Marigold

by Heather Mitchell Manheim

  A few days in, she realized the trash can was starting to smell. She was, too; it disgusted her, but she also liked it for some reason. Finally, the rotten stench around her matched the rottenness in her mind. One day when Quinn brought lunch, she had also placed a pretty yellow flower in a jaunty red vase on the tray. Davis put the vase on top of the folder that still sat untouched, save for the first time she glanced at it all those days ago. She scraped the food in the trash can, on top of the other junk, and wished she could crawl in there and cover herself with the waste.

  Davis lost all track of time, but she thought maybe another two or three days had passed. She had finally had it with her stench. But she waited until it was very early in the morning. A bit past 2:00 a.m. by the clock on her table, she crept out as quietly as she could and took her trash can to the kitchen. She then took out the bag, tied it off, and threw it down the main trash chute that went to, she believed, an incinerator. Then she got a clean bag from the stock that was pointed out to her when she first settled in there. She then laughed to herself at the idea that she had ever been settling in there. Nothing could be further from her truth. When she was putting the bag in the can, she thought they felt weird. The bags were an odd texture, some kind of disposable, biodegradable bags that Ringo fashioned out of some of the byproducts from his garden. Davis decided she hated those bags.

  After taking care of her trash, she washed her hands and then went back to her room and replaced the can. She then got the water pitcher that was in her room and refilled and replaced that. When she got back to the room again, she got her bath towels and a clean change of clothes and walked to the restroom. When she got in front of the mirror, she was horrified at how she looked. Large dark bags circled under her eyes. Her skin looked dry in patches, but her forehead and chin were so oily, and she had developed several acne spots, something she had never had trouble with before. Her hair was so oil-slicked that it almost seemed pasted to the top of her head. She looked ill and sickly. She was tired and felt disgusting, inside and out.

  Davis took her time in the shower, not caring if she wasted every drop of water. She wanted to flow right down the drain with that hot water and those suds and never come back. She got back to the room and felt more exhausted than ever. Looking at the clock and seeing it was a little past 4 a.m., she felt surprised at how long she was gone. Realizing that she didn’t care, she climbed into bed and found the cool sheets calming to her. Davis fell asleep quickly and solidly for the first time in several days.

  When she awoke, Davis was surprised to see the time as a quarter past 2 a.m. She had slept almost an entire day. Or maybe two days; how was she supposed to know? And she still found she did not care. Rolling over, she fell asleep again. At eight o’clock in what Davis assumed was the morning, she started to hear a slight rapping at the door and someone saying, “Davis…Davis…are you okay?” Deciding to ignore it, she tried to close her eyes and shut out the sound. But, a few seconds later, it started again. So, she pulled herself out of bed and went to open the door.

  When Davis opened the door, Quinn was standing there, and Buster ran inside. Davis stood there silently, staring at Quinn, who spoke first. “I’m sorry to bother you. I was just worried about you. You haven’t taken a tray for a whole day.”

  “I’m okay, just sleeping. Thank you. Please excuse me now. I need to use the restroom.” And with that, Davis walked out and down the hallway. Quinn stood there with her mouth agape; she had never heard her be so curt and short with her words.

  Davis cleaned up a bit and then headed back to her room. Quinn had left. Davis felt like maybe she had been too blunt with her. But she was having trouble feeling connected to anyone right now. Even Buster, who was on her bed, stood up when she came in and started pacing around her bed, kneading the blankets at spots and purring. She walked over to him, and he butted his head up against her hand when she went to pet him. Buster then energetically allowed her to scratch behind his ears and under his chin, leaning and pressing into each scratch. She felt like she was just going through the motions, not enjoying the comfort of Buster’s purrs and affection. Finally rested, she felt like there would be no more sleep for her. But she didn’t want to get up, so she continued to lie there and snuggle and pet Buster despite the disconnect. At least his fur was incredibly soft and plush. Davis felt it comforted her a little bit, and finally, she let go and tried to sink her worries into his coat.

  ~

  Over the next few days, Davis sunk into a routine. She was sleeping throughout the day, getting up once or twice to get the food left at her door or to use the restroom. She would tiptoe down the hallway, hoping nobody would see or hear her. She would eat and drink in her room; if she needed anything, it was a waiting game, only going very late at night or early in the morning. She did the same thing with her showers, going at midnight or well past, hoping not to run into anyone. And she didn’t. Davis didn’t realize that everyone was going to great lengths to give her all the space and time she needed.

  Davis wasn’t sure if it was three or four days later, but she was sitting up in bed, feeling very sorry for herself, when she decided she didn’t want to feel sorry for herself anymore. She had just finished rereading Little Women, and she wished she was like the character Jo, so strong and willful. She also wished she had at least one sister to talk things over. She kept thinking of the quote from the book, “I could never love anyone as I love my sisters.” She wished she knew what that felt like.

  Well, she thought to herself, feeling a bit Jo-like, if I want to get anywhere, I guess I need to start here, and she grabbed the file that held the information about Ruby—her mom—in it. She opened it and stared at the picture. It was so odd to her, seeing her face in the face of Ruby. She finally turned to the next photo, which was in black and white, and it melted Davis’s heart immediately. It looked as if someone had taken it in the hospital—Ruby in a bed, holding a wee baby in her arms.

  Davis was touched and then confused. It didn’t follow with what she had heard at all. Her whole life, authorities told her as an infant, they whisked her away to save her life and that her mom had died almost right after childbirth. In the photo, while Ruby looked anything but healthy, she certainly wasn’t near death. Davis noticed that she looked healthy enough in the picture, too. She flipped to the next page and saw medical notes. They indicated that both Ruby Davis and baby Davis received the Marigold Injection to apparent success, with progress or declination closely monitored. Davis continued to read until she got to a part that stopped her breath. She picked up the jaunty red vase that now held a wilted and droopy yellow flower, and she tossed it across the room. The vase smashed into what seemed like a million pieces, and the flower lay still on the ground, an unwitting victim in a pool of stagnant, semi-mildew tainted water. Davis calmed herself and reread the paragraph to make sure she had read it correctly. According to the notes, she had spent six weeks with her mother until they had told Ruby Davis that baby Davis had died. Davis read the words over and over.

  Davis put the files aside and curled up on the bed. She hoped that Buster would suddenly appear or if not the loving kitty, she wouldn’t mind Brookshire coming by to hold her hand or stroke her hair. However, nobody entered the room, and she fell asleep, trails of tears streaked on her cheeks, and puffy eyes closed tightly.

  She wasn’t sure what the sound was at first, but Davis awoke with a start. Then she realized a light rapping on the door, followed by a quiet, almost whispery “Davis…?”

  Davis got up and went over to the door and cracked it open. It was Quinn. “Davis, sorry to bother you or wake you. But we had some good news a bit ago, and I thought you might need some good news. Ringo’s sister has rung the ‘doorbell’—so to speak—and he’s on his way to pick her up right now. We’re going to get a little concert together. Tonight, at eight, after dinner. In the common room, next to the dining room. Ringo was in a band with Josie, and we thought they co
uld play a few songs, and the kids will play a few songs they know. We wanted to invite you, but you know, no pressure.” With that, Quinn smiled and gave Davis a quick pat on the shoulder before walking away.

  September 15, 2056 – Reunion

  That evening, Davis went back and forth in her head, deciding whether she should go to the concert or not. She didn’t feel up to seeing people or meeting the company or attending any event, but she wanted to support the children’s music playing. She also had to come out of her room at some point and make an announcement about her decision. Finally, Davis decided to go, not feeling entirely sold on that choice but figuring, if anything, it wasn’t the fault of the children. The kids were sweet, and she wanted to support them in the music they would play.

  Davis did not attend dinner; Quinn was kind enough to bring it to her and take away the lunch tray and dirtied plate and utensils. When Quinn had come by, Davis told her that she would be there for the concert. She then ate, went to the washroom to freshen up, and then headed off to the show.

  As Ringo introduced his “sister,” Josie, to Davis, to say Davis was shocked would be the understatement of the year. And as she had been shocked to her core so many times these last few days, it was saying something that she was completely floored. She shook Josie’s hand in greeting, trying not to look vacant. But confusion reigned. Like Ringo, Josie was tall, at least six feet, and slim but had striking features, long wavy black hair, dark brown eyes, and a deep taupe skin tone.

  Luckily, Ringo picked up on her confusion and explained the difference in skin tone. “Josie is Black, as you’ve noticed. So, she’s not actually my sister, as you may have guessed. At least, not biologically. But, emotionally, mentally, even spiritually, she is. You don’t always need to be blood-related to someone for them to be family, you know?”

  Davis did not know. But she nodded her head silently and told Josie it was a pleasure to meet her. Josie very kindly took Davis’s hand in between both of her hands. They were warm, soft, and comforting. “So very nice to meet you; Ringo has told me a lot about you,” she said with a friendly smile.

  Everybody came into the room, giving Davis small pleasantries and smiles, and after she found a seat, Brookshire sat next to her on a softened sizeable brown leather couch that was in the shape of an L. Duffy and Hernandez, it turned out, were in the city and would not be there.

  The children took the stage first. Olivia was on Ringo’s drumkit, and Oliver had a guitar strapped around his shoulder. Both of the little kids had tambourines. Davis couldn’t place any of the songs the kids were playing, and none of them sang. But Davis thought that especially Olivia on the drums certainly took after her father. Olivia was energetic and, you could tell, thrilled to be playing. It wasn’t just good energy, though; she played well. Olivia’s playing was smooth with a perfect groove. She was remarkably good at keeping the beat.

  After the kids played a few songs, Ringo and Josie took the stage, announcing that it had been several years since they played together. Josie squinted merrily and said they would appreciate the patience as it would only be a short concert of just the ditties they knew best. All the songs were covers from the most popular band in the late 2020s, Complicated Justice. Davis had known this band, sort of a folksy pop-rock band with poetic and frequently political lyric writing. As Davis remembered the quartet, she realized that the band had gone away, inexplicably. She didn’t know if they had been victims of the Lombardi Plague or “eliminated.” Or maybe they just broke up and went their separate ways.

  Ringo was, of course, on drums, and Josie was on keyboards and sang. Although they also originally had a guitar and bass players too, nobody had seen or heard from either James or Sakura in ages. The band started with “Sugared Quail,” a fun yet risqué song about a sweet girl that stole men’s hearts before running off. Okay, thought Davis, maybe not as political and poetic as she remembered. But then they broke into “Tomorrow’s Legend.” Davis remembered this song. There was the small war of 2023 that the former US had with Cuba. For years, stories of inhumane treatment and false imprisonments abounded in Cuba until the US conquered the Cuban government, changing Cuba from the Republic of Cuba to a US territory. The war was bloody, mostly for the Cubans. They were forced to fight but not given proper attire or weapons. Of course, the friendly relations that had been born since the war swiftly dissipated when the Lombardi Plague quickly spread there because of the open-door travel policy. Before that was the war of 2023, and Complicated Justice wrote “Tomorrow’s Legend” to paint a picture of innocent Cubans suffering because of the war.

  They say you can’t win

  But it’s apparent

  You’ll be a legend,

  A legend

  You may have to wait until tomorrow

  As the world turns in sorrow

  But you’ll be a legend,

  A legend

  Blood of the innocents fill the streets

  As the government conquers again

  But the people will be the legends

  Legends

  Legends of hope and pride

  Legends as they abide their time

  But they’ll be legends,

  Legends tomorrow…

  Davis found herself singing in her head along with the words and was surprised she remembered them as well as she did.

  The two bandmates finished off with probably Complicated Justice’s two most famous radio songs, “Like a Heart” and “Shouting Through a Cackle of Hyenas,” the latter quite a well-written satire how the voice of the people is often not heard through the ruckus the politicians create. However, “Tomorrow’s Legend” was Davis’s favorite. It always had been.

  After the music ended, Josie and Ringo came and sat with Davis and Brookshire. Josie explained how when things got touchy; she had gone over the border to Canada and lived on Prince Edward Island, which was snappily known as P.E.I. Josie had been born there and, seeing the writing on the wall, she went back when things started going down. Josie’s parents were already ailing, so she wanted to take care of them and not be kept from returning to Canada. They were already starting to crack down on border crossings when Josie went back. It was a little less tricky for her to cross as she had been born in Canada; her family had moved to the former United States when Josie was seven, right next door to Ringo’s family. However, Josie’s parents had gone back to Canada a few years before Josie, and when the plague started to hit, she had a desire to be closer to her parents. Josie was tempted to join Ringo in the bunker from the word go but couldn’t abandon her parents. After both her parents passed away, she started thinking about her friend and “brother,” Ringo and decided to attempt to come to see him and make sure he was okay.

  Josie’s next-door neighbor, Tara, owned a successful aerospace manufacturing company. Tara’s husband, Michael, her dad, Bill, and Tara’s daughter and son, Noah, and Sawyer, lived and operated their business out of P.E.I. Tara also ran an underground network of people that helped other people across the border. Many families had been torn apart and separated, just like what had happened with the Berlin Wall. So, Tara connected Josie to her network. There were two routes Josie could take after crossing the Confederation Bridge from P.E.I. and going into New Brunswick. From there, she would have a long drive to Windsor, Ontario, where she could cross the Detroit River alone, and into what was formerly known as Detroit, Michigan. With that route, Josie would join a long legacy of rum runners from the 1930s who brought bootleg liquor into the US from Canada. Then it was another long journey, using a combination of off the grid families and old vehicles provided by them that transported one from city to city until getting to the state formerly known as California and to Ringo’s doorbell. The other option, the one that Josie opted for, was a little riskier in one way. She would be in Canada longer, which was safer. Still, crossing into the former US via an old border crossing in British Columbia into W
ashington state could be dangerous. The border crossing itself was closed with chains, red flags, and concrete pylons. Regardless, guards heavily monitored it. Security Patrols were both in the booths twenty-four-seven, and sentries patrolled the border on foot. Drone Scanners flew over the area regularly as well.

  Tara had flown Josie to B.C., Canada, into Vancouver airport. From there, Tara handed Josie off to her brother, Chris. Tara then flew home, and Josie waited at Chris’s house for two weeks. There was always more danger trying to cross the border after a private plane landed at Vancouver airport. It raised the hackles of the border patrol on both sides. So, it was prudent to make sure enough time had passed that fewer eyes were on the border.

  Wow, thought Davis to herself as she heard Josie’s tale. That certainly is the mark of someone who would consider a person to be a close family member. Davis could think of no one she would be willing to do this for, even now, with these new people she supposed would be considered her friends. Davis ended her silence with a smile. “That’s impressive that you would risk so much to see your friend, Josie.”

  “Yes, well, Ringo has always been such an important part of my life. I missed him, and I was worried about him,” she said with a smile toward Ringo. “He is just as much a part of my family as my family in Canada.” At this, Ringo grabbed Josie’s hand and raised it in the air, giving it sort of a shake and closing his fist over hers, holding it up as if in victory and triumph.

  “How will you get back, or are you going back?” asked Quinn, who had recently come over and sat down with everyone else.

  “I’m not sure if I will. At least, for a while. But, if and when I do, I’ll go back the same way I came in. Unless life changes for you guys, then we’ll see. I also have those connections to Tara and the aerospace industry. All I have to do is get back into Canada, and then I can get picked up by airplane if need be. As you know, we didn’t lose our freedom as you guys unfortunately did.”