by Lou Aronica
“That’s difficult to believe.”
“Diseases—minor ones—happen all the time. Especially out here in the far reaches. We discover their causes and we cure them.”
Miea tilted her head. “And what is the cause of this particular disease?”
The man averted his eyes. Surely, he hated having this kind of confrontation with someone so young. He was just going to have to deal with that. “It is early. We will find it.”
Miea let her fingernails skim the dark earth. The soil was so rich, so moist with the nutrient-filled morning rains that distinguished the territory of Jonrae. It was difficult to imagine that something destructive thrived here. It was even more difficult, though, to deny her instincts.
“If there is any chance to cut this off before it begins to spread, we must.”
“We have people working every daylight minute. Farmers, scientists, specialists.” Thuja spoke more quickly than he usually did. A clear indication that, despite his words, he was nervous about what they’d found here.
“I want biweekly reports.”
Miea saw Thuja recoil ever so slightly at her tone of voice. Then he nodded with studied deference. “It will be done.”
“And I will return here in the near future.”
Thuja made a show of glancing around him. “That might not be the most productive thing. I do not mean you disrespect, Your Majesty, but I believe your presence makes people nervous.” He smiled professionally and extended his hand to help Miea stand. She looked away from him, turning toward a shrunken vine.
As she did, she remembered her mother’s outrage at her decision to spend months in these fields. “The entire summer?” Mother had said. “Spend a few days if you insist. Spending the entire summer is ludicrous. There are other things to do. Other places you need to be.”
“But no place else I want to be.”
Her mother had frowned and walked away. Once again, Miea hadn’t been sure where that left their conversation. At dinner that night, her father had spoken with her about her planned summer in Jonrae and her mother hadn’t objected. Maybe Mother had realized how much the trip meant to her. Maybe she hadn’t understood at all. It was one of many things left forever unresolved.
Miea held a withered leaf between her thumb and forefinger. Was it possible that she’d sowed the seeds for this plant herself? This cluster of vines could easily be four years old. The field supervisor, forever favoring her, had assigned her duties as close to the gatehouse as he could without his soft treatment of her making her angry, so she’d always worked near where she now stood. The thought—of all of it: her days in the fields, the skittish supervisor, the diseased plant, and her lost mother—threatened to bring tears to her eyes. Tears that she could not let fall. She wouldn’t allow Thuja to see her cry, and it would be wrong to let the others see it.
She bent to kiss the leaf. To will some of her spirit into its blue planes.
The leaf came off in her hands.
Miea bowed her head and closed the leaf in her palm. She shut her eyes tightly and silently whispered a plea for strength and answers. Then she placed the leaf gently on the dirt. She rose, not wishing to make eye contact with Thuja, but finding it impossible to avoid the worried gaze of his associates.
She had been a child during the Great Blight, aware of the disturbance in her household, but ignorant of the larger and more portentous implications for the world around her. She was not a child any longer. If the Blight returned, what else would be different this time?
“We need to go,” she said quietly, nearly to herself.
It was not the ideal moment to listen, but Gage listened anyway. The equilibrium was tenuous at best right now, and there was much Gage needed to do, but listening was essential. Listening was the future. Listening allowed stories to begin.
From the depths of focus, Gage centered and settled on the island world, stretching through the expanse to listen. Gage damped the shouting—so much shouting—and magnified the whispers. Gage knew that shouts maintained stories. Whispers, however, started them. The whispers deserved acknowledgment and attention.
As always, there were hundreds of whispers. Some were too soft to hear. Others—many, many others—said nothing. Still others said something powerful, something plaintive, but said these things too late. The shouting drowned many more even though Gage had damped the shouting.
Nevertheless, Gage would gift all of the whispers. Few would understand the gift. Even fewer would take the gift and imagine with it. Sometimes, though, there were surprises.
Gage’s focus deepened. When Gage focused on the new stories, on the possibility of the island world, Gage felt an enriched sense of meaning and purpose. It didn’t matter that so much promise went unfulfilled. What mattered was that the promise continued to exist.
From this deeply focused state, Gage heard two whispers. They spoke together with different voices. One voice was young. The other longed for youth. There was much consternation here. Confusion. Defiance. They knew their story was the wrong story. They sensed that their true story together had not begun. This was unusual insight. Insight worth encouragement. If they understood this much—that they were waiting for a new story—they might do something with the inspiration. Gage had listened to others in this moment with the same potential, but something sparked here.
From the deepest place in focus, Gage imagined a gift and presented it to the two whisperers. Gage would return to these two, would focus on them again. There was reason to believe they would enrich the gift. If they did, a new story could emerge. A story meant to be.
Sadly, not a simple one.
2
The traffic crawled over the narrow bridge that connected Moorewood and Standridge. Chris was going to be late getting Becky again. First there had been that interminable conversation with Jack in the hall about “belt-tightening” and now there was a backup on the bridge. This part of Connecticut was never supposed to get crowded. As more and more businesses moved into the state, though, more and more people considered this area to be within reasonable commuting distance of those businesses. Hence the ever-present congestion going over the bridge, and another night when he would show up later than he said he would.
Becky never complained about his being late. Was that because she understood that traffic was a problem? Lonnie’s father came home from this direction every night, so maybe she’d heard from her best friend how tough the trip could be. Either that, or it didn’t really matter to Becky when Chris showed up. She never really complained to him about anything anymore.
Chris had moved into the apartment in Standridge exactly four years ago today. He’d wanted to live as close to Becky as possible, but he didn’t think he could handle staying in Moorewood. At least in Standridge, he wouldn’t run into someone who knew Polly and him every time he went to the supermarket or the post office. Even now, he still felt awkward with these kinds of encounters, knowing that while exchanging small talk with him, most were thinking, Polly threw him out . It wasn’t until his marriage had ended that he’d realized that nearly all of their Moorewood friends had actually been Polly’s friends and that he had been tagging along all these years.
Four years later, Chris wasn’t any less confused by the sudden end of his marriage than he had been the day it happened. Of course he’d thought about splitting up with Polly. They’d fought nearly every day after Becky got sick. Before then, they’d been able to get past their differences of opinion, but Becky’s leukemia had divided them in nearly every way.
Chris knew he never would have sought a divorce, though. It wasn’t just a matter of “staying together for the kid.” It was that he didn’t want any nights away from Becky. He knew that she was closing in on her teen years and that she wouldn’t want to spend nearly as much time with her family as before, but he wanted her to know that he was always available. That spontaneous moments could still happen regularly between them. That he would be as cool when she was an adolescent as she had thou
ght he was before. He needed to be around all the time in order for this to work.
Polly obviously had no such concerns and certainly no concerns at all for him. Admittedly, they’d separated emotionally long before they separated households. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d savored an evening out with her or longed for a night alone with her. Polly was often in bed less than an hour after Becky, while Chris read or watched a sporting event on television. The other option was to talk,and talking was usually disagreeable.
There had to have been a time when they liked being with each other, didn’t there? He had vague recollections of loving Polly’s company, of being fascinated by her opinions, and even more fascinated by her touch. He’d once called Polly his “big love,” hadn’t he? There was a time in their relationship when he missed her so much when they were apart that he ached physically. He was sure of it.
As with so many things that happened before Becky got sick at age five, though, these memories were indistinct. From that point on—and he remembered this vividly—Polly and he never seemed to be on the same page. They argued about treatment and about whether or not they should visit different specialists. They argued about how much to tell Becky and about how to handle her. They argued about his being too optimistic and about how to address the terrible dreams that woke Polly in the middle of the night. When Becky went into remission, they even argued about whether they could trust in it or not.
By that point, they didn’t need a life-threatening illness to spark an argument. They could disagree about the weather.
“I can’t be like this anymore,” Polly had said to him one night. She’d gone up to the bedroom a half hour before, and Chris had been surprised to see her back in the den. He didn’t respond beyond looking up from his book.
“Being in this house with you is painful to me,” she said, sitting across from him.
Chris put the book down. “Would you like me to disappear?” he said sarcastically.
“That wasn’t the exact solution I had in mind.”
Chris laughed nervously. “What?”
“Who are we kidding, Chris? If you can honestly tell me you’re happy with us, then I’ll check myself into an insane asylum.”
“I’m not happy with us, Polly.”
“Then why are you still here?”
Chris cast a glance toward Becky’s room upstairs. “That should be obvious.”
Polly looked off in the same direction and scowled. “That’s not a marriage.”
“It’s a family.”
Polly closed her eyes and said nothing for a moment. “It’s not my idea of a family.”
Chris took a deep breath. “Is there something you are trying to say?”
Polly’s eyes locked with his. “I want you to move out.”
Chris felt his skin prickle. “I can’t move out.”
Polly’s brows narrowed and she tilted her head to the right. “I want you to move out. I don’t want this to get ugly and I don’t want it to get contentious. We’ll share Becky. You can have her one night during the week and half the weekend.”
Chris laughed at the surreal nature of everything Polly had just said. “You consider that sharing?”
“She needs a steady home environment. She has a lot of schoolwork and projects now. She can’t be bouncing around all week.”
Chris’s anger built so quickly, he didn’t even feel it coming. “Fine. You move out and I’ll take care of Becky’s ‘steady home environment.’”
Polly leaned forward casually in her chair. “You know that isn’t the way it would turn out if we went to court. I work part-time. I’m around to get Becky to school and I’m here when she gets home. My lawyer told me there was no way a judge would make you the custodial parent.”
“You’ve spoken to a lawyer already?” Chris was surprised he could even get the words out of his mouth.
“I had to make sure I protected myself before talking to you.”
“Protected yourself?” Chris stood up and walked toward the opposite end of the room before turning to face her again. “Who am I, a stalker? Did you get a restraining order as well? I can’t believe you went to a lawyer before we even talked about this!”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“I am not just giving up on this household.”
Polly stared at him for several seconds before speaking again. “Chris, understand what I am saying. There is nothing to talk about.”
The two weeks that followed were largely a blur. Hiring his lawyer. Searching for a new place to live. Forcing himself not to talk to Becky about this because he didn’t want her to know how upset he was and because he couldn’t trust himself not to betray his fury at Polly. Long sessions with his closest friend, Lisa, talking about nothing else. Making the final arrangements to leave, including the grossly unsatisfactory temporary custody agreement that ultimately became the official custody agreement. Breaking the news to his daughter and trying to bear up while she alternately sobbed and vented her anger. Then, finally, driving off in his car, looking into his sideview mirror to see Becky lift a hand and mouth “bye.” He made it out of the neighborhood before he pulled into a parking lot and cried uncontrollably, seeing that one syllable form on her lips repeatedly, feeling a little more powerless and a little more like his life had ended every time.
And if he was going to be honest with himself, life—at least the life that he most loved—did end on that day. Life with Becky was always about instantaneous discovery and little gems of time. Now it was all about plans and captured moments. Pick her up for dinner every Tuesday night. Pack as much as you can into three out of every four weekends that ended at 4:00 on Sunday. Try to maintain some level of continuity and relevance through phone conversations and the occasional e-mail message. He’d quickly become a guest in his daughter’s world. Even a few months before the divorce, he never could have imagined this.
The traffic stayed heavy all the way through town, only breaking up when he was a few turns from the house. By the time he pulled into the driveway, he was nearly a half hour late. He got out of the car quickly and walked to the front door. It still felt strange to ring the bell for entry to the house he’d once called home.
Fortunately, Polly wasn’t there. She’d gone out to dinner with Al.
“Mom said to remind you that she needs the check for my orthodontia bill,” was literally the first thing Becky said to him.
“Is there a reason I can’t just pay the orthodontist directly?”
“You’re gonna have to take that up with her.”
Becky grabbed her spring coat and then held the door open for him to leave before pulling it shut behind her.
“I’m sorry I’m late. The traffic around here has gotten truly insane.”
“No big deal. I was on IM with a bunch of my friends.”
They got into the car and Chris leaned over to kiss Becky on the head. She leaned in his direction for a second and then back toward the passenger door.
“I was thinking Chinese for dinner,” he said. “That okay with you?”
“Sure, wherever.”
“The Rice Noodle?”
“Sure, that works.”
Chris headed back toward Standridge. The Rice Noodle had opened the week after he moved into the apartment and it was one of the first restaurants he’d visited with Becky after the split. They’d over-ordered ridiculously that night, but Becky seemed to like trying everything—he was just thrilled to see her eat considering how sullen she had seemed as the split happened—and he had taken her back there often since.
“Okay day in school?”
“Nothing special. Geometry quiz. We’re reading The Odyssey in English.”
“Ugh, I hated it.”
Becky wrinkled her nose. “It’s been around for a couple thousand years, Dad. There must be something to it.”
“There’s a lot to it. That doesn’t mean it’s fun.”
“Seems okay to me. I read the first couple
chapters this afternoon. I can see how so many other stories came out of it.” Becky shrugged and Chris couldn’t tell whether she was shaking off the conversation or just his contribution to it. “Do you have anything new on the iPod?”
“The new Urgent album.”
Becky turned to face him, though Chris couldn’t make out her expression while keeping his eye on the road. “You like them?”
“You turned me on to them.”
“I did?”
“You don’t remember? About six months ago, you and Lonnie played songs from their last album in the car all day.”
Becky nodded. “Huh . . . yeah. Anything good on this one?”
“Yeah, there’s some really good stuff. You haven’t heard it?”
“Nobody really talks about them anymore. I didn’t even know there was a new album.”
“Put it on.”
Becky waved a hand. “Maybe on the way home. What else do you have?”
Chris pointed to the car’s stereo system, which controlled his iPod. “Whatever you want. I just did a big download, so there’s a bunch of new stuff.”
Becky scrolled through Chris’s “recently added” playlist. “Arcade Fire, I’m impressed. Death Cab for Cutie, good. Who’s Tim Buckley?”
“Singer-songwriter from the seventies. He had a son he barely knew who went on to be the Next Big Thing in the nineties. Both of them died mysteriously and very young.”
“How weird. Worth listening to?”
“Some of it is very good. Give it a try.”
“I’m kind of in the mood for something a little harder. Wow, you have some new stuff from Crease?” Becky started the player. The car instantly filled with distorted guitars, thudding bass, and more anguish than any twenty-one-year-old singer should feel. Chris had connected with this band the first time he heard them and he found their new music especially stirring. Conversation was now impossible, but at least Becky approved of his taste in music—most of it, anyway.
When they got to the restaurant, they found it virtually empty. This was surprising even though it was a Tuesday night because The Rice Noodle had become the gold standard for Chinese restaurants in the area. The only other occupied table had a woman and two children, whose ages Chris guessed to be six and four. About five minutes after Chris and Becky sat down, a man wearing a tie and a shirt with rolled up sleeves joined the other party, sweeping his little son up and dangling him upside down. This caused the kid to squeal and the mother to good-naturedly scold the incorrigibility of the pair. Chris watched the entire thing while Becky studied the menu.
