by Andrea Ring
“I’m afraid to go inside. If a plane is about to crash into us, I don’t want to level the building.”
“That’s practical,” he says.
“Kenneth is still inside. Let me call him, too.”
Kenneth wanders out with his phone stuck to his ear. He quickly pockets it.
“Mr. Calyx. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
“What do you think, Kenneth?” I ask him. “Inside? Outside?”
He looks up at the sky. “Outside. I’ll go in and ready everything. What’s your blood type?”
“A positive,” Calyx says. His voice has started to shake.
Kenneth puts a hand on his arm. “You’re in good hands,” he says. “If anything happens, Thomas is the one you want standing by. We’ll do our best to help you, okay?”
Calyx nods, but it’s unconvincing. Then his knees buckle, and he lowers himself to the asphalt.
“Mind if I sit?” he says with a smile.
I smile back and squat down next to him. “Is there anything you’d like me to pass on? A message or anything to someone? Advice?”
“I can’t believe this,” he says. “It doesn’t seem real. I’m sitting in a parking lot with a stranger waiting for lightning to strike.”
Kenneth comes out with a pillow and a blanket. “Just in case,” he says, hurrying back inside.
“I have perfect recall,” I say. “If you tell me your life story, I’ll remember it.”
“Unfortunately, my mind is blank. My entire existence seems insignificant.”
“But you’re helping people get to the moon,” I say. “That’s a tremendous undertaking. And one that will change the world some day.”
“But I won’t live to see it,” he says.
“So? You’ve left a legacy, Mr. Calyx. Don’t dismiss that.”
“It’s Chris. And I wonder if I have left a legacy. An important one, I mean. I’ve made money, but money can’t help me now. I should have been putting it to better use all this time.”
“Like what?”
“Like you,” he says. “You are going to change the world. I want to be a part of that.”
“What about the soul?” I ask. “Do you really think it’s bullshit?”
“I think it hit a little close to home,” he says. “The way I grew up…life hasn’t been kind to me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I lost my mother when I was five, my father at ten, my grandmother at eleven, my first wife at thirty-five…I’ve been surrounded by death.”
“And so your vendetta is against—”
“Yes,” he says, nodding. “God.”
***
What do I say to that? I wish Dr. Rumson were here. He would know the perfect thing to say. I think about all the conversations I’ve had with him.
“Do you believe in God, Chris?” I ask.
“It’s easier to pin all the heartache on God than to think I was just born under an unlucky star.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“Yes. Yes, I do believe in God.”
“Here’s the thing about God,” I say. “He gave us free will. As a rule, He doesn’t intervene. Shitty things happen because we’re human, we’re imperfect, and the only thing we really have control over is our own behavior. So pinning all the blame on God is like blaming gun manufacturers for Sandy Hook. The creator is not the actor.”
“I could make a compelling case for blaming gun manufacturers,” he says.
“But you’d still be wrong. Let’s look at it in wholly practical terms. God can be a scapegoat, sure, but that doesn’t improve your wellbeing. All it does is cause you angst as the resentment builds. Use God, instead, as a source of comfort and aid. Imagine that He’s been helping you every step of the way. He supported you when you thought you couldn’t go on. He made it possible for you to find love again. Maybe He created Dwellers so that cancer and sickness can be thwarted, and others won’t have to go through what you’ve been through with your family. Chris, He blessed you with strength and cunning and intelligence, so that you can make the world a better place. And He even made it possible for you to be at Planarian today, on the day of your slated death, so that maybe, just maybe, you get a second chance.”
“That’s a lot of maybes.”
“But the alternative is victimhood and feeling impotent. Why not choose to feel bolstered?”
Chris shifts on his behind and stretches out his legs. He examines the darkening sky.
“This conversation might have been useful a month ago, but honestly, at this moment, I’m just pissed.”
“I get that.”
He turns his head to me. “Do you? Have you ever been angry at God?”
“I’ve been angry at Fate,” I say. “I wasn’t raised to believe in God—my mother was a staunch atheist. But then she died in a car crash when I was six, and I couldn’t let her go. Yeah, I was angry, and maybe if I’d believed in God at the time, I would have leveled my anger at Him. I’m not saying it doesn’t make sense, but you’re giving God too much power. Ironic, I know, but God just doesn’t work that way.”
“We don’t know that.”
“Maybe we’ll be able to figure it out with our research.”
“What if I’d said yes?” he asks. “If the moment I’d seen your soul, I’d said, here’s a check.”
“Are you asking me if your reaction to my soul caused your death?”
“Yes.”
“No. Emphatically, no. Our deaths are written almost from birth, according to Jack.”
“Then what good is free will?”
“We’ll find out in about five minutes.”
Calyx laughs nervously. “Is Jack coming? You said you called her.”
“Yes. Her husband Tyrion is also a Dweller, and he’s coming, too.”
“No ridiculous heroics,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to be a living vegetable. And the passcode on my phone is 7453, just in case you need to call my wife.”
“What’s her name?”
“Nicole.”
“How’d you meet?”
Chris leans back on his hands. “On the street in New York. We were walking in opposite directions, and a cab swerved to avoid hitting a pedestrian, and suddenly it was coming at us on the sidewalk. It missed us, but we barreled into each other. I remember holding out my hand to help her up, and she smiled at me, and then I tried to dust off my suit, but she said, ’No. Let me.’ I insisted on taking her out for coffee to calm our nerves. She said only if I buy her a slice of pie with it.” His gaze finds the park and the man with his dog. They’re still playing. “She’s been so patient with me. I’m rarely home, and when I am, I’m working. She wants kids, but I don’t. What’s the point when I’m never around? She folds my shirts…she bought one of those templates, those plastic things that allow you to fold a shirt perfectly, just like in the stores. My closet looks like a showroom.”
I close my eyes and picture Nicole Calyx, folding shirts to exacting dimensions, waiting, waiting for her husband to notice her.
I hear the buzzing long before I can identify it. At first, I think it’s a long-off car, maybe even Tyrion with the pedal to the floorboard. Then it sounds like a toy motor, maybe one of those motorized skateboards, or maybe a scooter. Then it’s too close for comfort.
My eyes fly open. A remote-controlled airplane speeds at us from the direction of the park. I scan the street. The man with the backpack is standing on the curb, a large remote in his hands. His dog has the ball in his mouth, and he’s bumping the man’s leg, trying to get his attention.
“What is that?” Chris asks, and I yank on his arm.
“Up. Up now! That’s the plane!”
I straighten and he scrambles to his feet.
“Run!” I yell.
We run.
Chapter Twenty
We’re at the far end of the building when the high-pitched buzzing changes to a deeper rumble—the plane is diving.
We
round the corner and I grab Chris’s arm. “Down! Duck!” I yell.
The plane hits the brick siding with a dull thud. Before I can blink, the corner of the building explodes.
My body flattens to the ground as though pummeled by God’s fist. Dust and rubble rain down on us, so thick I can’t take a breath. I bury my nose in my shirt and try to breathe through the cotton.
My ears ring. My eyes are filled with grit. I fix my ears and flood my eyes with tears to wash them out.
I try to wave the dust away to give me some breathing and seeing room, but there’s too much filth in the air. I’m not exactly buried, but I am covered in debris. With my sleeve over my face, I turn over, and the bigger bits of brick and concrete on my backside fall to the ground.
I shut off my nerves and assess the damage. Skin is gone from my forehead, cheeks, and chin, my collarbone and shoulder, both knees and my left thigh. Both my wrists are fractured. I heal them quickly so that I have full use of my hands. I lost two teeth. I heal the gums so that I’m not bleeding from my mouth. Bumps and bruises everywhere, but as long as I don’t feel them, they can wait.
Chris. Oh, God, Chris. I have only seconds.
I blindly crawl through the dust and debris, trying to find him. My hand finally touches skin—a foot. No shoe or sock. I pull it to me with a hard yank, and it flies forward into my cheek. It is not attached to a leg.
Dear God.
God, please give me strength. Please help me find him. Please let me help him.
“Thomas!”
Kenneth is calling for me.
“Thomas!”
“Here,” I choke into my sleeve, and then I cough away the dust. “Here!” I scream.
Someone pulls on my arm and helps me to my feet. We stumble through the wreckage to the grass of the park across the street. Sirens blare. Alarms shriek.
I fall on my butt. “Where’s Chris?”
Kenneth squats down next to me. “Tyrion’s got him. Where are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. Shaken up but fine. I need to help him.”
“You sure? Don’t play the hero, Thomas. You have a family.”
“I’m sure. Are you hurt?”
“No. Let’s get you up.”
“There was a man here,” I say as I gain my feet. “He steered a remote-controlled plane into the building. He had a dog.”
Kenneth and I scan the park. It’s empty, except for a few onlookers.
Two squad cars and a fire truck squawk their way toward us. I take a deep breath and sprint back across the street. I spy Tyrion bent over Chris at the edge of the rubble.
“Status,” I say as I fall to my knees beside them.
“No pulse,” Tyrion says. “Blood loss, and a brick sliver through his temple.”
I pat my pockets for my knife, but it’s missing. My nerves are already dead, so I take my teeth to the palm of my hand and shred the skin. I yank out the sliver of brick protruding from Chris’s temple and press my hand to the wound.
“Ambulance here,” Tyrion says.
“Buy me time,” I say. “Five minutes.”
I hook into the brain.
I get his heart pumping again. Check.
I stop the blood loss from his severed foot by cauterizing the veins and arteries and growing a thin layer of skin over the wound.
Check.
Now the brain. I just have to heal the autonomic functions. If the heart and the lungs work, I can worry about memory and skill lost later.
I’m just finishing up when two EMTs jog over to us.
“Sir, are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” I say, shaking my head. “Just bruised. But my friend, I don’t know if he’s breathing.” I grip his head with both hands as though searching for signs of life. At the same time, I dissolve my nerve connections and heal the head wound.
“Sir, you have to move away. Let us help him.”
I nod and sit back while the EMTs go to work.
“Let’s get you out of this mess,” an officer says, taking my arm.
I let him lead me away.
Chapter Twenty-One
“You’re an idiot,” the EMT says, patting my knee. “A lucky idiot.”
I hop off the back of the ambulance. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”
Of course I’m going to look like an idiot refusing to go to the hospital. But I really don’t need to be there as a patient.
My phone rings in my back pocket. I’m amazed it’s still there, especially since my knife seems to have disappeared.
“Hey, Tessa,” I say. “Don’t panic.”
“Thank God you’re alive,” she says, sniffling. “I’m at the hospital.”
“Just meet me at home,” I say. “I have a few bruises, but I’m really fine.”
“No, you have to come to us. Thomas…Em had a seizure.”
“What?” I’m already running to my car.
“She just screamed, ‘Daddy!’ and her eyes rolled back into her head…I called 911. I didn’t know what else to do.”
I pat my jeans, searching for my keys, but they’re gone. “You did the right thing. Is she okay?”
“She’s breathing. And she’s sleeping now, so yes, she’s okay. X said you were in an accident, and then he couldn’t connect with you anymore. I thought…just get here, okay? I need you.”
“I’m there. Hang on. I’m coming.”
“Hurry,” she says.
***
Jack drives me to the hospital. Tyrion goes home to relieve Erica and Dad so they can meet us.
Tessa clings to me. X wraps one arm around her neck and one arm around mine. He’s shaking and sweaty.
I take him from her and sit in a chair beside Emmaleth’s little crib.
“It’s okay, buddy,” I say. “Everyone’s fine.”
He nods into my shoulder. I couldn’t hear your thoughts, he thinks. I thought you were dead.
“You’re learning that our abilities aren’t always perfect,” I say. “We can’t always rely on them.”
But my abilities are me! If I cannot rely on me, what can I rely on?
“Your faith. Believe that God’s looking out for all of us. And even if something happens, He’ll help you get through it.”
“Can I get some hugs, too?” Jack asks.
X lifts his head and nods at her. Jack takes him in her arms and hugs tight.
I rise and bend over Em, sweet little Em.
The force is strong with this one.
On one hand, she needs her rest. On the other, she needs to know I’m safe.
I brush a hand over her forehead. “Em?”
Her eyes flutter and then open. Her gaze settles on my face, and she bursts into tears.
“It’s okay,” I croon, gripping her little hands in mine. “I’m okay. Nothing bad happened.”
It did! she insists.
“But it’s over. I got some bumps, but I’ll heal.”
You look like a zombie, she thinks. Heal it now.
A zombie? Damn, I forgot about the road rash on my face.
I pull my hands from hers gently. “Let me go to the bathroom and I’ll clean up.”
I already did it.
“What?”
You look better now, she thinks. Like my daddy again. But you need to wash off the dirt.
I run to the bathroom and stare into the mirror.
My God. Em did it. She healed me.
Without even touching me.
I splash some water on my face and scrub at the dirt and dried blood.
My fingers linger on my chin. I’m healed. Perfectly healed.
“You okay in here?” Tessa asks, poking her head in.
“Fine. Just cleaning up.”
“Em wants to go home,” she says. “She doesn’t want to spend the night here.”
I pat my face dry with a paper towel.
“Then we’ll make it happen.”
I turn from the mirror and stare at my wife.
Tessa is strong. So strong. But
she looks like she took a beating tonight. Her eyes are red and bloodshot, rimmed in purple circles. Her cheeks and lips are pale.
“We need to figure out how to keep them from reading our minds,” she says. “It’s killing them.”
I take her in my arms.
“Let’s get them home. We’ll sort it out tomorrow.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“We can try something like in the Harry Potter books, where Dumbledore wants Snape to teach Harry how to keep Voldemort out of his head by using legilimency.”
“I have no idea what you just said,” Tessa says.
I sputter. “Wha…who…how can you not know what I’m talking about?”
“I heard Harry Potter, and that’s about it. I only got through the third book.”
I stare at her. “How could you not have read them? I gave you all the books.”
“Yeah,” she says, “We were, like, twelve. The first three were kinda boring, and then there was all this talk about transfiguration and Quidditch and Dumbleydore… I couldn’t hang.”
“You’re rectifying that as soon as possible. You have to read the books. They’re essential to our culture.”
Tessa raises an amused eyebrow. “So now you want to dictate what I read?”
“No, I just want you to understand what I’m talking about. See, Voldemort, the bad guy—”
“I know who Voldemort is,” she snaps.
“Voldemort was connecting with Harry’s mind, and Harry could see what Voldemort was thinking and doing, so Harry had to practice keeping Voldemort out of his head.”
“Amazing,” Tessa says. “You actually had a point. You’re saying the problem lies with us. You and I need to figure out how to keep the kids out, rather than trying to get the kids to stop.”
“Exactly,” I say. “I mean, we should still teach them to control the power, but let’s face it. There’s no way to stop them. So we prevent them access.”
Tessa stirs the scrambled eggs on the stove. “I’m sure you can figure out how to do that, but you’re forgetting that I have absolutely zero control over my own mind. Unless the kids are thinking something to me, I don’t even know they’re in there.”
