Anomaly (21 page)
“She is moving again.”
I keep hearing that voice. I hear it, I feel a touch, and then I go back to sleep. I should wake up. I have the idea somewhere in the back of my mind that I should be doing something. But my head hurts and my body feels like all the muscles have been replaced with concrete. Could I move even if I tried?
I think of my pinkie. I could try to move that. I picture my shoulder, my arm, my wrist, my fingers. Just lift the pinkie. Nothing else. Up.
“Her heart rate is increasing.” His hand is on my wrist again. He needs to remove it. I can’t move my pinkie with his hand there. “There, it’s going down again.”
His hand is gone. I hold my breath and concentrate on moving the pinkie. It is so hard. I can’t do it. I release my breath and moan.
“Thalli?”
My body seems to soften just a bit. Thalli, he said. Thalli. I feel like I should know what that is.
“If you can hear me, blink once.”
I want to laugh. Blink. Right.
I hear a door open and then close. I feel the hand again, on my shoulder this time. There is a light pressure and then I hear the voice whispering in my ear.
“Do you remember who you are, Thalli?” The breath in my ear is hot. “Do you remember anything?”
He sounds so sad. I don’t want him to be sad. But even if I could move, I couldn’t give him the answer he wants.
Do
I remember anything?
Images pop into my mind. Strange images: a piece of string, an apple, an empty room. I can see them, but I don’t know what they mean. And I am too tired to think about them anymore. I feel the hand leave my shoulder. I hear a ragged breath. Too tired to think. I wish I could tell him that. But I can’t say anything. So I just let the room go black and hope that the next time I wake, things will be better.
M
y throat feels like it is on fire. But my eyelids aren’t quite so heavy, and with a little effort, I can move my pinkie. Is that enough to signal someone? If I could just get some water. Just a little, to soothe this burning.
I open my eyes. It is difficult. I am blinded by the lights. I have to close them again. Why are the lights in here so bright? And where is “here”? What is going on? Why am I lying on this sleeping platform? Why can’t I stay awake? Why is it so hard to move?
I try to say “water,” but only “waaa” comes out. And even that sounds odd, like it’s from someone else’s mouth and not mine. I don’t sound like that, do I?
“Thalli.” That voice. He is always here. His hand is on my arm again. “What did you say?”
“Wa”—I take a breath. I can do this—“ter.”
“Water?”
I lift my eyes slightly, enough for him to see my response, then I close them quickly. It is so bright.
I hear his feet move away. The door opens and shuts. Silence. The burning in my throat intensifies. I hope he hurries.
The door opens again. His feet are coming closer. I feel the sleeping platform lifting my head up. I am dizzy, but I try not to pass out. I need that water.
A cup touches my lips and I open my mouth, ready to gulp it down, to quench the fire in my throat.
“Easy, my dear.” This is a different voice. “Just a few sips to start.”
I close my lips and the water slides across my tongue and down my throat. I wish he would give me more. I try to open my eyes again. But the lights are too much for me. I can’t keep my eyes open.
“Extinguish that lamp, Berk,” the voice commands.
The lights go out and I attempt to raise my eyelids once again. A soft light comes in from the side of a room—a panel, perhaps?
My eyes are open, but I only see blurry shapes. I blink again and the shapes begin to come into focus. An older man is standing over me, cup in his hand.
“Better?”
I nod. “More?”
He places the cup back to my lips and more liquid goes down this time. I close my eyes in relief.
“Stay awake now,” the older man says. “We need to ask you some questions.”
I open my eyes and see another man has entered the room. This one is much younger. Dark hair and light eyes—eyes that are locked on me, like he is trying to communicate something. What?
“I am Dr. Loudin.” The old man sits on a stool beside my sleeping platform. “Do you know who you are?”
I am distracted by the young man in the back. He is shaking his head, his eyes wide. He looks afraid. Why is he afraid?
“I-I’m not sure.” I look back at the old man.
“Do you know where you are?”
“Medical facility?”
The old man looks at the younger man. “Verbal skills seem to be intact. And she knows the terminology. Good sign.”
What is he talking about? “What happened?”
“What is the last thing you remember?”
The younger man is shaking his head again.
“A headache.”
The old man laughs. It wasn’t a joke but I smile anyway.
“Before that?”
What do I remember before that? A piece of thread? An apple?
The old man shines a small light in my eyes. My eyes water and I close them. My arms are too heavy to bring my hands up to wipe away the tears. And I am so tired.
“We will talk more later.” The old man stands. “You should feel much better when you wake.”
I open my eyes in thanks and close them again.
“Wean her off the sedative and continue giving her water,”
he tells the younger man. “Unless you’d rather have an Assistant do that.”
“No,” the younger man responds quickly. “I will stay with her.”
“Very well.”
“Was it”—the young man clears his throat—“successful?”
“We won’t know for sure until she is fully conscious. But yes, the procedure appears to have been quite a success indeed.”
I
open my eyes. It isn’t difficult. The lamps are off and only the slightest bit of light is coming through the window. I turn my head and find my muscles don’t feel like concrete anymore.
The young man is asleep in a chair next to my sleeping platform. I look down and see that he is holding my hand. I look at his face. It is so familiar. The dark eyelashes, the straight nose, the white lab coat. I have seen him before. Where?
The fog that has filled my brain is beginning to lift. I think again of the piece of thread, the apple, the empty room. I know those images mean something. I force my mind to focus. I need to remember. I know it is important.
The young man’s eyes open. I know those eyes. He leans closer, his eyes searching mine. He moves his hand to my face. “Thalli?”
And suddenly, I remember. Everything. It all comes back so quickly that I can hardly breathe. The thread: I was tricked into believing there is a community aboveground. The apple: I am a child of the Designer. The empty room: All my friends have been eliminated.
All but . . . “Berk.”
He places a hand on my face. “You remember.”
I swallow. I was supposed to have my memory erased. “I knew it wouldn’t work.”
“How?”
“I am an anomaly, remember?” I try to laugh, but nothing comes out.
Berk takes his hand from my face and walks to the end of the room. I try to sit up, but I am too dizzy. I lie back down. Berk returns with a glass of water. He lifts my head and helps me sip.
“Thank you.” I picture the empty pod. My friends—Rhen—removed because the State needed their oxygen.
Berk leans close and I can smell the soap he uses—I remember that scent. Spicy and masculine. Berk. His nearness is making my mind fog again. I turn my head away from him and look out the panel.
“Are there cameras in here?”
“They were removed.”
“Are you sure?”
Berk raises his eyebrows. “I removed them myself. We need power in here for so many things, and we can’t afford to waste
power, so I took out everything that was unnecessary in order to keep the rest working all the time.”
“We can’t let Dr. Loudin know the surgery did not work.”
Berk releases a slow breath. “You’re right.”
“Tell me what he is expecting when he sees me.” I take another sip of water.
Berk spends the next ten minutes explaining how I am to respond to everything from my first walk to my first meal to my first set of tests. I should be unsure, ask questions—but not too many questions. I should know the words for basic items but need help with the more technical terms. Staying silent is always better than speaking.
“What about my music?” Would the new Thalli know how to play still? Could I live the rest of my life without that gift?
“You were designed to be a Musician.” Berk smiles. “It is part of you.”
I sigh in relief.
“But maybe you could mess up a few notes, your first time.”
I do not even know if I can do that. “Mess up some notes? Unthinkable. That is one thing I cannot remember doing.”
Berk laughs. “All right. Maybe not.”
“Will you stay?” I look at Berk again. He leans forward and hides my hand in both of his.
“I will never let you out of my sight again.”
P
retending to know nothing is much harder than it might sound.
The first day after I “woke,” Dr. Loudin came in and asked me questions. Silly questions. But I wasn’t sure which to answer correctly and which to pretend I didn’t know. Thankfully, I am only one of his projects so he leaves the bulk of the work to Berk. Dr. Loudin only comes in now in the evenings for an update and, I suspect, to see how Berk and I are interacting with each other. Berk determined he should look sad—Dr. Loudin knows Berk has feelings for me, and he would naturally be upset at seeing me as the shell of the girl he knew.
My heart breaks every time I think of all my friends from Pod C. I see them in the rooms here in the pod, doing their work or viewing the wall screens. They should still be here. But I cannot bring them back, so I will work to help Berk uncover a solution to our State’s oxygen problem so no more pods will have to be eliminated. And I try to keep my face from revealing what is in my heart. I do not want Dr. Loudin to come in unexpectedly and find me crying over the cooking appliance.
So far I have learned our State’s history. Again. And I have spent several hours studying the science of our Society. Not as terrible as history, but I do long to hold an instrument in my hands. Any instrument. I do not ask, though. I don’t know if the new Thalli is supposed to ask those kinds of questions.
“Time for a field trip,” Berk announces.
“Should I bring my learning pad?”
“Not necessary.” An Assistant works on a communications pad in the corner of the room, so I try to behave as patient-like as possible.
I put on my shoes and Berk stands at the door. We walk in silence. We pass the technology center, with its gleaming white walls. I have only been in there a few times, but the visits were fascinating. The Technology Specialists work to create updated versions of our current equipment and to develop new equipment as well.
But we are walking too far past that for it to be our destination. I can’t stand the suspense any longer.
“Where are we going?”
“I have told you that your memory was erased,” Scientist Berk explains. Perhaps concerned that there are cameras on the outside of the building, watching us? “But I haven’t told
you that before your surgery, you were one of the most accomplished musicians in the State.”
I feel a new emotion. I can’t quite describe it, but it feels good.
“Was I?” I am Patient Thalli, whose mind is a blank learning pad waiting to be downloaded, who does not feel emotion at this information.
He turns again and we are on a path leading to a large building I know well. I force myself not to run or shout or jump.
“And what is this?” I ask.
Berk turns to me and his lips turn up slightly. He is just as happy for me as I am. “This is the performance pod.”
“The performance pod?” We enter the familiar room and I want to cry. The instruments have all been cleaned and are hanging in their slots along the wall. I want to play every one of them.
“We want to see if your musical memory is intact. We have a recording of you playing from before your surgery. We would like to see you practice that piece and record it again. Then we will analyze the similarities and differences.”
“I see.” I know which piece it is. It is the one I wrote for the night of our moon viewing. The one I wrote when I was supposed to be completing a history lesson. Memories of that day flood my mind. I see Rhen showing signs of some type of sickness. The Monitor came in and I covered for her, refusing to allow her to turn herself in. I feel tears threaten to spill. I swallow hard. I miss her so much.
That was also the day I was sent to isolation, the day I snuck out, the day I saw death. And the day I saw Berk. But I didn’t
know any of that when I wrote that song. That was the last song I wrote before all of this happened.