Feeling dazed, Melly closed her eyes, trying to adjust to only one sensation at a time. Sound first. Voices swirled around her: A mother scolding a child, “Suzie, keep those hands to yourself!” An elderly woman asking someone, “Would you kindly reach that box on the top shelf for me?”
Melly smiled, able to hear more with her eyes closed than open. There was still a twang in these people’s voices that sounded like the Kentucky she remembered. She thought back on all the news stories she’d read over the past half century explaining that TV and the transient nature of American lives had finally killed all regional accents, all regional differences in speech and thought. But those stories had been wrong. She could still hear home.
She opened her eyes and looked around. Was it her imagination, or did the stock boy getting the box from the top shelf have the same jutting jaw-line as all the Lawsons who’d lived down the mountain from her family growing up? Wasn’t the little girl in the shopping cart—probably Suzie of the wandering hands—a dead ringer for Pearl Gaines, who had been one of Melly’s playmates in grade school 170-some years ago? These people had to be the descendants of the people Melly had known, so long ago. The families had lived on, even if the individuals hadn’t. Melly felt the resemblances were a gift; a part of her that had gone numb over the disappearance of Dry Gulch felt much better.
Then she turned around and saw the woman from her old house. This was her lucky day.
The woman was buying dog food. Melly followed her at a distance as she also picked out a box of computer disks and threaded her way to the checkout counter. While the woman emptied her cart for the price scanner, Melly ducked into a checkout line labeled OUT OF SERVICE and pretended to examine the rows of candy and gum. She absentmindedly fingered a pack of gum that promised day-long bubbles while she watched the woman over the top of the rack.
The woman’s computer screen flashed the total, and she swiped her debit card across the sensor. Then Melly got the reward she’d been waiting for: The screen flashed Thank you, Ms. Hazelwood in response.
Hazelwood! So she had to be some relative of Melly’s!
As foolish as she’d felt for following the woman before, Melly felt entirely justified now. She couldn’t wait to tell Anny Beth that she’d found something out today too.
Melly had only two seconds of feeling triumphant before the buzzers started going off around her.
“Warning! Warning!” a voice boomed around her. “Shoplifting suspect in line fourteen!”
Melly gasped and looked around. She was in line fourteen. She was the shoplifting suspect. How could she have been so stupid, drawing attention to herself like that? She knew that the surveillance cameras were programmed to set off alarms over suspicious behavior. And lingering over a candy rack was suspicious. Well, she’d just have to buy the gum. She said aloud, “I’m planning to pay for it.”
The alarms stopped. But as she reached into her pocket for her debit card she remembered: No, she couldn’t pay for it. Not without announcing to the whole world exactly where she was.
April 26, 2085
Melly looked around cautiously, contemplating throwing the gum to the floor and dashing out of the store. The surveillance cameras would memorize her image and probably track down her identity by comparison to some international data bank of surveillance tapes anyhow. Running would only increase the chances that she would be found out.
Melly moved to the back of a long checkout line, hoping that would give her time to come up with a better plan. The woman from her old house—Ms. Hazelwood—glanced her way once, without much curiosity. Then she picked up her dog food and computer disks and began walking for the door.
Melly advanced in her line, in agony. How could she be the one to blow her own cover? How could she be so stupid?
She was next at the computer. Resignedly she dug deep into her pants pocket, pulling up her debit card. And then—something else. Paper. Money.
Melly pulled the green strip up as though it was an artifact from another time. She stared at it stupidly for an entire minute before she remembered: This was what she’d been paid for baby-sitting—or, truly, not baby-sitting—for little Logan Junior, back when Mrs. Rodney had told her about the reporter calling. Melly had crammed it in her pocket and forgotten about it in the rush of fleeing, first from home and then from the hotel. But these were the same pants she’d been wearing that day.
Melly breathed a silent prayer of thanks that even in the twenty-first century parents still sometimes paid teenage baby-sitters in cash. She stepped up to the checkout computer and inserted her cash into the dusty hole at the top. The letters on the computer screen blinked slightly, as though the computer were stunned to get anything but a debit card.
“You paid fifty dollars for a two-dollar piece of gum,” the computer informed her. “Do you expect change? You must go to the service desk for that. Or shall I credit the amount to your debit card?”
If she hadn’t feared arousing more suspicion, Melly would have let the computer keep her forty-eight dollars and been done with it. But she meekly trudged over to the service desk and filled out the form—in triplicate—explaining why she deserved cash back.
The man behind the counter searched in vain for something to give her.
“You’ll have to wait until we call the bank and ask for a delivery,” he explained. “Are you sure you left your debit card at home? Can’t you go back for it?”
“Okay,” Melly said with fake enthusiasm. “That’s a great idea! That’s what I’ll do!”
He wanted her to leave her name, but she talked him into giving her a receipt instead. It didn’t matter. By the end of the conversation he was staring at her so suspiciously that she knew he’d be reviewing the surveillance tapes anyhow.
She slunk out of the store and back into the woods feeling totally disheartened. She’d been stupid, yes, but there was just no way to hide in this world. Probably there were surveillance cameras somewhere in the woods that had captured video of Melly and Anny Beth entering and leaving the preserves. Probably someone was already searching for them, to arrest them. No wonder crime was so low nowadays. No wonder nobody understood the word privacy anymore.
Back at the cave Melly crawled into her sleeping bag. There was nothing she could do until Anny Beth got back. She just had to hope that Anny Beth got back before someone came to arrest her.
April 27, 2085
Melly was dreaming about playing chase with her brothers and sisters when she felt someone poking her in the side.
“Hey,” came Anny Beth’s welcome voice, “it’s not fair that I had to walk twelve miles and work all day while you did nothing but sleep!”
Melly didn’t bother correcting her. She sat up quickly, wide awake. “What’d you find out?”
Anny Beth handed her a thin electronic pad. “I downloaded everything into that. Believe me, you and I have spawned a load of exhibitionists. We can pick out people to take care of us based on belly button size if we want.”
Melly winced.
“Of course, it’s going to take us a year or two just to read all of that,” Anny Beth continued.
“We don’t have that kind of time,” Melly muttered. “Did you find out if the tabloids have anything about us?”
Anny Beth shook her head. “There’s nothing in print. And of course all the records of what they’re working on are off-limits. They probably protect their files better than the government protects military secrets.”
Melly turned the electronic pad’s switch to “on” and asked for an index.
“Did you find out anything about the reporter? A. J. Hazelwood?” she asked Anny Beth.
“Is there anything to eat?” Anny Beth said instead of answering. “I’m starving.”
Melly pointed to the portable cooker.
“Darn. I thought you’d have a gourmet meal waiting for me,” Anny Beth said. She began punching buttons on the cooker. Melly marveled at Anny Beth’s ability to focus on basic needs—food, s
leep—regardless of anything else. It was probably that survival instinct that had accounted for her long life. The first half of it anyway. Only when the cooker was whirring away did Anny Beth turn back to Melly. “What’d you ask?”
“About the reporter,” Melly said patiently. “What did you find out about her?”
“Funny thing,” Anny Beth replied as she lifted a synthesized turkey dinner from the cooker. “She’s the only private descendant you have. There’s almost nothing on her except the public records a person can’t prevent from being on-line.”
Melly called up the file marked “A. J. Hazelwood.” Virtually every line Melly clicked on said, “Access denied at request of subject.”
Melly squinted in confusion at the screen.
“Why?” she asked Anny Beth. “Why would anybody do this?”
“Ever check what’s on public record for the two of us?” Anny Beth countered.
“No,” Melly said.
“Not much more than that,” Anny Beth said. “And almost all of it’s false except our names.”
Melly shrugged, not interested in discussing their own decisions just then. “Did you find out anything else?”
“A little.” Between bites Anny Beth showed Melly what to click on. “She did work as a reporter, but it was just for a local Web site, not anything national. From the looks of the stories she did, the only exposés she had were about corrupt sewer boards and politicians who spent their money on gold-plated faucets in the statehouse restroom when they were supposed to be helping underprivileged kids. Nothing sexy.”
Melly stared at the list of headlines in front of her: “Committee Funds Misappropriated,” “Congressman Smathers Denies Budget Flaw,” “Funds Held Up in Political Debate.” In spite of herself Melly had to smother a yawn.
“Very old-fashioned of her,” she muttered. “But I don’t get it. Why’s she after me? I don’t see a single ‘Two-Headed-Baby-Born-in-Iowa’-type story anywhere.”
Anny Beth chewed thoughtfully. “Maybe she just wanted to get to know her great-great-great-grandmother.”
Melly rewarded Anny Beth with a frown and kept scrolling through the list. “Wait—there’s not a single story after September of last year.”
Anny Beth leaned over the electronic pad. “Hmm. You’re right. I didn’t notice that. Maybe they fired her for being too dull. Hey, did I walk twelve miles to find surrogate parents, or to investigate the person who’s investigating you? Come on, you know you don’t want that reporter as a parent.”
With a sigh Melly clicked back to the main menu. “Right now I’m not ruling out anyone.”
The next time Melly looked up, Anny Beth was sound asleep, her head slumped against the rock. Melly hunched over the electronic notepad and kept reading. “Annabel Hazelwood,” she read. “Orthopedic surgeon . . . Chest size: 46D . . . ” Well, that would fit. Must be one of her grandson Dexter’s grandchildren. According to the Memory Books, he’d married a woman who was ridiculously over-endowed. Melly looked down at her own fifteen-year-old nearly flat chest and decided she shouldn’t be prejudiced just because this Annabel had something she didn’t. “Firm believer that astrology has been overlooked as a cause of recent human events . . .” Now, that Melly could be prejudiced against. She zapped Annabel off the screen and went on to Anga Hazelwood. Melly read with growing amazement Anga’s list of interests: “Waterskiing, parachuting, parasailing, scuba diving, ecology, rain forest revitalization, native people’s justice, soothsaying, creative anachronism, computer Zen, virtual prehistoric travel . . .” Life with Anga would certainly never be dull. Then Melly belatedly noticed Anga’s birth date. She was only thirteen. Oh, well.
For the next several hours Melly crept through descriptions of mechanics and millionaires, sport fishermen and religious zealots, ordinary computer programmers and extraordinary entrepreneurs. With some entries she felt a thrill of pride: “This is one of my descendants!” On others the feeling was abject shame: “How could my blood be beating through the heart of a serial killer?” Most of the people she found seemed fairly normal—for the twenty-first century, anyhow—and potentially good surrogate parents. But how could she be sure? These people had publicized everything about themselves; there was so much public information, Melly kept trying to read between the lines for some hint of the private individuals. But maybe there was nothing more to them. Maybe they had no private thoughts, no private selves.
Melly had only got as far as Harold Hazelwood when she stood up and stretched and went to the front of the cave to watch the sunrise. Unlike yesterday—had it only been yesterday?—this morning she sat and watched the whole extravaganza from beginning to end, from the first faint glow on the horizon to the whole ball of sun, fully hatched, too bright to look at. She was still staring off into the distance when Anny Beth crept out beside her and handed her a plate of food.
“Bet you didn’t eat all night,” Anny Beth said.
“No,” Melly said vaguely, and absentmindedly took a bite of synthetic eggs. “Too much to do.”
She took another bite and chewed in silence. Anny Beth wasn’t much of a morning person, so Melly knew not to expect a lot of chatter. After a long while Melly asked, “Did you watch many sunrises the last time you were a teenager?”
“Nope,” Anny Beth said. “I was a sunset type of kid. Always believed dusk was when the excitement started.”
“Yeah,” Melly said. “I used to love sunsets too. And I remember right after we left the agency, eighty years ago, I went through a sunset fixation. But if my Memory Books are believable, I loved sunrises when I first went in the nursing home. And I love them now.”
“There’s no mystery to that,” Anny Beth said. “People crave what they don’t have. When you were at the beginning of your lives, you were fascinated by endings. And one hundred years ago you thought you were nearing the end, so you liked beginnings. And now—”
“Things are ending again,” Melly mumbled. “What is that, Psychology 101?”
“No, that’s from my doctorate studies,” Anny Beth bragged. “And you thought all those social sciences we studied were useless.”
Melly rolled her eyes. She took a deep breath.
“I found a surrogate parent for us,” she announced.
Anny Beth looked over at her expectantly. “Oh?” she said. Melly could tell she was forcing herself to sound casual. “Anyone I’d know?”
“Actually, yes,” Melly said. “Sort of. It’s the reporter. A. J. Hazelwood.”
Anny Beth laughed without much mirth. “Very funny. Who is it really?”
“I’m serious,” Melly said quietly. “I’ve been thinking about it all night. She’s the only one who isn’t in the habit of telling everything she knows to the entire world. She’s the only one who could keep us secret.”
Anny Beth frowned. “But she’s a reporter! She—” Anny Beth stopped, finally considering the suggestion seriously. Melly waited patiently, as though Anny Beth were a computer working through a complicated problem.
“Okay,” Anny Beth said finally. “Your logic is twisted but not entirely insane.” She rubbed her forehead wearily. “Still—we don’t have to do anything right away. Let’s hang low for a while. Think some more. We’ve got, I don’t know, years before we’ll need someone taking care of us. We can line up our first and second and third choices, maybe spy on them to check them out. Then when we’re absolutely sure, we can spring our little surprise.”
If there hadn’t been so much at stake, Melly would have laughed at the role reversal: Usually she was the one urging caution, Anny Beth the one ready to follow any impulse. But Melly didn’t feel much like laughing right now.
“We don’t have years to make a decision,” Melly said. “I’m not sure we even have many more hours.” Briefly she told Anny Beth what had happened the day before at the Wal-Mart Universal.
Anny Beth punched a rock in frustration. “Ow! Melly! How could you have risked blowing our cover like that? Are you sure you’re
not just being paranoid? You paid for the gum—they’re not going to try to track you down just because you don’t show up to get your change.”
“I don’t know,” Melly said. “I know they were suspicious. They probably are checking up on me. And anyhow—don’t you think there are satellites watching these woods? Someone’s probably on their way to arrest us right now.”
Anny Beth grimaced. Melly could tell she didn’t want to admit Melly was right.
“It just won’t work,” Melly went on. “You just can’t hide out in this century. The only reason we could keep out of the tabloid Web sites before was that we had the agency helping us. How many records and tapes do you think they had to erase and doctor? If we don’t go find a surrogate parent now, we’ll probably be arrested by nightfall. And when they check us out, either the agency’s going to have to rescue us again—if they can—or our secret’s out.” Melly heard her voice go high and squeaky near the end, like a little girl begging for help.
Anny Beth buried her face in her hands.
“Okay,” she finally muttered. “You’ve convinced me.” She rubbed her temples hard and looked up at Melly in despair. “But if you’re sure that reporter’s the person we want, we’ve got another problem. Her address is classified. We don’t even know where she lives.”
“I do,” Melly said, shooting a look of triumph at Anny Beth. “She lives in my old house.”
April 27, 2085
For a long time Anny Beth could only gape at Melly.
“How . . . how do you know?” she finally sputtered. “Are you sure?”
Melly bit her lip. “Well, not one hundred percent,” she admitted. “But it makes so much sense—”
“I think I’m missing something, then,” Anny Beth said. “You’ll have to explain it to me.”
Melly used her fork to draw designs in her eggs. Was she right? What if she convinced Anny Beth and was wrong?
“This is someone who writes about sewer boards and financial appropriations and political scandals that don’t involve sex. She’s obviously longing to live in the past. So what do you do when you want to live in the past? You move back into your ancestors’ house and live the way your great-great-great-grandparents lived.”
Turnabout Page 11
