stomach, bile rose in her throat and she gagged. Leaning forward she ducked her face into the brook and drank deeply, letting the water wash the tears from her face. She’d come to this quiet place, knowing she had to get out of the shack to think her way through this or her terror would settle into every crack and cranny of her home, coming out at night and making it difficult to sleep. Outside was the best place to work through these kinds of thoughts, where they could be mulled over, then released into the far blue sky.
And so she had chosen this half-circle of kwikwilla trees, whose twisted trunks leaned over a slow-moving pool the brook had carved into the bank. The place was her favorite bathing spot, the quiet pool curtained off by the kwikwillas’ thick green fall of wispy branches. This morning she’d been here for over an hour, crouched on the bank, riding the frightened thud of her heart. Grimly she retraced the long lines of deadness in her scalp. The scars felt like thegates in the molecular field that she used to pass between the levels. Did that make the scars on her scalp some kind of a gate too?
They contained secrets to her past, that was certain. But did she want to open those secrets and explore them more deeply? The short blurred memories she retained of the white rooms were already enough to leave her whimpering with fear. Whatever the pain doctors had done to the inside of her head was over and done with. Was it important to remember the exact details?
Most of her memories of the Interior revealed scenes from a very normal life—an average-looking, squirmy, loud-mouthed kid goofing off on the school playground or eating supper with her mother. But the scenes changed so often—Nellie could remember what felt like an endless stream of apartments and schools. Looking back, it seemed as if she and her mother had been on the run throughout the last few years they’d lived in the Interior, but had pretended nothing unusual was going on, even between themselves. Why? thought Nellie, hugging herself and rocking. Why had her mother never explained their frequent moves, or the long moody silences that had filled their last few apartments? Every time she looked at these memories, Nellie filled with an overwhelming sense of deadness, as if the memories themselves were playacting at being alive, as if they’d never been the real thing even when they were happening.
Sometimes, in odd quiet moments when she was least expecting it, she would feel a shift inside her head and a different kind of memory would surface—something that felt real, that almost explained things. Like the time she was four years old and visiting a neighbor’s newborn with her mother. The new mother had been sitting on her living room couch, smiling and cradling a tightly wrapped blanket. “Come here, Nellie,” she’d called, and Nellie had run toward the woman, a sweet scent of milk and baby powder rising to meet her as she’d peeked into the blanket. A tiny wrinkled face had blinked unfocused eyes at her and waved a delicate red fist. Immediately Nellie’s gaze had slid to the inside of the infant’swrist, and a sudden vivid knowing had sung through her brain. Pointing to the infant’s fresh tattoo, she’d declared, “That’s so they know where she can go to.”
Silence had dropped on the room then, so thick and intense it had seemed to swallow the very air. Confused, Nellie had turned from the neighbor woman to her mother, but both women’s eyes had flitted away as if they’d no longer wanted to see her, no longer wanted even to remain in the same room. When they’d gotten back to their own apartment, her mother had started packing. At bedtime Nellie had been given a pill and when she’d woken, they were somewhere else. In the weeks that followed, she remembered waking each morning in a different place, her mother’s body curled around her own like a warm hand. Nothing had been explained, but she’d felt the fear
And so she had chosen this half-circle of kwikwilla trees, whose twisted trunks leaned over a slow-moving pool the brook had carved into the bank. The place was her favorite bathing spot, the quiet pool curtained off by the kwikwillas’ thick green fall of wispy branches. This morning she’d been here for over an hour, crouched on the bank, riding the frightened thud of her heart. Grimly she retraced the long lines of deadness in her scalp. The scars felt like thegates in the molecular field that she used to pass between the levels. Did that make the scars on her scalp some kind of a gate too?
They contained secrets to her past, that was certain. But did she want to open those secrets and explore them more deeply? The short blurred memories she retained of the white rooms were already enough to leave her whimpering with fear. Whatever the pain doctors had done to the inside of her head was over and done with. Was it important to remember the exact details?
Most of her memories of the Interior revealed scenes from a very normal life—an average-looking, squirmy, loud-mouthed kid goofing off on the school playground or eating supper with her mother. But the scenes changed so often—Nellie could remember what felt like an endless stream of apartments and schools. Looking back, it seemed as if she and her mother had been on the run throughout the last few years they’d lived in the Interior, but had pretended nothing unusual was going on, even between themselves. Why? thought Nellie, hugging herself and rocking. Why had her mother never explained their frequent moves, or the long moody silences that had filled their last few apartments? Every time she looked at these memories, Nellie filled with an overwhelming sense of deadness, as if the memories themselves were playacting at being alive, as if they’d never been the real thing even when they were happening.
Sometimes, in odd quiet moments when she was least expecting it, she would feel a shift inside her head and a different kind of memory would surface—something that felt real, that almost explained things. Like the time she was four years old and visiting a neighbor’s newborn with her mother. The new mother had been sitting on her living room couch, smiling and cradling a tightly wrapped blanket. “Come here, Nellie,” she’d called, and Nellie had run toward the woman, a sweet scent of milk and baby powder rising to meet her as she’d peeked into the blanket. A tiny wrinkled face had blinked unfocused eyes at her and waved a delicate red fist. Immediately Nellie’s gaze had slid to the inside of the infant’swrist, and a sudden vivid knowing had sung through her brain. Pointing to the infant’s fresh tattoo, she’d declared, “That’s so they know where she can go to.”
Silence had dropped on the room then, so thick and intense it had seemed to swallow the very air. Confused, Nellie had turned from the neighbor woman to her mother, but both women’s eyes had flitted away as if they’d no longer wanted to see her, no longer wanted even to remain in the same room. When they’d gotten back to their own apartment, her mother had started packing. At bedtime Nellie had been given a pill and when she’d woken, they were somewhere else. In the weeks that followed, she remembered waking each morning in a different place, her mother’s body curled around her own like a warm hand. Nothing had been explained, but she’d felt the fear
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