UnWholly (Unwind Dystology #2)(17)

“Good,” says Roberta, walking along with him. “How does it feel?”

“Skydiving,” he says.

“Hmm,” says Roberta, considering this. “Do you mean dangerous or exhilarating?”

“Yes,” he answers. In his mind he repeats both words, remembering them, pulling them from a massive box of unsorted adjectives and filing them in their proper place. There are so many unsorted words in the box, but bit by bit, it’s all beginning to slide into coherent formation.

“It’s all in there,” Roberta has told him more than once. “It’s just a matter of finding it.”

The two guards continue to hold him beneath his armpits as he shuffles along. A knee buckles, and their grip grows tighter.

“Careful, sir.”

The guards always call him “sir.” It must mean that he commands respect, although he can’t imagine why. He envies their ability to simply “be” without having to work at it.

Roberta leads them down a hallway that, like the distance to his feet, seems like miles, but is only a dozen yards or so. Up above, in the corner of the ceiling, there’s a machine with a lens that zeroes in on him. There’s a machine like that in his room, too, constantly watching him in silence. Electric eye. Cyclops lens. He knows the name for the device. It’s on the tip of his tongue. “Say cheese!” he says. “It puts on ten pounds. Rolling . . . and . . . action! A Kodak moment.”

“The word you’re looking for starts with a c, and that’s all the help I’ll give you,” Roberta says.

“Cuh—cuh—Cadaver. Cabana. Cavalry. Canada.”

Roberta purses her lips. “You can do better.”

He sighs and gives up before frustration can overwhelm him. Right now, it’s hard to master walking, much less walking and thinking at the same time.

Now they come through a door to a place that is both inside and out.

“Balcony!” he says.

“Yes,” Roberta tells him. “That one came easy.”

Beyond the balcony is an endless sea, shimmering in the warm sun, and before him are two chairs and a small table. On the table are cookies and a white beverage in a crystal pitcher. He should know the name of that beverage.

“Comfort food,” Roberta tells him. “Your reward for making the journey.”

They sit facing each other with the food between them and the guards at the ready, should he need their help, or should he try to hurl himself off the balcony to the jagged rocks below. There are soldiers with dark, heavy weapons positioned strategically on those rocks—there for his protection, Roberta tells him. He imagines that should he hurl himself down to them, the guards on the rocks would also call him “sir.”

Roberta pours the white liquid from its crystalline pitcher into crystalline glasses that catch the light, refracting it and splintering it in random projections on the stonework of the balcony.

He takes a bite of cookie. Chocolate chip. Suddenly the intensity of the flavor drags more memories out of hibernation. He thinks of his mother. Then another mother. School lunch. Burning his lip on a freshly baked Toll House. I like them best chewy and hot. I like them best hard and almost burnt. I’m allergic to chocolate. Chocolate is my favorite.

He knows all these things are true. How could they all be true? If he’s allergic, how could he have so many wonderful chocolate memories?

“The marathon riddle continuing,” he says.

Roberta smiles. “That was almost a complete sentence. Here, have something to drink.”

She holds the glass of cold white liquid to him, and he takes it.

“Have you given any thought to your name?” Roberta asks, just as he takes a sip—and all at once, as the flavorful fluid dislodges a piece of soft cookie from the roof of his mouth, more thoughts fly in. The combination of tastes forces a hundred thoughts through a sieve, leaving behind diamonds.

The electric eye machine. He knows what it’s called! And the white stuff, it’s from a cow, isn’t it? Cow juice. Starts with an M. Electric eye. “Cam!” Cow juice. “Moo!”

Roberta looks at him strangely.

“Cam . . . Moo . . . ,” he says again.

Her eyes sparkle, and she says, “Camus?”

“Cam. Moo.”

“Camus! What a splendid name. You’ve outdone yourself.”

“Camera!” he finally says. “Milk!” But Roberta isn’t listening anymore. He has sent her to a more exotic place.

“Camus, the existential philosopher! ‘Live to the point of tears.’ Kudos to you, my friend! Kudos!”

He has no idea what she’s talking about, but if it makes her happy, then it makes him happy. It feels good to know that he’s impressed her.

“Your name shall be Camus Composite-Prime,” she says with a grin on her face as wide as the shimmering sea. “Won’t the committee just die!”





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