Portals

by Ann Christy

  What’s left for me to do except accept the towel? It feels like any other towel to me, not in the least bit alien. Actually, it’s sort of nice, the thick kind you get in good hotels.

  “Thank you.”

  She smiles and nods, clearly relieved I’m not going to do anything to her. I wonder how often they’re attacked. Probably a lot. I sniff at the towel to be sure it’s not coated in ether or any other serial-killer type thing, but I try to do it discreetly. All I get from it is the scent of clean cotton toweling. As I wipe my face, she opens a little box on a counter that runs along the opposite wall and withdraws another towel. This one is tightly rolled and sending tendrils of lazy steam into the air.

  “Here, this will help,” she says and hands it to me, still keeping her distance.

  It’s exactly like the ones my mom and I get at the Japanese restaurant she loves so much. I liked the warm, wet towel more than the sushi when we first started going there. My confusion grows.

  I wipe my face and arms down, staining the towel bright red. She’s right, it does help. It helps a lot. I sigh and sit back on the mat, putting a little distance between me and the mess I made. It smells bitter and unclean. With one last swipe on my forehead, I point with my eyes at the puke and say, “I’m sorry about that.”

  Her smile is genuine, truly. Her expression is real in a way that we rarely see smiles in adults. Unguarded is what I would call it. “Oh, never mind that. It happens. That’s why everything is washable and—”

  A voice seems to come from everywhere inside this room, cutting her off. It’s officious, not nearly as warm as hers, but also not hostile. Mostly, it sounds like a man having a busy shift that isn’t exactly going well. “Let’s confirm her identification. Standing down 8-8-9 for the next cycle.”

  The old woman looks toward the ceiling, then shrugs at me a little guiltily. “He means you, dear.”

  “Who are you? Is this an invasion? Is this like an alien ship or something?” I ask, standing up and holding out the towel the same way she did, at full arm’s length.

  She laughs and waves her hand as if that’s the funniest thing she’s heard all day, then drops my towel into a hole in the wall above the counter. “Not at all, sweetie. I promise.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Oh, that would help, wouldn’t it?” she says, her eyes twinkling and her cheeks dimpling with her smile. “My name is Rosa and I was supposed to be here for the transfer of Barbara Choudra. You’re not Barbara Choudra. What can I call you?”

  I’m not sure why I do it, but I step forward and hold out my hand for her to shake. Now that I’m here, I might as well make the most of it. And like my mom always tells me; I can get more bees with honey. So, I’ll be polite and not a scared ninny. Rosa seems surprised by my extended hand, which somewhat confirms the notion of them not having great initial meetings with people who get tossed through the portals. Still, she takes my hand. Hers is warm and dry, soft just like a grandma’s hand should be.

  “I’m Lysa Choudra. Barbara is my mom.”

  She frowns at that, squeezing my hand a little. “Oh, my goodness! That’s terrible! Did she…I mean…oh, dear.”

  It takes a half-second, but I realize what she’s thinking. Given all the husbands and wives who have tossed in a spouse, the sheer number of people who have tossed in a stranger that happened to be nearby, or damaged their replacement and tossed them through, she must think my mom pushed me in to save herself.

  “No,” I say, laughing. “She didn’t push me in. I’m not sure why, but I went in myself. I have absolutely no clue why I did it. But, uh, we did…uh…well, the replacement didn’t make it.”

  The reality of what I’ve done doesn’t click until I say that, but it does once I say the words. The sensation is like a full-force body slam of reality in my face. My heart jumps painfully in my chest and my innards seize up. I can’t go back. No one has gone back that anyone knows of. I’ve just walked out of my world with no clue what might happen to me. And I helped commit a murder on my way here to top it off.

  My chin starts to shake, this hit of reality too much for my system. I put my hands to my head and squat back down on the mats, overwhelmed by the incredibly stupid impulse that just ended my previous life.

  “Oh my gosh. I walked through.”

  Rosa hurries over and rubs my back with a firm hand while I squat there, my face in my hands and my whole body tucked tightly into a ball. I can’t help but notice she’s wearing white sneakers with hose. How odd.

  “Shh, it’s okay. I’m right here. You’re fine. We’ll get this sorted,” she murmurs as she rubs my back.

  As strange as it is to say this, given that she’s probably an alien that snatches a thousand humans every thirteen minutes for unknown, and possibly very bad reasons, her touch is super comforting. I really want to hug her. Is that weird?

  After a few minutes, I wind down, my body done with processing the reaction and the initial shock. My brain isn’t done by a long shot, but my body is for the moment. And now my knees hurt from squatting like this. When I hold out a hand, Rosa helps me up and then surprises me again by pushing the hair away from my face, then gripping both my hands in hers.

  “Okay?”

  I nod, but I’m really not okay at all.

  Six

  Once she’s sure I’ve got myself under control, she leads me over to the counter gently and says, “Since you didn’t go through, I’ll need to confirm your identity. It’s simple and won’t hurt, but it is important. With so many incorrect transfers, things are getting to be a bit of a muddle.”

  Transfer? That’s an interesting word. It tells me we probably aren’t dinner for aliens at any rate. But transfer to where?

  Along the counter is an array of things I don’t understand. I know the box the towel came from and the hole where it went after I used it, but all the rest are absolute unknowns. Nothing looks overtly aggressive or dangerous though, so that’s something.

  Rosa takes the hand she still has clasped in hers and tentatively pulls it over a shiny oval set into the counter. “I’m just going to lay your hand right here. You’ll see a light, but it won’t hurt. Is that okay?”

  I nod, watching the oval intently. Anything could happen, but I believe Rosa. She seems so sincere and so much like a grandma. I don’t have a grandma anymore, but if I imagined the perfect replacement for the one I had, she would look a lot like Rosa. I wonder if that’s on purpose.

  “Is this what you really look like?” I ask suddenly.

  Rosa’s eyes crinkle when she smiles. “Go on, pinch me if you like. I’m just as I am.”

  I nod, feeling a little embarrassed for being suspicious. Then again, they did just send a portal with a replacement for my mother. But Rosa seems so nice.

  As soon as my hand touches the cool surface, an extremely bright light pinpointed around the center of my palm makes the flesh of my hand glow. It’s just like when you press a bright flashlight into your hand and the edges glow like you might be able to see through it if the light were only a little brighter. Except this one is brighter, and I can see right through my hand in shades of pink. The bones are visible as darker lines and patches.

  “Whoa!” I exclaim, ready to snatch my hand back.

  Rosa’s touch on my forearm grows firmer. “It’s okay.”

  The light goes out before I can even decide if I want to pull harder or not. A small, musical ping sounds out in the room. As Rosa and I look up, another voice that I think might be a computer says, “Lysa Ann Choudra, Arlington, Virginia, North America. Non-transfer.”

  Rosa’s cheeks dimple again, but this time from pursing her lips instead of smiling. All she says is, “Ah.”

  “What does that mean? Non-transfer?” I ask, alarm ringing through me.

  If the people who get replaced are transfers and I’m a non-transfer, does that mean a portal wouldn’t have come for me? Wherever it is that we’re transferred to, what
happens to those who aren’t supposed to transfer? Am I headed for the dinner table after all?

  Rosa once again rubs my back, up near the shoulders just like my mom does when she’s trying to soothe me. “It’s okay, Lysa. We’ll get this sorted, like I said. It just takes a bit of doing. You’re quite safe.”

  Again, I believe her. She’s so stinking earnest. Rosa comes across as someone who has never so much as uttered a white lie in her life. Of course, sincerity is the hallmark of the best liars, so there’s that.

  “I’m really scared.”

  “I understand. I really, truly do.”

  She gives me some space, a minute or two to calm myself and catch my breath. When I’m a bit more under control, she presses a silver patch inset into the counter surface and another box opens. From within she withdraws something that looks like folded pajamas, deep grey with a lovely purple piping along the edges.

  When she hands them to me, they feel like a soft cloud. They may look like flannel, but they feel so much softer. Next, she pulls out a pair of socks with a soft sole along the bottom.

  “Your clothes are…umm…a bit soiled. Perhaps you’d like to change?”

  I look down to see my t-shirt is liberally splattered with blood, as are my jeans. Even my favorite pair of Converse sneaks have big smears of red all over them. I’m horrified. “Ugh.”

  “I’ll just step out while you change, but if you need me, you only need to say so. I’ll come right back in. There are more hot washcloths in that box, so you can clean up a bit more. Just leave your clothes on the floor and I’ll take care of them.”

  She waits for me to nod, gives me another smile, then steps over to a place in the white wall that looks no different from any other. It slides open at her approach and I crane my neck to try and see out, but all I see is the other side of a corridor, another featureless white wall. I wonder if there’s another person like me, or maybe the correctly replaced person, on the other side of that wall.

  The door snicks shut and I’m left alone with the counter and the puffy gym mats. I guess the mats are here because of the fall we take coming through. How considerate they are, particularly for alien invaders.

  It takes a half dozen or more of those hot, wet cloths before I feel clean, though in truth, I really want a long shower. I still feel like there’s blood all over me in a sticky, gross residue, even though I can’t see it. And I can feel it in my hair, wet clumps drying into sticky, stiff clumps. The washcloths don’t do much for that. It’s strange to stand in this room without my clothes on, but I don’t see mirrors or glass that would indicate anyone is watching me, or camera lenses on the walls. Given their tech, I doubt I would see anything as obvious as that, but I still feel better for not seeing any.

  The pajamas fit perfectly, as do the socks, which is a little weird. There are even pockets perfectly placed for cramming my hands into. I’m rather tall and a bit curvier than average, so it can’t be coincidence that the pajamas fit me so well. I’m not fat, just cushiony, as my mom calls it. When she really wants to embarrass me, she says I’m voluptuous. It always gets a rise out of me when she says that, and she laughs that wicked laugh of hers, her shoulders hunching up a little and her eyes wild with humor.

  My mom. I left her with a corpse of herself.

  I’m the worst person in the world.

  “I’m done,” I call out, but my voice sounds shaky. It feels weird to be loud in this room.

  The door opens immediately and Rosa strolls back in, waving to someone as they walk out of sight. I barely get a glimpse, but it looks like a kid, no more than ten years old if I go by height. So, they have ten-year olds wandering around. That’s interesting.

  “Oh, you look so much more comfortable!” Rosa says, smiling. She plucks at the end of my sleeve and adds, “It’s very becoming. Grey is a good color for you.”

  I don’t wear a lot of grey, but now that she’s mentioned it, the skin on my hand isn’t quite so green looking. It’s more creamy than pasty. I wonder if they did that on purpose and if so, how could they know what would look good on me? And why would they be so considerate as to think of how I would look in a specific color? Once again, I’m left with that feeling that whoever these people are—still assuming they’re people—they aren’t interested in hurting us.

  She glances up at my hair and says, “You’ll need a more substantial washing. You’ll be able to get a shower or bath soon. Don’t worry.”

  “Is it bad?” I ask. When I shake my head a little at the question, a clump of something falls from my hair to splat onto the mat.

  Rosa makes a little face and says, “Well, it’s not so bad. Would you like me to help?”

  I nod and she whips more of those hot towels out of the box. A little recess fills with water when she passes her hand across it and she dunks the little towel in. Stepping closer to her, I let her drape a dry towel around my shoulders, then bend so she can wash out my hair with the wet cloths. They come away red, then pink.

  This is the most bizarre thing that has ever happened in my life. An alien invader is towel-washing my replacement mother’s innards out of my hair. Honestly, I can’t even process this.

  When she’s done, she smiles at the bird’s nest that is my hair. I may be only one quarter Indian, but I got the hair from that side of the family. My hair is so dark brown it’s almost black and that makes the wildness seem even wilder. There’s not much that can be done about it, so I finger comb it as much as I can, then shrug.

  “Ready?” Rosa asks.

  “For what?”

  “Well, there’s a sort of waiting station I’ll take you to. With all the mix-ups and wrong people coming through, we’re playing a bit of catch up here. What a muddle!”

  She seems genuinely confused by this, as if she has no idea how upsetting and frightening it is for us on Earth. Could it be that they don’t get it? That seems incredibly unlikely. Haven’t the other thirteen million plus people that came through let them know?

  I hold up a hand and say, “Sure, but can I ask you a couple of questions first? While it’s still just us?”

  “Of course.”

  She seems sincere enough, her hands clasping together at her waist in precisely the same way they were when I first popped through. “I have to know. Why are you doing this?”

  Rosa sighs, then says, “That’s complicated and because you’re a non-transfer, I shouldn’t be the one to talk to you about it. You’ll get that information from someone far more qualified than I.”

  That answer could be ominous, but it only sounds regretful coming from her. So, moving on. “Okay. If you’re not intending to hurt us, then why don’t you just tell people what you’re doing? On the other side, I mean. Do you understand what’s happening when people see a portal open and a doppelganger step out?”

  She wrinkles her face and shakes her head in disapproval. “Well, I know that we’re getting far too many incorrect transfers, and the violence is quite shocking.” Again, she shakes her head, as if trying to rid herself of a disturbing memory. “But we simply can’t say too much, dear. We’ve changed things as much as we can. The stand-ins tell them they have to go, don’t they?”

  “Yeah, a creepy zombie-like duplicate says that in a dead voice and that’s supposed to be comforting?”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Uh, no. It isn’t. Not at all.”

  “Oh dear.” I swear it looks like she’s about to cry. Yep, she’s going to cry.

  “I’m sorry. Please don’t cry,” I say. I feel like I have to hug her, which is so weird. What is it with these alien grandmas?

  She dabs at her eyes with her fingers and tries to smile at me, waving me back. “It’s alright. I just want things to go smoothly. I’ve never seen anything like this before. It’s just so…so…wrong.”

  “That’s humans for you. No one can say evolution didn’t prepare us for responding to threats.”

  “But we’re not a thr
eat,” Rosa says, looking into my eyes as if pleading for understanding. “We’re truly not. We’re here to help.”

  The voice from somewhere else comes back as soon as those final words leave Rosa’s lips. “Please take the non-transfer to the waiting station. Welcome to our humble hub, Lysa.”

  There’s a reprimand for Rosa and a warm welcome for me in those words, even though the tone doesn’t significantly change. I just feel it. Rosa holds out her hand like I’m a little kid who needs to be held close when crossing a street. If my mom did that, I’d laugh at her, but I don’t feel like that at all with Rosa. I take her hand without hesitation.

  The truth is, I feel like stepping beyond this door would be the equivalent of crossing all six lanes of the freeway while wearing a blindfold. I’m awfully close to peeing myself. Wrapping my cold fingers around her warm ones, I follow along like a duckling.

  Seven

  The hallway is long, very white, and utterly featureless. “Wow,” I say, wondering how they find their way around as we approach an intersection that looks exactly like the one behind us.

  Rosa waves her free hand and says, “There are twelve-hundred rooms like the one you arrived in. Other transfer rooms are configured differently. In total, there are thirty-thousand in this module. We have six modules, and the whole place is called the hub.”

  With that, she motions me toward the opening at the end of the hallway, which curves around in a graceful arc. There are other hallways branching off before the curve hides the rest from view. Everything is white, very white, but there’s a discreet dot of color inset into the wall just below the ceiling. I turn around and see my hallway is marked by a pure yellow dot. The next one is yellow with the faintest of green tints.