Dark Eden (6 page)

“Whoa, hold on. Are you saying Dr. Stevens was talking to Ben?”

“Yeah, she’s there if we need her. We can go in there and talk about how we’re doing. Ben did that before he got cured.”

“But she’s not here. She left.”

“I don’t mean she’s
in
the room. It’s a monitor. She’s back home. We call; she answers. At least that’s how it’s supposed to work. I haven’t tried it.”

My eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and I asked her about the other rooms in Fort Eden. She said that there was a study on the far side of the stairs, but the door was always locked. Behind us was a library, which reminded me of the book she had set on the floor.

“What are you reading?” I asked.

She picked it up and handed it to me. Now both of my hands were full, one with a water bottle and one with a book. If she’d wanted to hold my hand she couldn’t.

“
The Pearl
,” I said. “Pretty good book.”

“Yeah well, we’re all being forced to read it, so I hope you’re right.”

“Wait, you’re
all
reading
The Pearl
? What for?”

Marisa shrugged. “Rainsford put a box in the middle of the table and asked us to put all our electronics inside, including phones. Not like we were getting a signal, but it was hard. It reminded me of this youth group I used to go to. We’d show up, and this twentysomething youth pastor would pass around a cardboard box asking for phones, which he promised to return at the end of the night. By the time he got it back, that box was overflowing. Anyway, Rainsford said it would bond us, reading the same book.”

In the back of my mind I was thinking, Why
The Pearl
? But instead, I said something really stupid.

“I read it once before. I think you’ll like it.”

I’d already made this mistake before, making it seem as if I was something special.
Why of course I’ve read it; Steinbeck and Hemingway are my homeboys.

Marisa didn’t reply. She snatched the book out of my hand and turned to the side, staring at the cover instead of staring at me. Then she said something I was completely unprepared for.

“Tell me what you’re afraid of, Will.”

The question came out of nowhere, and it rang in my ears like a shot from a cannon. Marisa turned to me again. “Everyone here is afraid.
Really
afraid. It’s why we’re here. The first part of the cure is telling. Everyone told but you.”

“Avery didn’t tell.”

Marisa looked off toward the dim light over the table once more and got up to leave.

“Forget it.”

I wanted her to stay more than anything I’d ever wanted in my life. I wanted our secret night to never end.

“I’ll tell you another secret, but not that one. Not yet.”

She stopped, turned, sat down. I’d piqued her interest, but she was leery, I could tell, as if I was about to trick her. At least she was back.

“Shoot.”

I took a deep breath and looked her right in the eye.

“I don’t go to a private school. I’m homeschooled.”

“Really? Why?”

“Because me and school don’t exactly get along.”

Not a huge confession, but it was something, and it was enough.

“Does it have something to do with what you’re afraid of?”

“Maybe.”

She reached out for the water bottle and I handed it to her, looking at her shirt as her eyes tilted back to the ceiling.

I WANNA BE ADORED.

The dream I’d had flashed before my eyes—her body on the gurney—and for an instant my mind blazed with fear. It was a strange feeling, as if someone had put it there for me to find and I’d stumbled onto it.

“The Stone Roses,” I said.

“No way” She smiled, moved a little closer. “You knew?”

“It’s a great song. Who wouldn’t know?”

I Wanna Be Adored
wasn’t a statement about Marisa; it was a ’90s song by a British band called The Stone Roses.

I wished more than anything that I’d really known this about her, that I’d seen her for the first time and known, because we shared a common interest in something obscure. But you do what you have to do in order to win the girl, at least that’s what my dad keeps telling me. I knew because she wore the shirt when she met with Dr. Stevens.

I knew because I’d already heard Marisa tell me.

We agreed not to tell anyone anything, at least for one more day. She wouldn’t say where I was hiding or that I could see certain things. She made me promise not to watch if she went into the room to talk with Dr. Stevens, and I made her promise not to rat me out. At least not yet.

“I think you should come back,” she said at the door. “But you’re right, too. When Ben came back, he said the joints in his fingers hurt. He kept flexing his fists. He was really psyched, and he swore we could put a spider in his sheets and he wouldn’t even care; but there’s no doubt this place isn’t normal.”

“No kidding,” I said. “See you tomorrow night? Same time, same place?”

She smiled shyly, looked at
The Pearl
, then back at me.

“It’s a date. And bring your fear. You tell me yours; I’ll tell you mine.”

It wasn’t exactly fair that I knew everything about her, but I was a retro-video-game air hockey master who didn’t attend a real school. I needed every advantage I could get.

The door closed behind me, and I started the long walk down the corridor alone. The lightness in my step felt heavier the deeper I went, until, entering the basement, I felt as if I was carrying a coffin on my back.

The basement lights were on. Had I left them on? I couldn’t remember.

I glanced around the corner of the corridor and found that I was not alone.

Mrs. Goring had entered the basement while I was gone.

I made an unfortunate sound—a half scream—before I could shut my stupid mouth. Then I backed up, and my elbow connected with the corner of the doorjamb. My funny bone went berserk, an electric tingle pulsing down my arm.

I stood in the darkened corridor rubbing the sting out of my elbow, trying to think …
Could I take the old lady or not? Maybe I could make it to a shelf and beat her back with a can of corn.

A few seconds later I had a feeling in my bones that Mrs. Goring was stalking me. It was quiet in the basement, too quiet; and I imagined her carrying a baseball bat or a rolling pin, inching her way toward the corridor.

I should have ran up the corridor into Fort Eden, but something told me that this was an even worse idea than waiting to be clobbered by a heavy wooden object. My head started to clear, and reason returned. Whoever was in there might not know that I was down here with them. Was that possible? I had been careful not to leave any trace of evidence. Maybe Mrs. Goring was hard of hearing.

There was movement around the corner, which sounded like someone loading a cart with cans and boxes. I looked at my watch. 5:10
AM
. I’d been upstairs in the fort longer than I should have been. Morning had come to the clearing, and Mrs. Goring was gathering supplies to make breakfast for the visitors. That was her job, after all; but why hadn’t she heard my intrusion?

I ventured a quick look, petrified that it would be my last, and there she was, doing just what I’d presumed: filling up the cart with pancake mix, canned peaches, a jar of peanut butter, a plastic jug of syrup. Seeing the trappings of what would be a spectacular breakfast I would not enjoy made my mouth water. But it was okay, because I also heard then why she hadn’t found me. Mrs. Goring was humming—a pair of small headphones stuck to her ears—quietly butchering some song in her head..

The door to the corridor sat ajar by a foot, and I watched as she turned to leave with her supplies, pulling back as her eyes fell in my direction. I stepped softly back on the slick concrete; and the cart moved toward me, the bad wheel wobbling loudly. She pushed the cart up the hall, then stopped and slammed the door shut behind her, sealing me inside.

I listened to Mrs. Goring drive the cart away and round the corner, heard it bouncing over my head up the path that led to the kitchen. My stomach rumbled, empty and searching for pancakes; but at least I had safely avoided being discovered.

The door was not locked, only closed; and soon I was back in the bomb shelter, sitting on the cot and wishing Marisa was with me. I opened a Clif Bar and choked it down with water. Looking in my bag and seeing so many more, I wished I’d packed something else. The lack of variety was already sending my taste buds into a death spiral.

Boredom sunk in rapidly. I was too cautious now to listen to my Recorder; Mrs. Goring had taught me better. Getting lost in an audio world of my own would present its own set of risks as long as people were awake and moving around. Listening had to be worth it.

I could record, though, and this I did, keeping my voice low as I described everything that had happened to me. After a time my eyes fell on the two paperbacks. I was not, generally speaking, a reader. I was a listener. Audio diaries were of particular interest. People are always talking about how important it is to write things down, but I think recording your own voice is more important. I’ve tried to read many biographies; most of them die on the page. Reading Martin Luther King’s story is wholly unsatisfying, but listening to him speak—to hear his voice is to know the man. Or, better yet, listening to someone nobody’s ever heard of. There is nothing I like more than hearing average people tell their own stories.

Still, I was bored and there were these books in what had become my home away from home, so I picked each of them up. I should not have been surprised to find
The Pearl
among them, but I was. The other book was called
The Woman in the Dunes
by a Japanese writer whose name I couldn’t pronounce. Both books were tattered and yellow at the edges, with pencil markings that had all but faded away on some of the pages.

I fell back on the cot and began reading. It made me happy—imagining Marisa as she read, wondering what page she was on as I read the same words. It was something we could talk about, something shared and real.

I grew drowsy and, turning off the light, slept for a few hours, the darkness making the basement like a tomb where time had no meaning, until I was abruptly awakened by a light dancing before my eyes.

The wall was alive again, the center monitor crackling to life. I got up and spun the dimmer switch on, filling the room with a harsh light. I could see the main room of Fort Eden again, buzzing with activity. Everyone was awake; and, checking my watch, I realized I’d slept a full four hours. It was pushing 9:00
AM
.

Marisa sat alone in a corner on a couch, reading. I couldn’t help wondering what page she was on. Kate and Ben were cross-legged on the floor, talking to each other. I had to admit that Ben Dugan looked not only fine, but his body language spoke of a contented, healthy guy. He wore a T-shirt I hadn’t seen before with some sort of emblem on it. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it looked as if Kate was grilling him for information. I found it interesting that Connor, who had been inseparable from Kate from the start, kept glancing their way from his place at the table, where he was aimlessly fanning a paperback. Alex sat at the table, too, drawing in a notebook.

There was one person missing; but by cycling the monitor to
G
—the room with the numbers
2
,
5
, and
7
stenciled on the back wall—I found her.

Avery Varone, the girl with many foster homes. She was staring right at me, saying nothing at all. It matched what I already knew perfectly, and I risked putting in my earbuds and dialing up one of her audio sessions.

Nothing’s going to change if you can’t be honest with me.

I know.

I understand that you’re afraid, really I do. Can you tell me anything, anything at all?

You can’t help me.

Well, I don’t know about that. I’ve been doing this awhile. I’ve helped many people. I think I can help you, if you’ll trust me.

Uh-huh.

Just think about it, okay? The first step is the truth. We’re sort of stuck until we get there.

Right.

What was Avery thinking now, in the strange room, as she stared at me? I knew she couldn’t see me, but she looked vacant and afraid, as if she was watching a ghost hover before her eyes. She was a pretty girl—long brown hair and a sweet face—but seeing her then and hearing her voice in my ears, I was overcome by her hopelessness. How different would she look if she could be cured?

Cured, made unafraid. But of what or of whom? That was the unanswerable question about Avery Varone.

Even I didn’t know because, in all those sessions, she’d never told.

I knew Mrs. Goring would leave with the food eventually. She was smart to wait until after 9:00
AM
, when teenagers were both awake and famished. I heard the cart heading down from upstairs and felt the power of the basement door bursting open.

I’d already decided what I was going to do before the rattling cart showed up, and I was out of the bomb shelter before Mrs. Goring reached the top of the corridor. By the time light poured forth from Fort Eden, I was staring up the ramp, waiting for the door to close partway once more. When it did, I ran the entire distance, standing in the shadow of the incline, listening and recording.

Everyone had gathered around as Mrs. Goring slapped their hands away from the cart.

“Breakfast will be served at the table, not a second sooner. This isn’t a zoo.”

“Oh, come on, we’re starving,” Connor protested. He was the biggest, so it stood to reason he’d be the hungriest.

“Out of my way or I’ll ram you with the cart.”

I couldn’t risk sticking my head through the doorway, so I wasn’t able to see what was happening. Apparently Connor had been blocking the way but had moved, laughing loudly.

“You’re funny, Mrs. Goring.”

“Watch yourself, Connor,” Alex said, jumping in. “She might bust your knee with a frying pan.”