All Good Children - Catherine Austen [58]
I close my RIG and slide it in my pocket. “You don’t have to tell me this.”
“Your dad misunderstood. He said we could keep trying until we got one just right. But it wasn’t that. I wanted all of you. I couldn’t choose which ones to destroy. Just because they weren’t perfect.”
There’s something about your mother telling you of the children she terminated that makes you want to be alone. “I’m going for a run.”
I do chin-ups in the park until my hands are frozen stiff; then I pound the dark streets for an hour, north and south and north again, working my way closer to the core. The houses grow larger every few streets inward, and soon I’m in my old luxurious neighborhood.
Lights blaze behind the curtains at Dallas’s house. I stop on the road and catch my breath. A tall cedar hedge hides my old house from view. I want so badly to jog up the stone pathway, open the blue door and head up to my old room, to work in my sketchbook while Ally butts in every five minutes to show me a toy, and the soft voices of my parents float upstairs until finally Dad sticks his big blond head inside and says, “Time for bed, my friend.”
I turn around and run back home to watch Freakshow. It’s no fun without Dallas. The studio audience looks zombified. Zipperhead and Squid are the most human beings on the screen. I don’t even care who wins.
A nurse comes to our door. She’s in her forties, short and plump. She wears white pants, white shoes, white shirt, white coat, white gloves. Her hair is dyed platinum. Even her eyelashes are white.
She shows me an identity card. Her name is Lara Fleishman. She works for the city. “I have some questions to follow up your educational support treatment.” She steps inside and frowns at the tent and the pissy stench of paint.
Mom calls us to the table.
“Maxwell Connors, age fifteen?” Lara asks me.
I nod. “Almost sixteen.”
“Roll up your sleeve, please.” She takes out a syringe and an empty vial.
“What are you doing?” Mom asks.
“Taking a blood sample.”
Mom puts her hand on Lara’s. “No.”
Lara frowns at the black hand on her white glove. “But that’s the main part of the follow-up. I have to take samples.”
“No,” Mom repeats.
“But I’m a nurse.”
“So am I. Can I take your blood?”
“Of course not.”
“You can’t take theirs either.”
Lara talks into her RIG, waits, sighs. “Okay. I’ll just check their patches.”
“I’ve done that already,” Mom says. “They’re fine. You’re not touching my children.”
Lara huffs. “Your negativity is harmful.” She projects a document onto the table. “There’s a short survey. Can I do that much?” She asks me twelve questions that sound innocent: Do you have friends at school? What field do you want to work in? Who is your favorite teacher?
Since I just read the notice board, I know the answers: All of my classmates are my friends. I want to work in the field I excel in. Each teacher is suited to his subject.
Ally takes the survey with the enthusiasm of a chatty corpse. When Lara asks, “Who is the top student in your class?” Ally says, “Every student does their best. No matter how small a part we play in the future, we’re building our great country together.” When Lara asks, “Do you work better alone or in teams?” Ally says, “It’s good to be able to work independently, but too much time alone can lead to thoughts and feelings that bring trouble into our lives.” These are the teachings I have to look forward to.
Lara closes her screen and turns to Mom. “You’re having difficulty adjusting to the treatment.” It’s a statement, not a question. Lara has been briefed. “Your children haven’t changed, Mrs. Connors. The treatment has no ability to physically change the child.”
“All medications change the patient physically,” Mom says. “That’s how they work.”
Lara smiles a tight so-that’s-how-it-is smile. “We’re manipulating them ever so slightly to give them the advantage of being better able