What's Left of Me (9 page)

Eleven

H
e came for us that same night.

Mom had just changed into her waitressing uniform after sending Lyle to his last dialysis session of the week. A coworker had begged her to take over her shift at the restaurant, and after Lyle told her a million times he’d be fine alone at the clinic for an hour or so—a nurse would be within calling distance the entire time—she’d bitten her lip and agreed. Dad was heading in the opposite direction. He’d come home from work a little early so he could drive to the city and sit with Lyle for the remainder of his session.

Addie and I sat at the table, about to eat dinner. The only ones not in motion.

The doorbell rang just as we took our first bite. The fork froze in our mouth, tines hard and metallic against our tongue.

Mom frowned, caught in the middle of putting up her hair. “Who could that be?”

“It’s probably someone selling something,” Addie said slowly. “They’ll go away if you ignore them.”

But the bell rang again, followed by a bout of knocking. Each blow seemed to shake the pictures on the walls, the figurines on the mantelpiece.

“I’ll get it,” Dad said.

“No!” Addie said. He jumped and turned to us.

“Something wrong?”

“No,” Addie said. Our fingers tightened around our fork. “Just—it’s just . . .”

The bell interrupted her. Dad started toward the door, frowning. “Whoever it is, they aren’t very patient.”

Mom hummed as she twisted her hair into a bun, using the back of a pan as a makeshift mirror. We could barely hear her over the blood roaring in our ears.

“Hello,” said a familiar voice as the door opened. “I’m Daniel Conivent, here from Nornand Clinic.”

There was the briefest of pauses.

“Let’s go outside,” Dad said. His voice caught, just slightly—a tremble we noticed only because our nerves were strung so tight. “Please, let’s talk outside.”

“A clinic,” Mom said. “Can’t imagine what they’d be selling.”

Run
echoed Ryan’s voice in our head.
Run,
he’d pleaded, but we hadn’t listened. Where would we have gone?

Now it was too late.

There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. We sat frozen in our chair, staring at our peas and carrots. Our fingers curled around the edge of our seat.

“Addie?”

Our head jerked up, our fork clattering onto the table. Mom frowned. “You’re pale, Addie. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Addie said. “I, um, I—”

The door opened again. Our eyes flew to the hallway.

I said.

Air struggled into our lungs. Addie gripped the chair so tightly our arms shook.

Dad came into view first. His eyes kept flitting everywhere but our face, his hands hanging limply at his sides. Behind him came a man in a stiff-collared shirt.

I whispered fiercely.

But we both knew it wasn’t true. Dad was a tall man. We’d never seen him look so small and helpless.

“Addie,” Dad said. “Mr. Conivent says he met you today at school?”

“You remember me, don’t you, Addie?” the button-down man said.

Addie managed to nod. Our eyes kept shifting from Mr. Conivent to Dad, Dad to Mr. Conivent. Both men towered over our chair.
Stand
, I thought, but I couldn’t manage to say it.

Dad shifted. “He says—he says you’ve been hanging out with Hally Mullan a lot.”

“Not . . . not a lot,” Addie said.

“I’m sure this Hally talked with plenty of girls,” Dad said, his voice tight. “Are you going to each of them one by one?”

His anger comforted and frightened us all at once. Did it mean he would fight for us? Keep that man from taking us away? Or was he angry because he already knew he had no choice?

Mr. Conivent ignored Dad’s question. His eyes stayed intent on ours, a smooth, slick smile on his lips. “What exactly have you been doing at Hally’s house, Addie?”

Addie tried to swallow and couldn’t. Our mouth opened, but our voice had gone, as if someone had reached down our throat and tangled our vocal cords.

“Addie?” Mr. Conivent said.

I said. It was the only thing I could think of. It was what we’d been telling our parents.

“Homework,” Addie said.

Mr. Conivent laughed. He was all sleek confidence and aplomb, a summer day compared to the oncoming thunderstorm that was our father next to him.

“I won’t drag things on,” he said, and held up a manila folder. I hadn’t even noticed it in his hand. “These are Addie’s medical and school files. Your daughter had . . . problems settling as a child, am I right?”

Mom stepped forward, her knuckles shining white against her black slacks. “How—you can’t have access to those.”

“In cases like this, we do get a little special authority,” Mr. Conivent said.

He opened the file. The top sheet was a black-and-white copy of what looked like our elementary school report card. He shuffled that aside, flipping through the pages until he found a sheet full of charts and figures. “She didn’t fully settle until she was twelve. That’s rather unusual, isn’t it?” His eyes passed from Mom to Dad. “Very unusual, I’d say. Only three years ago.”

Again, silence.

Mom’s voice broke the stillness. “What do you want?” Her voice made me hurt, made me want to reach out and grab her hand—squeeze until we were both numb.

“Just to do some tests.”

“Tests for what?” Dad said.

Mr. Conivent’s stare kept us fixed in our seat; his smile kept us dumb and disbelieving. “To see if Eva’s still there.”

My name slammed into the room like a hurricane, rocking the chairs, rattling the silverware. Or maybe it just felt that way to me. I’d gotten used to Hally and Lissa saying it. Ryan and Devon saying it. But this—this was a strange man. And our parents . . .

“Eva?” Mom said. The word crawled from her lips, frightened and blinking at the harsh light.

Yes. Eva,
I thought.
The name you gave me, Mom. The name you never, ever say anymore.

Dad’s hand crushed the back of our chair. “Addie’s settled. She settled a little late, but she’s settled.” Neither of our parents looked at us.

But Mr. Conivent did. “That’s what we’d like to verify,” he said. “We fear the process never quite finished—that there might have been an oversight when she was younger. There have been great improvements in technology over the past three years. Astounding, really. And I truly believe everyone would benefit from a few more tests.” He looked at Dad, then Mom. He smiled and said pleasantly, “I’m afraid, you see, that your daughter might have been lying to you all this time.”

“That’s not true,” Addie said, the words tumbling from our lips. “That’s not—that’s not true.”

Mr. Conivent spoke over us without even raising his voice. “Your daughter might be a very sick child, Mr. Tamsyn—Mrs. Tamsyn. You have to understand the consequences inaction now could have on her life. On all your lives.” Neither of our parents said anything. Mr. Conivent’s voice hardened. “A child suspected of hybridity is, by law, obligated to undergo the proper tests.”

“Only if there’s real reason to suspect—” Dad said. “You need due cause—”

Mr. Conivent dropped a Xeroxed sheet of paper onto the table. “You signed an agreement, Mr. Tamsyn, when Addie was ten. When she
should
have been taken away. They only agreed to let her stay because
you
agreed to allow any and all necessary examinations—”

I said.

“But she
settled
,” Dad said. His eyes finally met ours, wide and desperate. “She
settled
. The doctors said—”

she said. Her voice was so flat.

But she spoke anyway, and our voice was steadier than I’d imagined. Tiny, so soft it was barely audible, but unwavering. “I’m not sick.”

For all the attention our words drew, Addie might as well have screamed.

“She says she’s not sick,” Dad said. “The
doctors
, they said—”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” Mr. Conivent said. He shuffled through his papers again and came up with what looked like a computer printout. “Have you ever heard of Refcon?”

Dad hesitated, then shook his head.

“It’s what we call a suppression drug, a highly controlled substance. It affects the neural system. Suppresses the dominant mind. Taken in the right doses, in the right circumstances, it could allow a lingering recessive mind to slowly regain control of the body.” He passed Mom the paper. She took it as if in a dream.

“What are you getting at?” Dad said. He didn’t look at the paper.

Mr. Conivent turned to us. “Do you have anything to say, Addie?” He waited just a second, as if really interested in our reply. Then he continued, in the voice of a disappointed teacher, “We found a bottle of it hidden in Hally Mullan’s nightstand. Apparently, she’d stolen it from her mother’s hospital.”

A frown flashed across his face, the first time tonight he’d looked truly troubled. Then it was gone. His expression turned to one of silky reproof. “Addie, you knew this, didn’t you?”

“No,” Addie whispered.

“I’m getting confused here,” Dad said. “Are you a representative from the hospital or an investigator? Are you trying to help my daughter or accusing her of some—”

“I’m trying to do what’s best for everyone,” Mr. Conivent said. “Hally Mullan has admitted to medicating Addie in a misguided attempt to bring Eva out—”

“
No
,” Addie said, almost jumping from our chair. “No, she didn’t—I didn’t—” Had Hally really given us up like that? Or was this man lying through his teeth? I couldn’t tell at all, and the unknowing left us unable to even defend ourself. Our parents stared at us in silent, terrified horror. “That
never
happened,” Addie said, wrangling our voice back under control.

Mr. Conivent’s voice was like a chameleon. First harsh. Then condescending. Then righteous. Now it was gentle. “I have all the papers here. It would only take a day or two. She’d have to fly up to our clinic, but—”

“Fly?” Dad said. He barked out a laugh that felt like a wound, raw and hurting. “How far is this place?”

“A three-hour flight. But Addie would be very well taken care of.”

“Isn’t there someplace closer? When we—” Dad rubbed his forehead, then took a short breath. “When we had her tested as a child, we did it at the nearest hospital.”

“Mr. Tamsyn,” the other man said quietly. “Trust me, sir. If you care for your daughter like I know you do, you’ll let me take her to Nornand, not ship her off to some third-rate facility.” He paused. “Let the government help Addie, Mr. Tamsyn. Same way we help care for your little boy.”

Dad’s head flew up. But Mom spoke before he could. “This girl, Hally. She’s already at the hospital?”

Mr. Conivent smiled at her. “Yes, Mrs. Tamsyn.”

“And—and they already know she’s . . . hybrid?” Her voice broke at the last word.

Mr. Conivent nodded.

Mom took a shaky breath. “What’ll happen to her?”

As if she didn’t already know. As if we didn’t all already know.

Mr. Conivent’s smile stayed as steady as ever. “She’s going to stay at Nornand a little while. We have some of the best doctors in the country for this sort of thing. They’ll look after her. Her parents are being very open to treatment, and things look hopeful.”

“She won’t be institutionalized?” Dad said quietly.

“Nornand’s program is different,” Mr. Conivent said. “First in the field. I told you, didn’t I, that you’d want Addie there instead of at some other hospital?” He opened his file again and began pulling out sheets of paper. “Here’s some more information. And here—here’s what you sign.”

The last sheet landed on top of the other two, right next to our plate. Mr. Conivent took a pen from his trouser pocket. One of those thick, shining fountain pens that seem to bleed rather than emit ink. “If Addie wants to go pack while you two go over these, I’d be happy to explain anything you don’t—”

“Pack?” Mom’s face had gone as pale as her knuckles. “You can’t mean—tonight?”

“The flight leaves tomorrow morning at five, and the airport is a good two hours from here. We didn’t realize Addie would need to come with us until today, you see.”

“Then you don’t have a ticket for her,” Mom said. “She couldn’t—”

“She will be accommodated,” Mr. Conivent said, and from the way he said it, I imagined people at the airport scrambling to do his bidding.

I didn’t want to be accommodated. I didn’t want to go—