Those That Wake 02: What We Become (34 page)

“A little while ago,” he said, “I had a conversation with a librarian. She mentioned something to me that piqued my interest. Naturally, I pursued it with all the resources at my disposal. Even so, I’ve really only been able to piece together its rudiments. Nevertheless, I’m certain you’ll agree that it is a sufficient foundation to begin our campaign upon. It’s called the Global Dynamic.”

He explained it to her, a theory of social interaction that could predict trends on a global scale. Its seed, Aaron’s research had revealed, was in Jung’s theory of the collective unconscious, which posited a measureless, ineffable connection between all of humanity. The Global Dynamic, however, was, to Aaron’s outlook, far more practical in application. It recognized seemingly small, disassociated behavior in relatively tiny social samples as part of a much larger, integrally connected tapestry that, when taken with other apparently disparate trends, created a massive indicator of where the world was headed. The example Aaron used was of a precipitous rise in the sales of action figures in the United States serving as an indicator that the nation was headed inevitably into a war. This, he explained, was merely the tip of the iceberg. Sales of certain resources could be tracked to predict or conceivably even manipulated to alter the course of human relations the world over.

“The Old Man employed the Global Dynamic. I guess he didn’t share very well.”

Kliest shook her head absently, her icy eyes distant.

“How do you feel about the five-year plan now?” Aaron asked, unable to mask the timbre of childlike pride in his voice.

The power inherent in accurate cultural forecasting was vast, and when wielded by someone with her experience, her knowledge, the implications were . . . absolute. She nodded slowly and with a dawning hope that felt positively alien to her.

“Less than five years, I think.”

When will it end?

This was the question Maddie Grant asked herself, staring up at the cold, sterile emergency room lights as the doctor probed with professional thoroughness. He was doing his job, just as the policewoman had been doing hers, asking an endless litany of quietly agonizing questions, each repetition with the words strategically rearranged in order to catch any discrepancies, any slips, any lies.

The doctor’s face—young, bleary-eyed, wildly uncombed hair, five o’clock shadow—reappeared in her vision. Her right eye was blurry with tears; her left was swollen closed, though no longer caked with dried blood, thanks to the doctor’s alcohol-saturated swabs.

“That’s all finished,” the doctor said, snapping off the rubber gloves and sending them into a nearby garbage can. “I have to go speak to the officer. Are you okay?”

He meant, of course, was there anything he could immediately do for her, though the further-reaching implications of his question rang through Maddie’s thirteen-year-old body like a hammer blow. She was not okay. She would never be okay again.

She nodded.

“Someone will be here in a minute.” He lingered for just an instant longer than he needed to before leaving her alone with her pain. She did have her choice there, though: Dwell on the shredding physical pain, and she could hold the emotional pain at bay. Focus on the emotional pain, and the physical pain dulled briefly.

The corporation her father worked for had folded, robbing him of his entire existence. He had become redundant. Binges of liquor, stammered whispers about how he got what he deserved, after years of tearing apart other people’s lives like they were just numbers on paper. His guilt was eventually transferred to Maddie’s mother, now a statistic on a police blotter, and then to Maddie herself. Then there was a foster home for Maddie, and a boy there who seemed like he might offer comfort. A boy who turned out not to be what he seemed at all.

His angry hands, his mean, probing fingers, had torn her last hope away. She would allow the hospital to patch her up, the police to escort her out, and she would survive just long enough to . . .

The metal rings of the curtain slithered along the rod, foretelling an entrance. A shadow fell over Maddie’s face and held for a moment before it moved closer, and a face came into view. It was a girl’s face, and it seemed impossibly young, even to Maddie. The honey-colored hair was so short it was nearly a crew cut, revealing a delicate, scrubbed face and a pair of brown eyes so large they seemed like they should be staring out of a Japanese cartoon.

“Hi,” the girl said. “My name is Rose Santoro. I’m a volunteer advocate.” Her voice was gentle and quiet but not in the least tentative. “May I sit down with you?”

Maddie didn’t respond, thinking perhaps that would be indication enough of how she felt.

The girl sat and filled the silence with more soft words.

“I’m here to help you any way I can.”

Help her?
It was almost—
almost
—enough to make Maddie laugh. Maddie turned, found the brown eyes, intending to show Rose what was left of this girl on the hospital bed, to show her how much
help
she could be. But then Maddie saw something in the brown eyes. She saw the pain within those eyes even as she saw her own reflection in them, one and the same. She saw the pain in Rose’s eyes and saw that Rose was alive, here, in the business of helping.

“You can find the strength to make it through this,” Rose said. “I promise you, you can find the strength.”

A young woman named Laura drove into a small town. The towns had it harder than the cities. The corporations were so tied into the infrastructure of cities that the companies couldn’t afford to abandon them. Even in the face of regulation, they fought to cut corners while remaining crucial to the survival of cities. Towns were easier to abandon, up and move factories out, like the proverbial rats scurrying from a burning house.

Laura had driven through more than one of these towns. This was her life for the time being, driving from place to place, seeing the people who lived there and how they lived. She shared a day with them, or a week. She shared their food, walked their streets, learned their names, and spoke to them. Her face and her voice became familiar for a time, in restaurants, bars, stores, town meetings—a friendly presence with a kind word to offer. Many of the people would later comment that, when they spoke to her, they felt like the strangers here and that they were speaking to someone who was at home, who knew where she was and what she was doing, even though it was their town and she was the visitor.

Sometimes, in a few of these towns that she passed through, things might begin to change. A month later a motion might be made at a meeting to rally support behind a local farmer, to tie the fortunes of several local businesses together such that they could support one another and profit from each other’s business, or an ordinance would be passed that an hour a week of community service was now required to graduate from the high school. A decision might be made to lean the town toward one sort of merchandise—automotive parts, say, or canned vegetables—and that the town get behind this one industry and make its existence valuable to a nearby city. Or a library might be put up. Or a park might be built. Or volunteerism might see a steep rise.

Sometimes this would happen, though it would seldom be directly attributed to anything Laura said or did. They mainly remembered her after she was gone, not just for her friendly manner, but for something that fluttered just beneath it: a sense of quiet inside her, a melancholy. Some of the more astute people called it a longing, and their sense was that it was built deep into her bones, as much a part of her as her blood or her heart, and that it would never leave her. It was, in fact, part of what made her so easy to be around, this idea that she was holding on to some of the trouble in the world and keeping it at bay.

They might mention her in an offhanded conversation during lunch break or in a wistful reminiscence over a beer after work. They mentioned her and kept on going with their lives.

And Laura, she just kept on going.

You start writing a book in solitude, carrying it on its journey by yourself. But before long, people lend their support and you find, all of a sudden, that if they hadn’t been helping you, you’d have dropped the damn thing miles back. Thanks to the people below who did more than their fair share of heavy lifting on behalf of this book and its author.

My incomparable agent Jason Anthony, who knows how to guide and—when necessary—wrestle an author and a story toward their greatest potential, not only with confidence and strength but with reason, patience, and care.

The keenly intelligent and impossibly dapper Will Lippincott for his masterful guardianship and for swooping to the rescue when a rescue was sorely needed.

My insightful editor Julia Richardson, whose precise and perceptive suggestions put the final, indispensable touches on
What We Become
with grace and subtlety.

All the folks at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, including Jennifer LaBracio, Karen Walsh, Kate Greene, Jeannette Larson, and the fleet-footed Amy Carlisle, who put their time, resources, and greatest effort into both
What We Become
and
Those That Wake.

The Jefferson Market branch of the New York Public Library, if acknowledging a building is allowed, for providing the quiet atmosphere and evocative architecture necessary to writing large portions of both this book and the last.

Always and forever to Maren, Zoe, and Verity for inspiring me to find the best in myself and, sometimes, even a little bit more. And a special thanks to V, for coming up with the name “Rose.”

J
ESSE
K
ARP
is a school librarian in Greenwich Village and the author of
Those that Wake.
He grew up in and loves New York City, where he lives with his family. Visit him at
www.beyondwhereyoustand.com
.