Chapter 21 Showing Up #2
“I don’t know how you do your job every day,” Shreya says, shaking her head in sympathy. “It seems so dystopian, the way some people spend their whole day screaming at patients. All those demon conspiracy theorists would be better off realizing that humans are the real demons, huh?”
This is my opening, but I don’t know exactly what to say, or how.
“I know that it’s very human to get caught up in these kinds of crowds, to try to control others instead of help them, and even to take an anti-abortion stance to get more votes and wealth and power.
That’s all textbook. But I feel like we should be able to fight back effectively, and I just can’t. ”
Shreya leans back, looking thoughtful. “Some of the great philosophers thought that demons were not truly their own entities, but beings that fed off humanity’s failings, and thus could never be killed,” she says.
“The idea was that our only recourse was overcoming what they represented in ourselves. It’s a great metaphor for the human experience.
” I sit with that grim pronouncement for a moment as she adds, “I mean, almost all the demons from the Western storytelling canon are said to have a human master. These big great evils from across time and space, controlled and summoned by humans like you and me.”
Despite my overwhelm, I manage to sound casual. “I don’t know about these demon summoners being all that similar to you and me.” My mind is spinning in a million directions.
She laughs. “Hey, it’s possible! Though you’re right that the stories usually describe more powerful demons being summoned by more powerful people.”
Shreya grins as though we’re sharing a joke. I can sense pushing any further is going to make her think I’m mentally unstable, so I fake a laugh. “Well, thank you for the mental break. I needed it.”
“Speaking of breaks from work, are you looking for volunteers?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to guilt you—”
“Not at all. It’s one of those things that I’ve always wanted to do, but never followed through on.”
I’m not going to look a gift volunteer in the mouth, so I pull out my phone and text her the volunteer application link before I can forget. “It’s just a formality,” I add. “I already know you’re not a plant.”
“Maybe I’ve been playing the long game,” she says, getting a real laugh out of me. For a moment, I’m able to enjoy coffee with an old acquaintance-turned-friend before the guilt and fear come roaring back. Progress.
My dreams are dark. Literally. I’m standing in a consuming blackness.
My eyes are open, but I see nothing. Perceive nothing.
I close my eyes, and when I open them, I see flames.
I try to flee, but there’s fire all around me.
Bizarrely, I’m cold. I’m so cold. As my body spasms with shivers, I feel a hand on my shoulder.
I whirl around, but there’s nobody there.
Something taps me again, and I spin and spin and spin to catch a glimpse of them until I’m dizzy.
Suddenly, the fire is gone, as is the darkness, revealing the familiar interior of the clinic.
The lights are still turned off, but I can see.
I call out, but no one responds. My voice echoes in the emptiness.
I head toward the medical wing and push open the doors, finding nothing.
I hear a dripping sound, and I follow it into room 3.
The door is unlocked. Lauren is lying on the bed, a hole in her chest. Blood is dripping, dripping, dripping onto the linoleum tile.
I open my mouth to scream, but my jaw is locked.
I back into the main hallway, now filled with people.
I can’t make out any of their faces, each blurred and ghostlike.
My jaw is still clenched in a painful vise, so I lunge toward one of them for help.
When I near them, I realize everyone here is holding a sign.
Anatomically incorrect fetuses, slogans about murder.
The clinic is full of ghost-antis. I need to get out.
I need to run, but I’m hemmed in and there’s nowhere to go.
Someone tugs on my hand, but I can’t make out who.
I’m hot now; there’s sweat beading on my forehead.
The ceiling has caught fire. I allow the hand, cool to the touch, to pull me along.
I take two steps forward, and the clinic walls crumble.
The ceiling collapses in chunks that pass so close they ruffle my clothes.
I pull my hand free to cover my head, and suddenly my mouth wrenches itself open—
I wake up screaming, my chest heaving from the force of it.
I turn over onto my side, squeezing my eyes shut to stop myself from crying.
I know better now than to write off the content of my dreams as meaningless or mere coincidence, but I can’t make sense of the images.
I try to recapture the fleeting moments of the dream, but nothing stands out.
A month ago, before all this began, I would have ignored this warning.
I would have doubted myself. But the clinic is still in danger.
Asmodeus is out there, lying in wait. I doubt my influence over him will last forever.
Maybe the dream is a threat from him, letting me know what’s in store for us if I don’t yield.
Or, of course, it could be a message from whoever summoned him, if Shreya’s research is to be believed.
I’m not experienced enough to permanently rid myself of these demons on my own, and I turn my attention to more tangible problems, like the clinic’s money woes.
Our fundraising efforts are floundering.
Even with all the disasters we’ve suffered, we’re barely making the news.
I think of all those rich people milling about the Art Institute, giving money to organizations that, in hindsight, further the anti agenda. JJ has always been a little oblivious.
My phone pings with a text from Aai.
Nisha, enough is enough. Come home so I can see you with my own eyes or I’m going to drag you.
An idea begins taking shape, and before I can let lethargy defeat me, I jump to my feet and leave my apartment, forcing myself to travel to the one place I’d least like to be right now.
I approach Aai’s place, an apology for her sitting on my tongue, but it curdles when Rima Aunty opens the door. We gape at each other, and I hear the chime of an alarm system, which is new, and a relief.
Before I can collect my thoughts, she says, “I’m sorry.” I almost choke on my own spit. “I’ve been bad to you and your Aai.”
“Yes,” I agree. She lifts a brow, and I manage to add, “I’m sorry, too.”
“Come in, then.”
I kick off my shoes and enter the kitchen, where Aai is cooking. She turns off the stove to look at me, and I see a light in her eyes that thrills my heart. Despite everything, she seems more excited than I’ve seen in a long time. Hopefully my idea doesn’t bring her down.
“Good thing you’re here and I didn’t have to drag you kicking and screaming,” she says.
And before I can figure out the right way to start the conversation I came here to have, she continues, “I have an idea for you. Since the fire, the clinic keeps getting coverage in the Midwest Family Institute.”
Rima Aunty nods along. Weird.
“That makes sense,” I respond. I’m not sure why she’s bringing it up. The Midwest Family Institute is an ultraconservative group operating in Wisconsin, Illinois, Michigan, and Indiana that focuses on family-oriented work like outing gay public-school teachers and closing abortion clinics.
Aai pulls out her phone, opens Safari, and turns the screen toward me—always a jump scare, because it’s on 100 percent brightness and font size seventy-two.
I look at the article and see the Midwest Family Institute bragging that our clinic will be closed soon and thanking the soldier for life who set the fire.
There’s a quote from our new alderman claiming that the clinic is not the most efficient use of the space, and one attributed to a Harry Fleming saying that their plans for putting the clinic out of business have been in motion for months, that it must be god’s will to have them succeed just in time for Easter.
I have a strange tingling feeling that propels me to read further, though I’d rather throw Aai’s phone against a wall.
Lift the veil of ignorance, I tell myself. But all I get is a headache.
“Don’t worry about this stuff, Aai. I actually came to ask you something.”
“Anything, baccha.”
“You’ve always said the Bhats owe you, right?”
Aai smiles, a lot wider than my question merits. “Yes. As a matter of fact, just this morning I called in that favor with them.”
“What?” I can’t believe it. “I was thinking that since the clinic needs money, maybe they would host a fundraiser and invite their friends, but it seems like I’m too late—”
Aai pushes her phone back into my hands. I glance at the screen, where her WhatsApp thread with Mrs. Bhat discusses plans for… a fundraiser.
“I still keep up with our friends from back when we lived in Rogers Park,” Aai says. “I know plenty of people who would be interested in helping out, especially after they learned that you’re working there. So I got Geeta’s number and we came up with this plan.”
“How can I help?” I ask. I almost can’t believe that after what Aai has suffered for me and my work, she’s putting her time into this. Except… I can believe it, because no matter what I’ve done to her, she has always done everything for me.
“Don’t worry about it,” Aai says, as if sensing my thoughts. “Rima is helping me organize some of the details. You focus on keeping yourself safe. Actually, she was just saying that in the past, demons were always defeated by using their own tricks against them.”
Rima Aunty finally ends her impression of a statue to speak.
“You are just one in a long line of women who were able to succeed despite the odds. You might be nothing special, but an average woman is good enough.” A classic Rima Aunty underhanded compliment, but it gives me a bit of strength.
If so many before me have survived, maybe I can save my clinic.
“Do you want to stay?” Aai asks. I can see the hope in her eyes that I’ll say yes, but I can’t forget why I’ve been avoiding her. Even this latest effort to save the clinic is just my taking further advantage of her without having anything to offer in return.
“I don’t want to get in the way,” I say, feeling like I’m speaking through glue.
“In the way?” Aai echoes, even as she speed-packs food into old take-out containers.
I shake my head. “I could be putting you in danger.”
“That’s a stupid reason,” Aai says.
I accept the food from her, my eyes stinging at the defeat in her expression. “It was good to see you.”
“It was ‘good to see’ me?” Aai repeats, incredulous. Guilt and loathing war in my gut. It’s all I can do not to burst into tears as I turn away and head back into the cold.