Antitype (10 page)

I wake up panting and clawing at my sweat-soaked tank top. For a long moment, I believe I cannot breathe, that I float in water. But as my ragged breaths grow harsh against my raw throat, I remember where I am and tell myself for the millionth time that the nightmare was not real.

“Lights,” I say, and the word is a croak.

Square panels on the lower halves of the walls flicker on with a soft hum and glow, illuminating my small room. Even the low setting makes my eyes water. I squint until they adjust.

I stand on shaky legs and clumsily run into the table with my pitcher of water and empty glass. The room-temperature water soothes my dry throat.

“Everything okay?” a male voice asks.

The abrupt sound startles me and I turn narrowed eyes up to the speaker protruding at an angle from the tan wall. The speaker is the only thing in my room that stands out and forces me to remember how I am never truly alone. The camera from which they watch me, I cannot find.

“Fine,” I say.

Perched on the edge of my bed, I lean into the bouquet of indigo flowers delivered earlier in the evening. I had admitted my love for them to Declan on our walk and he had them arranged. The petals add color to my otherwise lifeless room, where even the green leafy plant in the corner is fake.

I spend the next few minutes searching the one large photograph in my room for something new. A dip in the sand I may have never noticed before or a new color in the sunset I may have just learned about. Are there more seagulls today? There never are, of course, but I still look. It calms me to look.

“Will you need a sedative?” the voice asks.

The time I take to consider this offer is short. I am too frightened to sleep on my own and need to sleep so I can be rested for Declan's visit tomorrow.

“Yes, please,” I tell the speaker.

A
whoosh
of air precedes the arrival of a tube in the narrow air lock by the door. A tiny door opens and I reach inside for the slim aluminum cylinder. The top rolls aside and I tilt the end over my palm. One tiny, round white pill falls into it, wrapped in a clear plastic square.

A knock on the door startles me, a sign my nerves are still raw.

I press a button by the door and Dr. Travista's face appears on the screen: spectacled gray eyes and pale skin scarred from some pocked ailment in his youth. He is much older than Declan, though Declan acts as if they were childhood friends.

“Yes?” I say into the tiny microphone under the screen.

“May I come in?”

His voice grates and I am too unnerved to listen to him and answer his many questions, but I cannot tell him no. I press another button and the door slides open with a barely audible
shiff
.

“Are you working late?” I ask amiably.

He nods, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet, and tucks his hands into the white lab coat he wears over a teal button-down shirt. I do not like this color teal. “You had another nightmare.”

This is not a question, so I do not respond.

He motions for me to sit in a nearby chair. He kneels before me and begins taking my pulse with cool fingers. “Can you tell me about it?”

No!
a voice yells inside my head.
Don't you dare!

I listen to the voice because the voice belongs to me and why would I not listen to myself? I must have a reason to hide the truth, but I cannot think it is anything more than my uneasiness with this doctor, who is my husband's closest friend.

“I cannot recall,” I say, if for no other reason than to calm the voice. She is always nervous I will tell Dr. Travista too much.

Gray eyes glance up at me over the rim of wire-framed glasses. “Hm.” This is always his response. I dislike this, too. “Odd.”

I tilt my head. “What is odd?”

“After all these months, you never recall the details of this nightmare you experience nearly every night. It's odd.”

I shrug a single shoulder. “I suppose it is.”

Dr. Travista continues checking my vitals without another word but watches me carefully. I cannot begin to guess what he looks for in my expression, which I keep carefully neutral. Experience has taught me that the calmer I act, the quicker he leaves.

Finally, he slaps his knees and stands. “You have your sedative and water. Is there anything else you need?”

I affect a pleasant expression. “No. I do not believe so. I will take it right now and go back to sleep.”

“Good. Call if you need anything more.”

I walk him to the door I am not allowed to pass through and lean into it when it slides closed behind him. The metal is cool against my warm skin and I roll my forehead over the flat surface.

“Stars,” I whisper a moment later. “I should have asked to see the stars.”

 • • • 

The stars shone bright tonight, but they always did this far from the city. These trips were always about taking the good with the bad. I hated them, but they were necessary.

“Time?” I asked.

“One hour.”

“Good.”

I lay down on the grassy knoll, ignoring the uncomfortable attachments to my black uniform. Or I tried to. I didn't dare remove anything.

Foster laughed. “What are you doing, Wade?”

Tucking my hands under my head, I settled in with a sigh. “I'm looking at the stars. Don't you miss the stars? They tell stories, you know.”

He dropped to a knee beside me, a grin spreading over his face. His black curls peeked out from under a black cap and night-vision goggles, and his warm chocolate complexion looked darker under the night sky. Only the pale gray-blue hue of his eyes remained true in the dark of night, reflecting the moonlight.

“You can be such a girl sometimes,” he said.

I reached up and smacked his uniformed shoulder. “I am a girl.”

“No, you aren't,” he said and shrugged. “Well, not always.”

“My husband would tell you I am all the time.”

“Your husband gets to go places no man has gone before.” With a grunt, he dropped to his butt next to me. His heavy gear rustled and shifted while he settled.

I rolled my eyes. “Jealous?”

“Absolutely.” Foster leaned back on his elbows and dropped his head back to look up at the sky. He released a deep sigh. “Wow. That is nice.”

The tiny pinpricks of clustered light must have reached past a billion, more than I would ever count. In the city, I never saw this many.

“It's hard to believe men used to guide themselves using them,” I said. “I would get lost.”

Foster swiveled his head toward me and shot me a lopsided grin. “Not you. You'll always know your true north.”

 • • • 

I wake with a start but remain perfectly calm. This was no nightmare. I liked this dream. It had been so real I could almost feel the items on my belt pressing into my hip and back. But it is the stars I want to remember, so I close my eyes and attempt to bring the image back. It is not the same but is good enough for now. It is more than I could have asked for. A knock on the door brings me out of my dreamy half sleep.

“Yes?”

“Breakfast.”

I slide out of bed and am surprised to find the floor cooler than normal. I hiss and pick up the pace on tiptoes to press the unlock and open buttons. Randall, expression as impassive as ever, strolls right past me and sets my tray down. Like all of Dr. Travista's nurses, he wears gray scrubs over his skeletal frame. Thankfully, the orderlies wear yellow scrubs, or I would never know the difference between the two groups of his all-male staff.

I eye the plate of fruit and whole wheat toast and stifle a groan. Randall hates when I complain, and it does me no good anyway. He is simply doing what he is told despite the fact that he considers it below his job description to serve me breakfast in bed, as he so curtly muttered under his breath a time or two.

Randall lifts the tiny cup of pills and holds them out with a glass of water. The routine never changes. Swallow the pills in silence, open mouth and lift tongue to prove they are really washed down. Then he takes my blood pressure and shines a light in my eyes. He asks me questions about my hearing: better or worse? Does my sense of touch feel any different? More sensitive? Less? Any aches or pains? He checks my reflexes.

I do not understand the expectations. Nothing ever changes and I say so every morning.

I follow through these steps without question, ignoring his bored expression, trying not to take it personally. He simply hates his job and it has nothing to do with me.

Randall leaves me within heartbeats of finishing his notations on a computer tablet, and I cross the hall to the mirrorless bathroom. The space has many stalls and a shower area around a corner. It is meant to be shared, but I am the only patient on this floor.

I wash up and return to my cold, bland breakfast. The fruit is tasteless, probably not in season, and I long for something sweet.

I remind myself that it will not always be like this. My life is in a house in the mountains away from all this. I am much better now and they will let me go home soon.

Until then, things will continue as they always have. One new day at a time.

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