Finding Forever (40 page)

“Now squeeze.” Nurse Mary Darling steadied the needle just above Taylor's tricep. “Just a little prick.”

Taylor squeezed the rubber ball and grunted, the pain radiating up her arm as the fluid spread inside her veins. She glanced at the door and whispered, “I need you to contact my assistant, Simone. You need to tell her where I am.”

Taylor handed the nurse a tiny scrap of paper with Simone's cell phone number scrawled on it. “Someone has been killed. Someone named Beckett. Peter shot him in Casa Bell. I heard it happen. Something needs to be done. Do the right thing. Please.”

Nurse Mary stuffed the message into the pocket of her smock, pointed at the ceiling camera with her chin, and fussed with the medical cart in a normal fashion. “The guards change shifts every night at ten,” she said in a hushed voice. She pressed a pack of bubblegum into the palm of Taylor's hand. “Jam this in the lock. When the guards change shifts, that's your chance. I cannot help any more.”

The door to Taylor's room buzzed open. Taylor slid the gum under her pillow as the nurse jolted, quickly placing the used syringe onto her cart just as Peter bounded in wearing Birkenstocks.

“
Buenos dias
, Nurse Darling,” Peter said.
“Cuál es el problema?”

“No hay problema.”

“
Deje!
” he barked, telling her to leave. She bowed and quickly rolled the cart out of the room.

“Please excuse Nurse Darling's unprofessionalism,” Peter told Taylor. “She knows better than to distract members with idle chitchat.” He glanced down at his tablet. “I've been reading the staff reports on your progress. Your red blood cell
count has improved markedly since your arrival last week. Your body mass index is already below a fifteen; you came here at eighteen percent. All together, we've seen a two-percent increase in muscle mass and four-percent decrease in fat. And we've gotten your hormone levels to much more optimal numbers. Your physical journey is on the right path.” He took off his sunglasses. “But we've still got a problem.”

“Is it my water intake? I'm sorry, but it makes me have to pee all the time—”

“No, no, no. We are pleased with your
physical
progress. It's a mental blockage. Based on the staff reports and my own observations, we fear you are resisting the Program. Now, it could be subconscious; I am not accusing you of anything. But, my dear, this is not good. Not for you, not for us. Not for the movement. Do you understand me?”

“I'm afraid, I don't.”

“You simply need more Delete Sessions. As you have experienced with Helper Lily, they are typically verbal exercises. But when those aren't working, we must go to Level Two.”

“Two?”

“Level one is verbal,” he said. “Level two, electrical.”

Taylor's stomach pinched tightly. “I promise I will do better, Dr. Kensington.”

“For the last time, call me ‘Peter,'” he said with a frown. “Dr. Kensington makes me feel old.”

Peter sat in the chair beside Taylor's bed. “Let's give our verbal efforts another try, shall we? I will be performing this session myself. So just relax and close your eyes, Taylor. And as always, don't self-edit your replies. Simply respond with your first instinct.”

“I'll do my best.”

“Tell me about your father's death.”

“I was eleven. He had skin cancer that spread.”

“Please tell me, Taylor, what is rule number four of the Program?”

“I will avoid harmful sun exposure.”

“Very good, Ms. Prince. You are indeed learning. So would it be a correct statement to say that the Program, if practiced, can save lives?”

“Yes, that would be accurate.”

“So, your father, did he wear sunscreen?”

“Not really.”

“But you still consider your father a mentor?”

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“He was a hard worker. He was kind. He lived a life of love by example.”

“Some example! An example of how to die too young? How to be self-destructive? An example of letting an easily preventable disease take his life?”

Taylor pinched her eyes tighter.

“Answer me, Taylor.”

“He wasn't perfect, but he taught me a lot.”

The whir from the air-conditioning vent hummed amid their silent standoff.

“Would you believe that studies show the greatest trauma a parent can inflict on a child is dying too young?” Peter asked.

“I would believe that to be true, yes.”

“Would you believe the primary cause of most neuroses, most cases of high blood pressure, most stress-induced illnesses, is the deeply rooted trauma people have due to their fear of death?”

“Okay. If you say so.”

“The data says so! You, Ms. Prince, must delete the memory you have of your father as a mentor—clinically, spiritually, intellectually, emotionally. The dark past that
he painted is discoloring you. His deletion will open up a brighter future.”

Taylor gnashed her molars.

“So when I say the words, ‘Your father,' you will say, ‘delete.'”

Taylor lay still, eyes closed.

“Your father,” Peter said slowly.

Silence.

“Your father,” he repeated, more loudly.

Silence.

“Your father!”

Taylor opened her eyes, lifted her head just up from the pillow, and flashed her million-dollar Hollywood smile. “Delete.”