Chapter 9
Kenzi
I’m back in Claire’s dressing room, though she’s still insisting I call her Dr. Hanson or Sofia. At least she’s good at staying in her part. She’s doing better than I do with that, though she doesn’t feel like they keep changing the lines.
I can hardly keep up with them, and right now I can’t find my copy of the script. Hopefully, I'll remember everything when I get on stage. Claire doesn’t seem concerned about that, so I guess I shouldn’t be either. But it bothers me. A lot. I pace all night trying to remember.
“Kenzi?” Her voice brings me back to the present, to the dressing room that looks more like a doctor’s office than anything else. “Did you hear my question?”
I blink a few times, trying to remember. “Which scene was it from?”
She sets down her pen and leans on her desk. “Do you mind if we go off script for a while?”
“How will that help? We need to know the lines.”
“We will, when the time comes.”
I sigh. “You still never told me how you’re alive after dying.”
“Do you remember the treatment we talked about last night?”
Claire never wants to answer the question about her death. Maybe it upsets her too much. Or maybe she doesn’t want to face the fact that she abandoned me with our parents.
“Are you willing to close your eyes and follow some instructions? It could help you remember your lines.”
I snap my attention toward her. “Will it?”
She nods. “I think so.”
What do I have to lose? If I can get the lines down, everything will be okay. It isn’t like it can get worse than it already is.
“Are you willing to try?” Her eyes are pleading, and it reminds me of when Claire was younger. Not that it’s weird. She was always younger than dead. She’s never getting older. I thought. How do I even quantify that in terms of age? It just makes my head spin. “Kenzi?”
“Yes. Let’s give it a try. I need to memorize the lines.”
“Wonderful.” She gives me a warm smile. “Make yourself comfortable then close your eyes. Once you’re ready, I’ll give you instructions.”
I’m only doing this to make her happy. Inside, I know nothing will actually help. My mind is thick like a milkshake, and Laurel won’t be happy one bit.
“Are you ready to close your eyes?” Claire asks.
I resist the urge to scream. Instead, I lean back against the cushions and close my eyes.
She talks in a smooth, melodic tone. I can’t follow what she’s saying, but somehow her words relax me. My fists release, my hands fall to my sides. I feel like I’m drifting somewhere.
Her voice continues, but it sounds foreign. Far away. Like it’s dancing away from me.
My body feels like it's upside down, floating in space. I go right, left, then up and down, all around. The surrounding darkness fluctuates with more and fewer stars. Shooting rainbow stars. Far away moons.
It’s pleasant, loose, and free. I’m not trapped in this building, nor do I need to remember any lines. It feels like something important isn’t far away. Someone?
The voice is like a melody in the distance, somewhere far away, keeping me grounded.
I feel a pull toward the earth. It sucks me toward it, becoming bigger as the stars and moons grow smaller and zip away from me. I’m getting closer, closer. The movement is fast, and I could crash right into the ground, but I don’t feel anxiety about it.
Then suddenly, I find myself somewhere dark. It smells funny, like moist dirt and a damp building. There’s a sound not far away. It keeps repeating, but I don’t know what it is. Then there’s a drip, like a leaky faucet. I know that sound. I can almost feel it.
I find my footing and walk across an uneven surface, stumbling here and there. Someone’s calling my name, the voice distant but familiar. I head in that direction, though it’s so hard to see in the dark. My surroundings were brighter when I floated near the stars.
My fingers brush against a scratchy wall then pieces of furniture—a desk, a rack full of stiff clothes, sharp picture frames, hooks. I come to a doorway then step through it. There’s more light in here, though it’s still dim. At least I can see.
After blinking a few times, everything becomes clear enough. Laurel stands at the front of the room at a chalkboard, teaching kids. The chalk makes noise as she’s writing.
Scratch, screech, scratch.
It sends a shudder down my spine.
Laurel waves wildly and talks with an animated tone, but none of the kids respond. They all stand still like robots as they watch her, saying nothing. Maybe this isn’t real. Or I’m not.
Then she turns to me. “Kenzi, what are you doing in the doorway? Come inside. We’re preparing for the show.”
The show. Is that why I’m here?
She points for me to stand next to one of the other children, and I find myself obeying the order. We’re all in a perfectly straight line, all wearing crisp white hospital gowns that seem out of place in this dirty, smelly space.
Laurel resumes writing on the board. “This is going to be the best performance anyone has ever seen. You’ll all be stars.” She turns, winks at me, then continues like she never stopped.
Scratch, screech, scratch.
A pained cry sounds from another room.
“What was that?” someone asks.
“Nothing,” Laurel says quickly, her expression sharp. Then she forces a smile. “Nothing for you to be concerned about. Good little boys and girls don’t have to worry because they follow the rules.”
A muffled, distant voice sounds from somewhere. I turn around, looking for it. Nobody else seems to notice it.
Laurel talks about the play again. More cries sound not far away, but nobody pays them any attention. It’s too hard to pay attention to Laurel while someone’s in pain.
Some invisible force pulls at me, tugs. Like it wants to take me away from here. I dig my heels into the ground, but it pulls all the harder. The distant voice sounds closer. Familiar.
I need to check on the crying kids.
When Laurel turns her back to us, I take a step away, then another. Everyone else is enthralled with what she’s saying, and they don’t notice me. I make my way to the hall and follow the sounds.
This room is different. There’s no chalkboard, no instructor. It’s full of children, all of whom have wires attached to them and numbers on their backs. Some wires go to their heads and others to their limbs.
No wonder they’re crying.
The room is also filled with computer screens, and beeps sound from every direction.
A child turns to me, reaches for me. Calls out.
Then the distant voice gets louder, says my name. A force pulls me away from the hallway, through the building, and back to space.
I find myself on a couch. Claire sits across from me. What does she want me to call her again? Dr. Hanson.
She gives me a concerned look. “Did you remember anything?”
“I saw some kids down in the dark place. Someone was running experiments on them.”
Claire blinks a few times. “Someone was running tests on kids?”
The cries continue to echo in my ears, and an overwhelming sadness blankets me. “I want to go back to my dressing room. I need to sleep.”
“It might help you to talk about what you saw.”
I cover my face with my palms and shake my head.
“Perhaps later, after you’ve had some time to process everything.” Her chair squeaks as she gets up to open the door.
All I want to do is sleep. I never want to go back to that basement again.
More than that, I don’t want to face the question forcing its way to the front of my mind…
Was I one of the kids with the wires attached to me? Could I have seen myself and not realized it because I didn’t realize it was a memory?