"And... toss."
They were the same two words that I'd been hearing for weeks now. Toss, stretch, reach, push—all the things that can make a girl's scabs blister and pop. The dented blue ball felt heavier than it should have as I threw it to my doctor. She caught it, examining the strength behind it before scribbling something down on her clipboard. "That was a good one," she said. "You're getting stronger."
I nodded.
Doctor Alex and I had become good friends over the break, which probably had something to do with the fact that we had been stuck in the same room together for days on end. Sometimes a stray Blackthorne Boy would wander in with a sprained wrist or fat lip, but even that had become less frequent, mostly because none of the boys wanted to be in the same room as a pissed off Zachary Goode.
You know how they say that mama bears are at their most powerful when their cubs are threatened? Yeah, well, mama bears have got nothing on my father. After Dock Twelve, I was put into lockdown at Blackthorne. Think Secret Service, but with Joe Solomon. I had the power of the CIA's best at my back and Dad and Grandpa Joe weren't going to let anyone forget it.
And then there was Matt. After news broke out, he had made the trip across the pond to his alma mater. I remembered when he first walked into the infirmary wing. When he first saw me. He hugged me so tight that the doctor had to remind him that my back was all stitched up, which, I'll admit, was a massive relief. I didn't have the heart to tell him to let go. To tell him that every second he held on was another second I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Another second when the world seemed to go black and my heart started to run. I couldn't let him touch me—couldn't let anyone touch me.
Not that it mattered much. I think they started to give up after day four or five.
Sure, they visited for Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Years. Sometimes when he stood up to use the bathroom, I could see Dad just outside of the infirmary, always hovering somewhere within a five-yard radius. But things weren't how they should have been. Something's wrong, I'd think to myself, and then I'd remember that something was me.
"Scale of one to ten?" Doctor Alex asked, tucking her clipboard into its seemingly permanent place under her arm.
She asked me this question at least twenty times a day. Rate my pain on a scale from one to ten. Piece of cake. I held up six fingers, which was an improvement from yesterday's eight.
She wrote this down. The sound of scribbles bounced off the bare walls, reminding me just how big that room really was. "That's good news," she said. "But remember that there are ups and downs. Tomorrow could very well be a nine."
I nodded.
That was what I liked about Doctor Alex. I mean, granted, my knowledge of doctors is pretty much just an accumulation of what I've seen in melodramatic primetime dramas, but from what I can gather, they're always hellbent on delivering good news. There's still hope. Stay positive. Laughter is the best medicine. Blah, blah, blah.
Doctor Alex wasn't like that. She gave it to me straight, which was exactly what I needed. No more hidden motives, no more shady truths—just simple clarity. I just needed clarity.
"You're aware that this is your last night here, correct?" she asked.
I nodded. She knew that yes and no questions were the easiest to answer, which I appreciated. Dad and Matt kept trying to get me to talk, but every time I tried, my mouth crackled dry. There were just too many words to chose from and by the time I could fish out the right ones to make the sentence I needed, no one was interested in hearing me anymore. It was exhausting. I couldn't make myself say anything if no one was going to listen. If I did, I'd only be talking to myself.
But that didn't matter much either. They already thought I was crazy.
She stuck her hands into the pockets of her crisp white coat. "And you're aware that the Gallagher Academy has a team of specialists, all fully informed of your condition?"
Again, I nodded. Doctor Alex had made such a big deal out of sending my files to Gallagher that it was impossible to forget about the team over there. That was one more thing I liked about her. Every time she sent out information or consulted someone else in a different field, she'd let me know. With her, I was always in the loop.
"Good," she said with a definitive nod. "I'm going to let you sleep in your room tonight. It's not much, but maybe it'll help your mind get used to your normal routine. You know where my room is in case you need anything?"
I nodded.
"And, Morgan," she said. When I finally worked up to courage to look her in the eye, she gave me her final order. "No fighting."
There was no question in her voice this time and I knew that she had made it that way on purpose. She wasn't waiting for an answer, she was waiting for my acceptance. There would be no room for debate on this matter and so I nodded, knowing that it didn't matter anyways. The fight in me had already been stolen long before then.
Two knocks on the door. "Hey there, ladies."
Doctor Alex glanced over her shoulder and when she turned back, I recognized a look that only came along with big brothers. It was the sort of love that was most often disguised by false disgust. "Welcome back, Blake," she said to the shadow that was lounging in the doorway. "How was your break?"
Mr. Hughes smirked at her. There had been a time when that smirk could make my insides melt, but the heat was gone, leaving me with nothing but a shiver. That was the way it had gone lately. My friend's blade had sliced through my skin and I had been shivering ever since.
"It was good." He took a few smooth steps in, the pale light shimmering off of the tin foil in his hand. Even his walk was a dance, matching the music that was always humming against his lips. "Auntie Mae sends her love. And her pumpkin pie."
Doctor Alex's face lit up and she attacked, snatching the foil, but all I could do was wonder where a man like Blake Hughes went home to for the holidays. And he had an aunt? An aunt who made pumpkin pie? The whole thing was so normal that it was almost hard to believe. "She says she's sorry you couldn't make it," he went on. "You missed out, Alex. There was karaoke."
She peaked under the foil, licking her lips at the contents. "Yeah, well, I had a patient."
"Gallagher could've handled it," he grumbled.
"When Joe Solomon tells you to work the winter break, you work the winter break, Blake."
I knew it was only sibling rivalry that was causing the friction between them, but a part of me couldn't help but feel a little responsible. She wouldn't have missed karaoke if I hadn't been here. She wouldn't be eating leftovers of homemade pie if Dad hadn't wanted me in his line of sight for every moment of the day. If I had just listened to him and stayed away from Dock Twelve.
But if Hughes shared this thought, he certainly didn't let it show. He turned to face me, that same smile on his face as he asked, "How's my star pupil doing?"
Doctor Alex waited a moment, as if giving me the chance to answer. She did this sometimes, especially when other people were around, but she and I both knew that I wasn't going to say anything. That I couldn't. "She's well," she said finally.
Hughes smiled at me like it was the best news he'd heard in days. "Then you'll be back in my training room in no time, right?"
I nodded, eager to get back to the Gathering for Good. My team. My friends. It was one of the few things that I still felt excitement for, but then I heard someone say, "Definitely not," and I realized that my doctor had something different to say on the matter. "She won't even be back in her own training room for at least two more weeks. She certainly won't be taking any extra time in yours."
Two weeks. What was I supposed to for two more weeks? Not hit things? That wasn't really the kind of thing I was known to do. My tendency towards pacifism was about as thin as my patience.
"And besides," Alex continued, cutting a rather accusatory glance in my direction. "If I recall correctly, someone in this room is grounded until she's forty."
Okay. Yeah, so that's what Dad had said. Forty. But everyone knows that the redder Dad's face gets, the less he means what he says, so whether or not he actually meant it is was still up for debate. Of course, there is that very real possibility that he really does want to lock me in a room until I'm forty and, really, I couldn't blame him. Sneaking off to interrupt an undercover operation that resulted in one fatal and one potentially fatal injury was... well, it wouldn't be earning me Daughter of the Year anytime soon.
"Forty, huh?" Hughes said, a joke in his tone. "I bet I could get your old man to make an exception. You'll be running drills in no time."
He tried to shoot me a wink, but Alex intercepted it. "No. She won't. Do you hear me?"
"Alexandria—"
"This close to her lung, Blake," she snapped, holding up her fingers to prove a point. It made me physically sick to see how little space there was between them. "This close. The cut sliced through two major muscle groups, past her shoulder blade, in between her ribcage, and came this close to giving her a punctured lung."
Hughes cut a glance my way and then back as his furious sister. This must've reminded her that I was still in the room and so she dropped her voice to a whisper. But that didn't matter. Didn't she know I heard everything? "That boy knew what he was doing. Someone trained him. Someone pinpointed exactly where that knife needed to go into a persons back and that boy practiced it over and over. Someone taught him how to kill her in seconds with the most possible pain and if he had actually had the nerve to follow through, then Morgan Goode would not be standing in front of you right now, is that clear? Have I spelled it out enough for you, or should I go on?"
I actually said a prayer in hopes that she wouldn't. I barely caught the sound of someone shuffling on the other side of the infirmary door and I knew that Dad was praying, too.
The doctor took a step back. "So, yes. It will be a while before she's cleared for physical training again."
His eyes were still wide. "Okay, okay. I didn't know it was so serious."
"Yeah, well," she said. "Now you do, which is why there is going to be no fighting, right Morgan?"
I nodded, but Doctor Alex didn't even look back to see if I had. She knew.
And then it was over. Doctor Alex was a no-nonsense sort of person. She had said what she needed to say and now the most important thing on her mind was the pie in her hand. She peeled back the tin on the plate and I saw two slices of rich, custardy orange. She licked her lips and rushed to one of her cupboards, revealing a box of plastic cutlery. Doctor Alex really did live for her work and never left the office. "You should get some rest," she told me, digging around for a pair of forks. "Big day tomorrow."
She stuck forks into the pie and sat down on one of the beds. Hughes sat down next to her and took a fork of his own. I just left, thinking about how long it had been since anyone had shared their pie with me.
There are more boys who spend their holidays at Blackthorne than girls who spend their holidays at the Gallagher Academy, but even still, the hallways were quiet, waiting for the return of its rowdy students and energetic faculty. It was the perfect kind of quiet for paperwork, I noticed as I passed Grandpa Joe's office. He didn't even notice I was there, too engrossed in whatever he was flipping through. I only saw him in passing, but that was all it took to see him with his reading glasses on, grumbling at the mounds of paper that piled up on his desk.
But I walked on, knowing that he wouldn't want to talk to me and that I couldn't talk to him.
I didn't know where Dad had gone. Probably back to his room. He was always just a bit out of sight—a shadow of Dock Twelve, chasing me, reminding me that I wasn't safe and that I wasn't off the hook. But I couldn't hear him this time, which made me think that he had finally decided to take a break.
So I let myself daze off as I walked down the hall, letting my fingers glide across the smooth stone and silver banisters. I longed for the rough walls of my mansion. For the feel of the scrape against my fingertips—for the feel of anything, really. I turned down the hallway to my room, reciting the list that had been playing in my head for a month now. Matt, Natasha, Grant, Ellie, me.
Matt, Natasha, Grant, Ellie, me.
Matt.
Me.
All of us had targets on our backs. All of us had our names carved into a list that we didn't know the criteria for.
I heard familiar voices bickering from behind closed doors. Until then, I hadn't realized that I'd turned down the wrong hallway. It was so easy to do. Staff and guest quarters were right next to each other and every hallway looked the same here.
<t>Begin Transmission</t>
Transcription of Intercepted Intelligence
Transcribed by Operative Morgan Goode
DAD: You're a beer drinker now?
MATT: It's what Aunt Bex keeps in the fridge. Apparently it's what you keep, too.
//: The bottle cracks when Matt opens it and the Operative can here him glug a fair amount down in the first go. :\\
DAD: Christ, one of my kids is drinking and one of my kids is giving me the silent treatment. When exactly did I become such a horrible father?
MATT: Well technically speaking, I'm legally permitted to have this crap beer—seriously Dad. What is this? It's disgusting. As for Maggie... well, that's not your fault.
DAD: It is. It is my fault. I shouldn't have yelled at her.
//: Matt laughs and the Operative notices the fact that her brother sounds older. Or maybe just sleepier. :\\
MATT: It's not the first time you've yelled at her. You really think that she's going to start getting pissed at you for it now?
DAD: It was different this time. You should've seen her. She was talking up a storm—she's so quick. Once she get's that last piece she needs it always falls into place for her. She's always been that way. But then she started talking about your mom and I had to shut her down before she got her hopes up. She was... I don't know. I didn't think that it would be so hard to watch her hope leave.
//: The Operative considers walking away before she can hear any more, but she has never been able to resist a good covert conversation. :\\
MATT: Dad, listen. You and Maggie—you've always does this. Yelling is like, your guys' version of small talk. You yell for a while and you cool off and then you yell again.
DAD: It was never like that before.
MATT: It was always like that. But before, Mom was around to knock both your heads into place.
//: The accuracy of the statement drives a stake into the Operative's heart. The silence that follows makes her wonder if the words actually did kill her. :\\
MATT: It's not the yelling, Dad. The yelling she can handle. This is something different. It's more than just some act of teenage rebellion or whatever.
DAD: Okay, Mr. Know It All. What is it then?
//: Again, Matt laughs, but this time it's different. Like maybe he thinks he's the smartest man in the room. :\\
MATT: Are you serious? Dad, think about it. There's a hitlist going around with pretty much everyone she knows on it. Not to mention the fact that it's still been less than a year since Mom was declared KIA.
//: The Operative notices that Matt says KIA instead of dead. It's easier that way. :\\
MATT: Maybe she just doesn't know what to say.
DAD: Well you're not exactly living the dream yourself and apparently you've got plenty to say.
MATT: Yeah, well. My best friend didn't try to kill me, either, so I guess she's won that round.
//: No. This is it, the Operative realizes. These are the words that will actually kill her. :\\
MATT: And I'm not sixteen years old.
DAD: That's not my fault! I told her not to go. I told her to stay put. Why didn't she just... stay put?
//: The Operative has been asking herself that same question for weeks. :\\
MATT: I'm not saying it's anyone's fault, Dad. Christ, it's not anyone's fault. No one knew what was going to happen. I'm just saying that if it were somebody's fault, it definitely wouldn't be Maggie's.
DAD: I know that. I know.
MATT: Good. So you know it's not her fault that she's not talking, too.
DAD: I know. It's just... It would be so much easier if she—
MATT: If what? If she were talking to us? Yeah, I guess it would.
//: The Operative's heart sinks. This wasn't supposed to make it harder. This wasn't supposed to hurt them. She opens her mouth, nearly pushing the door open to say so, but the words shrivel in her throat and she takes another step back, cursing herself. Weak. :\\
MATT: But it would also be a lot easier if she didn't have a target on her back. If she weren't stabbed five weeks ago. If people we loved weren't disappearing and if Mom had never disappeared in the first place. But you know what, Dad? We gave up easy a long time ago.
DAD: This is different.
MATT: How?
DAD: She has a choice.
//: Matt laughs, but his heart's not in it. Relief fills The Operative's chest. :\\
MATT: I don't know that she does, Dad. I mean, you said it yourself. I'm pretty much in the same boat as her and sometimes I don't feel like doing much talking either. What's there left to say when your whole family is under attack? If I feel like this, then I don't want to think about what she's feeling.
DAD: What do you mean?
MATT: I've never been betrayed before, but from my understanding it has the ability to leave you a bit...
DAD: Speechless.
//: There is a clear understanding in this word as it hangs above the silence. No question about it. Suddenly I wondered who had betrayed my father before and how many times they had done it. :\\
DAD: She says she saw your mom.
MATT: Did she?
DAD: Mom's dead, Matthew.
//: Every time the words hit, it hurts just as much as the last. Apparently, this happens to Matt, too, because it shuts him up for a long time. :\\
DAD: I want to believe her.
MATT: Me too.
DAD: Can we believe her?
//: Yes. Undeniably, absolutely yes. :\\
MATT: Can I tell you something?
DAD: Of course.
MATT: I think Maggie's been seeing Mom for a while now.
//: Confusion strikes and The Operative can tell she's not the only one. :\\
DAD: What do you mean?
//: The sound of someone shuffling on the couch. Matt is shifting, probably uncomfortable. :\\
MATT: Do you remember the last time she was in the infirmary? When she had that bump on her head?
DAD: And you had that twisted ankle, yeah.
MATT: Well, when she collapsed, Scout and I... we heard her say something.
//: The Operative rushes back to the game of Red Rover, but immediately tries to block it out. She had been on Will's team that night. She had always been on Will's team. :\\
MATT: She was looking at me and calling for Mom. She kept saying it—"Mom? Mom?" It was like she thought she was nearby. Like she was asking me if I'd seen her.
DAD: She experienced head trauma. It does funny things.
MATT: Right. That's what I thought, too, but then when we went to the apartment after the Romania Op—
//: Matt gulps like he's been caught all over again. He's not sure that the Romania Op is something that should be discussed. Dad might start yelling. :\\
MATT: She got sent to bed without supper and when I went to... check on her—
DAD: You mean when you snuck in to give her food?
MATT: How did you know about that?
DAD: Spy.
//: The Operative can practically hear him pointing at himself. :\\
DAD: And, if I recall correctly, you have a track record for that sort of behavior.
MATT: Whatever.
DAD: When you checked up on her?
MATT: Right, well. I mean, it was hard to tell, but she was talking to herself. I think she might've thought she was talking to Mom.
//: The Operative knows that Matt is right. She had been talking to her mother that night. The version of her mother that lived on in her head, despite being dead everywhere else. :\\
DAD: You think she was hearing voices?
MATT: I think she was hearing Mom's voice and that's why she saw Mom at the dock. Doesn't really matter, I guess. Any voices are bad voices. Dad, I think we should—
DAD: We've already talked to Doctor Hughes.
MATT: What?
DAD: Maggie and I. We talked to the doctor. We're going to set her up with a psychiatrist. It's supposed to help.
MATT: Oh. That's great, I guess.
DAD: Yeah.
//: But it doesn't sound like he thinks it's very great at all. :\\
MATT: Is it not great?
DAD: Psychiatrists... hearing voices... the whole thing sort of hits a nerve with me, I guess.
MATT: Yeah, I know what you mean.
//: Dad laughs and for a moment, he sounds like he's actually amused. Like there's some dark, cruel joke that Matt is missing. :\\
DAD: You don't have the slightest clue what I mean. But that's okay. You're not supposed to.
<t>End Transmission</t>
I sat there for a long time, waiting for more. Yearning for another perspective on my own life that stood a chance at being more enjoyable than mine. But nothing came. Nothing but the sound of Matt's beer as he gulped it down. They've always been able to do that—sit together. Not say anything. It was like they fed off of each other. It was like just being in the same room made them closer. A part of me wished that I could do that with Dad. A part of me wished that he would talk to me like he talked to Matt—that he would look at me in the same way he looked at my older brother.
But a larger part of me knew that it didn't matter. That nothing really did anymore.