Wither (The Chemical Garden #1)

Wither (The Chemical Garden #1) Page 40

But if not now, it would be later. In less than four years she would be at my bedside, watching me die.

I squeeze her hand. “Doing okay?” I ask.

“Yes,” I can hear the smile in her voice. “Thank you.”

My dress is a short strapless number, in a shimmering aqua with black pearls sewn into vaguely floral firework shapes up one side. A black pearl choker wraps around my throat, and black leggings and gloves will keep me warm against the biting January cold. Deirdre tops if off with a black ribbon for my hair, to go over the baby’s breath, and a light coat of glitter that reminds me of Cecily’s wedding gown. She seemed so happy then, fluttering ahead of me to the gazebo.

Now she stands back and admires my completed ensemble. She suddenly looks so grown-up with her face artfully colored in earth tones. Her hair is curled like mine, and she’s beautiful even in her rumpled nightgown.

“You look great,” she says. “You’re gonna kill tonight.”

I don’t tell her that, dress or not, I have no desire to go to this party. I would much rather crawl into that bed and pull the covers over my face and cry. But these are not the actions of a first wife. And Deirdre, Adair, and Cecily are watching me, so I smile in that way that my mother reserved for my father.

It scares me how easily I can pretend to be in love with this life, and the husband who comes with it.

Linden shows up in a simple black tuxedo—standard dress attire for all of the House Governors, I’ve noticed, but his lapels are the same aqua as my dress. I catch our reflection in the metal elevator doors, arm in arm, a perfect match. The doors open. We step inside.

“Have fun!” Cecily says.

When the doors have closed, Linden says, “Has she been a little strange lately?”

I’m not sure how to respond, because I have noticed a change in Cecily. Even since before Jenna’s death, she has been oddly forlorn. But I think it might have something to do with Vaughn’s constantly taking Bowen from her. And who knows what he’s doing to him. It’s common knowledge that new babies are the test subjects for wealthy households seeking the miracle antidote, but Vaughn has been so secretive and Bowen looks unscathed. I also can’t find a nice way to tell Linden that I think he was selfish and wrong to impregnate such a young girl in the first place. And maybe I’m worried he’ll start pressing me for children again. At sixteen I’m practically an old maid.

“She’s just tired,” I reply. “You should help her with the baby more.”

“I’d love to,” Linden says. “Between Cecily and my father, I’m lucky I even remember what my own son looks like.”

“Linden,” I venture, cautiously. “What do you suppose your father is doing with the baby all the time?”

“Monitoring his heart rate, drawing his blood to be sure he’s healthy, I suppose.” He shrugs.

“And that seems normal to you?” I say.

“What’s normal?” he says. “The first generations didn’t even realize their children were dying until twenty years later when it started happening. Who knows what will happen to our children?”

He has a point. I stare at my glittery heels. Here I am in a pretty dress while the world falls apart. I can hear Jenna’s voice saying, Don’t forget how you got here. Don’t forget.

Linden grabs my hand. At times like these I think he’s as frightened as I am. I give him a small smile, and he bumps his shoulder against mine. The smile grows.

“That’s better,” he says.

In the limo he pours us each a glass of champagne, but I don’t finish mine and I stop him from finishing his also.

“There will be plenty more at the party,” I say.

“Spoken like a true first wife.” He laughs and kisses my temple. I blush in spite of myself. It’s the first time he’s said the words out loud. First wife. It’s only for a few days longer, but I can pretend, for his sake, that that isn’t so.

“Do you suppose there will be cameras?” I ask.

“Tons,” he says. And he looks a little worried. “Maybe I should have asked you to wear those green contacts,” he says. “I don’t want the whole world knowing just how extraordinary you are.”

I straighten his tie. “Are my eyes what make me special to you?”

“No,” he says. His voice has become soft and dreamy.

He pushes the curls from my face. “They are only a ripple on the surface.”

I smile. For a moment I think this is the way my father felt about my mother, and I could almost swear this marriage was real. A stranger passing by would think we had been together for years, that we planned to live the rest of our lives together. I always knew I was an excellent liar; I just didn’t know I had it in me to fool myself.

We enter the party with our arms linked together, and with the music blasting it’s easy for us to be unnoticed.

The party is being thrown in an upscale bar that has platforms and a spiral staircase. The top two platforms are made of some sort of one-sided glass, so that we can see can see the people below but not the people above us. I’m relieved, because this means nobody can look up my dress. And something tells me some of these House Governors would try.

It takes approximately two minutes for one of Vaughn’s colleagues to approach us, with two giggling brunettes on his arms carrying neon glasses. They look barely older than Cecily. They’re dressed in matching fuchsia dresses that look like plastic wrap wound around their angular bodies. He introduces them as his wives—twins, each of them pregnant—and when he kisses my hand, both women stare at me with contempt.

“They’re jealous of your beauty,” Linden whispers when they’ve gone. “You look stunning, by the way. Stay close so nobody snatches you up.”

Right. Being snatched once is enough for a lifetime.

I do stay close to him, though, because I don’t trust any of these men, and because most of the other wives my age seem to already be drunk. This is a post–New Year’s party, and Linden explains that at midnight they’ll replay the countdown to the new year. When I ask him why, he says, “Who knows. But we only have so many new years left in life. What’s the harm in adding a few more?”

“Good point,” I say, and he pulls me onto the dance floor.

I do better with slow dances, which barely involve any motion at all, but one look at the flickering strobe lights tells me there will be no slow music tonight. I try to keep up with Linden, who patiently guides me along, and all I can think of is Jenna. How she taught Cecily and me her dance moves on that afternoon before the hurricane hit.

She would love this party, even if she wasn’t fond of Linden. She would be breaking hearts and crushing them under her heels as she whirled about the platform. I have an urge to tell her about the party when I get home, and then I remember that she’s gone.

Linden dips me over his arm. He’s in high spirits, considering how little he’s had to drink. When I’m swept back to my feet, he plants a quick kiss on my lips.

“Mind if I cut in?” a man asks. And perhaps “man” isn’t even the right word. He can hardly be any older than I am. He’s short and pudgy, and his carrot hair is reflecting back the rainbow of lights. His pale skin is so washed out I can barely make out his features. There’s a tall blonde on his arm in a bright red dress that matches her lips. She looks sober, as she looks Linden up and down.

Linden hesitates and looks at me.

“Come on!” the man says. “Just for one dance. We’ll swap wives.”

“All right,” Linden says, taking the red dress’s hand and passing me over to the carrot-head. “But I’m rather fond of my Rhine. Don’t get too attached.”

I feel nauseous. The man smells like an unfortunate assortment of all the meats on the deli platter, and he’s had too much to drink. He steps on my black shoes more than once, marring them with dirty footprints. He’s so short that I can see right over his head, and I’m watching Linden dance with this man’s wife, and she seems to be having the time of her life. She’s probably relieved to be with a husband who knows what he’s doing. But he isn’t her husband! He’s mine.

The thought stops me in my tracks. The pudgy carrot-head crashes into my breasts and laughs. “You sure are clumsy, baby,” he says. But I barely hear him. Mine?

No. Linden is not mine. It’s all an act. These parties, the key card, this first wife business—it’s insubstantial. In a few days Gabriel and I will run away, and this whole life will be a distant memory. What was I thinking?

I force myself to look away from Linden and the blonde, who is clearly enjoying dancing with a man her own height. And when this dance ends, I disappear to the dessert table and scoop up some éclairs and chocolate mini-cakes for Cecily before the good ones are taken.

One of the attendants offers to refrigerate them for me until I’m ready to leave.

I hang back and watch the bodies dancing in the chaotic lights. Red, green, blue, white, orange. Images of colorful stars spin around the walls. I am floating on this glass plate. Below me, more bodies, more lights, more music rattling the floor. And as I watch them, I become more appreciative of Deirdre’s fashion sense. Most of these other wives look as though they’re wearing tin-foil. Lots of silvers and metallic pinks and greens and baby blues. Platform shoes with six-inch heels and exaggerated pearl necklaces that look like they weigh a ton.

Most of the women wear so much makeup that the lights make them appear radioactive. Their teeth are glowing.

A few of the wives pull me into their dance circle, and I allow it. It’s a good opportunity for the cameras to film me. And it’s better than dancing with their husbands, at least, and actually it’s pretty fun. Most of them, like me, don’t have any idea how to dance. Their jewelry clatters together, and we twitch like we’re dying, and we hold hands, and our laughter disappears in the music. I’ve always had cause to fear New Year’s celebrations because of the Gatherers; I’ve always had to worry about who would be breaking into my home. But I’m safe here, able to enjoy the food and this dress and the music, and able to giggle at my clumsy dance steps. Attendants carry trays of drinks in throbbing neon cups, and, still moving, I swipe one and down it in seconds. The alcohol spreads warmth to my extremities. And I have to admit the party is making me feel better.

There’s comfort to the repetitiveness of these parties.

Whether it’s a fake New Year’s bash or a christening party, the theme is the same: life. Enjoy it while it lasts.

Then the lights stop flickering and the music dies down, and a voice announces through the speakers that there’s one minute until midnight. The wives all scurry off to find their husbands, and I’m alone for a few seconds before Linden grabs my wrist and I feel his familiar chest pressing against my back. “There you are,” he says.