Lake

 

 

I wake with the feeling that I’m supposed to do something. But what?

I grab my journal from the night stand and record the events from last night’s dream session. Whatever I need to do remains elusive.

God, I could use a cigarette.

My head snaps up. I don’t smoke. Never have. But that same bizarre thought has been in my mind for days. I grab a piece of gum and chew until the disgusting craving lessens. Why would I want a cigarette? The smell makes me gag.

It’s time for my daily debrief. I focus on the route and reach Deborah’s office without a misstep. I stand outside her door, basking in the accomplishment I wouldn’t have thought twice about last week. Should I listen to Stryker and tell her what I’ve been experiencing? A wave of relief washes through me. That’s what I couldn’t remember. Stryker said he needed to have more fun, and we were going to create a list, or was I supposed to do that? I wish I had my journal to jog my memory. From now on, I’ll keep it with me.

Deborah looks up from her computer with a smile. “Come on in, Lake.”

I grab a pen off her desk and scribble on my hand List of fun.

“What are you doing?” she asks with a tight smile.

“Reminding myself of something.”

The telltale worry line between her eyebrows appears. “Are you having problems remembering things?”

“It only happens when I’m tired, which shouldn’t be an issue considering how much I’ve been sleeping.”

“I suspect the two internal biological mechanisms that regulate your awake and sleep, circadian rhythm and sleep/wake homeostasis, are being disrupted because your body isn’t naturally waking on its own. I’ll prescribe something that might help.” She types something into the computer.

I should’ve brought it up sooner. I’ll be feeling better in no time.

Deborah refocuses on me. “I’ve also been noticing small changes in your speech pattern.”

My stomach clenches. I didn’t think it was obvious. “It started a few days ago, but every once in a while it’s been … challenging to find the right word.”

I study her face for a reaction, but there is none. A good sign.

“Have you noticed anything else?” she asks, apparently unconcerned.

I could lie, but I’ve always tried to be honest in my debriefs—except about Sophie’s continued belief that she’ll be rid of me after the semester ends. “I got lost on the way to your office, but that only happened once. Twice. But everyone gets turned around sometimes.”

She nods again. “Cecil mentioned that to me.”

Glad I told the truth.

Deborah’s theory is since my thoughts are co-mingled with Sophie’s, my brain is still learning how to extract information when I’m awake. She assures me my glutamate and gamma-aminobutyric acid transmitters are at acceptable levels so my excitation and inhibition—my E/I balance—is properly controlling my flexible behavior and cognition. It’s a relief my brain activity is functioning properly, but no one else seems to be having memory issues. Or they could be and aren’t admitting to it.

Deborah has always been honest with me, and I want to believe her when she tells me not to be concerned. But I did forget parts of Orfyn’s story. It was disconcerting because I’ve always had a great memory, tired or not. I was embarrassed, and maybe a little worried. I should apologize to Orfyn for getting angry.

When I’m back in my room, I transfer the reminder about my fun list onto a fresh page in my journal. Then I sketch out a map of The Flem, which is pointless since I’ve lived here for almost a month, but I do it anyway. As long as I have my journal, I won’t get lost. Feeling more in control, I head to the dining hall, journal in hand.

I take a moment to admire Orfyn’s water lilies. He transformed the dining hall into a place I now enjoy spending time. Jules is at a table, her ever-present copy of Capitalism and Freedom lying next to her barely eaten chicken nuggets. The rest of us eat like marathoners. I don’t know how she hasn’t withered away. A twinge of a memory surfaces, then flees too quickly to grab hold of. Was it about runners? Chicken?

“Alex was released from the infirmary today,” says the girl who’s always in the know.

“Have they determined why he can’t … breathe?”

“They think he contracted a parasite while visiting relatives in Mexico. He went before he came here, which is why at first they thought it was caused by the procedure.”

“It had crossed my mind that whatever is happening to him might start affecting the rest of us,” I admit.

“You can take that worry out of your head. Merging is perfectly safe.”

Between Deborah’s and Jules’s assurances, I’m feeling more carefree. I start eating my embarrassingly large slab of meatloaf. “Has Stryker been here today?”

“No, I’ve only seen Anna when she grabbed something to eat between dream sessions. She was barely awake and didn’t have a lot to say, which wasn’t such a tragedy.”

I smirk conspiratorially. “I think Marty’s the only one she talks to anymore.”

Marty!

The image of him huddled in the library comes rushing back. I was going to ask Deborah to check on him. And I didn’t. How could I have forgotten something so important? Fear grabs hold of me like a magnet.

“Have you seen Marty today?” Please, please, please let him be okay.

“First thing this morning. He said he’d finished writing a new chapter.” Jules’s eyes shift to study Orfyn’s painting.

I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. He’s fine. But this memory lapse was far more serious than forgetting a word. I slide my journal under the table and write, Tell Deborah I forgot about Marty.

He wouldn’t want everyone to know how he was acting in the library, especially the Gossip Girl. “Did he seem all right to you?”

Her perkiness plunges a few notches. “It won’t be a secret for long. He’s being moved to the Darwinians’ wing for observation.” She leans in closer. “He agreed to undergo treatment for depression, which I find so admirable. I mean, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a disease.”

If Marty had done something to hurt himself—I shove away the thought. My failing wasn’t as disastrous as I feared.

Jules pats her flat stomach. “I’m stuffed. I’ll be right back. I’m in serious need of caffeine.” She picks up her barely eaten lunch and heads to the kitchen.

I hurriedly eat my meatloaf before she returns, feeling like I’m doing something wrong by consuming calories. A drip of gravy flies off my fork and lands on the worn cover of Jules’s book. I carefully wipe off the gravy with a napkin, and luckily it doesn’t leave a grease stain. What is so fascinating about this particular book?

I flip open the cover. Glued to the inside is a manila pocket that once held a log of borrowers and due dates. Stamped in red on the pocket is The Flemming Academy Library. It was here long before this building was remodeled into the Darwinians’ secret laboratory. I notice a slight impression in the pocket and pull out a crystal rectangle. Why would Jules have a keycard when the rest of us don’t?

Something occurs to me that should have occurred to me sooner. How does Jules know Marty is being treated for depression? I just finished debriefing with Deborah, and she didn’t mention it. Or tell me about Alex’s diagnosis. I can’t see Cecil being so cavalier with my classmates’ medical information.

According to Jules, she’d seen Marty this morning, and he told her he’d finished a new chapter. But he was distraught because he couldn’t get the first paragraph perfect. How did I not catch that earlier? And what else has Jules been lying about?

Out of nowhere, I get this feeling that something is wrong with Marty, more than just him being depressed. I have no logical reason to believe it, but even though I keep reminding myself that a competent researcher relies on facts, I can’t shake the feeling. Is it Mom or Sophie warning me?

I see Jules returning and grab her keycard, slipping it into my back pocket.

“Back to slicing dead human brains.” I stand to leave.

“Gross!” Jules squeals.

As soon as I’m out of her sight, I write in my journal, Verify that Marty is okay.