by John Scalzi
“Don’t you blow it either, Matthew. I don’t expect you to know what to do with yourself yet. But I expect you to figure it out. I think that’s a fair request from me, all things considered.
“Welcome to your new life, Matthew. Don’t fuck this one up.”
Hester reached over and turned off the camera.
You clicked out of the video window, closed the laptop and turned around to see your father, standing in the doorway.
“It’s not amnesia,” he said. There were tears on his face.
“I know,” you said.
CODA III:
Third Person
CODA III: THIRD PERSON
Samantha Martinez sits at her computer and watches a short video of a woman who could be her reading a book on a beach. It’s the woman’s honeymoon and the videographer is her newlywed husband, using a camera the two of them received as a wedding gift. The content of the video is utterly unremarkable—a minute of the camera approaching the woman, who looks up from her book, smiles, tries to ignore the camera for several seconds and then puts her book down and stares up at the camera. What could be the Santa Monica Pier, or some iteration of it, hovers not too distantly in the frame.
“Put that stupid thing down and come into the water with me,” the woman says, to the cameraman.
“Someone will take the camera,” says her husband, offscreen.
“Then they take the camera,” she says. “And all they’ll have is a video of me reading a book. You get to have me.”
“Fair point,” says the husband.
The woman stands up, drops her book, adjusts her bikini, looks at her husband again. “Are you coming?”
“In a minute,” the husband says. “Run to the water. If someone does steal the camera, I want them to know what they’re missing.”
“Goof,” the woman says, and then for a minute the camera wheels away as she comes toward the husband to get a kiss. Then the picture steadies again and the camera watches her as she jogs to the water. When she gets there, she turns around and makes a beckoning motion. The camera switches off.
Samantha Martinez watches the video three more times before she gets up, grabs her car keys and walks out of the front door of her house.
* * *
“Samantha,” Eleanor, her sister, says, waving her hand to get Samantha’s attention. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“Sorry,” Samantha says. “What thing again?”
“That thing,” Eleanor says. “That thing when no matter what someone else is saying you phase out and stare out the window.”
“I wasn’t staring out of a window,” Samantha says.
“You were phased out,” Eleanor says. “The staring out the window part isn’t really the important part of that.”
The two of them are sitting in the Burbank P.F. Chang’s, which is empty in the early afternoon except for a young couple in a booth, across the entire length of the restaurant from them. Eleanor and Samantha are sitting at a table near the large bank of windows pointing out toward a mall parking structure.
Samantha is in fact not looking out the window; she’s looking at the couple and their discussion. Even from a distance she can see the two aren’t really a couple, although they might have been once, and Samantha can see that the young man, at the very least, wouldn’t mind if they were again. He is bending toward her almost imperceptibly while they sit, telling her that he’d be willing. The young woman doesn’t notice, yet; Samantha wonders if she will, and whether the young man will ever bring it to her attention.
“Samantha,” Eleanor says forcefully.
“Sorry,” Samantha says, and snaps her attention to her sister. “Really, E, sorry. I don’t know where my head is these last few days.”
Eleanor turns to look behind her and sees the couple in the booth. “Someone you know?” she asks.
“No,” Samantha says. “I’m just watching their body language. He likes her more than she likes him.”
“Huh,” Eleanor says, and turns back to Samantha. “Maybe you should go over there and tell him not to waste his time.”
“He’s not wasting his time,” Samantha says. “He just hasn’t let her know how important she is to him yet. If I was going to tell him anything, that’s what I would tell him. Not to stay quiet about it. Life is too short for that.”
Eleanor stares at her sister, strangely. “Are you okay, Sam?” she asks.
“I’m fine, E,” Samantha says.
“Because what you just said is the sort of line that comes out of a Lifetime movie character after she discovers she has breast cancer,” Eleanor says.
Samantha laughs at this. “I don’t have breast cancer, E,” she says. “I swear.”
Eleanor smiles. “Then what is going on, sis?”
“It’s hard to explain,” Samantha says.
“Our waiter is taking his time,” Eleanor says. “Try me.”
“Someone sent me a package,” Samantha says. “It’s pictures and videos and love letters from a husband and wife. I’ve been looking through them.”
“Is that legal?” Eleanor asks.
“I don’t think that’s something I need to worry about,” Samantha says.
“Why would someone send those to you?” Eleanor asks.
“They thought they might mean something to me,” Samantha says.
“Some random couple’s love letters?” Eleanor asks.
“They’re not random,” Samantha says, carefully. “It made sense to send them to me. It’s just been a lot to sort through.”
“I get the sense you’re skipping a whole bunch of details here,” Eleanor says.
“I did say it was hard to explain,” Samantha says.
“So what’s it been like, going through another couple’s mail?” Eleanor asks.
“Sad,” Samatha says. “They were happy, and then it was taken away.”
“It’s good they were happy first, then,” Eleanor says.
“E, don’t you ever wonder about how your life could have been different?” Samantha asks, changing the subject slightly. “Don’t you ever wonder, if things just happened a little differently, you might have a different job, or different husband, or different children? Do you think you would have been happier? And if you could see that other life, how would it make you feel?”
“That’s a lot of philosophy at one time,” Eleanor says, as the waiter finally rolls up and deposits the sisters’ salads. “I don’t actually wonder how my life could be different, Sam. I like my life. I have a good job, Braden’s a good kid and most days I don’t feel like strangling Lou. I worry about my little sister from time to time, but that’s as bad as it gets.”
“You met Lou at Pomona,” Samantha says, mentioning her sister’s alma mater. “But I remember you flipping a quarter for your college choice. If the coin had landed on heads instead of tails, you would have gone to Wesleyan. You never would have met Lou. You wouldn’t have married him and had Braden. One coin toss and everything in your life would have gone another way completely.”
“I suppose so,” Eleanor says, spearing leaves.
“Maybe there’s another you out there,” Samantha says. “And for her the coin landed another way. She’s out there leading your other life. What if you got to see that other life? How would that make you feel?”
Eleanor swallows her mouthful of greens and points her fork at her sister. “About that coin toss,” she says. “I faked it. Mom’s the one who wanted me to go to Wesleyan, not me. She was excited about the idea of two generations of our family going there. I always wanted to go to Pomona, but Mom kept begging me to consider Wesleyan. Finally I told her I would flip a coin over it. It didn’t matter which way the coin would have landed, I was still going to choose Pomona. It was all show to keep her happy.”
“There are other places your life could have changed,” Samantha says. “Other lives you could have led.”
“But it didn’t,” Eleanor says. “And I don’t. I live the life I
live, and it’s the only life I have. No one else is out there in the universe living my alternate lives, and even if they were, I wouldn’t be worrying about them because I have my life to live here, now. In my life, I have Lou and Braden and I’m happy. I don’t worry about what else could have been. Maybe that’s lack of imagination on my part. On the other hand, it keeps me from being mopey.”
Samantha smiles again. “I’m not mopey,” she says.
“Yes you are,” Eleanor says. “Or maudlin, which is the slightly more socially respectable version. It sounds like watching these couple’s home videos is making you wonder if they’re happier than you are.”
“They’re not,” Samantha says. “She’s dead.”
* * *
A letter from Margaret Jenkins to her husband Adam:
Sweetheart:
I love you. I’m sorry that you’re upset. I know the Viking was supposed to be back to Earth in time for our anniversary but I don’t have any control of our missions, including the emergency ones, like this one is. This was part of the deal when you married a crewman on a Dub U ship. You knew that. We discussed it. I don’t like being away from you any more than you like it, but I also love what I do. You told me when you proposed to me that you knew this would be something you would have to live with. I’m asking you to remember you said that you would live with it.
You also said that you would consider joining the navy yourself. I asked Captain Feist about the Special Skills intake process and she tells me that the navy really needs people who have experience with large-scale computer systems like you do. She also tells me that if you make it through the expedited training and get on a ship, the Dub U will pick up the tab for your college loans. That would be one less thing hanging over us.
Captain also tells me that she suspects there’ll be an opening on the Viking for a systems specialist in the next year. No guarantees but it’s worth a shot and the Dub U does make an effort to place married couples on the same ship. It believes it’s good for morale. I know it would be good for my morale. Monogamy sucks when you can’t exercise the privilege. I know you feel the same way.
I love you. Think about it. I love you. I’m sorry I can’t be there with you. I love you. I wish I was. I love you. I wish you were here with me. I love you. Maybe you could be. I love you. Think about it. I love you.
Also: I love you.
(I) love (you),
M
* * *
To placate Eleanor, who became more worried about her sister the more she thought about their conversation at P.F. Chang’s, Samantha sets off on a series of blind dates, selected by Eleanor apparently at random.
The dates do not go well.
The first date is with an investment banker who spends the date rationalizing the behavior of investment bankers in the 2008 economic meltdown, interrupting himself only to answer “urgent” e-mails sent to him, or so he claims, from associates in Sydney and Tokyo. At one point he goes to the bathroom without his phone; Samantha pops open the back and flips the battery in the compartment. Her date, enraged that his phone has inexplicably stopped working, leaves, barely stopping to ask Samantha if she minds splitting the bill before stalking off in search of a Verizon store.
The second date is with a junior high English teacher from Glendale who is an aspiring screenwriter and who agreed to the date because Eleanor hinted that Samantha might still have connections at The Chronicles of the Intrepid, one of the shows she had been an extra on. When Samantha explains that she had only been an extra, and that was years ago, and she had gotten the gig through a casting director and not through personal connections, the teacher is silent for several minutes and then begs Samantha to read the script anyway and give him feedback. She does, silently, as dinner is served. It is terrible. Out of pity, Samantha lies.
The third date is with a man so boring that Samantha literally cannot remember a thing about him by the time she gets back to her car.
The fourth date is with a bisexual woman co-worker of Eleanor’s, whose gender Eleanor obfuscated by referring to her as “Chris.” Chris is cheerful enough when Samantha explains the situation, and the two have a perfectly nice dinner. After the dinner Samantha calls her sister and asks her what she was thinking. “Honey, it’s been so long since you had a relationship, I thought maybe you just weren’t telling me something,” Eleanor says.
The fifth date is a creep. Samantha leaves before the entrée.
The sixth date is with a man named Bryan who is polite and attentive and charming and decent looking and Samantha can tell he has absolutely no interest in her whatsoever. When Samantha says this to him, he laughs.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I was hoping it wasn’t obvious.”
“It’s all right,” Samantha says. “But why did you agree to the date?”
“You’ve met your sister, right?” Bryan says. “After five minutes it was easier just to say yes than to find excuses to say no. And she said you were really nice. She was right about that, by the way.”
“Thank you,” Samantha says, and looks at him again silently for a few seconds. “You’re a widower,” she says, finally.
“Ah,” Bryan says. “Eleanor told you.” He takes a sip of his wine.
“No,” Samantha says. “I just guessed.”
“Eleanor should have told you, then,” Bryan says. “I apologize that she didn’t.”
“It’s not your fault,” Samantha says. “Eleanor didn’t mention to me that she had set me up on a date with a woman two weeks ago, so it’s easy to see how she might skip over you being widower.”
They both laugh at this. “I think maybe you ought to fire your sister from matchmaking,” Bryan says.
“How long has it been?” Samantha asks. “That you’ve been widowed, I mean.”
Bryan nods to signal that he knows what she means. “Eighteen months,” he says. “It was a stroke. She was running a half-marathon and she stumbled and died at the hospital. The doctors told me the blood vessels in her brain had probably been thin her whole life and just took that moment to go. She was thirty-four.”
“I’m sorry,” Samantha says.
“So am I,” Bryan says, and takes another small drink from his wine. “A year after Jen died, friends started asking me if I was ready to date again. I can’t think of a reason to say no. Then I go on them and I realize I don’t want anything to do with them. No offense,” he says quickly. “It’s not you. It’s me.”
“No offense taken,” Samantha says. “It must have been love.”
“That’s the funny thing,” Bryan says, and suddenly he’s more animated than he’s been the entire evening and, Samantha suspects, more than he’s been for a long time. “It wasn’t love, not at first. Or it wasn’t for me. Jen always said that she knew I was going to be hers from the first time she saw me, but I didn’t know that. I didn’t even much like her when I met her.”
“Why not?” Samantha asks.
“She was pushy,” Bryan says, smiling. “She didn’t mind telling you what she thought, whether you had asked for an opinion or not. I also didn’t think she was that attractive, to be entirely honest. She definitely wasn’t the sort of woman I thought was my type.”
“But you came around,” Samantha says.
“I can’t explain it,” Bryan admits. “Well, that’s not true. I can. Jen decided I was a long-term project and invested the time. And then the next thing I knew I was under a chuppah, wondering how the hell I had gotten myself there. But by then, it was love. And that’s all I can say. Like I said, I can’t explain it.”
“It sounds wonderful,” Samantha says.
“It was,” Bryan says. He finishes his wine.
“Do you think that’s how it works?” Samantha asks. “That you have just that one person you love?”
“I don’t know,” Bryan says. “For everyone in world? I don’t think so. People look at love all sorts of ways. I think there are some people who can love someone, and then if they die, can love
someone else. I was best man to a college friend whose wife died, and then five years later watched him marry someone else. He was crying his eyes out in joy both times. So, no, I don’t think that’s how it works for everyone. But I think maybe that’s how it’s going to work for me.”
“I’m glad that you had it,” Samantha says.
“So am I,” Bryan says. “It would have been nice to have it a little longer, is all.” He sets down his wineglass, which he had been fiddling with this entire time. “Samantha, I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve just done that thing where I tell my date how much I love my wife. I don’t mean to be a widower in front of you.”
“I don’t mind,” Samantha says. “I get that a lot.”
* * *
“I can’t believe you still have that camera,” Margaret says to her husband, once again behind the lens. They are walking through the corridors of the Intrepid. They have just been assigned together to the ship.
“It was a wedding present,” her husband says. “From Uncle Will. He’d kill me if I threw it out.”
“You don’t have to throw it out,” Margaret says. “I could arrange an accident.”
“I’m appalled at such a suggestion,” her husband says.
Margaret stops. “Here we are,” she says. “Our married quarters. Where we will spend our blissfully happy married life together on this ship.”
“Try saying that without so much sarcasm next time,” her husband says.
“Try learning not to snore,” Margaret says, and opens the door, then sweeps her hand in a welcoming motion. “After you, Mr. Documentary.”
Her husband walks through the door and pans around the room, which takes a very short amount of time. “It’s larger than our berth on the Viking,” he says.
“There are broom closets larger than our berth on the Viking,” Margaret points out.
“Yes, but this is almost as large as two broom closets,” her husband says.
