by Ling Ma
Most noticeably, the clothes incorporated translucent materials, from the cellophane organza of the tiered skirts to the see-through plastic of the boots and pumps, which left parts of the models’ bodies incongruously, uncomfortably exposed. Reviewers commented on how the transparent features highlighted the way that we had all begun assessing each other’s bodies, in fruitless attempts to detect Shen Fever. Fashion was beside the point. We didn’t look at a woman to appreciate her outfit, we looked at her to evaluate her potential sickness.
At my desk on an especially uneventful afternoon (production jobs placed at Spectra were slowly drying up), I watched a video of a backstage interview. He spoke in his low, characteristic drawl: I didn’t want it to feel real.
*
One Sunday, I woke up to the sound of church bells ringing in unison. At first I thought they were alarm bells, but after scanning the news online, I realized that they were commemoration bells. It was the morning of September 11. They began ringing at 8:46 a.m., the moment when the first plane struck the north tower.
There was an elaborate ceremony being held at Ground Zero, with a recitation of the names of the dead. President Obama addressed the crowd by quoting the 46th Psalm. Come behold the works of the Lord, who’s made desolations in the earth. He makes wars to cease to the end of the earth; he breaks the bow, and cuts the spear in two; he burns the chariot in fire.
I went out for a walk. I remembered how, after it had happened, President Bush told us all to go shopping. All through the morning, church bells rang at times corresponding to the moments when the planes hit and when each building fell. The north tower, the south tower, the Pentagon, the crash in Pennsylvania. The streets were quiet.
*
Later that night, I thought to get in touch with my relatives in China. I hadn’t communicated with them much since my mother’s passing. I would send them gift boxes during every Christmas season, which they celebrated only in the most secular sense. The packages, addressed to my aunt, who would dispense them as she saw fit, were filled with Clinique and Godiva chocolates, replicating what my mother would give them on her trips back. Every Chinese New Year, in response, an aunt would send me a card, signed by everyone, with a few U.S. dollars in a red envelope.
I waited until ten at night to call my aunt’s number, the only phone number I could easily find. My first aunt was the one who had some working knowledge of English. It rang and rang. I calculated the time difference again. It was ten in the morning there. I let it ring for another half-dozen times. It went to voicemail, but the voice mailbox was full, or so the automated Chinese message seemed to convey. I hung up.
The remainder of my family, distant genealogical lines, dimming.
*
The other contact info I had was for Bing Bing. It was a WeChat username. I had joined WeChat, this texting service he used, just to talk with him. Though I spoke Mandarin fluently, I had lost my reading comprehension of Chinese characters—yet by the wonders of technology we managed to text back and forth. I would use Google Translate to transform my English into Chinese, which I would then copy and paste into WeChat. Using that convoluted method, Bing Bing and I would occasionally hold stiff, rudimentary conversations, which would eventually peter out into a rash of emojis, both of us too tired to translate.
Using this same method, I texted Bing Bing awkwardly, Is the family okay? I am worried. Has anyone contracted Shen Fever?
I closed the app and waited.
*
Later that week, protests had erupted in and around Wall Street. Hundreds of demonstrators set up camp in Zuccotti Park. They called themselves Occupy Wall Street, and they were protesting the bank bailout that President Obama had signed after the subprime mortgage crisis. Day and night, they chanted, Banks got bailed out! We got sold out! For a few elated days, there was a strange hopeful, charged atmosphere around New York. I found myself thinking of Jonathan, wishing that he were here. If he’d have stayed, he would have joined.
But Occupy Wall Street lost its glow pretty quickly. At first a media darling, it became a hot-button debate issue in editorials and cable news shows. In light of the rapid dissemination of Shen Fever, the movement was deemed decadent and out of touch. The images of young, healthy protesters chanting, not wearing their masks so their voices could be heard more loudly, only seemed to enrage the public.
Within a week, the protests in Zuccotti Park waned. Several of the protesters had succumbed to Shen Fever. The city bartered with protesters to provide free medical aid to the remaining demonstrators, most of whom did not have health insurance, in exchange for their leaving.
Zuccotti Park resembled a deserted refugee camp. It was left this way for several days before the diminished maintenance crews came to clean it up. In news photos taken before the cleanup, abandoned tents, tarps, and pieces of clothing littered the grounds. You could read their discarded protest signs: PEOPLE BEFORE PROFITS. DEPRIVATIZE DEMOCRACY. WE ARE THE 99%. EAT THE RICH.
*
The Death Knell, as we called the Times homepage victim count, was eventually pulled at the request of government officials, who cited its potential in inciting mass panic. By the end of August, it was difficult to get an accurate victim count—and by difficult, I mean that you couldn’t just Google it anymore. The last public count had been at 237,561. It had become so obscure and shrouded in controversy that journalists filed FOIA requests. The seriousness of the epidemic varied depending on which news source you trusted. Some claimed that the disease was experiencing exponential growth, others that it was spreading at a slower, more contained rate. Either Shen Fever was no bigger an issue than the West Nile virus, or it was on the level of the Black Plague.
On the Times homepage: The travel ban of visitors from Asian countries had passed. It would go into effect immediately.
*
After the abolishment of the Death Knell, in early October, employees at Spectra filed for leaves of absence en masse. Though there had been no Shen Fever victims other than Lane and Seth, it was a preemptive move. Everyone wanted to stay home, supposedly safe, or move back to their hometowns and work remotely. In response, Spectra took its cue from other companies facing the same demand and introduced a work-offsite program. To be eligible, the employee had to fill out a questionnaire, comprised of twenty-seven questions that ominously hinted at his or her dispensability.
In a hundred words or less, describe the role you fulfill at Spectra.
On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your work quality?
How effective would you describe your job efficiency? Very effective, Effective, Neutral, Ineffective, Very ineffective.
After filling out the questionnaire, the employee would have an interview with Michael Reitman and the HR head, Carole. They would make a decision on his or her eligibility for the work-offsite program by the next day.
One day at work, someone tapped the back of my chair. It was Carole. Michael would like to see you now, she said.
What’s this regarding? I asked. I haven’t filed a work-offsite request.
There are some details we’d like to discuss regarding your future at Spectra. She smiled.
I followed her down the halls to Michael’s office. I wondered whether this was about my transfer to Art. I had filled out that form more than a month ago and hadn’t thought about it since. I regretted not wearing a nicer outfit.
I hadn’t been inside Michael’s office in a while, though I’d often passed by and glance at the black leather chaise longue through the glass walls, fantasizing about napping on it while everyone else carried on around me. If they offered me the transfer to Art, could I request a chaise longue in my new office?
Michael stood up upon my arrival. He looked weary, dark circles under his eyes.
Have a seat, Candace, Michael said. It’s nice to see you.
I sat in front of his desk.
We wanted to discuss the details of your future at Spectra, he said, echoing Carole’s words. You have done a
tremendous, tremendous job during your time here—coming up on five years now, right? We’ve all been very impressed. Like the way you managed to find that last-minute supplier for the Gemstone Bible.
Thank you, I said.
Now, he said as if reciting a script, extenuating circumstances force us to evacuate this office.
We’re closing down? I asked.
No, not closing down, Carole chimed in, next to him. Just putting things on hold. We’re letting the whole office go on the work-offsite program. All of management is also moving. This is how we’re going to move forward in light of Shen Fever.
But we’re still planning on keeping the office open. We’re putting together a select group to oversee day-to-day operations while other employees are on leave, Michael said. He straightened his tie. We’d like you to be part of this interim team.
I sat up straighter. What would that entail?
Just to keep doing what you’re doing, Michael said. Oversee the production jobs, you know, keep them running. We’d like you to take over some of the jobs others in your department may need help with, along with your own. He looked to Carole, as if for affirmation.
Carole jumped in: You would work here in the Spectra New York office. We’d prefer to keep our main office open. This is partly an optics issue. It gives our clients confidence that we’re still open when our competitors have closed their offices. All the documents and prototypes will be sent here. You and others here will serve as the point contact team for those working remotely. They may ask you to send certain samples out, for instance.
I nodded. Well, I appreciate that you considered me for this, I said. But to be honest, when you first brought me in here, I thought this was about the transfer to Art.
At this point, all transfers are on hold. We’re not looking to fill any positions right now. However, I will revisit this issue once things get back to normal, after all this is over, he said.
We’ll discuss the Art transfer later, Carole cut in. For now, let’s just focus on this temporary arrangement for the foreseeable future. The bottom line is, we’re willing to offer you this. She slid a packet of papers over. This summarizes the offer.
It was a contract.
Spectra will deposit the agreed-upon amount after the termination of the agreement, November 30, 2011. It will be direct deposited to your bank account in arrears on this date. Spectra holds the rights to extend the contract, if necessary.
It was a delirious offer. I turned the number around in my head. I wrung it dry. It rained with Crème de la Mer moisturizing creams, Fendi handbags, and Bottega Veneta sandals—luxury items that my mother wanted but never allowed herself to buy.
The HR lady slid the pen toward me, an emerald-green Montblanc with a tiny white star at its cap. The amount meant a drawerful of Montblanc pens. More realistically, it meant I could take cabs all the time, without cramming into dirty train cars. It meant an air conditioner, a window unit in every room. It meant a larger apartment. It meant that I could afford more for the baby. It meant that I could eventually take some time off to do other things. Take an extended maternity leave. Read more fiction. Take up photography again.
I picked up the pen. I flipped to the last page, to the dotted line.
Wait. Michael leaned over. He put his hand over the contract. I looked up at him, and for a disorienting moment I could see his brother’s face. He looked sorry for me, which I couldn’t take, the condescending expression so similar to Steven’s. I wondered if Michael knew his brother and I had been involved. Probably.
You’re going to want to think about this, he said. Read it before you sign it.
It’s okay, I said. Everyone who’s taking this work leave, they’re going back to their hometowns, they want to be with their families. But I don’t have any living family—in the U.S., I mean. So I would have stayed in New York anyway. I’ve lived here for five years—it’s home to me by this point. This arrangement—my eyes flicked to the contract in front of me—just makes my time more worthwhile.
I surprised myself as I spoke; I was frighteningly lucid.
Michael’s expression changed from condescension to a particular paternalistic concern that reminded me of Steven. A family man.
Still, he said gently. Take your time.
Sorry. I’ll look it over at my desk, I conceded, then changed the subject. How’s your brother doing?
Michael looked surprised. Steven is sick, he finally said. He’s fevered.
Now I was taken aback. Oh, I’m sorry.
Thank you, he replied. We’re all praying for recovery, but you know.
The odds are slim, I said, before I could stop myself.
He nodded, impassively. Right. The odds are slim to pretty much nonexistent.
I’m sorry, I repeated, and then, trying to think of something nice to say, I added: I think of Steven fondly.
Well, this is the world we live in now, Michael said shakily. Anyway, just think this offer over. I’d obviously like for you to do this, but you should make the right choice for you.
I stood up, and with the sheaf of papers gripped in my hands, I saw myself out and walked the length of hallway toward my desk, where, not even bothering to sit down at my rolling chair or read the whole thing through, I laid it out and scanned it—the hours I would be at the office, the direct deposit payment, the liability disclaimer in the event that I contracted Shen Fever—and signed it, my signature riddled with seismic tremors caused by my shaking hand.
The office was almost empty by the end of October.
19
The days begin like this: They wake up in the morning. They wash and dress and descend to the first floor, in the atrium in the middle of the mall. They cluster around the table and wait for Bob for the breakfast meeting. When he arrives, they say grace before their meals of cereal and canned fruits, their voices rising and falling. From my perch behind the metal gate of L’Occitane, I can hear their voices echoing up to the second floor.
As they eat, Bob proceeds to give them instructions for the day. There are various projects under way to make the Facility more habitable. They are cultivating a vegetable garden near the windows of the food court. They are converting Old Navy into a communal entertainment room. They are planning to stalk the Ikea in nearby Schaumburg for new pieces of furniture. They debate whether it is worth the risk to clean the mall’s skylight now, frosted with cold, or wait until warmer weather. They draw up a list of hardware stores in the greater Chicagoland area for more electric generators, once the supply runs out.
Usually, it is Adam and Todd who are sent outside the Facility after breakfast. Sometimes Genevieve or Rachel accompanies them, depending on the complexity of the task. But Evan always stays behind, doing any number of domestic chores. I’m not sure what giving up my secret to curry Bob’s favor has earned him. He works like everyone else. Even worse than everyone else, and he has no leaving privileges. He does the laundry, running the Sears washers and dryers. He cooks and he cleans.
*
In the mornings, Evan walks by my cell on his way back upstairs from the meetings. When he passes, he never once looks in my direction. He keeps his eyes averted. Once, I banged on the metal gate, and he quickened his step. Another time, I said hey and he said hey back and continued walking, avoiding my face. I like that my presence makes him newly ashamed every time. It gives me a perverse sense of power.
I want him to feel like he owes me something.
Sometimes, when I am feeling at my lowest, I think about asking Evan for Xanax. I’m pretty sure he still has it, since he seems so calm and placid as he goes about his day, doing domestic chores with Rachel or Genevieve. I’d like at least six pills, seven to be sure. It is not a serious thought, but the option is there.
*
In the end, we have come to the Facility to work. We work on the weekdays, rest on the weekends. Adhering to the typical workweek schedule, however ridiculous, feels strangely comforting. Even though I am exempt from working.
I sit in L’Occitane, day in, day out. The light, streaming in through a dirtied skylight, moves throughout the mall during the course of the day. It is one of the few indications of time passing.
Not working is maddening. Bob understands this. The hours pass and pass and pass. Your mind goes into free fall, untethered from a routine. Time bends. You start remembering things. Past and present become indistinguishable.
*
Day passes into night.
*
One night, when I still lived in my Bushwick studio, I opened up the medicine cabinet, searching for Clinique skin exfoliant, and saw Jonathan’s mug. Inside, there was his retainer, soaking in old green mouthwash. My heart leaped, and for a wild, inexplicable second I thought he must’ve not left New York after all.
I stood over the sink and eased the thing into my mouth. It was too big. His teeth were not my teeth. I looked at myself, my freakish, grotesque self, a mouthful of metal and plastic jutting out, and knew that I was alone.
I spit the retainer out. I washed it, filled the mug with fresh mouthwash, and placed it back in the medicine cabinet. I thought, absurdly, that I’d keep his retainer fresh, for when he returned. That’s where it still is, in my old apartment.
I wonder where Jonathan is now. Maybe he is on the yacht somewhere. Maybe he made it to Puget Sound and has joined a band of other survivors. Maybe he is fevered, or, more likely by this point, deceased.
*
Long after everyone is asleep, my remembering is interrupted by the sound of someone crying. It begins as a soft, suppressed sobbing, and then, as if moved by unconscionable suffering, erupts into a moaning—or something more primitive, a keening. It cycles through again, various iterations of despair, frustration. Then silence again.
