I notice she’s not drinking, then remember she cannot. How does one live without chardonnay?
“Tell me. Who leases you?”
“Her,” she says, nodding in the direction of the scrumptious young wallflower hunching toward us. I see at once how hard she’s trying to go unnoticed, hair swept back in a low ponytail, eyes tucked into a curtain of bangs, that loose bag of a dress. And yet, she is so young, skin like an uncooked noodle.
“Is she your—” What is the word they use these days?
“Lover?” The companion pats the seat next to her and the girl slips into it, casting eyes about the room, clearly a nervous creature. Introductions are made. The girl’s name is Cam, from San Francisco.
“What is it you do?” I ask her.
“I’m a caretaker.”
“And who do you care for?”
She laughs, and the companion laughs, and I realize I don’t know her name. Too late to ask, but I remember that I’m dying, and I ask anyway.
“Lilac.”
“Like the flower?”
“Like the pig.” More laughter, a kiss, fingers disappearing into the folds of that unflattering dress. A whisper, a sniff—can a companion smell?
“The rain,” Cam says.
Lilac peels Cam’s hands from her cheeks. “I’m okay.”
Cam says to me, “Nice to meet you,” and swishes nervously back to the counter.
“Did I do something wrong?” I ask.
Lilac sighs—a companion sighing! It’s really quite remarkable how lifelike she is. “Not you. Me.”
“You’re fighting?”
“Not exactly. But we aren’t getting along either.”
I know precisely what she means. To start a new relationship, to fall in love, out of love, it all sounds so exciting! “That’s a shame. You make a nice couple.” Then I get to thinking about sex and I can’t stop myself from asking, “Is it—satisfying?”
“It can be.” Lilac appears amused. Her expressions—they’ve done such a wondrous job. I would never know.
“I don’t want to die. But what if they’re wrong? I’m terrified of making the wrong decision.”
“If you want, I could be there for you. I know what it’s like. I’d be happy to support you.”
“That’s so nice. Thank you,” I say, really meaning it. Now, for some reason, I can’t imagine not seeing her at the party. “You know what? I’m going to take you up on your offer. Companion or not, you are too sweet.” I pull out my phone and add her name to the guest list—I could use someone there who understands.
Outside, the rain has passed. We gather our coats, hug under the dripping awning, the air with that wondrous clean smell it only gets after a rare soak.
* * *
Despite Sydney’s protests, and our daughter’s, I’ve put off signing the papers until the night of; the ceremony won’t be genuine otherwise. The new wife doesn’t appreciate it, huffing in the corner, slugging back flutes of champagne, pretending this is not the best party known to man, the perfect balance of celebration and solemnity.
Sydney, bless him, has rented the top floor of the Beverly Tower, with its exquisite light show of a view, the trails of cars snaking the highways and I8s igniting the sky, my team of doctors in the adjacent suite, waiting until after the ceremony to kill me, how polite!
I’ve chosen white for the décor, to represent rebirth, the splash of candlelight spectrum playing on the walls, a sky full of projected stars spangling the roof. I’d prefer real, but cloud cover, unpredictable weather, this is better—a controlled climate, a secure space. Here, with this incredible spread of food, a full bar, surrounded by my closest friends, mingling with palm readers, receiving blessings from the Buddhist monks I rented for the night, I feel—a tray of drinks! I grab a flute of champagne, tip it back, draining it in two gulps. I shouldn’t. I’ve taken a little something to help me through the night. The doctor suggested I not choose now of all times to stop, and I am nothing if not conscientious when it comes to doctors’ orders. Someone takes the glass from me, slips a full one into my hand. I turn and see the companion.
“Lilac!” I kiss her smooth cheek, surprisingly warm. “You look positively luminescent.” She’s wearing a black pantsuit; her hair has been cut short and slicked down, lips painted red. Her skin is dewy, as if she’s moisturized—I wonder if she can do that, how to achieve such an effect. I want to ask her, but later! “Is Cam with you?”
“Getting her palm read.” Lilac’s eyes are over my shoulder, surveying the room. “How are you feeling?” she asks.
“A little nervous, I can’t lie. But I’m enjoying myself.”
Oh, there’s the reverend! Her kinky red hair is positively on fire in the candlelight spectrum. Beautiful—I want to tell her so, how wonderful it is that she’s here.
“I have another event, you know,” the reverend says. “Have you heard from him?”
Sydney. Always late—I should have planned it into the schedule! But that’s a wife’s job, and I’m no longer a wife.
After I’ve reassured the reverend and sent her off with a canapé, Lilac asks, “Where’s the bathroom?”
I point, and she kisses me lightly on the cheek. “I’ll come find you later. Enjoy this last night in your body.”
I watch her go, wondering what she needs with a bathroom, feeling oddly slighted—I had expected her to be my companion for the night. Well, not everyone is cut out for the work. But me? I’ll be the most excellent companion. Isla will lease me, and we’ll be young together, like sisters. It’ll be strange at first, but we’ll get used to it. What choice do we have?
I steal another flute of champagne, smile, move around the room. If you move, people say hello, let you keep going, but if you stop, they worry you need company, don’t want you to feel alone on a night like this. I move, circles, I’m doing circles, when Isla finds me. She’s worn white, in tribute to me, my sweet child—I know how she hates the color, says it washes her right out. I pat her hair, twined into some elaborate knot, cup her cheek. She is embarrassed, no, about to cry, no, she is crying, and I’m holding her, my special girl. Over her shoulder, I see Jakob Sonne, that awful actor I’d banned from the party, from all parties, here now! After the Cedars incident, I hadn’t just yelled at him; I’d annihilated him, blown him to bits, cursing his soft baby-boy looks, his sappy acting, his whole spoon-fed existence—what did he know about struggle with a face like that? Sydney had made sure our paths never crossed again, until today.
“One moment, dear,” I say to Isla, and I’m marching over to security when I spot Sydney barreling through the entrance in a glorious white suit, shirt stretched tight over his gut—I’ve never seen him so fat! What is that wife feeding him? Here she comes, stalking toward him in stilettos, and it could not be any better—some angry words, definitely arguing.
Isla is at my elbow. “Do you want something, Mother?”
“Maybe a bite to eat? I’m feeling a little light-headed.”
Isla is gone, and I’m watching the best part—the wife is leaving!
Sydney swipes a palm across his receding hairline and sees me staring, gives me one of his boyish grins. Oh, I want to hug him! We come toward one another, and I wish I could slow it down, speed it up, all at once—how can that be? He has me by the arm, and I can feel his cheek next to mine, freshly shaved, zinging with cologne, for me, I want to sing, when the air goes out of the room, my ears exploding, off my feet.
* * *
A stinging pain in my hip, a tone in my ears, it holds the world back from me. I can’t touch it, hands grasping, grasping, until fingers trace my arm, my shoulder, find my face. Cam.
“Is anything broken?”
“I don’t think so.” I’m surprised by my own shaky voice, so old. She eases me to sitting and I blink and gawk at the hole where the bathroom once was, my party reduced to rubble and smoke and moaning.
I hear the crack of fireworks. No, guns! And I see one of Sydney’s guards go dow
n—where are the others? That boy Jakob, he’s holding my husband, my Sydney, a gun to his head, and I don’t even mean to think it—he hasn’t signed the papers! “No!” I shout.
“Quiet,” Lilac hisses, crouching at Cam’s side, but I can feel Jakob’s cool screen-ready gaze turn on me.
“I remember you. The wife.” He gives me that greasy half-grin he’s famous for. Ex-wife, I want to remind him, but think better of it. “Do you know what your husband did to me?”
“Did to you? Sydney made you a star.”
He lifts his gun and I hear the pop.
On my back, ears ringing, suddenly so very wet. Oh God, have I had an accident? Too long, I’ve waited too long! That is what I’m thinking as I touch my stomach, my palm dripping red.
“Why’d you do that?” Cam shouts.
Sydney struggles to his feet, and he’s got the boy by the arms now, for me! He’s doing this for me! Then the gun goes off a second time.
“Sydney,” I call. Only it’s not Sydney who falls but Jakob, crumpling onto the floor, and Sydney’s running, not toward the door, but to me. I sit forward despite the blazing pain, arms out, calling for him. Lilac rises next to me, lifts a gun. Pop-pop. Sydney bends sideways, and I’m screaming, and Cam’s got me by the neck now. “We’ve got to stay calm,” she says into my ear. “Be cool.”
Be cool, I’m thinking, ready to shriek, Sydney slumped on his side. “You shot him!”
Lilac ignores me, telling Cam, “Get it,” her voice desperate, and Cam lets me loose, unsteady on her feet, kneeling down next to Jakob, digging in his hair—is she crying? She pulls a slender silver box from the back of his head. A companion! Cam lifts her eyes, glaring at Lilac, her face dirt- and tear-streaked, hateful, and I know that look, the end, nothing more between them.
“Where are the doctors?” Lilac asks me.
“You can’t,” Cam says.
“He deserves it more than she does.” And I realize Lilac’s talking about me, my body.
“We’re not doing that,” Cam says firmly. She kneels over me, hand to my stomach. “It’s okay. The doctors—they can upload you. We have to hurry.”
“Help me,” she says to Lilac, who’s standing over me, who’s still holding that gun. Lilac sighs and bends at her knees, lifts me so easily. The pain—I let out a shriek—and she eases me back down.
“Leave me be,” I tell them. “It doesn’t matter anyway. He never signed.”
Cam leans down close, cupping my face. “Where’s the contract?”
“With the reverend.”
They leave me on the floor as they rummage. I hear a groan, Sydney, and I lift my head, watch him strangle out a breath, erupting blood.
“Stop that,” I call to him, unable to move, my legs no longer listening.
His head lolls to the side and he gives me a lazy red smile.
“Oh, Sydney, you were such a lousy husband, but I loved you. I love you still.”
He raises a hand, lips moving. “Sign.”
“Found it,” Lilac calls, the reverend’s tablet remarkably intact. She brings it to Sydney, and he loops in his signature, sends. He tries to say something but he’s choking, sputtering red, and I wish I could hold him despite all he’s done, but my body, I can feel now what they’ve all been going on about—vessel is the popular term these days. I’ve got to jump ship.
That’s when I see my daughter, Isla, laid out in white. Eyes fastened on the ceiling and glossy, and I know it in my sick bleeding stomach, dead, my Isla, nonononono, it is not true, I can make it not true. Where are those doctors? Upload her now! I am shouting, “Nownownow! Sydney!” But I can see it in his stillness—he’s gone too.
Lilac says, “The contract—it’s for you. Metis won’t release the body otherwise.”
I try to raise my fists, to hit her, mash her machine face, but my arms—they don’t listen.
The companion hoists me into the air, bursting into my suite, the doctors’ scared faces, saying something I can’t hear—I can’t hear! I shake my head. No, not yet, no.
ONE YEAR SINCE QUARANTINE ENDED
ROLLY
DEL NORTE COUNTY, CALIFORNIA
The woods were a place we went, Andy and me, when the smell was too much, the roasting plastic and hair stink of slaughter day. It stuck to you far into the forest, through the curled sea horses of giant ferns, around the thick puzzled trunks of the redwoods, over “the bog,” we called it, a muddy creek bed dotted with fresh bear tracks that wound its way to the river. The smell—it followed—and I followed Andy, squelching loudly in the mud and not at all concerned about running into a bear. I’d tried to warn him they were dangerous, but all his books said otherwise. He thought they were fuzzy and lovable and fond of flowers and little boys. If we ever ran into one, Andy would probably try to give it a hug.
We didn’t get far before we saw the brown coasting in like clockwork—we could count on it, just as we could sunup. Fires burned east of us, in the Shasta and Six Rivers and Klamath forests. It seemed like they could go on forever—as one fire went out, another blazed new. The smoke that blew our way usually came in faint gusts or a gentle brown haze, but sometimes it would get heavy and thick and could turn to soup quickly.
With each step through the bog, I felt a sucking sensation, pulling me earthward to the inside bits, the under-the-surface place. I wondered how far you’d have to go to hit liquid. I knew from school it was burning magma below us, but the surface was cool, thick mud, and oh crap, Andy was crying.
“What happened?”
A boot. He’d lost one of his boots in the mud, and the smoke was thick now, wisping past us. Head back, he let out a hopeless cry. We both knew Pa would be upset. Deliveries to our far-off address were expensive.
I put a mask over his nose and mouth, my own, told him to stay put. Ducked low to the ground, I traced the mud with my hands, moving in growing circles around him.
I was thirteen by the time Ma got pregnant with Andy, our miracle baby. I’d assumed they’d given up; no one had talked about babies in years. But suddenly she was pregnant, and I had the feeling it wasn’t so sudden, that behind the thick curtain my parents cast between us had existed some great drama, with many trials, and I, on the other side, had gone totally unaware. When the baby came, I was in the delivery room despite the nurses’ concerns about what the experience might do to a teenage boy. Ma was old for a pregnant woman, labeled “at risk,” and she knew she’d need me, that I needed to know from the very start just what it was we were getting ourselves into, and I saw it—the pain, Ma torn apart from the inside, all for this screaming red mush of a creature they put into my arms. It was mine, a miracle, and terrible too, a terror, all that crying. Pa had the farm to run, Ma would sleep for hours at a time, and it was my job to make sure Andy didn’t wake her. She was so tired, her belly bloated, wrists like twigs, gone before Andy could sit up on his own.
Finally I stumbled on the boot half-sunk in the mud, only when I turned to show Andy all I saw was brown. I broke out in a slick sweat, calling for him, pawing at the smoke, following his cries.
The way Ma told it, I was my own version of a miracle. They flew all the way to Senegal to fetch me after my birth mother passed. This was when such a thing was affordable for a middle-class farmer and his wife (though I learned much later that they took out a third mortgage on the farm to pay for the trip and transaction).
It wasn’t until the smoke thinned that I found Andy, and ugh, he’d crapped his pants. I didn’t shame him—he was only three and a half. We removed his underwear and buried the accident in the bog with a stick, and I cleaned him with a trio of leaves. He liked that part, wriggling his bottom at me, nah-nah-nah-nahing. I spanked him good and he was crying again, but he had no idea how worried I’d been, and I told him so and he cried harder. Then I said I was sorry to get him to stop, and really I was sorry—I hated to make him cry. I plucked him out of the mud and delivered him to the far side of the bog.
When Ma was alive, she
made sure I stayed in touch with my blood relatives, especially my older brother. But at seventeen, I was no longer cute, hamming for the screen. Their connection was weak, our conversation stilted and spotty. My brother often made an excuse to step away while one of the cousins told me about life in cramped Thiès, where they’d gone when their home in the Saloum Delta went under in the flood, or asked me questions about life in the US of A. I could tell my descriptions of farm life were not awe-inspiring. We talked less and less, and I felt it, how easy it was to lose people, Andy especially, always getting into mischief. He liked to climb. Luckily redwoods were impossible. He had to make do with fallen trunks, hopping rocks on the edge of the river roaring by. Once we saw a pair of kayakers wearing masks glide past us on the water. They waved their oars hello, or maybe to tell us to get back, hard to say, but Andy nearly jumped in the water after them, he so craved human connection.
* * *
We were headed back toward the house, Andy just starting to get over his fit, when I saw something moving in the mud. At first I thought it was a frog or a lizard, but then its little wings flapped open and it fell over onto its side, too covered in mud to steady itself. Andy saw it too, yelping and running. He was out of my reach, and I shouted at him not to touch it. Amazingly, he listened, stopping short, dropping to his knees to inspect it.
We brought it home, the baby bird, and got an old shoebox, filled it with shredded toilet paper. Then we brought Ma’s droopy flower-shaped lamp into our bedroom, removed its shade, and placed the baby bird under its warm, bright light. She squinted and squawked at us and we agreed she was a girl, so delicate. We named her Winifred for our great-great-grandmother who’d bought this land more than a hundred years ago. It had once been a grand farm, organic before there was organic, produce grown with love. In our farm’s heyday, I’d go with Pa on deliveries clear down to Mendocino. We’d leave before sunup and Pa would let me doze until we were coasting down the One and the sky was the perfect many shades and he’d wake me and say, “Would you look at that?”
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