The Haven: A Novel (2 page)

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought of being away from here.”

What do we expect at Haven Hospital & Halls? We are Terminal. I know this. We
all
know this. We leave. We take our prepared bags sometimes and go. But not like Abigail suggested. Like Isaac now. That kind of leaving is part of us.

“Imagine being free,” Abigail said. She whispered the words but they felt so loud, everyone in the Dining Hall must have heard them.

“Don’t say that,” I said. Her words made me uncomfortable. “It could have been you and saying this might make it you.” The thought of Abigail being called away was almost as bad as the thought of
me
being the next one taken out for Treatment.

You never know.

There is no pattern that I can distinguish. I remember everyone who’s left. And when, too. That information sticks in my brain. Things I need to remember (and things I don’t) stay around longer for me than for other Terminals, even with the Tonic.

“We never know who or when or why,” I said.

Ruth, sitting on the other side of me, said, “We do know.” Her huge brown eyes seemed even bigger than normal. “The Disease may strike at any moment, any time. We have to be prepared. We stay here and prepare for the worst.”

Abigail didn’t answer.

“We’re lucky to live here.” Ruth pointed with her knife. “Haven Hospital and Halls is the finest Treatment center available.”

Around us the noise in the dining room became a steady hum. Had the Terminals already forgotten about Isaac? Memories the medication should keep away were still close enough for me to touch.

Long ago, I quit telling Dr. King how much I remembered, because the increase in Tonics made me so sick, I couldn’t eat.

It’s best to keep some things to myself.

No one needs to know what’s in my head.

That irreverent thought made me want to tell on myself, but I pushed it away.

“Eat. Keep strong,” Ruth said. She ate like her words would keep her from leaving again.

Now Abigail’s lips were thin and white, like the blood had seeped from them. I brushed my fingertip against her arm, a quick touch, though it meant a burst of nausea. Her skin was as cold as if nothing ran through her veins.

“Ruth’s right, Abigail,” I said, and Ruth nodded. “You’ve heard the doctors. The better health we have, the better chance we have.”

Abigail turned to her food.

And though I wasn’t sure it
would
help, I finished lunch.

2

“All right, everyone,” Ms. Iverson said once we settled into our chairs for English. Some Terminals stared at their desktops. It’s like this when someone goes, like our batteries are drained. Terminals might not remember who was gone, but when those Dining Hall doors open, an awful feeling stays with us, if only for a few hours.

Now Ms. Iverson closed our classroom door, stood facing the opaque glass, then turned and gazed out at all of us. She spoke to the tops of bent heads.

“Let’s chat.” Her voice was low, desktop level.

She does this every time someone we know leaves. Isaac is in this class with us. (Or was? Should I say was?) I tried to gather courage from somewhere that seemed empty inside, then looked back at Ms. Iverson again.

“You know we can’t spend a lot of time on this subject, but we’ll talk for a few minutes.”

I pressed my knuckles to my lips, eyes stinging. Maybe if I didn’t blink, I might be safe the next time those doors opened.

No blinking.

Counting.

Eating even when I wasn’t hungry.

All to save myself.

Maybe.

No.

All this at Haven Hospital & Halls is good. It might all be a saving grace, though there is no grace for Terminals living at this Treatment center that doubles as a school.

I pretended to listen to Ms. Iverson. I didn’t
want
to hear what she said. I had this speech memorized.

Voices took turns around me, but I kept my head down. Focused on the lined paper stacked on the corner of my desk.

More than twenty Terminals had been in and out of surgery since my own operation. Twenty Terminals in about a year.

The computations were easy. Nearly two per month.

I rubbed a finger over my palm.

None had seemed ill.

When someone is contagious, they’re quarantined, put into Isolation. But even then we won’t be called away.

The Disease, they told us, was silent, never showed its head, seemed instead to be hidden in the lab reports that Dr. King brought with him.

And I knew for a fact,
I
had been healthy. I hadn’t felt ill. There were no hints. No indication of trouble.

Then, without warning,
my
name was called. My fingertips went numb, remembering.

I closed my eyes again. The Terminals around me spoke in soft voices.

I relived leaving more often than not. The way my name was called. How I hadn’t accepted the summons at first and Dr. King had to call my name again. How I had stood at that lunch. How my knees shook. Abigail said, “Be strong.” And I walked across the Dining Hall at the end of the meal with everyone watching and Mr. MacGee nodding to me, like a good-bye. When I had looked at the Terminals and it was like we were all the same person because it would happen to them and it was happening to me and it had happened to others before.

For decades.

That’s what Dr. King said.

Now, at the front of the classroom as Ms. Iverson spoke in subdued tones, I peered at the two bare poplars outside the window, out at the spring snow. Isaac walked tall when he left the dining room today. I’m not so sure I had.

“No more!” A voice jarred me.

Gideon stood beside his chair. His face was blotchy. He looked so … what? Sick?

“Gideon,” Ms. Iverson said. She went across the room to stand near him but didn’t get too close.

“There has to be a promise,” Gideon said. He spoke through clenched teeth. His sandy-colored hair fell over his forehead, curled a little at his collar. He was at least a head taller than Ms. Iverson and even from where I sat I could see how blue his eyes were. My insides tumbled seeing him.

“Are you okay?” Ms. Iverson’s hands were extended, like she might touch him, though I knew she wouldn’t unless extreme measures were called for and Security came.

Gideon swung toward her. I’d never seen a Terminal move like that. He was so fast. “Am I okay? No!” His voice grew. I covered my ears.

Three Terminals at the front of the classroom—Camille, Ruth, and John—slid back in their chairs like they were afraid. Matthew dropped his book. It landed on the floor with a pop and half the classroom jumped, including me.

“You have reason to be upset, Gideon,” Ms. Iverson said. Her hands still out. Her voice soothing.

“This is wrong,” he said, and I uncovered my ears. His voice was quiet now—like what he would say was meant for only a few of us to hear, and not the whole class. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

No one replied.

“What’re you saying, Gideon?” Abraham asked. “This is the way and the life.”

“We’re Terminals,” Sarah said. She twisted her short hair around her finger, and whispered, “We’re Terminals.” Twist, twist, twist.

“I know that, Sarah,” Gideon said. He took a step and she flinched. “We
all
know that. But what we don’t know is why. Why does it have to be that way? Why us?”

Ms. Iverson checked the door, then the window.

“Why can’t there be a promise?” Gideon walked to the front of the classroom, walked back to his chair. He ran his hands through his hair. He moved so fast—his gestures, his steps, were like the silly movies we sometimes see on Terminal Television. “Why can’t there be cures? Why can’t
we
 … the Terminals”—his words hovered in the air—“find answers?”

Ms. Iverson’s face turned red. “We need to get going on Harper Lee’s novel. I want to talk about how Atticus’s Terminal situation of seeing all people as equal caused trouble for his family.”

“No!” Gideon said. Although his voice was soft, it made me draw back. I looked at Abigail, who sits behind me. Her eyes were huge.

“What’s happening?” Sarah asked from across the room. “Is he sick? Is he having a breakdown?”

“Maybe we should call for help, Ms. Iverson,” Matthew said. “Maybe we need the doctor here. Gideon might be contagious.” Matthew tapped on his desktop.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” someone said.

I covered my eyes. My hands felt cool as water. Fingers spread, I watched as Gideon shoved his desk down the aisle toward the front of the room. It slid on its side. Pencils, books, and a calculator spilled on the wood floor. Outside, a few flakes of snow fell.

“No! I
want
to talk about this.”

Daniel rolled forward in his wheelchair. “Gideon,” he said. “Stop. Now.”

And Gideon stopped. He made a face at Daniel like nothing I had never seen, righted the chair where it had landed, and sat a foot and a half from Ms. Iverson’s desk. I would have been self-conscious with such close proximity to a Teacher. Sick, even.

“He wants a cure,” Daniel said to Ms. Iverson. He took off his glasses, then put them back on. “He wants a cure. I do. We all do, right?” He looked around the classroom.

No one moved.

“Yes.” Abigail’s voice was weak.

I squeezed my hands together. Something heavy sat in my chest.

Twice in one day. Too much excitement. Too much moving and yelling and calling Terminals out.

Calm down, Shiloh,
I thought.
Or you’ll follow Isaac to the hospital.

“We’ll wait a moment on
To Kill a Mockingbird,
” Ms. Iverson said. She pulled at her shirt a little, like she stretched out invisible wrinkles. Then she patted at her hair.

My whole Terminal world seemed to tilt, like
I
had tipped over and not Gideon’s chair.

“Terminal,” Ms. Iverson said. “We all know the definition.” She put her hands under her chin.

“Who can forget?” Camille asked, shifting in her seat.

Oh, they forgot. If enough time passed, Isaac would not be remembered at all—even if I brought him up to another Terminal.

Maybe my memory is part of my illness, part of my disease.
It was a frightening thought.

“I know,” Ms. Iverson said. Her eyes grew watery. That’s one thing with the Whole. They leak. I saw Ms. Iverson’s face leak like right now (and heard her bark like a seal, wearing a horrible expression once while she read. Late one night when I should have been sleeping but had awakened from a nightmare and went to find her for Tonic).

I agreed with Camille.
We all know the definition. As soon as we can learn, we’re taught the meaning.
I watched Gideon, who glowered out the window, like maybe none of us were here. Did he see the snow the same way I had? My insides twisted. Or did he look at those trees that held no promise of spring yet?

Ruth said, “Terminal: of or forming a limit, boundary, or end. Concluding; final. Ending in death; fatal.”

I glanced back at Ms. Iverson. “Our lives here will end in death,” I said.

Or worse.

“Not if there’s a cure.” The words one-at-a-time slow. Gideon again.

Could Terminals be cured? It didn’t seem possible.

Ms. Iverson’s mouth hung open, then, “Good, Ruth,” she said. It was as if Gideon hadn’t spoken. “And you, too, Shiloh.”

“No,” Gideon said, the word coming out with a long breath of air. “No, it’s not good. ‘Ending in death; fatal.’
That
is not good.” Gideon did something strange then. Looked around the room, like he wanted to catch our eyes with his. I let my gaze shift to just over his ear.

Then he left the room without permission!

Ms. Iverson’s eyebrows went up and she pursed her lips. She said, “Go ahead and start reading, class. I’ll be right back.” She followed Gideon, closing the door.

The room calmed. Outside, the storm moved closer, the afternoon sky became dark. Dark as Gideon’s face had been. Snowflakes fell harder. Changed their minds. Stopped. Fell again.

“What was
that
?” Abraham asked. He sounded uncomfortable.

“Gideon had a mental malfunction,” Camille said.

“No,” Daniel said. He swung his wheelchair around to face us. He whispered, his eyes wide. “Gideon’s right. We never expect anything here
except
to die.”

I pulled in a deep breath of air. “That’s the truth of our world, Daniel. We’ve seen it on Terminal Television. We saw it”—I gestured toward the dining room—“just this morning. We all die.”

“This is our lives,” Ruth said. She shrugged. Her dark, shoulder-length hair swung a bit around her face. “We live away from everyone to keep us alive longer.”

“But we don’t have to,” Daniel said. He still whispered, resting his hands where his legs should have been. “We
could
look for a cure. A way out.”

“We could try,” Abigail said. Her voice was hesitant, like maybe she tasted these words for the first time.

The need to do what was right stirred in me. We
must
do the right thing.
Must
be obedient. Obedience kept us safe.

“No,” I said, “even thinking that kind of thing is wrong.”

The classroom door swung open and all talking ceased. Ms. Iverson went to her desk. “No one is to speak of what happened today. Do you understand? Do not speak of this.”

A few Terminals nodded.

“Today is our little secret.”

Another surprise. Too many for one day. I put my head on my desk, wondering if Ms. Iverson would send Gideon to Isolation and why he and Daniel might think we could do anything, anything at all, to save ourselves.

HAVEN

HOSPITAL&HALLS

Where You Matter

Established 2020

Note to all Staff

Behavior to Look For:

Uncommon socialization

Touching

Fraternizing with the opposite sex

Too much speaking

Open talk of rebellion

Any and all of these (and similar) behaviors MUST be reported to school officials.