brigits_flame Week 2 - Morning Glory
Tomorrow Never Knows What It Doesn't Know
Daylight streams in through the dusty windows, bouncing off the white hospital walls and brightening the dayroom to the point that the staff decides to keep the lights off until dusk. This floor is reserved only for female patients but the variety of disorders could easily fill several pages of the DSM-IV--the diagnostic bible of all self-respecting workers in the business of treating mental health. The wheelchair-bound catatonics sit in front of the television while nearby, a group of three “weekending” debutantes (who needlessly waste Daddy’s money and steal beds) play a game of cards and “The Biggest Hypochondriac”. Nurses pace up and down the dormitory halls armed with clipboards and pens. Occasionally they stop, open a door, poke their head in--
“Checks!”
--withdraw, close the door, mark on their clipboard, and repeat the process at the next door. These nurses are very efficient, and the high-functioning patients who stay here long enough (particularly, the green-eyed girls with eating disorders) note that the practice often leads some of the bigger nurses to smaller figures.
“Checks!”
On the television, Clint Eastwood is playing a cowboy in a movie that looks like every other movie where Clint Eastwood plays a cowboy. One of the nurses comes along and changes the television channel. Now it’s The Steve Wilkos Show. The topic is “Prove I’m The Father”. A few minutes later, one of the higher-functioning patients (her diagnosis wavering between bipolar disorder and its milder sister cyclothymia) comes and changes the channel, this time to the A&E channel. The show on is about a haunted house.
“Talk shows turn your brain to shit,” the patient declares as she slumps into the couch between two catatonics. “And we’re already in a nuthouse!”
The word causes a great amount of giggling among some of the patients, which encourages the channel changer to say it again, louder. The giggling increases, spreading through the dayroom until one of the head nurses--Gladys, a strong woman in her fifties with the aura of a natural caregiver--finally enters and firmly calls for silence and order. She focuses her dark eyes on the channel changer but says nothing. (She doesn’t need to.) Instead, Gladys continues further into the dayroom, pacing evenly to the corner where a young woman sits at a table coloring morning glories in a coloring book.
“Cassandra.”
The young woman looks up, her pale blue eyes shining with the smile playing on her small mouth. “Hello, Miss Gladys.”
“Hello, Cassandra.” Gladys smiles. “How are you feeling today?”
“Good.” The young woman shows the current page of her coloring book. “I started a new page today.”
“Oh! And it looks very good. But right now, I need you to clean up your things, okay? You have a guest.”
“A guest?”
“Mm-hm. Now, go on.”
Cassandra nods quickly, her eyes alight with the excitement of a child, and gathers her things. The crayons, in various sizes and stages of undressed from their labels, go into a little pouch; it ends up tossed on her made bed with the coloring book. When Cassandra returns, she finds Gladys standing in the dayroom with two people she recognizes--a young man and woman both ahead of the twenty-year-old by a few years. The other patients stare, curious as always when someone from the outside comes to visit.
“Hello, Cassandra. Do you remember us?” the young woman asks.
“Yes.” Cassandra nods slowly, shyly. “Hello.”
The other patients remember the pair, too, since they visit so frequently. The young woman is in a wheelchair like some of the catatonics, but there is a clear difference between her and them. Her chair is motorized and comfortable-looking, its metal frame a blazing red. She is tan; her dark brown eyes are bright with life and warm. Her dark hair is clean, the curls flat-ironed straight today. She wears makeup. Her jeans and t-shirt are comfortable-looking and stylish (as opposed to the itchy hospital pajamas some of the catatonics wear) and unlike the wheelchair-bound catatonics in the hospital, this woman from the outside is wearing actual shoes--boots, from the looks of it.
The fair-skinned man with her is capable of walking and dressed nearly all in black, save for his blue jeans. He holds a green flowerpot overflowing with blossoming morning glories. His leather jacket seems inappropriate for the approaching summer heat, but the patients of the all-female floor never see him without it or his black aviator sunglasses.
The women of the floor know how uncomfortable he is being here, have sensed it from the first time he appeared, while the woman in the chair only seems too at home on the floor. Rumors are that she’s one of Them--a head-doctor or counselor in the city or something like that.
“Is she cleared to be in the courtyard today, Gladys?” she asks. “It’s such a nice day out and Cassandra responded really well to being outside.”
“Not today, Ms. Brennan.” Gladys frowns. “I’m afraid we’ve had some trouble with her at night these last two weeks.”
The girl in the wheelchair frowns. “Night terrors again?”
“Unfortunately… We’ve had to put her in restraints.”
“I see.” Ms. Brennan sighs, but she smiles at Cassandra again. “Well, we can still have a good visit here, can’t we?”
Cassandra brightens, nodding. “Come on! I’ll show you the new pages I colored.”
“I think we’d like that,” Ms. Brennan says.
The Man in the Leather Jacket follows along silently; ignoring some of the catcalls tossed his way for the sole purpose of increasing his discomfort. Cassandra’s bedroom is impeccably neat and tidy. Colored pages from past coloring books are tacked on the wall across from her bed. Several soft-cloth dolls line a shelf near her desk and sit on her dresser. The Man in the Leather Jacket takes the desk chair and sits in the corner, by the shelf of dolls. Cassandra sits on the bed. Ms. Brennan parks her wheelchair by the bed and transfers to the bed.
“Your hair is getting pretty long,” she says, touching the younger girl’s mouse-brown hair. “We might have to think about cutting it for the summer.”
Cassandra perks to this. “I think I’d like that.”
“Maybe to the shoulder…or a nice little bobbed cut…” Mrs. Brennan turns her attention to the Man in the Leather Jacket. “What do you think, Matthew?”
“Matthew…” Cassandra echoes.
The Man in the Leather Jacket jumps, startled from silence. “Huh? What is it?”
“We were discussing the possibility of cutting her hair,” Ms. Brennan says.
“His name… I always forget his name,” Cassandra comments, head tilted sideways. “I--I always know his face but his name…”
“Probably for the best,” the Man in the Leather Jacket--his name reluctantly revealed--comments with a sigh. “It’s probably in everybody’s best interest.”
“But I want to know it! I-I-I want--I want to know your name,” Cassandra insists, feeling frustrated. “I want to remember it. I always remember everybody else--”
The woman in the wheelchair pats her hand. “It’s okay, Cassandra. It’s not your fault for forgetting things.”
“But why? Why do I forget things?”
“It’s the treatment, dear. Sometimes, treatments that make you well also take away things. In your case, it affects your memory.”
“But…” Cassandra looks from Ms. Brennan to Matthew and back, clearly confused. “Why does it do that?”
“Nobody really knows.” Ms. Brennan frowns a little. “But don’t be discouraged. There are lots of ways to keep your memory strong, and maybe I can talk to the doctor about trying something new, okay?”
Cassandra nods. “I--I-I guess so.”
From his seat in the corner, Matthew resists the urge to express his pessimism. Instead, he rises to his feet when Ms. Brennan makes mention of the flowerpot still in his hands, holding it by its hanging hook.
“Do you know those flowers, Cassandra?” asks Ms. Brennan.
Cassandra nods, smiling a little. “Morning glories, like in my coloring book! Oh, they’re my favorite…”
The visiting pair exchange glances as Matthew places the hook on a nail embedded just above the window. The last time they had been here, her favorite flower had been the orchid; the time before that, the wisteria.
“What happened to the flowerpot that was in here last time?” Matthew asks. “It was right here on the desk…”
“They disappeared,” Cassandra says softly. She fidgets with the hem of her floral print dress. “Matthew. Matthew, Matthew, Matthew--like in the Bible, right? Matthew? Like the follower of Jesus?”
“That’s right,” Ms. Brennan says.
“I’ve been reading the Bible lately… Miss Gladys has been letting me borrow hers and taking me to the chapel on Sundays.” She frowns. “I guess I have trouble remembering what it, too. Miss Gladys says I’m always reading the same parts.”
The visiting pair exchange questioning glances again, but before anyone can speak further, a gentle knock sounds at the door. It’s Gladys, a chart in her hands and an apologetic look on her face.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Ms. Brennan, but I realized that it’s almost 1:30--”
“Oh!” Ms. Brennan nods, as if recalling something. “Oh, of course.”
“--and it always gets a little busy down there this time of day--”
“No, no, no. That’s fine. We, uh… Matthew and I have to sort of be running, ourselves; we just wanted to come and see how Cassandra was and bring her the flowers…”
“They’re morning glories,” Cassandra says, smiling. “Aren’t they pretty, Miss Gladys?”
“Very pretty, dear.” Gladys is nodding, but she is focused on something else--on giving Cassandra her ballet flats. “Here. Now, put these on, Cassandra. You know Dr. Saunders doesn’t like it when you show up barefoot for your treatments.”
“Is that set, Matt?” Ms. Brennan is in her chair again, buckling her seatbelt. “We don’t want it falling and making a mess…”
Matthew only nods. He heads out into the hallway first, just in time to have a struggling anorexic tauntingly blow him kisses as two orderlies lead her off to only they know where. Out of habit, he pulls out a cigarette, getting it between his lips before a passing nurse reminds him that this is a non-smoking facility. He holds the cigarette between his fingers for immediate use outside. Standing by the doorway, he listens to the women talk.
“If you could please have Dr. Saunders call me to set up an appointment--”
“Of course, Ms. Brennan.”
“Insist that it’s important. Tell her to fax me everything she’s having Cassandra take; I’m beginning to think we need to put her on a new sedative until we find the source of her night terrors.”
“Of course. I’ll be sure to tell Dr. Saunders when I see her. No doubt, she’ll fax you everything by the end of the day.”
“Wonderful…”
Ms. Brennan exits next with Gladys and Cassandra close behind. As the nurse and the counselor continue to talk, Cassandra stares up at Matthew, her pale eyes full of curiosity. Matthew looks down at her. Very carefully, very cautiously, she reaches up; fingers curling around his sunglasses, she slides them off, exposing his hazel-green eyes. Matthew doesn’t move. Cassandra merely smiles.
“You shouldn’t be so afraid all the time,” she says. “You have very pretty eyes.”
“Cassandra!” Gladys’s tone is sharp. “Come on, dear. We have to get you down to the treatment room before it fills up.”
The young woman nods slowly. She puts the sunglasses on her head and lets Gladys take her by the arm. An orderly joins the nurse and patient as they near a set of brown double-doors; before they disappear through it, Cassandra glances back at them. She flashes a wan smile but her pale eyes suggest nervousness or fear.
“She doesn’t like the treatments,” Ms. Brennan says as the pair exits the hospital.
“Hm?” Matthew is too busy lighting his cigarette, squinting against the May sun and cursing his silence over the sunglasses. “Jesus, it’s bright out here.”
“You shouldn’t have let her take your sunglasses. You always let her do that.”
“I know…” Matthew sighs, gesturing first to the nearby ramp and then the front steps. “I’ll meet you at the bottom.”
A white van is already waiting for them, its side door open and its ramp deployed. Ms. Brennan enters first, parking her chair where the driver’s seat would be in a regular car. Matthew settles into the front passenger’s seat. With the press of a button, the ramp folds up and the door slides closed.
“That was quick.”
Ms. Brennan looks in her rearview mirror, spotting in the back seat a young man who could pass easily for Matthew’s brother, largely because he is Matthew’s brother.
“That was quick,” he repeats. “I thought you guys were going to be in there a little longer.”
“She had an appointment. I forgot they rescheduled her electroconvulsive therapy for 1:30 on Wednesdays. I’m used to it being at 2:30, like it is on Tuesdays and Thursdays…” Ms. Brennan starts the car. “Why didn’t you come inside with us, Arthur?”
Arthur shrugs, readjusting his hoodie. “I don’t know. I…I didn’t want to see her like that. It seems…wrong somehow, even if she’s harmless this way. It just seems like… I-I dunno. I guess it’s because I’ve been in one of those places.”
“Fair enough.”
“What I can’t understand,” Matthew says, blowing out a stream of smoke, “is why you worked to be her legal guardian, Cris. It doesn’t seem right.”
In the back seat, Arthur raises an eyebrow. “So it is true.”
In the driver’s seat, Cris smiles like she’s proud of herself. “I’m getting better at forging the paperwork, aren’t I? Fake surname and everything…” She glances at Matthew. “That part is wishful thinking on my part. But as far as Cassandra is concerned…it’s better this way. Practical.”
“Practical,” Arthur echoes, somewhat skeptical.
“She’s harmless now, there’s still a chance Cassandra might…rediscover herself. When she does, if she does, I want to be ready.” Cris pauses, realizing the vagueness of that statement. “The project has to continue somehow. Might as well be through her.”
“Project…” Arthur sighs. “I am a failed project.”
“We’re both failed projects, Arthur, but look how well we’ve turned out.”
“Which means she could, too, couldn’t she?” Matthew looks over at Cris. “If you two can adapt and grow, what’s stopping her?”
Silence. Cris glances at the questioning man beside her, glances at the sullen-faced man behind her through the rearview mirror. Eventually, instead of answering, she merely shakes her head and turns on the car radio.
Need a little time to wake up…
Need a little time to wake up, wake up.
Need a little time to wake up…
Need a little time to rest your minds,
You know you should, so I guess you might as well…
What’s the story, morning glory?
Well…
Need a little time to wake up, wake up…
Daylight streams in through the dusty windows, bouncing off the white hospital walls and brightening the dayroom to the point that the staff decides to keep the lights off until dusk. This floor is reserved only for female patients but the variety of disorders could easily fill several pages of the DSM-IV--the diagnostic bible of all self-respecting workers in the business of treating mental health. The wheelchair-bound catatonics sit in front of the television while nearby, a group of three “weekending” debutantes (who needlessly waste Daddy’s money and steal beds) play a game of cards and “The Biggest Hypochondriac”. Nurses pace up and down the dormitory halls armed with clipboards and pens. Occasionally they stop, open a door, poke their head in--
“Checks!”
--withdraw, close the door, mark on their clipboard, and repeat the process at the next door. These nurses are very efficient, and the high-functioning patients who stay here long enough (particularly, the green-eyed girls with eating disorders) note that the practice often leads some of the bigger nurses to smaller figures.
“Checks!”
On the television, Clint Eastwood is playing a cowboy in a movie that looks like every other movie where Clint Eastwood plays a cowboy. One of the nurses comes along and changes the television channel. Now it’s The Steve Wilkos Show. The topic is “Prove I’m The Father”. A few minutes later, one of the higher-functioning patients (her diagnosis wavering between bipolar disorder and its milder sister cyclothymia) comes and changes the channel, this time to the A&E channel. The show on is about a haunted house.
“Talk shows turn your brain to shit,” the patient declares as she slumps into the couch between two catatonics. “And we’re already in a nuthouse!”
The word causes a great amount of giggling among some of the patients, which encourages the channel changer to say it again, louder. The giggling increases, spreading through the dayroom until one of the head nurses--Gladys, a strong woman in her fifties with the aura of a natural caregiver--finally enters and firmly calls for silence and order. She focuses her dark eyes on the channel changer but says nothing. (She doesn’t need to.) Instead, Gladys continues further into the dayroom, pacing evenly to the corner where a young woman sits at a table coloring morning glories in a coloring book.
“Cassandra.”
The young woman looks up, her pale blue eyes shining with the smile playing on her small mouth. “Hello, Miss Gladys.”
“Hello, Cassandra.” Gladys smiles. “How are you feeling today?”
“Good.” The young woman shows the current page of her coloring book. “I started a new page today.”
“Oh! And it looks very good. But right now, I need you to clean up your things, okay? You have a guest.”
“A guest?”
“Mm-hm. Now, go on.”
Cassandra nods quickly, her eyes alight with the excitement of a child, and gathers her things. The crayons, in various sizes and stages of undressed from their labels, go into a little pouch; it ends up tossed on her made bed with the coloring book. When Cassandra returns, she finds Gladys standing in the dayroom with two people she recognizes--a young man and woman both ahead of the twenty-year-old by a few years. The other patients stare, curious as always when someone from the outside comes to visit.
“Hello, Cassandra. Do you remember us?” the young woman asks.
“Yes.” Cassandra nods slowly, shyly. “Hello.”
The other patients remember the pair, too, since they visit so frequently. The young woman is in a wheelchair like some of the catatonics, but there is a clear difference between her and them. Her chair is motorized and comfortable-looking, its metal frame a blazing red. She is tan; her dark brown eyes are bright with life and warm. Her dark hair is clean, the curls flat-ironed straight today. She wears makeup. Her jeans and t-shirt are comfortable-looking and stylish (as opposed to the itchy hospital pajamas some of the catatonics wear) and unlike the wheelchair-bound catatonics in the hospital, this woman from the outside is wearing actual shoes--boots, from the looks of it.
The fair-skinned man with her is capable of walking and dressed nearly all in black, save for his blue jeans. He holds a green flowerpot overflowing with blossoming morning glories. His leather jacket seems inappropriate for the approaching summer heat, but the patients of the all-female floor never see him without it or his black aviator sunglasses.
The women of the floor know how uncomfortable he is being here, have sensed it from the first time he appeared, while the woman in the chair only seems too at home on the floor. Rumors are that she’s one of Them--a head-doctor or counselor in the city or something like that.
“Is she cleared to be in the courtyard today, Gladys?” she asks. “It’s such a nice day out and Cassandra responded really well to being outside.”
“Not today, Ms. Brennan.” Gladys frowns. “I’m afraid we’ve had some trouble with her at night these last two weeks.”
The girl in the wheelchair frowns. “Night terrors again?”
“Unfortunately… We’ve had to put her in restraints.”
“I see.” Ms. Brennan sighs, but she smiles at Cassandra again. “Well, we can still have a good visit here, can’t we?”
Cassandra brightens, nodding. “Come on! I’ll show you the new pages I colored.”
“I think we’d like that,” Ms. Brennan says.
The Man in the Leather Jacket follows along silently; ignoring some of the catcalls tossed his way for the sole purpose of increasing his discomfort. Cassandra’s bedroom is impeccably neat and tidy. Colored pages from past coloring books are tacked on the wall across from her bed. Several soft-cloth dolls line a shelf near her desk and sit on her dresser. The Man in the Leather Jacket takes the desk chair and sits in the corner, by the shelf of dolls. Cassandra sits on the bed. Ms. Brennan parks her wheelchair by the bed and transfers to the bed.
“Your hair is getting pretty long,” she says, touching the younger girl’s mouse-brown hair. “We might have to think about cutting it for the summer.”
Cassandra perks to this. “I think I’d like that.”
“Maybe to the shoulder…or a nice little bobbed cut…” Mrs. Brennan turns her attention to the Man in the Leather Jacket. “What do you think, Matthew?”
“Matthew…” Cassandra echoes.
The Man in the Leather Jacket jumps, startled from silence. “Huh? What is it?”
“We were discussing the possibility of cutting her hair,” Ms. Brennan says.
“His name… I always forget his name,” Cassandra comments, head tilted sideways. “I--I always know his face but his name…”
“Probably for the best,” the Man in the Leather Jacket--his name reluctantly revealed--comments with a sigh. “It’s probably in everybody’s best interest.”
“But I want to know it! I-I-I want--I want to know your name,” Cassandra insists, feeling frustrated. “I want to remember it. I always remember everybody else--”
The woman in the wheelchair pats her hand. “It’s okay, Cassandra. It’s not your fault for forgetting things.”
“But why? Why do I forget things?”
“It’s the treatment, dear. Sometimes, treatments that make you well also take away things. In your case, it affects your memory.”
“But…” Cassandra looks from Ms. Brennan to Matthew and back, clearly confused. “Why does it do that?”
“Nobody really knows.” Ms. Brennan frowns a little. “But don’t be discouraged. There are lots of ways to keep your memory strong, and maybe I can talk to the doctor about trying something new, okay?”
Cassandra nods. “I--I-I guess so.”
From his seat in the corner, Matthew resists the urge to express his pessimism. Instead, he rises to his feet when Ms. Brennan makes mention of the flowerpot still in his hands, holding it by its hanging hook.
“Do you know those flowers, Cassandra?” asks Ms. Brennan.
Cassandra nods, smiling a little. “Morning glories, like in my coloring book! Oh, they’re my favorite…”
The visiting pair exchange glances as Matthew places the hook on a nail embedded just above the window. The last time they had been here, her favorite flower had been the orchid; the time before that, the wisteria.
“What happened to the flowerpot that was in here last time?” Matthew asks. “It was right here on the desk…”
“They disappeared,” Cassandra says softly. She fidgets with the hem of her floral print dress. “Matthew. Matthew, Matthew, Matthew--like in the Bible, right? Matthew? Like the follower of Jesus?”
“That’s right,” Ms. Brennan says.
“I’ve been reading the Bible lately… Miss Gladys has been letting me borrow hers and taking me to the chapel on Sundays.” She frowns. “I guess I have trouble remembering what it, too. Miss Gladys says I’m always reading the same parts.”
The visiting pair exchange questioning glances again, but before anyone can speak further, a gentle knock sounds at the door. It’s Gladys, a chart in her hands and an apologetic look on her face.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Ms. Brennan, but I realized that it’s almost 1:30--”
“Oh!” Ms. Brennan nods, as if recalling something. “Oh, of course.”
“--and it always gets a little busy down there this time of day--”
“No, no, no. That’s fine. We, uh… Matthew and I have to sort of be running, ourselves; we just wanted to come and see how Cassandra was and bring her the flowers…”
“They’re morning glories,” Cassandra says, smiling. “Aren’t they pretty, Miss Gladys?”
“Very pretty, dear.” Gladys is nodding, but she is focused on something else--on giving Cassandra her ballet flats. “Here. Now, put these on, Cassandra. You know Dr. Saunders doesn’t like it when you show up barefoot for your treatments.”
“Is that set, Matt?” Ms. Brennan is in her chair again, buckling her seatbelt. “We don’t want it falling and making a mess…”
Matthew only nods. He heads out into the hallway first, just in time to have a struggling anorexic tauntingly blow him kisses as two orderlies lead her off to only they know where. Out of habit, he pulls out a cigarette, getting it between his lips before a passing nurse reminds him that this is a non-smoking facility. He holds the cigarette between his fingers for immediate use outside. Standing by the doorway, he listens to the women talk.
“If you could please have Dr. Saunders call me to set up an appointment--”
“Of course, Ms. Brennan.”
“Insist that it’s important. Tell her to fax me everything she’s having Cassandra take; I’m beginning to think we need to put her on a new sedative until we find the source of her night terrors.”
“Of course. I’ll be sure to tell Dr. Saunders when I see her. No doubt, she’ll fax you everything by the end of the day.”
“Wonderful…”
Ms. Brennan exits next with Gladys and Cassandra close behind. As the nurse and the counselor continue to talk, Cassandra stares up at Matthew, her pale eyes full of curiosity. Matthew looks down at her. Very carefully, very cautiously, she reaches up; fingers curling around his sunglasses, she slides them off, exposing his hazel-green eyes. Matthew doesn’t move. Cassandra merely smiles.
“You shouldn’t be so afraid all the time,” she says. “You have very pretty eyes.”
“Cassandra!” Gladys’s tone is sharp. “Come on, dear. We have to get you down to the treatment room before it fills up.”
The young woman nods slowly. She puts the sunglasses on her head and lets Gladys take her by the arm. An orderly joins the nurse and patient as they near a set of brown double-doors; before they disappear through it, Cassandra glances back at them. She flashes a wan smile but her pale eyes suggest nervousness or fear.
“She doesn’t like the treatments,” Ms. Brennan says as the pair exits the hospital.
“Hm?” Matthew is too busy lighting his cigarette, squinting against the May sun and cursing his silence over the sunglasses. “Jesus, it’s bright out here.”
“You shouldn’t have let her take your sunglasses. You always let her do that.”
“I know…” Matthew sighs, gesturing first to the nearby ramp and then the front steps. “I’ll meet you at the bottom.”
A white van is already waiting for them, its side door open and its ramp deployed. Ms. Brennan enters first, parking her chair where the driver’s seat would be in a regular car. Matthew settles into the front passenger’s seat. With the press of a button, the ramp folds up and the door slides closed.
“That was quick.”
Ms. Brennan looks in her rearview mirror, spotting in the back seat a young man who could pass easily for Matthew’s brother, largely because he is Matthew’s brother.
“That was quick,” he repeats. “I thought you guys were going to be in there a little longer.”
“She had an appointment. I forgot they rescheduled her electroconvulsive therapy for 1:30 on Wednesdays. I’m used to it being at 2:30, like it is on Tuesdays and Thursdays…” Ms. Brennan starts the car. “Why didn’t you come inside with us, Arthur?”
Arthur shrugs, readjusting his hoodie. “I don’t know. I…I didn’t want to see her like that. It seems…wrong somehow, even if she’s harmless this way. It just seems like… I-I dunno. I guess it’s because I’ve been in one of those places.”
“Fair enough.”
“What I can’t understand,” Matthew says, blowing out a stream of smoke, “is why you worked to be her legal guardian, Cris. It doesn’t seem right.”
In the back seat, Arthur raises an eyebrow. “So it is true.”
In the driver’s seat, Cris smiles like she’s proud of herself. “I’m getting better at forging the paperwork, aren’t I? Fake surname and everything…” She glances at Matthew. “That part is wishful thinking on my part. But as far as Cassandra is concerned…it’s better this way. Practical.”
“Practical,” Arthur echoes, somewhat skeptical.
“She’s harmless now, there’s still a chance Cassandra might…rediscover herself. When she does, if she does, I want to be ready.” Cris pauses, realizing the vagueness of that statement. “The project has to continue somehow. Might as well be through her.”
“Project…” Arthur sighs. “I am a failed project.”
“We’re both failed projects, Arthur, but look how well we’ve turned out.”
“Which means she could, too, couldn’t she?” Matthew looks over at Cris. “If you two can adapt and grow, what’s stopping her?”
Silence. Cris glances at the questioning man beside her, glances at the sullen-faced man behind her through the rearview mirror. Eventually, instead of answering, she merely shakes her head and turns on the car radio.
Need a little time to wake up…
Need a little time to wake up, wake up.
Need a little time to wake up…
Need a little time to rest your minds,
You know you should, so I guess you might as well…
What’s the story, morning glory?
Well…
Need a little time to wake up, wake up…