Altered(8)

I put his folder away with a petty slam of the filing cabinet drawer, because he’d dismissed me and I didn’t want to leave.

At the lab door, I punched in the code with short jabs, making a promise to myself that I wouldn’t sneak into the lab later. That I would hold out for as long as I could, let him see how boring the lab could be without our chess games, without our nightly conversations about the outside world.

But it was more of a punishment for me than for him. And I knew I wouldn’t stick with it.





4


THAT NIGHT AT DINNER, I PICKED AT my bowl of chili, running the spoon through it in a figure-eight pattern. Dad sat across from me at the dining room table, his spoon clinking against the side of his bowl. Behind us, a football game played on TV. Every now and then, Dad looked up and checked the score. He never got overly excited about the games, though—not like guys on TV. A good play and they’d leap from their chairs, their arms held victoriously above their heads.

I couldn’t see Dad ever doing something like that—not for football, or for science, or even if he won the lottery. Dad was even-keeled, subdued about everything. I thought his lack of emotion stemmed from losing my mother.

Mom had liked sports. At least that’s what Dad said. So maybe he watched for her.

“Dad?”

“Hmm?” He dipped a cracker in the chili.

“Were the boys ever branded?”

He sniffed. “Of course not.”

“Have you noticed Nick’s and Sam’s scars? The ones that look like letters?”

“They have a lot of scars.” An announcer on the TV said something about the second down, but I missed what came next. Dad set the spoon in his bowl and looked up at me. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to tell you…. Let’s hold back on the number of things we give Cas, all right? Why not bring him a book, like you do for the others? He never finishes any of his projects, and his room is a mess….”

“Cas isn’t really a book kind of person.”

“Well…” Dad ran his hand over the back of his head and sighed. “Just try to give him something he’ll actually stick with.” The burst of wrinkles around his eyes furrowed.

“Is this really about Cas, or is there something else?”

The TV crowd cheered behind us.

“No. It’s nothing.”

“Is Connor coming for a visit?” I asked. He wrestled with the sleeve of crackers, avoiding looking at me. “Dad?”

“Yes. Tomorrow. Him and Riley.”

Connor was head of the Branch, and Riley was his second-in-command. Together they oversaw Dad and the program.

“They want to inspect the group,” Dad went on. “See how they’re progressing.”

“Are they taking the boys this time?”

Though I wanted the boys to be released, the lab, the logs, and the tests had all become my life as much as theirs. Now I didn’t know how I felt about them leaving.

Dad shrugged. “I won’t be privy to that until it’s time.”

“Where would they go?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

I couldn’t picture Sam in the real world, buying a doughnut at a coffee shop, reading a newspaper on a park bench. The others, maybe. Cas was like any other party boy trolling for girls. Nick was the epitome of an asshole jock, with the cockiness and pretty face to match. And Trev once told me that if he ever got out, he’d want to go to school to study English literature.

But Sam…

“Will they ever be released?”

Dad removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know, Anna. Really. I don’t know.”

I sensed the demise of the conversation and shut up. We finished eating. I did the dishes and wiped down the table, while Dad passed out in the living room. I threw some laundry in the washer.

By that time, it was after eight and dark outside. Upstairs in my room, I flipped through the TV channels and found nothing worth watching. I didn’t have any new books to read. Since most of the chores were done, I decided to sketch something new in my mother’s journal.

I lay on my stomach on the bed and opened to the last sketch I’d done. It was of a girl in the woods, boughs of maple trees hanging heavy with snow. Her silhouette was blurry, fading, curling, like ribbons of smoke. Like she was disappearing with each new gust of wind. Being lost or broken had been a running theme in my sketches for about a year, ever since I’d taken a weekend art class at the community college.

But it wasn’t the class that opened up the new vein of inspiration. It was the conversation I’d had with Trev afterward.

My final review from the instructor said that I possessed raw talent, but that I hadn’t yet tapped into my full potential, that my art was lacking inspiration. I’d gone down to the lab to vent, and Trev, as always, had talked me off the ledge.