When She Woke (10 page)

“I’m Reverend Ponder Henley, the director of the Straight Path Center, and this is Mrs. Henley.” His round brown eyes had a surprised, slightly vacant look to them. Hers were a twinkling blue that matched her dress.

“How do you do,” Hannah said, stifling an absurd impulse to curtsy. “I’m Hannah Payne.”

“Why are you here, Hannah?” Mrs. Henley asked. Her voice was sweet and girlish and her tone mild, but Hannah knew the question was a test. She searched their faces, trying to discern what they wanted to hear. “To repent my sins,” maybe, or, “To learn how to follow a straighter, godlier path.”

In the end, though, she shrugged and said, “I have nowhere else to go.”

Reverend and Mrs. Henley exchanged quick glances, their mouths stretching wide in approving smiles that revealed two sets of white, even teeth. Mrs. Henley’s cheeks were adorably dimpled.

“That is the right answer, Hannah,” said Reverend Henley. “Do you know why?” She shook her head, and he said, “Because it is the truthful answer. Without truth, there can be no salvation.”

“Do you want to be saved, Hannah?” asked Mrs. Henley.

“Yes.”

“And do you believe you
can
be saved?” asked Reverend Henley.

Again, Hannah considered lying. What if faith in God’s forgiveness was required? What if they decided not to let her stay? She shook her head a second time. Their smiles broadened further.

“That is both the right and the wrong answer,” said Reverend Henley. “Right because you spoke honestly, but wrong because you
can
be saved. You’re just too blind to see it now, but you
will
be saved, Hannah, if you walk the straight path. You’ve already taken the first steps toward salvation.”

Maybe they can help you find some grace.
Was it possible, Hannah wondered, that God was not lost to her after all? That the Henleys could shepherd her to a place where He would forgive her? Their serene, unblinking confidence said it was.

” ‘I will bring the blind by a way they did not know … and not forsake them’“ said Reverend Henley. “That is God’s promise to us in Isaiah. And that is our promise to you, Hannah, on two conditions, that you obey our rules and that you never, ever lie to us. Will you swear to that?”

Hannah opened her mouth to say yes, but before she could speak, Mrs. Henley held up an admonishing forefinger and said, “Do not make this vow lightly, Hannah. ‘He that worketh deceit shall not dwell within my house.’”

They waited, watching her with solemn faces. She tried to imagine a question they could ask her that she would want to lie about. Only one came to mind—“Was Aidan Dale the father of your child?”—and that, they would never think to ask. She had nothing else to hide, nothing else she cared enough about to want to hide.

“I swear it,” she said.

The Henleys stepped close to her. Ponder Henley took her left hand and Mrs. Henley her right, forming a circle. Hannah’s palms were damp, but theirs were warm and dry. She was several inches taller than the reverend and towered over Mrs. Henley, and she felt ungainly and red next to them. They bowed their heads. “Blessed Jesus,” prayed Reverend Henley, “You have shown this walker the path to salvation. Guide her steps, Lord, and help her keep to the path when Satan tempts her to stray from it. Light her way, Lord, and open her eyes to Your will and her soul to true repentance. Amen.”

The Henleys let go of Hannah’s hands, leaving her feeling oddly bereft. Mrs. Henley took a cross identical to Eve’s from her pocket and told Hannah to put it on.

“You must never take it off, even to sleep, until you’re ready to leave us,” said Reverend Henley. “The cross is the key that will allow you to enter the center and your assigned areas. You won’t find much else in the way of technology here. We have no netlets, no servbots or smartrooms, nothing to come between us and God.”

“Did you bring your NIC?” asked Mrs. Henley. Hannah nodded. “Give it to me. I’ll keep it safe for you.”

When she hesitated, Reverend Henley said, “No one is forced to stay here, Hannah. You’re free to go at any time. All you have to do is ask, and we’ll give you back your card. But once you leave and reenter the world, there’s no returning, do you understand?”

“What about my renewal?” Hannah would have to leave the center for that, at the end of January. Renewals were mandatory every four months, and the consequences for tardiness were severe. If she didn’t get her injection by her due date, the half-life of the virus would begin to deteriorate and the chroming gradually to fade until her skin color reverted to normal. Unfortunately, by that time she’d be too fragged out to care.

Fragmentation was the government’s way of making sure Chromes stayed chromed. Melachroming, despite the best efforts of scientists, was impermanent; the compound that caused the skin mutation started to wear off after four months. So to guarantee that Chromes showed up for their renewals, the scientists had piggybacked a second compound onto the first, this one designed to remain dormant for four months before activating and beginning the fragmentation process. That was all Hannah, or anyone else other than the geneticists employed by the Federal Chroming Agency, knew; the exact science behind fragmentation was a closely guarded secret. But like every other American over the age of twelve, she’d been well-schooled in its effects.

It started with faint whispers, sporadic and indistinct. As your brain slipped further into fragmentation, they grew louder, giving way to full-blown auditory hallucinations. You became convinced that the world and everyone in it were malevolent. You didn’t even notice that your skin was returning to normal, because the paranoia consumed you to the point where you disconnected from your physical self, forgetting to bathe, to brush your hair or change your clothes, to eat or drink. Your speech became nonsensical, as scrambled and incoherent as your thoughts. Eventually, the voices turned on you, and you mutilated or killed yourself. Only a renewal shot could stop the process.

Hundreds of Chromes had tried to beat it, to hold out long enough to get to the other side of it. None had succeeded. There was no other side.

“Of course, we’ll take you when you’re due,” Mrs. Henley said. “We take all the girls. There’s a Chrome center in Garland.” She held out her hand for the card. Hannah pulled it from the pocket of her skirt and gave it to her.

“Thank you. And now,” Mrs. Henley said, her blue eyes sparkling, “we’ll leave you to get undressed.”

“What?”

“You must set foot upon the path with nothing but yourself,” Reverend Henley said. “Leave all your clothes on the bench, and when you’re ready, go through the narrow door.” He reached out and placed his hand on the crown of Hannah’s head. “Be not afraid, for the Lord is with you.”

The Henleys exited through the side door. When they were gone, Hannah lifted her eyes to Mary Magdalene’s luminous face. She removed her blouse and skirt, her bra and panties, folding them and placing them on the bench one at a time, shivering in the cool air of the room. She felt numb and hollow, empty of everything except for a tiny spark of hope. She cupped her hands around it in her mind and followed Mary’s gaze upward, beyond the bounds of the painting.
If this is what You ask of me, if this is the path back to You, I will take it.

She slipped off her shoes and walked to the door, the tiles cold against the soles of her bare feet. There was no handle. She laid her palm against the wood and pushed, but it resisted her puny effort. She leaned her whole body against the door, pushing with all her strength. It swung inward with a groan, and she stumbled, falling in and down.

” ‘N
AKED CAME
I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return thither’ “ The women spoke in unison, their eyes fixed on Hannah.

There were about seventy of them, standing on what looked like a choir riser. They were grouped by color: Reds on the bottom rows, Oranges in the middle and Yellows, who outnumbered the others, on top. The effect was surreal, like a box of crayons missing the cool part of the spectrum. Half the Reds were holding dolls, and one of this group, Hannah was startled to see, was not a Chrome. The girl’s white skin stood out starkly from that of the others.

Mrs. Henley stood in front of the riser, facing Hannah. To her relief, Reverend Henley wasn’t in the room.

“What is this woman?” Mrs. Henley said, pointing at Hannah.

“A sinner,” the women replied.

“How will she be saved?”

“By walking the straight path.”

“Who will walk with her?”

“We will.”

“Who will walk before her?”

“I will,” said a lone voice from the front row. A Red about ten years older than Hannah stepped off the riser and approached her, holding out a folded brown dress. “Put this on.” Hannah took it gratefully and pulled it over her head, fastening the buttons running up the bodice with clumsy fingers.

When Hannah was finished, Mrs. Henley said, “What does the path demand of us?”

“Penitence. Atonement. Truth. And humility,” the women answered.

A door to Hannah’s left was flung open and Reverend Henley strode into the room, pink-cheeked and ebullient. “Where does the path lead us?” he called out.

“To salvation.”

He looked at Hannah, spreading his hands wide in benediction. “ ‘My soul shall be joyful in my God; for He hath clothed me with the garments of salvation, He hath covered me with the robe of righteousness’ “ He turned and addressed the women. “Walkers, let us pray.”

Hannah bowed her head along with the others, but she didn’t hear his words or the women’s rote responses. Her mind was fogged by weariness, her attention focused solely on keeping herself upright. The prayer continued for endless minutes. At last, Reverend Henley said amen and released them. Row by row, the women filed silently out of the room. Only Eve gave Hannah a parting glance. Whether it was one of sympathy or spite, she was too far away to tell.

The woman who’d given Hannah the dress stayed behind, along with the Henleys. “Hannah, this is Bridget,” Reverend Henley said. “Go with her, and she’ll show you the path.” He gestured at the door. Bridget turned obediently and walked toward it, but Hannah hung back, reluctant to leave the couple.

Mrs. Henley gave her a reassuring smile. “Go on, now.”

Hannah obeyed, following Bridget from the room, toward salvation.

U
NSPEAKING, BRIDGET LED
Hannah up two flights of stairs and down a featureless corridor to a set of swinging double doors. They entered a long room lit on one side by more of the high, slitted windows. Inscribed just beneath them, running in a continuous loop around all four walls, were the words P
ENITENCE
, A
TONEMENT
, T
RUTH AND
H
UMILITY.
Only now did Hannah get the acronym.
They’re missing Obedience, but I guess PATHO Wouldn’t be as catchy.

“This is the Red dormitory,” Bridget said, enunciating each word crisply. The room was lined with sixteen neatly made twin beds, each flanked by a small nightstand and a white, hospital-style curtain suspended from a track in the ceiling. A towel and a long white nightgown hung on pegs beside every bed except one. She conducted Hannah to it. “You will sleep here. You will make your bed every morning. You will draw the curtain while changing your clothes. At all other times, you will leave it open.” Bridget pulled open the single drawer of the nightstand, revealing a comb, a box of hairpins, a nail file, a toothbrush and toothpaste. “You will store your personal items here.”

“How long have you been here?” Hannah asked.

Bridget glanced with evident distaste at Hannah’s fingernails, which were long and ragged from her imprisonment. “You will keep yourself neatly groomed.”

Embarrassed but determined not to show it—why did the woman have to be so rude?—Hannah studied her with equal frankness. Noting the wrinkles across her forehead and the furrows bracketing her mouth, Hannah upped her initial estimate of Bridget’s age by a decade. She was forty-five if she was a day.

With the ramrod carriage of a soldier, Bridget marched to the other end of the room and opened the doors to a large closet. Inside were communal supplies: stacks of white sheets and towels; long-sleeved white nightgowns and dresses in muted shades of brown, blue and gray, grouped by size; drawers containing white cotton underwear, brassieres and thick black tights; baskets of bonnets and sanitary napkins; and on the floor, a row of identical black flats, proceeding from small to large. “You will change your underthings daily and your dress every two days,” Bridget said. “You will change your nightgown, bonnet, towel and sheets every Saturday.”

Hannah followed her through a doorway into a large bathroom with multiple shower units, sinks and toilet stalls. A young woman was kneeling on the floor scrubbing the tile. She made a face when she saw Bridget and then quickly looked down to hide it. The scowl and the red skin notwithstanding, the girl was stunning, with Afrasian features: dark, almond-shaped eyes with uncreased lids, full lips, a flattened nose with rounded nostrils, a long, graceful neck. Hannah felt her beauty as a sweet pang in her heart, an inner
Oh!
of wonder. Beauty, whether of people or things, had always moved her in this way, and despite many stern lectures by her parents on the sinfulness of caring about temporal matters like a person’s looks, a stubborn part of her had always refused to believe it was wrong. Wasn’t beauty created by God, and so was her love of it not a love of Him?

“Good afternoon, Walker,” Bridget said, in a considerably more civil tone than she’d used with Hannah. She even gave the girl something resembling a smile.

“Good afternoon,” the girl replied, with a matching half-smile Hannah could tell was forced.

Bridget turned back to Hannah. “You will shower daily, before breakfast, for no more than three minutes. You will brush your teeth twice a day. You will wash your hands after using the toilet.”

“I usually do,” Hannah said tartly.

Bridget went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “You will keep your hair pinned up and decently covered except when sleeping.”