It’s then that Mr. Rathers’s memory imprints on him, and Muzi braces for something horrific, violent. But what comes is shocking. Two toddlers in the bathtub, a boy and a girl. The boy Elkin, from the birthmark on his chest. The girl he’s never seen before, not in photos, nowhere. Mr. Rathers bathes them, singing out to them, but his voice is different. Happy. He picks up the bubble bath bottle, shakes it. It’s empty. Little Elkin beats his hands on the water’s surface. “Bubbas! Bubbas!” he demands. Mr. Rathers turns his back for a moment, just long enough to rummage through the linen closet for a new bottle, and returns to see the girl facedown in just a few inches of water.
“Bubbas! Bubbas!” Elkin shrieks as he sees the pink bottle. It slips from Mr. Rathers’s hands as he goes to pull the girl up. Her head drops back, lifeless. He checks for her breath, but there’s none to be found.
“Bubbas!” Elkin screams.
One, two, three breaths, his lips sealed over her nose and mouth. But she’s gone.
Muzi snaps to, the burn in his heart unbearable. He falls to the ground, pulls his knees to his chest, and weeps.
“Hey, dumbass, what the hell is wrong with you?” Elkin says, but the words don’t cut through.
“They’re not my memories!” Muzi yells out. “They’re not mine! They didn’t happen.” But they stick hard, and he can’t shake them. He trembles, then rolls over and vomits on the carpet.
“Shit, Muzi! Are you okay?” Elkin presses his hand against Muzi’s back. “It’s too soon for you to come back. Sit out another week or two. The team won’t think any less of you.”
Muzi wipes flecks of sick from his cheek, the tang of OJ stinging his nose and throat. “I’ll be fine. Let’s just get out of here.”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
“I . . .” Muzi tries to think up a fast lie, but Elkin would see right through it. That’s the down side of having a friend who knows you in and out. “I sort of see things about the people I connect with. Personal things. Bad things.”
“What kind of things? What did you see about my dad? Hell, what did you see about me?”
“It’s too awful.” His heart rides up into his throat. Elkin was so young, he probably doesn’t even remember losing his sister. His father had seemingly gone through the pains of removing every single piece of evidence of her existence. It explains his anger, maybe even why he blames Elkin. It isn’t rational, but losing a child like that isn’t exactly the sort of thing one can rationalize. Mr. Rathers’s pain sits with Muzi, as does his need to forget. “It’s too awful,” Muzi says again.
“Damn it, Muzi, if you don’t tell me, I’m never speaking to you again. You can’t go around dipping into people’s minds, stealing their secrets!”
“I’m sorry. I can’t remember—”
“Fuck you, liar. Get out of my house!” Elkin yanks Muzi to his feet and shoves him toward the door. It slams firmly behind him, and he stands there out on the porch alone. The humid air weighs heavily in his lungs and Muzi has a tough time catching his breath. He rubs his arm where Elkin’s handprint is still pink against his skin. What the bladdy hell is wrong with him? Muzi had known there’d be repercussions for doing what he did, and yet he couldn’t help himself.
Headlights cut through the early evening murk as Mrs. Rathers’s car hugs up next to the curb. “Oh, hi, Muzi!” she says as she ambles up the pavement.
“Hi, Mrs. Rathers,” Muzi says, wondering—and worrying—over the secrets that lie beneath her smile.
Chapter 20
Riya Natrajan
Reality hits her like a brick as soon as she comes to. Her body feels like it weighs a thousand kilos, her brain probably twice that much. She has a hard time following a single, cottony thought, and it takes most of her strength to lift her head. A rope of drool dangles from her lip. She’s sitting in a child’s chair, knees bent awkwardly, almost to her chest. She’s strapped in. Can’t move.
“Oh good, Rhoda, you’re awake,” comes her father’s voice from behind her. She lets her head loll back and to the side, and she sees him sitting on her bed with a comb in one hand, legs straddling around her chair. With a forceful grip, he twists her head forward again. “Keep still or the part won’t be straight.”
“Rhoda?” The name sounds familiar, but not quite right. She concentrates through the fog. “Riya.”
Her father snatches a handful of her hair and yanks back. Riya Natrajan’s neck whips, skin pulling tight along her throat. “We don’t speak that name in this house, Rhoda. Now, how many braids do you want? Two or four? It’s just like your mother to leave me to do a woman’s work. Honestly, how long does it take to get a few things at the grocery store?”
Thoughts and memories reshuffle into the right order. Her mother died eight years ago, Riya Natrajan is sure of that. But looking down at these clothes, she’s dressed like an eleven-year-old—pastel rainbow stirrups and a frilly blouse that pulls tight, gaping between buttons. Something else is not right. Her underwear cuts into the creases of her legs, a few sizes too small, no bra. Her skin smells faintly of lavender soap.
Riya’s father tugs her head back up. “Keep straight, dear. Oh, your mother is going to be so proud when she sees you. Our perfect little girl.”
The delusional tenor of her father’s voice gives her gooseflesh. She’s too doped up to fight him, even if she weren’t bound. So she plays along and waits for the opportunity to escape. “Four braids, Father,” she says sweetly. “I’d like four braids.”
“I think I can arrange that.” His hand rests softly on her shoulder, then sweeps down her arm, and it’s all Riya can do to keep from shivering. She detaches herself from the situation, creating more lyrics for her new “Breezy, Breezy” song, then rehearsing the choreography in her head, confident that she’ll get her singing voice back in time for the concert. Confident that she’ll get out of this alive.
“Father, I’m getting hungry,” Riya Natrajan says as he finishes up the second braid. At the rate he’s going, they’ll be here for another hour.
“Well, it is your special day. I’ll make you your favorite, curried chicken and roti?” He gets up, tugs on her restraints to make sure they’re tight, then looks at his house bot. “Time,” he commands.
“Eleven thirteen a.m.,” says the bot.
“Hmmm,” her father says. He twirls his beard into a point. “Your mother is going to be late for lunch. This isn’t like her. I’d better see what she’s up to.” He then turns to the bot. “Call Jaya,” he says.
“Name not found in personal call logs. Please specify last name, or input phone number manually.”
“Jaya Sanjit, my wife. Please call her.”
“No phone record on file for Jaya Sanjit. Database records indicated that Jaya Sanjit is deceased. Would you like to be put in contact with her next of kin?”
The brown of her father’s skin turns a deep purple, then he takes a swing at the bot with his fist. The house bot topples over, and he pounces on it before it can right itself. Then he tugs savagely until its head pops free from its torso, exposed wires flickering bits of electricity before dying out. Riya bites her lip, but doesn’t say anything.