The Woodlands

I walked through the doors and thought she must have led me to the wrong room. It was completely different. The woman roughly led me to my bed and sat me down, chucking my legs up and raising the rail, like she was handling a sack of grain. I tried not to look around too much, but it was difficult. When she left, I let my eyes wander over the new pictures. The photos had been changed, a lot. On one side was a condensed version of my room. On the other side was a different scene. It was darker and dirtier than my side, but it had more ornaments. All handmade. Exquisite little dolls made of sticks and colorful cloth, sitting on dark, wooden shelves amongst glass jars full of buttons, ribbons, and shards of glass. I couldn’t help myself. I had to look closer. I left my bed and approached. Thankfully, a few days after the falling ‘incident’, they had disco

I was to share a room. The girl’s stomach was much bigger than mine—perhaps she only had a few weeks left. I had memorized the back of her head so well that it was strange to see her face. It was not at all what I had pictured. I imagined a strong face, the face of someone older and wiser than me. Someone who could help me. What greeted me was the face of a child. She couldn’t be more than fourteen. She was beautiful: smooth, perfect ebony skin, and kind, dark eyes that looked completely unlike mine. They were full of hope—this was not the face of someone who had given up. She looked almost happy. Her face mirrored the doll’s, only younger.

I heard the staff talking to each other. “I don’t know what they are thinking, ordering more. We are crowded here as it is,” one woman said.

“I know, now there is only one of us to ten of them. I don’t know how we are going to manage it,” someone whined.

“And with the exercises and the room changes, I’ve barely slept in days.”

“A happy mother equals a healthy baby. Right?” I heard laughing.

“Well, what choice do we have? What Este wants, Este gets,” the other voice replied in a sigh.

Este. That meant we were probably near Bagassa. Superior Este had a reputation as a formidable woman, harsh and brilliant. Her assignment was the Sciences. We were part of one her experiments. I wondered what this girl had done to end up here. I knew what my crime was.

I could hear them complaining as they walked down the hall, until they passed someone who shushed them. Then the woman with the harsh voice stormed into the room. Apella was right behind her.

“Apella, can you co

“Err, Clara, yes, can you co

Harsh Voice seemed stressed and distracted. She wiped her forehead, attempting to push back the stray hairs. Every other time I had seen her, she was businesslike, efficient and disco

Clara sat staring at the wall for a while. Then her hand lifted to the shelves projected onto her side of the room and caressed the doll I had been looking at. I could tell this doll meant a great deal to her. I could also tell, for certain, that she was not under the fog, as her face was ru

“This is my mother,” she whispered as she turned her head, only slightly, in my direction, her eyes still on the wall. “We have been apart a long time.” Her movements seemed very careful as she turned to face me. Her face was hard with resolve as she said, “I am going to see her again, and you will see your family again, Rosa Bianca.”

A small spark of hope ignited inside of me. Maybe this girl knew something I didn’t. “How do you know my name?” I asked, trying hard not to lose my cool. Trying to whisper and keep calm so the staff didn’t notice our talking.

“Apella told me,” she said nonchalantly.

“What else did she tell you? I asked.

“That I could trust you,” she smiled, “that we would be friends.” She patted her belly. The look on her face was so ridiculous, given our situation. She looked relaxed, like we’d just met at the grocery store. Not like a trapped, pregnant girl who had been drugged and god knows what else.

“Yeah, sure,” I said, rolling my eyes. “We can be friends.” Friends, a rather pointless thing to have in our current condition. Allies maybe. I wondered why Apella had spoken to her. Why she had pushed us together was also a mystery to me. So was Clara’s odd demeanor. Was she crazy?

“So you worked out the gas—how long did it take you?” she asked.

“It must be about three weeks ago.”

“Oh,” she said as she looked down at her belly again. “I have been awake for a lot longer than that, maybe about four months, though time is hard to measure here, isn’t it?” she said, giggling. I felt sorry for her. Perhaps she had been driven crazy from being down here so long, with no one to talk to. I wanted to reach over and pat her head.

I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice when I replied, “Yeah I guess. So how old are you, Clara?”

“Seventeen.”

I guess the surprise on my face was quite evident.

“Yeah, I get that a lot. I’m just petite. Well, that’s what my mother always used to say. I’m tiny but mighty!” She held her tiny, thin arms up as if showing off her muscles.

I laughed. She was as cute as a button. There was something about her that I couldn’t resist. She was unhateable. Likeable. Where I was suspicious and guarded, she was warm and honest. We talked for quite a while. I asked her loads of questions. She asked me some but eased off when she worked out she was only getting one-word answers. She seemed happy to share her past with me, and it was better than staring at the wall. She talked of her love for her family. About her deep respect and admiration for her hard-working father, who worked on a large farm fixing machinery and her devotion to her mother, who taught her how to make her dolls. She explained that her mother used to make toys for the Superiors’ children. When she asked about my family I kept it brief and, sensing my reluctance, she never pushed me.

Clara talked incessantly about her home. “Palma, Ring Five!” she exclaimed, holding her hand up in mock salute. She went on to describe her home, her tiny little head nodding up and down as if attached to a spring, as she spoke. Her full, dark lips talking so fast it was hard to keep up. Palma sounded identical in size and shape to Pau Brasil but the people were different. My town was consumed with fear, where everyone watched their every move and tried so hard not to draw any attention to themselves. Palma was ruled by their love for each other. They poured themselves into creative work. They had art and stories not written in the standard, supplied history books. They even had people that made and played instruments. I was shocked. I thought all the towns were the same. That we were all in the same immovable boat, entrenched in thick, binding mud we could never pull ourselves out of. These people sounded crazy or brave, I wasn’t sure. I was shocked and so very jealous. So very jealous, until I heard how the people of Palma suffered.