The Heroines by Eileen Favorite

Author:Eileen Favorite
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2008-09-27T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

The limits of telepathy I hatch lame

schemes to contact Conor Florence

catches me red-handed

T he evening after Kristina’s group debacle, I found out what isolation meant. Maria had emerged from her catatonia long enough to inform me that a nurse had to check on Kristina every ten minutes.

“The nurses hate isolation!” she said. “It means they have to get off their fat butts and quit watching TV.”

I loitered in the hall outside the isolation room on the way back from dinner. It was right next to the nurses’ station; I had to investigate, to find out what the punishment was for acting out as Kristina did. As I waited for the nurse to do her check on Kristina—she took much longer than the requisite ten minutes—I read a hand-drawn poster that listed the behaviors that earned you scoops: showing respect, apologizing, ignoring provocation, being helpful, avoiding conflict, etc., etc. I thought about how Scarlett would handle this situation. She’d wrestle up a passel of those scoops and scheme her way out of the Unit.

Finally I heard the nurse’s chair legs squeak and the heavy pad of her feet moving toward the door. I crept around the corner, and when the door cracked open I got a glimpse of Kristina’s bare feet. She lay on a bare mattress—no pillow, no blanket, no linens—strapped at the feet and ankles. The almost empty room, with its cinderblock walls and steel door, made their voices echo. When the nurse entered, Kristina cried, “I’m gonna sue! This is the last time you fuckers do this to me! You have to let me out! I got only two weeks left on my insurance anyway!”

“Keller knows how to get it extended. And you just gave him the perfect excuse!”

Shocked, I ran to my room and collapsed on the bed. How many times had Kristina been through that drill? Her empty bed, tightly bound in white sheets and a cotton blanket, looked luxurious compared to the isolation bed. I turned away from it, stared at the lumpy asbestos tiles overhead. No matter how much I regretted trusting Kristina too quickly, I wouldn’t wish isolation on anyone. Mother was right about not talking about the Heroines. People could use it against you. I’d never get off the Unit if I confided in anyone again. With Kristina’s empty bed beside me, I felt incredibly lonely. Even memories of Conor couldn’t comfort me.

Though covered in cotton, my pillow was sheathed in plastic, and beneath the sheets was a plastic liner. The whole bed was ready for fluids: tears, piss, blood. I wanted my mommy. I wanted to be in the Homestead, where violence didn’t lurk in the halls, didn’t arrive at the push of an intercom button. Violence was at home in the Unit. I was not. I soaked the pillow with my tears, right down to the plastic, cried till I grew weary of it, then decided I had to do something. I inhaled and focused hard, pressing my temples. Conor, think of me now.

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