The Brothers (5 page)

Three pregnant girls glare at Sabrina. She glares back.

“Nanny!” Brianne calls. She’s going to tell them we’ve stolen something, or worse, hurt one of them.

“I have some lotions.” I walk to our shared dresser, open it, and dig to the bottom. Pulling out two tubes Nanny Bell smuggled for me, I offer them to the girls.

Charlene strides forward, snatches the bottles, and hands them to Brianne. She looks them over and drops them in the pocket of her gown. “Generous of you, Janine.” Then her gaze shifts to Sabrina. “What’s your contribution to the cause, turtle?”

Sabrina grinds her teeth. “I told you. I don’t have anything.”

Brianne’s eyes float up to the two-inch pink ribbon circling Sabrina’s head. “That will do for now.”

Sabrina begins to shake. Her hands curl into fists. I grab her arm.

Slowly, painfully, Sabrina slides the pink ribbon off her head. What’s left of her dark hair, just tufts on a barren landscape, spikes up in its wake. She holds the ribbon in her fist. Brianne steps forward and snatches it. My hand is still firm on Sabrina’s arm. If she hits Brianne, a top producer, she’ll be
put out
for sure.

Brianne steps back. Smirks. Inspects her new prize. “Thanks, turtle. This will look lovely on my new daughter’s head.” Charlene chuckles. Micha rubs her humongous stomach.

When they turn and waddle out, Sabrina rips her arm from my grasp. It’s amazing how strong she is. How she could crush those girls if things were different. She storms to our door and slams it so hard the walls rattle. Then she turns and begins pacing the length of our room.

“I swear to all that is holy, if I get my hands on that girl—”

“Sabrina,” I say, holding my hands out. She strides to me, frowns, swivels, and stomps back the other way.

“They think they’re so special. Well, I’ve got some news for you. Anyone with a uterus can push out a baby. Dogs have babies! Pigs!” Sabrina throws the words at the door like punches. Tears spill from the cracks of her dark, almond-shaped eyes.

“They’ll hear you,” I say, flicking glances between the door’s little window and the camera. “You’ll get bathroom duty. Or worse.”

Sabrina grabs a pillow, pushes it to her face, and screams. Screams and screams and screams.

Good idea
, I think. Inside, I’m screaming, too.

When she’s empty of screams, she lifts her red, tear-streaked face. I sit beside her and run my hand down her back. I smooth lone strands of her hair over her soft scalp and for a moment, I’m gripped by the reality that I may never do this for a child of my own.

“How can you be so calm?” Sabrina asks, her face smooshed into the pillow.

I wipe a tear from her cheek. “I don’t care if they take my things.”

Sabrina blows a dismissive breath into her pillow. “They love it. They love that they can get away with this.”

“It helps to imagine what their stomachs look like. Brianne’s had eight births. It’s gotta look like cottage cheese.”

Sabrina smiles. “Like saggy pizza dough.”

“Like a bread roll left in the drainage ditch for six months.”

Sabrina’s face grows serious. “I wouldn’t make it without you, Jan. I mean it. Don’t ever leave.”

We eat fish.

Fried fish, grilled fish, baked fish. We eat so much fish that sometimes I wonder if we’ll form gills.
Glub, glub, glub
, Sabrina and I joke. With tanks in the compound outside, fish is one of the only protein sources that the hospital can sustain. Tonight is Tilapia, which I can barely stomach since Francis from B Hall told me they eat fish poop.

Sabrina picks at her food, taking the time to run her hand over her naked head every few minutes. When her eyes flick to Brianne’s table, the anger pulses on her face. I’ve done my best to calm her. I hope she won’t do anything stupid. Not after what we saw earlier.

I want to be angry at Brianne and her flunkies, but I can’t find the energy. Instead, my brain picks away at thoughts of Dr. Bashees paying that wild man to put on a show for us. Bashees wanted a spectacle, a beast and his broken-eyed toy, to teach us a lesson. And it has. The cafeteria is subdued. Talk is quiet, muffled by hands over mouths. Better to say nothing. Then your
friends
can’t report you to the hospital heads. Most of them think they’ve got it made, but their ignorance isn’t their fault. Nanny Bell’s been telling me about the hospital’s twisted manipulations. That we’re the free ones and those outside are prisoners. And after today, who could blame them? I saw it in their eyes.
Poor, poor creature. Aren’t we so lucky to be safe, to be here?

But we’re slaves, just as much as that girl. The only power we have is the power to hurt each other, to make each other feel small and ashamed. I watch Sabrina run her hand over her head, naked as a baby’s. We focus on the drama of getting pink flowers embroidered on our gowns, on who gets ribbons and who doesn’t, and we miss the bigger fight.

The worst part is even though I know I’m a prisoner, I don’t fight either. What good would fighting do? There is no freedom, nowhere to run even if I could escape. Why does it matter if I’m a prisoner here or out there? Why does any of this matter?

It’s the saddest thing of all.

Sabrina sucks in a stuttering breath and picks at her green beans. My hand goes to her back and rubs in circle. Sabrina matters. Nanny Bell matters. That’s why I want to stay. Because pain shared is better than pain swallowed alone. Together, we can endure so much more.

When dinner ends and we’re herded to the common room to watch
Leave it to Beaver
or
Father Knows Best
, I swing by the front desk. Nanny Grenda is on duty.

“What is it?” she asks, setting down a manila folder with a stack of papers inside. Her wrinkled face curls into a smile. “Not interested in the show?”

I shake my head. “I’ve seen it. Any deliveries I can take for you?”

She swivels around in her chair, scanning the cubbies marked with floors and departments, seven rows labeled with things like “Receiving,” “Staff Kitchen,” and “Labs.” She finds a stack of forms in the cubby for “First Floor Janitorial” and pulls them out.

“Well, this, but it could wait until morning if you’re—”

“I got it.” I reach for the stack of work orders and take off before she can change her mind. “Thanks, Nanny Grenda.”

“Just be back before lights out.”

I hoof it to the elevator as if I’m expecting someone to stop me, but there’d be no reason. As a courier, I run forms and packages all over the hospital. Even though evening runs are unusual, I’ve done it before. Still, I’m sweating as the elevator doors close. The delivery may be legitimate, but the rest of what I’m planning is definitely against the rules.

The elevator hums steadily down. It doesn’t stop on every floor like it does during the day. This is why I like night runs. The hospital grows quiet and it’s just me slipping down the halls, going where I like. It has to be close to what freedom feels like.

The ding for the first floor startles me and I jump a little, wrinkling the papers clutched in my palms. The elevator doors slide open.

The first floor is quiet. Black-and-white checkered tiles count off down multiple hallways that lead to doors for which I have no clearance. Big, heavy doors with scan card locks replace the tiny residence room doors we have upstairs. There are labs, storage spaces, and janitorial closets on this floor. I’ve delivered and picked up items from each. But there are also rooms—vast, cavernous rooms based on how few doors lead to them—that I cannot name. My scan card only works on the elevator on this floor. And there are more cameras and alarm systems than anywhere else.

My skin crawls as I step into the dimly lit hallway. My slippers echo so loudly on the tile I want to jump back into the elevator and press the close button until my finger breaks.

Instead, I clutch my papers and tiptoe toward Janitorial, a tiny desk staffed by maintenance men who always look at me like I’m a fragile doll, but with fear in their eyes, like looking at me might lose them their jobs. It’s a strange dance we do.

When I reach the chipped, wooden desk—cluttered with papers, old tools, spools of tape, and a package of lightbulbs—it’s empty. The stiff chair is pushed back as if someone flew out of it in a hurry. I scan the hall left and right. Somewhere a scraping sound echoes off the tile. I shuffle after it, the papers still clutched to my chest.

Please let it be him,
I think as I turn the corner.

But it’s not who I’m seeking. A hunched form in a dusty, leather jacket stands rifling through a supply closet in the dark. I freeze, totally shocked. Is it someone from the outside? Is it Rukus?

The figure turns.

Heart pounding, I turn and sprint blindly. My slippers are useless, and I kick them off. I take a right, skidding around a corner and almost slamming into the wall. Behind me, footsteps pound my way.

The elevator should be around this corner, but will I make it? The man’s harsh footfalls thunder on the tile. He is fast. Faster than me.

I skid right. The elevators shine like exit signs.

I run to the card swipe panel and fumble for my card. Twice my hands slip. I curse, throw my papers, and grab the card. Wave it under the scanner frantically.

Please, please!

The footsteps pound closer.

The green light flashes. I pound the up arrow. “Come on. Come on!” Seconds feel like eternities.

The elevator doors slide open. I duck in and smash the close button, smash all the buttons. Nothing happens. I stare in terror at the dim hallway and pray for the doors to close. Hot tears trace down my cheeks.

Nothing happens. When I remember, I want to kick myself. I have to swipe my card here, too! I fumble for the rectangle of plastic.

A hand reaches into the elevator, grabs my wrist, and yanks me out.

I scream, but a hand clamps over my mouth and nose. I’m drawn into a body, male and large. As he drags me backward, I struggle and kick, certain he’s going to kill me.

“Quiet,” he whispers.

The voice is familiar, but my brain’s buried in fear. I struggle against huge arms that drag me down the hallway. The hand wrapped around my body releases, and I hear the scrape of a metal latch. He’s opening a door. I turn to run, but rough hands yank me back and my shoulder twangs with pain. I yelp into his thick fingers.

“Stop fighting,” he says, but his voice isn’t demanding. It’s almost…pleading.

He shoves us into a dark space. The door clicks shut, plunging us into blackness. I want to strike out, punch, kick, whatever it takes to get away, but I can’t see anything.

A light clicks. Dr. Houghtson is blocking the door and panting.

“What in the world?” I say, staring at his reddened cheeks. “What’s going on, Dr. Houghtson?”

He lifts an awkward smile and runs a hand through his brown hair, making it stand on end. He looks like an outsider version of himself with flushed cheeks, wild eyes, and a dust-covered jacket.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” He holds out his empty hands as if to show he isn’t holding an implement of murder. “When I saw you in the hallway and you ran…” He shrugs. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“What’re you doing down here?” I ask. The nannies would die if they heard me talking so assertively, but all propriety has flown out the window.

Dr. Houghtson flushes deeper. “I was looking for something, but that doesn’t matter now. I’ve been thinking about your
situation
.” He takes a step forward.

“M-my situation?” I ask. Suddenly, everything seems strange between us. He’s looking at me differently than he ever has, and the air in the closet is thick and hot. My heart begins to pound anew.

“About being
put out
,” he breathes. “There’s another way. A
better
way. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.” He reaches out, and I cower a little. His fingers pause in mid-air. “Are you scared of me?”

I shake my head. “It’s just, I was scared before…that you were an outsider.”

He smiles and his hand continues until he grasps strands of my hair. He rubs them through his fingers. “Don’t be afraid, Jan,” he says, his voice like a purr. “I want to help you.” His chest is heaving. “On rare occasions, doctors have been known to buy infertile girls from the hospital as…wives. A few live as families up on the top floor here.” His fingers slide through my hair. “I could do that for you. I’ve been saving money for some time. I could
save
you.”

My heart pounds so hard I almost miss what he’s saying. All I can do is keep my body still and concentrate on the inches between his space and mine. Ten inches of space.

Licking his lips, he leans forward. He smells like night air and desire. “What do you say?”

I look at his mouth, at his wild eyes. I’m frightened, but I’m not sure why. Dr. Houghtson has always been kind to me, but then I remember his probing fingers as he gave me my exams. How he looked at me afterward. And now he wants to buy me?

“C-can I think about it? I mean, w-we have two months.” My voice is such a small thing compared to his body. I doubt he can hear it at all, but his look of want fades.

“We don’t have much time. I need to start working on Dr. Bashees right awa—”

A knock on the door. We both freeze. Dr. Houghtson whirls around.

“Is someone in there?” the voice calls from the other side of the door.

Dr. Houghtson clicks off the light, plunging us into darkness. His hand grabs my arm and his lips brush my ear. My fear is at my throat again.

“Go out there,” he whispers. “Tell them you were looking for cleaning supplies. Don’t mention me.”

He shoves me forward. I stumble toward the door, fumble for the handle, and turn. When the fresh air and dim hallway light hit my face, I almost cry with relief.

I stagger out. Standing there, mop in one hand, is the man I came down here looking for. Robbie, the janitor, stares at me with wide-eyed wonder as I lean against the door and breathe.

“What were you doing in there?” he asks, cocking his head and spilling his dirty-blond curls to the side.