Grass grew up from the cracks in the floor and it was the first time I had seen so much green. I’d never been on that floor before. Access is restricted to gardeners and communication directors, so growing up in a family of analytical health specialists and sanitation inspectors never granted me the opportunity to look inside. Usually, the deeper down you go in the tunnels of Saint Wilgefortis, the more frowsy everything looks, so I was expecting the lowest level to be the shittiest concrete tunnel possible. It wasn’t. The hallway from the elevator to the doors to the gardens already had me dumb with wonderment. Vines crept up the walls and onto the ceiling. It was bright. It smelled like the few floors we have above ground. It was immediately inviting.
Linda stepped out of the elevator and said her goodbyes before the doors could slide shut, turned away, and headed down the hallway to the gardens. Her suitcase’s small wheels struggled their way over the bumpy overgrown floor. She chose to wear a dress today - a yellow one with floral patterns - she looked like a daffodil and fit right in. I could tell she was happy to be there, but it was difficult for me to empathize with her happiness because I was beginning to realize that it could be the last time I would see her and the smile that got me to pry open my mouth and share the contents of my jar of thoughts with her. I forgot to prepare myself to say goodbye. The reality of the separation didn’t set in until that moment. I never knew if she felt what I felt about her, but I always hoped - and still do hope - that she knew I loved her.
The machinery yanked the elevator back into action. Besides the guide, I was the last one in. I should have been the first one out, but I stayed on so that I could spend a few more moments with the women I grew up with and learned to love despite the distaste I had for so many of them. It was a long ride. The guide was visibly frustrated, which I always assumed was because she would have been on her way home by then, if I hadn’t decided to take up more of her time. When we reached my floor, I attempted a friendly goodbye and thanks, but her acknowledgement seemed hesitant.
Being on the above-ground levels of our shelter is much different than being below. There are windows; not many, of course, for safety, but there are windows. Everything is a lot cleaner. Because the work we do in the labs requires absolute sterility, it’s kept spotless. Even the uterine tank that was abandoned due to a previous contamination incident is cleaned as often as possible. This disparity in quality of life does leave me feeling guilty, but I always justify my comforts by excusing it with the importance of my work. Without our expertise and work in the labs, our child production would end. In turn, our society’s longevity would be cut short and there would be nobody to open the doors when that time finally comes. That longevity is also threatened, if we’re unable to reach a compromise with the women from the lower floors. They have roles that are essential to the continuation and guarantee of safety for everyone in Saint Wilgefortis. If they don’t do their jobs, we will be incapacitated. It’s because of this, and not because of my long-over relationship with her, that I say we need to give Linda what she wants. She controls the gardens. If she feels the need to, she could shut down our supplies. The same goes for all the other leaders in resource management, who are all on her side this time. If we’re going to claim that we’re not greedy, we should show that we’re not.