Page 3 of Trade
Her face softens, and she pats my hand where it rests on the slab of plywood covering the sinks that had running water in our grandfather’s day. “I know you will,” she says.
“I will,” I agree. I don’t give up easily.
If I can’t convince Neil to reevaluate AP’s water allotment, I’ll find another way. Hygiene and Sanitation has been known to make deals under the table, and I have two strong bargaining chips—an indica and a sativa.
“Well, wish me luck,” I say to Cecily.
She gives me a sad smile. “It’s not the worst thing that can happen to you.”
I don’t know what she means, but I’m also going to be late if I don’t leave now. I make a mental note to check in on her later. Depression is the first sign of bunker brain, and it can get anyone at any time. We might not know anything but bunker life, but humans weren’t made to live this way.
For all of history, we lived under an ever-changing sky with clouds and birds and stars, and now we look up, and all we see are the dingy glass panes that make up the atrium’s high ceiling, gray during the day and black at night. The only fresh air we’ve ever inhaled was the breath we sucked down when we shoved our mouths between the slats of the huge vents we found exploring the access ducts as bored kids looking for trouble.
That’s why the trees are so important. Humanity has lost so much, but not everything, and that reminder is sometimes enough to get a person through the next day.
Should I use that argument with Neil? Better not. He doesn’t give much weight to emotional appeals.
I make my way toward Command, hurrying so I spend the least possible time in the narrow passageways. I know it’s a great privilege to work in the atrium, but over the years, I’ve grown used to natural light and a more distant visual horizon, and lately, the bunker’s miles of identical, pale green cinder-block corridors have begun to feel claustrophobic. I hope it’s not perimenopause.
My older cousin Pam and I were talking about it the other day, and she says she’d put her money on low estrogen. I went to her for a missed period. Pam is a health tech in Fertility, and she’s the person I’ve always seen for lady business.
She said the average age for perimenopause used to be forty, but now it’s thirty-five. She blames the stressors of bunker life. Her theory is that men’s dwindling sperm counts and women’s early menopause are an adaptation to our limited environment similar to insular dwarfism, but instead of our bodies growing smaller, our population is shrinking. Whatever the reason, I’m thirty-nine and my period is M.I.A. Pam says it could very well be the change of life.
I took a test, and I’m not pregnant. Not that I really thought it was a possibility. Bennett and I have been trying since we married at eighteen, but it never happened for us. It’d be really strange if it happened now when we’re only doing it once or twice a month, if that.
Pam listed a whole bunch of symptoms of menopause I’d never even heard of—tingling fingers and burning mouth and bleeding gums and electric shock sensations—and she said the mental symptoms can be even worse. She developed a phobia of the lottery, even though she’s married. Her doctor had to write a note excusing her from Assembly since her panic attacks were so bad.
My claustrophobia isn’t as bad as that, but I don’t spend any more time in the corridors than necessary. Besides, after talking to Amy and Cecily, I have no time to spare.
I manage to keep cool enough so that when I arrive at Neil’s office, my palms might be sweaty, but I’m not out of breath. Barb, his secretary, doesn’t even look up from her desk when she says, “Go on through, Gloria. They’re expecting you.”
Thank God for small favors. Usually, she chews my ear off.
I square my shoulders and tap on Neil’s heavy metal door with the square glass window. Unlike in the rest of the bunker, the tan paint is unchipped. Facilities must’ve saved a few cans just for his door because goodness knows nothing else in the bunker has gotten a paint job in years.
“Ah, Gloria,” Neil says, rising from behind his desk.
Barb’s “they,” which I hardly registered in my rush, finally dings in my brain like an alarm buzzer. Neil isn’t alone. Bennett is here, too, sitting at the small conference table by the wall of army-green file cabinets. Susan Jordan from Human Management sits beside him.
What is happening?
Skip levels are between you and your immediate superior’s boss. Bennett didn’t say he was coming.
“Bennett?”
Before he can answer, Neil rounds his desk and says, “Join us.” He takes a seat at the table and gestures for me to take the fourth, empty chair.
I try to catch Bennett’s eye, but he’s staring at the yellow legal pad in front of him, and he won’t look up. Something’s very wrong.
The rock in my stomach sinks. What the hell is going on?
Am I getting transferred? Because I won’t shut up about the water? They can’t do that to me. I have the greenest thumb in the bunker. Even Dad admitted I was the best when I used to talk about how I wanted to be head one day. He said I’d serve the bunker a hundred times better by getting dirty in the plant beds than by shuffling paper in an office, and I’d be happier, too.
Did they find out about my weed garden? Who told? No one who’d come to me would tell, but someone could have overheard.
“Bennett?” I murmur. If he’d just look at me, I’d be able to breathe right again. His face is pasty gray. Did something happen tohim? “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
Is he sick? Is it so bad that he’s afraid to tell me alone?
