Attention: ALL
Subject: Friendly Reminder from Chef
Don’t take more than one serving of dessert! Check back at third shift to see if there’s extra. :)
Sleep came slow and skittish, like it was afraid of taking me too deep. I woke every hour or so, straining my dry eyes for the shape of Andrek beside me, but he wasn’t there. I’d known he’d be wound up after g-jumping, but I thought he’d still come home at some point.
Sometime halfway through the night, I dragged pillows and blankets to the living room couch, where at least the steady blink of the screen kept me company and distracted me from the memories that replayed in my head.
I ended up checking the comm, hoping to see the files from Viveca. Instead I found a surprisingly cold message from Chef, telling me not to come in tomorrow because my hours were being cut “due to my poor performance” and that “further training may be necessary before resuming normal shifts.”
I read it three times in a row before deleting it, looking for some clue to tell me what I’d done wrong, my heart sinking further each time.
Why hadn’t Chef said something in person if I was fucking up so much? Wouldn’t Stephan have told me? That hurt more because I thought he and I were getting close. Not best friends close or anything, but coworker close, at least.
I felt tired all the way into my bones, and my thoughts were still fuzzy around the edges from over-exertion. Usually my meltdowns were better spaced out, not back-to-back without a proper refueling. It left me numb, like after-dentist-appointment-numb, when I knew there was scorching pain creeping closer every second below the cottony relief.
My parents’ alarm bristled me into wakefulness again, but rather than retreat into my bedroom or Andrek’s, I burrowed deeper under the blankets and waited for them to hustle past on their way to work.
No such luck.
“Exciting night?” Dad asked. He landed hard on the chair and made old man noises while he tugged on socks and shoes. “You got in so late.”
I peeked blearily into the room and accidentally caught Mom’s eye as she sauntered in.
“Oh no, honey,” she said, as if by some mothering magic or whatever she saw the sleeplessness and emotional exhaustion seeping through the bare inch of exposed skin. She was beside me at once, pushing a water tube into my hands. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work? I hope you let Chef know you aren’t feeling well.”
The last thing I wanted to tell her was that my hours had been cut. It would only confirm her doubts about how little I could deal with. I sat up and downed the tube in seconds.
Mom gave me another. “Let’s get you to bed. You obviously need more rest.”
“No, I—” I gulped the water and uncurled my legs. It was like they saw into my brain, into the numb, barely-there of me. Maybe they could, but I wasn’t their little girl anymore, desperate for reassuring head pats. If they had only walked by, I would have been perfectly happy in my blanket nest for several more hours, wallowing in my misery. But they hadn’t, and I didn’t want to be nursed, at least not by them. I could manage myself. “I need to get up. Big plans today.”
They watched warily as I untangled the blankets and wrangled them and the pillows into some kind of shape I could carry. Their silent conversation was so noisy it followed me into my room. “Poor little Lane, she’s pushing herself so hard,” and “We should talk to Chef about her hours.”
Nope, nope. Didn’t want them talking to Chef and hearing how bad I was at the assignment they got me. I couldn’t understand it myself yet. I hurried out to show how fine I actually was and wished them a great day while pulling my curls into a tight, and super-adulty, bun. “I’m good.”
I really did have plans, after all, because today was the day I was to endure my first grief group so I could finally get Viveca off my back about it. And then, then, I was taking charge of my sister’s memorial for real. No more tongue-tied baby business or letting Viveca string me along one emotion at a time, not now that I knew she thought I was someone worth fearing. Or capable of protecting Joule somehow.
Faraday was my sister. Is. Always would be. And right now, it was she who needed the most protection.
Dad stopped me at the door. “If you have time, come along with us to the washroom before breakfast. We’ve got a hairdresser booked for the next hour, and your mom promised no work talk.” He brandished their tabs to show them turned off and stashed them in his shoulder bag.
Mom froze for a moment before adjusting her face. Having me along for their appointment was clearly not part of her plan, but she tried not to let it show.
“That’s a great idea. Come,” she said. “We hardly see you anymore.”
I agreed, reluctantly, because I did need a trim and kept forgetting to schedule it. Plus, I had hours to kill before my therapy group.
Our hairdresser was a middle-aged white woman with massive calves and tiny hands. She swooped into the washroom, chittering to herself in an almost non-stop commentary. “More repair traffic in the halls, sorry, see, I meant to be here early to set up and make pretty.” She clucked her tongue and regarded each of us and the supplies appraisingly. “Missing towels in here too, I gather. And conditioner, soap, extra slippers, water tubes? Cheese and rice, this is unacceptable. Whoever’s behind these pranks needs to cut it out.”
She dragged a cart in from the hall and worked methodically, weaving between us like we were pieces of furniture as she stuffed supplies into the cabinets and spun lids off the bottles, refilling each.
Mom and Dad shared a look I read as she’s a lot.
“I’ll start with you, Dr. Tanner. Can I call you Catherine? That was my granny’s name, bless her soul, and titles seem so pre-melt to me, no offense. Of course, you earned yours. I’m Beth.” She took Mom’s hair into her tiny hands, leaning in close to study her scalp. “Do you want color? I can match or you can go wild with it. I brought the rainbow, just in case. I expect you want to keep it long?”
Mom grimaced as Beth tugged hanks of her hair this way and that. “No color, no. All I want is a trim to touch up the layers and thin out the back.”
Beth snorted in disapproval and dropped Mom’s hair. “And a deep condition for all of you. I insist.” She lathered a cream onto Mom’s crown without preamble and started raking it through. “Rub it in. It won’t hurt you. Now you, Collin, yes? A whole family of redheads! Quite unusual these days, with everyone ending up a little from everywhere. All Lunar now.”
Those words again. She worked the cream onto my head last, her tiny hands moving as fast as her mouth. “Such fine hair if you take care of it. But your skin! What have you been doing with yourself, child? The log says you’ve lost weight. Are you eating enough?” She spritzed my face with who-knows-what and fixed a mask over my forehead and nose.
I wanted to protest, and I actually tried to get the words out, but she was already back to Mom, pulling her now-damp locks straight with a comb. The mask stung for another second, but then it cooled and wasn’t that bad, so I left it on.
“Lane?” Mom asked, interrupting Beth mid-spiel about color treatments again. “Are you eating enough?”
Beth looked affronted but continued snipping at Mom’s layers.
“Yeah,” I said automatically. Then I thought about it, seeing if I could count the skipped or half-eaten meals. I couldn’t. “I think I am. I’m always around food, it feels like.”
“It’s easy to get dysregulated with so many unexpected shenanigans going on. Glitching doors, missing supplies, prank messages. I’ll send a note to the kitchen if you like. They can help track it,” Beth offered.
I shrugged and said okay.
“Whiz of a system our trust has going, tracking everything.” Beth’s laugh was like a steel drum. “Except for this morning, am I right? Nobody where they’re supposed to be, departments half empty! Everybody thinking they got fired. What a disaster!”
Beth laughed all the way through her words like it was the funniest joke in the world, but Mom and Dad had come alert. Dad hastily turned on his tab since Mom was pinned under Beth’s scissors, making a face that I swore meant I told you I needed to go in on time today.
“Catherine,” he wheezed.
Mom squared her shoulders. “Beth, I’m so sorry. We’re going to need to cut this short.”
“I was hoping you’d say that!” Beth squealed, gripping her scissors tighter. “I know exactly the look for your face shape.”
“No,” Mom said and stood. “I mean we have to leave.”
Beth’s smile faded. “I can still get to your daughter, if you two need to go.”
Mom leveled me with a glare. “I expect she’s missed at work too, along with the rest of the staff sent fake… What shall we call them?”
Dad cleared his throat. “Performance reviews.”
“It wasn’t real?” I ripped off my mask. “Chef didn’t change my schedule?”
“I knew you didn’t have the day off,” Mom muttered, as if this was somehow all my fault. She threw a thank you at Beth and bounced Dad and I into the hall.
By the time we reached the cafeteria, Dad had explained that, yes, my schedule was the same as ever. Somebody had sent fake messages to half the staff, stripping the work force this morning and sending the trust into disarray and confusion.
“This may take some sorting out,” Mom warned me as she hugged me quick, more of a lean-against than a hug. “But I hope we can have dinner together. Maybe bring a picnic to our office if we’re running late?”
I bit back the if-I-had-a-tab-of-my-own retort since she was looking at me warmly, and office picnics hadn’t happened in a while. But, seriously, if I’d had one, they could have told me they were going to be late without me waiting around.
“It was just a prank, right?”
“Probably. Too silly not to be,” Dad said, chuckling. “Don’t you worry about it, dear.”
He kissed my head, and they turned to leave. Mom glanced over her shoulder though, her small mouth pressed tightly. Her face said she was worried plenty, and that maybe the rest of us weren’t worried enough.
I stayed late to help Chef recover the kitchen from the prank, which meant breakfast for dinner and a short batter-flinging contest between me and Stephan. I won.
The grief group met somewhere different every other day, and today they were in the cafeteria, which made it extra easy for me to make it there myself afterward. Low pressure even.
I didn’t imagine any grand healing moments in my near future. My only expectation was to be bored and maybe a little annoyed, but none of that mattered if it meant I’d satisfied Viveca’s unreasonable demand and could get back to the business of saving my sister’s legacy.
Someone named Milo waited by the counter for me to finish filling my tray with grits, scrambled tofu, peppery potato mash, and a cup of mandarin orange slices. They said they met Faraday a bunch of times when she did conference rounds, back before trust construction began, and that I had her smile.
They had hard-core grandparent energy, if said grandparent happened to be covered in fading tattoos and speckled with piercings. I especially liked the row of glittering gems that dotted their eyebrows like twin rainbows.
I wasn’t sure how to name what was so endearing about Milo, except that their voice was warm and something about their words skipped right over pleasantries into familiarity, as if we’d always known each other. The way they talked about group made it seem like fun, not all hyper intense like Viveca said.
They tugged me across the cafeteria, chattering into my ear. “Come on, baby red. You’ll like this crowd—Ha!—because we’re all ornery and complicated.” We stopped at the far corner table so Milo could make introductions. “Y’all, this is Lane, maker of pies, server of lunch. Lane, meet Ty, Greg, Cheese, Ira, Danny, and our maestro, the good Dr. Fromme.”
I scanned the others, recognizing their faces if not their names. Ty I knew, since she worked the grill on my shift, and Greg I’d met a couple times. He was a liaison for operations and occasionally walked Andrek to our quarters while they talked shop. He used a text-to-speech device and was always modifying the voice with different accents. Then there was Danny, whose friendly smile shook some more of my nerves loose.
“Howdy,” said the one called Cheese. She was a little person, like Commander Han, and had the most incredible spiky gray hair. Next to her was Ira, I guessed, or Extra-Whatever, as I’d been thinking of him so far.
“I’m glad you could join us,” Dr. Fromme, I assumed, said. I’d named her Cookie-Monster in my head because she actually growled in line once, and I’d laughed so hard I gave her my own portion. “If you have a seat, we can get started. How’s everyone doing? Bit of an adventure this morning, I bet, but here we are, on the other side of things again.”
A rustle of shrugs answered her. I wasn’t sure how to respond yet, so I squeezed between Milo and Danny and stuffed my mouth with a spoonful of grits.
Dr. Fromme smiled broadly and cleared her throat. “To catch you up, Lane, we’ve been talking about the stages of grief.”
“Bunch of hooey horseshit,” Cheese interrupted.
“—and how they may not directly apply to every individual’s personal grieving process,” Fromme continued smoothly. “Have you heard of Kubler Ross’s stages? Denial, bargaining, anger, depression, acceptance?”
I swallowed hard, wishing she’d stop focusing on me so much. I thought I could simply come and listen, absorbing by presence without heavy participation. That was what I wanted, anyway.
“The idea is that we visit these stages along our path to healing, though the path isn’t linear or static. We may circle back through any of those stages at any time, whether for a second or a month, but by actively processing these states, we can direct our own healing forward.”
“Which is why I call horseshit,” Cheese put in. She speared a potato with a fork and used it like a baton to emphasize every word. “In a hundred years, you’d think we could’ve come up with something more universally accurate. Even better, we could’ve come up with something to speed this shit-business along, or a way to not have to feel it somehow.”
I inhaled sharply at that last part, drawing everyone’s notice toward me. Immediately I shoveled more food in my mouth, not caring what it was, so nobody asked me to explain. Luckily, no one did, and Greg took the moment by clearing his throat loudly and tapping furiously at his tablet.
“You would prefer to feel nothing then? To swallow a pill and turn off your grief?” Greg’s tab read aloud in a rich Scottish brogue. “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”
Cheese bobbed her potatoed fork emphatically. “Yes, unequivocally yes.”
Dr. Fromme leaned away from the table and surveyed us. “Interesting! Anyone else want to weigh in? Would you want to take a pill to turn off your grief? Why or why not?”
“I’ll tell you why,” Cheese started. “It fucking hurts. I’ve hurt enough.”
“I would too,” Danny said, her voice gravelly-low and ponderous, as if she’d thought about this a lot. “Just to see what it’s like not to feel like this.”
It occurred to me that I didn’t know who anyone but Danny was grieving, and nobody’d asked me either. For some reason I imagined we’d all start with that somehow, the naming of the dead, like “I’m Lane, and I’m grieving my sister and my classmates” or something. Some part of me was disappointed by this, especially since I didn’t know the context for the others’ losses. My mind offered up possibilities for Cheese and Ira, but I smacked that thinking down. It was disrespectful to assume, wasn’t it?
I heard Milo sniffling quietly beside me, their eyes shining and watery. “I don’t know,” they said, and Cheese took their hand. “I don’t know if I’d be brave enough to try something like that. I lost my parents so young, and grief kept me focused, kept me moving forward. And when I lost my first wife and our son—” their voice wavered, and they breathed like the air had gone thick “—I couldn’t bear feeling—Running from the pain led me to a whole new life, one I wouldn’t trade for anything. If I’d been able to turn it off then, I would have. So I’m glad that wasn’t a choice.”
“Mmm,” Dr. Fromme hummed, which could have meant anything. “How about you, Ty? Lane?”
Ty grumbled a “Nope” in response but didn’t elaborate.
I knew my answer was no too, because of how awful it felt when Cheese mentioned the idea. Thinking about why was extremely uncomfortable, like having a spotlight directed at me. It was probably for the same reason I hadn’t wanted to come to one of these groups in the first place, and why it felt so wrong for Viveca to keep pushing me.
I opened my mouth to mumble a simple no like Ty, but the past few days had loosened something in me, because I didn’t have the energy to filter what came out.
“I don’t know if I want to heal,” I found myself saying, and all at once I was standing on the edge of that cramp in my heart, looking straight at it. “Maybe not, like, ever? I mean, what is grief anyway except pain and memories, and that’s all I’ve got left of… of her. It’s not like I can wave that away without losing something else important, so no, I wouldn’t take anything to turn it off, even if I could, because it wouldn’t be fair or right to feel nothing, even if the alternative is feeling like… Like this.”
The others went quiet and still. I stared at my tray, at my food going cold, at my fingers gripping my utensils, and I hoped nobody was looking at me, but I didn’t dare check. I’d said what I meant, even if I wished I’d kept it locked in my head.
“Exactly that,” Greg agreed, though Cheese harrumphed and shook her head. Danny met my eyes and patted my shoulder, so it felt like she understood what I meant at least.
Dr. Fromme started talking again, something about how all our feelings were valid and there was no right or wrong answer when it came to these things.
I only half listened as I forced myself to keep eating, chewing each bite precisely so nothing stuck in my throat. This wasn’t my plan, saying any of that, and now it was too late to stuff the words back where they came from. And maybe, since I’d admitted it, I could find a way to use that for something good.
Because that was the problem with Viveca’s hero-worship, at the heart. It was all glory and goodness and celebration-of-excellence horseshit. A memorial that mattered, that meant something forever, couldn’t only be positives and fluff, not when the person it was about died before they got to see what they’d built, not when they were murdered right at the beginning of their dreams coming true.
So Viveca was right on some level, that Faraday needed to be remembered for her inventions, for how amazing she was at inspiring people to make huge changes and try previously impossible things. If my sister had lived to the ripe age of eighty, or sixty, then that might have been enough.
But she hadn’t. It didn’t matter how much she managed in her shortened life, because she could have, would have, done so much more.
The memorial needed to hurt, at least a little. Maybe a lot. Like that fake performance review, disrupting my insides and my day.
When people remembered my sister, they should be disrupted too. Angry that she was stopped from doing more, furious at those who were so in love with their own power that they’d stolen her from us when she was only getting started. And because I couldn’t let that go, because I wouldn’t dare try, I was exactly the right person to plan her memorial.