Delirium Part 23

"s.h.i.tty," I croak loudly, and Hana winces and looks over her shoulder. I notice a shadow flitting just outside the bedroom door. Of course. Her visit is being monitored. Either that or someone is on 24/7 guard duty. Probably both.

My headache is slightly better, at least, although now there's a searing pain in both of my shoulders. I'm still pretty groggy, and I try to adjust my position before remembering Carol, and Rachel, and the nylon cord, and realizing that both of my arms are stretched above my head and secured to the headboard, like a real honest-to-G.o.d prisoner. The anger comes again, waves of it, followed by panic as I remember what Carol said: My procedure has been moved to Sunday morning.

I swivel my head to one side. Sunlight is streaming in through the thin plastic blinds, which have been drawn down over the windows, lighting up dust motes in the room.

"What time is it?" I struggle to sit up and yelp as the cords bite farther into my wrists. "What day is it?"

"Shhh." Hana presses me back against the bed, holding me there as I squirm underneath her. "It's Sat.u.r.day. Three o'clock."

"You don't understand." Every word grates against my throat. "They're taking me to the labs tomorrow. They moved my procedure-"

"I know. I heard." Hana is staring at me intently, like she's trying to communicate something important. "I came as soon as I could."

Even the brief struggle has left me exhausted. I sink back against the pillows. My left arm has gone totally numb from being elevated all night and the numbness seeps through me, turning my insides to ice. Hopeless. The whole thing is hopeless. I've lost Alex forever.

"How did you hear?" I ask Hana.

"Everyone's talking about it." She gets up, goes to her bag, and rummages around before pulling out a water bottle. Then she comes back and kneels by the bed so we're eye-to-eye. "Drink this," she says. "It will make you feel better." She has to hold the bottle to my lips like I'm an infant. Kind of embarra.s.sing, but I'm long past caring.

The water kills some of the fire in my throat. She's right; it does make me feel slightly better. "Do people know... are they saying... ?" I lick my lips and shoot a glance over Hana's shoulder. The shadow is there; as it shifts, I make out the flicker of a candy-striped ap.r.o.n. I drop my voice to a whisper. "Are they saying who... ?"

Hana says, overly loud, "Don't be stubborn, Lena. They'll find out who infected you sooner or later. You might as well just tell us who it was now." This little speech is for Carol's benefit, obviously. As she speaks Hana gives me a little wink and a minute shake of her head. So Alex is is safe. Maybe there's hope after all. safe. Maybe there's hope after all.

I mouth to Hana, Alex Alex. Then I jut my chin at her, hoping she'll understand that I want her to go find him, and tell him what happened.

Her eyes flicker, and the little smile dies from her lips. I can tell she's about to give me bad news. Still enunciating her words loudly and clearly, she says, "It's not just stubborn, Lena. It's selfish. If you tell them, maybe they'll realize I had nothing to do with it. I don't like being babysat twenty-four seven." My heart sinks: Of course they've put a tail on Hana. They must suspect her of being involved in some way, or at least of having information.

Maybe it's selfish, but at that moment I can't even feel sorry for her, or for the trouble I've caused. I can only feel bitterly disappointed. There's no way for her to get word to Alex without bringing the whole Portland police force down on his head. And if they find out he's been masquerading as a cured and helping the resistance... well, I doubt they'd bother with a trial. They'd skip straight to the execution.

Hana must read the despair on my face. "I'm sorry, Lena," she says, this time in a whisper. "You know I would help if I could."

"Yeah, well, you can't." As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. Hana looks terrible, almost as bad as I feel. Her eyes are puffy and her nose is red, like she's recently been crying, and it's obvious she really did rush here as soon as she heard. She's wearing her running shoes, a pleated skirt, and the oversized tank top she usually sleeps in, as though she got dressed in the first items of clothing she pulled off her floor.

"I'm sorry," I say, less sharply. "You know I didn't mean that."

"That's okay." She moves off the bed and starts pacing, like she always does when she's thinking. For one second-one tiny fraction of a second-I almost wish I had never met Alex at all. I wish I could rewind back to the very beginning of the summer, when everything was so clear and simple and easy; or rewind even further, to the late fall, when Hana and I did our loops around the Governor and studied for calculus exams on the floor of her room and the days clicked forward toward my procedure like dominoes falling in a line.

The Governor. Where Alex first saw me; where he left a note for me.

And then, just like that, I have an idea.

I struggle to keep my voice casual. "So what happened to Allison Doveney?" I say. "She didn't want to say good-bye?"

Hana whips around to stare at me. Allison Doveney was always our code, our name for Alex whenever we needed to talk about him on the phone or in emails. She draws her eyebrows together. "I haven't been able to get in touch with her," she says carefully. The look on her face says I explained this to you already I explained this to you already.

I raise my eyebrows at her, like, Trust me Trust me. "It would be nice to see her before the procedure tomorrow." I hope Carol is listening, and takes this as a sign that I've resigned myself to the change in plans. "Things will be different after the cure."

Hana shrugs, spreads her arms. What do you want me to do? What do you want me to do?

I heave a sigh, and seemingly switch topics. "Do you remember Mr. Raider's cla.s.s? In fifth grade? How we used to pa.s.s notes back and forth all day?"

"Yeah," Hana says warily. She still looks confused. I can tell she's beginning to worry that the b.u.mp on my head has affected my ability to think clearly.

I sigh again, exaggeratedly, like just reliving all the good times we had together is making me nostalgic. "Do you remember how he caught us and made us sit across the room from each other? So every time we wanted to say something to each other we would get up and sharpen our pencils, and leave a little note in that empty flower pot in the back of the cla.s.s." I force a laugh. "One day I must have sharpened my pencil seventeen times. And he never caught on, not once."

A little light goes on in Hana's eyes, and she grows very still and super alert, the way that deer do when they are listening for predators, right before bolting-even as she laughs and says, "Yeah, I remember. Poor Mr. Raider. So clueless."

Despite her offhanded tone, Hana lowers herself onto Grace's bed, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees and staring at me intently. And now I know she knows what I'm really really telling her, while I'm rambling about Allison Doveney and Mr. Raider's cla.s.s: She needs to get a note to Alex. telling her, while I'm rambling about Allison Doveney and Mr. Raider's cla.s.s: She needs to get a note to Alex.

I switch topics again. "And do you remember the first time we ever did a long run? Afterward my legs were like jelly. And the first time we ever ran from West End to the Governor? And I jumped up and slapped his hand like I was giving him a high five."

Hana narrows her eyes at me ever so slightly. "We've been abusing him for years," she says carefully, and I know she doesn't quite get it, not yet.

I make sure to keep all tension and excitement out of my voice. "You know, someone told me that he used to be carrying something. The Governor, I mean. A torch or a scroll or something. Now he just has that little empty s.p.a.ce in his fist." That's it: I've said it. Hana inhales sharply and I know now she understands, but just to make sure I say, "Will you do me a favor? Will you do that run for me today? One last time?"

"Don't be melodramatic, Lena. The cure works on your brain, not your legs. You'll still be able to run after tomorrow." Hana answers flippantly, just the way she should, but she's smiling now, and nodding at me. Yes. I'll do it Yes. I'll do it. And I'll hide the note there. And I'll hide the note there. Hope pulses through me, a warm glow, burning off some of the pain. Hope pulses through me, a warm glow, burning off some of the pain.

"Yeah, but it will be different different," I whine. Carol's face flashes momentarily at the door, which is open just a crack. She looks satisfied. It must seem to her like I've come to terms with having the procedure after all. "Besides, something could go wrong."

"It won't go wrong." Hana stands up and stares at me for a moment. "I promise," she says slowly, giving each word weight, "that everything will go perfectly."

My heart skips a beat. This time, she she was giving was giving me me a message, and I know she wasn't talking about the procedure. a message, and I know she wasn't talking about the procedure.

"I should get out of here," she says, moving to the door, practically skipping now. I realize that if this works-if Hana does somehow manage to transmit a message to Alex, and if he somehow manages to break me out of my house-turned-prison-cell-this really will be the last time I ever see Hana.

"Wait," I call out, when she's almost at the door.

"What?" She whips around. Her eyes are shining; she's excited now, ready to go. For a moment, standing in the fuzzy haze of sunlight still penetrating the blinds, she appears to be glowing, as though lit up by some internal flame. And now I know why they invented words for love, why they had to: It's the only thing that can come close to describing what I feel in that moment, the baffling mixture of pain and pleasure and fear and joy, all running sharply through me at once.

"What's wrong?" Hana repeats impatiently, jogging a little in place. I know she's eager to get going and put the plan into action. I love you I love you, I think, but what I say, gasping a little, is: "Have a good run."

"Oh, I will," she says, and then, just like that, she's gone.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

He who leaps for the sky may fall, it's true.

But he may also fly.

-Ancient saying, provenance unknown, listed in the Comprehensive Compilation of Dangerous Words and Ideas, www.ccdwi.gov.org I've known time to stretch out like rings expanding outward over water; I've also known it to rush by with such force it leaves me dizzy. But until today I've never known it to do both at the same time. The minutes seem to swell around me, to stifle me with their sluggishness. I watch the light move by centimeters over the ceiling. I fight the pain in my head and my shoulder blades. The numbness radiates from my left arm to my right. A fly circles the room, buzzing up against the blinds over and over, trying to fight its way outside. Eventually it drops from the air, exhausted, hitting the floor with a tiny pinging sound.

Sorry, buddy. I sympathize.

At the same time, I'm terrified when I see how many hours have gone by since Hana's visit. Every hour brings me closer to the procedure, closer to leaving Alex, and even as each minute seems to take an hour, each hour seems to fly by in a minute. I wish I had some way of knowing whether Hana successfully hid a note at the Governor. Even if she did, there's only the barest hope that Alex will think of looking there for word from me-the skinniest hope, the edge of an edge.

But still hope.

I haven't even thought about the other obstacles that stand in the way of my escape-like the fact that I'm strung up like a salami, or the fact that either Carol or Uncle William or Rachel or Jenny is always stationed just outside the door. Call it denial or stubbornness or craziness, but I just have to believe that Alex will come and rescue me-like in one of the fairy tales he told me about on our walk back from the Wilds, where the prince springs a princess from a locked tower, slaying dragons and fighting forests of poisonous thorns just to get to her.

In the late afternoon Rachel comes in with a bowl of steaming soup. She sits down on my bed wordlessly.

"More Advil?" I ask her sarcastically, as she offers me a spoonful.

"You feel better now that you've slept, don't you?" she returns.

"I'd feel better if I weren't tied up."

"It's for your own good," she says, making another gesture to my mouth with the spoon.

The last thing I want to do is accept food from Rachel, but if Alex does come for me (when; when he comes for me; I have to keep believing), I'll need to have my strength up. Besides, maybe if Carol and Rachel really believe that I've given up on the idea of resisting, they'll loosen up my restraints or stop standing watch outside the bedroom door, giving me the opportunity to escape.

So I take a long slurp of soup, force a tight smile, and say, "Not bad."

Rachel beams at me. "You can have as much as you want," she says. "You need to be in good shape for tomorrow."

Amen, sister, I think, and drain the whole bowl before asking for seconds.

More minutes: a slow drag, like a weight pulling me under. But then, suddenly, the light in the bedroom turns the warm color of honey, and then the trembling yellow of fresh cream, and then begins swirling away from the walls altogether, like water going down a drain. I haven't really expected Alex to show up before night-that would be suicide-but pain throbs deep in my chest anyway. There's almost no time left.

Dinner is more soup, topped with soggy chunks of bread. This time it's Carol who brings the meal to me while Rachel stands outside. Carol unties my hands briefly after I beg her to let me use the bathroom, but she insists on accompanying me to the toilet and standing there while I pee, which is more than humiliating. My legs are unsteady and the pain in my head worsens when I stand. There are deep grooves in my wrists-the nylon cord has left its mark-and my arms are like two dead weights, swinging lifelessly from my shoulders. When Carol goes to restrain me again I consider resisting-even though she's taller than I am, I'm definitely stronger-but think better of it. The house is full of people, my uncle included, and for all I know there are still some regulators hanging out downstairs. They'd have me secured and sedated within minutes, and I can't afford to be put under again. I have to be awake and alert tonight. If Alex doesn't come I'll need to generate a plan of my own.

One thing is certain: I won't have the procedure tomorrow. I'd rather die.

Instead I concentrate on tensing my muscles as hard as I can while Carol ties me up. When I relax again there's a tiny bit of wiggle room, just a fraction of an inch. Maybe enough to give me the chance to work my way out of my makeshift handcuffs. More good news: As the day has worn on, everyone has gotten a little more lax about guarding the bedroom constantly, just as I'd hoped. Rachel abandons her shift for five minutes to go to the bathroom; Jenny spends most of the time lecturing Grace about the rules to some game she has invented; Carol leaves her post for half an hour when she goes to do the dishes. After dinner, Uncle William takes over. I'm glad of it. He has a little portable radio with him. I hope he'll nod off the way he usually does after eating.

And then maybe-just maybe-I'll be able to bust out of here.

By nine o'clock all the light in the room has swirled away and I'm left in darkness, shadows draped like fabric over the walls. The moon is large and bright, coming through the blinds and barely outlining everything in a hazy silver glow. Uncle William is still outside, listening to the radio on low, an indecipherable static. Noises float up through the floor-water rushing in the kitchen and downstairs bathroom, voices murmuring downstairs and the scuffling of padded feet-the final coughs and shakes before the house will fall silent for the night, like a person in the middle of death throes. Jenny and Grace still aren't allowed to sleep in the room with me. I a.s.sume they're all settling down to sleep in the living room.

Rachel comes in one last time, carrying a gla.s.s of water. It's difficult to tell in the darkness, but it looks suspiciously cloudy, like someone has dissolved something in it.

"I'm not thirsty," I say.

"Just a few sips."

"Seriously, Rachel. I'm not thirsty."

"Don't be difficult, Lena." She sits down on the bed and forces the water to my lips. "You've been so good all day."

I have no choice but to take a few mouthfuls-tasting, as I do, the acrid sting of medication. Definitely laced with something-more sleeping pills, no doubt. I hold the water in my mouth, refusing to swallow, and as soon as she stands and turns back to the door, I turn my head and let the water run out onto my pillow, into my hair. It's kind of gross, but better than the alternative. Wetness seeps into my pillow, temporarily cooling the sting of pain in my shoulders.

Rachel hesitates at the door as though she's trying to think of something meaningful to say. But all she comes up with is, "See you in the morning."

Not if I can help it, I think, but I don't say anything. Then she leaves me, closing the door behind her.

And then I'm left in total darkness, with just the pa.s.sing of the hours, the minutes ticking forward. And as I lie there with nothing to do but think-as the house settles and goes silent around me-the fear returns, a terrible fog. I tell myself he must come-he has has to-but the clock creeps forward, taunting me, and outside the streets are silent except for the occasional barking of a dog. to-but the clock creeps forward, taunting me, and outside the streets are silent except for the occasional barking of a dog.

To keep my mind from cycling endlessly around the same question (Will Alex come, or won't he?), I try to think of all the ways to kill myself on the way to the labs. If there's any commercial traffic at all on Congress, I throw myself in front of one of the trucks. Or maybe I can make a break for the docks. It shouldn't be too difficult to drown, especially if my hands are still tied. If worse comes to worst I can try to fight my way to the roof of the labs, like that girl did all those years ago, dropping out of the sky like a stone, cleaving the clouds.

I think of the image that was beamed onto televisions everywhere that day, the small trickle of blood, the strange expression of restfulness on her face. Now I understand. It sounds sick, but generating these plans actually makes me feel better, beats back the terrible flutterings of anxiety and fear inside of me. I'd rather die on my own terms than live on theirs. I'd rather die loving Alex than live without him.

Please, G.o.d, make him come for me.

I'll never ask for anything again.

I'll give up anything and everything I have.

Just please make him come.

At midnight the fear turns, suddenly, to desperation. If he's not coming, I'll have to get out of here myself.

I work my hands in their restraints, trying to leverage that extra centimeter of s.p.a.ce. The cord cuts deeply into my skin, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out in the dark. No matter how I pull and tug and twist, the cord refuses to relax any further, but still I keep trying, until sweat is dripping down along my hairline and I'm worried that if I thrash any harder it will attract someone into the room. Something wet trickles down along my forearm, and when I crane my head backward I see a thick, dark line of blood streaking my skin, like an awful black snake: All my struggling has caused my skin to chafe away.

Outside, the streets are as quiet as they've ever been, and in that moment I know that it's hopeless: I won't be able to escape on my own. Tomorrow I'll wake up and my aunt and Rachel and the regulators will escort me downtown, and the only chance of escape I'll have will be into the ocean, or off the roof of the laboratories.

I think of Alex's molten honey eyes and the softness of his touch and sleeping under a canopy of stars, stretched out above our heads like they were placed there just for us. Now, after so many years, I understand what the Coldness was and where it came from-this sense that everything is lost, and worthless, and meaningless. Finally, the cold and the despair turn merciful, dropping down on my mind like a dark veil, and miracle of miracles, I sleep.

I wake sometime later in ink purple darkness with the sensation of someone in the room, some loosening of the restraints on my wrists. For a second my heart soars and I think, Alex Alex, but then I look up and see Gracie, perched at the head of my bed, working at the cords binding me to the headboard. She is pulling and untwisting and bending forward, occasionally, to chew at the nylon with her teeth, giving the impression of a quiet and industrious animal gnawing its way through a fence.

Just like that, the cord snaps and I'm free. The pain in my shoulders is agonizing; my arms are full of a thousand pinp.r.i.c.ks. But still, in that moment of release, I could shout and jump for joy. This is how my mother must have felt when she saw the first shaft of sunlight penetrate the fissure in her stone prison walls.

I sit up, rubbing my wrists. Gracie crouches against the headboard, watching me, and I lean forward and wrap her up in a big hug. She smells like apple soap and a little like sweat. Her skin is hot, and I can't think of how nervous she must have been, sneaking up to my room. I'm surprised by how thin and fragile she feels, trembling ever so slightly in my arms.

But she's not fragile-not by a long shot. Gracie is strong, I realize, perhaps stronger than any of us. It occurs to me that for a long time she has been doing her own version of resisting, and the fact that she is a born resister makes me smile into her hair. She'll be okay. She'll be more than okay.

I pull away just a little bit so I can whisper in her ear. "Is Uncle William still out there?"

Gracie nods, then places both hands under the side of her head, indicating that William is sleeping.

I lean forward again. "Are there regulators in the house?"

Gracie nods again, holding up two fingers, and my stomach sinks. Not just one regulator-two of them.

I stand up, testing my legs, which are cramping from being immobilized for almost two full days. I tiptoe to the window and open the blinds as quietly as possible, conscious of Uncle William slumbering only ten feet away from me. The sky outside is a rich, dark purple, the color of eggplant, and the street is draped with shadows as though it has been covered over with velvet. Everything is totally still, totally silent, but at the horizon is just the faintest blush, a gradual lightening: Dawn isn't far off.

I ease open the window carefully, feeling a sudden desire to smell the ocean. There it is: the smell of salt spray and mist, a smell mixed, in my mind, with the idea of constant revolution, an eternal tide. I feel overwhelmingly sad then. I know there's no way to find Alex in the middle of this enormous sprawling, sleeping city, and no way for me to reach the border on my own. My best bet is to try and make it down to the cliffs, to the ocean, to walk into the water until it closes over my head. I wonder if it will hurt. I wonder if Alex will be thinking of me.

Somewhere deeper in the city a motor is running, a distant, earthy growl, like an animal panting. In a few hours the bright blush of morning will push through all that darkness, and shapes will rea.s.sert themselves, and people will wake up and yawn and brew coffee and get ready for work, everything the same as usual. Life will go on. Something aches at the very core of me, something ancient and deep and stronger than words: the filament that joins each of us to the root of existence, that ancient thing unfurling and resisting and grappling, desperately, for a foothold, a way to stay here, breathe, keep going stay here, breathe, keep going. But I will it away; I will it to curl up again, to let go.

I'd rather die my way than live yours.

The motor is getting louder now, approaching. And now I see a solitary motorcycle, a dark black speck, coming up the street. For a second I pause, fascinated. I've only seen a working motorcycle twice before, and despite everything it strikes me as beautiful, the way it weaves up the street, barely glinting, cutting through the dark, like the sleek black head of an otter through the water. And the rider, too, just a dark shape ma.s.sed on the back of the bike like liquid, like shadow, bent forward, just the crown of the head visible, drawing ever closer, taking on shape and detail.