CHAPTER 1--HAPPY BIRTHDAY
My tenth birthday was the worst day of my life.
Dad had to work late because his replacement didn't show up on time. Mom and I
waited for him to come home.
Eight years later, we're still waiting.
Most kids would've requested a Vacation Pass for
their eighteenth birthday, but not me. I'd rather forget the whole thing and
help Gus prepare the chilled bodies in the hospital mortuary. I drag myself out
of bed and pull on teal scrubs. I fumble for socks and shoes, and a ray of
early sunlight glints off my dad's picture hanging on the gray wall across the
tiny room. Once again, his blue eyes capture mine as if he needs to tell me
something important. On the floor, beneath the photo, sits a memory trunk full
of how things used to be. But I won't open it today. I just can't.
Dishes clink in the kitchen. Mom calls out,
"Hurry up, Silvia. I've got a surprise for you." She sounds happy,
but I can't tell if it's real.
Since Dad's death, both of us have done a lot of
pretending. So far this year, we've been able to avoid Psychotherapy Services
and Mandated Medications, but sometimes I wonder if I was sent down to Mortuary
Sciences to push me over the edge. Fortunately, I find autopsies intriguing,
not depressing. And since I never got to see Dad's body after the accident,
caring for other people's dead soothes the empty ache inside.
My boss, Gus, is an excellent teacher and the
closest thing I have to a best friend. He always knows what to say to me and
what not to say.
Too bad Mom doesn't have a clue.
Mom glances up from her green tea as I enter the
copper-colored, modular kitchen. "I planned a big surprise for your
birthday."
I tense. "What is it?"
Mom slides over a bowl of organic oatmeal topped
with raspberries, normally my favorite. "I got us Park and Art passes
today."
"I'm not hungry." I shake my head.
"And Gus is expecting me."
"No, he's not. He knows all about it. I told
him weeks ago."
"Really?" I cross my arms, not sure if I
believe her. "He must be good at keeping secrets. Gus didn't even mention
my birthday yesterday."
Which proves he knows me better than Mom does.
She frowns. "At least eat the raspberries,
even if you're not hungry. I had to barter for them. And if it makes you feel
better, we can pretend it isn't your
birthday. It's just some other day instead."
I want to protest more, but there's a determined
gleam in Mom's brown eyes--one that hasn't been there for a long time. And I
don't want to be the one to snuff it out.
I half-heartedly take a few bites of breakfast,
swallow my eight prescribed supplements, then return to my bedroom to change
into jeans and a long-sleeved, green T-shirt. All my clothes are soft and
plain, without decoration, made by hands like my father's. Only Dad proved
himself to be Gifted, so he didn't make Basic Worker Level clothes for long.
Instead, he got promoted to Government Level clothing production--a promotion which cost him his life.
"Hurry up!" Mom calls from the front
door of our small apartment.
We clamber down six flights of whitewashed cement
steps, the stairwell so brightly lit with safety lights that one almost needs
sunglasses. Once we arrive on the main floor, we push out into the swarms of
people flooding the streets. Dashing across the busy bike path and two empty
car lanes, we reach the closest walkway heading toward the park.
Traffic is orderly today. No bikers stray across
the wide, white painted lines separating their lanes from ours. Men and women
wearing blue scrubs of various shades hurry toward the hospitals and medical
facilities. Those in green coveralls rush toward the monorail station to speed
off to one of the numerous Plant and Protein Production Facilities.
I glance back at a beautiful, dark-skinned woman,
trying not to feel envious of her green uniform. Normally, I don't mind my job.
In fact, I feel more at home in Mortuary Sciences than anywhere else. But part
of me still longs to spend all day surrounded by plants. Nothing can be done
about it now. The Occupation Exam is over, and I've been placed where I'm most
effective.
The streets are crowded this time of day. People
whoosh past us on bikes as those on foot press constantly forward. Only the car
lanes remain vacant. Flapping flags in the New Order colors of red, white, and
blue crack overhead. I shiver a little in the cool morning breeze.
We march past rows of tall silver-gray building--offices on the first two floors and apartments up
above. We make good time until we hit the Citizen Family Planning and
Reproductive Services Building. Traffic stalls. A tall man ahead of us shifts
from side to side, waiting.
"What's going on?" Mom cranes her neck
and rises on her toes. "Can you see?"
Indistinct voices argue up ahead. Strangers murmur
but avoid making eye contact. After a long pause, the people in front of us
begin to shuffle past the building. A few cast furtive glances over their
shoulders. Everyone's in a hurry to get somewhere. Now I see who is causing the
fuss—a red-haired girl, who looks to be about my age, shoves an orderly away.
The crowd behind us pushes forward. Tears stream down the girl's pale face. She
backs away from the building and turns as if to run before doubling over. She
cries out in pain and clutches her swollen belly, breathing hard.
In her moment of weakness, the Suits surround and
restrain her.
"I won't do it! I won't do it!" the
pregnant girl screams as they drag her away.
"Let's get out of here." Mom grabs my
shoulder and steers me onwards.
"What won't she do?" I refuse to move,
staring as the bawling, red-haired girl disappears behind the Family Planning
sliding glass doors.
"Hush, Silvia. And don't gawk."
"Tell me what's going to happen to her,"
I beg.
Mom's eyes widen as the crowd spills around us.
An older woman grumbles, "Get out of the way.
Get out of the way."
Mom slips a slender arm around my shoulders and
propels me ahead, whispering in my ear. "Don't make a scene. Don't ruin
your birthday."
I pull back. I'm not the one who ruined my
birthday.
She pushes harder. "Silvia, it's none of our
business. She's probably having a bad day. Pregnant women get very emotional. I
certainly did when I carried you."
Scowling at her non-reply, I step away, almost
into the path of the first car we've seen all morning. A staccato of horn
blasts chases me back into my proper lane of traffic. The long, black limo eases
past as we hustle on our way. I peer into the dark-tinted windows but can't see
a thing.
"Come on!" Mom grabs my arm, and we melt
into the crowd.
"I just want to know who's in there."
She shakes her head. "You're always too
curious for your own good. What difference does it make?"
"What's wrong with being curious?"
She winces. "Your father used to say
that."
"Really?" My ears prickle. She never
talks about him. "Tell me more. About Dad."
She takes a shaky breath. "Not today, honey.
Okay?" She pats my arm, a guarded smile on her face. "Try to be more
careful, okay?"
We rush on in silence for the next three blocks
until Mom pauses at Genetic Testing and Counseling.
"Why are we stopping?" I ask.
She averts her gaze. "You're eighteen now.
You have to get tested."
"Today?" I can't believe this. "I
thought we were going to the park."
"We are. But as a condition of both of us
getting the day off, we need to stop in here first." Her appeasing tone
switches to don't-mess-with-me-now. "Don't give me that look. It won't
take long. I promise."
"Fine. Let's get this over with. It's not
like I'm afraid of blood or anything."
The overhead bell jingles softly as we enter the
cool waiting room. Bamboo flooring muffles our footsteps as we approach the
counter of nurses checking in patients. The bright blue banner over their head
reads: Genetic Testing: It's the right
thing to do. Be proactive and informed about your health!
We are next in line. I cross my arms and tap my
foot. This better not take too long. I don't want to waste any time we could
spend at the park.
"Patient's name, age, and heritage?" a
middle-aged nurse asks, clipboard in hand.
Mom nudges me forward.
I clear my dry throat. "Silvia Wood… eighteen
years old, exactly." I turn so
she can check the microchip embedded in my upper right arm, careful to keep my
wrists covered with my long sleeves. "Half Japanese, half White
European."
"Well, happy birthday to you." She
smiles as she scans the microchip and records my Citizen Number. Her perfect
teeth seem even whiter against her coffee-colored skin.
I tense, but her eyes are kind. She has no idea
what this day means to me. "Thank you," I manage to choke out.
She leads me down a hallway. "We can take the
first room on the right. Mrs. Wood, you're welcome to join us. We encourage
family participation."
Once we reach the room, she flicks on the
occupancy light over the door. "Please take a seat. My name is Lucinda
Mayer." She smiles again. "It will only take a second to enter you
into the computer, and then I'll ask you a series of questions."
"Okay." I sit on a wooden bench,
surrounded by walls the same green as a fig tree leaf.
"No need to be nervous, young lady. I'm very
good at drawing blood. It will only sting for a second."
"I'm not worried about that." Still unnerved
by the crying girl a few blocks back, I try to sound braver than I feel.
"I work in Mortuary Sciences. Blood doesn't bother me."
"Then there's nothing to be anxious about.
Now let's get started."
Nurse Mayer fires off questions. Mom answers most
of them before I can even open my mouth. I nod and grit my teeth, trying to
hide my irritation.
Ever since my Occupation Exam, Mom keeps looking
for opportunities for me to get ahead, to "stand out and shine" as
she puts it. She is so disappointed I didn't test "exceptional" like
she and Dad did. Instead I've been labeled "empathetic."
Empathetic? I'm not sure how they came up with
that. I certainly don't feel very kindly toward my interfering mother at the
moment.
"Are you currently sexually active?"
Nurse Mayer asks.
Mom clamps her mouth shut and turns to me.
Nurse Mayer continues. "There's nothing to be
ashamed of if you are, young lady. Just answer the question truthfully. It's
important."
"No. I don't even like boys."
"Do you prefer girls? Because that alters
which genetic tests we'll run. But either answer is perfectly acceptable."
"I know it is. But, no, I didn't mean that. I
don't like anyone." I flush and stammer. "I mean, they don't like me.
Most of my friends stopped talking to me when I started working in the
Mortuary."
Mom throws me a warning look which says: try not to look like a social pariah.
"Not that I'm complaining. I like my
job." I fake a smile to assure the nurse I'm perfectly Normal.
The nurse raises her eyebrows. "You like your
job?"
"Yes. It's interesting." I glance at Mom
for support. "Aren't I supposed to like my job? Isn't that what the
Occupational Exam is for? To make sure everyone likes what they do?"
Mom cringes. "Please answer the questions,
dear. Don't make up so many of your own."
Nurse Mayer chuckles. "My daughter is about
your age. Just starting out, too."
"What does she do?" I ask to be polite.
"She works in Food Growth and
Management."
"That's part of Plant and Protein Production,
isn't it?" I swallow my jealousy. "Does she like it?"
"Of course." The nurse types with
lightning speed. "Okay, only one last series of questions regarding your
general health."
"I'm ready."
"Have you ever used any tobacco
products?"
Mom leans forward. "No, she hasn't. I check
her clothes for traces every day."
"You do?" I don't know if she's telling
the truth or covering for me the one time I came home from work reeking of
burnt hair. "I haven't used any of the Forbidden Drugs or Products. I
wouldn't want to. I've seen first-hand what their use can do to the body."
Nurse Mayer glances at her computer screen. "Do
you exercise the required thirty minutes a day?"
Mom interjects. "She insists on taking the
stairs every time. She never lets me
use the elevator, and our apartment is on the sixth floor."
Poor Mom. She so wants other people to be
impressed with me.
I clear my throat. "I'm a member of 37th
Street Health and Productivity Gym. You can check my account. I'm there every day
after work from four until at least six. Even longer on my days off."
"Thank you. I'll include that information
with the report. Now there's only one more question, but I'll check your vitals
first," Nurse Mayer says.
"Why?" I ask.
Mom's face reads: don't ask why.
"Stress affects a person's blood
pressure," the nurse explains. "Wouldn't want to submit an
artificially elevated reading." She measures my height, weight, body fat
with calipers, and blood pressure. "All your values are with normal
ranges. Physically, you appear to be a very healthy young lady."
"I run at least an hour a day at an
eight-minute-per-mile pace," I say and then cringe. Great. Now I'm the one trying to impress her.
"That's very good." Nurse Mayer laughs.
"I could only do that if I was being chased."
"Who would chase you?"
"Hopefully that fine-looking actor in the
latest James Bond movie, but then I would let him catch me." The nurse
winks and sets aside the blood pressure monitor.
"I haven't seen that movie." Gus thinks
I don't watch enough movies for a young woman my age. Maybe he's right.
"You should." She turns back to me, but
now her face is somber rather than joking. "Are you ready for the last
question?"
I nod.
"Okay." She
takes my cold hands in her warm ones. "Now, Silvia, be honest. How many
times have you attempted suicide since your father's death?"
Dead Girl Running is dedicated to
the memory of my father, Jerry Anderson,
who died from complications
of chronic lymphocytic leukemia.
Twenty-five percent of proceeds will be donated to
the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society.
Please visit my MN Team in Training FUNDRAISING PAGE.
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