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She accepts my invitation for a drink. She doesn’t believe in sex before marriage.
But she believes in blow jobs. And that’s even better.
Chapter Thirteen
Vanessa
Maybe I’ve been here for five days. Maybe seven. It could be ten. I have no way of knowing. It’s worse than that, though. They stopped my vitamins. There is no pleasure, no happiness to be found in a place like this. Withdrawal is something fierce.
Mostly, I pass the hours in a fetal position. In between puking my guts up, the chills and the cold sweats, I manage on occasion to almost sleep. If you can call it that. Maybe I’m just hallucinating.
I have to get up. If I lie here, I’ll rot. If I lie here, I’ll lose my mind. Using the cushion on the wall, I pull myself up to a standing position. I can feel eyes on me. I know they are watching. My legs nearly buckle under the weight of the rest of me. Not that there is an excess of that. My ribs show through the thin gown. The twelve-by-twelve padded room has forced me to be frail and thin to match. It’s amazing how fast it happens.
I lock my knees in place. They continue to shake.
I refuse to let them see me struggle. Step by step, I push myself to walk in circles around the small space. I count eleven “laps” total before I have to lie down. My head is swimming, and my vision blurs. I need water— something I thought I’d never say again after the pool incident.
Mostly, I pass the time by thinking of Matthew. Not that I allow myself long. Small increments, one or two memories at most. You can’t think about the things that hurt and expect to make it out of here alive.
No one around here seems to know anything for sure, but I’ve heard stories. The members who spend their time ruminating over what they’re missing tend to be the first to disappear. Weakness is being trained out of us. To show anything other than compliance can literally mean life or death. What kind of death, I can’t say.
There are rumors about what happens when the panel deems there is no hope for a member’s reprogramming, but nothing that any of us can go so far as to prove. I’ve heard different accounts: death by lethal injection, hangings, a plastic bag or a belt left in a cell, the slitting of a wrist. Some say they starve you. Others swear they’ve been tested by a knife left at their bedside—they say they let you decide. Not that it matters how it’s handled. Like I said, the weak die. One way or another.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“I failed,” I say to her. My voice hides lies well. The truth is, any minor infraction can land you here. For women in the congregation, it can be something as minor as needing a makeover or as major as deception. New Hope does not take betrayal of its principles lightly. They specialize in making examples out of traitors.
This is why during shock therapy there was an audience watching behind the glass. This was why during “water therapy” there were women seated by the pool.
I study the woman opposite me as she jots down notes. It’s nice to finally see another person, even if it has to be her. A man opens the door, and she looks up, notices me staring. He mentions a deli nearby, asks if she’s up for lunch. I don’t recognize his face, but then, why would I? Here, women are separated from the men, so if I hadn’t heard stories, I wouldn’t even know there was such a place for reforming the opposite sex.
“Failure can often be avoided,” she says finally. There is a bright green smoothie just behind her, just out of reach. I’ve never seen something so colorful. She notices me staring.
“Hungry?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think you failed, Vanessa?”
“I don’t know,” I say. It’s easier to lie if you’ve just offered a bit of truth.
She lets out a long sigh, removes her glasses, and places them on the desk. It’s all for show. She doesn’t need the glasses. She hides behind them. They make her feel smart. Anyone within New Hope—anyone with her status—is eligible for vision correction. It isn’t a choice. “Let me just say, as your advisor, it would be beneficial if you were to cooperate with us.”
“I told you already. I don’t know the answer, Mrs. Banks. I don’t know why the assignment failed.”
“Please,” she counters. “Call me Ann.”
She jots something else down. I lean forward to see if I can get a better look. Not that I care. I want to know what day it is. I want to know how long I’ve been here.
Finally, she stops and looks up. “Are you suggesting the intelligence was bad?”
I know better. “I’m not suggesting anything.”
“Exactly,” she says. “You’re not giving us much to go on. That’s why you’re still here.”
I notice the files on her desk. I force myself to focus on the fact that each one represents a real person. I’m not supposed to care. And maybe I don’t. It’s easy to forget about humanity in here. They can take a lot from me. They can take everything, strip it away layer by layer. Or all at once. But if I let them
take that, I’m afraid there will be nothing left.
