But here’s Iralene.
Wouldn’t it be nice, wouldn’t it be nice, wouldn’t it be nice
… The singer keeps singing that same phrase. He wants to live in a kind of world that they both belong in.
This isn’t it
, Partridge thinks, with the crowd swaying around them.
This isn’t it at all.
Iralene’s hand fits perfectly in his. She reaches up and touches the back of his hair that brushes the collar of his shirt. She whispers into his ear, “Pick me up and spin me now. Pick me up.”
He lifts her as the singer says he wants to talk about it even though it makes it worse, but still he wants to talk about it. And while spinning Iralene, Partridge thinks of Lyda, which makes it worse, but he can’t stop himself. He feels that longing. He closes his eyes. Iralene is light. He spins her around and around. He looks up at her face, backlit by the fake sunlight, and she’s smiling, yet her eyes are wet with tears.
Wouldn’t it be nice
… He sees this song for a second the way Iralene must see it—
Wouldn’t it be nice if this were true… Wouldn’t it be nice if he really loved her… Wouldn’t it be nice if they could get married and stay together forever…
Did she choose the song? Is this what it means to her? The singer wants to get married so that the two of them can be happy. Partridge feels like crying then, spinning and spinning her.
The crowd is clapping now because they know the song is dying down.
If things were different—if he hadn’t already fallen in love with Lyda, maybe he and Iralene could be together. Maybe they could even be happy. Maybe he’d love her the way she wants him to. He even wishes—for a moment—that things could be the way Iralene envisions them; it would be so much simpler. Then he feels guilty for the thought. No, he loves Lyda, and he’s going to be the father of her baby.
The singer tells her good night, tells her to sleep tight, calls her baby.
As Partridge sets Iralene down, the crowd seems to keep spinning around them. And while still holding her waist, she puts her hand to her forehead and says, “Partridge! I’m so…dizzy.” And as her knees give out beneath her, he holds her closer—so close he sees her lids flutter.
The crowd gasps, and Beckley is there, quickly. He says to Partridge, “Pick her up.”
Partridge lifts her to his chest.
“Stand back, people,” Beckley says. “Let’s get her somewhere cool.” He shouts to the other guards. “Stay here. Crowd control. We’re moving her indoors. Make sure no one follows.”
Beckley leads Partridge away from the crowd, down the sloping lawn toward the building that Iralene promised she’d get him into and lead him through—the place she’s known all her life and never wanted to go back to.
Her eyes flit open. “See, Partridge? I’m good to my word. And you will be too, when the time comes to return the favor, right?”
“Of course, Iralene,” he says hesitantly. “Of course.”
S
omeone’s been here before them. The fake living room flickers over the cement walls. Iralene is holding Partridge’s hand, Beckley beside her. This is the home she’s known. He can tell that it scares her now. Partridge recognizes the fluffy white rug, the little panting dog, the massive sofas and armchairs and modern art hung on the walls, and the shiny kitchen where the image of Mimi once made muffins, over and over, telling Iralene—sitting at the piano across the room—to start the song again.
But this loop isn’t the one Partridge saw before. The image of Iralene walks into the room wearing a robe and slippers, then into the kitchen where she pours herself a glass of milk and grabs a plate of cookies.
“I hate this one,” the real Iralene says, gripping Partridge’s hand tighter. “Your father made it for my mother. A Mother’s Day gift.”
Her mother arrives from the image of a door that Partridge doesn’t remember being a real door. She too is wearing a robe, tightly cinched.
Mimi says, “How about some girl talk to go with your milk and cookies?”
The fake Iralene says brightly, “Okay!”
Partridge keeps walking. “The hallway is in that corner, right? The one that leads to the capsules?”
Iralene’s hand slips away from his. She walks to the image of her and her mother. “Sometimes I think he actually wanted us to be happy,” she says.
Partridge glances at Beckley, who says, “We don’t have much time here. If we stay too long, people will think you’re actually sick, and they’ll start to panic.”
Iralene steps inside of her own image. She knows her part and her lines. She lifts her hand in perfect sync with the image and twists a strand of hair. She and her image both say in unison, “There is this one boy at school. I think he’s really special.”
“Oh really!” Mimi says. “And does he think you’re special too?”
The image of Iralene dips her head down shyly. But the real Iralene reaches out to touch her mother’s face. Of course, it’s not there. Her hand slips through the air. “There are ones of me when I was even younger. My mother teaching me to sew. Her reading storybooks to me on the sofa.”
Partridge is chilled by the idea of watching your life instead of living it. “Did my father watch these?”
“He couldn’t just take us in and out of suspension every time he missed us. He had to have these little moments of us now and then. And my mother and I watched them, of course. They were fairy tale versions of our lives. We loved ourselves in them. Each time he’d bring a new one to us, we’d savor it together.”
This was happening when Partridge’s father was ignoring him and Sedge, when he’d sent them off to the academy, when, after Sedge was supposedly dead, his father didn’t even bother to let Partridge come home for the holidays. He’s weirdly jealous but also sickened. This was no way to love a family.
Iralene laughs at her mother’s image, which is saying how wonderful Iralene is, how any boy would be lucky to win her heart. “My mother would have never said that in real life. She’d have said,
You have to make him fall in love with you. You have to be perfect, Iralene! If he’s a worthwhile man, you’ll have to trick him into loving you.
” She turns to Partridge and Beckley as the images of her and her mother keep talking. “I’m not the kind of girl a boy would naturally fall in love with.”
Partridge isn’t sure what to say. She’s lovable—just the way she is—but he can’t love her.
Beckley’s the one who speaks up first. “Do you know how many men are in love with you? Your image has been plastered on every screen.”
“They love my image, then,” she says flatly.
Partridge shakes his head. “No, I don’t buy that. One real look at you and—”
“And what?” Iralene says, so eager that she cuts him off.
“They see through the image to you,” Partridge says. “The real you.” She walks to Partridge, grabs his arm, and pulls him close. He feels guilty every time he’s kind to her. He’s only giving her false hope, and he’s betraying Lyda. But what should he do? Be cruel instead?
“Let’s go,” she says. “This way.”
She leads him and Beckley down a hall. The doors on either side are marked with placards—numbered specimens and names. The air buzzes with electricity. Iralene pauses when she comes to the door where her name used to be. Her mother’s name is still there beneath the now-empty space—
MIMI WILLUX.
“Does your mother still come here?”
“She can’t afford to age, especially now that she’s single again,” Iralene says matter-of-factly. “But she’s been out for all of the memorial services and our date.” She puts her hand on the door. “I won’t go back, though. I made her promise that I could be free now.” She tilts her head. “Well, as free as I can get.”
They move on down the hall.
This place is hauntingly dark and cold and dismal. Bodies exist behind every humming door. Bodies held in time—for how long? Damn it. Weed was right. If he can get them free,
up for air
, what the hell is he going to do with all of them?
“Dr. Peekins!” Iralene calls down the hall.
They hear the scuffle of shoes. Peekins turns a corner and stands with his hands on his wide hips. He’s a short, duckfooted man of Partridge’s father’s generation. “Iralene,” he says.
“Hi,” she says warmly.
The two hug.
Iralene says, “Dr. Peekins was the first face I saw each time I came up for air.”
“And I had to put you down sometimes too, which was unpleasant when you were little, before you fully understood.”
Unpleasant
—it’s the kind of euphemism that people in the Dome use when something is awful, unconscionable… Partridge can only imagine what it was like to put Iralene under as a child.
Iralene tilts her head and says, “You told me bedtime stories, remember? The baby in a basket in the woods who grew up to be strong and beautiful.”
Peekins’ eyes are wet. Was he a father figure for Iralene? “Of course I remember.” Then Peekins turns to Partridge. “And this must be the young man himself!” Peekins holds out his hand. Partridge shakes it. “We’ve never had the pleasure of meeting, but of course, I know who you are.” For good measure, he shakes Beckley’s hand too, which Partridge likes. A lot of people ignore Beckley.
“Partridge needs your help,” Iralene tells Peekins.
Peekins’ eyes dart up and down the hall. He takes a step closer, lowering his voice. He seems to know that helping Partridge might be dangerous. Has Foresteed told Peekins that he’s in charge? “Does this have to do with Weed?”
“Has he been here?” Partridge asks.
“He’s sent word. The Hollenback baby,” Peekins says softly. “And now Belze.”
“Yes,” Partridge says. “Odwald Belze. Can you help?”
Peekins rubs his eyebrow. “I’m not supposed to…”
“It’s important,” Partridge says.
“Yes, but there are conflicts, you know.” He scratches his chin. “Things beyond my control. I can only do so much.”
Iralene touches his shoulder. “Please. Can you try?”
His face softens. “This way.” They follow Peekins down one hall and then another. “Belze is an older man and a wretch, and he’s been kept under for a long time. The deep freezes are much more complex than the short ones, as Iralene would know—kind of the way it works with anesthesia.”
“Can you bring him up carefully?” Partridge asks.
“I’m always careful,” Peekins says, and he stops in front of a door marked
ODWALD BELZE
. “But there are risks.”
“The other alternative is to never bring him up for air—never even try it?” Partridge asks. “What’s the difference between permanent suspension and death?”
Iralene nods. “Every time I went under, I wondered if I’d be forgotten.”
“I’d never have forgotten you,” Peekins says. “You know that.”
Peekins opens the door. Iralene and Partridge follow him into the small room. Beckley stays in the hall, standing guard.
And there’s a six-foot capsule, its glass foggy and iced gray. Partridge feels a chill—from deep inside of him to the surface of his skin. Peekins wipes the glass, revealing an old man’s frozen face. His expression is stiff and pained. He has a long dark pink scar running down his neck, bisected a third of the way down like a cross. Pressia’s grandfather.
“Where’s his leg?” Iralene asks.
“He came in that way,” Peekins says. “It’s a kind of fusing actually. Something from the Detonations. There’s a clump of wires at the stump. From what exactly, who knows?”
Partridge remembers being with his half sister when their mother died—the murderous blood filling the air. They’ve both lost so much. And yet, here’s this man who took care of her all her life, the only father figure she ever knew and whom she thinks is dead, and Partridge can return him to her. It’s the greatest gift he can think of. Love, returned. “I want him treated very carefully,” Partridge says.
“Of course,” Peekins says. “I can only try. No promises!”
“Don’t tell Foresteed or Weed or anyone else in power.” Even though Glassings vouched for Weed, Partridge isn’t sure. “I’m asking you directly. Okay?”
Peekins nods. “Yes, yes.”
“There’s something else he’s here to see,” Iralene says.
“I think I know what’s brought you,” Peekins says.
“What’s that?” Partridge asks.
“You’re not the first person to come down and ask about it. Anything that’s locked up that tight must have been of incredible value to your father, right?” So he knows that Partridge wants to be let into the chamber. Who’s come before him? Probably Foresteed. Maybe Weed. Did members of Cygnus try to get access?
“Do you know what’s in there?” Partridge asks bluntly.
“What’s in the room isn’t meant for you.” Partridge isn’t sure what this is supposed to mean. Was it meant for his father? For someone else?
“I wasn’t expecting to find my inheritance, Peekins.”
This comment startles Peekins. His head jerks a little, and then he looks away.
“Do you know what’s in the room? Or should I say
who
?”
Peekins doesn’t answer.
“You have to tell me.”
“No,” Peekins says. “I don’t.”
“I’m in charge now. Didn’t you hear?” It’s a lie, but Peekins might not know the truth.
Peekins looks at him and blinks.
“Dr. Peekins, I thought you knew how to follow orders,” Beckley says, standing in the door, one hand on his gun.
“I am following orders.”
“Whose?”
He looks at Partridge. “Your father’s.”
His father’s alive? Is this what Peekins is saying? “Jesus, Peekins,” Partridge says, trying to laugh. “He’s dead!”
Peekins doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word. He looks as frozen as one of the suspended bodies. Why would Peekins be following his father’s orders? “Unless he’s not dead. Is that who’s in the chamber, Peekins? My
father
? Did he somehow get resuscitated?” Partridge leans his shoulder against the wall to steady himself. “Is that urn that’s supposedly filled with his ashes and that was put on display at every goddamn memorial service just a hoax?” Partridge’s ears start ringing.
I killed him
, he reminds himself.
I killed him. I wanted him to die, and he’s dead.