The word’s Love

Content Warning: This story contains themes of loss, separation, and psychological distress.

A week ago, two women from the Anomalous Behaviors division of the Justice Department took P with them. I was at school and didn’t know until S explained her absence at dinner. I was to discuss the results of my first-ever Suitable Career Assessments with both of them. It had been a two-hour quiz, and at the end of the day, I was given a piece of paper describing my foundational skill set. I had slipped it into my bag and was hoping both of them could have a look at it first and give their counsel. 

However, with one of my Carers gone, we didn’t have the discussion. Instead, S told me what had happened as he shifted food around his plate with a spoon. 

S was preparing for the gym and P was getting ready for her daily morning session at the big chalky building—Centre for the Youth Advancement Program—a ten-minute walk from our residence. S had his in the afternoon. It had always mystified me. Whenever I asked S about these sessions, he smiled and said, “Oh, that? I need some guidance to guide you.” He chuckled, but the sound wouldn’t quite persist and die abruptly in his throat. “My role here is a delicate one. I don’t want to lead you down a disastrous career path.” Like what? I thought once, feeling curious, but S didn’t elaborate. He patted my shoulder gently and then we moved on to the next homework problem. 

The bell rang just as P was about to leave. When she opened the door, there were the women, standing at the door like two exclamation marks, dressed completely in red. They didn’t even pass the threshold and informed S that they would have to escort P to the A.B. Department for interrogation. 

“What kind of interrogation? Is it because of me?” S exhaled and shook his head. 

“It isn’t because of you,” he said.

“I am in the ideal weight range. I haven’t missed any of my bi-weekly checkups. The reports are all fine. She changed my exercise plan last month as Doctor K advised her to.” I stared at the colorful assortment of vegetables, rice, and potatoes on my plate. 

“Who cooked this?”

“I did.”

I could tell because it tasted different. Not better, but different.

“How long will she be gone?”

S grimaced. I stared at him. “Will she come back?”

“Of course, she will come back.”

“How do you know?”

“Even if she doesn’t, a new Carer will be assigned to you in a matter of a few days.”

I opened my mouth, suddenly feeling a tight knot in my throat. No words came out, though. 

“Everything will be taken care of. The new Carer will adjust to your lifestyle and needs right away. We are trained for this, you know,” S said. Trained for this. 

I recalled the time P had suggested to me a profession as a Carer. “You’ll get training for two years, and then you’ll join the Youth Advancement Program.” 

“Is that what you did?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t you have a child before that?”

We were in my room, sitting on the edge of my bed. She had given me my night medication, something she had started practicing a month ago. Before that, I took the pills myself, and I didn’t miss any of them. So I didn’t know why she was taking the trouble. “Yes, I had a child. Most women spend a year at the Birth Facility before they go on for training.”

“Do you get to decide if your child will be provided with Carers?”

“No.” The room was dark. Her shoulders were hunched, and I noticed then that her hair was frizzy, coming out in bunches from the long braid.

“Have you ever taken care of babies?”

“No. The people who work at the Childcare Facility have very strict regulations. You have to pass umpteen tests and go through meticulous procedures to get a job there. And once you do get a job, you live in separate quarters. You tend to babies but never get to see them grow up. You aren’t assigned a partner. Plus, it is very difficult to leave. I'm certain, though, that there hasn’t been any news of someone quitting or wanting to quit. When I learned about work at the Childcare Facility, it didn’t appeal to me at all, you know. I decided I’d be a Carer. For a girl like you,” she said and smiled at me. I smiled too, but then I noticed a twinkle in her eyes, a strange sadness in the curve of her mouth; for some reason, I pictured P’s face as it had been when I first met her—met both of them, in fact, when I was six. 

“Hello!” She had come forward and hugged me, while S stood behind her shyly. I had been feeling slightly nervous about meeting my Carers, but the moment I saw P’s bright, pink face and her brilliant smile, the pointy sensation in my chest melted away. Her face was free of those harsh wrinkles that now caressed the corners of her mouth and eyes, her nose, and her forehead. Her hair had gotten thinner and grayer. She forgot things sometimes but told me there was nothing to worry about. As I looked at her in the darkness, I felt nervous again—no; I felt scared. I looked into her eyes and saw in them all the years we had spent together—eleven years during which she had taken care of me along with S. 

“You are a great Carer,” I said. 

“Thank you.” She placed a heavy hand on my head and let it linger there. Then she smiled one last time and went to her room. S was already asleep in his. 

While in bed, my heart beat loudly and I thought about the time when I would leave my Carers and head on for training. Only a year was left. 

I glanced at the closed door and wondered if P was still awake. I thought of going into her room to talk. I had always wanted to ask her about her time at the Birth Facility. Of course, it was part of her duty as a Carer to educate me about my body—the different ways of conception, the tiring process of giving birth, and its consequences in a woman's life. I was scared of it. Sometimes after a health checkup, I hoped Doctor K would tell us that my hormone levels were abnormal; I wasn’t fertile; I couldn’t have a child. Yet, at times I imagined being a pregnant woman at the Birth Facility with other women, with a big, round belly, going for morning walks in the vast gardens, painting (I’d heard rumors that pregnant women were allowed to paint landscapes and still lifes), stretching, playing games, and waiting for the day the baby would be delivered. I imagined staying in the same room with the baby for two weeks, after which it would be transferred to the Childcare Facility. 

I wanted to ask P what she had felt in those days as she lay in a squeaky bed, nurses attending to her every few hours, her body sore and weak from giving birth. What had she felt when she first saw the baby’s face? She must have been happy. But then, I’ve heard a lot of women prefer not to hold the baby except when breastfeeding. 

I did get the chance to ask her a week later. 

“The funny thing is, I did feel something, but I don’t understand what it is."

“Something other than happiness? Or fear? Or sadness?”

She blinked her eyes, scratched her chin, and thought about it. We were again sitting on the edge of my bed. 

"Maybe it was all that.”

I raised an eyebrow, expecting her to say more, but P was already standing up; she left without saying goodnight or shutting my door.

As I ate dinner, which was part of P’s updated meal plan, I couldn’t help but feel that something had upset her that night when I asked her about the baby. Since then, whenever we met, her eyes circled my face as though carefully noting the curves of my cheeks, nose, lips, the color of my eyes, and skin. She offered to put my hair into an exotic braid, and girls in my class passed me with strange looks all day. She prompted me to talk at lunch. “How are your classes?” We usually had lunch in silence; most times I ate in my room. “Good,” I said but looked at her dubiously. “What about your friends?”

I sipped some water. “What about them?”

“Do you have any?”

“I do.”

Just a few days ago she offered me a piece of chocolate. “I can’t eat that. You shouldn’t, either.” She used chocolate in some of her recipes, but no one ever ate a piece like that. I was honestly puzzled. “She’s right. She can’t eat that.” S had come into the kitchen, and for a few seconds, they gazed at each other, a prying, almost concerned look on S’s face. He was about to snatch the chocolate from P’s hand when she pulled it away. 

Now I wonder what the chocolate would have tasted like if I had put it in my mouth. Sweet; yes. But what else?

One of my classmate’s Carers was taken to the A.B. Department three years ago. She didn’t hear from him again. Another Carer was assigned to her and she simply forgot about him with the cruel passage of time.

No one knows what behavior is anomalous and thus punishable. No one talks about it.

“Did something happen? Did she say something?” S held the spoon in midair. Deep crease lines marked his forehead. 

“No.” 

I swallowed a piece of potato and felt my stomach turn.

“Will I ever meet her again?” I knew my voice must have sounded all wobbly and pleading, and a part of me hoped S would lie.

But he didn’t say anything.

“Do you know what will happen to her?”

My throat was burning, and then I felt a tear run down my cheek. I wiped it quickly and turned away from S.

“I know that you are upset. P was excellent at her job, of course.”

“Then why did they take her away from me?”

S stared at me, fumbling for words. His mouth kept twisting, his fingers twitching in the air, but he couldn’t say anything.

“I don’t understand. What went wrong?” My face felt hot. “What goes so wrong with people that they have to be taken away?"

“I—I don’t know.” S clasped his hands together and looked at me, tired and despondent.

*

When she asked me about the two weeks at the Birth Facility, I felt the weight of that question deepen in my mind and sink into my heart—a question that had quietly accompanied me all these years. 

Now, as I await the end, I can clearly picture his face—it was a boy—his tiny hands and feet, his wrinkled body, and his red skin. I had looked at him again and again, trying to memorize every feature of his face and body. I wanted to hold him close to my heart, but I was too weak, and every other hour a nurse gave me a medicine that pushed me into a heavy sleep. 

What was it? What was it? What had I felt then? I was trying to figure it out. 

At the time, I had tried hard to etch his face into memory so that one day—if I ever saw him again—I would know. I didn’t want him to leave. I didn’t want him to be taken away. I was scared. Every time I heard him cry, my heart jumped. Each time I fed him, he became less of a stranger. I slept most of the day and night, and then once when I woke up, he was gone. 

I wish I could tell her what I’d felt then—though I don’t have a word for it. I wish I could tell her that she reminded me of my baby. That I was trying to draw her in memory so that I could live in it when she left our care. That—in many ways—she had become the baby I’d given birth to in the facility. I wish I could tell her that in these many years, I have come to feel for her the same thing I felt for my baby boy. I wish I could put it into a word; something simple and unforgettable; something that is many words. But I think they’ll kill me before I can find it.