Lake

 

 

While Stryker was striving to convince me we should only be friends, I realized he was right. When he was holding my hand, I felt nothing. No spark. No rush of heat. One force that causes attraction is magnetic force, which is electrical currents. Magnetic attraction is what causes opposites to attract. Stryker and I may be too similar. Orfyn on the other hand …

I’m not sure what to do about him. My head wants to shield me while my heart is threatening to break my promise to myself.

I pass Marty’s door and take a moment to appreciate the Space Needle that appears to be bursting out from it. Orfyn painted it from a bird’s eye view, complete with hilariously dressed tourists on the platform. Far below, ferries cross the Puget Sound, leaving tiny white wakes. It doesn’t take much imagination to feel the wind tangling my hair as I hover above Seattle with the other seagulls. Orfyn is truly talented.

Marty’s door is ajar. We’re not close. In fact, I’m not sure if we’ve ever had an actual conversation, but he was obviously upset the other day. We all need to identify ways to de-stress, and I plan to create a list of ways we can have more fun and share it with everyone at the next meeting. I chuckle at the thought of Anna taking up knitting.

“Are you in there, Marty?” I call out.

When he doesn’t appear, I peek in. It’s a disaster. The towers of books stacked on the floor compete with the plates of pizza bones and discarded clothes, which helps explain the funky smell. A walk outside would do Marty good—and air him out.

Cecil is headed my way and acting as if he hasn’t noticed me, even though we’re the only ones in the hallway.

“Have you seen Marty?” I ask.

He stops and regards me in his usual annoyed manner. “He’s in the library, I think.”

The I think was a nice touch, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they can pinpoint our location at all times. “I’m glad. He needs a break.”

“I’m not sure if he’s eaten. Do me a favor and get him a snack from the dining hall.”

Marty hasn’t eaten? That’s always the first thing he does after a dream session. “I’m happy to.”

When I get to the end of the hall, I look right, left, then right again. “Cecil?” I yell as he’s rounding the corner.

“What is it now?”

“Which way is the dining hall?”

He looks at me oddly, then returns.

“All these hallways look the same and it’s easy to get lost,” I explain, then realize it’s true. Yesterday, I couldn’t find Deborah’s office, which I visit daily.

“It can be confusing,” Cecil says without a trace of sarcasm, confirming my observation. “Turn right, and then take a left.”

“Thanks.”

He doesn’t move to leave. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

He stares down at me skeptically.

I clear my throat. “I’m a little tired. I’ve been putting in a lot of hours.”

“Tell Deborah if something like this happens again.”

“Sure.” My disorientation is only a side effect of my exhaustion. Taking a break with Marty is exactly what we both need.

I make my way to The Flem’s expansive library without a problem. Wooden tables with green-hooded reading lamps are arranged in the center of the room, and tucked away in the corners are upholstered chairs. There are an impressive number of periodicals for each of our disciplines, along with a large fiction selection, not that I’ve had much time to read. I smile while recalling my favorite Gandhi quote: Be the change you wish to see in the world. I grab an interesting-looking book and ruffle the pages under my nose, inhaling one of my favorite smells. I’ve missed reading for pleasure.

I tuck the book under my arm and search each aisle until I reach the end without seeing anyone. I yell, “Marty?” feeling like I’m breaking a sacred rule, even though there isn’t a librarian around to shush me.

Then I hear something. A low moaning, like the sound of an injured animal. Goosebumps sprout along my arms. I follow the sound and spot something behind one of the chairs. My breath catches when I push it aside.

“Marty?”

He’s rocking back and forth, making a keening sound.

I kneel across from him. “Marty, tell me what’s wrong.” He doesn’t look at me or speak. I inspect his huddled body. No blood or torn clothing, but I can’t see his face. “Marty, please look at me.” When he doesn’t react, I gently touch his chin and lift his head. His face is tear-streaked, and snot dribbles over his quivering lips.

“Did someone hurt you?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes, but he stops making that awful noise.

“I’m going to get help.”

“Leave me alone.” His voice reminds me of a wounded bird’s.

“Did something happen with … ” I can’t seem to remember the name of the famous writer implanted in him. “Your Mentor?”

When he lifts his head, his eyes are as lifeless as a doll’s. “Don’t have it.”

“Did you lose something?”

“Never had it.”

“What?”

“Talent.” Fresh tears slide down his cheeks.

“Marty, you’re being too hard on yourself. You were picked as the Nobel for … for Literature for a reason.”

“Disappointing everyone.”

“No, you’re not. You’ve been working more hours than any of us.”

Marty drops his head into his arms, and I can barely hear him. “Not enough.”

He’s spinning. I need to help him regain perspective. “There’s a pretty place outside I want to show you. That’s why I came to get you.”

“Can’t,” he says.

“The creek isn’t far. Come on. You’ll feel better after a walk.”

“You don’t get it.” His eyes grasp onto mine. They’re filled with desperation.

“Marty, I’m trying. Help me understand.”

He takes a deep breath, as if speaking requires more energy than he has. “It’s not right.”

“Your novel?”

“No!”

It feels as if I’ve lost my grip on his lifeline. “Please, Marty. Tell me what’s not right.”

“The first paragraph,” he whispers, as if betraying a life-or-death secret.

“But you’ve written other parts you like, right?”

He shakes his head.

“You’ve only been working on the first paragraph?”

He nods while running his sleeve across his nose, leaving a trail of snot.

I want to confront Marty’s Mentor—whatever his name is, and if he had a body—to make him realize he’s pushing Marty past his limits. And what about his Guardian? Cecil has to realize how distressed Marty is.

“What if you took a break from writing and—”

Marty’s shrill laugh causes the rest of my suggestion to scurry into hiding. He pulls himself up like he’s not used to carrying his own weight. His waist is at my eye level, and I notice the series of holes punched into his belt. He’s withering away.

I didn’t stop by the dining hall. How could I have forgotten? “How about we get something to eat?”

“Not hungry.”

He’s always hungry. “What about a Big Bang Theory rerun? We both could use a good laugh.”

“Can’t. It’s not perfect.” He moves down the aisle of books like it takes monumental effort to place one foot in front of the other.

I feel useless as I watch Marty leave. No! I can help him. I march to the wing that contains our Guardians’ offices, needing to retrace my steps, and knock.

“What?”

I take it as an invitation to enter.

“You need to do something about … Marty’s Mentor,” I tell Cecil, making sure it sounds like a demand and not a request. It’s unnerving that I can’t remember his Mentor’s name. I read one of his books in ninth grade.

Cecil raises his eyes from his computer screen. “Did we have an appointment?”

“You need to have Marty talk to his Mentor about shortening his dream sessions.”

“I’m sorry, but I think you’re mistaken about our roles here. I don’t report to you.”

I clench my toes to stand my ground. “I’m worried about Marty. He’s acting as if he’s having a nervous breakdown.”

“So now you’re an expert on mental health?”

“He has to have lost twenty pounds.”

“I’ve been monitoring his weight, and it’s within the acceptable standards.”

“Cecil, I found him crying in the lipstick … I mean, library.”

“It’s healthy to let off a little steam. He’ll be fine by morning.” Cecil waves his hand to dismiss me. “Shut the door.”

“It’s not only his weight. He’s—”

“Fine. I’ll run a few more tests. Now let me get back to work.”

I knock on Deborah’s office door, but she doesn’t answer. I try the handle and find it locked. I’ll talk to her about Marty first thing in the morning to make her aware of my concerns.

When I pass his door, there’s a wrinkled T-shirt hanging from the handle and turbulent snores coming from behind the painting of the Space Needle. He’s already back at work.