UnWholly (37 page)

“You didn’t let me finish. He’s also clever, loyal, passionate, responsible, and a strong leader, but is too humble to admit all that to himself.”

“Is?”

“Was,” she says, covering. “Sometimes it feels like he’s still here.”

“I think I would have liked to have known him.”

Risa shakes her head. “He’d hate you.”

“Why?”

“Because he was also jealous.”

Silence falls between them again, but this time it’s not awkward at all.

“I’m glad you shared that with me,” Cam says. “There’s something I’d like to share with you, too.”

Risa has no idea what he’s going to say, but she finds she’s actually curious.

“Did you know a kid named Samson when you were back at the state home?” he asks.

She searches her thoughts. “Yes—he was on the harvest camp bus with me.”

“Well, he had a secret crush on you.”

At first it boggles Risa how he would know this, and when the truth dawns on her, a surge of reflexive adrenaline triggers her fight-or-flight response. She gets up, fully prepared to run back to the mansion, or jump off the cliff, or whatever it will take to get away from this revelation, but Cam eclipses her like a moon before one of his precious stars.

“Algebra!” he says. “He was a math whiz. I got the part of him that does algebra. It’s just a tiny part, but when I came across your picture, well, I guess it was enough to make me stop and take notice. Then, when Roberta heard that you’d been captured, she pulled strings to get you here. For me. So it’s my fault that you’re here.”

She doesn’t want to look at him, but she can’t stop. It’s like looking at a traffic accident. “How am I supposed to feel about this, Cam? I can’t pretend not to be horrified! I’m here because
of some whim you had, but that whim wasn’t even yours! It was that poor kid’s!”

“No, it wasn’t like that,” says Cam quickly. “Samson was like . . . like a friend who taps you on the shoulder to get your attention . . . but what I feel for you—it’s all me. Not just algebra, but, well, the whole equation.”

She turns her back to him, grabbing the blanket and wrapping it around herself. “I want you to go now.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, “but I didn’t want there to be any secrets between us.”

“Please leave.”

He keeps his distance, but he doesn’t go. “ ‘I’d rather be partly great than entirely useless.’ Wasn’t that the last thing he said to you? I feel it’s my responsibility to make that wish come true.”

And finally he goes inside, leaving her alone with way too many people’s thoughts.

•   •   •

Ten minutes later Risa still stands with the blanket wrapped around her, not wanting to go inside, but the circular pattern of her own thoughts begins to nauseate her.

I can’t give in to this—I must give in to this—I can’t give in to this,
over and over until she just wants to shut herself down.

When she finally steps into the house, she hears music, which is not unusual, but this music isn’t being pumped through the sound system. Someone is playing classical guitar. The piece sounds Spanish, and although many things sound Spanish when played on a classical twelve-string, this has a definite flamenco feel.

Risa follows the tune to the main living room, where Cam sits, curled over the instrument, lost in the music he’s playing. She didn’t even know he played—but she shouldn’t be surprised; he came loaded with a veritable full house of skills.
Still, playing guitar like this requires the melding of many things: muscle memory, combined with cortical and auditory memory, everything linked through a brain stem capable of coordinating it all.

The music lulls her, disarms her, enchants her, and she begins to realize that these are not just other people’s parts. Someone is pulling those parts together. For the first time Risa truly begins to see Cam as an individual, struggling to pull together the many gifts he’s been given. He didn’t ask for these things, and he couldn’t refuse them if he wanted to. As horrified as she was by him five minutes ago, this new revelation soothes her. It compels her to sit at the piano across the room and begin a simple accompaniment.

When he hears her, he brings his instrument closer, and sits beside her. No words are spoken; instead they communicate through the rhythms and harmonies. He lets her take control of the piece, lets it evolve at her hand, then she seamlessly gives it over to him again. They could go on for hours, and soon realize that they actually have, but neither one wants to be the first to stop.

Maybe, Risa thinks, there is a way to make this life work, and maybe there’s not—but right now, in the moment, there’s nothing more wonderful than losing herself to the music. Until now, she had forgotten how good that feels.

Back from commercial, the studio audience applauds on cue, as if the viewers at home missed something.

“For those of you just tuning in,” says one of the show’s hosts, “our guests today are Camus Comprix and Risa Ward.”

The young man with multiple skin tones that are exotic yet
pleasing to the eye waves to the audience with one hand. With the other he clasps the hand of the pretty girl next to him. The couple looks perfect—as if they were meant to be. Camus, the audience quickly learns, prefers to be called Cam. He’s even more interesting to behold in person than in the many teaser ads they’ve seen—ads that prepared them for something mysterious and wonderful. But this boy isn’t mysterious at all—just wonderful, and they are certainly not shocked by his appearance, because the ads have fermented shock into intoxicating curiosity.

The studio audience, as well as the audience at home, is more than primed, because they know this is something special—this is Cam’s first major public appearance. And what better way to welcome him into the spotlight than on
Brunch with Jarvis and Holly
, a friendly, nonthreatening morning talk show? Everyone loves Jarvis and Holly, who are so funny together and are in such comfortable command of their fashionably decorated faux living room set.

“Cam, there’s quite a controversy as to how you . . . ‘came to be.’ I wonder how you feel about that?” asks Holly.

“Not my problem,” Cam says. “It used to bother me when people would say terrible things about me, but I came to realize it only matters what one person thinks.”

“Yourself,” Holly prompts.

“No, her,” he says, and glances at Risa. The audience laughs. Risa offers a humble smile. Then Holly and Jarvis go into some cute little banter about who wears the pants in various relationships. Jarvis poses the next question.

“Risa, you’ve been through a lot yourself. A ward of the state, a rehabilitated AWOL . . . I’m sure our audience would love to know how you and Cam met.”

“I got to know Cam after my spinal surgery,” Risa tells the world. “It was the same clinic where he got put together. He
came to see me every day to talk to me. Eventually I came to realize that . . .” She hesitates for a moment, perhaps choked up by her emotions. “I came to realize that his whole was greater than the sum of his parts.”

It is just the type of thing people love to hear. The whole audience releases a collective “Aw . . .” Cam smiles at Risa and clasps her hand tighter.

“We’ve all seen your public service announcements,” says Holly. “I still get chills when I see you rise out of that wheelchair.” Then she turns to the audience. “Am I right?” The audience applauds in agreement; then she turns back to Risa. “Yet I would think when you were an AWOL you must have been very much against unwinding.”

“Well,” says Risa, “who wouldn’t be against it when you’re the one being unwound?”

“So exactly when did your feelings change?”

Risa takes a visibly deep breath, and Cam squeezes her hand again. “It isn’t so much that they changed . . . but I found myself having to accept a broader perspective. If it hadn’t been for unwinding, Cam wouldn’t exist, and we wouldn’t be here together today. There’s always going to be suffering in the world, but unwinding takes suffering away from those of us”—she hesitates again—“those of us living meaningful lives.”

“So then,” Jarvis asks, “what would you say to kids out there who are AWOL?”

Risa looks down rather than at Jarvis when she speaks. “I would say if you’re running, then run—because you have every right to try to survive. But no matter what happens to you, know that your life has meaning.”

“Maybe even more meaning if they’re unwound?” prompts Jarvis.

“Maybe so.”

Then they segue into an introduction of a top fashion
designer, here to present a whole new line of trend-setting patchwork clothes inspired by Camus Comprix. Designs for men and women, boys and girls.

“We call it Rewind Chic,” says the designer, and models parade out to gleeful applause.

Once their appearance with Jarvis and Holly is over, Risa holds Cam’s hand until they are backstage and out of view of the audience. Then she releases it in disgust. Not disgust at him, but at herself.

“What is it?” Cam asks. “I’m sorry if I did something wrong.”

“Shut up! Just shut up!”

She looks for the bathroom but can’t find it. This blasted studio set is a maze, and everyone from the interns to the crew stares at them as they pass, as if they’re royalty. These people must get celebrities on this show every day, so what makes them any different? But she knows the answer to that: After a while a celebrity is just a celebrity, but there is only one Camus Comprix. He is the new golden child of humanity, and as for Risa, well, it’s “gilt” by association.

Finally she finds the bathroom and locks herself in, sits on the toilet, and buries her head in her hands. To have to defend unwinding—to have to say that the world is a better place because innocent kids are being unwound—shreds her inside. Her self-respect, her integrity are gone. Now, not only does she wish she hadn’t survived the explosion at Happy Jack, she wishes she had never been born at all.

Why are you doing this, Risa?

It’s the voices of all the kids at the Graveyard.
Why?
It’s the
voice of Connor, accusing her, and rightfully so. She wishes she could explain her reasons to him, and the deal with the devil she made with Roberta. A she-devil with the power to build herself a perfect boy.

And perfect, he very well may be. At least by society’s definition. Risa can’t deny that with each day, Cam grows more and more into his potential. He’s smart and strong, and has the capacity to be profoundly wise when he’s not being profoundly self-centered. The fact that she’s starting to see him as a real boy and not a piecemeal Pinocchio bothers her almost as much as the things she said today on camera.

There is an urgent banging at the bathroom door.

“Risa,” Cam calls, “are you okay? Please come out, you’re scaring me.”

“Leave me alone!” Risa shouts.

He says nothing more, but when she finally leaves the bathroom five minutes later, he’s still standing there, waiting. He would probably have waited all day and all night. She wonders whether such unyielding resolve came from his parts, or if it’s something he’s developed on his own.

She suddenly finds herself bursting into tears and throwing herself into his arms, not even knowing why. She wants to tear him to bits, yet she desperately wants him to comfort her. She wants to destroy everything he represents, and yet she wants to cry on his shoulder because she has no other shoulder to cry on. Around them, people ogle them, trying to be inconspicuous about it. Their hearts are warmed by what appears to be the embrace of two souls in love.

“Unfair,” he says. “They shouldn’t make you do these things if you’re not ready to do them.” And the fact that he, the subject of all this attention, understands her, empathizes with her, and is somehow on her side, confuses everything inside her even more.

“It’s not always going to be like this,” Cam whispers to her. She wants to believe that, but right now she can only imagine it being worse.

There are things that Roberta hasn’t told him. Her control over Risa is more than a mere matter of wills. It’s not as simple as gratitude for a new spine, because Risa isn’t grateful at all. It’s very clear that her spine is a burden she wishes she didn’t have to bear. Then why did she consent?

Every moment they’re together the question hangs heavy in the air, but when he broaches the subject, all Risa says is, “It was something I had to do,” and when he tries to probe deeper, she loses patience and tells him to stop pushing. “My reasons are my own.”

He wants to believe that he’s the reason why she’s doing all the things she’s doing—all these things that clearly go against her grain. But if there are any parts of him that are naive enough to believe that she’d do these interviews and ads for his sake, they are outnumbered by the parts of him that know better.

Their appearance on
Brunch with Jarvis and Holly
made it painfully clear that whatever pain Risa is feeling over her part in all this runs very deep. The fact that she allowed him to comfort her didn’t change that. If anything, it made him feel a responsibility to get to the bottom of it—not just for his own sake, but for hers. For how could anything between them ever be real without a full disclosure?

It all comes down to the day she signed that consent form—but asking Roberta about it is a useless endeavor. Then Cam realizes he doesn’t have to . . . because Roberta is the queen of surveillance videos.

“I need to see the surveillance records from April seventeenth,” Cam tells the security guard he’s most friendly with—the one he plays basketball with—after they return to Molokai.

“No can do,” he tells Cam, right off the bat. “No one sees those without permission from you-know-who. Get her permission, and I’ll show you whatever you want.”

“She’ll never know.”

“Don’t matter.”

“But it’ll matter if I tell her I caught you trying to steal from the mansion.” That makes the guard stutter. “Allow me,” Cam says. “You say, ‘You son of a bitch, you can’t do that,’ and I say ‘Yes, I can, and who do you think she’ll believe, me or you?’ ” Then Cam hands him a flash drive. “So just put the files on this, and everyone’s life will be easier.”