I Hope You Get This Message

by Farah Naz Rishi

  If the world’s ending, she’d said, it will not end before I’ve listened to Beyoncé’s new album another seventy-two times.

  Cate slammed the car door, but the window rolled down.

  “Wait,” said Ivy as she dug through her purse. “Just in case.” She pulled out a small yellow tube and presented it to Cate.

  “Is that pepper spray?” Cate was horrified.

  “Just take it, okay?” Ivy shoved it in Cate’s hand. “Listen to your auntie.”

  Cate rolled her eyes. But she pocketed the pepper spray anyway, tucking it beside her mom’s letter. She’d learned long ago that sometimes it was better not to argue with Ivy.

  Cate counted each step to the apartment—calming counts, Dr. Michel had called the technique—and knocked on her dad’s apartment door. No response. Cate bit her lip and knocked again. Still nothing. Ivy gave a tap on her car horn. Cate turned around and shrugged.

  “Not home,” she called out. She felt a tremendous wave of air leave her lungs, like she’d just dropped from a height: she didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Another green, unmarked helicopter flew overheard. The other day, Cate saw a squadron of military planes fly across the sky from her window, and even on the drive here, Cate counted twelve Humvees driving along the highway. It made her stomach churn. She guessed she’d better start getting used to them.

  She gave the door one last pounding for good measure, to prove to Ivy—and to herself—that she had really tried. But before she could turn around, a raspy voice resounded from behind the door, and the urge to flee jolted her legs like an electric shock. “I’m comin’, hold your horses.”

  A woman slowly pried open the door a couple inches, a grimace plastered on her face. Upon first glance, she looked fairly young—late twenties, maybe, but weariness had cut premature crevices around her mouth and eyes. She’d propped a dazed baby on her hip, the child’s still cheek stained with old tears. The smell of stale cigarette smoke stung Cate’s nose. “Can I help you?” asked the woman, in a voice that sounded as though she really hoped she couldn’t.

  Cate’s heart leaped into her throat, choking her. “I—I—” She glanced back at Ivy, who was leaning against her car, for help. Ivy waved a hand encouragingly. “I’m sorry to bother you—”

  “If you’re here about that break-in down the street, I didn’t see nothing.”

  “No, no,” Cate said quickly, before the woman could shut the door. “I’m looking for, um, Garrett?” She wished she had a last name, but the letter hadn’t told her. “Does he live here?”

  The woman looked faraway for a moment, deep in thought. “Garrett, Garrett . . .” She swept Cate again with her eyes. “The only Garrett I can remember was the landlord, years ago. Bearded guy, right? Kinda looks like a bear?”

  Cate’s mind blanked. She hadn’t the faintest idea what he looked like. All she had was the letter in her pocket. The only things Mom had ever told Cate about her father was that he was a possible animal shape-shifter or a magician-pirate hybrid whom Mom didn’t trust with the news of her pregnancy. That and, lately, an “Almaen,” otherwise known as an alien.

  So she only nodded.

  “Shit. Haven’t thought about him in forever. Garrett . . . Holloway? Harrison? Can’t remember the full name. I was a just a kid when he was around—maybe twenty years ago.” The young woman rubbed her sleepy baby’s back. “Fixed one of my toys for me, back in the day. He was . . .” The woman hesitated, but whatever she thought of saying, she swallowed. “Sorry, but he doesn’t live here anymore.”

  Numbness extinguished Cate’s disappointment before it could even take root. It had been, what, sixteen years since Mom had last seen her dad? Of course he had moved. Of course.

  She’d made Ivy drive all this way, too, and for nothing. Cate clutched her stomach, feeling queasy, dizzy. True, she hadn’t asked Ivy to do any of this, but still. She felt even more guilty than before.

  “I see,” Cate murmured. “Would you happen to know where he went?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. From afar, Cate could hear the echo of police sirens, a sound that made her tense all over again.

  “No. I was only a kid when he was here,” the woman repeated, straining her voice over the sirens. “But . . . you know what? I think he may’ve sent my mom a postcard once. I wanna say it was from Roswell.” She brightened a bit. “Weird thing covered in green aliens, looked like he drew it himself. My mom kept it on her fridge for years—that’s how I remember. Of course, I guess it could’ve been from someone else. But pretty sure it was him.” The baby on her hip cooed, and she rubbed its back. “It’s not much, but that’s all I know. Sorry.”

  “Do you still have it? The postcard?”

  “Sorry,” the woman repeated, shaking her head. “I’m sure it’s been gone a long time.”

  “That’s okay. You’ve already been really helpful,” Cate said, as gratefully as she could, even though she knew the chances of getting to her dad were next to nothing now.

  The woman began closing the door but stopped halfway. “Hey, do me a favor, will ya?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be safe out there.”

  Cate looked at the woman now—really looked at her: the crust that lingered at the bottom of her swollen eyelids, the gauntness of her cheeks. The signs of someone who hadn’t slept in days. Someone who’d be up watching the news, maybe until the very end.

  “You, too,” Cate replied, finally, before the woman closed the door.

  When Cate returned to the car, Ivy had one of her bright blue debate notebooks in her hands. “All right,” she said. “So maybe we reorder a few things . . .”

  “What are you talking about?” Cate asked tiredly.

  Ivy folded the notebook to show off her handiwork. In her messy scrawl, the page read:

  CATE’S BUCKET LIST FOR THE END OF THE WORLD,

  REDUX

  1. FIND DAD

  2. Actually go to a party

  3. Sneak out (sorry, Mom!)

  4. KISS JAKE OWENS!!!

  5. Kiss someone for real!!!

  6. Pet more puppies

  7. Steal something!!

  8. See the world

  “Honestly? Three out of eight ain’t bad. Though it’s a little too short for my liking.”

  “You can’t make my bucket list for me,” Cate said. She couldn’t help but laugh. “Besides, I’m still working on number one.”

  She slid her phone out of her pocket and opened Google Maps, impatiently zooming into Roswell even if she knew she wouldn’t see him, like on a Harry Potter–style Marauder’s Map. If she could, she’d reach her hand inside the map to yank him out, look him in the eyes, and demand to know why he’d ever let Mom fall apart on her own. Why he’d let his family fall apart.

  Ivy leaned over her shoulder to peer at the screen. “Roswell? As in, New Mexico?”

  “It’s twelve hundred miles away. I can be there and back in a day.” Cate took a deep breath. “I know it sounds ridiculous. But it’s now or never, right? And Mom really wanted me to find him.”

  “Cate, your mom isn’t exactly . . .” Ivy broke off just in time.

  Cate felt cold. “What? My mom isn’t what?”

  Ivy only gave her a pitying look that was worse than anything she could possibly say. “You said so yourself. Your mom has been slipping recently. You can’t even reach her right now to get answers.”

  Cate turned to the window, blinking back the urge to cry. “She wasn’t slipping when she wrote this letter,” she said, trying to control her voice. “She wasn’t slipping when she told me it was important.”

  “Cate.” Ivy gently took Cate’s hand. “Roswell’s a big place, and we don’t even know if . . .”

  “I know, I know. But I can find him. I know it. Mom’s never asked for much, but she asked me for this.” Cate realized, in an instant, that that was it: the heart and root of the whole thing. Her mom had asked her for one thing. Maybe the last thing. Cate hadn’t be
en able to save her from getting sick. But what kind of daughter would she be if she couldn’t even deliver a letter? If this is what she had to do, she’d do it alone. “You don’t have to drive me. I’ll take a bus.”

  “You think buses are still running?”

  “I’ll find a way,” Cate insisted.

  For a long time, Ivy was silent. Cate looked down at her lap. She felt herself deflating beneath Ivy’s stare. She knew Ivy was right. What she wanted to do was irrational, too big of a risk. But if there was ever the time for taking a risk, it was now.

  And what did she have to stay for?

  “Look, if this is what you want to do—and I mean you, Cate Collins, not your mom or anybody else—then I’m not going to stop you. Just . . . please think about it, okay?” Ivy reached over to squeeze her hand. “I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth, literally, but I don’t want you making rash decisions just because E.T. and all his friends are probably going to invade the planet.”

  This, at last, made Cate smile. “Are you, Ivy Huang, really telling me not to make rash decisions?”

  “Yes. And that’s why you need to listen to me. Rash decisions are kind of my wheelhouse.”

  The sun lingered just beneath a billboard—Ataputs Apartments—staining the cloudless sky in soft pink and violet and orange brushstrokes. But thin white streaks, left by another squadron of army planes, split through the sky like scars.

  “Speaking of,” Ivy said, with a trademark smirk, “since we drove all this way . . . I think we owe it to ourselves to have a little fun.”

  Mom, Dad—

  Before you freak out and call the police/FBI/CIA/all our family in Pakistan, please know I am safe. I have my phone, but who knows if the aliens will blow up all the cell towers (just kidding, I think?).

  Anyway, please don’t freak out. I promise I’ll be fine.

  I’ll come back soon, a day, tops.

  And I’m bringing Leyla with me. You’ll thank me later.

  Duas much appreciated.

  Love,

  Your favorite son

  9

  Adeem

  From the ten-foot printed sign outside the Methodist church, Reza Sultana’s filtered, clean-shaven face grinned at Adeem.

  Adeem hadn’t seen Reza in years.

  Reza was the closest thing Leyla had once had to a boyfriend. They’d met in Sunday school, and, halal questionability aside, all the aunties in the southwest Nevada Muslim community had decided those two had a definite shaadi on the horizon. And Reza was one of those rare, genuinely good guys—volunteered at homeless shelters, actually kept up with his prayers, looked you in the eyes when you talked. He would always pull these lame card tricks that failed half the time just to get a laugh out of people. It was no surprise to Adeem that Reza had now become something of a Muslim youth organizer. The guy was practically a saint.

  And stupidly, even though one had nothing to do with the other, this made Leyla’s coming out all the more of a shock.

  Seeing Reza now, on poster board so big Adeem could see it from across the church’s enormous parking lot, made Adeem nervous for reasons he couldn’t totally name. It was like returning to your childhood home only to find a real estate agent in the middle of an open house. It didn’t matter if everything looked the same. The central thing was different: suddenly, “home” was something in the past.

  Reza was hosting a youth retreat here, at a church, as a show of “interfaith solidarity in a time of no faith”—not that the terrorists who kept burning down mosques seemed to have much interest in mending fences. Other religious leaders, like a local pastor and a rabbi, were due to arrive later with their people, if the traffic didn’t stop them. But the location of the retreat wasn’t exactly ideal; the church was tucked beside a casino with only sparse pine trees and a couple hundred feet of land to divide them. Consequently, the back of the church parking lot was already occupied by the cars of tourists too cheap to pay for the fancy casino parking garage. Adeem knew this because he saw a half-drunk couple stumble out of their car, the straps of the woman’s dress hanging off her shoulders, and wobble toward the row of pine trees not yet tall enough to obscure the towering Atlantis Casino on its hill.

  Adeem glanced at his phone. Five o’clock, still light outside.

  Churches and casinos. Two kinds of people.

  And the ones in between.

  Adeem parked his dad’s Acura TSX, leaving the baseball bat Derek had insisted Adeem bring with him for safety, and followed a flock of retreat attendees to the nearby church entrance. There must have been hundreds of them.

  Now that Adeem knew his parents were still in touch with Reza—that he’d actually seen Leyla—he was starting to regret not sending him a text before he’d just shown up like this. But every message he’d drafted sounded idiotic. Hey, Rez, I know we haven’t talked in, like, two years since my sister dumped you and ran away with Priti, and I was too chicken to reach out because I’m a guilty, awkward mess, but now the world is ending and all, so can you help me find her now, maybe?

  Yeah, he was better off just ambushing Reza in person. It’s not like he had much of a choice; Adeem had already tried contacting the radio channel in Roswell where he’d heard his sister but had still gotten no response. Reza was his only lead.

  Adeem signed in at the front desk, ignoring the cheerful volunteers who offered to take any luggage, who asked how he was, if he was excited, though Adeem wasn’t sure if anyone could be excited with Alma breathing down everyone’s necks. He reached the crowded main hall. Wood beams lined the arched ceiling, amplifying sound and rattling his head, and the stained-glass window behind the pulpit appeared dull and dusty without sunlight to set it aglow.

  Adeem lingered behind the last row and took a place behind a pillar, choosing to stand. So many kids. Most of them seemed to have brought their friends, laughing and chatting away—and most of them were his age. He spotted a skinny brown kid who reminded him of himself, staring anxiously at his lap until a cute ponytailed girl with a gold hoop nose ring playfully slapped his back. A volunteer, as indicated by her jungle-green shirt. She offered the kid a Jolly Rancher, and he broke into a smile. None of these kids were nervous at all, like it was just another day at Sunday school.

  It didn’t matter if the world was ending outside these walls. The thing about Reza is that he made you feel safe, regardless.

  “Welcome, welcome!” a voice boomed from the left wing of the stage, and the prattling from the pews ceased. Reza crossed the stage and raised his arms dramatically. He leaned casually against the pulpit, taking in the applause, and adjusted the tiny microphone that hung off his collar. A line of smiling volunteers in their green shirts, including the cute girl with the nose ring, gathered behind him like an entourage. He was as popular as ever.

  Adeem’s stomach clenched. Seeing Reza affected him more than he’d expected. Because when he thought of Reza, he thought of Leyla, the two of them once a package deal in his mind. Reza had already been becoming something of a big brother to him. Had Leyla known? Had Adeem been pressuring her without realizing it? He’d never even bothered to ask her what she wanted. He’d just assumed. Hoped. Not even realizing that while everyone imagined her and Reza on the shaadi stage, she’d been swallowing her feelings for Priti, alone and afraid.

  He wondered if Reza missed Leyla, too. If he felt the same guilt. But he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

  Reza continued. “It’s getting more dangerous out there for everybody. Not just for Muslims. And now our great scientists over at NASA have discovered extraterrestrial life. Can you imagine? The Quran says repeatedly, ‘Indeed, I know that which you do not know,’ but, man, I wasn’t expecting aliens. Talk about unexpected stressors, huh?”

  Adeem snorted. Reza was as corny as ever, too. Then, unexpectedly, Reza’s eyes landed on him.

  Adeem froze. Reza’s mouth dropped open, like he’d seen a djinn.

  “Adi . . . ?” Reza’s voice shook.

 
Adi. Leyla had called him that, too. It meant “warrior” in Arabic, a playful joke because Adeem used to be so small, so scrawny, when he was younger.

  Adeem managed a wave. He felt the audience’s curious eyes on him, and he had the sudden urge to put his hood over his head.

  Reza put his hand over the mic and muttered something to the volunteer, the young woman with the nose ring. She nodded as he fumbled with the mic to remove it off his collar and handed it off to her.

  “Speaking of unexpected stressors, Reza has the memory of a goldfish and forgot to introduce me,” the young woman began, and subtly wagged her finger for them to see, as if to say, I got this. “I’m Hiba, Reza’s community manager, and I’ll just go over some quick ground rules . . .”

  Reza took the hint and hopped offstage to make his way toward Adeem.

  “Man, what a sight for sore eyes.” He wrapped an arm around Adeem’s shoulder and ushered him out of the main hall. “When did you get glasses? Why are you here? Did you drive all the way from home? Were the roads safe? Your parents—are they safe?”

  “Slow down,” Adeem replied, laughing. Typical Reza. Like an overeager puppy. The same guy who’d gone through an entire fifty-two-card deck asking, Is this your card? until Adeem admitted to forgetting which card was his, and Reza admitted to having no idea what he was doing. Adeem hadn’t realized how much he’d missed having Reza around.

  How many other things had he forgotten, or forced himself to forget?

  “Can’t help it.” Reza pulled his arm away once they’d found a quiet corner in a secluded hall. “I’ve missed you, brother. You’ll always be family.”

  “Even though my sister broke your heart?” Adeem could have kicked himself the moment the words were out of his mouth.

  Reza winced. But he spoke slowly, thoughtfully. “When she came out . . . it did not break my heart, Adi. Her feeling like she had to keep it a secret, now, that . . .” He sighed. “That broke my heart. I mean, I won’t lie,” Reza continued. “You know the first time she told me, I said it was probably just a phase? I told her she was confusing her friendship with Priti for something else.” He shook his head. “I’ve wished so many times I could go back and . . .” He gestured helplessly.