The Nobody People by Bob Proehl (manga ereader TXT) 📕

“I find it strange and upsetting,” Fahima said.

“It makes them feel safe,” the orderly said, gesturing to every patient who wasn’t Fahima. Fahima swallowed hard and nodded.

“You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry.” She went to the bookshelf, which contained only dated magazines. After a pause to give herself plausible deniability, Fahima told the television to shut off, and it did. The room erupted in cries. Fahima buried her smile in a copy of Good Housekeeping.

Her best days were spent in a vegetable garden on the Lakeview property. Ms. Gudrun, convinced that Fahima suffered from claustrophobia, arranged for her to work, supervised, in the slim window of hospitable weather upstate New York provided.

Late spring, when Fahima was fifteen, she was putting up wire rabbit fence around the cabbages. Because the wires were sharp, Ms. Gudrun was seated on a stool nearby, wearing a jacket and scarf against the chill. An orderly led a man through the garden, careful not to trample any of the sprouting plants. The man was in short sleeves despite the chill, pale skin over cables of stringy muscle. He had a beard like a cumulus cloud and little wire-rimmed glasses.

“Can you turn your cell phone off?” Fahima called when they were twenty feet away.

“Of course,” said the old man. The whisper that nagged at the edge of Fahima’s mind went dead. “Is it the signal?” He adjusted his glasses. “What you’re hearing?”

“Fahima isn’t hearing anything,” said Ms. Gudrun. “Are you, Fahima?”

What she’d heard was a chirrup, like a bird in the man’s pocket, telling her it was coming.

“Interesting,” the man said. “Do you get a sense of an object’s history? Maybe you pick something up and you know things about its owner?”

Fahima paused. Words swam in front of her like the blobs you get when you press the heels of your hands into your eyelids. You’re safe, the words said. My name is Kevin Bishop. I’m like you.

“It’s not like that,” said Fahima. “Also, I dream of machines. Machines that don’t exist.”

It was the first time she’d talked about the dreams to anyone. Even when she’d showed the schematics for the device to Muhair, she hadn’t told him she’d seen them in her sleep.

Ms. Gudrun placed herself between Fahima and Bishop, a great wall of a woman. “I’m not sure who you are,” she said, “but we’ve been working very hard to help Fahima understand that these voices—”

“You’ve been trying to shut her down,” he said. “You don’t understand what’s happening with her, so you want to make it go away. Make her dull like you, Ms. Gudrun.”

“How did you—”

“You wear your name and job title on your forebrain like a badge,” he said. “It’s all that holds your identity together. A mantra. I am Michelle Gudrun, director of youth therapy. I am Michelle Gudrun. Chugga chugga chugga chugga. A little train going around and around.” He was getting annoyed. The orderly standing behind him was limp, like a sleepwalker. His head lolled drowsily on his thick neck. “I’m constantly finding our people in places like this. Under the ostensible care of people like you. Now please, be quiet a minute.” Ms. Gudrun crossed her legs, sat down in the dirt between the cabbages, and fell asleep.

“Ms. Deeb,” said Bishop, “I’m very pleased to have found you. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long.”

Fahima approached Ms. Gudrun and carefully removed her scarf. The cloth was nubbly and cheap. She folded it into an approximate triangle, draped it over her head, and wrapped it around her chin. It wasn’t quite right, and she could feel air on the back of her neck. She made a triumphant huff and followed Bishop back toward the main building.

Fahima Deeb left Lakeview that afternoon with transfer paperwork to an institution downstate, one that offered more opportunities for outdoor therapy. This made Ms. Gudrun happy because it confirmed her diagnoses. Neither the therapist nor the orderly remembered the encounter in the garden.

—

Alyssa screams from the shower, a quick shriek of surprise. Fahima rushes to the cry, throwing the bathroom door open. Alyssa has grabbed a towel and is using it to cover herself. The water is running, soaking the towel to a dark shade of purple. Across from Alyssa, in the sliver of vertical space between the toilet and the vanity, there’s a narrow door, barely wide enough to be a broom closet.

“Where the fuck did that come from?” Alyssa yells. “I heard a pop, and I looked out, and there was a door.”

“It’s okay, Lys,” says Fahima. She shuts the shower off and wraps the wet towel properly around her. “Wait in the bedroom. I’m going to figure this out.”

Kimani calls from behind the door. “We need your help.” The sound of a voice from inside their bathroom wall further spooks Alyssa, but what worries Fahima is that Kimani is panicked, too. She’s the most cool and efficient person on staff at Bishop. Her room is a sanctuary and shrink’s office because even in a crisis, Kimani doesn’t shake. But she’s shaken now. “Fahima, please,” she cries.

Alyssa’s face changes when she hears Fahima’s name. “You know what this is,” she says.

Fahima has wanted to have this conversation from the start of their relationship, but it’s been impossible. When they decided to go public, Fahima vowed she’d out herself to Alyssa. It was going to happen tomorrow or next week. There was always more time. Until now, when there’s none.

“There are things about my work that I haven’t told you,” Fahima says.

Alyssa is scared, shaking. Fahima wants things to pause. Whatever the problem behind the door is, she can deal with it. The situation with Alyssa, she can deal with it. But she can’t do both at once. Something needs to stop.

“Lys, we can talk about this later.” Alyssa gives her a look that indicates that this will not be happening. Fahima sighs. “Get dressed quick,” she says. “I’ll explain as much as I can.”

Alyssa