Whisper (Whisper #1)(51)

“You need to do better than this, Jane,” he growls when I ask for a break.

Leaning over with my hands braced on my knees, I look up at him through my hair, trying to catch my breath.

“I’m trying,” I say. I have no idea why the effort of just forming words is so hard on my body. Part of it is from pushing through the added pressure of the Karoel, but still. All I’m doing is talking.

“Not hard enough,” he replies.

I manage to raise myself into a standing position and glare at him. “It would help if you offered more instruction than ‘Just do it, Jane.’”

He returns my glare and snaps, “Just do it, Jane.”

I look around the room for evidence of my multiple failed attempts. The problem is, I have summoned nothing yet. Other than Ward and me, there’s nothing else in the black-walled room. And that’s because Ward has tasked me with summoning objects from my past. Items of significance, items of nostalgia.

“How hard is it for you to create your favorite childhood book?” he asks. “Your favorite pair of shoes, stuffed bear or piece of jewelry? These should all be vivid in your mind — this should be easy, Jane.”

He’s right. And he’s wrong. They are vivid in my mind. But what he’s asking is not at all easy.

I can clearly see my ragged old copy of Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, the cover worn by time, the pages nearly torn from the spine that is strained from countless readings with my father.

I can clearly see my ballet slippers, the pink satin in perfect condition because it only took one lesson for me to realize I preferred watching the dancers with my mother than being one of them.

I can clearly see Pink Bear, the stuffed teddy I was given by my father during a hospital stay after a swarm of bluebottles became tangled in my hair while I was swimming at the beach.

I can clearly see the diamond ring my mother always wore, the ring that was still on her finger when —

I suck in a heaving gasp, close my eyes tight and draw air carefully through my lungs.

Ward is right. It’s easy for me to visualize all the things he’s asking me to create. But seeing them in my mind and bringing them to life are two different things. I can barely handle the images — I know the physical evidence of them would be more than I can take, and the last thing I need is to break down in his presence again.

The Ward who held me in the bathroom is a long-distant memory. This Ward in front of me is more likely to snap at me than to hug me. So I refuse to give him the opportunity.

“Maybe I don’t remember,” I say. “I’ve been locked down here for so long — maybe I’ve just forgotten. Give me another task.”

“That would defeat the point of this exercise,” Ward says, unyielding. “To create an object with personal meaning from memory alone.”

I raise an eyebrow as I consider his words. “Why didn’t you say that was all you wanted?”

Immediately, I create three things one after the other: The book Ward threw at me to read the first day I met him. The woolen socks I found on my feet after spending the night in his bed. And the ice cream he bought me during our trip topside.

The book and socks I hand over without looking at him. The ice cream I keep for myself, not letting on how amazed I am that it’s edible. I swipe my tongue over the chocolate scoop, the coolness bringing relief to my throat.

Ward regards the book and the socks with an unreadable expression, but there’s something working in his eyes — an emotion I can’t interpret — before his face blanks again.

He holds up the objects in his hands. “This isn’t what I asked you to do.”

“I created three objects from memory alone,” I say, “just like you wanted.”

“They needed to have personal meaning.”

I almost laugh, because he knows damn well that they do.

Reading my expression, he practically barks, “Personal meaning to you, Jane. Not to me.”

I reel backward, unable to control the reflex action. But before I can pull apart his words or their meaning, the door to the room opens and Dr. Manning strides in.

I haven’t seen him for three days, not since Falon ended my morning therapy sessions — sessions that were a ruse all along.

“I hear congratulations are in order, Jane,” Manning says as he approaches, his partially balding head gleaming under the halogen lights.

“Congratulations, commiserations, take your pick,” I reply, not caring that the first words I’ve ever uttered to him are brimming with attitude. He’s yet another person who should have told me the truth — years ago.

“We’re in the middle of something,” Ward tells Manning.

“The director sent me,” Manning says. “Jane no longer needs to see me regularly, but Falon wants me to have a follow-up session with her now that she’s … openly communicating.”

I suppress a snort. Is that what they’re calling it now?

“Are you even a real therapist?” I ask. “Or were you just another Genesis Speaker tasked with trying to get me to reveal my ability?”

“Both,” he says without guile.

I have to admit, I’m surprised by his admission. Maybe not everything down here is a lie.

To Ward, Manning says, “Falon wants to see you while I speak with Jane. I’ll escort her back to her quarters when we’re done.”