surprised.
She laughed and pushed away from the locker, feeling freer and giddier than her body could remember. There was no memory like this, no recognition in the weightlessness that propelled her across the room.
“Where are you going?”
She didn’t look back as she pushed through the doors to the veterinary wing. “Your office.”
2 Years before Hatching
E veryone was so polite. The girl who bumped into her knees apologized twice before moving past Meg to sit on the open chair on her right. A guy with a bull ring in his nose asked Ben if he was reading Time magazine—the one that lay closed on the end table next to Ben’s arm—before picking it up. The waiting room was full and silent, except for the corner TV that was playing a documentary on volcanoes. Every mumbled thank you or excuse me traveled the length of the long rows of chairs. It was unnatural. Even the walls were freaking polite, painted a creamy, yellowy beige that faded into nothingness, the absolute non-color, just a diplomatic middleman between the waiting room and the February Minneapolis night. An abstract painting of a sunset hung on the wall across from her. Or maybe it was a sunrise, depending on who was looking at it. Sunrise for Meg. Sunset for not-Meg. But not-Meg couldn’t see it anyway and never would.
“Did you notice how quickly they processed our IDs?” Ben whispered. His dark, greasy hair flopped over one eye as he leaned toward her. “In and out, just like credit cards at the cash register.” He snapped his fingers.
The girl on Meg’s right startled, but she didn’t look over. That was the second rule. First: Apologize a lot; apologize for everything you’re about to do. Second: Don’t make eye contact. She was getting it—slowly the rules of this little ecosystem were sinking in—but of course Ben was oblivious.
“They’ve got to be hooked in to some serious databases. Interpol, maybe. Some kind of special clearance. Believe me, they know exactly how many parking tickets you have now. The holding charge I got when we did Topeka that first year? Yeah, I could see it in her eyes. That popped right up.” His right foot was tapping, bumping his knee into her leg. Little, insistent raps. It had been almost an hour since they’d arrived, scanned their IDs for the receptionist in her bulletproof cage, and gotten the green light through the steel door, and the longer they’d sat waiting the more fidgety he’d become.
“Ben.” She shook her head, glaring at his knee.
“Okay.” He reached out for her hand, but she moved it away. “It’s just taking forever.”
He let the silence last for another minute or so, just as the sunset painting started to draw her back in. “I’m going out for a cigarette. You want to come?”
It would have been nice to get some air, see the sky, but behind the steel doors and the red call button was the long, silent elevator ride and the woman with the pamphlets outside another set of doors—the woman whose reddish, pixie-cut hair looked like her mother’s, except now her mother’s hair had all fallen out.
“No.”
He nodded encouragingly, making no move to get up.
“I don’t want to be gone when they call me.” She twisted the front cover of Newsweek , half-surprised that it was in her lap.
“Okay.” He patted her hand and sat for another minute before getting up. She watched him walk out to the lobby. His sweater was wrinkled and bunched up above his pants from sitting too long. It was a relief, all of a sudden, watching him go. He’d been hovering over her for the last few weeks, barely letting her breathe, and the attention had become as claustrophobic as this room. It was her decision, after all. Hers alone. It didn’t matter that he agreed. His watchfulness was as pointless as the death watch at work, as all these please s and I’m sorry s floating through the stale air.
Ben: big, loafing, greasy, boyish Ben. It was so easy for her to see a child of Ben’s.
She laughed and pushed away from the locker, feeling freer and giddier than her body could remember. There was no memory like this, no recognition in the weightlessness that propelled her across the room.
“Where are you going?”
She didn’t look back as she pushed through the doors to the veterinary wing. “Your office.”
2 Years before Hatching
E veryone was so polite. The girl who bumped into her knees apologized twice before moving past Meg to sit on the open chair on her right. A guy with a bull ring in his nose asked Ben if he was reading Time magazine—the one that lay closed on the end table next to Ben’s arm—before picking it up. The waiting room was full and silent, except for the corner TV that was playing a documentary on volcanoes. Every mumbled thank you or excuse me traveled the length of the long rows of chairs. It was unnatural. Even the walls were freaking polite, painted a creamy, yellowy beige that faded into nothingness, the absolute non-color, just a diplomatic middleman between the waiting room and the February Minneapolis night. An abstract painting of a sunset hung on the wall across from her. Or maybe it was a sunrise, depending on who was looking at it. Sunrise for Meg. Sunset for not-Meg. But not-Meg couldn’t see it anyway and never would.
“Did you notice how quickly they processed our IDs?” Ben whispered. His dark, greasy hair flopped over one eye as he leaned toward her. “In and out, just like credit cards at the cash register.” He snapped his fingers.
The girl on Meg’s right startled, but she didn’t look over. That was the second rule. First: Apologize a lot; apologize for everything you’re about to do. Second: Don’t make eye contact. She was getting it—slowly the rules of this little ecosystem were sinking in—but of course Ben was oblivious.
“They’ve got to be hooked in to some serious databases. Interpol, maybe. Some kind of special clearance. Believe me, they know exactly how many parking tickets you have now. The holding charge I got when we did Topeka that first year? Yeah, I could see it in her eyes. That popped right up.” His right foot was tapping, bumping his knee into her leg. Little, insistent raps. It had been almost an hour since they’d arrived, scanned their IDs for the receptionist in her bulletproof cage, and gotten the green light through the steel door, and the longer they’d sat waiting the more fidgety he’d become.
“Ben.” She shook her head, glaring at his knee.
“Okay.” He reached out for her hand, but she moved it away. “It’s just taking forever.”
He let the silence last for another minute or so, just as the sunset painting started to draw her back in. “I’m going out for a cigarette. You want to come?”
It would have been nice to get some air, see the sky, but behind the steel doors and the red call button was the long, silent elevator ride and the woman with the pamphlets outside another set of doors—the woman whose reddish, pixie-cut hair looked like her mother’s, except now her mother’s hair had all fallen out.
“No.”
He nodded encouragingly, making no move to get up.
“I don’t want to be gone when they call me.” She twisted the front cover of Newsweek , half-surprised that it was in her lap.
“Okay.” He patted her hand and sat for another minute before getting up. She watched him walk out to the lobby. His sweater was wrinkled and bunched up above his pants from sitting too long. It was a relief, all of a sudden, watching him go. He’d been hovering over her for the last few weeks, barely letting her breathe, and the attention had become as claustrophobic as this room. It was her decision, after all. Hers alone. It didn’t matter that he agreed. His watchfulness was as pointless as the death watch at work, as all these please s and I’m sorry s floating through the stale air.
Ben: big, loafing, greasy, boyish Ben. It was so easy for her to see a child of Ben’s.
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