Survive

by Vera Nazarian

  They stand waiting like sentinels clad in long, black and white robes, as Aeson and I say our farewells to the company for the night. Then, as our family members watch with suspended breath and gentle smiles, we leave Dad and George’s suite and head through the corridors on my side of the Quarters to our own respective bedrooms.

  The priest and priestess follow us a few steps behind—entering my personal quarters with us, and continuing onward, pausing only to witness as I stand in my own bedroom suite, at the door of the workroom which separates our two residence sides, and say goodbye to Aeson—for a whole day.

  “Sleep well, im amrevu,” he whispers, leaning in for a deep, slow, and very soft kiss, despite our stern clerical audience. His warm breath caresses the side of my mouth and then we forget everything for several breathless moments of union.

  When we come apart, with racing heartbeats and elevated breathing, I whisper, “Sweet dreams, my Husband to be . . . in only one day.”

  Slowly, like the rising sun, Aeson smiles, and it fills my whole world.

  “It is now thirteenth hour,” the priestess of Amrevet-Ra announces, raising one hand in a solemn gesture that points to the door. “Your Day of Fasting and Cleansing begins now.”

  Aeson nods wordlessly, casts one more intense glance at me, and follows his own priest into the workroom and onward to his own bedroom.

  The door shuts between us, and the priestess—a young woman herself, not much older than me, if at all—remains for a moment to check the lock on the door between our residences.

  And then, to my surprise, she takes out an actual key, ornate and antique, and locks it.

  Next, she goes around my suite and checks the several other doors and connecting rooms, locking every one that leads to corridors outside.

  At last, she stands before one of these doors and looks at me with a light, serene smile on her lean, ascetic face.

  “Blessings upon you, Imperial Bride. Use your time of contemplation well.”

  And then she leaves through the door, closing it behind her.

  A heartbeat later, I hear the lock turn on the other side.

  Just like that, I am alone and locked in.

  I must admit, I did not expect this. I knew I would be isolated for the day, but not imprisoned, literally.

  For just one instant I feel a rising surge of claustrophobia and panic, for a complex number of reasons. . . . And then I take several deep breaths and tell myself to stop.

  Get a grip, Gwen silly chicken Lark. . . . This is good, happy panic, momentous life event-related panic.

  I’m in a comfortable, luxury suite with running water and bathroom facilities—yes, this is supposed to be a fast but I’m permitted to drink water. I can use my wrist comm to call for help—if for whatever crazy reason I might need help. I have my entire family down the corridor. And my beloved is two rooms away. My Wedding outfits are ready for me in the closet. I’ve memorized all the required songs.

  I have everything I need.

  And right now, it’s late at night, and all I need to do is go to sleep.

  When I wake up, there will be that fewer hours remaining for the so-called Bridal ordeal.

  What ordeal? After all that I’ve been through, it’s nothing.

  So, I go to bed and try to sleep, telling myself, I’ve got this.

  I don’t believe I would be able to fall asleep. But somehow, I do.

  The morning of Red Amrevet 8 comes slamming into me as I wake up a little after eighth hour, having slept in intentionally. The four-point star window casts a strip of furious white light in my face, because once again I did not draw the curtains all the way.

  I lie there for a few minutes, staring at the lofty ceiling that remains shadowed.

  A whole empty, unscheduled day lies before me. What should I do?

  I suppose I can just sprawl in bed for a few hours. Or I can take a leisurely bath—after all, it is supposed to be a day of cleansing.

  Not that kind of cleansing, silly me.

  I know, I know. . . . This is just my mind freaking out, and I’ve only been awake for about ten minutes.

  How is Aeson doing right now, in his own luxury prison?

  Is he awake already (probably)? Or is he lingering in bed like me (probably)? Is he thinking about the SPC business, and the alien threat, and the pressure of military decisions? At least he can issue orders on his wrist comm if there is an enemy attack and—stop.

  Tomorrow is our Wedding Day.

  If we could magically synchronize our thoughts right now, are we both thinking the same thing?

  Is he panicking too?

  Wait, I am not panicking. It’s just that my thoughts are running wild. . . .

  Maybe this is all part of the process of Fasting and Cleansing Day.

  I lie in my bed for about twenty more minutes, then decide to get up and act like everything is normal. Which means, I do the usual bathroom things, shower, get dressed in some decent clothes, and then go to the other room of my suite, adjacent to my bedroom.

  A tall carafe of water stands on a side table, and I pour myself a glass and drink, full of morning thirst and restlessness.

  I check the time, consider messaging members of my family with my wrist device, or even texting Aeson. No, that would be so against the rules. . . .

  How is Dad doing this morning? A sudden stress thought comes to me. What if he needs medical attention, while Aeson is locked up?

  Calm down, I’m sure my family can get help if needed, I tell myself.

  Hey, I could call up a TV panel from the wall and watch some feeds. Except—it’s best if I don’t. It would be so disrespectful of the nuptial tradition and inappropriate.

  This tradition—it is intended for me, for both of us.

  It’s a benefit, not a punishment.

  A precious gift . . . of contemplation and time.

  I will spend the rest of the hours given to me thinking forward to the life before me—a life with my beloved. I will use the time wisely.

  Suddenly I know exactly what to do.

  I rise and walk over to a different table stand and open a drawer with some of my belongings. Here I find a small container with my personal items that I’ve brought all the way from Earth in my duffel bag. I open the container and take out the tiny fairy locket of sterling silver, strung on a chain, a gift from my parents for my sixteenth birthday. The locket itself is an oval with a fairy etched on it in relief, dancing like a tiny winged ballerina.

  I hold the smooth metal oval in my palm, weigh it, then finally undo the clasp of the locket. The two sides open like a book, revealing two tiny photographs—not digital but printed on old-fashioned photo paper. Mom and Dad look back at me with whimsical smiles. Mom is on the left, Dad on the right.

  I blink and stare at Mom, hard.

  She is already sick when this picture was taken, but she still has her hair. Beautiful, dark waves, framing her smiling face.

  I continue to stare, and within moments, the image of my mother blurs.

  So I blink, fighting to clear the liquid film in my eyes.

  And then I remember that Mom is here now. She is only a few doors away—what is left of her—in a beautiful metal urn.

  The tears come hard.

  Sometime later—it is still morning—I make the decision to face what I’ve been avoiding for weeks.

  I will watch Mom’s final video recording intended for me.

  Tonight.

  Chapter 59

  The morning and the afternoon flow into one, as I sit or pace, or stand up and gaze out through the bright window at the Imperial Palace complex rooftops, the distant gardens below, and the burning white sky.

  My thoughts jump around in the enforced idleness—nagging stress thoughts (will I remember those song lyrics tomorrow, will I revert to being a klutz and trip on my Wedding Dress?) and happy anticipation thoughts (what will Aeson think when he first sees me, what will actually happen tomorrow night?) followed by different stress
, then different eagerness. My family, Aeson, his family, the world, our new circumstances, all that’s at stake, all of it passes through my mind in a rushing river.

  I admit, there are quite a few times I experience sudden, overwhelming panic. What am I even doing getting married? Me? Yeah, I know. I’m out of control, drowning. . . . And then it passes and I feel fine again . . . for a few minutes.

  Is Aeson panicking hard, too? Does he suddenly regret everything?

  The only thing that anchors me is the thought that, as soon as evening comes, I will watch Mom’s video. Why evening and not now? I don’t know, it’s just a random decision I made for myself.

  The fasting part is actually easy. With all the nerves and adrenaline building up in me, I’m not hungry at all. I do remember to drink the water and keep myself hydrated. I can’t afford to make myself sick for tomorrow. . . .

  It’s evening, and the teal sunset fades into slate-grey dusk.

  I take a long drink of water, then stand up and sing the sequence to call up a wall panel, and choose a computer display as opposed to the TV feeds mode.

  I login to the Imperial Palace Network and scan a list of my personal files that I can access from anywhere. Technically I could’ve just used my wrist comm and called up a small hologram display, but not for this.

  I want a real screen.

  I find the video file that was transmitted from the velo-cruiser weeks ago, while still in interstellar space.

  Then I sit down on the edge of a chair, and move the screen closer to me.

  I initiate playback.

  The screen changes without warning, and suddenly, there’s my Mom.

  Her dear, familiar, bloodless face takes up most of the screen, with my parents’ bedroom in our home on Earth, in the background.

  Mom is propped up by pillows—I recognize the small flower pattern on the pillowcase—and wearing her prettiest scarf over her head. It’s silky, dusky rose in color, with a faint etched pattern of swirls in the fabric.

  Mom’s skin is discolored more than I remember, and her lips are bluish-white and cracked, but the crinkles around her light blue eyes are warm with the smile that blooms forth.

  “Gwen, sweetheart!” she says in an upbeat tone, even as her voice breaks slightly. At the sound of it I feel a sudden stinging in my eyes and an instant lump rising in my throat . . . even as I instinctively smile back at her.

  “Gwenie-Gwen!” Still smiling, she takes a deep breath. And then. . . .

  “You’re my baked potaaa-toh . . . and my honey bun . . . my little golden peach . . . my daisy in the sun!” Mom sings in a breathy faint voice and then giggles, her voice fading weakly even as she grins at me. “Remember how I used to rock you and hold you, and you loved that little song! You’re my Gwenie-Gwen! Still my Gwenie-Gwen, always!”

  I start bawling, but immediately hold my breath so as not to miss a word of what she says.

  “Gwen, my strong, brave, wonderful Gwen. Gwenevere Athena Lark. My brilliant daughter who is a young woman . . . a true warrior of wisdom. Oh, how I wish I could be with you now, and your lovely young man, Aeson, who I hear is as dreamy as can be. I know we had all these plans—plans to see you. All of you . . . as you continue to grow and thrive, have little ones of your own . . . I’d love to see my grandkids. We’re going to be picked up and taken up to the big spaceship shortly, but this is just in case I don’t make it. . . .”

  My Mom coughs and I allow myself to resume sobbing in the interim.

  “I have so much to say to you, my sweet darling Gwen, but it will just have to wait until I can put my arms around you. But I do want to let you know—just in case—that I’m doing all I can to hold on, because I want to see you walk down that fancy aisle on your wonderful, magical Atlantis.”

  Mom pauses and glances to the side, off-screen, where I hear Dad’s voice and possibly George, telling her something, but she shakes her head and gestures with one hand to shush them in her familiar way.

  “As I was saying, magical Atlantis,” she resumes. “I hear it’s beautiful. . . . Anyway, sweetheart, promise me you will continue to learn and grow . . . and love and dream, and make music and sing! Yes, George told me you’re singing again and your voice is heavenly! Who would’ve thought? Aha—but we absolutely knew!” Mom chortles weakly, then rises up a bit so that her face moves in even closer.

  I tremble silently, tears pouring down my cheeks, not bothering to wipe them, as I observe the faint blue irises of her eyes, up-close.

  “Okay, ready for this? I know, you’re too grownup for this, but—here, pucker up, my pumpkin!” Mom makes a kiss shape with her lips, then places her fingers over her mouth and then lifts them up to the screen, so that the camera hole gets covered up momentarily. “There we go, big smooch on both cheeks!” she says, coming back into view.

  Seconds later she rests back on her pillows, and just for a moment her smile dissolves with the effort, in exhaustion.

  I sob raggedly, once, twice, then stop and continue to stare, blinking to clear my vision.

  Seconds later, Margot Lark, my mother, gathers herself again, and smiles warmly at me. “I know, I know, I look a mess, but don’t you dare worry, sweetheart. Everything is fine.”

  She pauses, and her smiling eyes focus into sudden hard clarity. “Take care of them for me, will you, love? Your Dad needs you. . . . Make sure he eats! Gracie and Gordie and Georgie—remember, they all need you too. Oh, and of course, I need you—I need you to be strong and happy! And so, my dearest Gwenie, bye-bye for now. Not a goodbye, just a bye-bye . . . because I will see you soon. I love you to Atlantis and back!”

  Mom pauses, smiling radiantly at me. Her eyes—I have never seen them so furiously bright, so full of life.

  They are shining with moisture.

  Her smile never wavers.

  Those eyes, that smile—they are the last things I see. And now these details are permanently branded into my long-term memory, together with other profound things that will follow me for the rest of my life—as the video fades to black.

  The room has grown dark, and I don’t even notice. I continue to sit in silence, thinking about Mom and how I’ve just seen her for the last time.

  My face continues streaming with salty water.

  Finally, I get up and turn on the bedroom lights—forgetting, or simply not bothering with a voice command. Warm golden radiance blooms forth from the wall sconces, and yet I feel cold. . . . So cold and drained. . . .

  I return to my seat, take a deep breath and replay Mom’s video.

  And then I replay it again.

  And again—until I no longer bawl each time during the playback.

  I replay Mom’s video for the fourth or fifth time—now with only a cloud of soft, gentle sorrow blanketing me.

  There are no words sufficient to express what I’m feeling at this moment. I’m so glad she made it for me. It’s such a brief recording, far too short, hardly enough. . . . But a great effort, considering the severity of her condition by then. I’ll be replaying it over and over, throughout my life.

  I wish you’d met Aeson, Mom. I wish—

  At least you got to know that I still sing.

  So many never-to-be experienced moments with her still remain. So many soft regrets.

  I miss you so much, Mom . . . infinite times infinity.

  To Atlantis and back.

  I sit quietly, submerged in the loving memories.

  And then, with the passing hours, the weight of grief shifts inside me. Its burden is still there—will always be there. But now I feel an added sense of gentle completion.

  I am able to rest now, to allow my broken spirit—all three parts of it, ka, ba, and akh—to begin to realign and heal, in this newly restored, fragile balance.

  To that end, I must sleep.

  It’s an important next step, because tomorrow—in just a few hours—a day of joy begins, and I must be strong and whole and ready for it.

  Chapter 60

  I a
m awakened just after dawn on the morning of Red Amrevet 9, by the soft sounds of a key being turned inside the lock on my door, as the young priestess of Amrevet-Ra comes to liberate me from my traditional Bridal seclusion.

  Today is my Wedding Day.

  Aeson! I think at once. How is he? What kind of day had it been for him, yesterday?

  And then, with a jolt in my chest, the next thought is of Mom.

  A strange thought—not unexpected, considering I’ve just watched her video—but odd in the sense that I’m suddenly doubting my own recall, somehow unsure if I’ve previously heard her use those specific words before. . . .

  I love you to Atlantis and back.

  These are Mom’s final words to me, seared into my soul permanently, heard for the first time yesterday.

  And yet. . . . When have I actually heard her say this before? Not quite the same phrase, but this part: “To Atlantis and back.”

  And then it slams into me.

  During the Games—on the third day of Stage Two when I was on the pyramid having drug-induced hallucinations of everyone, including Dad and Mom—this is what Mom’s hallucination told me, even as she told me to run.

  And as it was happening, on the same exact day back on Earth, Mom was dying . . . maybe even had just died.

  In that same moment.

  I don’t think I really believe in ghosts. At least, not in the traditional sense.

  And yet . . . what if it really had been Mom? What if somehow—impossibly, wonderfully, defying all known rules of the universe and physics according to the established facts of science—her ghost, or spirit, her very essence, made contact with me somehow, in that precious last moment of final departure? That unique phrase—what if it was used as a sign, to convey a truth to me?

  I don’t know.

  And yet . . . my pulse races with awe and wonder.

  I don’t have much time to ponder this mystery, because it is time to begin the preparations for the big day ahead.