Page 37 of Made for You
“I’m sorry,” I say, my throat suddenly pinching closed.
Camila and Josh have stayed close since the show, and she deserved to find out from me. Right away. Which makes me think, I should call Josh’s dad, if I can find his number.
“Don’t be sorry,” says Cam. “We’re moving on. But, hon, I worry about you, out there in the middle of nowhere. And God, could you have landed in a creepier place? I’d never even heard of Royce whatever-his-name-is until—” She shivers audibly. “There are people who love you, though. You don’t have to do this alone.”
“I know.” My tone holds a bitter edge I didn’t plan. I have been doing this alone—for so long. First it was me and Josh against the world. Physically close to our neighbors, yet so very isolated. And then, when it was Josh against me, too...
Maybe I need to get out of Indiana.
But first, I need to get out of this house. I’m not sticking around with reporters lurking and the malevolent presence of Josh’s mother watching me. I can feel the poison in her gaze. What have you done with my son?
I take another vicious gulp of coffee and find myself looking out the kitchen window that faces the gravel driveway. How quickly will the reporters descend on me when I make the journey from back door to car? But another sight greets me.
“Bob,” I say with the same intonation as I might say a curse word. Looking right at me through his window, coffee in hand, like I’m his morning entertainment.
“Huh?” That’s right—Camila’s still on the line.
“Sorry. My neighbor.” I wave at Bob, aggressively. He’s a vulture. Just like Sheriff Mitchell, just like the American public, waiting for me to make a mistake so they can crucify me. I’m about to drop the politeness game and flip Bob off when a chill moves through me.
The words from the lullaby. Angels, vigil keeping. Watching. Spying.
The baby monitor. It only works at certain ranges.
Bob’s house would be in range.
I look at him through the window. He looks back.
It was him. I fucking know it.
He stole the parent side of the monitor, waited until he thought I was asleep, then hit the Talk button and invaded my home.
You’re jumping to conclusions, warns a voice in my head, but I don’t care; in fact, I’m jumping further.
Could Bob have followed Josh Saturday night? Hurt him, even? His constant spying would have told him Josh was leaving. And Bob has always hated our guts. His political signs made that clear. Maybe he took them down Sunday not out of some change of heart, but because he hurt Josh and thought the signs might be a giveaway.
I’ve tried to make excuses for these people. I’ve even played devil’s advocate with Josh when he was freaking out. They’ve never met a Synth before, I might say while surveying a fresh batch of graffiti on our siding. Of course they’re scared.
When Josh got really worked up, I’d dig back further. Remember how many questions you had when I first told you? I’d use my most soothing tones. These people have those same questions. They just need a little more time to see that I’m completely normal. A few more months. A few more relatable Instagram posts. A few more positive interactions.
You know what? Fuck that.
Captain whines—where is he? Nosing at the living room rug again. A feeling moves through me, like a finger stroking down my spine, like a whisper saying pay attention.
“...and Austin is a really welcoming place, Julia...”
As Cam goes on, I set the phone down and crouch on the rug, pushing Captain aside. Rub my palm over the fibers. A cloud of dust motes billows, nothing else. I jerk my arm for Captain to move off the rug. Heave aside the armchair, fall onto all fours and roll up the rug, grunting as I go. Then, I stand to survey the cleared area. Hardwood planks, worn. A discolored, lighter area. Bleached? I lean down to sniff it. No trace of chemical—but I do sneeze. Lots of hairs, lots of dust—way too much dust—ah. The padding that makes up the bottom of the rug is disintegrating.
A crashing sound makes me swallow a scream. Captain just knocked something over...a brass figurine of a mother and child. A tchotchke from Josh’s mom. It rolls over the bare floor, coming to a stop beside me. Captain whines. I pick it up. Nothing unusual here.
Just like there’s nothing on the rug, or under it. Just a nervous dog and his anxious person.
“...Julia? Are you still there?”
Shit. Camila’s been talking for a while.
“Yes,” I say as I return the mother and child to their spot. It’s a stylized little sculpture. Their rounded faces are blank curves. No eyes—no mouths—just hard, smooth gleams.
“...so I could be there by lunch. I’ll bring groceries and tequila. Don’t worry about the reporters, I won’t say a word—just text me if you need me to pick up diapers or something. Do you need diapers? We’ll hunker down, you and me and Miss Gerber Baby...”