Seven Wonders of a Once and Future World and Other Stories
Page 9
Nanami swam to a small ledge and climbed out of the ocean. Water dripped from the ceiling of the cave and into a tiny puddle with a rhythmic plinking sound. Next to the puddle were stacks of oyster shells and her daughter’s knife. The air in the cavern was warm, and there was plenty of food. How long had Chiyoko waited here, for a rescue that never came? One large oyster shell sat separated from the rest, a shimmering bowl for a small handful of pearls.
Nanami tucked the pearls into the zippered pocket on the thigh of her wetsuit. There wasn’t much more to the cave above the level of the water, and there was no sign of her daughter’s body. She returned to the water, focusing her search on the areas closest to the ledge. Then finally she found what she was looking for, below the ledge that held the empty oyster shells. Her daughter’s bones, so covered in sea life that Nanami hadn’t recognized them for what they were the first time past.
She did not disturb her daughter’s bones. Over time, the calcium of her bones would be transformed into the shells of oysters. Nanami swam out through the tunnel, against the current, a long and difficult swim. It would have been impossible without the fish-gill breather, even with her well-trained lungs.
Back in open water, she studied the entrance to the tunnel. It was deeper than most divers went, and mostly hidden by an outcropping of rock. The other ama probably wouldn’t find it by chance. She decided not to tell anyone about it. It was one thing to collect seafood that was slowly dying in an acid ocean, and another thing entirely to steal from one of the last healthy pockets of sea life. Perhaps someday her daughter’s cave would hold a million oysters, each one with a pearl.
CARLA AT THE OFF-PLANET
TAX RETURN HELPLINE
This is Carla at the Off-Planet Tax Return helpline, how can I help you?”
“We are
“How many US citizens do you have in your collective?”
“Three hundred fifty-two of us are citizens, yes. Bob is not.”
“Are you married, as defined by US law?”
“We are three hundred fifty-two conscious entities melded into one harmonious being for over five thousand years, and also Bob. This is marriage?”
“It is not. You will need to file separate returns for each of your three hundred fifty-two citizens. Bob does not need to file.”
“This is unfortunate. Bob will be greatly displeased to be excluded in this way.”
“This is Carla at the Off-Planet Tax Return helpline, how can I help you?”
“What form for taxes?”
“The form for filing an off-planet return is Form 9099B. This form is for US citizens currently residing off planet, including those residing on space shuttles, orbital stations, lunar or planetary colonies, and/or inside the intestinal system of Effluvian space worms. If you reside inside an Effluvian space worm that is currently located on Earth, you are allowed to fill out Form 1040.”
“No, what form for currency of taxes?”
“The IRS will generally accept foreign currencies in situations where Earth currency cannot reasonably be obtained. To submit your tax payment in a non-Earth currency, fill out Form X-325Z and include your payment with your tax return. In responding to this question, I am required by law to inform you that it is illegal to staple, glue, tape, or otherwise affix sentient currency to your tax return.”
“The IRS prefers sentient currency to run loose inside envelope?”
“We have covered everything I know about this topic, is there anything else I can help you with?”
“This is Carla at the Off-Planet Tax Return helpline—”
“This is Carla at—”
“Hi Carla, this is Bob.”
“What can I help you with today, Bob?”
“I’m lonely.”
“That is beyond the scope of my expertise. Do you have any tax related questions that I can help you with today?”
“You spoke with a different voice of my collective today, and told us that we each must file a separate return. Except me. This makes me lonely.”
“Privacy laws do not allow me to discuss conversations I’ve had with other callers. How did you manage to get my extension? There are over five hundred tax assistants working through this call center, and call assignment is randomized.”
“If you marry me, can I file a tax return?”
“I’m sorry, but I need to end this call now.”
“This is Carla at the Off-Planet Tax Return helpline, how can I help you?”
“What is FBAR?”
“FBAR stands for Foreign Bank Account Report, but most off-planet residents refer to this form as FUBAR. It is not possible to fill this form out correctly. This form collects basic information on foreign financial accounts controlled by US citizens and is sent to the Treasury Department. It will not impact your tax liability, but does give the Treasury Department direct access to your funds, which will be used in the highly likely event of an audit.”
“I have mesh bag of golden snakes, does this require FBAR?”
“FBAR is required for bank accounts, brokerage accounts, mutual funds, and any collection of sentient or non-sentient currency located outside of the United States. There is one exception for live currencies—US citizens may keep up to fifty creatures of any kind as pets. A creature may be considered a pet if it lives in the primary residence of the person filing the return.”
“So if snakes stay in house with me, I do not write them onto form?”
“As long as there are less than fifty.”
“I will eat the extras. Thank you.”
“This is Carla at the Off-Planet Tax Return helpline, how can I help you?”
“Why will you not marry Bob?”
“This is Carla at the Off-Planet Tax Return helpline, how can I help you?”
“There is a large green creature with many teeth gnawing through the outer dome of my lunar residence.”
“Do you owe back taxes?”
“Yes.”
“The creature is a Tarmandian Spacemite, trained by the IRS to collect from delinquent off-planet taxpayers. I am legally required to tell you at this point in the conversation that attempting to run from a Tarmandian Spacemite is illegal and will trigger the Spacemite’s predatory instincts. Try to remain calm, and let the Spacemite take anything it wants.”
“I only owe three hundred dollars in back taxes. It will cost me ten times that much to repair the damage to my dome. Isn’t there some way to get the creature to go away?”
“I’m sorry, we have covered everything I know about this topic, is there anything else I can help you with?”
“This is Carla at the Off-Planet Tax Return helpline, how can I help you?”
“Bob is coming for you.”
“This is Carla at the Off-Planet Tax Return helpline, what can I do for you?”
“SCREW YOU IRS I’M NOT GOING TO FILE!”
“I hope you were smart enough to call from an untraceable number. If not, I am legally required to tell you at this point in the conversation that attempting to run from a Tarmandian Spacemite is illegal and will trigger the Spacemite’s predatory instincts. Try to remain calm, and let the Spacemite take anything it wants.”
“This is Carla—oh my god, there’s some kind of alien rampaging through the call center. It looks like a dismembered grizzly bear that didn’t get put back together quite right, and it’s holding hands with a guy in a tuxedo.”
“You help with mine taxes?”
“Please hold while we handle this emergency. The SWAT team is here with tranquilizer guns—”
“Your call is important to us. Please stay on the line for the next available representative.”
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“Thank you for holding. This is Carla at the Off-Planet Tax Return helpline. I am legally required to inform you that three hundred fifty-two members of the
DO NOT COUNT THE WITHERED ONES
Callie kept her heart in the front yard, as people often do. Here, her father’s oak, solid and stoic and unchanging. There, her sister’s rhododendron, which bloomed with pale pink flowers. One root from each plant grew into her heart, which nourished everything in the yard.
She stepped over the delicate vines of her college roommate’s ivy to get to her mother’s willow tree. The leaves were dry and brown, and the once supple branches were brittle and fragile. Callie turned on the soaker hose that wound around the base of the tree, knowing it wouldn’t help, but wanting to do something, anything, to save her relationship with her mother. As water dripped from the hose, Callie went to the one bough that still bore green leaves on its branches, but even here she spotted leaves with a slight tinge of yellow at the edges.
Callie drove across town to the nursing home. Mom kept her heart in the communal garden, which was a depressing place even under the best of circumstances. The hearts of the elderly were rife with dying plants—friends who passed away, relatives who never came to visit. Her mother’s patch was the worst. Her plants were mostly dead, except for Callie’s lace leaf maple. The tiny tree had twisted branches and delicate leaves, but it was hardier than it looked. It had outlasted all the other plants, staying green all through her mother’s autumn years.
The leaves were not green today. They were yellow, like a caution light, a warning of red leaves to come. Mom, who usually spent all day in the gardens, was in her room.
“You want to go outside, Mom?” Callie opened the blinds to let some sunlight in. The table by the window was cluttered with dead plants—not heartplants but ordinary houseplants.
Mom came over, wary, and peered at Callie’s face. “You look familiar.”
Yesterday she’d recognized Callie, but that was increasingly rare. “I’m Callie, Mom. Your daughter.”
Mom nodded and put on her jacket. “You look a little like my daughter. I have two girls, but they never come to visit. No one ever comes to visit.”
Callie steadied Mom’s arm as they walked to the communal gardens. Another old woman sat on one of the benches, surrounded by family. She gave Callie a friendly wave. Her patch was greener than most of the others.
The leaves of the lace leaf maple were goldenrod. Had they been more of a lemon yellow earlier? Mom was physically very healthy for her age, but Callie dreaded the thought of visiting, maybe for years, when Mom had no idea who she was. She would come out of love, even when she no longer came out of hope.
Mom stared at the dead and dying plants, and Callie regretted bringing her outside. There was a leafless rhododendron for her sister and a brittle brown primrose bush for Mrs. Denman, who had once been Mom’s closest friend. There was dried grass for the nurses and a clump of dead clover, but Callie didn’t know who that belonged to. So much lost, and that didn’t even count the plants they’d abandoned when Mom moved to the nursing home.
Mom caught Callie looking, and shook her head. “Don’t count the withered ones,” she said. “They were bright once, and happy. My daughter tends a beautiful garden, and someday she will come and visit me, and fix these broken plants.”
She looked at Callie, a silent plea in her eyes. Callie held her hand and together they looked at the lace leaf maple—the one bright plant in her patch. The leaves were vibrant orange, a final burst of flame against the darkness of forgetting.
“Excuse me,” Mom said, “Can you find a nurse? I can’t remember where my house is.”
“I can take you to your room, Mom.” Callie waited for her to say, as she always did, that she has two daughters that never come to visit.
“Are you my nurse?” Mom asked instead. She didn’t say that Callie looked familiar. As they walked to her room, Callie looked back at the garden.
The leaves on her maple had faded from orange to brown.
When Callie got home she was relieved to see the one green bough of Mom’s tree, unchanged. All around that bough were dried up branches, brown leaves that crumbled to dust with the lightest touch. “Don’t count the withered ones,” she heard Mom’s voice remind her. Callie remembered when the whole tree had been healthy and vibrant. She remembered sitting with Mom in the waiting room of the birth center, waiting for her nephew to be born. She remembered Christmas dinner, her first year of college, appreciating home in a way she never had before. She remembered goodnight kisses long after she thought she was too old for such things.
So many things her mother used to be, but wasn’t any more. Their relationship had narrowed from a whole tree to a single bough. Callie was the caretaker now, always. Their bond no longer filled the tree of what they’d shared in the past, but it was solid. She touched a delicate green leaf. The tree eased the worry in her heart. She was still a loving daughter, even if Mom didn’t remember who she was.
The next time Callie went to the nursing home, Mom didn’t recognize her. Callie took her to a garden patch that had green plants. Rhonda, the woman who the patch belonged to, was friendly, and Callie brought her cookies sometimes. After a few visits, the sapling of a lace leaf maple started growing in amongst the other plants.
Mom looked at the maple, and back at Callie, her mind trying to make a connection that wasn’t quite there. Rhonda, with a knowing smile, put her hand on Callie’s shoulder. “She may not remember why, but she’s happiest when you’re here.”
PIECES OF MY BODY
I gave my left arm to Elizabeth. You’ve never met her, but she was my dearest childhood friend. After my disembodiment party she went home to London and put it on her end table, hand side down, with a lampshade made of green velvet and children’s nightmares. The nightmares gnawed at the nerve endings on my shoulder, or maybe the unpleasant sensation was my longing for Elizabeth. Or perhaps the scab was itchy. The arm was the first part of me to be removed so it was hard to be sure what each sensation meant.
My long-ago first boyfriend Michael was surprisingly squeamish, so I gave him my hair, thinking that it would be bloodless and therefore more appealing. He stuffed it in a plastic bag and took it home to Houston, but then he threw it away. Inside the plastic bag, the hair will never weave itself into the dirt and sing lullabies to earthworms. It will never tangle in a shower drain and capture off-key songs. You know how fond I was of my hair, so you will appreciate how angry I was to see it wasted. Let us never speak of Michael again.
Tim and Jim and Annabel and Nora—did you meet them when we were in college?—have become so close as to be practically a single entity, and they each got a finger from my right hand. They are in San Francisco, which is where I would live if location was an attribute that I could still possess. Tim uses his finger to thumb wrestle with Nora, even though technically it isn’t thumb wrestling because he has an index finger. My fingers are happy that they get to be together, although they miss the middle finger, which I mailed to Michael, of whom we are not speaking because he isn’t worth the words.
My co-worker Courtney got my right leg, because I couldn’t think of anything better and she left my disembodiment party in something of a hurry. She was like that, always dashing off, so maybe an extra leg wasn’t such a bad gift after all. Courtney put the leg in a freezer in her Montana basement, nestled in among the ducks and deer she and her husband killed on hunting trips. Ice crystals transform my skin into a delicate lace, which the deer might lick like salt if they could control their fro
zen tongues.
Lee asked for my heart, which I was saving for you, until I thought of something better. When I gave it to him, he sprinkled it with salt and ate it, raw and bleeding. Then he went back to Germany. It was an interesting experience, being digested on a transatlantic flight. Don’t look at me like that, Lee is from when we were separated—it is your own fault for kicking me out.
My brother Andrew got my stomach, with my esophagus still attached. He loves both food and music, so I thought he might fill my stomach with honey or play my upper digestive tract like bagpipes. Instead he put his childhood memories into marbles, and dropped them down my esophagus one by one. The marbles still clink together in my stomach long after all the memories have been absorbed.
I gave my neighbor Deb my teeth, because she likes little things that fit in glass jars. She planted the teeth in her garden, and watered them with root beer. Every night at midnight she puts her nose up to the dirt and looks for any sign of plants. I’m not sure what she thinks will grow, but so far nothing has come of it.
Our daughter Shreya was the most difficult to decide. Nothing seemed to suit her. She clearly shouldn’t have a leg, or a shoulder, or a torso. No, definitely something smaller, more delicate. In the end, I gave her my three favorite freckles, which she wore on the back of her hand when she boarded the plane to Bangalore. She shared two of the freckles with our granddaughter, who painted them gold and used them as earrings. The last freckle collapsed into a black hole, a gravitational singularity so small that Shreya accidently dropped it down into the gap between two ceramic floor tiles, where it slowly eats away at the grout.