The Delusion
By T.O. Paine
CHAPTER ONE
EMMA
A faded, metallic-gold car from the nineties pulls in behind me. I swear I’ve seen it before. Is it from the nineties? I’m not sure. It could be a decade newer than that. Or, like me, a decade older. An eighties baby. It’s a plain, four-door sedan. Cheap and boxy. Tinted windows mask the person inside, giving off a desperate attempt at sophistication, smothering an otherwise dismal and run-down machine.
Like me.
I check my mascara in the rearview mirror. I’m not used to wearing makeup. My hair is already coming out of the bun, but it only needs to hold for a couple more hours until they announce the winners of this year’s Tiberian Research Award in Psychology. Then, everything will change.
I can’t be late for the banquet.
My thigh tenses as I hold the brake pedal to the floor, waiting for the light to change.
I’ll shoot myself if I get stuck at a table with Wilson.
Wilson Sinclair doesn’t deserve to win the award with us. He doesn’t deserve to be there at all. Dr. Santan and I spent too many years working through to the dim light of dawn while Wilson slept. While he vacationed in Maui. While he eagerly put his name on our research papers, only occasionally cracking open a periodical or conducting an experimental study.
We deserve to win.
Wilson doesn’t.
The doors to the hotel banquet hall opened over an hour ago, according to the schedule.
I’m going to be late. This isn’t like me. I’m normally very punctual.
The traffic light turns green, and I accelerate through the intersection.
The golden sedan follows.
I consider turning right at the next light to see if it will follow me.
What a stupid thought.
It’s not following me.
I’m imagining a stalker scenario only because I’m certain I’ve seen that car before. Of course, I’ve probably seen most of the cars on this road before. The difference is, I vividly remember the golden paint job. It sticks out amongst the newer black, white, and gray SUVs that have overtaken our majestic city of Baltimore.
Listen to me. Overtaken our majestic city of Baltimore. I sound like a news reporter.
My cell rings.
Alyssa. My best friend, confidant, and Queen of Bad Timing.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Tonight’s the big night, right?”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations. I’m so happy for you.”
“It hasn’t happened yet. I’m on my way there now.”
“I’ll be quick. Can you babysit for Vivian tomorrow?”
“Alyssa. Really?”
“Please. You know how much she loves it when you sit for her.”
“I don’t know what tomorrow looks like.”
“It looks like a Saturday, but you wouldn’t know what Saturdays look like, would you? Won’t your research ever end? After you win the award, won’t you get your life back?”
She has a point. When will I get my life back? We finished the research months ago, but the work hasn’t stopped. I got caught up in circulating our findings. Conducting follow-on studies. Drafting potential proposals to fund the next phase. It hasn’t ended, and it likely won’t end soon.
I turn left at the light. When I wasn’t looking, a large black SUV slipped between the golden sedan and my mini-SUV, but they’re still back there. That nineties reject. Sitting in my lane.
“Can I call you later?”
“I wanted to tell Vivian you’d babysit before she went to bed tonight. She’ll be so excited. Are you sure you won’t have some time tomorrow? I only need you in the afternoon.”
“I might have to work. I don’t know.”
“This wasn’t your plan.” Her voice tense. She sounds like my mother.
“I know.”
She’s so right. Working day and night on Dr. Santan’s research—the psychology behind digital mass persuasion—for the rest of my life. . . that wasn’t the plan. Working day and night until we were published, until my name was cemented in the field—that was the plan. And then we were published. Without my name. So, the carrot moved to tonight. I need my name on that award to get recognition for my work and enter the next phase of my life.
I need it more than anything else in the world.
The hotel comes into view as I crest a hill and survey the parking lot for a spot.
The golden car is gone.
Alyssa’s still at me. She’s the dog, I’m the bone. “You always said you’d find someone and have kids once you made it. Right?”
“That was my mother’s plan. Not mine.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No, you’re right. It was kinda my plan, too. I just don’t know if it begins tomorrow.”
“You’re so great with Vivian. She loves you so much. You’re going to be a great mother, just like your mom was.”
“Thanks. I’m at the hotel. I’ve got to go.”
“Good luck. Oh, wait—is your dad going to be there?”
“No. He couldn’t make it.”
“Oh well, I’m sure he’s proud of you. I’m sure your mom would have been proud, too.”
I pull into a parking space and turn the engine off.
Sticking to the plan hasn’t been easy since Mom died. Solidify my career and give her the grandchildren she always wanted. It can’t happen now. It’s too late for me to begin pumping out puppies. She’s gone. Besides, the more I learn about the people in this world—how their brains work, and how susceptible they are to misinformation—the less interested I am in contributing to the mess. My thinking has regressed back to my teenage years. Anti-corporate resolutions. Environmental activism. General angst. The world has enough people. We’re all nothing but sheep, wandering aimlessly through life, consuming what each other makes, all the while destroying the environment.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a granola-crunching, plant-based-meat-eating environmentalist. Those people are noble, but too extreme for me. Besides, there’s only so much a single person can do. I like to think I do my part. The problem is, the world is running out of time. There’s never enough time.
“Emma? Are you still there? I’m sorry for bringing up your mom.”
“It’s okay. My head is just a little jumbled right now.” I get out of my car and stride toward the front entrance. “It’s been three years. You’d think I’d be over her by now.”
“You know that’s not how it works.”
“I’ve got to go. I’m late.”
“What do you want me to tell Vivian?”
“Tell her I’ll be there. I’ll come over around noon.”
“Thanks. You’re the best.”
The hotel’s automatic doors slide open, and I rush inside. A poster-size electronic screen directs me toward the main banquet hall. Lush green plants reach for the ceiling, their stems rising from blue and white ceramic pots placed along the walls, their leaves obscuring the windows. Dark wooden doors to the hall hang open ahead of me, and I quicken my pace down the long hallway.
Wilson will most likely have sat right next to D’Angelo. I should try to sit at the same table so we can accept the award as a team, but I secretly hope there are no seats left.
I do not want to sit next to Wilson.
A hotel attendant begins to close the doors before I can get there, but he stops when he sees me coming. I hate being late. Being last is so embarrassing. It’s so—everyone always looks at you. I’ve tried to be fashionably late before, but I’m not the fashionable type.
Maybe I’m not the last one this time.
I glance back, hoping to see someone behind me, and my eyes are drawn to the big windows at the entrance.
The golden car pulls into the parking lot.
I slow down, watching as the nineties relic cruises to a stop near the automatic doors.
“Please, miss.” The attendant waves me into the hall.
I crane my neck, hoping the driver will step out of the vehicle, but the door doesn’t open.
Inside the hall, white tablecloths rest beneath polished silverware and spotless china, protecting round tables from drops of wine and breadcrumbs and pieces of cheese as the guests finish their entrees. Dr. Halsford, the master of ceremonies, takes the stage.
Far from the podium, two empty tables beckon me to end their loneliness, but it would be odd to sit that far away from Dr. Santan and my colleagues.
I walk softly toward the stage.
Heads turn to see the late-comer.
Me. They gawk at me.
There’s one seat left near Dr. Santan in the front.
It’s also next to Wilson.
His designer knock-off cologne smells like a nightclub bathroom.
I have no choice.
I take the seat next to him, and the awards ceremony begins.
