Chapter Three

 

“Dr. Hartley, open the door please! Emma!” Lana’s desperate voice outside my storefront made me sick. It had been weeks of her coming every day, begging me to let her in, but I never did.

Remembering her husband’s threats, I shook my head. “You have to go home, Lana. You need to spend some time away. Your husband says he’ll frame me for murder if I let you in. Surely, you see I can’t have that.”

Tears streamed her pale cheeks as she shook her head, frantic for me to open the door. Her eyes were filled with despondency as she pleaded, “Please, Emma. Please. I need this. There is nothing in my life. It’s empty. Please don't make me live this way. I need to be that girl, the one who’s happy.”

I lost my battle then.

My fingers knew that word “need.”

Slowly they made their way up the door, gripping the handle.

The desperation in her face broke my heart.

My fingers made a terrible choice.

They turned the lock against my better judgment.

They ignored the promise I had silently made to myself, swearing to never open my door to her again.

But her hopelessness and need spoke to my own.

Again, my brain whispered what if?

What if she needed it just one more time because this was the thing stopping her from running back into the burning house?

What if this were the one time that cured her obvious depression and convinced her to leave the moronic bastard she was married to?

What if she simply needed one last time, for closure’s sake?

What if I was living vicariously through her, and as hard as it was for her to say no to herself, it was equally as hard for me to say no?

What if?

I opened the door, ignoring the men in the car across the street—the men who watched my shop because they watched her. She was more or less a hostage or a victim of her marriage and that made me want to help her even more.

The moment the door closed though, she became the addict I had convinced myself I didn't see.

She scrambled to the chair, shaking her head of dark hair back and forth, preparing for the ride of a lifetime. Most people came because they wanted to live out their love of a novel. Most thought it was like a ride at a fun park for the literary people of the world. A fun park based entirely upon your own imagination and pleasure.

Lana Delacroix saw it as an escape.

And I saw her as an escape.

She was mentally fleeing a situation she deemed hopeless.

I was mentally fleeing my own mind.

I clamped her in and pressed the screen, bringing light into the small room. The man in the other room, who was enjoying Moby Dick, was nearly done, so I left her as she drifted off into her slumber and woke him up, smiling as he sighed. “You really are a genius, Emma. That was incredible.”

“Thank you.” I bowed slightly. “Thank you, Mr. Frank. I am so pleased you enjoyed yourself.”

“It was inconceivable. I feel the need to wipe the seawater from my face. I can’t believe the reality that is party to it all. It’s overwhelming and at the same time enchanting.” He got up and left, cheerful and waving. I locked the door after him, noticing the car across the street was gone.

I suspected it wasn’t something I should be relieved about. Their absence was ominous.

But I let her stay in the machine a bit longer than normal, allowing her to be free for a while longer. This was definitely her last time.

When I woke her, her eyes didn't have the same relaxed look. Her pupils didn't go back to the right size, and she didn't stretch or yawn. She sat there, staring at the ceiling.

“You all right?”

“Yeah.” She nodded but it took several tense seconds for her to blink and speak, “I just wish it were real.”

“I can’t let you come back, Lana. Ever. This was the last time, okay?”

“I know.” She got up and left, no thank you or goodbye. She unlocked the door and walked out into the rain. She truly was the drug addict leaving the dealer’s house, perhaps hating both of us for her needing and my enabling.

It felt a little off. I had made a mistake in letting her back in.

Instead of allowing the guilt to linger, I fell back on my go-to answers to justify my actions. The research had proven it was nonaddicting because the reward system in the brain, the limbic system, is tricked into shutting down. The neurons cannot send neurotransmitters, specifically dopamine, because they have been fooled into believing there is nothing worthy of a reward going on in the brain. That section of the brain is blocked from enjoying the process to the point of euphoria since the euphoria is falsely created for the subject. It cannot affect the body, only trick the brain into creating feelings that aren’t there. If the dopamine and neurotransmitters aren’t there, one cannot become addicted to them.

That was the theory, but seeing her face made me think otherwise.

The map of the machine started to flutter about in my head. I wondered where I might have gone wrong. I suspected the false euphoria was the problem.

There was also the possibility that the nanocomputers, microbiosensors, had changed or evolved. They could be tricky to control since they were highly adaptive. It was conceivable that they had mutated. I had to take the machine apart and see. But I needed some fresh air to contemplate it all.

I closed the shop and left through the back door.

During the short walk to my apartment I was seemingly on autopilot as I considered the places I might have gone wrong. One fearful thought played in my mind: what if Lana had gained more control than was intended? What if she was not only choosing her own adventure but also creating a new story from within?

Or what if the nanobots had taken over inside her and were doing it for her?

Jesus.

The possibility made me laugh as I entered my building, imagining evil robots taking over the world in a zombie-apocalypse-styled raid, like in a videogame. Nanocomputers taking over people, controlling them.

Had I made the first zombie?

Lana had acted like one when she left.

When I got inside, Lola was panting at the door. She leapt at me, still amped from the neighbor taking her out for her one of her scheduled walks or bathroom breaks.

“Hello, my love.” I kissed her soft head, inhaling the perfumed smell of her doggy shampoo. She had been to the groomer only the day before and was as fresh as a flower. “How was your day?”

She tilted her head, contemplating my question and me.

I placed her down, getting her dish of food. I scooped the saucy meats she loved into the dish. “Look, bison tripe. Who’s excited?”

She ran around in a small circle, doing her saucy-meat dance. The dog was a charmer. Her tricolored body was mostly white with small spots and stripes of beige and brown. She had the huge elephant ears papillons were known for and the curly tail. I adored her dainty feet and tiny beak.

I stroked her back as I placed the dish on the floor. She lapped at the tripe and crunched the kibbles I had stirred in.

After watching her for a few minutes, I grabbed a dinner from the freezer, pad Thai, and started heating it up.

My mind wandered.

Had I done something that now, five years later, I should take a closer look at?

Lana was the first and only patient to come on a regular basis. I should have paid more attention to that—studied her. I adored the joy she got, and I had lived vicariously through her on each journey.

Every time she went in, I closed my eyes and imagined it.

I too was Scarlett, descending the beautiful staircase at Twelve Oaks, excited to see Rhett. Only he wasn’t Clark Gable. He was my dead husband, Jonathan.

That was where everything went wrong, even in a simple daydream.

Jonathan would then smile at me coyly, maybe smirk a little before turning and walking from the room. Like Alice was with the white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, I would need to chase after him. But the dress was so grand and the stairs so high, I wouldn't be able to. In my head, I took the stairs slowly, my eyes always searching for him.

He would be the white rabbit, misplaced in the story of Miss Scarlett and her Rhett. Jonathan would be impossible to nail down to get a clear glimpse of. He would lead me around the rooms. It would end up more frustrating than exhilarating. A puzzle that couldn't be solved or escaped from.

And now it would all be over because, no matter what, Lana wouldn't be back. I would keep my promise to the mayor.

She was addicted, and as much as I wanted to study that, I had to respect the fact she was a regular person and not a test subject.

I curled up on the couch with the news on, flashing images and words, but my brain was lost in the sea of possibilities and problems. I crawled around inside the machine mentally, trying to find the flaw.

My stomach growled.

I glanced back at the microwave, sighing. I’d forgotten my meal again. I poured a bowl of cereal and ate it, leaning against the counter and visualizing my problems on the wall.

Lola barked at me, scratching at the door.

I searched for my coat, realizing I was still wearing it.

I was losing my mind.

Grabbing her leash and my keys, I darted out into the hall, only to discover I’d forgotten her in the apartment. I sighed, cupping my face with my hands and taking in several breaths before getting her and heading for the walk.

We had a private park in the back of the building, specifically for dogs. It was a safe place to walk at night in Manhattan.

I paced and strolled, tapping my fingers as she scampered about, sniffing and peeing.

“Dr. Hartley?”

I turned, wincing when I saw the mayor again paying me a visit alone. “Mr. Mayor, to what do I owe this pleasure a second time?”

“You swore you would keep her from your shop.” The stricken look on his face made me less defensive than I could have been.

“She needed one last time. I had to do it. We never told her it was her last time before. She needed to go in once more knowing that; she needed closure. It was cruel to cut her off.”

“She’s nonresponsive. I hope you’re happy now.”

“What?” My heart leapt in my chest. “What do you mean? Did she hurt herself?”

“I took her to the hospital, but they can’t find a thing wrong with her.” His words were calm, the creepy kind, until he lashed forward, grabbing my arm roughly. “WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?”

“Nothing!” I shoved him back. “Nothing! Sir, get control of yourself.”

“YOU WILL TELL ME WHAT YOU DID!”

“Nothing.” I shook my head but my mind wandered. She had seemed different. “It was just like every other time, but she seemed sad. Take me to her.” I had to see her to understand it. Part of me believed she might be faking it. She hated her husband more than enough to do that, and she was mourning her loss of the fantasy.

“You will never see her again!” He grabbed my arm once more, his grip tightened, shaking me as he sputtered contradictory outbursts, “I will fucking kill you, and I do mean gut you like a fucking fish. You won’t see her again. You have to fix her. If she isn’t normal by tomorrow I will burn your whole shop to the ground with you in it,” he contradicted himself.

“Sir!” My insides tensed as I took each word he threatened me with seriously. “Stop!” I pulled back, trying to escape his clutches. “I need to see her. I understand you’re upset but attacking me will not fix this. I need to see her to fix it.”

He turned to drag me.

“Wait!” I pulled back. “My dog, Mr. Mayor. Stop. Please. I will put my dog inside and meet you downstairs, out front.” He seemed about to say something, but I changed my tone to a nonnegotiable one, “I want to help her. I see your wife has become addicted, I see that now. I agree with you. It’s impossible and yet she has. She’s had a reaction that shouldn't be possible. I want to solve it as well.”

He lifted a meaty finger, sticking it right in my face. “You better fix this, Doctor. Or I will kill you. I’m not playing around.” He turned and left the garden. His grief and anger made him sound like a mobster. He was an ass on a good day and this was not a good day.

My hands shook when I picked up Lola and carried her to the apartment. I didn't get my purse or anything else. Clutching my keys and cell phone, I turned and left.

Lana was nonresponsive?

How?

Was she stuck in the world of the novel?

Was that possible?

Could the nanocomputers have remained in her brain, attached, instead of flushing themselves from her body upon following the pied pipers down the chute?

No.

They were computers. I needed to stop making them the monsters. They didn't plot, except in horror movies. They did the one thing they were programmed to do. And she was the only person unable to move past it all after being unhooked. Everyone else who used the machine enjoyed the trip. They left smiling and peaceful, the way she used to.

Jesus, had I turned her into a zombie for real?

Was the horror movie coming true?

Had the nanobots evolved into something terrible?

Were they the monsters?

I walked out the front door, nodding at Andrew the doorman.

The mayor’s driver got the door for me, scowling like I was the devil herself. I climbed in the backseat, trying to ignore the tension and hatred being directed my way.

“How is this possible, Doctor?” the mayor asked from the dark of the car.

“I don't know.” I shook my head. “It isn’t. The program runs in a way to prevent addiction or even a bodily response. Everything is shut off and disconnected. The nanocomputers commit suicide, so to speak, when the program has run its course. It’s scientifically impossible. This is akin to coming home to find your computer has decided you’re having pizza for dinner and taken the liberty of ordering for you.”

“And yet, she is in a vegetative state. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t look around, almost like she has no control. Her eyes don't dilate. She is a corpse with a pulse.”

“Zombie,” I muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. I need to see her to understand.”

“Your shop is going down. It’s dangerous, just like I always said it was.” He pointed his meaty finger in my face again. “You are a dangerous woman. You’re going to be shut down and your pseudoscience is going to burn.”

I cocked an eyebrow at him. “Point that finger the other way. I didn't drive her to come to my shop every day of the week. How bad is your marriage that she needs the escape?” I regretted saying it the moment I did, but the expression on his face made it so much worse. He looked like he might strangle me so I moved closer to the door, turning away from him but keeping his movements in my peripheral.

When he finally did speak, his voice was thick with emotion, “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Possibly. But I suspect we’re both carrying some of the blame.” I stared at the seat ahead of me, frightened and confused.

When we arrived at the private hospital I didn't wait for the driver. I got my own door, hurrying to the front of the building as my insides became a scrambled mess and my heart raced. I marched down the stark hallway and pressed the button for the elevator, although I didn't know where I was going. I just needed to be away from him. I pressed the button for the floor I knew the patients with brain injuries went for testing.

I hurried to the nurses’ desk. The girl at the desk glanced up at me, but she immediately focused back on the computer screen.

“Lana Delacroix, please.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Who are you?”

“Her doctor.”

She raised one eyebrow, lowering the other in disbelief. The heavy steps of the solid and angry mayor behind me vibrated through my body. I pointed a thumb in his direction. “Ask him. I’m her doctor.”

“LET HER THROUGH!”

The nurse jumped, pressing a button for a large door to open. “Room 8.”

I walked quickly, hoping to escape the wrath of the titan following me.

In Room 8, I found exactly what he had described. Lana was in a bed, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. I paused in the doorway, turning back. “Let me see her, alone.”

He appeared as though he might argue or throttle me right there, but he nodded once and folded his thick arms.

I turned back toward her and walked in slowly, watching to see if she moved in any way that might reveal the fact she was playing possum for her husband’s attention. I settled next to her in the chair and continued to observe her for several moments. She did not move except to breathe.

Having touched her a thousand times, the intimacy of the moment didn't hit me until afterward; I stroked her hair from her face like a mother or a sister would. “Lana, tell me what’s happened. It’s Emma.”

A tear slipped from her eye—a response, though nonverbal.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, her lips didn't move, but an emotional crisis was obviously burning its way through her. I continued to rub her dark hair from her clammy forehead. I had to know if an attachment had somehow formed for her, if she had somehow become part of her story but was unable to walk away. “Tell me what’s wrong. Do you miss Rhett?” Her eyes didn't budge. “Ashley Wilkes?” Again, she did not respond. “Have you fallen in love with something inside Gone with the Wind?”

At that moment, she twitched. Her eyes darted about the ceiling as her lips formed a word, actually two, “Danny Jacobs.”

I honestly didn't recall all the characters. It had been years since I’d read the novel or seen the movie. “Did you somehow fall in love with it all? Or just Danny?”

“Danny.” Her eyes fluttered for a moment before she lost responsiveness, and she was again stuck staring at the ceiling.

“Did she say anything?”

I glanced back at the doorway, nodding. “Danny Jacobs, one of the characters in the book, I assume. She must somehow be stuck in the story. I don't see how this is possible. I’m worried she may have had a stroke during the program or something. I can check my records for her vitals, but I doubt there is anything there. My sensors would have picked up even the slightest change unless maybe they’ve glitched. I mean, it’s possible. I’ll go over everything again. She shows signs of being in shock or possibly the nanocomputers haven’t left the system, which should be impossible, in theory, but there could always be a glitch. Nothing is perfect.”

The mayor’s eyes became slits, dark angry slits. “What did you just say?”

“What?” I hesitated to repeat it. “Which part?”

“Did you say Danny Jacobs?”

I nodded, completely confused. His rage took over.

He flew toward me, ripping me from the chair and gripping my arms. My head jerked back and forth like I was being murdered in a martini shaker. His screams owned all the air around us. I screamed in response and when attendants and nurses filled the room, he was pried from my body.

“Stop!” I blinked through tears.

“GET HER OUT OF HERE! GET HER OUT!” he screamed and pointed, hitting women and men alike.

I scrambled to my feet, racing from the room as they pinned him against the far wall in the hallway. I didn't wait for the elevator. I took the stairs, sprinting as fast as I could. When I broke through the doors at the front of the hospital, I dropped to my knees, gasping for air and sobbing.

I had no idea what just happened.