Once We Were

Not like the other children who’d walked through those hospital halls. Like Jaime Cortae, who’d lost his other soul to a scalpel.

Addie and I had been lucky.

Perhaps, if we stayed lucky, we would never again have to see Mr. Conivent with his pressed, white button-up shirts. We would never again feel Jenson’s cold grip on our wrist—never come under the jurisdiction of his review board.

We would be allowed to live just as we were: Eva and Addie, Addie and Eva. Two girls inside of one.

ONE

It was stuffy in the phone booth, even with the door propped partway open. Our desire for privacy couldn’t override the sickness that gripped us in the small, enclosed space. Squished cigarette butts littered the ground, their smoky smell lingering in the early-morning air.

I said.

We weren’t even supposed to be outside. We’d snuck out of the apartment before Emalia and Kitty woke up, and we had to make it back before then as well. No one knew we were here, not even Ryan or Hally.

Addie pressed the phone receiver against our ear. The dial tone mocked us.

I said.

Our free hand slipped into our pocket and closed around our chip. Ryan had given it to us right before we arrived at Nornand, and it had connected us to him during our time at the clinic. Habit made us rub it between our fingers like a good-luck charm.

Addie’s voice was soft.

Lyle was eleven. Our little brother.

The night Mr. Conivent confiscated Addie and me, Lyle had been at the hospital, doing one of his thrice-weekly rounds of dialysis. Unlike our parents, he’d had no say in letting us go. We never got to tell him good-bye.

It would only be one call. A few coins in the slot. Ten numbers. So quick. So simple.

Hi, Lyle, I imagined saying. I pictured his flop of yellow hair, his skinny arms and legs, his crooked-toothed grin.

Hi, Lyle—

Then what? Happy birthday. Happy eleventh birthday.

The last time I’d wished Lyle happy birthday—actually spoken those words aloud—he’d been turning seven. After that, I’d lost the strength to do more than watch as Addie spoke for me. I’d hovered in a body I couldn’t control, a ghost in a family that didn’t know I still existed.

What did one say after four years like that?

Thinking about what I’d tell Mom was even worse.

Hi. It’s Eva. I was there the whole time. I was there all those years, and you never knew.

Hi. It’s Eva. I’m okay—I think I’m safe. Are you okay? Are you safe?

Hi. It’s Eva. I wish I were home.

Hi. It’s Eva. I love you.

I could see Mom so clearly it hurt: the panes of her face, her laugh lines, and the deeper lines on her brow not etched by laughter. I could see her in her waitressing uniform: black slacks and a white blouse, stark against her corn-silk hair. Addie and I had always wanted hair like hers, so smooth and straight it glided through our fingers. Instead, we had Dad’s curls, lazy and halfhearted. Princess hair, he’d called it when Addie and I were small enough to sit in his lap, breathing in the smell of his aftershave, begging for stories that ended in Happily Ever After.

I wanted, so badly, to know how our family was. So much could have happened in the nearly two months since Addie and I had last slept in our own bed, last woken up staring at our own ceiling.

Had Lyle gotten the kidney transplant we’d been promised, or was he still chained to his dialysis appointments? Did our parents even know what had happened to Addie and me? What if they thought we were still at the clinic, being cured of our hybridity?

Was that better or worse than them knowing the truth? A month and a half ago, Addie and I had broken out of Nornand Clinic of Psychiatric Health. We should have brought all the other patients with us. But we’d failed. In the end, we’d left with just Ryan and Devon, Hally and Lissa, Kitty and Nina. And Jaime, of course. Jaime Cortae.

Now we were hiding outside the system entirely, sheltered by Peter and his underground network of hybrids. We were the fugitives we’d heard about in government class. The criminals whose arrest—and they were always arrested in the end—blared across the news.

Would Mom and Dad want to know that?

What would they do if they did? Come charging across the continent to take us home? Protect us, like they hadn’t protected us before? Tell us they were sorry, they’d made a terrible mistake in ever letting us go?

Maybe they would just turn us in again.

No.

I couldn’t bear to think they might.

They’re going to help you get well, Addie, Dad had said when he called us at Nornand. Mom and I only want the best for you.

Peter had warned us how the government might bug our phone lines. Maybe Dad had known someone might listen in on our call at Nornand, and he’d had to say whatever they wanted to hear. Maybe he hadn’t meant those words.

Because that wasn’t what he’d whispered as Addie and I climbed into Mr. Conivent’s car.

If you’re there, Eva, he’d said. If you’re really there … I love you, too. Always.

Always.

I said.

The knife of her longing cut us both.

I said.

No matter how much we ached to.

When Addie didn’t release the phone, I slipped into control and did it for us. Addie didn’t protest. I stepped out onto the sidewalk, the city greeting us with a slap of wind. A passing car coughed dark exhaust into the air.

Addie hesitated.

What else could I say?

I waited at a crosswalk with a small crowd of early-morning commuters, each sunk in their own thoughts. No one paid Addie and me any attention. Anchoit was the biggest, busiest city we’d ever seen, let alone lived in. The buildings loomed over the streets, contraptions of metal and concrete. Every once in a while, one was softened by a facade of worn red brick.

Peter had chosen Anchoit for its size. For the anonymity of its quiet alleyways and busy thoroughfares. Cars, people, thoughts—everything moved quickly here. It was a far cry from old, languid Bessimir City, or the all-but-stagnant Lupside, where Addie and I had lived before.

It seemed like more happened in a night in Anchoit than in a year in Lupside. Not that Addie or I would know. Since Peter had brought us here from Nornand, I could count on one hand the number of times we’d been allowed out in the city. Peter and Emalia weren’t taking any chances.

In Anchoit, it might have been easier to hide what Addie and I were—hybrids, fugitives, less-than-normal. But it didn’t change the facts. I dreamed of roaming the neon streets after dark. Of playing games and buying junk at the boardwalk. Of splashing through the waves again.

Addie said quietly.

Our legs froze. It took three thundering heartbeats before I calmed down enough to move again. I crossed the street so we didn’t have to pass the policeman directly.

Chances were, his presence had absolutely nothing to do with us.

But Addie and I were hybrid.

Whatever the chance, however small, we couldn’t take it.

TWO

Emalia’s apartment building was silent but for the buzzing of overhead lights, which flickered on and off like struggling fireflies. A trash bag slouched, stinking, in the corner.

Peter had housed us Nornand refugees together in his apartment as long as he could. But he spent as much time traveling as he did living in Anchoit, and eventually, we’d been separated. Kitty and Nina lived with us at Emalia’s. The Mullan siblings were only a few floors up, with Henri, but it wasn’t the same.

Even worse, Dr. Lyanne had taken Jaime away to a little house on the fringes of the city. None of us had seen him in three weeks.

The apartment was still dim when I slipped back inside, the living room half-lit by hazy morning sunlight. Emalia and her twin soul, Sophie, kept their home achingly neat, softly decorated. In a weird way, Peter’s apartment—since Peter was so frequently absent—had seemed like our place, our home. Here, Addie and I felt like intruders in a sanctuary of muted sweaters and woven placemats.

Addie said. We sank onto the couch and stared at Emalia’s potted plant. Every leaf looked meticulously arranged. Even her plants were orderly.

I let our eyes slide half-closed. We’d hardly slept last night, wanting to make sure we were up in time to sneak out. With our adrenaline gone, the lack of sleep dragged at our limbs.

Addie sighed.

Kitty and Nina spent most of their time curled up in front of the TV, watching whatever was on: Saturday-morning cartoons, daytime soap operas, afternoon news reports, even late-night talk shows when they couldn’t sleep. Hally and Lissa stared out the windows, listening to the music thumping from car radios.

Ryan filled his days with making stuff. Trinkets, mostly, pieced together using tools he borrowed from Henri or Emalia. Emalia was no longer surprised to come home to a salt-and-pepper shaker that rotated between the two at a press of a button, or some other vaguely useful invention.

And Addie—Addie had started drawing again. She sketched Kitty on the sofa, capturing the soft snub of her nose, the wide, brown eyes. She caught the glint of light on Hally’s glasses, spent an hour perfecting the way Hally’s curls fell, some in lazy almost-ringlets, others barely more than a dark wave.

It was nice to have Addie drawing again. But after so many days, we were all going stir-crazy.

“Oh!” came a voice behind us. It was Emalia, draped in a pink cardigan and a cream-colored blouse. She looked as soft and pastel as the dawn. Her smile was flustered. “I didn’t know you’d gotten up …”

She didn’t ask, but the question hung between us: Addie? Or Eva?

“Addie,” Addie said when I took too long to answer. By then, of course, it was. She climbed to our feet and surreptitiously stepped on the back of our heels, kicking our shoes under the couch. Addie had a thoughtless ease with our body I still didn’t.

“You’re up early,” Emalia said. “Something wrong?”

“No.” Addie shrugged. “I just woke up and couldn’t fall asleep again.”

Emalia crossed to the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by only a stretch of counter. “It’s these city noises. They take a while to get used to. When I first moved here, I couldn’t get a good night’s sleep for weeks.” She gestured questioningly toward the coffee machine, but Addie shook our head.

Emalia had a bit of a caffeine addiction, but maybe that was to be expected with everything she had to do: hold down her regular job, take care of us, and complete her work for the Underground. She was the one who had forged our new documents, printing birth certificates for people who’d never been born, casting our faces onto lives we’d never lived.

I associated her now with the heavy, bittersweet smell of coffee. Even the first time we’d seen Emalia, her hair had reminded us of steam—cappuccino-colored steam curling against her pale cheeks, reaching just under her chin.

“You’re up early, too,” Addie said.

“I’m headed to the airport today. Peter’s flight arrives in a few hours.”

“No one told us Peter was back.” The words came out sharper than I’d expected. Sharper, perhaps, than Addie had intended.

Emalia’s hands stilled. “Well, it—it was a bit unanticipated. Something’s come up, so he caught an earlier flight. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you’d want to know.”

“I do,” Addie said, too quickly. “But it’s okay. I mean—”

“Okay, in the future I’ll—” Emalia said.

The two of them looked at each other awkwardly.

“Kitty showed me your new drawing yesterday.” The thin, golden bracelets on Emalia’s wrists clinked as she reached for the cereal box. “It was lovely. You’re such a fantastic artist, Addie.”

Addie pinned a smile to our lips. “Thanks.”

Emalia was always complimenting us like this. Your hair looks so pretty in a bun, she’d say, or You’ve got such lovely eyes. Each of Addie’s sketches, even the doodles she drew for Kitty’s amusement, got a verbal round of applause.

In return, we tried to compliment Emalia, too. It wasn’t hard or anything. She wore delicate, pale-gold sandals and faded pink blouses. She always found the most interesting places to order food from, coming home with white Styrofoam boxes from all over the city. But our conversations with Emalia never got beyond that. We spoke in a language of comments on the weather, polite greetings, and slight smiles, all underlaid with a sense of Not Quite Knowing What to Do.

Emalia had only fostered one other escaped hybrid before, a twelve-year-old girl who stayed three weeks before Peter found her a more permanent family down south. Emalia herself was in her midtwenties. She and Sophie had managed to remain hidden all these years, escaping institutionalization. They and Peter had connected mostly by chance.

Maybe that was why Emalia acted as if she didn’t know how to handle us. As if, poked too hard, we might break.

Addie leaned against the counter. “When’s the meeting going to be?”

“With Peter? Tomorrow night. Why?”

“I want to go.”

Emalia tipped some cereal into a bowl, her smile hesitant. “It’s going to be at Peter’s apartment, Addie. Like usual.”

“That’s barely a five-minute walk.”

“You aren’t supposed to be—”

“It’ll be nighttime. No one would see us.” Addie fixed the woman with our stare. “Emalia, I need to talk with him. I want to know what’s going on.”

Nornand’s hybrid wing had shut down, but its patients had been shipped elsewhere instead of being set free. Peter had promised we’d work to rescue them. But if anything had been done, Addie and I hadn’t been told.

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” Emalia said, “and I’m sure Peter will drop by here at some point.”

“It’s a five-minute walk,” Addie repeated. “A five-minute walk in the dark.”

The coffee machine beeped. Emalia hurried toward it. “I’ll ask Peter when I see him. How about that? I’ll tell him you want very badly to go, and we’ll see what he says.”

I said, and I knew Addie agreed.

Aloud, though, she just murmured, “Okay.”

“Okay.” Emalia smiled and nodded at the pot of coffee. The smell, usually heady and comforting, now made us feel slightly sick. “You sure you don’t want just a little bit? It’s nice to have something hot when the morning’s chilly.”

Addie shook her head and turned away.

It was chilly outside. We weren’t going to be outside.

THREE