In Real Life

by Elisabeth Warner

  “But, Dad, you’re sick.”

  “No, honey. I’ve got this. I—” He pauses to cough into his fist. Before continuing, he takes a deep breath and pouts in my direction. “I can’t lose you too. Besides, it’s my house, and it would be suspicious if you were here.”

  “Dad, don’t be ridiculous. I—”

  “Let me handle it.” Each word is a labor for him, spoken through gritted teeth.

  But as he turns toward the front door, I break into a sprint for the front door. If anyone’s going to be arrested today, it’s going to be me.

  As I open the door, I hit a rectangular white box. “Is that a…?” The first unopened ration box I’ve seen in two weeks.

  I’ve been here almost a week.

  “Dad, do the patrol officers deliver ration boxes?” I examine it for any suspicious substances or weapons. Nope. Just dirt.

  He grunts as he arrives at the front door. “That was really stupid, ya know that? You could’ve been arrested.”

  “So could you. But it looks like you got your ration box. For some reason, they hand delivered it.”

  “Hand delivered? That’s strange. Also weird that it’s Saturday.”

  I hold the box at arm’s length. “Wait, it’s a day early?” A tremor shoots down my spine as I place it gently on the floor. Maybe it’s something else. “Not everyone can be trusted.”

  I gulp as Dad tells me to open it. Relax. You can do this. If something harmful is in this box, it’s better that I take it than have him suffer further.

  The rip of the box makes me gag, like someone is choking me. When I find a note on top of our food, the grip grows stronger around my neck.

  I take the note out of the box and read it out loud:

  “Mr. Finn Ashley,

  Our records indicate that you have lung cancer and were diagnosed to live three years, as of May 2100. To date, it is April 2101, and you’re still alive. At your last check-in, your heart monitor indicated that you had about three months left to live.

  Since our records also indicate that you live alone, and that you don’t have much longer left to live, this letter is to notify you that you have received your last ration box. We will use the ration boxes that you will have received in the next few weeks of your life to save the resources of our beloved country for big families that need resources more than you do.

  We thank you for your unending sacrifice, and wish you all the best on your future endeavors.

  Sincerely,

  Secretary of the President

  My throat is tight as I clutch the paper, begging for answers. “What? This can’t be…”

  Dad sighs. “Well, I guess this is finally the end.”

  I furrow my eyebrows and grunt in his direction. “What do you mean, you guess? You can’t just let them take your food! How long ago was your last check-in? We should try to prove that you’re getting better, that you have help, that—”

  “Save it, Lin. I had my check-in three months ago, before the shutdown. And if the president says I’m taking resources from people who need it, who am I to argue? We have no way to argue with him anyway! I’m just taking up space until my lungs finally give out.”

  I gasp, my mouth hanging open. “How can you speak so flippantly against yourself like that? How can you speak of yourself as if you’re…as if you’re…a can of soup reaching its expiration date?”

  “Because I am, Lin. We all have to die at some point.” He takes my left hand, and this time, I don’t let go. “When you’re this sick, you’re not really living. You’re just surviving.”

  “Oh.” Dad’s words feel like a punch to the gut. The letter slides out of my right hand’s sweaty fingers and slowly glides toward the floor. When it finally lands on the hardwood, the tears fall down my cheeks.

  Even though I consciously knew that Dad was dying, now it’s real. There’s no going back now. Mom may still be alive somewhere, but where Dad’s going, I can’t be with him. All the memories we made together, all the good times and the bad, are now worthless.

  “I’m sorry, Lin. I know this is hard. Let’s make the most of it. I’m sick of crying and breaking down every time we have a conversation.”

  Dad’s right. I don’t have a lot of time with him, but I need to try to make the most of it. Whatever “it” may be.

  “Are you in pain, Dad?” I say with a lump in my throat, staring at his feet.

  “I am, sweetheart. It hurts a lot. But my pain helped me find hope, and that’s what I want to talk to you about until the day I die.” Dad ambles toward the kitchen. “Let’s clean up the kitchen together.”

  I’m stuck on that word. Hope. I can’t remember the last time I had any sense of hope. Even before the shutdown, my life was a bleak blur of lies, betrayal, and desperation. There’s no hope for me, especially now.

  How can my father have hope during his last days of life?

  Chapter Fourteen

  We throw out the empty pasta box and bean can and slide our dishes into the sink.

  “Come, let’s sit on the couch,” Dad says.

  Our favorite pastime was always watching TV. Sometimes, we’d play games on the Internet, but Dad didn’t like to lose. When Dad had some time off work, we’d also travel through virtual reality, exploring the whole world from the couch where we’re sitting today. But now that the Internet is gone, we have nothing to do but read the paper together and recall previous memories.

  I hold the last newspaper we would receive and skim for any new updates. “The rebel party is under control,” I read. “All possible threats have been brought into question and released or…” The last word catches in my throat. “Annihilated.”

  As my head folds into my hand, I wish Dad didn’t hear me, but he gasps. “What do you think they did to Mom?”

  But I don’t have answers. I don’t want answers. I can’t imagine what they did to her and knowing probably won’t help us feel any better.

  “Lin?”

  I can’t answer. Why did I come back here in the first place? If I’d stayed in my townhouse, I wouldn’t have watched Mom get arrested. She, along with everyone I knew, would’ve been a distant memory. Now she’s gone, and Dad is not too far behind.

  “I need a minute.” Before he can argue with me, I stand and run into my bedroom.

  The rain taps on the window as I close the door and roll onto my bed. Digging my face into the pillow, I scream as loudly as I could, and my tightened muscles relax.

  “Lin!”

  I lift my head off the pillow and look around. I’m on a dark, empty street where life used to be. But no one is here, except for me.

  Whose voice was that?

  “Lin, help me!”

  Mom? I’m afraid to speak it out loud. What if she’s in prison? What if she broke out to try to talk to me?

  I run through the streets that seem to stretch for miles, her desperate plea echoing through my ears. But each turn, each intersection, each red light turning green becomes a dead end, and I’m back where I started. I collapse on the cold pavement, all my energy spent. Mom’s voice is distant now.

  She’s gone.

  A hand on my shoulder startles me awake. Dad’s staring down at me with pursed lips. “Are you okay? I heard screaming.”

  I scan my surroundings and eventually land on his eyes. After all these years, I’ve never realized they were green. “Mom…”

  He clicks his tongue, sitting on the bed. “Lin, I wish I knew where she was or what they did to her, but I can’t know. All I know is that I have you and that we’ll get through this together.”

  I want to fight him. I want to remind him that he doesn’t have much time either, and once he’s gone, I’m alone. But instead, I let him put his arm around me as I sit up and lean into him.

  “You’re right,” I croak, forcing a smile.

  The silence eats up my words and I feel vulnerable, like all my feelings are out into the atmosphere. I need to change the conversation. “You know, when I was li
ving in my townhouse, I would drink tea and watch the sun rise and set every day.” I smile. “At least, except when it’s raining.”

  “Your mother and I would do the same thing. And at night we’d—”

  “Count the stars?”

  “Yes. We made it up to two thousand, one hundred and fifty-eight before, but then one started to twinkle, so we knew it was a satellite, and we had to start all over.”

  “Beats my record. I only counted three hundred and sixty-two.”

  A mo-pod whirs by us on the streets. “I guess counting those things is our new pastime.” Dad chuckles, and I remember when he had a giant belly that would dance as he laughed. Now, he’s skin and bones, saggy flesh where his plump cheeks used to be, but a heart of gold that won’t quit beating.

  I wish I was a doctor. I wish I knew something about my father’s medical condition. But I don’t. I cross one leg over the other as I fix my eyes on the ceiling, which has started to collect cobwebs. Wow, being a banker sure is helpful in this situation.

  This is cruel. This is wrong. There must be a way out of it.

  Hope.

  Ugh, hope. How could my father have hope in a time like this? One day my father will stop breathing. One day he’ll cease to exist. Everything he’s done, everything he’s said will be gone forever. We all die.

  So will I.

  Dad coughs violently next to me and brings me back to reality. No. Not yet. Not so soon.

  Popping out of my seat, I rush to his side and place my hand on his arm. “Dad? Are you okay?” I pick him up from under his shoulders and sit him upright in his chair. “How about some tea? That should be good for your throat.”

  He smiles, and I wonder if the last conversation I’ll ever have with him is about mo-pods.

  I kiss his forehead. “We’ll get through this together.”

  As I make my way to the kitchen, a wave of dirty guilt washes over me. How could I leave Dad to deal with this on his own? I was always his little girl, and I should’ve been there for him. Sure, Mom was here, but she was working a full-time job. I could’ve helped her lighten the load. Why did I run away from the very person that could’ve helped me through my miscarriage, through the affair, through the divorce?

  There has to be something I can do to make up for it, to get rid of this heavy guilt that has plagued me since I heard the diagnosis. Until I figure it out what to do, I’m going to boil water and take a tea bag from the new ration box we received.

  I grab a mug from the kitchen, pour a bottle of water into it, and turn on the hot plate. While I’m preparing the tea, I have a flashback of listening to the Nothing but News podcast. I crave Ace and Brant’s voices speaking the happenings of this country into my ears. They would know what happened to Mom. I miss technology more and more every day, not because of the emotional support it doesn’t provide, but because of how much easier it made my life.

  As I tidy up the kitchen, I wonder how people did this before technology. I know from my anthropology class in college that people existed before technology for thousands of years. But how?

  People worked together. They sacrificed and they collaborated. Sure, we’re all team players in this race of life, or something pathetic like that, but we’re all individual parts. We’re not connected to each other. We don’t need to work together, except to get the job done.

  But what is the job? And are we getting it done?

  I wipe the plates from breakfast this morning with an old rag. Just as the water for the tea whistles, I put the last plate on the shelf. Organized clutter.

  Dad hacks loudly from the other side of the house, where my bedroom is. “Coming, Dad!” I clutch the mug of tea in my hand and try to rush to my father’s aid without spilling any on the floor.

  Chapter Fifteen

  One week goes by so quickly. We still have plenty of food left from our last ration box, but our resources are running thin.

  “Want some dinner?” I rub Dad’s arm, stirring him awake from his recliner. He hasn’t eaten all day.

  With my help, he sits up, but not without a coughing fit. As he lowers his hand, it’s filled with blood.

  “Oh, Dad!” I gag as I instinctively grab an old shirt off the couch and wipe his hands and mouth.

  He smiles.

  “How could you be so happy right now? You’re coughing up blood. That can’t be a good sign.”

  He shakes his head, weakly clearing his throat.

  I bend to his eye level with bent eyebrows. “Dad, do you realize that once you stop breathing, it’s all over?”

  I furrow my eyebrows as he rotates his head from left to right.

  Dad doesn’t understand that he’s dying. What has happened to him?

  “Well, it’s time to face that reality soon. You don’t have much time. You need—”

  He reaches out his dry, flaky hand and places it on mine. “I’ll be fine,” he sputters.

  My heart thumps as I hold back my anger. There’s no point in arguing with him. He’s convinced himself that there’s some sort of hope in the middle of all this. I can’t say anything otherwise.

  I cook the pasta with extra vegetables, using almost half of the remaining ration. Dad needs his strength, and at this point, so do I. The timer from the hot plate dings after a couple of minutes. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice him trying to lift himself from the chair.

  “No, Dad, let me bring you dinner.” I try to put the pasta on the plate fast enough to bring it to him, but it’s too late. A loud thump sounds from the living room.

  “Dad!”

  He groans as he feels around for something to help lift himself. I grab his hand. “Dad, I’m here. It’s okay.”

  As I pull him up, I realize that this is what they did in ancient days. They helped each other. Over the years, technology replaced human power and human need. Our needs were met by Tobi and other virtual assistants.

  At the kitchen table, I share five measly things I’m thankful for. Dad silently smiles and nods. After all the years I complained about this dumb game, I’d do anything to hear him say something again.

  I take a fork, poke a beet in his bowl, and feed him. My online anthropology class taught me that mothers used to teach their kids how to use spoons. They used games, like pretending the spoon was an airplane, to trick the baby into eating. Now I feel like a mother to my own father.

  While I feed Dad, I tell him about the dreams I’ve been having in the two weeks I’ve been here. The soldiers caving in on me. Fighting back and losing. Mom’s fading voice…

  Dad makes a face as I speak. Unlike Tobi, Dad has a face, and a heart, not just words spewed out by an algorithm in his programming. It feels nice.

  “All done.” I gently press the last piece of pasta into Dad’s mouth. He still has half a bowl left, but he’s struggling to stay awake. “How was your food?”

  He answers with a loud burp.

  “Great.” I chuckle.

  I wipe the dishes clean with the rainwater from last night and leave them by the window. Thoughts of Mom threaten to fill my mind, but I push them to the side. Dad’s my priority, and he needs me right now more than ever. I’ll have plenty of time to grieve both of them when he’s gone.

  Watching Dad sit in his recliner, I wonder if his hope is running out. He still has that same goofy smile on his face, pretending that his world isn’t ending. If that’s the hope Dad is clinging to right now, I don’t want it. I don’t want to believe lies, even if they seem to help him feel better.

  Dad stares up at the ceiling, his mouth hanging slightly open.

  “I wish I could talk to you again, Dad. I just want to hear your voice.”

  He grunts in reply. That’s a start.

  Anger rises in me and forces the question out of me: “Has your hope run out yet?”

  He slowly rolls his head back and forth.

  “I don’t know what else there is left. You’re in pain, and you can’t eat. Once you stop breathing, you no longer exist.”
/>   He shakes his head again.

  “Oh, come on! How is this even possible? Do you think somehow the Internet is going to come back in the next couple of days and revive you?”

  Another head shake.

  “In that case, Dad, you have no reason to have hope, do you?”

  His posture changes. He slowly nods with a faint smile.

  I click my tongue. “I wish you could explain yourself. You can barely breathe without coughing up blood.”

  He takes a deep breath, deeper than what’s possible for him in his condition. Startled, I clutch onto his recliner and lean into him, making it easier to hear what he has to say.

  With each labored word, I drink in what he’s saying, as if he has the answers to all my questions.

  “Look…for…God.”

  I lift myself from the chair and gasp. “What has gotten into you? God? What are we, back in the olden days?” I scoff and walk toward my bedroom. “Sorry, Dad, but you’re delusional. And my only hope is that I can convince you that you’re making a grave mistake.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  That night, I’m too afraid to dream. Dad’s source of hope gnaws at me and leaves a gaping hole in my chest. God. I haven’t learned about God, or even heard about the idea, since I was in middle school.

  Instead of laying in bed, I sit by the window and watch the sunrise. My heart leaps as the first sign of light touches the pavement and travels all the way down the road. If I had hope, it would be in the sunrise. As long as the sun’s still shining, I’m happy.

  But what happens when it all goes dark?

  Dad’s asleep next to me, his snores like choking fits. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I almost want to put him out of his misery myself. But how?

  Suddenly, a woman walking down the street catches my eye. Who would be up this early? I scoff at myself. Lin, who do you even know? Anyone could be walking down the street.

  Except I recognize her. “Sage?”

  It’s been so long since I’ve seen her in person, but I know it’s her. She’s wearing a pair of dark, round sunglasses and a large burgundy coat. Why does it look so familiar, and why is she wearing it in the middle of summer?