Eight Days on Planet Earth

by Cat Jordan

  But he never got very far because the field doesn’t belong to us. The government owns that portion of our farm and, like my mother and me, the Department of Agriculture doesn’t care about spaceships and blogs about conspiracy theories.

  Oh jeez. Is this girl one of them? A conspiracy nut?

  Ginger pads over to me at the counter while I stare out the window. She paws at my leg until I realize I haven’t given her a treat. I grab a biscuit from the bag and give it to her, and when I glance back up, the girl is gone.

  No, not gone. She’s there, but she’s on the ground.

  “What the . . .” Did something happen to her? I run out the door with Ginger at my heels, leaping over the creek and through the willows. “Hey! Hey, are you o—”

  I stop. She’s on the ground, all right, legs stretched in front of her, feet pointed as if she were standing on her toes. Her eyes are wide open, staring straight up at the sky as if she were drinking it in, drowning in the moon and stars. My heart pounds in my chest and my lungs breathe a sigh of relief.

  “You’re back,” she says. “The magnetism of this place. It’s so strong, isn’t it?”

  I lean my hands on my knees to catch my breath. “No,” I say at last. “I thought . . . I thought you’d died.”

  She smiles. “No. Not yet. I have a lot to do before that happens.” She pats the ground beside her. “Why don’t you sit down for a minute before you go home again?”

  Ginger takes that as an invitation to lick the girl’s face and then plops down next to her. Whatever. I sit too, pulling my knees to my chest.

  “So, what’s your name?” I ask.

  Her hand snakes over to her notebook but she doesn’t pick it up. “I’m . . . Priya,” she says slowly, as if she were settling on the name. “That’s what people call me.”

  “Nice to meet you, Priya.” I try to shake her hand, but it’s awkward, what with her lying on the ground and me sitting up. “I’m Matthew. People call me Matty. Are you, uh, getting a ride soon?”

  “Soon, yes.”

  No wristwatch, I see, no cell in her hand like every other person I know, although reception at the field is notoriously bad anyway. A sign, my dad often tweeted, that something alien had landed there (#ibelieve). In reality, probably a sign we need more cell towers in rural Pennsylvania.

  Priya reaches a hand to pet Ginger. I notice it trembles and I wonder, is she nervous? Hungry? Mom gets trembly when her blood sugar is low, and she ends up scarfing down one of my father’s candy bars.

  “You thirsty or anything? Need something to eat?”

  “Eat?” Priya shakes her head and continues to stroke the dog’s coat. “I don’t need to eat.”

  I laugh. “Everyone needs to eat.”

  “Not me.”

  Of course all this talk of eating rouses my dog from her slumber. She nuzzles her nose under Priya’s hand, startling her. “Her nose! It’s so cold!”

  “Well. Yeah. She’s a dog.”

  She stares at her fingertips, eyes wide. “And it’s wet.”

  “Have you never petted a dog before?”

  “No. But I sensed she wanted me to touch her.”

  “You sensed it?” Kind of hard not to know when Ginger wants to be petted. It’s just about all the time. “She likes it when you scratch behind her ears.” I show her how to rub behind Ginger’s ears and the dog happily thumps her tail against the ground. Priya giggles and reaches her hand toward the dog, but her arm jerks suddenly and instead of touching Ginger’s ears, she grabs hold of the dog’s wagging tail. Ginger yelps and yanks away as she jumps up.

  “Oh!” Priya’s eyes fill with tears. “I hurt her.”

  “Nah, she’s okay.”

  “No, no, I hurt her.” She covers her face with her hands and begins to weep. “I’m so sorry. We are instructed specifically to harm no one.”

  We? What does that mean? Ginger is fine, she has to see that. And yet, those tears are absolutely real too.

  I pull Priya’s hands from her face and hold them. Her long fingers are so cold, like tendrils of ice; I can feel every knuckle of bone in them through delicate skin.

  But it’s her eyes that hit me like a punch to the gut. They’re pools, deep and wide, the water threatening to overspill if she blinks. She’s actually—truly—upset.

  “It’s okay, really, it’s fine. Watch.” I call Ginger’s name, and she trots over to me. I guide Priya’s hand behind one of Ginger’s ears and let her scratch for a minute or two. The dog instantly sprawls on the ground, wallowing in the attention. Finally, Priya smiles.

  “She’s not injured. I did not permanently harm her.” She stops scratching for a moment and reaches for her notebook. Shielding it from my view again, she scribbles on a page with a pen, then stops, cocks her head to one side, and writes some more. She glances up at me from under her white hair. “Observations,” she says, tapping the pen on the book.

  Why are the pretty ones always insane? That’s a famous quote—from a philosopher, isn’t it? Or maybe The Simpsons? I glance out at the road beyond the weeping willows, but there isn’t a single flicker of light meaning a car is on its way here. I wonder how long she’ll give it till she needs to call for a lift.

  Which reminds me . . . my home is waiting for me. Mom will flip out if she gets up and I’m gone. Two men disappearing on her in one day would really freak her out—and piss her off. I stand up and brush the dirt from my pants.

  But Priya looks so small and fragile. What if something happens to her before her ride comes? I search the field for animals or weirdos, but the place is deserted, as it usually is.

  “Look, I have to go. But I’m right over there if you need anything, okay?”

  Her smile is placid and calm. “Okay.”

  “Your cell won’t work here—”

  “Cell?”

  “Cell phone. You have one, right?”

  She puts her hand on her bag as if she’s checking for one and then shakes her head.

  “Well, if you need to make a call or want to use the bathroom, come on over. I’ll leave the side door open.” I point again toward the house. She can’t miss it; we’re the only family on this side of the street for about half a mile.

  When I look back at her, her nose is buried in her notebook; a diamond stud sparkles in the moonlight. “So, um, good luck getting home.”

  When she looks up at me, I stick my hand out. She stares at it, confused, until I take her hand and shake it gently.

  I feel like a moron, but a smile lights up her face. She releases my hand and holds hers out to Ginger, who, being a dog that passed obedience school as a puppy, knows “shake.”

  “Good-bye, Matthew. Good-bye, Ginger.”

  The dog licks Priya’s nose and then joins me as we start down the gentle slope toward the creek for the second time that night—or morning, I guess it is now. I resist the urge to glance back over my shoulder. She’ll be fine. She’s what, seventeen? Eighteen? Old enough to take care of herself. And I’m pretty sure she was lying about not having a phone. Is there anyone on this planet who doesn’t own a cell?

  2:11 A.M.

  Back at the house, I grab my phone from the kitchen counter and swipe the screen. Brian sent me a dozen messages while I was gone, most involving the word girl.

  Yo, hot girl? yaaaaasssss

  My fingers dance on the screen, but nothing I type feels quite right. How to describe Priya? How to explain the pretty, crazy, pretty-crazy girl who’s alone in an empty field and acts like she’s never petted a dog before?

  Brian’s going to ask me what I’ve been smoking. Without him.

  I tap the screen and send a text: white hair, brown eyes, skinny

  Almost immediately Brian texts me back: Legs?

  Long

  Sweet

  I laugh and type an emoji with a middle finger. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

  The clock on the stove says it’s way late. I gotta sleep. It’s the farmer in me.

  Dude?

>   Tomorrow

  Lake with Em?

  Do I want to go with Brian and Emily to the lake?

  With Brian? Yes. With Em?

  I type a question. Shake it to undo. Type it again. Shake it again.

  Does Em have to go?

  I feel my pulse throb in my ears while I wait for Brian’s response. I get a soda, suck it down, crush the can under my sneaker, and give Ginger another treat—all in the time it takes Brian to answer me:

  Yeah. She’s driving.

  I scowl at my phone. Just as I’m about to type “no,” another text comes from my best friend:

  Going to gran’s for a week, btw

  When?

  Day aft tmrw.

  A week away will help. Well, it’ll help me, at least. I bang out “yes” and hit send. And now it’s really time for bed. As I stumble past the door, I unlock it, just in case Priya needs to come in and pee or whatever. I also leave my phone on the counter. If she really doesn’t have a cell, she might need to borrow one.

  I take one last look out the window, searching for her through the tangle of willow branches. Yep. Still there, sitting on the ground, leaning back on her hands, and staring deep into the sky. The moon silhouettes her tutu and white hair.

  What a crazy, crazy girl.

  DAY TWO

  9:09 A.M.

  A rustle in my room wakes me. Mom is rummaging in my closet.

  “Hey . . . ? Whatcha looking for?”

  When she glances over her shoulder, I catch a glimpse of red-rimmed eyes. Has she been crying? Please don’t tell me she’s crying over that asshole. I mush the pillow behind my head into a ball and punch it lazily with my fist.

  She clears her throat. “Your father had a lockbox with important papers. Yay big?” She holds her hands about ten inches apart.

  I know it. I nod. “So?”

  “So. It’s got the deed to the farm from your grandfather. I need it for Uncle Jack.”

  I pull the covers over my head, but it’s already hot up here. The stone farmhouse stays cool in the summer, but not on the second floor. I feel my mother’s finger poke my shoulder through the sheet.

  “Well? Thoughts?” She paces my room, absently stepping over my crap spread across the floor. She doesn’t seem to notice any of it.

  “Did you check the shop?” I yawn and allow myself to tumble off the bed and onto a soft pile of jeans and T-shirts. My mother kicks me with her bare feet.

  “Quit it. Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” I ask.

  She’s half dressed, wearing the bottoms of her nurse’s scrubs with her pajama top. She’s not even embarrassed about it. “My shift doesn’t start till ten.” She kicks her way through my crap as she leaves my room. I really don’t want to get up, but I feel compelled to follow her to the guest room, the one where Grandmom Jones gave birth to her two sons. I’m too sleepy to shudder at the visual like I usually do. Mom opens drawers and closets that haven’t seen daylight in years. Why she thinks Dad would put anything of value here is beyond me.

  “The shop, Mom. Have you checked the shop yet?” I ask again.

  She brushes past me as she stalks the top floor of the house, from my bathroom to hers, from the linen closet to the hamper (the hamper? Seriously?). I stop for a long-ass pee, and by the time I finish, I find her in her bedroom, sitting on the edge of the queen-size bed that is rumpled on one side only. She stares at the floor.

  “Mom. Mom,” I say, until she finally looks up. Her fingertips hold her chin.

  “What.”

  “Did. You. Check. The. Shop?”

  She sighs and glances around the room, her eyes darting from corner to corner. I can almost read her thoughts: Is it in the closet? Under the bed? Between the layers of winter clothes? And then we both hear a squirrel scamper across the roof and my mother’s gaze lingers on the ceiling. Maybe it’s in the attic?

  “The place you should look is the shop. If it’s going to be anywhere, it’s going to be there.”

  She shakes her head and slides off the mattress, hastily starting to make the bed behind her. “I don’t have time. Will you?”

  “Me?”

  “What, you have something better to do? A job you’re rushing off to, maybe?”

  Uh, what the hell? I think but don’t say, and then I realize why she didn’t go to the shop to look for my dad’s lockbox:

  If it’s not there, it means he really is gone. Gone and not coming back.

  “Yeah, I’ll do it. Whatever.” I don’t care if it’s not there. I hope it won’t be. That would be the final nail in the coffin of hope she’s holding. It would at last blow out the torch she’s carrying. It would . . . oh god, coffee.

  “It’s only been one day, Matty.”

  “Sure. One day. With Carol, Mom. He left with Carol. You got the note and . . .” She’s making the bed with furious gestures, shoving the pillows under the sheets and fiercely smoothing out the wrinkles on her side of the bed. Clearly not in the mood to hear logic. “Whatever.”

  I stagger down the back staircase and go through the motions: water, filter, Maxwell House. While I wait for the coffee to brew, I go to text Brian but my phone isn’t where I left it. Rubbing my eyes, searching the kitchen, thinking maybe it slid under something, a flyer for dry cleaning or an old grocery list, but it isn’t anywhere.

  “Mom! Mom!” I shout up the back stairs. “Did you move my phone?”

  “Your what?”

  “My phone! Did you see it when you came down this morning?”

  “Your phone? No.”

  “Are you—”

  “I have to get dressed, sweetie.” A second later, I hear the water running in her bathroom.

  I know I put it on the counter last night after I said good-bye to Priya.

  Priya. I think of her and my memory is . . . hazy. But she was real, wasn’t she?

  I run to the side door, the one I left unlocked, and my heart thumps hard in my chest. In the daylight, the field looks even more forlorn and empty.

  Empty. It’s . . . empty. Priya is gone.

  And so, evidently, is my cell. Did she take it? Or just borrow it to call her boyfriend for a ride?

  Why “boyfriend,” Matty? Could have been just a friend.

  It wasn’t the best phone, wasn’t the newest “i-” anything, but it was mine and it had a pretty decent data plan.

  Back in the kitchen, the smell of fresh coffee fills the air and I breathe in a bit of caffeine high.

  Well, I guess she wasn’t lying about not having a phone before.

  “And she has one now,” I say to Mr. Coffee. “You’re welcome, Priya.”

  Ginger paws the door just then, and I realize I haven’t taken her for a walk yet. Crap. I’ll give her breakfast first. “Do you remember that crazy girl last night, Ginger? Do you?” I ask as I let her inside and grab the kibble. “Do you remember that beautiful yet crazy girl?”

  “What beautiful crazy girl?” I hear my mother ask. She rushes in, fully dressed now, her hair gelled and spiked properly, looking way more professional than she did a few minutes ago. She hustles about, gathering her things for the day. She snaps her fingers a couple of times and points to a shelf high above her. “Grab me a travel mug from up there, okay?”

  Even with her orthopedic shoes on, my mother is puny compared to me and my father. When things were good with Dad, he and I would tease her about being so tiny, playing keep-away with her cell or throwing her between us like she was a doll. Ginger would bark and jump too. Usually, things weren’t that good.

  “You want the silver one?” I take it down from a cupboard above the stove.

  “What beautiful crazy girl?” she asks again.

  “‘Why yes, the silver one goes perfectly with my gray hair,’” I say.

  “I do not have gray hair. What girl, Matty?”

  I deftly sub the mug for the coffeepot so it can drip directly into it. Clever me. “No one. I was talking to the dog.”

  “You’re not sneaking
out at night to hang out with some girl, are you?”

  “No. Mom. Stop. No girls, no sneaking. Just . . . take your coffee, okay?”

  I hand her the mug without looking at her. “Where’s your phone?” I ask. I dig through her canvas bag and find not just her phone but my dad’s as well. Why the hell hasn’t she crushed that thing already?

  Whatever. I dial my number and hope Priya answers, even if she’s a million miles away by now.

  I take the phone outside so Mom won’t interrogate me, practicing what I’ll say when Priya picks up.

  You took my phone, you wacko! Or maybe, Can I pretty please have my phone back? Or—

  Wanna hang out sometime?

  No, no, no. Hellllll no. I stop thinking with my pants. I’m going with the first choice.

  My palms start to sweat as the phone rings once, then twice, and a third time. On the other end, the screen should be reading “Lorna” since I have no desire to have “Mom” come up on my caller ID at any point in time.

  I hear my own voice in my ear: “It’s Matty. Text me. I don’t do fucking voice mail.”

  Why didn’t she pick up? I dial again. A minute later, I hear my message again and cringe. Crap, I’ve got a super-annoying voice.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see my mother at the kitchen door, hands on hips, watching me. I head straight toward the creek and the willows.

  My phone, wherever it is, rings a second and third time.

  “Answer it, Priya!”

  I stand in the center of the completely empty field. No Priya, no notebook, no black bag, not even an impression in the dry earth of where she and I sat and looked up at the stars. Maybe she was never here at all.

  But my phone is still missing.

  When I hear my voice mail for the third time, I leave a message. “Hey, Priya, it’s Matty. You have my phone. Could you bring it back, please? Or, like, send it to me or something? Thanks.”

  I have a sinking feeling I’ll never see that phone again. A car honks; Mom is backing her Honda out of the driveway. As I approach, she holds her hand out to me. “Can I have that?”

  Reluctantly I give her cell back to her.