WE KNEW BUT WE DIDN'T KNOW

 

 

CHAPTER SEVEN—I WANT TO LIVE;I WANT TO LIVE

I calculated that it was probably okay to return to Kathy’s room. A few nurses entered the waiting room. One of them addressed me tersely, “I’m here to use the vending machine. The ones in the nursing station are out of order.”

“Suit yourself,” I shrugged. My tone was deliberately rude and I stared down that long-nosed nurse. Her eyes were the colour of balsamic vinegar. The vinyl-covered chair-seat made a long, wet farting sound as I lifted my bum to stand up. That made me laugh. The sound of my laughter shocked me. It was so harsh and ugly. I stormed out of the waiting room, muttering “fat, stupid bitches,” but I cautioned myself, “Tone it down, sister. Tone it down. The last thing in the world that you need is a written reprimand.” It occurred to me that a good strategy would be to report the nurses before they reported me. I was almost certain that they weren’t allowed inside a carers’ waiting room even if their vending machines were out of order. And so I pretended there were puppeteer strings pulling my neck upwards, and I walked as briskly as I could to the nursing station.

Only one nurse, a wee mousy one, was seated on a tall stool behind a surprisingly pink counter. She looked up at me and asked, not unkindly, “May I help you?”

“Yes, I’d like to report that three nurses are using the carers’ lounge, and they made me so uncomfortable that I had to leave.”

“How exactly did they make you feel uncomfortable? What did they say or do?”

“They looked at me like I’m a piece of garbage. I’ve read the Recovery Facilities Guidelines Manual. They’re not allowed to use rooms which are for carers only.”

“True, but our vending machines aren’t working. They must have gotten permission from the chief nurse.”

“I’m here to lodge a complaint with the chief nurse.”

“Well, she won’t be in until later this afternoon. Would you like to fill out a complaint form?”

I paused. That might prove to be more trouble than it was worth. It could also backfire. My few minutes of defiance had been spent. I shuffled my feet, conscious of my cheap vinyl shoes with multiple dings.

“No, I haven’t the time. I must get back to my charge, but thank you for your courtesy.” The mouse-nurse looked surprised, but not displeased. She said, “Let me know if it happens again.” But I knew that I wouldn’t.

When I got back to Kathy’s room, she was alone and her eyes were closed. The door had been left open, though. I allowed myself the luxury of admiring her hands, fingers and the gold ring with the garnet gemstone. Only one thing bothered me, well, actually, two things. The gemstone was the same colour as blood. I hadn’t noticed that before. It looked like ice-blood. And what if someone would confiscate or steal her ring? How could I prevent that from happening? I decided to have another chat with mouse-nurse. There was something approachable about her. She hadn’t been friendly toward me, but neither had she been hostile.

What I liked most about Kathy’s ring, no, what I loved about it, was that it looked like something a mother or grandmother would give to a daughter or granddaughter. It looked like a gift of love, and in a way, it was. I wished that somebody had cared enough about me to give me something so valuable, so personal. Of course, I could save up and buy a pretend heirloom for myself, but that wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t be the same at all.

Kathy stirred, moaned softly, a bad dream? sleep pain? The kind of pain that seeps into your bones and won't let go? I was feeling pretty useless as her carer, but she was far too weak for walks and even wheeling her onto her Juliet balcony seemed to require more stamina than she had. Watching her listless tosses and turns, I started feeling despondent. I decided to spend some time after my shift at a Sally Ann shop near my flat The place smelled bad, old and slightly rancid, but I had been lucky there with several attractive catches, if one overlooks minor stains and snags.

Before leaving Kathy's room, I did something I hadn't done before. I bent over her pallid face and kissed her on the forehead. I wanted my lips to touch her skin as tenderly as possible: the kiss of a mother, a sister, a friend.

It was raining lightly when I exited the centre. The falling water was warmer than it usually is in late October. For some reason, this cheered me up a bit. I was trying to decide if I should rummage for articles of clothing or decorative items for my flat. These purchases always made me feel a little happy if only for a day or two. I wondered if the good feeling would last longer were the items posh and truly beautiful.

Sally Ann shops are like dollar stores. Everything, every single item, is affordable. I find that solidly comforting. The clientele is mixed. I would say half of the customers are clones and the other half are down and out regulars or old people on a fixed income. The clerks are often young and tattooed with piercings in peculiar places. They aren't nasty, though. If you ask them a question, they generally answer courteously. It's always stuffy, the air stale, and after half an hour, my scalp begins to itch and I need to leave, whether I've found something to take home or not.

I realized that I was hungry, but I didn't feel like a takeaway cheese or egg sandwich. I felt like a proper restaurant meal, but the only restaurant where we were allowed in the neighborhood was most likely jam-packed, and I didn't feel like engaging in chitchat. I didn't want to talk about Kathy, and that was always the main topic of conversation: Who's your charge? How many donations has he done? Is he going to complete next time around? Do you get on? How old is she? Where did she use to board? What does she know about Hailsham?

Carers rarely talk about our own vocations. It's a scary topic. No one wants to think too hard and closely about our careers and when they will end. We know that we won't be carers for the rest of our lives; eventually we'll be the ones lying in the donor beds.

 I don't know what I hoped to find at the Sally Ann shop that particular Saturday but it had to be something out of the ordinary, something especially fetching. I walked around quite aimlessly, noting there were very few customers in the shop and that all of them were elderly. I wondered what it must feel like to grow old, diminished, bent and wrinkled. I had read that in some cultures, old people were greatly respected, but life for the aged was becoming increasingly precarious in the country where I was cloned and raised. Government subsidies were shrinking, and people without private means were being forced to enter completion programmes. Not all of them, of course, but some of them: the handicapped, those with dementia or substance addictions.  Perhaps that is why the elderly were interacting with us clones more and more. We were beginning to have a lot in common, and that made both groups deeply uneasy.

Perhaps I was jealous. I would never have children, grandchildren. I would never travel to another country. I would never have a husband or a proper job. most of these shuffling relics were two-thirds older than I would live to be. Like me, they had no future, but unlike me, they had a past. I left the shop with my hands in my pockets. I tried to walk tall and proud, but I felt so purposeless. Being a carer was something, surely, but wasn't I merely an overseer of death? Wasn't I really biding time until my own number was called?

The thought of returning to my cheap flat was discouraging, but there was really nowhere else to go. I wouldn't have minded returning to Windmere heights and keeping Kathy company, but my pass wasn't valid after 6 pm. I needed something to hold on to, a meaningful task or errand to have in mind, to carry me through the following day. Then I remembered bitterly that the following day was a Sunday, a day off, whatever that was supposed to mean. Off what? Off duty? Off colour? No, better not to overthink, not to think. Walk in the rain, Sophie girl. Fix yourself something tasty when you get home. Find a way to contact Carla, Sophie, Allen, Mr. Steeple, or start with a smaller step, a baby step. Visit Mr. and Mrs. Gold. Win their friendship, for they are old and foreign-born, and perhaps they are just as frightened as you are.

 

A shadow of deep anxiety had intruded into my thoughts, but I couldn't deconstruct it all at once. And my legs and feet were so tired. I had to get home and find a way to eat, unwind and sleep. I promised myself that the following day, Sunday, would be different. And every day after that would be somehow different. Each subsequent day would be distinct. Good or bad. Triumphs or defeats. I had to find a way of living my own life even though I had no practice doing so. I had to find a way to create new meaning.

The flat was empty when I let myself in. It lacked charm and points of interest, but at least it was tidy and clean, and not outright ugly. I didn’t know whether to throw myself onto my narrow bed or find something to eat in the almost equally narrow kitchen. I couldn’t understand why I felt so thoroughly exhausted, as though I had been working and worrying without any sleep for weeks on end.

Hunger trumped fatigue. I shuffled into the kitchen in my shaggy-raggedy house shoes. The hushed sound of the soles on the floor was rather pleasant. The refrigerator was sparsely furbished: a carton of milk, a few hard-boiled eggs, bright orange processed cheese and loaf of sliced white bread. The pantry offered slim pickings as well: a pack of crisps, a jar of Marmite, and a box of social tea biscuits. I decided that a generous stack of biscuits and a pot of tea would suit me fine. If only I had a bottle of contraband wine. Wine, beer and cigarettes were hard to come by for clones, strictly black market business and very costly. And if one were caught, the fines were very stiff and one could even be relocated and reclassified.

A bubble bath might calm my jagged nerves. Of course, I didn’t own any proper bubble bath, but liquid dishwashing soap did the job just fine. I was a twenty-five year-old clone carer and virgin. I didn’t have to be a virgin. It wasn’t against the rules not to be one, but I wanted to fall in love, or if not quite that, something close to it.

I knew quite a bit about Kathy and Tommy. They were almost as famous among British clones as Romeo and Juliet. I recall a conversation I had with Eleanor, a few years back about them:

“Requited love. Wow! Do you suppose they were really and truly in love with each other?”

I bit my lower lip. “Yes, why wouldn’t they have been? They grew up together. They understood each other. They gave each other purpose and courage. But Eleanor, I’ve been wondering about something else. Do you think it’s possible for a human to fall in love with a clone?”

“Anything’s possible, Sophie. I mean, why not? Who knows, maybe there’ve been people who fell in love with clones and hid them away or disguised them and bought them new identities. But the problem with that is what happens if the people fell out of love with the clones? What would happen to them then?”

“Who? The people or the clones?”

“Both.”

“Well, it might not be as bad as we would think. After all, the human would get into serious trouble for harbouring or disguising a clone. That’s a felony. So maybe deals have been struck and they both go their separate ways but promise to never say anything.”

“I’m sure it happens, Eleanor. History gives us examples: white slave-owners fell in love with black slaves. Even Nazis fell in love with Jews.”

“Yes, but Jews and Nazis and blacks and whites are all people, the same species. It’s not really the same with people and clones.

“It is and it isn’t. Look at us and look at them. The only difference is in our clothes and accessories. And even then it’s only when the people have money. When they’re dirt poor or white-trash, they don’t look any different than we do. I’d love to get a male person to fall in love with me. I once had a kind of boyfriend, and he knew the truth about me and he liked me. He liked me a lot. But I was just a teenager. He was young himself and had no position, no power. But what if I could meet someone, someone rich and powerful?”

 “You’re pretty enough, Sophie. You really are.”

“So are you, Eleanor. So are you.” Less than a month later, Eleanor was completed. But if any of us girl clones could have attracted the attentions of a male person, it would have been Eleanor, who seemed to have a genuine personality and joie de vivre. Everything about her asserted, “I want to live, I want to live, I want to live.”