Free Antitype by M. D. Waters Page A

they apply pressure. “They’ve diagnosed her with dissociative identity disorder. It’s extremely rare.”
    I give her a blank stare, trying to understand, while my heart begins a stuttered pound. “Dissa-what?”
    â€œMultiple personality disorder.”
    The compression building behind my eyes and throbbing at my temples is almost too much. “Oh my God.”
    â€œIt explains her lapses in memory. Why she’d be fine one minute and confused the next. Easily distracted. Daydreaming, even.” She squeezes my hand. “The prognosis isn’t good.”
    A tall figure stops beside us. Nate Updike stares at Sonya. “You told him?”
    She nods. “What can I do?” she asks me.
    She’s sweet, and I wish I had an answer to that. To Nate, I ask, “Is there a way to get her out? Somewhere where I can make the decisions for her medical care? I don’t want my dad in charge.”
    â€œI can make some calls,” Sonya tells Nate. “With the right documents and signatures, we can get her moved fairly quickly.”
    Updike nods. “Do it.”
    With one last smile at me, Sonya leaves us alone.
    â€œThank you,” I tell Nate.
    He frowns. “I wish I could do more. I’m sorry.” He claps my shoulder. “You look like you could use a drink. Come on.”
    I follow him to his office, where he closes us inside a plain room with gray metal furnishings. Most are pretty battered and used. Hand-me-downs from however many generations. A single personal item hangs in a frame on the wall. A photo of a young woman holding a young girl. Both have dark hair and olive-toned skin.
    Nate hands me a glass with a shot of clear alcohol. Vodka, according to the sharp smell. “I’m going to tell you something I don’t share with a lot of people,” he says, then props a hip on the front of his desk. He nods at the photo. “I do this for them.”
    â€œWife and daughter?” I guess.
    He nods. “Angela and Whitney. Whit was only three when that was taken.” A black cloud passes over his eyes and seeps down into his body, turning him rigid. “A couple months after I took that picture, they were killed fighting men hired to capture fertile women and return them to the east for breeding.” His eyes pinch shut. “I wasn’t there, and I can only imagine how hard Angela fought back after seeing—” His chin lowers; his lips pout. “Anyway. I joined up right after that.”
    He looks up to where I stand in stunned silence. “Joining the resistance wasn’t casual dinner conversation. It isn’t for a lot of us. We’re all driven by the same intense need to protect. To do something good. To do something that matters. We just have different stories. Some worse than others.”
    â€œWhy are you telling me this?”
    â€œBecause you’re one of us, whether you choose to believe that or not. But I was wrong to try pushing you into this. I need you in the game one hundred percent, and you won’t be if you’re still hung up on family obligations. So take all the time you need.” He taps his glass to mine and swallows his shot. “We’ll still be here for you when you’re ready.”

SEPTEMBER
    Declan
    Dad claps and shakes my shoulder. “Happy birthday, son.”
    The living room and outside patio fill with raised glasses and birthday wishes. My cheeks warm, but I nod and smile. “Thanks, Dad.”
    The party resumes, conversations picking up where they left off.
    â€œDo you like your present?” Dad asks.
    I look at the set of sculptures. An abstract family carved into stone. Granite from the look of it. One is a husband, the other a mother with child. They’re extremely heavy, and not exactly the trip to Italy I’d hoped he’d sanction today. I’ve done everything he’s asked and more.
    I lift the mother half of the sculpture and