Light Years

by Emily Ziff Griffin

  “Yeah, we can’t go anywhere near that place,” Ben adds.

  Kamal nods. “I’m inclined to agree.”

  “Honestly, I wish you’d just stay here with me and forget California,” G says. “I can keep you safe.”

  Phoebe turns to Ben. “What if Luisa were there? Would you go?” He softens, glancing at me.

  “I might.”

  “Might?” I exclaim.

  “Look, I would want to go, of course. I get it. But …”

  “I have to go. I have to. You guys can wait in the car or whatever, but I have to try and see her.” Her strong jaw and gleaming eyes, her crystalline voice—all carefully honed tools for getting what she wants. I’m powerless to argue. We all are.

  We pack our bags back into Kamal’s car and stand uncomfortably in the driveway. If I were Phoebe, I would stay forever. Or at least for a while.

  “You sure you have everything?” G asks.

  Phoebe smiles, rolling her eyes. “G, you’ve asked us that three times already.”

  “I know, I know. I just want you all to have everything you need. And I don’t want you to go.” She and Phoebe take each other in like deep breaths by the shore.

  “I will come back,” Phoebe promises. “When this is over, I will. You just keep yourself healthy. Stay healthy; stay inside. Know that I will be back.” I watch them through a caramel-colored haze. G wipes tears from her eyes with the edges of her scarf and Phoebe gets into the car, taking refuge behind her sunglasses.

  I open my door and stop. “I wish I could hug you,” I tell G.

  “Oh, me too, darling. You stay safe, Luisa.”

  “I will.” I climb in and shut the door. I tap my foot on the floor. I have no use for sadness right now.

  A moment later, we’re off. The streets of Granville pass by—ample houses with front porches and screen doors, flowerbeds and wind chimes. The barbeque grills are covered and the jungle gyms, empty. Do the kids in this town dream of moving to big cities? Or are they content to run through the grass, to drink lemonade on porch swings in summer, build snowmen in winter?

  We turn onto Main Street. We pass an ice cream parlor, a drug store, a little Mexican place called Cha-Cha’s.

  “Everything’s closed,” Ben notes, scanning the street out the window.

  “It’s the Fourth of July,” Phoebe says. “And there’s, you know, a pandemic.”

  “Shit, it’s the Fourth,” Ben says. “I guess no fireworks this year.”

  I press my hand against the window. “Dad loves fireworks.”

  We come to a stop sign at an intersection. A church stands on the corner, white and bright, like a small-town schoolhouse distinguished by a large rose window on the front. I’ve only ever been inside one church—the one near school where they hold graduation and student concerts. It always seems devoid of spiritual presence when we’re in it, like we’re just borrowing the building from God.

  A man and woman stand outside, talking with a priest. I strain for a closer look as we move through the stop sign. The woman is holding a teddy bear and weeping. I turn toward the open road and try not to think about why she would be crying.

  Up ahead there’s a lone cop car parked in the middle of the street. Its lights flash silently.

  The intersecting boulevard comes into view. A sprinkling of people line the street holding American flags. They’re all dressed in red, white, and blue; all wearing face masks and gas masks and scarves tied around their heads.

  Kamal takes manual control of the car and hits the breaks. “What the hell is this?” he asks.

  “Fucking A,” marvels Phoebe. “It’s a parade.” A marching band is coming down the street and, behind them, a float carrying a handful of people in Civil War costumes aiming their antique muskets into the air. Everyone covers their ears and a single round is fired toward the sky. The float glides on.

  There’s a smattering of kids sitting along the curb holding out plastic bags that glove-wearing parade-walkers fill with penny candy. The 4-H club. A handful of high school football team members in their uniforms. A teenage girl sits perched on the back of an electric-blue convertible wearing a crown and sash dubbing her the “Pork Princess.” She waves like the Queen of England while her obese mother films her with her phone from the front seat. Everyone looks morose, yet stoic. Like this is their parade and their America and no one is taking that away from them.

  “I don’t know whether to be impressed or horrified,” Kamal says.

  “Impressed,” I reply.

  “Horrified,” snaps Phoebe simultaneously. My eyes are drawn to one girl. She sits near but apart from a group of other kids. She’s maybe nine or ten, wearing bubblegum-pink overalls, her auburn hair in two long braids. She looks down at the pavement. She ignores the candy being tossed in her direction. Her shoulders shake. Tears drip down her cheeks. Maybe a parent gone, or a sibling.

  Twenty feet of space and a car door between us, but in some way we are as close as any two people can be. We are united by the surreal pain of existing in a life that is still familiar but indelibly altered by loss.

  “We should go,” Phoebe says quietly. She’s looking at the crying girl too.

  Kamal nods and we turn around. We ride silently for several miles. The landscape turns to farmland.

  We pass a Red Cross relief outpost in the middle of a field. “So lame,” mumbles Phoebe. “They’ve got all those people lined up and I guarantee you all they’ve got is a pile of blankets and some pamphlets about washing your hands during flu season. They don’t know what people actually need.”

  “At least they’re trying,” Ben replies. “I don’t see Front Line anywhere out here.”

  “That’s because this is the middle of nowhere. Go to any big city in the country and Front Line is everywhere, getting the most help to the most people.”

  “So people who don’t live in cities are just out of luck?”

  “God, Ben. Are you always so combative? And so literal? It’s not realistic to help everyone. You have to focus on the most efficient solution, which is to help the highest concentrations of people.”

  “I know,” Ben replies with a smirk. “I just like giving you a hard time.” Phoebe’s shoulders soften. I sense this energy between them like a drop in barometric pressure. Does everyone feel that, or just me?

  Ben picks up his phone. “China is saying they’ve got a handle on a vaccine.”

  Again hope swells inside me. “Is it for real?”

  Ben keeps scrolling. “CDC is saying no. But who knows. It’s all about drug companies and money, so who the fuck knows. But if China cures this thing before we do? Embarrassing!”

  Kamal laughs. “Oof.”

  “I know, I know. I’m an asshole.” He looks over at me. “But it’s kinda true.”

  “True that you are an asshole, yes,” Kamal adds, smiling back at my brother. This moment startles me. It’s like I’d forgotten they are such good friends, and like they had too.

  We come around a wide bend in the road. A train whistles in the distance. I reach for the flattened quarter hanging around my neck. I think of my dad. His face. The wind in the trees. The sound of his smile. I look at Ben as the whistle moans in the distance. I feel small, like an ant carrying its hope for survival across the vastness of a city sidewalk.

  “You heard from Mom?” Ben asks quietly.

  “I texted her we’re safe.” He nods and his gaze drifts out the window. I follow it. Beyond the passing fields, there’s a black cloud of smoke rising up into the clear blue sky. As we speed toward it, a smell weaves its way into the car. It’s like burnt meat, metal, and rubber with a sweetness underneath it all. It’s the kind of smell you never, ever forget.

  “Jesus,” mutters Kamal. He covers his face with his hands.

  “It smells like Blackout,” Ben says.

  Phoebe flinches. “They’re burning bodies,” she murmurs.

  I gag. Heat spreads down my arms and legs. Waves of brown, yellow, purple. />
  “That is so fucked,” Ben says. “I seriously might puke.”

  We get closer and closer to the smoke rising. I imagine dead bodies being cast into a burning pit. The smell makes me want to evaporate into the ether. I try to plant my feet in the imaginary sand. I try to let the colors come, to tell myself they can’t hurt me, but they just get worse. I start to panic. I look back through the rear window. Flash after flash and I can barely see the road. I want to get out. I want to go home. I want to make it all stop.

  “You okay?” Ben asks. I turn and focus on his face, on his dark curls. I reach my hand across the seat, carefully so Phoebe and Kamal won’t see. He grasps it. I close my eyes, tap my foot, and count down from a hundred in my head. I breathe through my mouth.

  Slowly the colors calm.

  I feel foolish. And freakish. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I control this shit, or just accept it?

  The Walmart sign appears up ahead, blurry behind a screen of hot air that seems to waver like a sheet of rippling water.

  “That it?” Ben asks. Phoebe nods. The traffic slows. The car is silent. The parking lot is walled by razor wire, broken in only one spot: a military-operated checkpoint. There’s a string of vehicles maybe twelve deep waiting to drive through. Ambulances, military jeeps, supply trucks, and us, the only ordinary car.

  “No way they let us in here,” Ben exclaims as we stop behind a truck.

  “Have a little confidence,” Phoebe replies. “Actually, Kamal, let’s switch seats.”

  She and Kamal jump out and quickly switch sides. Phoebe settles herself into the driver’s seat and takes down her ponytail. Her hair fans out around her face like the feathers of a firebird. Her shampoo smells of lavender.

  “Kamal, when we get through I want you to go in and get some photos and videos. People need to see this. Are you up for that?”

  He nods and we make the turn into the checkpoint.

  “Do you have some sort of plan?” Ben asks.

  Phoebe pulls off her mask and opens her window. “I always have a plan,” she says.

  I look out. Half a dozen soldiers in desert fatigues and gas masks stand stationed around lanes marked by tall piles of sandbags. Large gates run across the middle.

  A soldier steps up to the window, his assault rifle cradled in one hand. His name is stitched onto his uniform: Connors. His strong, nimble frame reminds me of Ben’s.

  “This is a restricted area. Are you ill or transporting an infected person?” His voice is muffled slightly by the mask.

  “I’m here to see my sister. She was brought here,” Phoebe says. Her tone is fragile and seductive at once.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. No access without authorization.”

  “Please,” she says evenly, emotion dancing across her face. “She’s my only sister. Our parents died in Blackout and we were separated. I haven’t seen her in five years,” she pauses. “I need to tell her I’m sorry for leaving her behind.” The soldier stares deeply as she communicates between words. “I need to tell her,” she says again. “It’s my last chance.”

  “I wish I could help you, ma’am, I do.” His voice is shaking slightly. I lean forward. As I look past the transparent plastic screen of his mask, I realize that he’s probably only a year or two older than I am—just out of high school and standing there, holding a weapon that could annihilate two dozen people in seconds.

  “You can help me,” Phoebe implores.

  “My brother died in Blackout,” he says. “That’s why I decided to serve.”

  “So you know,” Phoebe replies, drawing him further toward her with her eyes. “This is my last chance.”

  Connors looks behind him. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I have orders. You’ll need to reverse direction at the turnout and exit on the other side of this barrier.” He motions ahead. Phoebe remains still. Her stare is so intense we don’t notice the commotion at first.

  Then suddenly, we all turn.

  A group of marines has surrounded a flatbed truck stopped in the exit lane. Their rifles are drawn and they’re yelling.

  “Connors,” one of them calls, his gun trained on the truck.

  Connors turns.

  Another marine climbs into the back and pulls up a tarp. Two men are hiding underneath. “There a problem over there, Connors?”

  “No sir,” Connors yells, turning back to Phoebe. My stomach rolls at the sight of the men. They are draped in bed sheets, barely able to stand when the marines order them to their feet. “Proceed to the next checkpoint. You’ll be given the safety protocol. Say you are Red Cross volunteers.” Connors pulls four VISITOR ID badges from a pack around his waist and hands them through the window. “Be in and out quickly. Don’t touch anyone.” Phoebe grabs the badges and shifts the car into drive. Connors motions for the gate to be opened.

  “Thank you,” Phoebe says. “Your brother would be so proud of you.”

  He ducks his head and waves us on as a military convoy comes tearing up the opposite lane. Two figures in HAZMAT suits lead the sick men out of the truck. Connors jogs over to assist them. We drive forward.

  “I cannot believe you pulled that off!” Ben exclaims.

  “I can,” Kamal says. Before I can worry too much about the way he’s looking at her, I notice piles of toys, bikes, clothes, boxes of cereal, and canned food—the stuff of normal life that once filled the store, now ripped out and baking in the sun next to a line of army jeeps and stretchers. I snap a photo with my phone.

  We stop at the next checkpoint. An aid worker in head-to-toe protective gear approaches the window. “IDs?” she demands. Phoebe hands over the badges. “How long?”

  “Excuse me?” Phoebe replies.

  “How long will you be here?” The woman’s voice is hoarse and impatient.

  “Not long,” Phoebe answers. “We’re picking up supplies for the Red Cross.”

  “Park there on the left.” She hands back the badges and points to an empty spot a ways down. We pull ahead into it.

  Phoebe looks at Kamal. “You ready?”

  He nods. “Let’s do it.”

  She looks back at me and Ben. “We’ll be quick.”

  “Yeah,” Ben grumbles. Kamal and Phoebe get out.

  I look over at the entrance to the store. “I’m going with you,” I call.

  Ben’s voice comes down like a hammer: “No way.”

  I turn to him. “I want to see what’s going on in there.”

  “Twenty minutes ago you were holding my hand, freaking out.” At least he has the mercy to say this quietly enough that Kamal and Phoebe don’t hear.

  “I know, but I’m good now. I can do this.” I need to test myself. I need to prove that I’m moving forward, not backward. “I want to see where Dad is.”

  “We don’t know where Dad is,” Ben barks. “He’s definitely not in there.”

  I grab one of the visitor’s badges and step out of the car. Ben scrambles out behind me.

  “This is a place that’s currently being referred to as a death camp,” he yells. “Death. Get it? It’s bad enough we’re even in this parking lot. Not to mention your thing. Your condition.” He says it like he isn’t sure it’s real. “I forbid you from going in there.”

  “You forbid me?” A flash of violet. I breathe deep.

  “Yeah. I forbid you one hundred percent.”

  “She’s not a child,” Kamal snaps sharply.

  Ben stares daggers at him. “Yes she is.”

  Phoebe steps between them. “Stop making a scene,” she warns. “I don’t want to get shot by a marine.”

  Ben’s eyes burrow into her. “This is your fault.” His voice wobbles. “It’s ridiculous that we are even here. Your dying sister is not our problem. Your lame crusader mission is not our problem.”

  Phoebe steps back. “Asshole,” she says. She pins on her badge and walks away. Kamal and I turn to follow her.

  “You do this and I’ll call Mom,” Ben shouts.

  “Go ahead,” I yell b
ack. “What’s she gonna do from a thousand miles away?” I leave my brother standing by the car and catch up to Phoebe. “I’m sorry he said that. He’s being a dick.”

  “It’s fine,” she says coolly.

  “He’s just scared.”

  “I’m gonna go ahead.” She quickens her pace.

  “Hey,” I call after her. “Good luck.” She smiles and turns, putting her mask back on and pulling her hair into a tight bun. The little girl I saw at G’s is hidden away again.

  “You sure you want to go in there?” Kamal asks.

  “Yes.” We walk toward the entrance. “He’s just like my mother,” I say. “Trying to control me, but he’s the one who’s scared.”

  “He doesn’t want to see you hurt. I can’t disagree with him there.”

  My face flushes with a burst of orange.

  “What did he mean, ‘your condition’?” Kamal asks.

  “Nothing. Just something from when I was a kid,” I tell him. “I don’t have it anymore.”

  We pass deliberately through the Walmart doors. We’re herded through an x-ray machine, then led to a bank of portable sinks. They tell us to wash our hands and forearms with antibacterial soap. It smells of cherry candy and feels cool on my skin. We’re draped in green gowns. Our hands are sheathed in latex gloves, the wrist openings sealed against our skin with white tape. Our heads are crowned with shower caps and our faces are swallowed by fresh masks.

  The inside of the store has been gutted, save for the cash registers—a perfect line of cheerful, numbered corrals. They look like the starting gates at a racetrack.

  I glance beyond and there are rows and rows of beds. More than I can count or could’ve imagined. My heart seems to plummet into my legs. My stomach begins to twist and my head spins in a swirl of red and brown. I lose my footing and fall against Kamal.

  He catches my gloved hands in his. “Whoa,” he whispers.

  I clamp my eyes shut. I conjure sand beneath my feet and the rhythmic sound of the ocean booming.

  I open my eyes and look back at all the people. My stomach swirls and the colors tint my vision, but I hold my gaze steady. “It’s just waves,” I mutter to myself.

  Kamal squeezes my hands. “Hey, hey. You all right?”