Tabula Rasa by Kristen Lippert-Martin

Author:Kristen Lippert-Martin [Lippert-Martin, Kristen]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-1-60684-519-6
Publisher: EgmontUSA
Published: 2014-09-22T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 20

Elmer works on Thomas for an hour or so. Just getting his boot off without aggravating the wound takes half that time. I try to stay away but can’t, even after Elmer shoos me back for the tenth time. I rest the back of my head against the wall, my face tilted toward the ceiling. That dripping sensation is back. I feel like another memory wants to come, but it won’t. I think the stress of what’s happened has delayed it somehow.

Sylvester offers me something he calls an MRE. I’m not sure what he’s talking about. It looks like a granola bar. I take one and thank him but don’t eat it.

After half an hour of watching me pace, Sam approaches me and says, “There’s a place to wash up down the hall. I strongly suggest you use it.”

I look down at myself. I’ve got dirt, blood, and that weird blue dye that they use in porta-johns all over my coveralls and probably on my face. Maybe the smell of me is getting to them.

He holds his lantern out to me, but I show him my glow stick.

“I’ll be okay.”

I walk into the outer hallway. A deep, eerie quiet instantly surrounds me. I feel like I’ve been ambushed by the emptiness. I wave the glow stick around. Everything is the silvery gray of unfinished concrete.

A few yards up the hall, I see a bunch of construction materials, including a stack of plaques that haven’t been mounted yet. I give them a nudge with my foot, and they topple to the floor, clicking like dominoes. There are four of them. I pick each one up and read what they say: “Custodian,” “Mechanical Closet,” “Recreation Lounge,” and “Guest Reception.” The last has an arrow pointing to the left, but I don’t know which direction the sign was supposed to be facing.

Farther on I find the bathroom. It’s exactly like the one we had on our ward. There are no mirrors. There’s also no hot water. Teeth chattering, I pull a stack of paper towels out and swab myself off. They come away in my hands, filthy. I go through the whole contents of the dispenser, dropping each paper towel to the floor after I’m done, until I’ve made a tall, soggy pile. I feel like I’ve just washed off all my war paint after a long, unsuccessful battle.

I cup my hands beneath the running water to take a drink, and suddenly I’m swimming. No, drowning. I have to grab hold of the sink; otherwise, the terrible, spiraling sadness washing over me will suck me down.

I know what this is.

I know what’s coming.

This is the moment. The very moment I found out.

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