The doctors were kind. They were patient with my attitude. They assured us we were safe. They encouraged us to ask questions, but my trust was not so easily won. Joseph tried to be more forgiving but even he found it frustrating.
Watching another woman feed my baby was agonizing. They gave me a pump so I could express milk for him, which I did. When I initially refused, thinking I could blackmail them into bringing him to me, they shrugged and said they would give him artificial baby milk. I was desperate to maintain any connection to him so I relented.
They took blood and did physical tests. It all looked good, they said. We should be cleared in no time, they said. Now? I would ask. No, not yet. Soon.
If Joseph wasn’t there, I think I may have hung myself from the shower rail. He talked me down from my panic. We pushed our beds together and talked through the glass, our breath fogging around our faces. Joseph found music he thought I would like and noted the tracks, telling me to find them on my music device. I stared into his green eyes and counted the gold flecks. I put my hand to the glass and imagined I was touching his hand—that I was lying next to him.
He chewed through the books. I watched him read and wished I had the strength to sit still and try, but I didn’t. My skin was crawling; the bugs and itches of the past ran through my body and surfed alongside me. I felt and knew I was one meltdown away from completely snapping.
When they took Orry’s blood, the snap echoed like a tree falling, a dry crack and splinters creaked and cried out. He screamed and screamed as they pricked his little heel and squeezed drops of blood onto a piece of paper. All I could think was, They took my baby. And no matter how many times they told me he was safe, no matter how many times they pressed his little body up against the glass, I didn’t care. He should have been with me. I couldn’t take it anymore. It had been a week. The glass was smudged with my desperate, pattering hands. Layers of tears and terror clouded my view.
Before I knew what was happening, my body acted. I picked up a chair and banged it against the glass as hard as I could. It rebounded. The glass wobbled but it didn’t break. I smashed it again and again. The rubber stoppers on the legs squeaked down the pane. Joseph watched me, exasperated and helpless.
I hit and hit until my arms were bowed and shaking from the exertion of holding the chair over my head.
I walked to the center of the room, my hands in my hair, and screamed.
“He should be with me! Bring Orry to me,” I yelled, and then I whispered to myself, to my body that felt fragile and broken, “I can’t do this anymore.”
Joseph’s muffled voice called to me. “Rosa, come here.” He had his hand on the glass, bumping it gently with his fist. I didn’t want to look. I shook my head, listening to the rhythmic clunk of his hand on the glass. He wanted to calm me down and I didn’t want to be calm. I wanted to build angry flames around me, set the sprinklers off, and let the doors open. Let the whole place burn down for all I cared.
“Rosa, come here!” His voice was more frustrated now, the word, “please,” choking on the way out.
He was kneeling on the floor, banging on the glass, trying so hard to get me to turn around. Reluctantly, I shuffled over to him. This was unbearable. After six weeks apart, we only had a week together before they separated us again.
He breathed in deeply. I watched his chest rise and fall. The scar from his operation moved as he talked. “Just breathe. It will be over soon.”
“But, how can you trust them? How can you be sure...?”
“It will be ok. You know this is killing me too.” He pulled his hair back with both hands, his muscles tensing, and whispered through gritted teeth, “Don’t you know how much I want to punch through the glass and touch you?” A shudder of agonizing pleasure ran through me. His eyes were so intensely focused on me, all of me. I couldn’t stand it. “But we have to wait,” he continued. “We agreed to this and now we have to wait.”
I banged my head on the glass, a little too hard, the thud reverberating and rippling up to the ceiling. “I hate it,” I sobbed.
“I know,” he said.
We touched hands, and I swear I could feel the heat burning through, like if we concentrated hard enough on reaching each other, we could melt the glass. How was I ever going to survive another week of this hell?
That night I slept in fits and bursts, my body knotting and unknotting around the cool, white sheets. I continuously woke screaming but there was no one to hold and comfort me. Most of the dreams I couldn’t remember. But I knew my mind was taking me back to the facility, to the four months I lost. And I wished they’d stayed lost.
I awoke with my hands around my throat. Not screaming but gurgling and gasping for air. Joseph was kneeling on his bed, trying to get my attention. His eyes panicked, his muscles tensing at the fact they couldn’t reach me. When I shook myself free from the dream, I slumped down on my pillow and shoved my face against the cold, cotton pillow, letting out one pathetic whimper.
The dull thud on the glass continued until I turned to face him.
“Tell me what you dream?” he asked, his eyes flicking back and forth, searching my own.
“I don’t want to,” I said with a scowl. How could I?
“Why?” He looked down at his knees, the bed bowing and squeaking under his weight.
“It will hurt you.”
He sighed, frustrated. “I can handle it. You need to stop protecting me.” He used his eyes against me, staring deep into mine, until I felt incapable of resistance.
“Ok, but I warned you.” I kept it as brief as I could. “I’m in the underground facility. I wake up, suddenly aware of what they’re doing. I start to fight, to scream, and try to pull myself out of bed but they’re always there in a second. People in white coats hold me down, tie my ankles and wrists to the bed with leather straps, then they put a mask on my face. A man holds me by the neck and presses his hand down on my forehead because I’m thrashing my head around so much. Then I feel like I’m dying. Or I’m dead. Like I’ve floated away, out of my body. But it’s not peaceful; it’s terrifying and I’m always fighting, scratching, grappling to get back to myself.”
His mouth twisted and I could see his neck and shoulder muscles tightening. I knew it hurt him. I knew he found it hard to hear but all he said was, “Thank you for sharing that with me, Rosa. I appreciate it,” in an oddly formal tone.
“S’ok,” I shrugged, a little confused.
“Can you sleep?”
“Probably not, but you should.” I could feel the dark, craggy fingers of sleep trying to wrestle me under but I was fighting it.
“No, I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep. Close your eyes.” He lay facing me, propping his head up with his hand. His body caused the rollaway bed to sag in the middle, his big feet hanging off the edge.
I lay on my side facing him and closed my eyes, opening them a couple of times to see if he was still awake. He was. He just watched me softly, his eyes muted in the safety lights, his warmth radiating through the glass and wrapping around me.
Eventually, my eyes became heavy and I slept without a single nightmare. But I knew as long as I was in here it would only be a temporary reprieve.
After my meltdown, Matthew came to visit. He casually walked up to the glass like this was a normal experience, knocking like it was my front door. And if it were, he would have got no answer. He explained that he and the others we were with had been quarantined too. But they were allowed out earlier because the doctors already had most of the data on them. I tried to avoid his eyes.