California: A Novel (36 page)

F
rida was still in bed, hoping she would fall back asleep. She wanted to spend the morning here and wake only for lunch, well rested. That plan never worked—now that she was eight months along, her belly large and ungainly, she could never stay comfortable enough to sleep the day away. But maybe it’ll work, she thought, just this once.

The baby kicked twice, as if to say,
Ha
. Frida rolled onto her other side and pulled the duvet to her chin.

Cal was in the shower; he had five minutes before the timer went off and the hot water turned cold again. She could hear him singing the song about the doggy in the window; it had been playing the last time they went to the Central Shopping Plaza. His voice sounded decent—deep yet sweet—but it was so unlike him that she laughed. How appropriate. He wasn’t Cal anymore, anyway. She was supposed to call him Gray.

Frida had not been sleeping well since they’d arrived. Apparently, a memory-foam mattress and two semifirm hypoallergenic pillows couldn’t help Frida sleep through the humidifier sighing on its pedestal across the room or the bothersome glow of streetlights outside. The fridge downstairs liked to make ice at two in the morning, and at dawn, the paperboy came down the block on his bicycle; Frida could hear him every day as he pulled copies of the newsletter out of his canvas bag and threw them onto the lawns. From the bedroom window it looked like a tiny white flute had been tossed onto the dewy grass below.

Last night had been especially tough. The police had taken the neighbor’s son away. They’d been stealthy about it, or as stealthy as you can be when you’re throwing a grown man into the back of an armored vehicle. Mrs. Doyle’s son had been picked up because he was a drug addict. That was obvious; his downward spiral had saddened the whole neighborhood. For five years, Frida was told, he’d been the basketball coach for Pines West. Two years ago they’d won the championship, played against five other Communities in the Western and Northwest Territories. Frida had gotten used to saying that:
the Territories.
They were technically still part of the U.S., but those two letters sounded so antiquated, so inaccurate.

“It’s not like the United States government contributes anything to our well-being,” Cal once said to Mrs. Doyle. He was very good at repeating rhetoric from the newsletter, but in a way that sounded fresh. “They can’t tax us if we don’t depend on them for anything. Besides, the government’s a wreck.”

It had been clear that Mrs. Doyle’s son wasn’t doing well. For one, he kept skipping practice—his players dribbling balls listlessly for an hour before heading home—and sometimes he’d go missing for days. Some claimed that the latter wasn’t true, that Mrs. Doyle had been hiding him in her basement, to protect him from his urges, or to keep anyone from seeing him high. But that couldn’t be, because she was the one who had told the authorities. “It’s best for him,” she told Frida. “And for everyone. We can’t have drugs crossing into our borders.”

Frida didn’t know if it was heroin or crack or what, but people were getting it into Pines, and the authorities wanted to eradicate the problem as quickly as they could. Their philosophy was: get rid of the customer base to get rid of the product. Anyone who didn’t follow the rules was thrown out. Easy as pie, people said. The good residents of Pines weren’t paying luxury rates to live among criminals. The damaged ones were not welcome.

She ran her legs against the sheets and plowed her cheek into her pillow—she couldn’t get enough of this pillow.

Someone had to be doing undercover work to try to identify the smugglers, Frida thought.

That, or the authorities were funneling the drugs into Pines themselves. They would sniff out the weak ones, the Problem Children, as everyone called them, no matter their age. She wanted to ask Cal about it, but he was worried—paranoid maybe—that the cameras and microphones on every street corner would pick up their conversations, even inside their home, and so she kept quiet. If she wanted to talk to him about anything serious, Cal would only allow it if they sat on the fuzzy blue mat in their downstairs bathroom with the shower running. Besides the walk-in closet, it was the only room in their house without a window, and Cal preferred it because they could run the loud ceiling vent to further mask their conversation. Frida had to lean forward to hear what Cal was telling her.

The signs were posted at every corner:
SMILE, YOU’RE ON CAMERA.
She used to see that same message at liquor stores and trashy clothing shops in L.A., except these had been custom-made for Pines, the words written in a navy-blue cursive; beneath them a doll stared out with large, blue eyes. If Frida didn’t know better, she might want one of those signs to hang above her fireplace. They were stylish. The Design Department at Pines was the best in the Western Territory.

The first time Frida saw a
CURB YOUR DOG
sign, it made her weak with glee: black dachshund, green leash, the letters in that same bubbly cursive, but this time fire-engine red instead of navy. It had been their first week as newly minted citizens of Pines, and they’d been walking through the park nearby, holding hands. They were taking it all in: the cameras, the signs, the park’s plastic castle with its slide and shaky rope bridge, the kids squealing as they crossed to safety on the other side.

Frida was in her final trimester now. Another reason why she couldn’t sleep. She had to lie on her side all night long when she used to sleep on her back, and sometimes it felt like the baby was doing acrobatics off her ribs. The doctor had offered to tell them if it was a boy or a girl, but Frida had refused. Every time the baby’s image filled the sonogram monitor, she looked away. It didn’t matter what the machine showed, or even that Cal hoped they were having a boy. Frida knew it was a girl.

“As long as it’s healthy,” she said, which was what every pregnant woman was supposed to say. The doctor had nodded, said of course the baby was healthy, and reminded her to continue taking her vitamins, her daily Protein Shakes, her weekly SuperFoods Package. “Don’t skimp now,” he said kindly.

Cal complained openly about the food here. A lot of people did. Cal didn’t seem worried if someone recorded his displeasure with the Vegetable and Fruit Pills, and the Shakes that tasted like chalk even if their containers read
CHICKEN PROTEIN
or
BEEF WELLINGTON PROTEIN
. He worked in the Education Department, after all, and one of their ongoing concerns was school lunches and the nutritional needs of children. Cal seemed comfortable taking issue with the supermarkets here, which had aisles upon aisles of powdered foodstuffs and the smallest, most pathetic produce sections. Greens were expensive, and there wasn’t much else to choose from beyond carrots and the occasional tomato. On an early visit to the market, Frida had run a piece of lettuce between her fingers, imagining that it had been grown on the Land. But she’d only done it once. She had better restraint than that now.

Cal was going to start a garden soon, as others had done. There was very little room in Pines for a massive agricultural movement, but Cal said there was talk of redoing one of the shopping plazas to include a small farm. Apparently, when Pines was first being built, its developers had overlooked the value of fresh produce to its clientele, and now they were rethinking the matter.

There was no real meat anymore, either. “Mad cow, E. coli,” Mrs. Doyle had said with a frown when Frida had asked her why not. “Plus, the amount of water required to raise a head of cattle? Forget about it!” Cal said he’d gladly be a vegetarian if he could eat some vegetables. Frida was just relieved the baking section at their nearest market was so stellar. Pines wanted every wife to be a cake baker, wearing an apron and a smile.

“Maybe I can become a pastry chef,” Frida had said to Cal once.

“I don’t know about that,” he’d replied. “This place is specifically designed for a certain kind of family. You know, the father at the office for long hours, the mother busy with the kids.”

“What do those fathers do in those offices all day anyway?” Frida had asked. It was still a mystery to her, how Pines worked. Meanwhile, all the mothers stayed home to bake cakes and whatever else mothers at Pines did. Women were expected to devote everything to raising a family.

“You know, taking the older kids to art class and soccer practice,” Cal said. He was just reciting the brochures from memory, but his message was clear:
We’re going to be parents soon. Let’s blend in.

Their baby would be born in Pines Hospital, and then she’d bring her here, to this beautiful house, and place her in this clean bassinet. She’d tell her stories about her family in Los Angeles, a city that was too dangerous to visit. She’d tell her how Mommy and Daddy had received permits to come to Pines.
Daddy got a job because he’s so smart,
she would say.
And
they wanted a baby like you to live here.
It was an easy myth, and she practiced it in her head every day.

The bassinet was already here, next to the bed. She had painted the nursery a pale yellow, but it remained empty. She hoped the furniture store in the Central Shopping Plaza might send a messenger today, to tell her they had finished building the crib.

From the bed, Frida heard the water stop, and then Cal pull his towel off the rack. Their closet was attached to the bathroom, as big as a room, and she imagined him facing his row of clothing, sliding the hangers across the rod. They had both imagined well-cut suits for him, handmade by the local tailor, the fabric at once sumptuous and crisp. But no. The suits he received were cheap: synthetic fabric that wrinkled easily and didn’t breathe well. Frida’s dresses were just as bad, and after the first washing they began to pill and fade.

What they got had been pricey, Toni informed them later.

She had them meet her at their local center, for tea and stimulating conversation. Even Toni had used the brochure language.

“Not everything can be luxurious,” she’d told them when Frida made a joke about Cal’s khakis. The hems were uneven. People said the same about the lack of hot water and the days when their electricity shut off completely. Residents knew ahead of time when the lights wouldn’t work, but still, it was shocking to sit in the dark in their big new house. It made Frida afraid, just a little. Pines wasn’t perfect; things were running out here, too. Mostly, she didn’t worry, though; almost every day, the newsletter mentioned advances in alternative energy. They’d find a way.

That day at the center, Toni had stirred honey into her tea. They sat by the window, which overlooked yet another park, this one studded with benches and large outdoor sculptures. A man and his son were flying a kite that looked like a strawberry.

“In Phoenix,” Toni said, “they’ve got a Community that has a haberdashery and a man to make your shoes. But everyone lives in these terrible apartments, clearly designed by a cheapskate.”

She smiled and lifted her mug; it was one of those ceramic ones without handles, and Toni held it gingerly. It seemed the only thing she approached with hesitation.

It had been a shock to see her. She wasn’t the same person Frida had known years ago. Toni’s hair was cut to chin length and dyed light blond, and she sounded different, too: her voice bright and cheery. People kept approaching her, to say hello, to say they wanted a meeting with her, and she kept passing out her business card, nodding to her assistant Gregory, who sat across the room, writing in a notepad. She was in charge of Citizen Compliance and Outreach. Frida had said it sounded like a big job, but Toni had only shrugged, fake modestly.

“Do you still go running?” Frida had asked her as they stood up to leave.

For a moment, Toni looked like she’d been slapped. And then she smiled. “Oh dear, not since middle school, I don’t think.” She held her gaze on Frida, as if to say,
Watch it,
and Frida had nodded, trying her best to smile. August had told her to pretend they’d never met Toni. “Ms. Marles,” he’d called her, right before they approached Pines. Frida should have listened; it was naïve to think she could get her friend back.

Now it was only Cal who saw Toni, at work Downtown. He was advising on a number of matters, including the nutrition thing, but mostly he was helping to design courses for Pines University. The school would soon open its doors to citizens from neighboring Communities, should there be spots open. The Communities were interacting more and more every year. It was the only way to maintain safety, and their trade programs made them more alluring to prospective clients.

Frida hadn’t asked Cal anything else about his job, or about Toni’s, though she was curious how Toni was allowed to hold such a prestigious position in a Community so obsessed with the idea of women being homemakers. Cal had told her that Toni was married to her work, but Frida wondered if the real reason Toni was single was because she still held a torch for Micah. Or maybe she and Micah were still an item. Possibly, but Frida didn’t bring it up with Cal. If anyone at Pines were to ask her for information, she wouldn’t have any; if she were truly ignorant, she’d be better off.

Cal was still singing from the closet. It made her think of Rachel, belting it out at the campfire. They were probably all happy that the winter had turned out so mild, and that spring was just around the bend. She wondered how Anika was doing. She wanted to believe the place had returned to normal, that she and Cal had been forgotten.

She pictured Peter cooking on the outdoor stove at the Millers’ place. And then she imagined her brother, standing on the Church stage. He was alive, but she had to pretend he wasn’t. She wanted to pretend that. It was the price she paid for this large, sunny room with its fluffy cream-colored carpeting, its big bed, with side tables to match. Or no: the price was the mild but nagging guilt she felt every morning, waking to this new life.

Frida sat up. If Cal was going to emerge from the walk-in closet fully dressed, maybe even with his shoes on, she should at least drink some water and chew a piece of Refresh! so that she didn’t have morning breath. She swung her legs to the side of the bed and placed a hand on her stomach, which was so big and round it looked silly, like she’d swallowed a globe. The veins beneath her skin were like river lines on a map. Her belly button had popped weeks ago. The baby danced inside of her.