False Hearts (False Hearts #1)(34)

Taema even came around. Well, somewhat. She stopped pretending to look away from the tablet, although she never suggested topics to research. We were lucky nobody ever found us with it. We wouldn’t have been punished, really, but people would have treated us differently—as if we’d wronged them by showing curiosity about life outside, when life inside was supposed to be so f*cking perfect. Disappointment can be worse than anger. They’d also have been wary, wondering what we’d learned. But I knew Mana’s Hearth for what it was now, and Taema did too, even if she didn’t want to admit it.

It was a prison.

So, you see, this isn’t my first time in a cell. I spent the first sixteen years of my life in one, even if it was surrounded by trees and flowers.

I started to notice little things. Then bigger things. How we were kept in the dark about so much. And then there was the Meditation.

I thought it was a normal part of life. That everyone on the outside must do it as well. And some do, but not the way Mana-ma did it. Three times during the week, and then just after Sunday service.

It was always the same. We’d line up, quiet and patient. One by one, we’d each go up to Mana-ma and open our mouths, a little like a Catholic communion. She’d place a small tablet on our tongue. It tasted bitter and earthy. I always wanted to make a face, but forced my features to stay blank like everyone else. The pill dissolved on my tongue, and the world would grow brighter yet hazier at the same time.

We’d lie down in the meadow, or in the church if it was raining. We’d hold hands in one large circle. And we would lucid dream. Mana-ma would guide us through visions so realistic that when I awoke from them, sometimes the real world didn’t seem like the true one. The dreams were meant to be calming, with visions of nature.

“A mountain stream,” Mana-ma would say, and all of us world work together to create the perfect one.

“A sunrise,” she would say next, and the sky of our mind’s eye would bloom so bright.

The trouble was that collective dreaming hurt. Every nerve ending would feel as though it were on fire. Tears would leak from all our eyes. We’d cry out as each vision shifted. Yet we still did it. Day after day, week after week. I think she did it to bring us closer together, and because she could. Out there, with no Chairs, no needles, we made our own dreamscapes.

We’d do it on our own, too, without whatever drug she pumped us full of (it wasn’t Zeal, I know that much), and it meant we never woke up unable to remember our dreams. It made me and my sister incredible lucid dreamers. I still do it now, especially now that I’m in my cell. I can close my eyes, drift off, and then take off into the sky and fly. It’s pretty much the only thing I can ever thank Mana-ma for.

We only had Confession once a week, different days for different people in the Hearth, but it was always just after Meditation. We’d be weak with the comedown and pain and drugs, so we’d tell her everything.

Of course, now the whole ritual seems strange, but at the time it was considered a normal part of our routine. Even with our newly gained knowledge, my sister and I didn’t question it too much—until Adam grew sick. Then we couldn’t pretend Mana’s Hearth was anything other than what it was. What it is.

Adam was born missing the lower half of his left arm, though it never troubled him. I’ve learned, since escaping the Hearth, that people within are born with a higher chance of disabilities. Like me and Taema. My guess is that it’s either because of the bloodline being so intermingled in a small populace, or because the drug Mana-ma gave us for Meditation did something to babies in the womb.

Anyway, Taema and I had both been sweet on Adam. We still hadn’t quite figured out how romance would work, with us being conjoined. I guess we thought we’d deal with it when the time came. I think we would have been happy enough sharing Adam, if he liked us.

That might sound odd to some of you, but I don’t care. San Francisco has poly relationships aplenty, even if none of them are with conjoined twins. The Hearth would have accepted it just fine.

Adam caught an infection when he was tilling the fields, which most of the men and some of the stronger women took turns with. He cut himself on the plow and didn’t wash it properly, or something. It shouldn’t have been fatal. If he’d had access to a needle full of magic medicine from the city, he’d have been right as rain in less than an hour. But whatever infection Adam caught was more stubborn than our medicine could handle.

He grew worse, and was moved to the Wellness Cabin. People weren’t really allowed to go see him, but Nurse Meadows allowed us to peek in through the window. He was happy to see us. I liked to think he was sweet on us too, but that he liked me best. We brought him some grapes. His leg was all wrapped up and propped up in a sling. He was sweating and pale. I hated to see him like that. But he didn’t seem on the brink of death or anything. I figured he’d get better in no time. Just needed some rest.

“How are you feeling?” I remember Taema and I asked at the same time. I hated when we did that. We’d have the exact same tone, timing, everything, as if we were creepy echoes of each other.

Adam smiled weakly at us. “Been better, T-and-T,” he said, and we both fought down blushes. I’d always liked the joint nickname, understanding we were two, but also one. And he didn’t even know we called each other T when we were alone.

We threw him the grapes, and he tried to catch them in his mouth. He missed, or we missed, more often than they landed in his mouth, and soon the floor of the cabin was littered with green grapes. We collapsed into laughter, clutching our sides.