Lakewood(60)

The rest of the day was a literal mess. I couldn’t focus on what Charlie had said to me because I started experiencing side effects. I had felt no different after I had taken the pill but by 3 p.m.—and I want to be funny here, to act like it was nothing—I was experiencing a poop emergency. I’ve been eating crackers and drinking Pedialyte, nothing else will stay in my stomach. Miss Shaunté texted me to let me know my mom wasn’t feeling well; it was the worst she’s felt in a long time. I slowly ate another cracker, then called.

Where is she, where is she, Deziree kept saying on the phone.

I asked her who, hoping it wasn’t what I thought it was. My stomach was making death-metal sounds.

Mom, Deziree said. When is she coming home?

My grandma told me never to lie to Deziree when this was happening. Lying to her wasn’t kind and in fact would make things worse. But I didn’t want to do this. I put my phone down for a second. Clutched my stomach, trying to find the right words, but there was no way to tell her that would be right and kind.

I told her in my bluntest, most matter-of-fact voice that Grandma had been sick. Remember, she had cancer. She died months ago. We had the funeral. You spoke at it. I was crying, but I don’t think she could hear it in my voice.

Deziree was quiet. I hoped that maybe it had gotten through. She told me all bees were aliens and that was why they were disappearing now. Then she made a high-pitched sound, started sobbing, and asked me again where her mother was. I’m sorry, I said over and over. I wanted Grandma to come home, arms full of groceries, wearing her sandals with the coins on them. She would soothe Deziree, hop on the phone and order me home. It’s childish, but I pretended all our problems would be solved if she was alive. But there would still be the medical bills, she would still be recovering from surgery, from chemo.

My mom hung up. I sat up and rubbed my face. I called her multiple times, but she didn’t answer. I texted her. No response. I texted Miss Shaunté. Nothing. I was sure in those moments that something truly terrible had happened. She was walking the neighborhood, trying to find Grandma. She had fallen and hit her head. I started packing my bag, sure I would have to drive home, stopping to relieve my stomach agony at every rest stop and 24-hour restaurant I could find. The trip would probably take most of the night because I was so sick. I changed into sweatpants, drank more water. Then Miss Shaunté texted me. Deziree had a seizure, they were going to the hospital. She would be back in touch. Everything was probably fine, but they wanted to be safe. And I should be calm, she was there and taking care of things. Lena, I have this, she said twice.

I tried to force myself away from worrying. I texted you some boring lies about work. I scrolled through an art blog that was featuring a series of photographs I usually would’ve liked. A group of models—black people of all different shades wearing body suits—in poses. Sometimes they were superimposed on each other and they looked elegant despite the rat-king grossness of seeing several interlocking arms and legs. I got sick again and again. Online-shopped for a new hypoallergenic pillow. Miss Shaunté called me. My mother was fine. It was just a little worse for everyone because it had been so long since she had felt so bad.

Lying on my bathroom floor writing this, I can’t stop thinking I have to stay here. I can do this. I can do this.

But what I also keep thinking—in the voice in my head that doesn’t sound like me, the one that sounds like my grandmother—what will happen if I don’t make it out of here all right?





27


Dear Tanya,

It started on Day 68 of the experiments—an ordinary day according to the sheet they gave me, nothing special except my new headset had come in—and they announced this morning that we were beginning another phase of the memory study. We were in the conference room, all of us were given two pills. When I held them up to the light, they were a shimmering gray. Fog trapped in a bottle.

What are the benefits of this, I asked.

Dr. Lisa looked up from her clipboard and raised her eyebrows at me. If you’re uncomfortable doing this, she said, you can always leave. I know last time was rough on you.

Everyone else had stopped talking. They were watching her face. No one had swallowed their pills. She paused. You could see she realized her reaction had been a mistake.

What are the benefits, Mariah asked. She was sitting with her face resting in her palms. Everyone else had their arms crossed. I was so grateful to her for backing me up that I wanted to reach under the table, squeeze her arm, find some way to say thank you.

Faster mental processing, increased memory clarity, faster reading comprehension and retention, less risk of developing dementia or Alzheimer’s when you’re older, Smith said, keeping his eyes down. He spoke quickly. Charlie, Tom, and Judy relaxed. But Ian, Mariah, and I shared a look. It was too good to be true. How could one pill do all those things?

Dr. Lisa asked if there were any other questions. Her face was relaxed, but her voice came out clipped.

I had so many, but the situation felt that if I breathed the wrong way, I would be thrown out. Now I wish I had kept asking questions, talked and talked until they got fed up, sent us all home for the day, sent us all home for forever.

The day before, Day 89, I’d come home and made myself dinner. I pretended that I was tired, not from a morning spent running and an afternoon when I gave blood, but from having my fake job at Great Lakes Shipping Company. Spreadsheets, tracking routes, worrying about shipments. A job where I said things like This is such a Tuesday. Flirting with a non-creepy truck driver, the type of guy who said things like I know you’re fine, but how are you. I could call my mom at any time and tell her exactly what had happened during my day.