The Mother Code

by Carole Stivers

  23

  WHEN SHE CLOSED her eyes, Misha could still recall the dim light of her first years. In that hazy world she breathed deep, inhaling the smell of crackling wood fires and desert dust. All around her, voices laughed and sang. Larger hands helped her to cup her small hands around bottles of sweet milk and juice. Someone carried her, jog jog, bounced her, bump bump, told her stories and stroked her hair. Dolls made from wood, cloth, and feathers danced in the air.

  “Mama,” she said. “Mama.” Her first word.

  Misha was never lonely. She was never alone. Mama Sara was always there.

  * * *

  MISHA HAD A father named James. She had a mother named Sara. She had a big family, most of whom lived in houses made from mud, wood, and stone, perched on top of a mesa.

  The oldest person in her family was Grandmother. Grandmother’s older son, Uncle William, had a big chest, tanned skin, and dark brown hair, pulled back in a neat ponytail. Sometimes a man named Rick would come, and together he and William would go out “scouting.” The rest of the time, Uncle William was in his field, herding his sheep or planting his corn. Uncle Edison, a doctor, was thinner and taller. He wore glasses with black rims and kept his dark hair cut short. Every morning he drove his truck down the road to his hospital, where he wore a white coat and carried a notepad. Both of her uncles had children of their own. Some of these had even more children. But she, Misha, had no brothers or sisters.

  “Why don’t I have a brother?” she asked. “Why don’t I have a sister?”

  “You have many brothers and sisters,” Mama said. “But you are the only one we have found.”

  “Are you looking for more?”

  “Yes, we are looking all the time. Meanwhile, we are blessed with you.”

  Mama and Daddy slept in a special room in Uncle Edison’s hospital. The room had glass doors and a fan that made a loud noise. Whenever Mama and Daddy went outdoors, they wore ugly masks—to protect their lungs from the air, they said. The masks reminded her of the men who danced in the Hopi ceremonies, their human faces hidden and mysterious as they emerged from Grandmother’s house inside the mesa.

  “Why does Grandmother live underground?” Misha asked.

  “That’s not her real home,” Mama said. “It’s her kiva. A place she goes when something important is going to happen.”

  “But what is going to happen?”

  Her mother smiled. “Learn from Grandmother,” she instructed. “Listen carefully to her words. Sometimes, when she says one thing, she’s really saying something else.”

  Grandmother told stories about bad things—about the terrible Water Wars of the ’30s, and about zoos where wild animals had once been kept in cages. But she also told about good things—giant flying machines that could carry hundreds of people through the sky, cars that drove themselves, and pictures sent through tiny machines that a man could strap to his arm.

  “You’ve seen everything!” Misha said.

  “I have seen many things,” Grandmother said. “But there is one sight I am still waiting to see.”

  “What is it?”

  “It is a dream that I carry,” Grandmother said. “The Silver Spirits.”

  “Spirits?”

  “They are the mothers of your generation. When they come home to us, I will go and tell my husband.”

  “You have a husband? Where is he?”

  “He waits on the side of the mesa,” Grandmother said.

  Walking along the mesa’s edge, Misha looked down over the spot where Grandmother’s husband must surely be waiting. But as always, she saw only a blur. Mama said it had something to do with not having enough oxygen when she was born—her eyes had gotten confused and hadn’t grown correctly. She could only imagine the landmarks of her home laid out far below, a pattern woven into a beautiful blanket.

  But she could hear the dry wind, rustling through the feathers of the eagles who soared high above. She could hear the spirits of the ancient ones, rising like wisps of smoke from crevices in the rocks. She imagined Masauwu, the Spirit of Death and Master of the Upper World, with his horrid features twisted into a benign smile. She imagined the wise Spider Grandmother, chastising her two rollicking grandsons as they dashed about playing with their nahoydadatsia sticks and buckskin ball. Crouching near a crag, she felt for the nest of feather pahos marking the place that Uncle William had told her was Grandfather’s special spot. She leaned out, as far as she dared, over the edge—listening for Grandmother’s husband.

  His voice drifted up from where he sat. “Misha,” he whispered. “Wait for the Silver Spirits.”

  But she could never see him.

  * * *

  AS MISHA GREW older, Mama and Daddy took her more and more often to Los Alamos, a big building with big windows. It was a healthy place, they said. But it was far away. To get there, they had to fly in an airship called a transport. Misha had a special place at Los Alamos, a room with a tiny window in one wall, colorful pictures on the other walls, and a soft bed. If she was good, she got to play scientist in Daddy and Uncle Rudy’s laboratory. She played games on Aunt Kendra’s computers, her nose pasted close to the bright screen. But she was frightened of Paul MacDonald, the tall man they called Mac—he was always appearing out of nowhere, like a ghost. “He’s just shy,” Mama said. “He isn’t used to children.”

  One day, Misha learned that Mama and Daddy wanted to stay at Los Alamos for good. “I’m sorry, Misha,” Mama said. “I can no longer breathe the air at the mesas, even with my respirator.”

  “Your mask?”

  “Yes, even with my mask. And there are things we need to work on at Los Alamos.” Mama placed her palm atop Misha’s head. “You can stay at the mesas without us, if you wish.”

  Misha didn’t wish. Where Mama and Daddy were, that was her home. But after a while she began to feel something different. Each day, they pushed her a little bit further away. A closed door, a quiet conversation, a meal without Mama. “We’re sorry,” Daddy said, “but you shouldn’t be here with us all the time. You belong out in the sun, with your friends.”

  Was it something she’d done?

  On the mesas, she stayed with Uncle William and his wife, Aunt Loretta. She played with their grandchildren, Bertie and little Honovi. She learned to weave flat baskets, and to make the blue corn cakes that Mama loved so much. She missed Mama and Daddy. But she had to accept it—things were different now.

  * * *

  JUST AFTER MISHA’S eighth birthday, Mama and Daddy came for a visit. Mama leaned close, her face just a pale blur. Misha thought she could feel a sadness there, but Mama hadn’t come with sad news. “We’ve made you some new eyes,” Mama said.

  “You’re a big girl now,” Daddy said. “It will require an operation. But we think you’re ready.” Mama kissed her on the forehead, and Misha could smell the clean soap smell of her long hair.

  “But why do I need new eyes?” Misha asked. “I can see enough.”

  “With your new eyes, you’ll be able to see everything, sharp as an eagle,” Mama said.

  “What if my new eyes don’t work?”

  “They will,” Daddy said. “I promise.”

  Misha looked from one to the other of her parents. As Uncle Edison hovered behind them, all she could really see were the black frames of his glasses.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll try.”

  But when she awoke from the operation, her eyes were covered with something. She opened them to see only shades of gray. She whimpered. Had the operation failed?

  “Misha? Are you awake?” It was Daddy’s voice, his hand on hers. “What is it, honey? Does it hurt?”

  “Where’s Mama?”

  “She’s not here right now. She’ll be back.”

  “Did they fix my eyes? I can’t see . . .”

  “Your eyes are covered with gauze. You shouldn�
��t try to open them just yet. They need time to get used to your head.” Daddy chuckled, and Misha laughed too. “My dear little Misha,” he said. “My brave little soldier.”

  But Misha didn’t feel brave. She clutched at her father’s hand. She didn’t want him to leave again. And she wanted Mama. “When will Mama come back?”

  Daddy didn’t answer right away. And when he did, his voice was a little weaker than before. “She had an operation too.”

  “An eye operation?”

  “No, it was for her lungs. To help her breathe better.”

  “So she won’t need her mask?”

  “I think she’ll still need it. We’ll see. Anyway, she’s recovering now. As soon as we take off your gauze, I can take you to see her.”

  But it was two long days and nights before Misha felt fingers gently peeling off the long layers of her bandages. Gray turned to white, then . . . colors. Brilliant, sharp. Too sharp. She clamped her eyes shut. “Ouch!”

  “Here,” Daddy said. “Put these on.” Raising her hands, she felt the dark glasses that he was sliding over her ears. “They’re just to block the light a little. Until your brain does it for you. Then you won’t need them anymore.”

  She opened her eyes, and her father’s face came into focus. His nose and mouth were covered by his mask, but she could see his eyes, the deep wrinkles and the hollows beneath them. She could see every pore in the rough, stubbled skin of his pale cheeks. Across the room she could see a window, and through the window the bright sun glared, its rays glancing off a jar of water set on a shiny metal table. All around were angles, points, rough edges. Pain . . . She swallowed hard.

  “I know,” Daddy said. “It will take some getting used to.”

  “Can we go see Mama now?” Misha murmured, closing her eyes. “I’m ready.”

  “She’s sleeping,” Daddy said. “Dr. Edison is going to check your vision now. I’ll let you know as soon as Mama wakes up.”

  Hours later as Misha sat scrolling through picture books, matching the letters—now sharp edged—to the simple words and sentences that Mama had painstakingly taught her, Daddy finally came back. “Mama’s awake now,” he said. Holding tight to her father’s hand, Misha padded down the long, dim hallway to the special room where Mama and Daddy stayed. Uncle Edison opened the door. Blankets of cool air washed over them as they went inside.

  “We did our best,” Uncle Edison whispered to Daddy. “She’s comfortable now.”

  Misha cocked her head. They thought she couldn’t hear them, but she could. It was a secret she kept—her ability to hear things that others could not. Her ability to understand things that she shouldn’t. It was her superpower.

  She approached Mama’s tent slowly. For that was what it was—a tent, like the ones she’d camped in with Bertie and Honovi on cold, starlit nights. Except that this tent had sides that you could see through, and the inside surfaces were coated with dew. Inside, she made out Mama’s bed. Not clearly; it was more like before her eye operation—soft and fuzzy.

  “Mama?”

  “Come inside,” came Mama’s voice. “Let me look at you.”

  Misha looked back at her father. He had taken off his mask. She saw his nose, long and thin, the creases that coursed down his narrow face, and the dark mark in the shape of a bean that traced along the bottom of his jaw. He nodded. Okay.

  Carefully, she pulled up the zipper on the side of the tent, just far enough that she could slip up onto the bed next to Mama. When she closed it, it was just the two of them. The air around them was damp but warm. She could feel Mama’s arm around her. She looked into her face—high cheekbones, full lips, eyes deep as pools. “I see you, Mama,” she said. “You’re beautiful.”

  “And I see you,” her mother said. “Even more beautiful.”

  * * *

  MAMA NEVER LEFT her tent. Daddy stayed with her, sleeping on a cot in the special room. And every morning, Misha walked down the long hall to sit with them.

  Then one day, before the first shards of the sun had stabbed through the window, Uncle Edison came to get her. Inside Mama’s room, Daddy was waiting, and Uncle Rudy, and even Uncle Mac. On a small chair in the corner sat Grandmother.

  “Where’s Mama?” Misha asked.

  “She waits with my husband,” Grandmother said.

  Misha stood there, her hands clenched into fists. She’d never seen Grandmother’s husband, no matter how hard she’d looked. She wasn’t even sure that her new eyes would be good enough for that. And now Mama was there too, in that place that couldn’t be seen.

  24

  JUNE 2062

  JAMES SAT ON the bed he’d shared with Sara in their cramped Los Alamos quarters, staring out the window at the line of pines that marked Pajarito Road. Beside him, the rumpled mattress still carried the indentation left by Sara’s soft body, the scent of her. He remembered that night just over nine years ago when he’d first brought her here. When he’d nursed her, administering dose after dose of the antidote, praying to a God he’d never believed in.

  Sara had survived. She’d lost her own child but gained another in Misha. And in those precious years, she’d made for him a life he never could have imagined, a life full of love, of passion. They had been a family.

  Now, she was gone.

  Through the dust-streaked window, James scanned the ground outside. All he had left of Sara now was a second gravestone, placed beside that of their tiny son. He’d lost the love of his life. But he’d lost so much more. For him, and for everyone at Los Alamos, there was no more hope. They were all doomed.

  He’d known it for a while. The trouble had started years before, when Misha was only four—when they’d realized that for Sara, the inhaler would no longer be enough. With help from Edison, he and Rudy had set up a pulmonary lavage system in one of the treatment rooms at the Hopi medical center in Polacca. As Sara lay under sedation, the machine pumped a mist of healing vapor into her lungs. Old, infected cells were siphoned away. The fresh underlying tissue was suffused with a fluid rich in the C-343 antidote, resulting in a “clean slate” of surface cells resistant to IC-NAN. And Sara had indeed emerged from the treatment with substantially more energy. But as with the inhaler, it had turned out to be a delicate balance—not a cure.

  At last, weakened by repeated rounds of lavage, her soft voice reduced to a hoarse whisper, Sara had felt the need to withdraw from their little daughter. “I don’t want Misha to see me like this,” she’d said. “She can’t remember me like this.” It was a story that James knew well. Sara had lost her own mother to cancer at a very young age. She knew the scars left behind, the pain of witnessing the decline of a loved one whom you had once deemed immortal.

  “We’ll implement the transplant,” James had promised. He and Rudy had carefully awakened the precious Hopi stem cells from their frozen slumber. And as they’d perfected the delivery system at Polacca, Sara had devoted herself to one final project: giving Misha her sight.

  At that final, fateful Caltech conference, the one where she’d contracted her deadly infection with IC-NAN, Sara had learned about a seamless retinal implant, already in clinical trials. Gone were the glasses-mounted video cameras and bulky video processing units associated with the old-style implants. The entire system, including the unique biosensors that would replace Misha’s damaged retinas, had been miniaturized for implantation. At Sara’s behest, Mac and William had flown out to Pasadena to retrieve the necessary hardware, software, and know-how to complete the operation. The modification could be reversed if necessary, Sara had assured James. But they’d both prayed for success. In a world fraught with danger, sight was a gift to be cherished.

  Misha’s operation had indeed been a success. Unsure at first, her brain unused to the jarring sensory input, she’d taken some time to gain her bearings. But in the end she’d blossomed—a new, even more amazing version of her former inquisitive s
elf, emerging as though from a chrysalis.

  Sara was not so lucky. The stem cell experiment failed, the new cells refusing to take hold in her tortured lungs. Huddled in the moist air of her oxygen tent, James had held her close.

  “You shouldn’t be sorry, James,” she’d whispered. “I’m not.” She’d run her soft hand along his arm. “You need to take care of Misha. And you still need to find the other children.”

  James rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t had the heart to tell her then, the thing he’d already realized. For years, he’d been wearing a respirator mask whenever he went outdoors. He’d donned clumsy plastic hazmat suits. He’d told Sara that all of this was “just in case.” But he knew better. With each passing day, the rattle at the base of his own lungs had deepened. He could no longer deny the nagging cough, the sleepless nights spent gasping for air. And he could no longer write off both Sara’s frailty and the general’s frequent bouts of illness as just the results of a previous exposure. He had to face the truth: The Los Alamos survivors were all still victims of IC-NAN. Despite the antidote’s successful modification of surface cells, their stubborn lung stem and progenitor cells continued to divide, producing new cells susceptible to attack. And what had happened to Sara was happening to all of them—just more slowly.

  His gaze drifted to a small piece of rock, lying on the table beside the bed. Etched in white on its flat black surface were three stick figures—one tall, one medium, one very small. And below these, the inscription: “Daddy, Mama, Misha.” In so many ways, Misha reminded him of Sara. Sara, the brave one, who’d spent those precious years at the Hopi mesas despite the risks to her own health. Sara, the brilliant one, who had, in the end, given Misha the gift of sight. But what could he give Misha now? What did he have left that she could possibly need?