Swansong (38 page)

I don’t know.  I don’t know…

The Law of Conservation of Energy.  Our thoughts are energy.  Our thoughts aren’t going anywhere.  Even if—

“You don’t know that,” Kory says angrily.  “When this universe gets ready to die, it will achieve a state of total thermodynamic equilibrium.  Energy will stop converting to mechanical work and, instead, deteriorate to useless, tepid heat.  That’s what physicists are talking about when they call the end of the universe a theoretical heat death.”

“Heat death?”

Energy.  Heat.  If this universe dies, I don’t know what form we’ll all take.  I don’t know if I’ll still be me.

If this universe wakes up, the dream will end.

But there are other dreams.  Other realities.  All particles are multitasking by nature.  “Superposition—”

“Wave-particle duality?  How do you know that’s not a part of this universe’s dream, too?”

Adam.  Adam, what will happen if you wake up?

Do I really want to know?

Kory has been my best friend since the accident.  Now he strikes me as something terrible and inhuman.  My reason is selfish, and probably childish:  He’s scaring me.  He thinks he’s some kind of self-appointed cosmic guardian.  If it’s true that there’s only one mind, that that mind is the mind of the universe, then he is the universe’s Id.  Not my own.

No.  There’s no difference.  That’s what he and Annwn have been telling me all along.

He and Annwn.  That’s…

This universe sits inside a black hole.  Suddenly I can understand how, in this instance, I might be that black hole.  Suddenly I can see how I can either kill this universe or save it.

This universe made me who I am.

And there is never going to be another me.

“Will you do it?” Kory asks, earnest, tentative.

“Fine.”  He wins.  He picked the smartest strategy.  I never stood a chance.

I’ve been such an idiot.

Kory reaches into his thick mess of a hair.  At first I’m not sure what he’s doing.  I half-wonder whether he’s going to pull out a series of wires, reveal he’s some kind of supercomputer, plug them into the wall and make archaic dial-up sounds.

He does pull something out of his hair—out from behind his ear.  I’d find it funny if I weren’t so defeated.  But then I see what that something actually is.

My badger brush.  The one I lost months ago.  The bristled hairs are still stained with salmon paint.

“Where did you…”

He hands it to me.  “I’m sorry.  I had to hide it.  I was afraid of what you might do with it.”

He wilts.  “I do care about you, you know.  It’s always been about you.”

* * * * *

I don’t know what to make for lunch.  I lean against the kitchen counter.  I can hear the news playing in the sitting room.  Jude’s probably looking for the baseball scores.

Judas.  He should have friends.  He should have a girlfriend.  I don’t want him living the rest of his life punishing himself for a crime he committed when he was a stupid teenager.  It was a horrific crime:  He took another man’s life.  But even so…

I’m selfish.  I’m not afraid to admit that.  I love Judas.  I don’t care what he’s done.  He could have killed everyone in The Spit.  He’s still my brother.

My brother is a murderer, but so am I.

Jocelyn.  My mind is crueler than I knew.  I can’t believe I thought I saw…

Why a bullet wound?  That scar on her neck.  Why would I imagine something like that?  Jocelyn was an amazing singer.  I never would have wanted to take her singing voice away.

If Joss had really survived the wreck with me, I think none of this past year would have happened the way it did.  I think I would have coped a little better.  Joss had a way of making you realize when you were being an idiot.  She had this Look she gave you: slow, sideways, eyebrows raised, mouth puckered in an unsaid
Ew
.  She was a genius in her own way.  That’s why it’s so laughable she didn’t realize she was adopted until three summers ago.  When your parents are black, and you’re Asian…

Mom.  It’s Mom that I want.  It’s Mom whose gray hairs hide secrets, whose unwavering eyes still qualms.  Heaven lies under our mothers’ feet.

My eyes mist over with hot tears.  Not again.

I pull my cell phone out of my pocket.  It feels as if my fingers are moving independently of my will.  I pull up the web browser.  I pull up the news articles.  I clear the tears from my eyes with my knuckles, aching, bruising.

Four Killed in Motor Vehicle Accident
.  The words warp themselves on the cell phone screen.  They spin in circles, letters scrambling.  I hate it.  Ever since the accident, reading has become a near insurmountable task.

I close the browser window.  I draw an unsteady breath.  I can taste salt in the back of my throat.

Boy Sentenced to Prison for Manslaughter.

I don’t know how Jude’s article came up.  Browser history, unsteady fingers—probably some combination of the two.  I stare at the old photograph of Judas.  He looks like a little boy.  Freckles dot his rosy face.  His arms and shoulders are frail.  His gray eyes are dead, hidden behind lank curtains of hair, steepled by a widow’s—

My cell phone hits the floor.

Is it possible that you’ve forgotten something important?

My stomach twists into ribbons and shreds like frayed patchwork.  My vision swims, spotty and dark.

“Wendy?”

Judas peeks into the kitchen, dumbfounded.  I kneel on the floor and scoop up my phone.

I look up at him.  Something—some force outside of me—gives me the presence of mind to fake a smile.

“Sorry,” I say.

It’s not my voice.  It’s not my smile.

He heads back into the sitting room.

My fingers are shaking.

On shaking knees, I rise from the floor.  I stuff my phone into my pocket.  I shunt quietly out of the kitchen.

I ease open the door to Judas’ bedroom.  I slip inside and close the door behind me.  I flip the light switch.

Light bounces around the room.  It bounces off the guns on the floor.  An M24 sniper.  An M1918.  A carriage, a night scope.  Box magazines full of cartridges.

My stomach is lead and ice.

I kneel by the drawers next to Judas’ bed.  I pull them open.  Papers stare back at me.  Stacks and stacks of papers and folders.  The folders all bear the UNICOR logo, a green dash and a red sphere.  I rifle through the papers with quick fingers—shaking fingers.  I can’t make sense of them.  The walls of text mean nothing to me.

In the bottom drawer, in the bottom pile, I find what I’m looking for: an ID card.  My heart is in my throat and my throat is on fire, my head pounding with visceral pain.  I don’t want to look.  I have to look.  I have to know who I’ve been sharing a home with for the past six months, because he isn’t Judas Rozas.

The picture on the ID is not Judas Rozas.  He looks like him—like the man I’ve been living with—but he is not Judas Rozas.  For one, there aren’t any scars on his face.  There aren’t any freckles.  His hair is much shorter.  His skin is less waxy, his eyes less gaunt.  He doesn’t have a widow’s peak.

My brother had a widow’s peak.

“Wendy?”

The bedroom door slides open.  Judas glances inside, his face free of any expression.

Judas doesn’t have a widow’s peak.

Judas is not Judas.

Help me, God.  Please help me.

“Wendy,” Judas says.

My brother is a stranger.  I can’t read his face.  I can’t read his voice.  My brother is not my brother.  He—

He steps into the bedroom and I cast a frightened, definitive look at the name atop the ID card:

Ash Galloway.

* * * * *

“Wendy,” Judas says.

He’s not Judas.

“Who the hell—”

I don’t finish.  I know who he is.  It says so on the ID.

I’m supposed to have killed him.  I’m supposed to have killed my entire family.

He’s my brother.

He’s not my brother.

Where is my brother?

“Wendy!”

It’s the first time I’ve ever heard Judas raise his voice.

He’s not Judas.

“Listen to me,” Judas says.  “Give me that card, Wendy.  I’ll explain.”

“No.”  I hold it tighter, clutch it closer.

“Wendy—”

“Give me my brother back.”  There are tears on my cheeks.  How did that happen?  Blazing, silent, they burn through my resolve.

“Wendy—”

“Go back to being my brother,” I beg.

You were at the center of the universe.

“If you’ll just listen—”

The pain in my head is nonpareil.

My head cracks open.  I can hear it.  I swear I can.  I can hear the splitting of bone, the tearing of sinewy skin.  I can feel raw air hitting the tip of my spinal column.

Particles burst out of my head, stars bursting, flaring, dying, dispersing in clouds, bursting again, flaring again, satellites emerging from their hot depths, milky moons and watery planets and cold rocks collapsing into black holes, black holes flaring, stars flaring, stars dying, dark matter streaming in ribbons, twisting and tying together, darkening to black, black velvet powdered with distant galaxies, black holes at the centers of the galaxies, universes at the centers of the black holes—

—Black hole, Schwarzschild radius, I am a number, a flickering number, pattering with raindrops, raindrops of light, light dies as it gives birth, the nuclear fission of stars—

—My fingers peel back, my hands, my wrists, my arms, my ankles, my legs, black, black, nothing—

—Universe inside of a black hole, I am a black hole, I with my red hair, Lady Lazarus rising from the fire, eating worlds like men eat air—

I am at the center of the universe.

But so are you.

But you are not Judas.

Paradidomi
.  Hand me over to God.  Strip me of my human flesh.

The universe is dying.  The universe is waking up.

16

World War II

I wake up on the cold cement floor, the nineteenth floor of the abandoned factory.  I push myself up on my hands and knees.

I watch the snow falling through the unfinished window.  It’s freezing cold, gusts of air stinging my fingers, numbing my bones.

The winter sun is a white light, a cool light, spilling inside my safe haven, dimly illuminating the City High poster on one wall, the giant mural on the other.  I stare at the lighthouse in longing, the elegant rock sitting out at sea.  I can’t go back.  You can never go home again.

“Wendy.”

Joss crouches next to me.  I sit up straight.  I back away from her.

“Wendy!” she says, testy.  Her voice is so hoarse.  Her hair is so filthy.  “For God’s sake.  You’ve been out cold for—like—ever.”

“You’re
dead
,” I stammer.  Please help me, God.  “You aren’t really here.”

Joss lets out a sound of impatience.  “I’m talking to you right now.  So I’m pretty sure I’m here, yeah?”  Her face takes on a graver undertone.  “You look awful, Wendy…”

“You’re not real.”  I want to die.  All along, I’ve wanted to die.  But no one really wants to die.

Jocelyn sucks on the inside of her cheek.  I forgot she used to do that.  “Well, almost, but…”

I look at my paint easel.  The canvas is blank.  No Sinbad painting.  I look to the left of the easel, where Azel’s prayer rug should be.  It’s not there.

I feel a cloud lifting from my shoulders, my head.  I feel myself waking up.

“So, yeah,” Joss says.  “You were out of it for a couple of days.  I gave you soup when I could, you know, when you weren’t mumbling in your sleep or hacking at me.”  She brightens.  “It’s good for you!  Want some?”

“Azel…”  Is he gone?  But then—  But Jocelyn’s—

I can’t trust my own mind.  I see things that aren’t there.  I remember things that haven’t happened.

Judas—

Did even that happen?  Or did I imagine that, too?

“Oh, Wendy,” Joss says.  She puts her hands on my shoulders.  She squeezes.

It feels just like her.  It feels so real.

“Are you real, Joss?”

I’ve missed her.  I’ve wanted her to be real.

“I’m real enough to know that you stink!” Joss says.  “There’s still water in the boiler room.  Which is totally dumb, because with this weather, the pipes could have burst.  But I disconnected the pex lines, so that’s okay.  Oh, but I’ve been too scared to take a bath on my own, but since you’re here…”

I’m here.  She’s here.

Azel’s not here.  There’s no trace of him anywhere in the hideout.  Not even a single page from a poetry book.

I’ve woken up, haven’t I?

“Joss—”  Suddenly I’m scrambling to her on hands and knees.  Suddenly I’m throwing my arms around her in a hug.

“Oh, babe,” Joss says.  She hugs me tightly.  I can’t tell which of us is the one trembling.  “I’m so glad they didn’t kill you.  I’m so glad you’re alive…”

“How are you
alive
?” I choke out.  “They—you—you died, I know you did.  The car—”

Ash.  Ash Galloway.  He didn’t die.  He’s—

“I was supposed to, I’m sure.  Oh, but I didn’t know what
happened
to you!  I had to get rid of my phone—and I couldn’t just walk into some building and show my face, that would’ve been dumb—”

“What?  You—”  What is she talking about?  “You didn’t know I survived?”  How did she survive?

“Well,” she says, “when you disappeared, of course I thought…  But I didn’t know…”

“Wait—”  Disappeared?

“You don’t remember?  I don’t know what happened, I swear I didn’t hear a sound and then I came out and there they
were
and you
weren’t
, oh, Wendy, I’m so sorry—”

“Wait.”  Jocelyn can lose her head if you let her.  I let go of her, sit back and peruse her face.  Peruse the bullet scar on her neck.  “Wait.”

“I keep thinking,” she babbles on, “if I hadn’t gone to the bathroom—”

“Joss, wait.”

Joss closes her mouth.  Her dirty hair all falls to one side when she tips her head expectantly.

“Okay,” I start slowly.  Too much.  Too fast.  But she’s—she’s here.  She’s really here.

Isn’t she?

“Jocelyn,” I say.

She sniffles.

“Tell me what happened,” I say.

“You don’t remember?”

I squeeze her hand to encourage her.  A dam bursts.  The words flood out of her mouth.

“Okay, so, it was your birthday, right?  And I came over to give you your present—”  The charm bracelet.  It’s still around my wrist.  “—and then I told you I got all A’s again and your dad said, ‘Well, I’m feeding Wendy whatever your folks feed you!’  And then your mom said ‘Right now let’s feed her birthday cake.’  And she opened the oven.  And the cake was burned, because, well, it’s your
mom.
  But then your dad was all ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got spares.’  And he took out a store-bought cake and your mom got all huffy.’

The more I listen, the more my heart sinks.  “Go on…”

“So I went to the bathroom, right?  I just wanted to call my folks, ask them if I could have some cake with you guys.  You know Dad has that vendetta against frosting, he says it comes from lard.  Or lye.  Or something.  So I told him it was an organic cake.  Whatever that means.  And he said it would be okay if I just ate the—the spongey parts…”

I grip her hand.  She sounds like she has a head cold all of a sudden.

“When I left the bathroom—oh, Wendy, I swear I didn’t hear anything, I don’t know how—your—your folks, they were—”

Her face has soured to a shade of stale milk.  “Please tell me,” I say quietly.

“They were—they were
dead
, Wendy, they were lying there and there was blood—so much of it—”

My heart feels as if it’s filled with ice.  I don’t remember this.  I don’t remember blood.

“You were gone,” Joss says.  “I mean, you weren’t there.  With them.  I thought—well, I don’t know what I thought.  Maybe you ran away.  I figured I should run, too.  Then this woman rounded the corner and she had a gun and it had a silencer on it and—she
shot me
, Wendy, why would she—?”

“I don’t know.”  I don’t understand.  “I don’t know.”

“Anyway,” Joss says, releasing one long breath.  She tucks her matted hair behind her ears.  “I couldn’t go back home.  I figured—well, obviously I wasn’t meant to survive, but I did, didn’t I?  I thought—put yourself in my place—if I went home, whoever it was, they’d find me, they’d kill Mom and Dad, and I couldn’t—”

“You haven’t been home?”  Where are Mr. and Mrs. Jordan?  Judas—not Judas—he said we visited them to pay them our condolences.  Was that true?  Or was that a part of the lie?

What’s real?  What’s the lie?

“I haven’t been home since June,” Jocelyn says.  She shows me a teary, shaking smile.  “I miss them so much.  I just hope they’re okay.”

“Y-Yeah…”  Their phone’s disconnected.  Something tells me—a sinking feeling—they’re not okay.

“But anyway,” Jocelyn says.  “Where did you wind up?  Oh, but you don’t remember that.  You have a scar on your cheek, did they shoot you, too?  Am I talking too much?”

“It’s—it’s fine.”  I smile at her.  Half of me means it.  She’s here.  She’s alive.  Until my mind has reason to tell me otherwise—  “Joss, I—that’s not the official story.”

“Whaddo you mean…?”

“What they’re saying happened.”  Who are “they”?  “They said—”  My head’s spinning.  “There was a car accident.  That’s what they told me when I woke up in the hospital.”

A frown tugs at Jocelyn’s lips.  “It did not look like a car accident.”

It’s such a Joss thing to say, I can’t help myself; I throw my arms around her for a second hug.  She reciprocates all too eagerly, her arms like vices.  I know now, with all my heart, that she’s missed me just as much as I’ve missed her.

I let go.  “My phone…?”  I’m wearing two winter jackets.  I don’t recognize either of them.

“Oh!”  Joss throws her shoulders back.  “I took it from you so they couldn’t track us.  Don’t worry, I didn’t throw it away, I just shut it off.  Um—but you really shouldn’t be making phonecalls, Wendy, I’m pretty sure somebody’s trying to kill us…”

I laugh.  This is crazy.  This is nuts.  “I don’t want to call anyone.  I was going to show you—the articles.  They’re saying there was a car wreck last June.  You and Mom and Dad supposedly all died in it.”

“Uh—really…?”

“Mom and Dad were in the back.  You and I were in the front.”

“Well, that’s a load of horse hockey!” Joss declares fiercely, scrunching her face.  “For one, I would never sit in the front seat of a car!  It’s extremely unlucky!  Also, the airbags smell when they’re deployed!  I’ve never experienced it myself, but everyone says it’s true, so it must be.”

“Jocelyn.”  She’s alive.  My best friend—she’s right here.  I didn’t kill her.  I didn’t kill my parents.

My parents are dead.  Judas is not my brother.

“Jocelyn.”  I want to grip my head, but—it’s strange:  It doesn’t hurt anymore.  “The woman with the gun—do you remember?  Anything about her?”

“Well,” Jocelyn says, worrying her lip, “she was kind of nondescript…  You know, nothing to write home about, but…  Oh, her uniform?  So she was definitely paramilitary, right?  She almost looked like SWAT, but the vest was way off.”

I frown.  That doesn’t really tell us anything, except that the woman with the gun wasn’t Armed Forces.

Who would want to kill my parents?  Who would want to kill Jocelyn?  Why didn’t they kill me?

Ash Galloway.  I’m supposed to have killed him, too.  But I didn’t.  I’ve been living with him for the past seven months.

Jude—not Jude, he’s—he had all those papers from UNICOR.  He told me last summer that UNICOR was a company that built everything from cars to bombs.

Cars.  There wasn’t a car wreck.  I’ve been lied to all these months.

Judas has been lying to me all these months.

Who else was in on it?  Dr. Moritz?  Dr. Grace?  That awkward social worker?  How many of them knew there never was a car accident?  Dr. Moritz had to have known.  All those times he shoved me in a glass casket—on Dr. Grace’s recommendation, oh, God—

—If there never was a car accident, where did my head injury come from?

Why was I allowed to live?  What’s going on?

Azel.  Azel’s belongings aren’t here anymore.

“We’re going to have to hide here a while,” Jocelyn says.  She puts her arms around her knees.  She sits next to me, close to me, lending me her warmth.  “I go out and steal food at night.  We really should try and bathe, I don’t know how well the boiler’s insulated, I hope the water hasn’t frozen…”

I am not alone.

“Joss, do you know UNICOR?  Do you know anything about them?”

Jocelyn’s nose twitches.  “Aren’t they, uh, that company that gives jobs to inmates?  Dad’s always complaining about them, he calls them ‘legal terrorists.’  Says they get away with a lot of gross stuff.  And the pay’s really bad.”

“I think that woman who shot you—”  The woman who killed my parents.  “—I think she’s with UNICOR.”

“What?  Why?”

I tell her, as quickly as I can, about Judas.

“What?  That’s nuts!  Oh my God, ew, you’ve been living with a terrorist!”

“Y-Yeah…”  But he was my brother.

“Wendy, what are we going to do?  They don’t know about this place, but…”

“How have you been surviving all these months?”

“Like I said, I operate at night.  I lived in a subway for a few weeks.  Homeless people can be very kind.”

“I’m sure they can…”

“Anyway, if you need to use your cell phone for any reason, you’d better limit yourself to seven minutes or less.  That’s how long it takes your phone to ping new radio towers.  That’s when they find us.  Oh, your phone’s probably caput, you didn’t bring the charger, did you?  I know how you can get a couple extra hours with a double A battery, I’ll have to lift one next time I go out…”

This is Jocelyn, and she’s talking about shoplifting.  Jocelyn never would have talked like this in the past.

Half a year can really change a person.  I wonder how it’s changed me.

“Joss?” I start, surprised at my own timidity.

“What’s up, babe?”

“Are you real?” I ask, withering.  So much has been fake.  So much has…  I don’t know what’s real and what’s fake from one moment to the next.

“Didn’t you ask that already?” Joss retorts, bewildered.  “It’s like you banged your head or something!”

I did.  But I didn’t.

I don’t know what’s real anymore.

* * * * *

Today, I think, is December 28th.  Jocelyn jabbers a mile a minute about her exploits in the underground, all the food franchises that toss perfectly edible meals in their dumpsters, all the people she’s met at landfills and behind shooting galleries.  I can’t believe the shady way she’s been living these past months.  I feel so sorry for her, I can’t help taking her into a hug.  She looks at me strangely—her sideways Look, the one with her lips pursed and her eyebrows raised—and I know for sure that I have her back.