boxer briefs, the elastic of which struggles to hold on to his bony hips. Thankfully, he leaves them on.
“Why?” I ask. “What does it matter if we join you?”
“We need to see if it works for any of us,” Landis replies.
“Yes, exactly,” Eaton says.
“I’m not getting in there,” I tell him. “Elle is right. My leg will get infected in that muck.”
Eaton squeezes his temples with his right hand, then looks up with an exasperated expression. Rather than arguing my point, he walks over to Markus and demands one of his guns. Markus—after a moment of hesitation—acquiesces.
Eaton holds the gun with the barrel pointed down, as if the gun itself is too heavy to raise.
“In the pool,” he says.
Clara shifts her weight and looks over to me.
What do we do?
“Fuck you,” I tell Eaton.
“I’m not asking, Jake.”
“We’re not getting in there.”
Eaton sighs, shrugs, then lifts the gun and points it at Elle.
I yell to him to stop, but my voice is drowned by a deafening gunshot, which echoes endlessly in this tiny room.
Elle falls to the deck.
As I stare in disbelief, blood pools around her writhing body.
Sixty-Six
Clara
My instinct is to rush to Elle’s side, but Eaton turns the gun on Jake and me, keeping us back. He’s proven he’ll kill to get what he wants.
Eaton squeezes his eyes shut for just a moment as he shakes his head, as if trying to rid his brain of controlling thoughts. He appears calmer when he opens them again.
“I didn’t want to do that,” he says. “In fact, this is exactly the kind of behavior I’m trying to change. I’m hoping you’ll listen to me now.”
Jake’s face is a mixture of horror and rage, but he remains in his place. Elle twists on the deck, grabbing her side and moaning.
Landis says nothing.
Eaton hands the gun back to Markus and turns to us.
“She can be saved. The faster you do what I say, the sooner she gets help. Now get in the pool.”
Elle’s fear and pain stab at me with every moan, and in between her labored breaths and curses, she lifts her bloodied hands from her side and says, “It’s bad.”
I start to undress. Eaton wins. I will not let this woman die.
“Clara,” Jake says. “We have to.”
I would be lying if I didn’t admit I want to know what will happen in the pool. Despite my sheer disgust with the idea of entering that water, I’m ready to remember more. I want Landis and Eaton to be right.
I strip down to my bra and underwear, feeling no shame about my vulnerability. In fact, I don’t feel vulnerable at all. Despite the roiling storm of violence and suffering in this room, I have a strange sense of peace.
Jake finally gives in. “I think my ribs are broken,” he says. “I can’t lift my arms to take my shirt off, and I’m keeping my bandage on my leg.”
He turns and hobbles to the edge of the pool, then starts a slow and obviously painful descent into the water. Once it reaches his wound, he gasps.
“Christ, it’s cold.”
Eaton follows and stands in the small pool near Landis.
I’m the last to join, and before I do, I walk over to Elle and place a hand on her shoulder. A wave of cold washes over me, and I hope that means I’m absorbing some of her suffering, if even for a moment.
“We’ll get you help,” I tell her.
She doesn’t reply. She’s still conscious, but every bit of her energy seems focused on staying alive, and nothing else. I’m not even certain she’s aware of me.
Then I stand, feeling every gaze in the room on me. Landis, Eaton, Jake, all in the dirty water before me. Markus stands behind us, gun in hand.
I walk to the pool’s edge and descend the steps. Jake was right; it is bitterly cold. As the water reaches my thighs, my muscles involuntarily contract, threatening to buckle my legs. My body adapts after a few more seconds and I keep going, the stench growing stronger. I finally reach bottom. The water’s surface is nearly to my chest, and the water is so dark, I cannot see past my navel.
I glide to Jake, and when I reach him, I walk to within an inch of his body. He leans his head down and our foreheads touch, and as they do, I close my eyes. For a second, the smell of citronella is back, and in the darkness inside my eyelids, I see Jake as a boy.
He is smiling.
Sixty-Seven
Jake
I bend my neck, and Clara and I touch foreheads. It feels so natural, as if she’s an extension of me. For a moment, I close my eyes and breathe her in, which is perfume compared to the foul smell of the water.
“Everything’s going to be okay.” I’m not sure if I’m saying this more to her or myself. Clara reaches up and puts her hand around the back of my head, pushing our foreheads harder together.
“I know,” she says.
There’s another world beneath the surface of this water, and we don’t know what it contains. Wonders, horrors, or maybe nothing at all. Maybe just an endless nothing.
“We go under at the same time and stay under for two minutes,” Eaton says. Then he turns to Markus. “Time us and yell out when it’s been two minutes.” He points at Clara and me. “If either of them come up before then, shoot them.”
Markus looks more scared than confident. He holds the gun loosely in his right hand, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet.
“Do you understand?” Eaton asks him.
“This is fucked up,” Markus replies.
“That statement tells me you don’t fully understand. You do what I ask, and I will add 10 percent to your fee. Does that help?”
Markus’s eyes narrow. “Fifteen.”
“Fine.”
The grip on the gun tightens. Whatever his fee is, he’s clearly motivated by the idea of more of it. Markus shifts the gun to his left hand and looks at the watch secured around his right wrist.
“Let me know when you’re ready.”
Clara has separated from me, and we’ve all naturally drifted to the four corners of the small pool. Clara to my right, Landis to my left, Eaton at the opposite corner.
The absurdity of this isn’t lost on me, the four of us in varying degrees of undress standing waist-deep in decades-old freezing pond scum. Not only are we here, but under the threat of death, we’re going to submerge ourselves to the point of drowning in the hope something, anything will happen to our minds as we do. Hell, two minutes? How am I going to hold my breath that long?
Yet maybe this really is the moment I’ve been waiting for. Ever since the fedora-wearing stranger gave me a book about a king, I’ve been undergoing a metamorphosis. Maybe this is the day I emerge from the chrysalis.
There are only a few outcomes here. One: I’ll come up early for air and be shot. Two: I’ll stay under too long and drown. Three: I’ll come up after two minutes, and nothing will be different. Or four…
Four is the completion of the program.
The remembering.
The fulfillment of something wondrous. Or terrible.
As I have been so many times in the past months, I’m hit with a wave of emotion that threatens to take my breath away before the water does. I close my eyes and see my daughter’s face. I would die to see her right now.
Maybe that’s what it’ll take.
Deep breath in, slow exhale.
Steady yourself, Jake.
“On my order,” Eaton says.
Eyes open. Clara and I instinctively turn to face each other.
Deep, deep breath, as much as my lungs can handle.
“Now.”
We lower. Clara’s face is expressionless as she descends. Before her chin reaches the surface, she closes her eyes. I do the same.
The smell is overwhelming as I go under.
Water over my head.
Sixty-Eight
Clara
The stench is overpowering as I lower myself, and the moment I’m under, I fight against bursting immediately back to the surface. I steady myself, ease my mind for a count to ten. That’s enough to bring a granule of calm against all that is happening, all that surrounds me, all that clings to my skin. The filth of the water, the threat of death. Elle, bleeding and helpless on the surface above.
I count higher, just as I did as a teenage girl in the tub. I remember that now, the counting, chunks of ten, manageable pieces. If I can count to ten underwater, surely I can make it to twenty. And if to twenty, then certainly thirty.
Two minutes.
That’s a count to 120.
No, Clara, don’t think of it that way.
Ten at a time.
Only ten.
I’m up to thirty, and my lungs begin to seize. Heat rising through me, and the fingers of panic beginning to pinch. Soft at first, then harder, warning me to listen.
You’re running out of air, panic says.
Forty, then fifty.
I can do this.
You will do it until you don’t. And then
you die.
I try not to listen to the panic, or the other voices insisting on things to say. It’s almost impossible to do.
Sixty, then seventy.
I’m aware of my arms moving, and I stop them to conserve energy. All my focus must concentrate on remaining under.
Eighty, then ninety.
Thirty seconds left, and nothing matters except my need to breathe. My head is exploding, and if I still wanted to die, it would be easy to give in, to let this black water take me. But now all I want is to live. I want it even more than I craved the death I came seeking here in the first place.
Small chunks, ten at a time. Three chunks left.
Suddenly, the heat vanishes from my body. I am heavier, a piece of granite, and would surely sink were I in deeper water. My desire for air is replaced with a need to sleep.
One hundred, I think.
I warned you.
It would be so easy. There’s nothing I need to do but let it happen.
Death lures you.
An incredible peace rushes through me, a morphine injection. Everything is fine. There is no life. There is no death. There’s just the moment, and nothing existed before or after, and it’s all perfect.
I’ve stopped counting. Numbers don’t even exist anymore.
I’m going to sleep now.
My body stills. Soon, I will open my mouth and the water will fill me, and I will become the same as it.
Then.
Light explodes in my brain.
A surge.
Overload.
This must be it, the end, and I no longer want to come up for air.
Images. So many of them. Flashing through my mind in millisecond bursts, but I’m able to study them all, as if doing nothing more than leisurely looking through the pages of an old photo album. Some images are frozen snapshots, while others have motion. Home movies.
Everything is here, at this school.
I’m a little girl.
The classroom. Chalk on the board. This pool. I’m scared, cold, shivering in a bathing suit. Running on the soccer field, the grass lush and forest-green. Climbing a tree, worried about falling. Studying the strange children’s book, not understanding it. Sharing a room with Kate, crooked teeth and freckles on her nose. We tell stories at night after the lights are out.
The Dead Girl in 2A Page 26