Alone Page 10

  I cover my mouth and cough, then delicately climb into the bed beside her. I’m a plank of wood. Sleeping on the couch where at least I could stretch and relax would actually be more comfortable. So why did I give in so easily? Olivia reaches over to rest the back of her hand against my forehead. I watch it coming toward me. I’m the earth and she is a meteor about to crash into me. At the last moment I scrunch my eyes closed.

  “You do have a fever,” she says with what sounds almost like a touch of triumph. Whenever she touches me, her voice gets low and calm, and I can’t help but be soothed by both touch and words. I nod, because what can I say to a fact like that, then roll onto my side facing away from her and pull the covers up to my ears. I wonder if she can hear my heart pounding.

  I wake from what feels like a too-short nap, startled by the warmth beside me. While I slept, I rolled over and moved to nestle against her with my arm wedged between us and my face pressed to her shoulder. She’s awake, reading a book and she smiles indulgently down at me. I shuffle back to put distance between us again and sit up. Worse sore throat. Blocked instead of dripping nose. Headache but no other ache. Brilliant.

  “You talk in your sleep,” Olivia tells me, smiling like she’s discovered a secret.

  Nobody’s ever told me this before. “I do?”

  “Mhmm.”

  “What did I say?” The words crack and break around the grossness in my throat.

  “Nothing that made much sense.” Her hand makes another trip to my forehead and cheeks. “A little warm but not so bad. I don’t suppose you have a thermometer around here?”

  The flush I feel isn’t from the virus partying in my body. I lean back slightly to disengage from her hand. “Maybe. Probably. I’ve never looked.”

  “Why don’t you see if you can find one? I’d like to know your exact temperature.”

  I swallow, gritting my teeth against the razors in my throat, and I can easily picture Riley’s eye roll at my babyish behavior. “Do you need to get up?” I do a side roll off the bed to get away from Olivia.

  “I’m good for now, thanks.”

  I pee, then brush my teeth and gargle with mouthwash a couple of times to get the taste of sickness out of my mouth. After ten minutes of half-asleep and sick-uncoordinated stumbling around the dwelling, I find a thermometer in the first aid kit—one of those weird sensor ones I can’t figure out. Whatever happened to good ol’ under the tongue? I present her with a coffee as well as the thermometer.

  “Ohhh, coffee. You’re wonderful, thank you so much.” Olivia sets the mug down on the bedside table. “Lean close.” When I do, she presses the device to my forehead, sliding it to my temple. “Ninety-nine point seven. I don’t think it’s bad enough to be the flu, likely just my cold. Now your cold.”

  “Mhmm.”

  “You need to take some more Tylenol and rest. And you must take that sweater off.”

  “I don’t want to,” I mutter like a petulant child.

  “I know you feel chilled but that’s only the virus. I assure you that it’s not real.” As soon as those last three words are out, she clamps her mouth shut. After an apologetic and helpless smile, she adds, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

  I can’t help but smile back. “It’s fine. I’m going to get some water and clean up a little. Do you need anything?” Sniffing hard, I manage to stop the sneeze that’s threatening to escape. A sneeze can travel six—stop.

  “Can you please find the chocolate in my pack?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” I have a bunch of chocolate in the pantry. I’ll give her some of that so I don’t have to dig through her things again. I need to sleep but I’m worried I might not wake in time if she needs the bathroom. She agrees to get up and I help her to the bathroom then deposit her back in the bed.

  I leave a sandwich, snacks, and water for her along with some books. She fluffs pillows behind me and not so subtly takes the duvet off me every time I pull it up. “Wake me if you need me,” I slur. There’s a hand stroking my forehead, pushing damp strands of hair away from my eyes. The hand moves to my cheek.

  Coughing and sweaty. Everything’s fuzzy. She’s reading a book, her injured leg propped up on cushions stolen from the couch. Her hand is almost to her mouth and is holding a square of dark chocolate that’s been bitten in half. “Are you okay?” Olivia asks.

  I nod. My throat still feels raw, but is more gunky now than anything. To add to my misery, that awful viral weakness has settled in my body. I struggle to sit up. “What time is it?”

  “A little after four.” She shifts the chocolate in her mouth so it’s nestled against her cheek like a squirrel.

  “Morning or afternoon?”

  “Afternoon.”

  Pushing my hand through my hair, I gather it up and fix my ponytail. “Do you need anything? Bathroom?”

  “If you don’t mind, yes please.”

  We’ve got the coordination down and I hardly brush against her at all while she hops to the bathroom. I’m worried I might not wake up for her if she needs to move around, so I leave her on the couch and make my way to the entryway. “Just going to get something outside,” I mumble.

  I throw my coat on over my inside clothes and scuff around until I spot a branch that looks right. The air hurts my lungs and makes me wheeze so much I have to keep stopping to cough.

  “You sound like Mr. Hopper.” Riley giggles. “Remember how we had to sit there for ages while he talked about the adoption and he had that huge booger, and we thought it was going to shoot out and hit us?”

  “Yeah it was disgusting,” I agree hoarsely.

  I make a quick stop in the shed for tools and fashion a rough walking stick for Olivia. She’s about my height so I guess at the size, smoothing and paring it down until it feels right in my hand. I test it out, fake limping around for a few steps. Seems sturdy enough. It’d be better made if I wasn’t so weak and wobbly.

  “Useless,” Mother reminds me.

  I can’t even be bothered answering her.

  Back inside, I present the stick to Olivia with a clumsy flourish. “A walking stick for you, ma’am.”

  The stick is the perfect height. She smiles and gently touches my shoulder, then starts to hop around with the stick, making a circle around me. “Thank you. You’re incredible, Celeste.”

  Tightness grabs my throat. I’m in danger of losing my voice. It’s the cold. It has to be the cold. I manage a whispered, “You’re welcome.”

  Chapter Nine

  While dinner simmered on the stovetop, I changed the sheets because I’d sweated in my sleep and I can’t stand the thought of Olivia sleeping like that. They’re now those navy blue ones instead of the nice purple set the Controllers sent me. After dinner, I showered and was ready to sleep on the couch for the night, but she practically dragged me to the bedroom. Now that she has the stick and can move, she’s more insistent, as though made bold by her independence.

  For the first time since I’ve been here, I set an alarm in case I don’t wake in time to check in. After a few naps beside her, my body is better disciplined, and I’m still on my side of the bed, not touching her, when I wake before my usual time. Sore, scratchy throat but no sweating or serious congestion. At the corner of happy and—stop.

  I don’t remember timeframes for cold symptoms. A week? I lie in bed without moving, my eyes still closed, listening to Olivia’s deep, slow breathing. Stealthily, I turn to look at her. She’s on her side, facing me. When she sleeps, she leaves her hair loose and I can smell my shampoo. I reach to touch her hair, to drag the dark strands through my fingers, but thankfully stop myself at the last moment.

  As quietly as I can, I turn off the now-unnecessary alarm and slip out of bed. Olivia has never woken in the morning before eight, so I have a little time to do what I need to. I walk around slowly outside and make my checks. No snow last night, everything is in order. When I come back inside, I’m shivering with that deep, bone-chilled shudder that comes of cold air
and illness. Hot shower then hot mug of tea.

  On my way to the bathroom, I strip to my underwear and toss my clothes down into the laundry. My hand is on the doorknob when Olivia emerges from the bedroom. My first thought is mild panic that she’s seeing me practically naked. My second thought is how adorable she looks, all sleep-mussed. My third is that the walking stick seems to work well and maybe she’s going to leave me soon.

  I know she looked at me in my underwear, and the thought would be exciting if I didn’t feel so shitty. I’m shaking with cold and maybe a bit of leftover fever, trying to get the door to open. Eventually I shove through, snatch a towel and wrap myself up.

  “Celeste?” She rushes toward me as fast as hobbling will allow her, a slight grimace contorting her lovely features. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m just a little cold.”

  She makes a fever check with her hand. It lingers longer than usual. “You’re not warm.” The thermometer is taken from the bathroom cabinet where it now lives and I’m declared officially not feverish. But I’m still cold and shaking.

  “Get into the shower, come on.” Her demand is followed by an apology once I’m in there. She needs to pee. I turn away and don’t watch. I can’t hear her. The glass on the shower isn’t frosted. Is she watching me? Now I’m warm.

  Suddenly we’re in role reversal where she’s caring for me, and I don’t know how to take it. Still wrapped in a towel, I brush my teeth, catching sight of her in the mirror where she’s behind me, watching me. She leaves clean sweats and a hoodie on the closed toilet, along with bra and underwear. I can dress myself, thank you.

  When I’m done with my morning Controller duties, Olivia suggests we look at her leg. “There’s no heat in it and I feel fine but I’d like to take a look to be sure, and change the dressing.” She can stay standing for longer than when she first arrived almost five days ago, and move around with relative ease, but still prefers to spend most of her time sitting down with her leg elevated.

  A shudder slides down my spine. I’m not sure if it’s because I have to look at the wound or if it’s because I’ll see her partly unclothed again. It’s probably both. I clear my throat and try not to sniff. “How much longer will you take the antibiotics?”

  “The guidelines said five to seven days. So I guess another few days.” She’s already made a point of letting me know that when the antibiotics are finished, how much she’s going to enjoy the wine I’d told her was in the basement. She’s made plans of things she wants to do in a week, when the likelihood is that she’ll be gone well before then.

  Thankfully, Olivia leaves her tee on and only pulls her sweats down, leaving her underwear in place. To my non-medical eye, her leg looks okay—less swollen and the wound isn’t angry-looking. I make warm salt water, because I used an entire bottle of saline the first time, and repeat my care from day one. This time I’m less nervous, less twitchy, but not less repulsed. Her hand lingers on my shoulder. My hands want to wander and so does my gaze, but I force myself to keep both my gaze and hands in acceptable places.

  “You’re disgusting,” says Mother. “Can’t even clean someone’s cut without wanting to feel them up.”

  My hand clenches around the tube of antiseptic cream.

  “Who is it, Celeste?” Olivia asks quietly. Not what, but who. She knows.

  “Mother,” I grind out through clenched molars.

  “What does she want?” The hand on my shoulder tightens, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s soothing, inviting me to share. Instead of responding, I shake my head. I can’t tell Olivia that Mother thinks I’m a pervert. I quickly finish dressing the wound, help Olivia pull up her sweats and leave her to make her own way out of the bathroom.

  She comes into the kitchen as I’m heating canned soup, settling in her usual place at the kitchen table. The silence stretches. I make her some toast then pour all the soup into one bowl and set it, and the toast in front of her. Olivia pounces right away. “Why aren’t you eating?”

  “Not hungry.” I slump into the chair opposite her.

  “Bullshit,” is her quick response. “You barely ate breakfast and you only picked at dinner last night.” Olivia pushes the bowl over to me.

  I slide it back just as fast. “I’m really not hungry. It’s fine.”

  A muscle in her jaw quivers. “No it’s not. You can’t starve, Celeste.”

  “I’m not starving. You eat it, you’re trying to heal, Olivia.”

  “And you’re fighting a cold. I’m not going to let you make yourself sicker.” The volume of her voice rises with her indignation. Now I’ve figured out the cues that go with at least three of her moods—gratitude, interest, and annoyance.

  “Won’t let me, huh?”

  Olivia’s expression softens. “No. Here. Please share with me.” She offers her spoon.

  I shake my head and fetch one of my own. We both palm pills into our mouth. Antibiotics for her, decongestant and Tylenol for me. I slip around to sit to her right at the head of the table, making it easier to share from the same bowl, and with every mouthful the childish thoughts loop around my brain. We’re sharing saliva right now via spoons and soup. We’re practically kissing.

  Riley giggles. “Celeste and Olivia sitting in a tr—”

  In my head, I yell at her to shut up. What is she, ten years old?

  * * *

  Late afternoon, I’m lounging on the couch feeling sorry for myself. And annoyed at myself for being so pathetic. I’ve never worried about my own illness or injuries before, but here I am being a miserable baby. Olivia hobbles over to me with a long-sleeved undershirt in her free hand. “Do you mind if I put some things in the corner here on this chair? I’m sick of digging through my pack every time I want something.”

  I sit up, staring at the blue woolen garment in her hand. “Of course not. Let me make some space in the closet.”

  Both of Olivia’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, no. That’s not…I mean, you don’t have to.” Unspoken words linger in the air. She won’t be here long enough to make good use of storage space. I don’t care. I’m going to make her some space.

  She has her stick but my hand is still drawn to her elbow to help her move around, and she makes no complaints. Olivia sits on the bed while I push hanging clothes to one side of the closet and clear a drawer for her. “Here, that should be enough.”

  “Thanks. I don’t have much.” Olivia waves off my offer of help, hopping back and forth from her pack on the bed, to the closet and drawers. I hang around and try not to look too interested in her things. She ejects the magazine from her handgun and clears the chamber before pressing the round back into the magazine. “I assume you’ve got a gun safe for that rifle of yours.” The corner of her mouth curls upward.

  “Yes.”

  SE9311: Why do I have a rifle?

  Cont C: Shooting is good for hand-eye coordination, and should a wild animal stray close to the house, you have some protection.

  SE9311: What if I go crazy from loneliness and shoot myself?

  Cont C: I would sincerely hope you don’t, but it would be an experiment result.

  SE9311: Failure?

  Cont C: Not necessarily.

  SE9311: Wonderful. Thanks so much.

  Not that I’ve ever thought of doing such a thing. Still, my contract indemnifies them if I were to die in here, by any means. Contract aside, I have no family who could pursue legal action against The Organization in the event of my unfortunate demise. They chose their participant well. I have a nominated charity—a drug rehabilitation clinic—and in case I don’t make it out they will pay whatever I earned to that.

  Olivia’s hand jiggles, trying to catch my attention. “Can you put this away, please?” Why is she giving her gun to me? Why not keep it? My mouth is open but there are no words. Olivia explains for me, almost apologetically, “I don’t really like guns, but my dad insisted when I said I was going out hiking by myself. Please. I just want it away where I don’t have to worry a
bout it.”

  “Okay.” I take both pistol and magazine, my fingers brushing hers, and leave her in my bedroom while I put her weapon away in the basement safe.

  “Awfully trusting of her, Celeste,” Allison observes.

  I’m getting better at not responding to them out loud. Why should I have all the power, Alli? If Olivia wanted to shoot me then she’d have done it by now.

  While I’m away from Olivia, where she can’t see or hear me, I blow my nose hard a few times. I’ve never been good with people watching me blow my nose, or listening to me in the bathroom, which made Mother’s preference for communal living even more uncomfortable.

  When I return, Olivia is sitting on the edge of the bed, with a phone in her hands. I spot telltale white earphones straight away. “Is that a—is there music on there?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” She’s smiling as she watches my likely wide-eyed expression. “Do you want to listen? It’s almost dead but I have the charger.” She holds the phone out, an offering.

  Christ, I want to, so badly. My tongue slides over my lower lip. “I really shouldn’t. I’m not supposed to.” I laugh dryly. “Though I’m already breaking one rule by keeping you here.”

  “Only for these few days,” she reminds me, an edge of teasing in her voice. The phone is still in her hand, taunting me.

  “Could I just see what kind of music you like?” I ask tentatively.

  “Sure.” Olivia unlocks the phone and passes it to me.

  The phone confirms there’s no signal here. Slowly, I scroll through the list of artists. It’s not extensive, mostly eighties electropop or rock. Depeche Mode…Fleetwood Mac…New Order…Queen. I look up, trying to reconcile the woman in front of me with these music choices. Even in sweatpants or her hiking gear she exudes culture and elegance, not someone I’d associate with that type of music. “How old are you exactly?”