Ren: The Monster Inside the Monster Page 4

  “Yes, yes. Trey told me to expect you,” she says, angling her arm to the nearest bed. “Please have a seat, Adelaide.”

  Adelaide looks at me like she’s unsure of what to do or if she can trust this person.

  “Go on,” I say. “This is Mae and she’s the Institute’s Head Healer. She’ll check you out.”

  “Wait,” Adelaide says, eyeing the woman and then me like she’s being told a ridiculous joke. “You don’t have doctors?”

  “We have healers,” I say, turning for the door as Adelaide approaches the bed.

  “We’re trained the same way doctors are, but we also have the power to heal through touch,” Mae explains. “Honestly, because we feel the energy of a person, we understand health and wellness and how to achieve it from an intuitive perspective. We’re much more successful than doctors.”

  “This place keeps getting weirder and weirder,” Adelaide says.

  “I’ll be waiting outside,” I say, turning to take my leave.

  “Oh, no you won’t,” Mae says, placing the stethoscope buds in her ears. “I have questions for you, Mr. Lewis.”

  “Yes, I have a daughter. Yes, the dumbass got herself knocked up. No, she’s not sticking around here so don’t worry, you don’t have to deliver the little monster. I’ll be going now,” I say, turning for the door.

  “Those weren’t my questions,” Mae says to me, but her attention is on taking Adelaide’s vitals.

  “Yes, old woman, I’m taking my meds,” I say, my eyes on the ceiling now, annoyance heavy in my tone.

  “You haven’t been in for your checkup,” Mae says.

  “No, I haven’t. I’ve been busy keeping dumbasses alive so they can get fat and then you can heal their cholesterol problems,” I say.

  “You know those monthly checkups are a requirement of the Institute,” the ancient bag of bones says, that usual clinical tone to her voice.

  “Well, then Trey can fire me for skipping them. Although that is about as likely as him opening a hatch and chucking you in the ocean. I requested he do just that but he keeps declining,” I say. And it’s a little morbid even for me to pull off those lines. Mae is a healer and I think killing those kinds of people is like burning a four leaf clover or gutting a unicorn. Loads of bad luck.

  “How have you been feeling?” Mae says.

  “Like killing someone,” I say, thinking of Vivian and the mole she’s employing who’s running around the Institute and reporting on my affairs.

  “Are you sleeping? Eating enough? Getting enough activity?” Mae says to me as she presses her fingers to Adelaide’s pulse.

  “No. No. And no,” I say without giving any of the questions a real thought. “And I’m thinking of taking up drinking and smoking if you don’t stop this line of questions.”

  Mae turns to me now, her lips wrinkling when she purses them. “Your well-being is my responsibility. I don’t go to any lengths to prevent you from fulfilling your job as the Head Strategist and I expect the same compliance.”

  “Would you finish checking Adelaide? She is the patient here and not me,” I say.

  “She’s fine,” Mae says, waving a hand at the girl. “Good health, both her and the baby.”

  “Let’s go then. We need to get you home,” I say to the elephant still sitting on the bed. Adelaide dutifully slides off and follows me to the door.

  “You’re going with me, right?” she says, giving me a gross and hopeful expression.

  I nod gruffly.

  “Are you staying? Living in Los Angeles? Or are you going to return to living here?” Adelaide asks.

  “I’m going to stay for a little bit,” I say.

  “Mr. Lewis,” Mae says when I pull the door back.

  I pause but don’t look at the woman.

  “I expect you back for a checkup next week when you get your prescription filled,” she says.

  “We shall see what my schedule allows,” I say.

  Chapter Six

  New York Times

  Smart Pods Take the Nation by Storm. Smart Solutions will Revolutionize the U.S.

  Smart Pods hit retailers today. These one-foot-tall cones may look unassuming but don’t be fooled. This is tomorrow’s technology and it’s available starting today. The little black devices can remotely control everything in a home from temperature to security to entertainment. Computer applications are used to set up the device and make changes. From anywhere in the world a homeowner can switch on lights in their home or play classical music for their lonely cat. The device can also be turned on to listen in on the noises in a house. A worried parent who is wondering if their teenager is having a wild party while they’re away can check by activating that feature. The system is also voice activated and test consumers describe the female voice who responds as a charm to their ears. Vivian, as she is called, named for the CEO of Smart Solutions, can answer any question from ancient history to the score of the baseball game last night. She’ll play games with the kids or read a book to an elderly person. Her job is to make a home smarter than ever before.

  "At Smart Solutions we are committed to making the American home as efficient as possible," the new CEO, Vivian Bishop, reported in a press conference last night. "The American people work too hard and vacation less than anyone worldwide. I can’t fix that and so I’ve decided we’re going to make their lives easier in other ways. Smart Pods will streamline so many of the daily concerns for households. Vivian is the Rosie the Robot from the Jetsons cartoon. I have firm expectations that she will serve in a way that will revolutionize the current household. That’s why I’m giving away the first ten thousand Smart Pods to the first families that apply through our website."

  Vivian Bishop is an innovator with a true generous agenda. Smart Solutions might just be on the edge of creating a whole new experience for Americans. Apply for your free Smart Pod using the link below.

  “For fuck sake,” I say, throwing the newspaper down on Trey’s desk. “Now we’re getting our news from the New York Times like a bunch of lowly Middlings.”

  Trey nods, a look of real frustration on his face. “Vivian has the news reporters blocked. We didn’t see the release of Smart Pods in any of the clairvoyants’ reports. Operation Smart Pod Takeover is out of our control it seems, at least for now. Vivian just keeps outmaneuvering us.”

  Trey sounds dejected and it almost makes me nervous. This is a man who has seen it all, lost it all, and always stayed strong and rebuilt. But now he’s like a shadow, dark and subject to other forces. He, like me, isn’t used to failing at being the one in control. Our enemies don’t usually take power or keep it for very long, but Vivian appears to have us at a disadvantage and the most infuriating thing is I don’t know what that fucking is.

  “We know how to get around her ability to reflect, which blinds our reporters. Roya is supposed to be reporting in a metal-free environment,” I say, directing my hostility at Trey.

  “Roya’s reports have stopped. It doesn’t matter where she reports anymore. She’s not seeing anything,” Trey says, now tossing his hand through his silver hair. It’s an old gesture he used to do nonstop. It only now surfaces when he feels circumstances are outside his control.

  “What? Like no reports on Vivian?” I say.

  “No reports at all,” he says.

  “But she’s our best reporter,” I say, a fuse lighting, connected to panic. We can’t lose Roya’s vision. “Without her reports we aren’t just at a disadvantage against Vivian, we’re at a loss for events worldwide.”

  He nods, and now I acutely see the source of his frustration. Roya is notorious for seeing hundreds of events per day and all ones of great significance. Not only has Trey lost his best source of news reports, but his daughter has lost her skill. Not having powers is not something a Dream Traveler takes well. It reduces us to a lower status. Puts us on a level playing field with a Middling. Makes us normal.

  I let out a long breath in an attempt to quell the flames in my head. It
only fans the fire. “That fucking bitch, Vivian. I can’t believe she got this past us,” I say.

  “I know. I thought we had more time before she released the Smart Pods, time for us to stop her. Or at least see what was coming,” Trey says and he almost sounds angry. That’s a first. “But we didn’t. We didn’t see this coming. And now it’s too late to stop her. The devices are already being overnighted to ten thousand houses.”

  “There’s got to be a way to stop those from getting into homes. To stop future purchases,” I say, standing and immediately launching into a back and forth pacing.

  “Ren, I need one hundred percent of your efforts on finding out who that mole is inside the Institute,” Trey says.

  I halt and stare at Trey. “The fucking Smart Pods are going to be in homes soon. That means Vivian will be in homes and able to make those residents do whatever she wants. And who the fuck even knows what that is. We don’t. We’re as useless as the bloody Pentagon,” I say.

  “Yes, I get that. But she’s going to keep outmaneuvering us if we can’t stop her mole. We will never be able to get ahead of her to stop what’s she’s doing,” Trey says.

  “We don’t even know what she plans to do,” I yell, throwing my hands in the air. For the first time ever I’m powerless. I don’t know who’s blocking our efforts, what my nemesis is up to, or how to stop her. I’m like a fucking Middling.

  “Ren, find the mole.”

  I turn and make for the door. “Yeah, fine. I’ll find the mole, but that’s not all I’m going to bloody do.”

  “Where are you going?” Trey says.

  “I’m going to find out what Vivian plans to do with the Smart Pods.”

  “How?”

  I turn and regard Trey with a raised eyebrow. “I’m going to go ask the bitch.”

  Chapter Seven

  “I like the cream-colored crib, but the choice is yours,” Dahlia says, her voice growing louder as she approaches.

  “I don’t know,” I hear Adelaide say. “They’re all nice, it’s just…”

  I clang my spoon louder inside my teacup in attempt to drown out their repulsive banter.

  “It’s just what?” Dahlia pressures. The pages of a catalogue crinkle as I hear her flip through it. “There’s over three dozen options here. We’ve been through this a ton of times and you won’t make a decision. Isn’t there a single one you want? We need to order now.”

  Adelaide sighs.

  Even with my back to Adelaide, I know the look she has on her face. She’s been wearing it full time since starting this nursery planning with Dahlia. Even before actually but more so now. Dahlia isn’t a master at reading people. She doesn’t get what that lost look in Adelaide’s eyes means.

  “It’s just…well, any of those would be great but…”

  “But what? You refuse to make a choice on cribs, bedding, paint colors, clothes. I get that it’s overwhelming but you’re over seven months pregnant. We need to get the nursery together,” Dahlia says.

  “I know. And I will. But I just don’t want you to worry about it,” Adelaide says.

  “I’m not worried,” Dahlia says. “I’m trying to help.”

  “Can we talk about this later?”

  “What? No. Just pick a crib and then we can do the rest later. Or I’ll hire a designer, although I thought you’d have more fun choosing options. You get to use your creative eye here,” Dahlia says. I hear the catalogue being slapped on the counter. “Just pick a crib.”

  “Uhhhh…umm… I don’t know.”

  “Adelaide,” Dahlia says, that familiar pressuring tone in her voice. She should have gone into politics.

  I spin around, but keep my eyes low. “Adelaide doesn’t want your help. She’s afraid the crib and all this is too much money. She knows she needs assistance but doesn’t know how to accept it,” I say.

  “What?” Adelaide squeaks out. “No, it’s not that.”

  “For fuck sake, you know I’m a human lie detector, right?” I say.

  “Adelaide, is that true?” Dahlia says, putting her hand on the girl’s shoulder. For as apathetic as the pop star is she knows how to act compassionate. It’s how she scores fans. Like me, she knows how to act to get people to behave in effective ways and I know Dahlia is tired of the avoiding act Adelaide has been playing.

  The manatee shrugs. “I mean, it’s just that all of those cribs are thousands of dollars. And all the samples you have me looking through are from designer brands. It’s just that I think you’re being too generous.”

  Dahlia swings her head over her shoulder and gives me a mischievous smile. It’s glorious on her face, making me want to almost rip the white capris off her right now. Then I catch the sight of Adelaide beside her and the urge falls away.

  “Adelaide thinks I’m giving her all these expensive choices because I’m generous. Isn’t that cute, Ren?” Dahlia says.

  “As adorable as a fucking premature runt puppy,” I say.

  She turns back to Adelaide, who is scowling at me, as usual. “Firstly, your father is buying all this stuff. I think this counts as back child support.”

  “I haven’t asked for that,” Adelaide says.

  The two clucking women are blocking the exit or otherwise I’d stomp off. Adelaide blocks wide hallways these days. I could take the exit to the backyard but as usual the sun in Los Angeles is blazing like Satan is trying to fry every last hipster in this godforsaken city. I pin my hands on the kitchen bar behind me and regard the crown molding on the far wall like it’s a bloody convict.

  “Of course you haven’t asked for anything,” Dahlia says. “But regardless, you’re getting it.”

  “Fine, but I want less fancy options,” Adelaide says.

  Dahlia lays her hand on the countertop, hitches up her hip. Adelaide is tough but she’s got no idea who she’s arguing with here. “The thing is that this is my house and the only trashy furniture allowed in here is Ren’s dumb armchair,” Dahlia says.

  “That’s because I care more about that beautiful chair than I do about you, dear Dahlia,” I say, my gaze still on the French décor–inspired crown molding.

  “No one is arguing that.” She swings back in Adelaide’s direction. “You think this is about you, Adelaide.”

  “She’ll learn soon. It’s never about anyone else when Dahlia is involved,” I interject.

  Dahlia pauses, probably trying to decide whether to respond to me. “Anyway,” she finally says. “I have an affliction to looking at cheap furniture, furnishings, etc. So anything that’s going to be in my house is going to be overpriced and made by designers who are too thin and wear too much makeup.”

  “So now you know that this isn’t because Dahlia is a sweetheart who wants the very best for you,” I say. “If you’re offended and want to tell her off then I completely understand. You should direct some of those crazy pregnancy emotions at the diva. She can handle it and loves name calling.”

  Adelaide, I notice from my peripheral vision, looks directly at me, a half smile half scowl on her face. “You people are super fucked up, you do realize?”

  “Why thank you,” I say, finally tearing my eyes away from their resting spot to look at the girl. “I did realize that and now I’m proud to know you’ve noticed. It’s no fun being fucked up and not getting attention for it.”

  “There’s poor people who could benefit from the millions you both throw away on Armani suits and limos,” Adelaide says.

  “Here’s the deal, Addy. Being poor is a choice. People make decisions every day that decide whether they are fat or stupid or poor. It is not my responsibility to interfere in the lives people have chosen,” I say.

  “But you interfere in people’s lives all the time working for the Lucidites. Saving them from plane crashes or whatever it is you do,” she says.

  A chime like a low church bell dings throughout the house. It’s Dahlia’s repulsive doorbell. When I run the world, doorbells will be outlawed. Calling on people will be discouraged
.

  “Here’s a key point that you need drilled into your brain,” I say, employing the lecturing tone I usually reserve for my students. “You can save a person’s life and still they may waste away. Health, wealth, and intelligence are matters of conviction. I cannot create that in another person. I really can’t help the poor. Say I give them money. If they don’t feel deserving of it then they’ll lose it somehow and be back to poverty in no time. Look at you, for instance, we bought you maternity clothes, offered you the best stylist and the best foods. Still every day you choose to wear your old clothes, your hair is in desperate need of a trim, and you chomp on cheap saltine crackers. It’s a matter of deservability. I can drag you to the feast but if you don’t feel you are worthy of it then you’ll never have it. You can’t force feed wealth.”

  She looks at me, her eyes shifting slightly as these ideas sink in. “Is this the kind of thing you teach at the Institute?”

  “Sure, as well as how those buffoons can act to cause me the least amount of irritation when they’re released into the wild,” I say.

  “You’re a real philanthropist, aren’t you,” she says, now looking amused, but in her melancholy way. Adelaide is always sad. It’s like her underlining surface emotion. And I’m getting a bit tired of seeing it on her face. Emotions are a choice. No one makes us any certain way. We wake up every single day and make a decision. Most, like Adelaide, decide to blame and be victims.