He touches his hand to his ear, and I see he has a black earpiece similar to the one Kay wore. “Hey, Rice here. We’re going to have to save these two for Dr. Reynolds. I’ve been unable to get a verbal response. They seem harmless.” He listens. “Yes, that is my initial evaluation despite the Guardian’s concerns. Let’s keep the Class Five for further study, and let the Class Three mix in with the current observation group.” He pauses. “Yes, come get the child.”
I stand and pull Baby off her chair. I shove her behind me with one hand and reach under my sweatshirt with the other. I feel for the gun, pulling it from its harness. I don’t want to harm him but I point it at the boy. There’s no way he’s taking Baby anywhere. His mouth drops open. With his hand still to his ear he makes a squeaking noise.
He closes his mouth and swallows. “Yeah,” he says, eyeing us. “You need to get Dr. Reynolds up here, now.” I realize he is still speaking to the person on the other end of his earpiece. “I don’t care,” he tells them between clenched teeth. “Then get the director. They have a gun.”
He moves his hand from his ear and puts both arms above his shoulders. “Look, there’s no need for that. I’m just trying to help you.” His voice trembles. “I promise.”
I lick my lips. It is a safe place here, from Them anyway. I don’t have to be quiet. I can ask him questions, get answers. But still, I can’t bring myself to speak. I have lost my voice and am so very exhausted.
I hear the door unlock once again and see it begin to swing open. I point the gun at the opening.
“It’s just the director,” the boy assures me. “She won’t hurt you.”
A woman steps through the door. She is tall with long, brown hair, and I instantly picture her with bright purple flowers in her hair. The kind you wear in Hawaii when you are on your honeymoon. I lower the gun and freeze.
Then, for the first time in three years, I find my real voice.
“Mom?”
PART TWO
NEW HOPE
FOUR MONTHS LATER
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Are you feeling better?” A woman’s voice wakes me and I sit upright in bed. She is standing by the door, a meal tray in hand. I don’t recognize her, but she looks commanding, her gray-blond hair tied back into a tight bun.
“Who are you?” I ask groggily. “What day is it?”
“I’m Dr. Thorpe. Do you know where you are, Amy?” She sets the food down, retrieving a small paper cup from the tray.
“I’m . . . I’m in the Ward, aren’t I?” I ask tentatively, my brain in a fog.
“Yes, very good. You were brought here after your breakdown. Do you remember?”
I shake my head no. I know who I am. I can recall blurred faces, me being taken from someone. Who are they all? While I struggle to think, Dr. Thorpe hands me the cup, which contains three pills. “What are these?” I ask.
“They’ll help you.” She takes a larger plastic cup from the tray, walks to the sink, and fills it with water. She sits next to me on the bed and offers me the cup of water. I hesitate, then take it.
“I’m not sure I should take anything without talking to my mother first,” I tell her, uncertain.
“Your mother is well aware of your course of treatment.”
“Where is she? When can I see her?” I ask, unsettled. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself.
“I will have to consult with Dr. Reynolds.” She sounds kind, but something in her voice just isn’t right.
“Is he the one who prescribed me these?” I shake the cup of pills. She nods, smiling reassuringly. “What are they?” I ask again, confusion clouding my head.
“Medication to help you get better.”
Get better? What exactly is wrong with me? “And if I refuse?”
“I’m sorry, but that’s not an option, Amy. I’d prefer you take the pills now. Otherwise I’ll have to call an orderly in here. I know you don’t want that.” The doctor’s kind manner has turned cool.
I hold the cup to my mouth and shake the pills in, trying to conceal them under my tongue as I swallow all the water. I give the empty cup back to the doctor, but she just walks to the sink and refills it.
“Let’s try again, shall we?” she asks, handing the cup back to me. I frown, considering an alternative. There is none. Eventually I give in and swallow the pills. After the doctor checks my mouth to be certain I’m not hiding them, she brings me the tray of food.
“Now, you must eat all of this,” she tells me firmly. “And if you refuse, you’ll be force-fed, and I know you don’t want that either.” She gives me a pointed look before she leaves, the door clicking shut loudly behind her.
I pause for a moment, looking around. My room is sterile—white walls, a small sink and toilet in the corner, and the bed I’m sitting on. I’m still trying to figure out what is going on—to remember what brought me here. I look down at my food and, unwillingly, I make myself eat it, my stomach already queasy. Either the drugs aren’t settling well or it’s the stress. After I finish, I push the tray onto the floor and lie in bed, clutching my stomach. Despite the pain, I fall into an uneasy, pill-induced sleep.
When I wake, I don’t know if it’s been hours or days. I can’t help but wonder: Where did it all go wrong? I struggle to think back to when I saw my mother for the first time in years.
“Amy?” My mother looked at me, unbelieving, her hand covering her mouth. She walked forward slowly. “Is that you?”
I nodded. I’d already begun to cry. Not the silent tears that I’d developed in the After, but loud, blubbering sobs. Baby held tightly on to my waist. I could tell she was agitated.
My mother crossed the room and instantly I was in her arms. It was strange yet comforting. She smelled the same as I remembered: fresh and flowery. I bawled onto her shoulder. She rubbed my back, and I got lost in the feeling.
Eventually I could breathe again. I raised my head and wiped my nose. My mother gazed at me, beaming. Tears had stained her face.
She touched my head and studied my newly cut hair. “You always did want a Mohawk,” she said. I managed a laugh.
“Baby cut it.” It was strange to finally talk, to say Baby’s name out loud. I’d only ever signed it. As soon as I said it, though, I noticed she was no longer clutching my waist. I turned to find her crouching on the floor against the wall, her hands covering her ears. I went to her quickly, bent down, and touched her arm.
“Are you okay?” I asked. Then I realized she wouldn’t understand what I was saying and signed it instead.
She looked at me like I was a stranger. Yes. You talked loud, she accused.
I did Before. You know that.
It just scared me.
I’m sorry. I smoothed down her hair. We’re safe here. I promise. I was sure.
Did the princess tell you that?
Princess? I turned and looked at my mother with a smile. She’s not exactly a princess. She’s my mom.