Desperate

by Daniel Palmer

  “Now I’m getting something about a car trip,” Brad said, his voice staying even. “You drove. Somebody drove. You didn’t need to drive. Something about his mother driving. Something about driving.”

  This was true. Karen had volunteered to drive Max, but only after throwing a medium-sized tirade about making seven-year-olds travel so far to play a game that only vaguely resembled soccer. I had offered to give my Sox tickets away, but Karen insisted I go. My last words to Karen weren’t “I love you.” I was so worried she’d blow up at Holly, our volunteer league coordinator, that I said, “Promise me you won’t get confrontational.” Death and regret were unfortunate companions.

  “He’s saying it was an accident, just an accident. I’m getting the word accident.”

  True as well, but Max was just a boy when he died. He didn’t understand that Karen drove the speed limit and I never did. There was no way I would have been at that intersection when a Honda Accord, driven by a drunk driver, ran a red light at a high rate of speed. The impact crushed the side of Karen’s sedan as if it were made out of aluminum foil. Max died at the scene. Karen was in a medically induced coma and died a week later. In my sessions with Brad, I’d only been able to communicate with Max, never Karen. As Brad explained, when a loved one died in a coma they might still be asleep, unable to send a message.

  “He wants you to watch the Red Sox again,” Brad said. “He says he remembers watching games with you.”

  I was feeling a longing of a different sort. I wanted the pill bottle stashed inside the glove compartment of my car, the one Anna didn’t know about. It was filled with Adderall, a medication used to treat ADHD, which I didn’t actually have. Thankfully, shrinks were more than happy to prescribe a solution for their diagnosis, so if you knew how to fake it, you could get it. The pills had become ice for my pain. They focused my thoughts to the point where I could sometimes feel a blip of euphoria, a little hint that happiness could be mine once again. Technically, this made me a drug addict, but not a hard-core one. My crime was taking meds I didn’t need to dull a pain I didn’t want.

  “Is he okay?” I asked Brad. “Is my boy all right?”

  I squinted my eyes shut, but those hot tears managed to squeeze out anyway.

  “I’m getting the word happy, that he’s happy, that he wants you to be happy. I’m just getting the word happy.”

  “Should I adopt a baby? Should I become a dad again? Would Max feel like I’m forgetting him?”

  Tears carved a snaky path down my cheeks. God, I missed my boy so much. His smell. The silky feel of his hair. The toys. His box of rocks we vowed to categorize. The squeals of joy when he saw me. “Daaaaaddyy.” Our rockets. Our life.

  Brad got quiet.

  “I’m sorry, Gage, but I’m not getting anything now.”

  I gazed up at the ceiling, pushing the tears back into my eyes and wishing that I could look beyond the physical world into Max’s realm.

  “Thank you, Brad,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “I guess you’ll have to make this decision on your own, buddy.”

  I’d already made the decision to double my daily dose of Adderall.

  “There’s something else, Gage,” Brad said in a somber and concerned tone.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m picking up on something else, a dark energy, something I haven’t ever sensed before.”

  “Is it near Max? Is it threatening him?”

  Brad shook his head.

  “No, no, I’m not explaining myself. This energy, this darkness, it felt terrestrial.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means it’s earthbound. It’s here in our world, not his. And Gage—whatever this energy is, it’s something very dark, a blackness I’ve never felt before. And it’s surrounding you.”

  CHAPTER 7

  I returned home like a soldier shell-shocked from the war and parked my Charger in our narrow driveway. I appreciated not having to deal with my former tenant’s car and the constant inconvenience of tandem parking. I wondered if Lily had a car, and if we’d be juggling our vehicles.

  Trudging up the front stairs, I found an envelope taped to the outside door with my name written on the front. I had forgotten all about Brad and his strange and ominous warning, although my brief contact with Max continued to cover me like a second skin.

  I recognized Anna’s handwriting as I opened the envelope. From within, I removed a perfumed sheet of light blue stationery. My head was buzzing. I had taken a double dose of Adderall after leaving Brad’s, and it heightened all my senses. I could feel the bumps of the paper’s texture while my focused eyes traced each contour of Anna’s looping handwriting style.

  Gage,

  You are my light and inspiration. I would be so lost without you. I love you more than these words can say. I respect you and support whatever decision we make. I love the life we’ve built together. We’ll work it out together like we always do.

  Love,

  Your Anna

  Anna and I had a rule about fights. Whenever we wanted each other to feel good about returning home after a tiff—big blowouts or smaller disagreements—we’d leave a note tacked to the door. It always cleared the air and made reentry that much easier. The aroma of chocolate chip cookies baking hit me soon as I stepped inside. I followed the savory smell down the hallway like a floating cartoon character hooked by an alluring scent. I found Anna in the kitchen, her apron sprinkled with flour, removing the latest batch of goodies from the oven.

  “You’re home,” Anna said, setting the piping-hot tray on the stovetop. She hugged me with her oven mitts still on. Keeping one arm draped around my neck, Anna let an oven mitt fall to the floor. Bending to reach the counter, she dipped her finger into the bowl of cookie batter and hand-fed me a hefty gob.

  “Yummy,” I said.

  She kissed my lips and I kissed her back with passion.

  “Thanks for your note,” I said.

  “I love you,” Anna said.

  “I love you, too.”

  I broke from her embrace and headed for the stove. I grabbed a hot cookie from the tray and bounced it in my palm until it cooled enough to eat. Taking a healthy bite, I savored the melted chocolate swimming about my mouth. Heaven. I even ignored the stab of guilt about my weight. Whenever I declined sweet treats, people said, “But you’re not overweight.” To which I’d respond, “Well, there’s a reason for that.”

  “Did you see Brad?” Anna asked.

  “I did,” I said, contemplating another cookie.

  “What did he say, or . . . you know, what did you learn?”

  “We’re going to have to make this decision on our own.”

  “Did you talk to him? Was Max there?”

  I nodded but couldn’t speak through the walnut-sized lump that had materialized in my throat. Anna never wanted Brad to connect her to Kevin. She was worried it would leave her shattered. Knowing what I knew, I couldn’t blame her.

  My emotions settled. “What did you find out about Lily?” I asked.

  “I ran an online criminal check and nothing came back,” Anna said. “I also did some Google searches and checked a few people databases, but not much there. Oh, and I did call Jillian’s, where Lily works, and asked to speak to a manager.”

  I perked up at that.

  “And?”

  “And he said she’s a terrific worker, very dependable, never a problem.”

  “Never a problem,” I repeated.

  “I got him talking,” Anna said. “And he told me she’s one of the most levelheaded girls on his staff. She doesn’t party, is not into drugs. He wished more of the waitresses were like Lily.”

  “We have Lily’s number,” I said.

  Anna understood the subtext of my comment. Her eyes began to dance excitedly. I’d never forget that look of pure joy on her face—it was every Christmas rolled into one.

  “Do we do this? Should we?” she asked, a slight squeal to her voice.

&nb
sp; I ate another cookie. Hard not to. “Lily seems to be a reasonably put-together young woman,” I said. “Just in a tough spot. No drugs, not a drinker, she’s dependable at work.”

  “That’s all positive.”

  “But she’s not close to her family,” I added. “That could be a symptom of other problems.”

  “That’s not so unusual. I don’t speak to my father.”

  “That’s because he walked out on you and your mother.”

  “And my mother doesn’t speak to her sisters,” Anna pointed out.

  “Your mother wouldn’t recognize her sisters even if they did come to visit,” I said, feeling cruel. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “It’s okay, but that doesn’t give my aunts any excuse. Her cousin Gladys would come to visit if she could travel, but my aunts don’t have any good excuse.”

  “Speaking of which, we should probably go see your mother.”

  “Agreed,” Anna said. “But let’s make this decision first. Do we or don’t we?”

  Anna’s mom, Bessie, was a resident of Carney House, a respectable nursing home in Brookline. At seventy-five, Bessie had late-stage Alzheimer’s disease and no memories of the cross-country trip she had made with her daughter four years ago. No recollection of Anna’s steady stream of tears as she left one life for another. Bessie lived each day anew, and in many ways I envied her for that.

  “So we’re doing this, then?” I asked.

  “If you think we should, I think we should,” Anna said. “I want this, Gage. It’s fate that we met Lily when we did. It was meant to be.”

  This was the moment of truth. We had reached a decision point. If I said the word yes, we essentially were pregnant. I would become a father once again and Anna a mother. We would relive those sleepless nights bottle-feeding a newborn, changing tiny diapers, addressing every need, every cry, and feeling like we were doing something outside ourselves by taking a sacred and cherished vow to nurture and deeply love another life.

  I said yes.

  CHAPTER 8

  Here’s the most important thing to know about making a lithium-ion battery: it’s hard. The basic science is simple enough. Take two electrodes (the anode—or negative electrode—and the cathode, or positive electrode), combine them with an electrolyte that allows charged ions to flow between the electrodes, and voila, you’ve got yourself a battery. Well, there’s a bit more to it than that, but the essence is there. Putting it all together requires a lot of complex machinery: Automatic Desk-top Grinder with Built-in Agate Mortar, Electrode Cutter, Ultrasonic Welder, Slurry Viscosity Tester, Pouch Cell Case/Cup Forming Machine for Aluminum-Laminated Films, Compact Vacuum Sealer for Preparing the Pouch Cell—oh, this list goes on. The process requires a variety of skill sets. It’s a combination of advanced materials science, chemistry, applied mechanics, software, electronics; this list goes on as well.

  Lithio Systems, my company, had been in the battery business for the past fifteen years. It was all we did. We made batteries. Might not be the sexiest thing to manufacture, but a lot of essential products don’t register high on the sexy scale. The batteries we made went into everything from telecom products to the electric grid, transportation, and all sorts of commercial applications.

  I helped make batteries, and I loved my job. The hours could be exhausting, the politics maddening, the pace frenetic, but it was never boring. I always had a new challenge, some unforeseen obstacle to overcome. And we were important, too, at least in the eyes of the government. They ponied up a hefty $250 million grant to help fund several of our R&D initiatives, including the effort that eventually became Olympian. It just so happened that R&D was my division, so I directly benefited from this government funding. Our job was to push the boundaries of battery technology.

  And push we did.

  Everyone I worked with was in the supersmart stratosphere, even Matt Simons, whose jerkiness was proportional to his intellect. I reported directly to Patrice Skinner, the vice president of R&D for Lithio Systems. Patrice reported to a guy named Roger, who reported to a woman named Sarah, who reported to the CEO. So I was a mere four steps removed from the big boss. They were pretty giant steps, but still, I wasn’t on the bottom rung anymore. Lithio Systems had more than two thousand employees and a million and a half square feet of manufacturing facilities in Asia, Europe, and North America.

  I was a player there and took a lot of pride in my work. In addition to my regular job responsibilities, I was also part of the highly selective three-member Security Breach Team, like SWAT for data security. All high-tech companies are worried about security, but when our lead scientists developed the first early prototype of Olympian, and it looked like we had something that would leapfrog us over the competition for years to come, Lithio Systems went to great extremes to protect our invention.

  Even our IT folks didn’t have access to all of Project Olympian’s intellectual property. In addition to our daily responsibilities, the Breach Team looked for unusual network activity, followed up on unauthorized data requests, controlled access privileges for project teams, and implemented best practices for safeguarding our sensitive information.

  Patrice’s universe held about thirty-five engineers, including us quality assurance folks. As the Director of Quality Assurance, I oversaw a team that took all the stuff everybody else had been developing and made sure the manufactured product actually worked.

  What made Olympian such a special little battery was the supercharged electrode nanotechnology, more specifically our patent-pending carbon nanotubes. These tubes were about one ten-thousandth the size of a human hair, but harness a few billion of them in the proper way and a new generation of long-lasting, more powerful, superfast-charging battery was born. The secret to building these nanotubes was locked up and secured in our electronic vaults, safeguarded by the Security Breach Team as fervently as Google’s algorithms.

  Not a big deal? Imagine if every cell phone manufacturer had to offer their customers the longest-lasting, fastest-charging battery just to stay competitive. Who would they buy their battery from? Well, it would be us, Lithio Systems, because we had the goods to sell.

  Others had ventured into this territory, but thanks to those nanotubes, Lithio was the only company with a manufacturing process that wouldn’t be prohibitively expensive for commercial production. And first-mover advantage was the key to success. Some research wonks had predicted that the next generation of lithium ion batteries would become a $50 billion industry in just a few short years. Fifty billion! With all the products lithium ion batteries power—smartphones, wearable devices, electric vehicles, medical equipment, and more—it was a wonder that number wasn’t even larger. So it was a big deal, and my company was laps ahead of the competition in the race to develop the technology.

  Now that we were in the home stretch of this multiyear project, everybody was on edge, quicker to anger than we were with a smile. The number of meetings rose proportionally with the level of panic. We used to meet with Patrice once a week, but now it was almost every day.

  Four of us were sitting at the round conference table in Patrice’s spacious corner office. There was Adam Wang, our program manager; Matt Simons, senior scientist; Mamatha Joshi, a Bangalore-trained scientist and saint of a person, who was recently promoted to director of our R&D manufacturing process; and me. Mamatha, along with Matt Simons and me, comprised the three members of the Security Breach Team,

  Patrice was a short, stout, Swedish woman with shoulder-length blond hair and bangs cut straight as a ruler’s edge. She wore the same style sweater vest to work every day. In our business, expending energy on what to wear was viewed as wasted effort. Like everyone here, she was brilliant: Columbia educated, with a PhD in Mechanical Engineering from McGill University.

  As Patrice’s trusted advisers, it was our job to present project status and reassure her we were on target for the upcoming big demo. We had just sat down when Patrice went to her desk and came back with
some cupcakes.

  “It’s Mamatha’s birthday today,” Patrice said as Mamatha blushed. “I thought we’d have a little treat while we went through the status.”

  What followed was probably the saddest-sounding rendition of “Happy Birthday” ever sung, a tuneless, lifeless dirge that couldn’t have ended soon enough. Everyone laughed at how badly we had performed except for me. I hated that song. It made me think about Max’s last birthday cake—a soccer ball on a field of green frosting—and how it had seven candles on it, and how it would always have seven candles on it. That’s the thing about death—it’s permanent. Max and Karen had been frozen in time, while every minute I lived was one more minute I had spent without them.

  I had days when it seemed the chasm of my grief would find no bottom. It always hurt to miss them, but the pain turned physical when I thought of my son, and pictured in my mind his tiny body fast asleep on sheets decorated with soccer balls and baseballs. My stomach would cramp, and my legs would begin to ache. I couldn’t drive past a playground, or see a school bus, without remembering him.

  The meeting couldn’t start soon enough. I needed to focus on something other than my ever-present grief. I wished I had known it was Mamatha’s birthday. I might have doubled my usual dose of Adderall just for an added layer of protection.

  “So let’s get going, shall we?” Patrice said after everyone devoured the cupcakes. “Adam, what’s the current status?”

  Adam Wang checked his notes and returned a reassuring nod. “We’re looking good here. I think we’re on track. No major issues right now,” he said.

  “What about my thoughts on the constant current threshold of the higher density nanotubes?” Simons asked. “I believe we can improve the degradation above our performance standards, and I’ve recommended several adjustments. Have those been integrated into your plans?”

  Matt Simons worked on one of the largest teams in our division but rarely did anyone hear him use the pronoun “we.” In fact, his nickname was IMM, short for I, Me, Mine (also a well-known Beatles song).