"But it's against the rules! The Receiver-in-training can't apply for rel—"
"It's in your rules, Jonas. But it wasn't in hers. She asked for release, and they had to give it to her. I never saw her again."
So that was the failure, Jonas thought. It was obvious that it saddened The Giver very deeply. But it didn't seem such a terrible thing, after all. And he, Jonas, would never have done it—never have requested release, no matter now difficult his training became. The Giver needed a successor, and he had been chosen.
A thought occurred to Jonas. Rosemary had been released very early in her training. What if something happened to him, Jonas? He had a whole year's worth of memories now.
"Giver," he asked, "I can't request release, I know that. But what if something happened: an accident? What if I fell into the river like the little Four, Caleb, did? Well, that doesn't make sense because I'm a good swimmer. But what if I couldn't swim, and fell into the river and was lost? Then there wouldn't be a new Receiver, but you would already have given away an awful lot of important memories, so even though they would select a new Receiver, the memories would be gone except for the shreds that you have left of them? And then what if—"
He started to laugh, suddenly. "I sound like my sister, Lily," he said, amused at himself.
The Giver looked at him gravely. "You just stay away from the river, my friend," he said. "The community lost Rosemary after five weeks and it was a disaster for them. I don't know what the community would do if they lost you."
"Why was it a disaster?"
"I think I mentioned to you once," The Giver reminded him, "that when she was gone, the memories came back to the people. If you were to be lost in the river, Jonas, your memories would not be lost with you. Memories are forever.
"Rosemary had only those five weeks worth, and most of them were good ones. But there were those few terrible memories, the ones that had overwhelmed her. For a while they overwhelmed the community. All those feelings! They'd never experienced that before.
"I was so devastated by my own grief at her loss, and my own feeling of failure, that I didn't even try to help them through it. I was angry, too."
The Giver was quiet for a moment, obviously thinking. "You know," he said, finally, "if they lost you, with all the training you've had now, they'd have all those memories again themselves."
Jonas made a face. "They'd hate that."
"They certainly would. They wouldn't know how to deal with it at all."
"The only way / deal with it is by having you there to help me," Jonas pointed out with a sigh.
The Giver nodded. "I suppose," he said slowly, "that I could—"
"You could what?"
The Giver was still deep in thought. After a moment, he said, "If you floated off in the river, I suppose I could help the whole community the way I've helped you. It's an interesting concept. I need to think about it some more. Maybe we'll talk about it again sometime. But not now.
"I'm glad you're a good swimmer, Jonas. But stay away from the river." He laughed a little, but the laughter was not lighthearted. His thoughts seemed to be elsewhere, and his eyes were very troubled.
19
Jonas glanced at the clock. There was so much work to be done, always, that he and The Giver seldom simply sat and talked, the way they just had.
"I'm sorry that I wasted so much time with my questions," Jonas said. "I was only asking about release because my father is releasing a newchild today. A twin. He has to select one and release the other one. They do it by weight." Jonas glanced at the clock. "Actually, I suppose he's already finished. I think it was this morning."
The Giver's face took on a solemn look. "I wish they wouldn't do that," he said quietly, almost to himself.
"Well, they can't have two identical people around! Think how confusing it would be!" Jonas chuckled.
"I wish I could watch," he added, as an afterthought. He liked the thought of seeing his father perform the ceremony, and making the little twin clean and comfy. His father was such a gentle man.
"You can watch," The Giver said.
"No," Jonas told him. "They never let children watch. It's very private."
"Jonas," The Giver told him, "I know that you read your training instructions very carefully. Don't you remember that you are allowed to ask anyone anything?"
Jonas nodded. "Yes, but—"
"Jonas, when you and I have finished our time together, you will be the new Receiver. You can read the books; you'll have the memories. You have access to everything. It's part of your training. If you want to watch a release, you have simply to ask."
Jonas shrugged. "Well, maybe I will, then. But it's too late for this one. I'm sure it was this morning."
The Giver told him, then, something he had not known. "All private ceremonies are recorded. They're in the Hall of Closed Records. Do you want to see this morning's release?"
Jonas hesitated. He was afraid that his father wouldn't like it, if he watched something so private.
"I think you should," The Giver told him firmly.
"All right, then," Jonas said. "Tell me how."
The Giver rose from his chair, went to the speaker on the wall, and clicked the switch from OFF to ON.
The voice spoke immediately. "Yes, Receiver. How may I help you?"
"I would like to see this morning's release of the twin."
"One moment, Receiver. Thank you for your instructions."
Jonas watched the video screen above the row of switches. Its blank face began to flicker with zig-zag lines; then some numbers appeared, followed by the date and time. He was astonished and delighted that this was available to him, and surprised that he had not known.
Suddenly he could see a small windowless room, empty except for a bed, a table with some equipment on it—Jonas recognized a scale; he had seen them before, when he'd been doing volunteer hours at the Nurturing Center— and a cupboard. He could see pale carpeting on the floor.
"It's just an ordinary room," he commented. "I thought maybe they'd have it in the Auditorium, so that everybody could come. All the Old go to Ceremonies of Release. But I suppose that when it's just a newborn, they don't—"