Docile Page 19

  My tea feels thick in my throat as I force it down. I wish I could’ve warned Dylan against trillionaires. Spared her the humiliation and Alex the trouble. They’re not all like him.

  “She’s at Bishop Laboratories, now,” I say. “I don’t know if you received the new contract in the mail, yet. I know it’s slow out here.”

  “I thought she was with some person named VanBuren, the one on all the TV billboards along 83.”

  “She was,” I say. “But then Alex bought her contract for Bishop Laboratories.”

  Nora sits slowly and carefully in a chair, as if she’s hurt. “Who’s he?” She doesn’t look hurt, but I worry she’s stopped going to the doctor, now that I’m not here. I should tell Abby she has to make our family go. Untreated scrapes and sprains go a long way. “And what’s Bishop Laboratories?”

  “Alex is my Patron and Bishop Laboratories is his family’s business. He’s kind and fair.” I hold Nora’s hand in mine. “Dylan will be all right. I promise.”

  * * *

  Dad and Abby come for us when the sun begins to set. Together, we walk down the dirt road toward the old barn. I can’t remember it ever housing animals; we use it for storage, now.

  The farm is quiet for a Saturday night. Normally, the adults lay out their haul while the children walk around with baskets, collecting groceries: greens, eggs, little rolls if there’s a surplus. Paulo, who’s worked with the sheep and goats for sixty years, always sneaks the littlest kids pieces of cheese until someone catches him. Cheese is actually worth something if we label it “artisanal.” Not much, but something.

  Dad looks at me, a muted smile on his face. “Remember to act surprised.”

  “I will,” I say. But suddenly I find myself stopped. The others walk past me, not noticing they’ve left me for several yards. I stare at the rust-colored barn. “I haven’t seen anyone in six months. What if they don’t like me, now?”

  “Why wouldn’t they like you?” Nora asks, taking Dad’s hand.

  “I like you, Elisha,” says Mom.

  “Thank you.” I look down at the seven-hundred-dollar tee shirt Alex bought me last weekend. The fabric was so soft and warm when I tried it on, he couldn’t stop touching me. I remember thinking, as he bought me a dozen of the same shirt, his lips felt just as soft against mine.

  “We’re a new version of ourselves, every day,” I say to myself.

  “Uh, sure,” Dad says. “As long as you’re a surprised version of yourself in a few minutes.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Stay right there.” Dad runs around to the side door.

  I hook my index finger through the cuff on my left wrist and pull the diamond chain out. The sun shines brighter, here, unobscured by buildings and ships and billboards. My cuff sparkles under its evening light.

  The big barn doors swing open.

  “Surprise!” They bang spoons against pots and shake glass jars with pebbles inside. I jump back, nearly toppling over. A stampede of kids and dogs runs toward me, the adults waiting until they’ve cleared.

  No one minds my expensive clothes or my styled hair, and once Abby discovers she can pull me along by my cuff, I’m her captive all evening. She wraps the diamond chain around her wrist and pretends it’s a bracelet.

  “Don’t, Abby.” Dad swats her hand away. “Leave that alone; it’s not a toy.”

  “But—”

  “They’re bringing out the cake.” Dad steers her in the opposite direction. “Go get us each a slice.”

  “Ugh, Dad!”

  “Your brother will still be here when you get back, and all day tomorrow.”

  She drags her feet as she walks off. Such a teenager.

  “Don’t play with that in front of your sister,” Dad says. “I don’t want her to, you know…”

  “Think that we can afford something this nice, I know.”

  He looks at me with a blank face, then hisses: “Idolize being a Docile.” His voice softens. “Don’t get me wrong, we’re grateful for your sacrifice, but that’s what it has to be: sacrifice, not inspiration.”

  “Of course, sorry.”

  Dad throws an arm over my shoulder. “You’re a good brother. Don’t let them change that.”

  Before I can respond, Abby pushes through a crowd of our neighbors with my promised slice of cake. “I did make this, in case you were wondering. So, you’d better like it. Even though it’s not trillionaire cake.”

  “I’m sure it’s better than trillionaire cake.” I take the plate with my left hand so it will hide the cuff.

  No one else mentions it, even though they take my hand to dance, deal me cards, and pull me onto an empty field for a game of soccer. By nightfall, most of the kids collapse in a pile with the dogs, exhausted from running around. Dad and his friends pass around a joint, while plucking out a nameless tune on a scratched-up guitar.

  I walk over to an old piano that smells of mold, and slide my finger through a thick, sticky layer of dust. I pull a bale of hay out from under it, sit on my improvised bench, and rest my feet on the tarnished pedals.

  “I didn’t know your boy could play piano, Dave.”

  “He can’t.”

  “Seems to think he can.”

  The first, low notes reverberate through the piano—through my fingers and the balls of my feet. Without the music tutor staring over my shoulder, “Liebesträum no. 3” flows through me at my own pace. Even when I close my eyes, I touch all the right keys—after months of practice, the music lives inside me.

  Dad scratches a pick back and forth across a metallic chord on the guitar, cutting through Liszt. He howls falsetto. His audience claps.

  I stop. When I remove my feet from the pedals, the notes cut off, sharply. Dad stares at me while he sings, crude lyrics rousing laughs from his friends. He strums his chords like he’s trying to scrub a stain out of laundry.

  I stand and tuck the bale of hay back under the piano. I know when I’m not wanted. “May I be excused for the evening?” I ask.

  Dad studies a chipped fret. “Do whatever you want. It’s your party.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Take your mother and Abby with you.”

  “Yes, sir.” It’s not until I’m halfway home that I regret my word choice. “Dad,” I whisper.

  * * *

  I wake before the sun rises—wide awake even though I don’t remember sleeping for more than an hour at a time. When I get up, it’s more that I give up. Besides, it’s time for my run.

  My feet are used to hot, hard pavement, but I find myself dodging muddy potholes and tiptoeing over rocks, against a dark purple sky. My heart races even though my feet slow, as pinks and oranges brighten the morning. I thought the city had every color in the world, but it doesn’t have these. It’s not until the sun breaks through the clouds that I turn back.

  I wave to my neighbors as I cut down the main path, alongside wheelbarrows and carts. Two playing dogs form a truce to chase me home until they’re called back. I stretch and catch my breath against a tree. Dad and Abby will already have started work.

  After washing up, I stand alone in the house, twiddling my thumbs. There’s no schedule here, and without any homework to keep me busy, I’m not sure what to do. My fingers itch to clean off the piano and practice, but no one here wants to hear Franz Liszt.

  Alex would.

  My stomach growls. By now, most Sundays, I’ve eaten eggs, oatmeal, and a yogurt, not to mention coffee. There’s no way I can cook in the mess of last night’s party. I can’t only wash one pot, though. That pot turns into every plate and utensil, then the counter, the stove, the floor. I rummage up a needle and thread to mend the growing holes in pillows and cushions until I can sit on our couch without worrying its guts will ooze out under my weight. Around noon, Abby stops in to make lunch. Together, the two of us finish cleaning. She shows me what food we have and I unwrap a small package of salted ham stashed away in the pantry. Perfect.

  Dad finally comes in fo
r dinner, holding Mom’s hand. She smiles across the room at me.

  “What happened, here?” he asks.

  Abby spreads her arms like a spokesmodel. “We cleaned!”

  Mom walks into my arms and hugs me, an easy smile on her face. “Hello.”

  “Hey, Mom. It’s me, Elisha.”

  “Hi, Elisha. How are you?”

  “I’m good. Are you hungry? I made dinner.”

  “Thank you, Elisha.”

  “Thank you.”

  Dad opens a pot on the stove and sniffs it. “You’re welcome.”

  “Hmm?” I say.

  “When someone thanks you, you say, ‘You’re welcome.’ Or have you forgotten basic manners?”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” But my face flushes. “Thank you, Mom.”

  Dad slams the lid on the pot. “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I only—I wanted to thank her for the compliment.”

  “Thank you for cleaning the whole house, Elisha.” He overenunciates, staring at me.

  My heart pulses through my entire body. The “Th” slips between my tongue and teeth. I bite down, cutting the word off before it fully forms.

  “What do you say?” Dad’s eyes are dark and narrow.

  Abby leans closer and whispers, “Elisha, just say, ‘You’re welcome.’”

  “You’re welcome.” I haven’t spoken those words in months. They sound foreign. They feel wrong.

  Dad nods. “So, what’d you do all day, clean? Something different, then.”

  “I also cooked dinner.”

  “Thank you, Elisha,” Mom says.

  “Thanks.” I cover my mouth and squat down beside the counter, trying to hide my shame, but it consumes me. Hot tears burn the corners of my eyes.

  Abby drops beside me; her voice softens. “It’s okay.” Her hand covers my cuff. “It’s not your fault. He’s being rude.”

  “Abby, go to your room.”

  “No. Elisha and I made dinner for you, Mom, and Nora.”

  “Fine.” His focus shifts to me. “Elisha, go to your room.”

  I stand immediately, but Abby pulls the diamond chain out to stop me. “No, Elisha, don’t. You don’t have to do what he says.”

  “It’s okay.” I wipe at my itchy eyes, try to blink them back to normal. “You stay and enjoy dinner.”

  “I can’t believe you’re just going to leave,” Dad says.

  “You told me to leave.” I look between them all. “Isn’t that what you want?”

  “No. I want you to act like a goddamned human being. Like my son.”

  “I am.” I recite Alex’s words. “I’m a new version of myself, every day.”

  “No, you’re not. None of the guys can quit talking about that—” He flicks his hand through the air. “—that foofy trillionaire song you played last night.”

  “That’s not a trillionaire song. It’s Franz Liszt.”

  “‘Frah-nzz’; excuse me.”

  “He’s a Hungarian composer from the 1800s.”

  “Oh, you’re smart, now, too.”

  “I—I’ve—” Was I not smart, before? Alex told me he chose me because I was smart.

  “You are smart, Elisha.” Mom smiles.

  “Why don’t you put your expensive shoes on and run back into the city where you clearly belong. Yeah, I heard all about your little run this morning. No one can stop talking about your cushy orange shoes and stretchy purple pants—whatever they are. Running around like a fucking bear’s chasing you.”

  “I always run in the morning.”

  “Well, not here. Here, we work in the morning. What happened to my hardworking son? The one who raised a barn? Who helped birth three calves? When the stallion got tangled in the fence, did you stand around and wait for orders? No. You held its insides together with the shirt off your back. Now, you’d probably thank the damn horse for letting you watch it die.” He grabs my hand and holds it up. “Probably don’t even remember what it feels like to have dirt under your fingernails.”

  “Dad, stop!” Abby puts herself between us.

  “I can’t have you around her. Not like this.” He gestures to my clothes. “I want Abby to go to school and get a job—a smart job—and not because of some trillionaire. On her own. What’s-his-name can keep his money.”

  “His name’s Alex.”

  “I wasn’t asking.”

  “Sorry.”

  “What, you’re not going to thank me?”

  My mouth hangs open. Does he want me to?

  “Hm?” He cups his ear and leans in.

  Why doesn’t he say what he means? Alex always tells me exactly what he wants. “Thank you?”

  Dad’s slow laugh fills the room. “You know what, Elisha? Go back home to the city where you belong. You’re as much use to me as your mother.”

  “Thank you,” she says.

  “This is my home,” I whisper.

  “Is it?” Dad says. “You think you belong here, anymore? Look at yourself.”

  I hold up evenly tanned arms, and manicured hands that remember Liszt, Mozart, and Grieg. That give pleasure and pour champagne and grip the barre during ballet and barbells during weight training. I hold my cuffed wrist, pull the chain out, and wrap it around my finger.

  Dad pushes Abby out of the way. “Go home, Elisha. Go back to your trillionaire. Abigail, get Elisha’s things for him.”

  “Yes, David.” She disappears into my and Abby’s room.

  I can’t move.

  “You’re leaving,” Dad growls.

  “Dad, no!” Abby tries to sneak past him, but he stops her with an outstretched arm. “Elisha, stay. It’s fine. You’re fine.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Please, I can do better.”

  “No. You can’t.”

  Mom returns, handing me the small designer bag Alex packed me. I take it, unable to stop myself from moving. The door grows bigger until I’m standing in the frame.

  “And Elisha?”

  I look over my shoulder.

  “Don’t bother coming back until you’re the old version of yourself. I liked that one better.”

  His stare pushes me forward—out the door, down the path, into the dark. He’s right. Abby can’t grow up wanting to be like a Docile—can’t grow up to become me. That’s why I left in the first place, to take the burden so she wouldn’t have to. I walk until I can’t hear her shouting my name, anymore. And then I run.

  * * *

  I slow when the pavement becomes darker and smoother when I hit Exit 20. It’s too late and too far to make it back to Alex’s, tonight. I wipe the dust and tears from my face, and take the exit. Lights are still on in Hunt Valley—not as many as in the city, but enough that I can see where I’m going.

  A couple passes on bikes, dinging their bells so I don’t step in front of them. I’m not sure what to do. Probably should’ve gone to Nora’s or another neighbor’s, but at the time I could only see the horizon, only see forward. And forward was far enough not to hear Dad and Abby fighting.

  The balls of my feet pulse. I’ve never run for more than two hours, before, and especially not with a small bag. My shoulders ache. Thirst and exhaustion drive me forward even though my stomach is already in knots knowing I’ll have to call Alex.

  “I said, are you okay, sir?” Someone taps my shoulder.

  I hurry into the light of the next streetlamp. When I look over my shoulder, I see a pale, older man hold up empty hands.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. “You looked like you might need a hand. I’m with Empower Maryland.” He points to the logo on his shirt. “Just finished my shift at the center, but I can walk you there if you need some food or a place to stay.”

  I shake my head and teeter back. “I’m okay.”

  “Are you sure? It’s free,” he says.

  I raise my voice. “I don’t need Empower Maryland’s help.”

  “Whoa, man, it’s cool.” He backs slowly away.

&
nbsp; Roger’s help earned me seventy minutes in confinement. Tom’s help violated my family’s privacy and trapped me inside an elevator. I already feel my heart beating faster. Hear Eugenia’s You’re turning into one of them. Dylan’s I won’t end up like him, will I? Dad’s You think you belong here, anymore?

  “I don’t need Empower Maryland’s help,” I repeat while the man fades into the dark. “I need Alex.”

  23

  ALEX

  A low, soothing ring wakes me. The sound is soft and brings the lights up to a muted blue hue. “Who is it?” I mumble into my pillow.

  “Unidentified caller.”

  That never happens. It could be someone from the ODR; their technology is adequate at best. But it’s—I rub my eyes and force them open on the far wall—2:30 in the morning.

  “Call location?”

  “Hunt Valley, Maryland.”

  “Answer call.” The signal switches over. “This had better be important,” I say to whoever thinks it’s a good idea to wake me up.

  “Alex?”

  I sit up.

  “Alex, it’s Elisha.”

  “I know who it is. Why are you calling me on your weekend off? And where did you get a phone?” He told me he didn’t have one, so either he lied or he’s not with his family.

  “I was—” His voice shakes. “I was wondering if you could book me a hotel room for the night, or call the taxi to bring me home, tonight, instead. I didn’t want to bother you. I’m sorry I woke you up.”

  “It’s okay.” I roll out from under the covers. My movement brings up dimmed lights. “What happened?”

  “I—I’m not—”

  He never hesitates to answer me. “Elisha, are you somewhere safe?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I bring up his microchip app on my phone. No location, no vitals—and he is obviously still alive. I refresh the app: nothing. Close it and restart. Read: Application disabled for visitation weekends in accordance with Third Right. In case of emergency, please contact the Office of Debt Resolution.

  Fuck! I throw my phone onto the sheets and storm into the bathroom, Elisha’s voice still in my ear. “Alex?”