Swansong (41 page)

“Don’t you think you’re a little too old for wrestling?”

“You’re never too old for the Undertaker!  Did you know he got burned once by a pyro that went off too soon, but he went on with the match like nothing had happened?”

“Please tell me you don’t believe that crap.”

“It’s real!  I saw it happen!”

Joss pushes the blank canvases off of my bed and onto the sand-colored carpet.  She sits on the mattress with a little bounce.

“Can I ask you something?” Joss says.

Surprised, I sit with her.  “Sure.  What?”

“If I ran away from home, would you let me live with you?”

“Uh—”  Well, that’s…  “Sure, Joss, but…don’t you think your parents would wonder where you’d gone?”

“Ugh, no, they’re the reason I’m running away in the first place!  Mom’s on one of her whacky diets again, she wants to replace all the food in our kitchen with soy products. 
Je refuse!
”

I pick up my pillow.  I smack her with it.

* * * * *

Crystalline shadows flutter across the factory ceiling, the reflections of stars and snow outside.  Kory lies curled up on the prayer rug, snoring.  Azel stands guard by the door.  I wish he’d come lie down with us.

I huddle under jackets and blankets, the floor hard beneath my back.  I watch the flame dancing inside Dad’s cherry-print kerosene lamp.  I swear I can hear his voice.  I miss him more than ever.

“Can’t sleep?” Annwn whispers.

I tense.  I relax.  She’s not going to hurt me.  She crouches next to me, her beret askew on her head.  Her velvet skirt looks warm, her Peter Pan collar lined with fur.

“No,” I admit.  But I want to.  I want to sleep.  I want to dream.

We are the universe’s best and only dream.

Annwn hums softly.  She sits, stretching out her legs.  “Too bad we don’t have any milk,” she says.

“Milk?” I ask, dumbfounded.

“My father used to give me warm milk when I couldn’t sleep—which was quite often.”

If I was dumbfounded before, I’m absolutely bewildered now.  I never thought—  I didn’t see her as human.  I didn’t see her as having a family.

Just because she exists in my imagination doesn’t mean she isn’t real.  Here and now, that’s what I finally realize.  I have parents—I have hobbies—but just like Annwn, I exist in someone else’s imagination.  We all of us exist only because we are observing one another.

“Yeah,” I finally respond, grasping at something—anything—to say.  “You always look tired.  No offense,” I add, apologetic.

On cue, she yawns.  I almost laugh.  I make sure and keep my voice down.  Kory’s sleeping like a log over there, but I don’t want to wake him.

“How about a song?” Annwn suggests.

“But—your violin?”  I don’t see her violin anywhere.

“Violins are no good for lullabies.  Here.”

She shifts closer to me.  Then—blindsiding me—she takes my head in her hands.  She lets my head rest on her knees.

Mom.  She smells like Mom.  Citrus body wash.

Mom.  I’m sorry.  I never got to thank you.  Thank you for teaching me being an artist isn’t silly.  Thank you for giving birth to me when you could have chosen otherwise.  Thank you for burning my birthday cakes.  Thank you, Mom.  Thank you.  Please come back.

Annwn sings to me, her scarcely more than a rhythmic whisper.  Rose of roses and flower of flowers. 
Rosa das rosas, e fror das frores.

A Superego might not be a bad thing to have.  I learned firsthand what a problem it is when all you want is to escape your life, when you neglect to actually live.  But if you also neglect the part of you that hopes and longs for something more, the part of you that drives to experience something the human race has never experienced…  It was a Superego that first intimated beautiful stories about God.  The Superego is what croons love songs to high school sweethearts, crafts bawdy instruments and tragic Swan Princesses, writes the words to your mystery novels, paints hazy watercolors and puts together poems that roll from the tongue like melted butter.  Without Superego, we might as well be animals.  We might as well have never left the sea.

Annwn tucks her curls behind her ear.  I catch a glint of the silver-gilt swan hanging from her left wrist.  The silver-gilt swan piercing her ear.

She never wanted to hurt me, did she?  She just wanted a way out.

She was lonely.

I was lonely.

It’s okay now.  I’ve found a way out.

“Want to be friends sometime?” I ask Annwn.  She’s stopped singing.

“I would like that, Wendy,” Annwn says placidly.  “Assuming our timelines ever line up.”

I laugh, just a little.  “What do you mean?”

“I am a time-traveler.”

“O-Oh.  That’s…”  That would explain the hair.

* * * * *

I budge open the thatched door and creep into the kitchen.  The wood-coal stove and the traditional firepit are shoved against one wall, the steel refrigerator built into the other.  Mom’s new tablecloth, red and floral, looks pretty, if out of place, on the scrubbed table.  But what’s on top of the tablecloth looks a lot prettier: a newly baked lemon pie.

I know I’m not supposed to.  I know I haven’t had lunch yet.  But if lunch is avocadoes again—

“Ahem,” says a voice behind me.

I whirl around, guilty, and come face-to-face with Dad.  His belly looks bigger than ever, his dark hairline receding.  He’s so tall, he has to stoop to fit through the doorway.

“Sorry,” I say, slouching.

“You can’t eat it without me!  That’s not fair!”

He opens the drawers and finds knives and forks.  I pull clean plates out of the dishwasher.  I glance furtively at the doorway, make sure Mom’s not lurking nearby.  Through the open door I can see the front door—also open—and the ocean outside of it, a bright and beautiful jewel.  Saline air wafts inside like a home remedy, fresh, familiar.

Dad and I sit at the table together, hunched secretively over our plates.  The warm lemon filling tastes so good, it alleviates the guilt on impact.

“Summer vacation, eh?” Dad says.

“Can you take me fishing with you?” I ask, grinning.  There’s nothing better than being on the ocean with your old man, helping him reel in a forty-pound steelhead.

“We’ll come to that,” Dad says brusquely.  “First I want to have a chat with you.”

“But aren’t we chatting now—?”  He’s so confusing sometimes.

“Don’t get smart with me, little lady!  We’re going to talk about…men.”

“Oh,” I say.  I slump listlessly in my seat.  I have lost my appetite.

“Now, men are from Mars,” Dad says.  “And women are from Venus.  And if you’ve ever watched Marvin the Martian, you’ll know he’s constantly trying to blow up Earth.”

“W-What?”  Isn’t this what they call a non sequitur?

“What I’m saying is, watch out for the heavy artillery, because when those guns come a-blazing…  Do you get my drift?”

“No, not really…”

Dad puts his fork down.  He looks me in the eye.  “I know you’ve been talking to some boy on the phone.”

“How?” I stammer, thrown.

“Jocelyn told me so.”

“Oh.”  So I have to kill Jocelyn.

“You’d better not be doing anything naughty with this boy just yet.”

“Dad!”

“I mean it!  Have you ever read
Dogfight
by William Gibson?  The lead girl—I forget her name—her parents implant her with a neural block so she can’t give up her goodies to naughty boys.  I have half a mind to implant you with a neural block!”

“And I have half a mind to shove my fork through my head and forget you ever said that, oh, God,
Dad
—”

“Do you think I’m stupid?  I know what sorts of rubbish teenagers get up to these days.  But I’ll tell you something—you’d better be careful about it.  You see, your mother and I weren’t being very careful when we had you, hon.  We were rather advanced in age.  We didn’t know our parts were functioning at maximum output—full speed ahead, one might say—quite a pleasant surprise you were, never felt like more of a man—”

A scream dies in my throat.  My head meets the table.

“Bottom line:  Unless you want a baby, you had better get yourself on the pill.  The pill won’t kick in for the first two months, so no sleeping with this boy until August.  And I don’t know what kinds of diseases this kid is carrying, so make sure he wraps his stuff, or else it’s No Entry Beyond This Point.  And if, by some chance, you decide you
do
want a baby, just know that your mother and I won’t be raising it.”

“Please help me, God…”

“I’m not embarrassing you, am I?”

“Embarrassing me?  I think I’m clinically dead right now!”

With all this ruckus, it’s a wonder Mom hasn’t stormed into the kitchen and caught us red-handed.  Or lemon-handed.  I glance at the door and find myself hoping for a glimpse of her.  It’s strange.  I almost want her to come in and scold me.  I almost want to hear the sounds of her startled shrieks.

And when they don’t come, I feel empty.  It’s like I haven’t eaten in three days.

* * * * *

The weak morning sunlight is tainted with winter.  I dip my badger brush in the paints on my lacquer palette.  I touch the brush to an old, blank bulk canvas, the sleeping swan lying on the floor beside the easel.

“What are you painting?” Kory asks me.  He rifles idly, disdainfully, through one of Azel’s poetry anthologies.

I turn around to smile at him.  “A way to Adam,” I explain.

He gives me a funny look.

The Higgs boson is running out of mass.  Kory told me so when we first met.  Adam’s running out of mass, and that’s why the universe is dying.

I’ll find Adam.  I’ll give him my mass.  I have enough of it to go around.  A constant efflux of protons inside my skull.

The universe doesn’t have to wake up.  The dream doesn’t have to end.

I look around the factory.  Annwn slides bobby pins into her loose red curls.  Azel peeks out the open window, arms folded casually across his chest.  Kory flops on his back with a light
Ow
and slides his hands behind his head for a buffer.  They are me and I am them.  All seven billion people on this planet are sharing atoms with one another.  By the end of the year, you’ll have traded 98% of your atoms for those of someone you’ve never even met.

When I think about it that way, it’s not just my companions I see in a different light:  It’s me.  I see Kory as Id because he wants to keep me happy and healthy, because he views this universe by its numerical properties.  I see Annwn as Superego because she’s lonely, idealistic, and a little bit mad.  But if I change my perspective—if I shift it, just a little, to Kory’s point of view—then maybe Annwn is the Id because she drives Kory to compete for the universe’s survival.  Maybe I am the Superego because I appear when Kory needs a friend, when his preoccupation with the universe threatens to isolate him from humanity.  If I shift it to Annwn’s view, maybe Kory is the Superego because he reminds her of everything she hates about this universe.  Maybe I am the Id because I refuse to provide her with an exit plan.

Azel is always Ego, though.  It’s funny.  No matter which way I approach him, he is a harmonious bridge between science and spirit.  He is Everything.  He blends together beautifully what should be true and what we want to be true.

The truth is, I can’t experience this universe—this reality—from behind anyone’s eyes but my own.  There are seven billion pairs of eyes on this planet.  Seven billion realities exist side-by-side.  None of those realities contradict one another; yet none of those realities are even remotely alike.

I think that’s incredible.  I think that’s a miracle.

I wish I could convince everyone else that it’s a miracle.

“Wendy,” Kory says.  “Come take your meds.”

* * * * *

The sun blinds me, beautiful, soft and showering.  The wooden wharf beneath my feet is gray with age, rubbed raw with salty sea breeze.  The sea stretches endlessly in every direction—in front of me—behind me—engulfing me in a blue both turbulent and festive.  It’s the domed sky above me that looks like a paint canvas, the clouds painted in fantasy pastels, egg yellow and spring green and sheer pink.

The berths jutting out from the pier are empty.  No tethered boats drifting on exuberant ocean waves.  Sitting on one of the berths is Ash Galloway, his young face smooth, unlined, scarless and freckle-free.  It almost upsets me; because those freckles were proof that he was my brother, that I was his sister.  No.  It’s okay.  He still has my eyes.  They’re rich like thunderclouds, wet and gray.

I join him on the berth.  I say hello.

“Nice out here,” Ash remarks.  The ocean air tosses thick gold wisps of hair in front of his eyes.  His hair is like mine, too.  I can’t just pass it off as a coincidence.