Текст книги "UnWholly"
Автор книги: Neal Shusterman
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 27 страниц)
46 • Risa
Risa walks up the spiral staircase. Risa walks down the spiral staircase. Risa works with Kenny the physical therapist, who keeps telling her how quickly she’s gaining strength. She hears no news of the outside world. For all she knows it no longer exists, and this island clinic—which is not a clinic at all—quickly feels like home. And she hates that.
As much as Risa dreads the daily meal with Cam, she also finds herself looking forward to it. It’s out on the veranda, weather permitting, and whichever meal it is, it’s always the best meal of the day. Cam, who has been happy to show off his remarkable physique to her from a distance, is awkward at the meals, and just as uncomfortable as she is to be thrust together like it’s some sort of arranged marriage. They don’t speak of the day she slapped him. They don’t speak about much of anything. Risa puts up with him. Cam puts up with her putting up with him. Finally he breaks the ice.
“I’m sorry about that day,” he says as they eat steaks together on the veranda. “I was just upset. There’s nothing wrong with being a state ward. In fact, parts of me know what it’s like. I have memories of state homes. More than one.”
Risa looks down at her food. “Please don’t talk to me about that, I’m eating.”
But he doesn’t stop. “They’re not the nicest of places, are they? You have to fight for every bit of attention, otherwise you live a life of bare adequacy, which is the worst life of all.”
She looks up at him. He’s put into words the feelings she’s always had about the way she grew up.
“Do you know which homes you were in?” she asks.
“Not really,” he tells her. “There are images, feelings, specific memories, but for the most part, my language center didn’t come from state wards.”
“I’m not surprised,” Risa says. “Language skills are not a strong point at state homes.” She grins.
“Do you know your history?” Cam asks. “How you ended up there? Who your birth parents are?”
Risa feels a lump in her throat and tries to swallow it down.
“No one knows that information.”
“I can get it for you,” Cam tells her.
It leaves her with a feeling of dread and anticipation. And this time she’s very pleased to say that the dread wins out.
“It’s not something that I’ve ever needed to know, and I don’t need to know now.”
Cam looks down, a little disappointed. Maybe a little bit crushed, and Risa finds herself reaching across the table to clasp his hand. “Thank you for offering. It was very kind of you, but it’s something I’ve come to terms with.” It’s only when she lets go of his hand that she realizes that it’s the first time she has voluntarily made physical contact with him. The moment is not lost on him, either.
“I know you were in love with the boy they call the Akron AWOL,” Cam says.
Risa tries not to react.
“I’m sorry he died,” Cam says. Risa looks at him in horror until he says, “That must have been a horrible day at Happy Jack Harvest Camp—to be there when it happened.”
Risa takes a deep, shuddering breath. So Cam doesn’t know he’s alive. Does that mean that Proactive Citizenry doesn’t know either? It’s something she can’t speak of, can’t ask about, because it would provoke too many questions.
“Do you miss him?” Cam asks.
Now Risa can tell him the truth. “Yes, I do. Very much.”
It’s a long time before Cam speaks again. And when he does, he says, “I would never ask to take his place in your heart, but I hope there’s room for me in there as a friend.”
“I make no promises,” says Risa, trying to sound less vulnerable than she truly feels.
“Do you still think I’m ugly?” Cam asks her. “Do you still think I’m hideous?”
Risa wants to answer him truthfully, but it takes a while to find the right words. He takes her hesitation for an attempt to spare his feelings. He looks down. “I understand.”
“No,” Risa says, “I don’t think you’re hideous. It’s just that there’s no way to measure you. It’s like looking at a Picasso and trying to decide if the woman in the painting is ugly or beautiful. You don’t know, but you can’t stop looking.”
Cam smiles. “You see me as art. I like that.”
“Yeah, well, I never cared for Picasso.”
That makes Cam laugh, and Risa does too, in spite of herself.
• • •
The cliffside plantation estate has a rose garden filled with well-pruned hedges and exotic, aromatic flowers.
Risa, having been raised in the concrete confines of an inner-city state home, was never much of a garden girl, but once she was allowed access, she began coming out daily, if only to pretend that she isn’t a prisoner. The sensation of walking again is still new enough to make every step in the garden feel like a gift.
Today, however, Roberta is there, preparing some sort of miniature production. There is a small camera crew, and smack in the middle of the garden sits her old wheelchair. The sight of it brings back a flood of too many emotions to sort through right now.
“Would you mind telling me what this is all about?” Risa asks, not sure she really wants to know.
“You’ve been on your feet for almost a week now,” Roberta tells her. “It’s time to deliver on the first of the services you’ve agreed to perform.”
“Thank you for wording it just the right way to make me feel like I’m prostituting myself.”
For a moment Roberta is flustered, but she’s quick to recover her poise. “I meant it no such way, but you do have a knack of taking things and twisting them.” Then she hands Risa a sheet of paper. “Here are your lines. You’ll be recording a public service announcement.”
Risa has to laugh at that. “You’re putting me on TV?”
“And in print ads, and on the net. It’s the first of many plans we have for you.”
“Really, and what else do you have planned?”
Roberta smiles at her. “You’ll know when it’s your time to know.”
Risa reads over the single paragraph, and the words go straight to the pit of her stomach.
“If you’re unable to memorize them, we have cue cards prepared,” Roberta says.
Risa has to read the paragraph twice just to convince herself she’s actually seeing what she’s seeing. “No! I won’t say this, you can’t make me say this!” She crumples the page and throws it down.
Roberta calmly opens her folder and hands her another one. “You should know by now that there’s always another copy.”
Risa won’t take it. “How dare you make me say this?”
“Your histrionics are uncalled-for. There’s absolutely nothing in there that isn’t true.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s not the words, it’s what’s implied!”
Roberta shrugs. “Truth is truth. Implications are subjective. People will hear your words and draw their own conclusions.”
“Don’t try to doublethink me, Roberta. I’m not as stupid or naive as you’d like to think.”
Then the expression on Roberta’s face changes; she becomes coolly direct. No more posturing. “This is what is required of you, so this is what you will do. Or perhaps you’ve forgotten our arrangement. . . .” It’s a threat as thinly veiled as the sheerest silk. Then out of nowhere they hear—
“What arrangement?”
They both turn to see Cam coming out into the garden. Roberta throws Risa a warning glance, and Risa looks down to the crumpled piece of paper at her feet, saying nothing.
“Her spine, of course,” Roberta says. “In return for very expensive and state-of-the-art spinal replacement surgery, Risa has agreed to become a part of the Proactive Citizenry family. And every member of the family has a role to play.” Then she holds out the paragraph to Risa again. Risa knows she has no choice but to take it. She looks to the video crew, who wait impatiently to do their job, then back to Roberta.
“Do you want me to stand beside the wheelchair?” Risa asks.
“No, you should sit in it,” Roberta tells her, “then rise halfway through. That will be more effective, don’t you think?”
PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT
“I was paralyzed—a victim of the clapper attack at Happy Jack Harvest Camp. I used to hate the very idea of unwinding, then overnight
I
was the one with a desperate medical need. Without unwinding, I would have been denied a new spine. Without unwinding, I would be confined to this wheelchair for the rest of my life. I was a state ward. I was an AWOL. I was a paraplegic—but now I’m none of those things. My name is Risa Ward, and unwinding changed my life.”
–paid for by the National Whole Health Society
Risa has always thought of herself as a survivor. She managed the treacherous waters of Ohio State Home 23 until the day she became a “budget cut” and was pruned for unwinding. Then she survived as an AWOL, then at harvest camp, and then even survived a devastating explosion that should have killed her. Her strength has always been her keen mind and her ability to adapt.
Well, adapt to this:
A life of minor celebrity, all the comforts you could desire, a smart and charming boy infatuated with you . . . and the abandonment of everything you believe, along with the abdication of your conscience.
Risa sits on a plush lawn chair in the backyard of the cliffside estate, looking out at the tropical sunset, pondering these things and trying to infuse perspective and peace back into her mind. There’s a powerful surge against her soul, as relentless as the waves crashing below, reminding her that in time the strongest of mountains is eroded into the sea, and she doesn’t know how much longer she can resist it, or even if she should.
There was a news interview this morning. She tried to answer questions in a way so that she never actually had to lie. It’s true that her support of unwinding is “a matter of necessity,” but no one but she and Roberta know what has made it so necessary. No matter how hard she tries, though, things come out of her mouth that she can’t believe she’s said. Unwinding is the least of all evils. Is there actually a part of her that believes that? The constant manipulation has left her internal compass spinning so wildly, she’s afraid she’ll never find true north again.
Exhausted, she dozes, and it seems only seconds later she’s awakened by someone gently shaking her shoulder. It’s night now—just the slightest trace of blue on the horizon holds the memory of dusk.
“Sawing wood,” Cam says. “I didn’t know you snored.”
“I don’t,” she says groggily. “And I’m sticking to my story.”
Cam has a blanket with him. It’s only as he wraps it around her that she realizes how chilled she has gotten while she slept. Even in this tropical environment, the air can get cool at night.
“I wish you wouldn’t spend so much time alone,” he says. “You don’t have to, you know.”
“When you’ve spent most of your life in a state home, solitude feels like a luxury.”
He kneels beside her. “We have our first interview together next week—they’re flying us to the mainland—has Roberta told you?”
Risa sighs. “I know all about it.”
“We’re supposed to be a couple. . . .”
“So I’ll smile and do my job for the camera. You don’t have to worry.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t see it as a job.”
Rather than looking at him, she looks up to see a sky full of stars—even fuller than the sky over the Graveyard, but there, she rarely had the time or the inclination to look heavenward.
“I know all their names,” Cam offers. “The stars, that is.”
“Don’t be ridiculous; there are billions of stars, you can’t know them all.”
“Hyperbole,” he says. “I guess I’m exaggerating—but I do know all the ones that matter.” Then he begins pointing them out, his voice taking on just the slightest Boston accent as he accesses the living star chart in his head. “That’s Alpha Centauri, which means ‘foot of the centaur.’ It’s one of the closest stars to us. That bright one to the right? That’s Sirius—the brightest star in the sky. . . .”
His voice begins to feel hypnotic to her, and it brings her a hint of the peace she’s been craving. Am I making this more difficult than it has to be? Risa wonders. Should I find a way to adapt?
“That dim one is Spica, which is actually a hundred times brighter than Sirius, but it’s much farther away. . . .”
Risa has to remind herself that her choice to get with Proactive Citizenry’s program was not out of selfishness—so shouldn’t her conscience be appeased? And if not—if her conscience is the only thing dragging her to dark depths, shouldn’t she be able to cut it loose in order to survive?
“That’s Andromeda, which is actually a whole galaxy. . . .”
There is a sense of arrogance to Cam’s bragging, but also an innocence to it, like a little kid wanting to show off what he learned in school that day. But he never learned any of this, did he? The accent with which he now speaks makes it clear that the information was someone else’s that got shoved into his head.
Stop it, Risa! she tells herself. Perhaps it’s time to let the mountain erode, and so to spite the part of herself that would resist, she gets out of her chair and lies on the grass beside him, looking up at the spray of stars.
“Polaris is always easy to find. It’s directly over the North Pole—so if you know where it is, you can always find true north.” Hearing him say that makes her gasp. He turns to look at her. “Aren’t you going to shut me up?”
Risa laughs at that. “I was hoping you’d put me back to sleep.”
“Oh, am I that boring?”
“Only slightly.”
Then he reaches over and gently brushes her arm.
Risa pulls away and sits up. “Don’t! You know I don’t like to be touched.”
“Is it that you don’t like to be touched . . . or that you don’t like to be touched by me?”
She doesn’t answer him. “What’s that one?” she asks, pointing. “The red one?”
“Betelgeuse,” he tells her. Then, after an awkward silence, he says, “What was he like?”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
Risa sighs. “It’s not a place you want to go, Cam.”
“Maybe I do.”
She doesn’t have the strength to fight it, so she lies back down and fixes her eyes on the stars as she speaks. “Impulsive. Brooding. Occasionally self-loathing.”
“Sounds like a real gem.”
“You didn’t let me finish. He’s also clever, loyal, passionate, responsible, and a strong leader, but is too humble to admit all that to himself.”
“Is?”
“Was,” she says, covering. “Sometimes it feels like he’s still here.”
“I think I would have liked to have known him.”
Risa shakes her head. “He’d hate you.”
“Why?”
“Because he was also jealous.”
Silence falls between them again, but this time it’s not awkward at all.
“I’m glad you shared that with me,” Cam says. “There’s something I’d like to share with you, too.”
Risa has no idea what he’s going to say, but she finds she’s actually curious.
“Did you know a kid named Samson when you were back at the state home?” he asks.
She searches her thoughts. “Yes—he was on the harvest camp bus with me.”
“Well, he had a secret crush on you.”
At first it boggles Risa how he would know this, and when the truth dawns on her, a surge of reflexive adrenaline triggers her fight-or-flight response. She gets up, fully prepared to run back to the mansion, or jump off the cliff, or whatever it will take to get away from this revelation, but Cam eclipses her like a moon before one of his precious stars.
“Algebra!” he says. “He was a math whiz. I got the part of him that does algebra. It’s just a tiny part, but when I came across your picture, well, I guess it was enough to make me stop and take notice. Then, when Roberta heard that you’d been captured, she pulled strings to get you here. For me. So it’s my fault that you’re here.”
She doesn’t want to look at him, but she can’t stop. It’s like looking at a traffic accident. “How am I supposed to feel about this, Cam? I can’t pretend not to be horrified! I’m here because of some whim you had, but that whim wasn’t even yours! It was that poor kid’s!”
“No, it wasn’t like that,” says Cam quickly. “Samson was like . . . like a friend who taps you on the shoulder to get your attention . . . but what I feel for you—it’s all me. Not just algebra, but, well, the whole equation.”
She turns her back to him, grabbing the blanket and wrapping it around herself. “I want you to go now.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, “but I didn’t want there to be any secrets between us.”
“Please leave.”
He keeps his distance, but he doesn’t go. “ ‘I’d rather be partly great than entirely useless.’ Wasn’t that the last thing he said to you? I feel it’s my responsibility to make that wish come true.”
And finally he goes inside, leaving her alone with way too many people’s thoughts.
• • •
Ten minutes later Risa still stands with the blanket wrapped around her, not wanting to go inside, but the circular pattern of her own thoughts begins to nauseate her.
I can’t give in to this—I must give in to this—I can’t give in to this, over and over until she just wants to shut herself down.
When she finally steps into the house, she hears music, which is not unusual, but this music isn’t being pumped through the sound system. Someone is playing classical guitar. The piece sounds Spanish, and although many things sound Spanish when played on a classical twelve-string, this has a definite flamenco feel.
Risa follows the tune to the main living room, where Cam sits, curled over the instrument, lost in the music he’s playing. She didn’t even know he played—but she shouldn’t be surprised; he came loaded with a veritable full house of skills. Still, playing guitar like this requires the melding of many things: muscle memory, combined with cortical and auditory memory, everything linked through a brain stem capable of coordinating it all.
The music lulls her, disarms her, enchants her, and she begins to realize that these are not just other people’s parts. Someone is pulling those parts together. For the first time Risa truly begins to see Cam as an individual, struggling to pull together the many gifts he’s been given. He didn’t ask for these things, and he couldn’t refuse them if he wanted to. As horrified as she was by him five minutes ago, this new revelation soothes her. It compels her to sit at the piano across the room and begin a simple accompaniment.
When he hears her, he brings his instrument closer, and sits beside her. No words are spoken; instead they communicate through the rhythms and harmonies. He lets her take control of the piece, lets it evolve at her hand, then she seamlessly gives it over to him again. They could go on for hours, and soon realize that they actually have, but neither one wants to be the first to stop.
Maybe, Risa thinks, there is a way to make this life work, and maybe there’s not—but right now, in the moment, there’s nothing more wonderful than losing herself to the music. Until now, she had forgotten how good that feels.
47 • Audience
Back from commercial, the studio audience applauds on cue, as if the viewers at home missed something.
“For those of you just tuning in,” says one of the show’s hosts, “our guests today are Camus Comprix and Risa Ward.”
The young man with multiple skin tones that are exotic yet pleasing to the eye waves to the audience with one hand. With the other he clasps the hand of the pretty girl next to him. The couple looks perfect—as if they were meant to be. Camus, the audience quickly learns, prefers to be called Cam. He’s even more interesting to behold in person than in the many teaser ads they’ve seen—ads that prepared them for something mysterious and wonderful. But this boy isn’t mysterious at all—just wonderful, and they are certainly not shocked by his appearance, because the ads have fermented shock into intoxicating curiosity.
The studio audience, as well as the audience at home, is more than primed, because they know this is something special—this is Cam’s first major public appearance. And what better way to welcome him into the spotlight than on Brunch with Jarvis and Holly, a friendly, nonthreatening morning talk show? Everyone loves Jarvis and Holly, who are so funny together and are in such comfortable command of their fashionably decorated faux living room set.
“Cam, there’s quite a controversy as to how you . . . ‘came to be.’ I wonder how you feel about that?” asks Holly.
“Not my problem,” Cam says. “It used to bother me when people would say terrible things about me, but I came to realize it only matters what one person thinks.”
“Yourself,” Holly prompts.
“No, her,” he says, and glances at Risa. The audience laughs. Risa offers a humble smile. Then Holly and Jarvis go into some cute little banter about who wears the pants in various relationships. Jarvis poses the next question.
“Risa, you’ve been through a lot yourself. A ward of the state, a rehabilitated AWOL . . . I’m sure our audience would love to know how you and Cam met.”
“I got to know Cam after my spinal surgery,” Risa tells the world. “It was the same clinic where he got put together. He came to see me every day to talk to me. Eventually I came to realize that . . .” She hesitates for a moment, perhaps choked up by her emotions. “I came to realize that his whole was greater than the sum of his parts.”
It is just the type of thing people love to hear. The whole audience releases a collective “Aw . . .” Cam smiles at Risa and clasps her hand tighter.
“We’ve all seen your public service announcements,” says Holly. “I still get chills when I see you rise out of that wheelchair.” Then she turns to the audience. “Am I right?” The audience applauds in agreement; then she turns back to Risa. “Yet I would think when you were an AWOL you must have been very much against unwinding.”
“Well,” says Risa, “who wouldn’t be against it when you’re the one being unwound?”
“So exactly when did your feelings change?”
Risa takes a visibly deep breath, and Cam squeezes her hand again. “It isn’t so much that they changed . . . but I found myself having to accept a broader perspective. If it hadn’t been for unwinding, Cam wouldn’t exist, and we wouldn’t be here together today. There’s always going to be suffering in the world, but unwinding takes suffering away from those of us”—she hesitates again—“those of us living meaningful lives.”
“So then,” Jarvis asks, “what would you say to kids out there who are AWOL?”
Risa looks down rather than at Jarvis when she speaks. “I would say if you’re running, then run—because you have every right to try to survive. But no matter what happens to you, know that your life has meaning.”
“Maybe even more meaning if they’re unwound?” prompts Jarvis.
“Maybe so.”
Then they segue into an introduction of a top fashion designer, here to present a whole new line of trend-setting patchwork clothes inspired by Camus Comprix. Designs for men and women, boys and girls.
“We call it Rewind Chic,” says the designer, and models parade out to gleeful applause.
