Nate asked why his dad wasn’t putting him to bed, and I told him I wanted to read all my kids their favorite stories before they went to bed.
I started with Nate’s favorite book, Goosebumps, Goblins, and Gold Coins. Then I read an extract from The Boy Who Built a Tree, for Nathaniel, and then Glorious Hair Like Mine, for Nathalie.
Nathaniel was the first to fall asleep. Nate asked, “Are you OK, Mom?”
“Of course, Nate,” I answered. “Mom’s always OK. You never have to worry about me.”
“You look sad,” he said. “Do you want a hug?”
I hugged him, and I started sobbing as I wiped my nose with tissue I had in my pockets.
“Dad!” Nate called. “Mom’s sad. Come quickly.”
Mauru walked into the room and asked what had happened.
“Mom’s crying,” Nate said.
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “It’s nothing. It’s just work. Time to sleep. You all have school tomorrow.”
The kids all asleep, I wondered whether I should tell Mauru about Hudson. He’d find out soon enough; bad news travels faster than good news, which travels at the speed of sound. But, even if he knew, what could we do to protect our sons?
I smelled smoke again as if something were on fire, and I started coughing as I watched my kids sleep, I said a little prayer for them, and I went home on my own.
In the silence of the condo, still crying, I asked myself why we hadn’t left San Diego at the beginning of the drought in 2026, or when Jon was born in March 2030.
Mauru had wanted to leave when we first heard of the hatred. He’d wanted us to move to Maine. I wasn’t about to move because of a lovely TV ad campaign (“Maine. Who can complain?”). Ads weren’t prescriptions for healthy living but passionate enticements to deplete your financial and emotional well-being.
If we did everything ads wanted us to do, I’d be giving my doctor medical advice about which drugs she should prescribe for me (“fortifying ancestral supplements made for these times”), which diet worked best in these times (foods prepared with glacier water, which held “the secrets of tens of thousands of years of human history”), and which continent was the only one providing hope in these times (Asia).
Almost ten years later, as I write my memoir from jail, two answers have come in response to why I chose to not leave San Diego.
The first answer comes from Angela, my cellmate, who was also imprisoned for theft of water. Angela said that sometimes we stay where we are because we believe that just knowing we have options lulls us into the false sense that those choices will always be on the table, which just isn’t true.
“Which is why,” Angela says, “you hear people have turned eighty, and they’re looking for someone who expressed interest in them forty years before. At eighty-three, my late mom suddenly realized that she’d wasted forty years of her life hoping things would get better with my dad, so she filed for divorce and decided to look up a guy called Salis who’d proposed to her forty years before. Salis, she found out, had died six years earlier.”
Linda Maywrot, who has helped me structure and revise my books, said she couldn’t be sure why I’d chosen to remain in San Diego. Nevertheless, she’d been rereading a draft of Sands Rising, my first book, one evening, and it made her think that the central experience of my life wasn’t as a wife, a mother, or a daughter, but as an outsider.
Linda said that at some point, being an outsider becomes exhausting, and you just want to put roots down and belong. It sounded like I was able to do that for some reason in San Diego; my eagle, Linda said, had finally landed.
I wasn’t sure that either explanation fully captured why I’d made my entire family remain in San Diego, where I’d meet Mike Iet. I suppose that everything about San Diego had become familiar. Even the dust storms no longer seemed like harbingers of death but like natural phenomena—like the rain used to be and the change in the seasons. Even the news of fire in other parts of the state (and the world) seemed like part of the typical run of things now.
If anything might have made me move (but hadn’t), it was our first water bill just after the Law of Water Allotments went into effect in April 2039. As soon as the law was passed, with immediate effect, all public utilities in the state could gradually increase the price of water to show us “the true price of water to discourage waste.”
We learned that the average daily water use per person for residential purposes in San Diego was about forty-five gallons of water.
A single-family home used about eight thousand gallons of water per month in 2039.
In 2020, almost two decades before, a single-family paid just under ten dollars per month for the same amount of water, no matter what it did with that water (and there were no restrictions on use). The cost of water, which included infrastructure maintenance and water delivery, had increased by about 5 percent each year since then.
At the beginning of 2039, we paid almost thirty dollars a month for our water. When the allotments law went into effect, we paid $250 for the first month alone. That made us angry, but we paid the bill because you can’t go without water.
When people protested, they were told that the end of state subsidies had finally come for California’s water-wasters, and we should expect the price of water to increase, and with it, the cost of everything else.
Of course, after Mauru moved out with the kids, I felt a greater need to belong and to be validated.
I attended more Mothers for Mercy meetings, saw the Zanzivahl triplets with their designer babies, and probably rolled my eyes at them. What I appreciated most about Mothers for Mercy, though, was that the meetings provided me with hope, and they reminded me that something was being done to push against everything over which I now felt powerless.
I learned that the Zanzivahl triplets owned almond orchards in the San Joaquin valley and avocado orchards in Ventura County and in San Diego County, and they were going to be the test case for our fight against the Law of Lavish Things.
Mothers for Mercy were arguing on the Zanzivahl triplets’ behalf that the law amounted to an unconstitutional taking of private property. Mothers for Mercy was also arguing that under a law passed under Governor Barrow, the appropriation of funds for Trehoviak’s Water Court was illegal.
In search of more hope, I continued attending services at the Church of the Moral Elixir.
I wasn’t alone there. In zone twelve, I was with other treacherous and treasonous human beings—a whole section of us, some three hundred people—grappling with the choices and consequences that had assigned us to zone twelve.
I was, therefore, a sinner among sinners, which brought me some comfort, and it underscored the common thread that wove my humanity ever so tightly with that of others. Each one of us in attendance—for all the theatrics of the divine chosen couple with the snakes, the “academic” oil, and the olive oil—was afflicted by something for which there was a cure.
Some believed the cure was more tithing, others that the community of worshippers joined together in song and prayer was the cure, and others thought that the admission of the sin was enough to set healing in progress.
I’ll admit that it’s no fun being reminded that you’re “treacherous and treasonous,” but it’s fun when there are three hundred of you, and you’re one of the thousands being reminded that you’re all sinners and that the enemy, whose beguiling nature makes you a constant sinner, is “Vipers and Voyages.”
I found myself smiling a little more, memorizing the names of some congregants, and laughing when Mandible Harquebus held a snake aloft, a python, and said, “We must be care-ful that those in zone fif-teen, the damned zoo-philiacs, do not fall for the tempta-tions of the s-nakes! They are attrac-ted to animals!”
I burst out laughing, and I wasn’t the only one. People in the fourteen other zones were laughing, too, at the thought that the zoophiliacs might fall in love with the vipers, and the only reason they might come to services was to see the vipers.
&nbs
p; I also learned to laugh at the counting of the tithes.
Stefana always complained about the homeless, the malnourished, and the unemployed. “Family members,” she said. “As per usual, the homeless, the malnourished, and the unemployed are great disappointments in God’s eyes. This week they gave almost nothing, but they’ll eat us out of house and home—just you wait and see at the end of services—when they line up like beggars for free food and clothing.”
Then Stefana, hearing us in zone twelve laugh at the homeless, the malnourished, and the unemployed, said, “Family members. Hold on to your husbands and your wives. There are those in zone twelve on the prowl for other people’s husbands and wives.”
Laughter rippled across the congregation.
19
I Don’t Fail
At WS&X, sadness enveloped the building as the news set in that the hatred had struck one of our own.
Amandine and Andy sent out a message to the firm indicating that WS&X stood behind Larry and his family, and updates would be provided as they became available.
The Hoviaks in the office took the extraordinary step of sending out their own message to the entire firm, which surprised many of us for its boldness. Their message indicated that Hudson would receive free treatment at the “world’s only center for water-related illnesses, our groundbreaking Center for Water-Related Illnesses up in Menlo Park.”
“Should we send flowers? A note?” Hannah asked.
“No,” I said. “I know Larry. We should visit—”
“Visit? Like just show up at the hotel?”
“Larry won’t respond to messages or calls at a time like this, but he’ll entertain visitors if he likes them. For him, visiting is an expression of loyalty.”
“I’m not sure,” Hannah said. “My sense of Larry is that he considers this a private matter. I think he’ll be pissed if we just show up unannounced, especially since he and Albertine-Rose are going through a divorce, and Hudson has the hatred.”
“Let’s ask Amandine,” I said.
“We saw him last night,” Amandine said as she told us to close the door. “Andy and I. We saw Larry and Michelle last night. He’s furious. The physicians initially misdiagnosed Hudson, so Larry’s suing. He’s also suing the agency that provided the nurses. It’s actually the CWP that correctly diagnosed Hudson. Larry had Hudson’s blood and sputum samples expedited through Sheila.”
“Will he take visitors?” Hannah asked.
“He’ll probably see you and Janet,” Amandine said. “He really likes you two. He basically lives at the Golden State Children’s Hospital, where he has a suite for himself and another for Albertine-Rose. Hudson’s in the quarantine unit. You should probably go this afternoon or this evening. They’re airlifting Hudson to Menlo Park tomorrow morning.”
Hannah and I went at the end of the day, and Albertine-Rose and Larry were bickering.
“It’s all your fault,” Albertine-Rose said to Larry as she looked at Hudson and another teenage boy through the glass window. “It’s your fault, Larry. You’re killing my son.” Albertine-Rose apologized that Hannah and I were witnesses to her anger.
“Let’s not argue, Allie,” Larry said. “Let’s, let’s just keep it for another time—”
“I told you when we first heard of the hatred that we should move,” Albertine-Rose said, “and you said that I was emotional—”
“Because the facts were that this was a foreign thing, Allie,” Larry said. “They said that you had to go to Africa to get it—”
“They didn’t say that, Larry,” Albertine-Rose scoffed. “No one said that. You just have a chip on your shoulder about foreigners, and you shut down whenever you hear about anything foreign because your dad’s a foreigner—”
“Where’s Lloyd?” Larry asked.
“What do you care?” Albertine-Rose asked. “You care more about Michelle than you do about us. I can’t believe that I let you get away with that for all those years. Right under my nose.”
“I said I was sorry about that, Allie. I’m giving you everything you want—”
“I want my son to be well. That’s what I want, Larry. Can you give me that?”
“Where’s Lloyd, Allie?”
“With my family in Aspen. That’s where. Away from you. Away from your mistress. Away from, from this!” Albertine-Rose pointed at Hudson, who was on a ventilator. “Have you seen my son’s eyes, Larry? They’re red! Red! Your choices are killing my son!”
Hudson was motionless on his bed, and Larry said he was sedated.
“I’ve never seen eyes that red,” Larry told Hannah and me. “You only believe it when you see it. Heads are going to roll for this. I can promise you that.”
Albertine-Rose went to talk to a nurse in a hazmat suit. The nurse told Albertine-Rose that someone would be with her shortly, and Albertine-Rose took a seat.
Larry looked exhausted. He stared at the ground, placed his hands against the large glass window of the quarantine unit, and he told us that three other boys were also infected. Hudson was the only one approved for experimental treatments in Menlo Park.
“They’re good people,” Larry said. “I take back what I’ve said about them—the CWP. As soon as the diagnosis was confirmed, Trehoviak called me, then Anton, Greta, Sheila, Miriam, and even Mike—”
“Mike?” Hannah said, surprised.
“Yeah. Apparently, he’s been in the Southern African Federation, helping them fight the hatred over there. They apparently shipped him out there in January, and he’s been there since, but he’ll be back in a few months.”
Hannah looked perplexed. It was as if she were trying to reconcile the fact that she hadn’t heard from Mike over the past few months—he’d disappeared from her life without a trace—but now he’d called Larry to tell him that he’d been in the Southern African Federation, and he’d be back soon.
“Is he OK?” Hannah asked.
“I suppose so,” Larry said. “Sounded as arrogant as ever.”
I asked Larry if I could get him anything.
“No, thanks,” he said. “How are things in the office?”
Every so often, Albertine-Rose looked at Larry with a scowl on her face. If looks could kill, Albertine-Rose would have been declared a serial killer.
“The office isn’t the same without you yelling my name,” Hannah said.
“I’ve applied to convert, and they’re accelerating my conversion,” Larry told us. “It’s the only way that Hudson gets treatment: I must be an admitted member of the CWP. They sent over the materials—”
“Isn’t it just a matter of learning Scrimmage by heart?” I asked.
Larry rubbed his eyelids before running his hand over them.
He shook his head.
“Scrimmage is only the beginning. You’ve got to know Jeremiah’s biography, The Right Path, which they sent. You’ve got to know the history of the CWP, the history of California, and the history of global warming. They sent three books about all that. You’ve also got to know how the CWP interprets Scrimmage consistent with the Right Path, and there’s a book on that. There’s a book called Punishments and Purges, which lays out in detail what happens for various violations of Scrimmage and the Right Path. There’s a book called Beliefs and the Afterlife, which explains CWP beliefs about life after death—”
“Wow,” I said.
“It’s really not a cult,” Hannah said. “I thought it was, but I was wrong. As I prepare for my own conversion, I can see that they really care about the environment. They’re quirky, but they’re not that bad—”
“It is what it is,” Larry said. “As long as they provide my son with the care he needs, I will do whatever they ask.”
Two nurses in hazmat suits went into the quarantine room and checked on Hudson and the other boy, who was also asleep.
“You should hear them cough,” Larry said. “It’s almost like a deep howl. It’s terrifying.”
Larry went over to Albertine-Rose, who stood up and
walked away.
“I’m proud of you two,” Larry told Hannah and me. “I know it was rough when the CWP removed you both from their cases, but you’ve both responded admirably.”
“I miss my CWP matters,” Hannah said. “There’s nothing like their cases for the legal and policy questions they raise.”
“And you’ll be back on them as soon as you convert,” Larry said.
The light in the hospital was invasive. It felt like it had questions for you, and it wouldn’t let you go till it shook the answers it desired from you.
I stared at Hudson. I remembered the boy who’d come to visit me with his mom when my kids were born. They’d brought me gifts, and Hudson had stood beside my hospital bed, smiling politely, as Albertine-Rose asked how I was doing.
I liked him and his brother.
They looked like Larry, but they had a lot of their mother, too. Hudson, in particular, had once wanted to be a pastry chef to impress a girl in his class.
Now, there he was, lying motionless on a bed in a quarantine unit, awaiting medical evacuation to Menlo Park.
“Amandine has a nephew who’s a teenager, and so does Andy,” Larry told us. “They’re afraid that they might get the hatred, so they’ve asked Jeremiah to expedite their conversions so their nephews can get the treatment they need in these times, just in case.”
“You’d think the federal government would take the lead on this,” Hannah said.
“The federal government is dealing with states that are in the middle of legal wars with each other,” Larry reminded us. “The State of California—you didn’t hear this from me—now has an unofficial employment ban on anyone born in the state of Colorado. The CWP has also fired all Colorado-born employees. And I can promise you that it’s not going to be in the press.”
Albertine-Rose came running with her cellphone in her hand.
“It’s Lloyd,” she said. “He was missing, and they found him at the airport trying to book himself a plane ticket to come see his brother. They’ve just found him. Talk to him, Larry.”
Fire Sweeping: The California Ballot Killings Book II Page 22
