Followers

by Megan Angelo

  “It’s not like I told her your name or anything,” Floss said, raising a shoulder defensively. “I called you Pat, like our fake publicist from the old days.”

  “I don’t mean what gets out,” Orla said. “I mean you’ll let just anyone in.”

  The truth of it swelled inside her. Every scheme they brought to life together, every drink they shared without wiping the other’s spit from the bottle, every drunk ride home with their feet in each other’s laps—to Orla it had been everything, an end, but to Floss it had only been means.

  This time, Orla shoved the table into their chests as she stood.

  It was Aston who came after her, soundless on the rug, so that she didn’t know he had followed her until his hand shot past hers to hold the door closed. “All we’re asking,” he said, “is that you give it some thought. This is a big moment for you, with Polly and the book. We know you’ve been looking for a solution, and—well, we’re family already, you and me and Floss. Is it really that crazy? Worse than giving her to strangers?”

  Orla stared at his hand on the door. She noticed yet another scar for the first time: a beet-red swath of skin across his knuckles, scattered with deep white pockmarks. “I don’t know the gender,” she said. “I didn’t find out.”

  “Well, I think it’s a girl,” Aston said. There was a warmth to his voice that knocked Orla back for a second. The unwanted thought that came to her then was: he would be a better dad than Danny. It made no sense on the surface, she knew. To the naked eye, Danny was salt of the earth, Aston a sizable tumble in America’s cultural downfall. But he would be better. She was sure. She pushed the thought away and pushed past Aston out the door. He let her go. She heard him call, as she went down the stairs, “Hold the railing—careful.”

  The street outside was empty, the surprise ride from Amadou evidently a one-way arrangement. Orla looked both ways for one of the globes that signaled the train. She pulled out her phone and tried to focus on the slow-loading map. On her way out of the kitchen, she had noticed the orange bodega tag on the bottle of apple juice. Three ninety-nine, that was all it cost, and they hadn’t even taken the sticker off. Orla fluffed up her indignation, trying to make it put out the feeling sparking like an ember beneath it. The sensation that suddenly, if she wanted it—she had found a way out.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Marlow

  New York, New York

  2051

  In the drone, in the sky, in the Statue’s shadow, Honey decoded cursive and read the letter out loud to Marlow.

  January 5, 2022

  Orla—

  Serious question: Who the fuck do you think you are?

  No, really—I’d love to know what your plan was. What were you gonna do, sit with the kids while they ate their cake and tell them your sad little story?

  Who were you planning to tell the birthday girl you were? That’s the part—the thought of you going up to Marlow—that makes me want to track you down and slap you. It’d be well worth the price of a flight. Fuck, I’d even fly coach. So you’re lucky that I don’t know where you are. (Which is bananas, by the way. I gave you the goddamn apartment! Live there! It’s free! You’re free!!)

  Also, Orla, this stationery. I mean, what? I’m only using it now so you understand it’s in my hands, not hers.

  I’m not trying to be a bitch. I ripped up the first version of this letter because it was coming off super mean, and I know you must think it was mean of me to have you thrown out of the party. But I’m a mother, Orla, and that’s what mothers do—they don’t fuck around when they think someone’s hurting their child.

  I would think you of all people would get that?!?

  (Now I’m thinking that was harsher than anything in the first letter. But my hand is starting to cramp, so whatever. I’m not starting over again.)

  There’s something else I want to say to you. It’s not exactly “sorry.” I’m not much of a “sorry” person—I live with no regrets. Unlike Aston. He still never shuts up about Anna, by the way. He’d still be trying to give her family money if we had any. Which we don’t, at the moment, but I’m not out of ideas. They think I’m finished, but I’m not. We’re waiting to hear back on a project right now, in fact, something that could change everything. I will give her a great life, and then you’ll see.

  Back to what I wanted to tell you. The way things went down—I see now that it sucked for you. But can I be honest for a second? It was a programming decision. You and I were used to them. The network showed what they wanted to show. People saw what they wanted to see. You didn’t wear glasses, but you wore them. We were getting Marlow from you one way or another, and I guess I didn’t think the details mattered. I thought the wedding would be like all the things we did together. Another lie we were both okay with.

  It’s funny—I think I miss you, sometimes. Sometimes I think I miss you a lot. But then I saw you at the party, and your face—it hurt my feelings, Orla. I realized that you’ve switched it all around in your head. You set this situation in motion when you made a choice for yourself. But now you think you were the victim, or the hero, or both. Even though you—let’s not forget—are the one who literally almost killed her. (ßProud of me for using “literally” right?!?)

  You’re so much smarter than me, but there’s one thing I get that you never have. There aren’t actually heroes or victims or villains. Not in our story, and probably not in anyone else’s. I know you know this deep down: it’s all in the edit.

  Floss

  “How do I know this really says what you say?” Marlow snapped as soon as Honey stopped talking. “Are you fucking with me? Because if you are, I’ll make that thing on your face look like the day I was nice to you.”

  Honey raised her hands slowly, like Marlow was not to be startled. “I’m not fucking with you,” she said.

  Marlow’s temples pulsed. She imagined her mother, a younger version of her, sitting down, writing this letter.

  Her mother who was not her mother, if Marlow was hearing things right.

  But Grace had said nothing about Floss not being her biological mother—

  Because Marlow had told the designers to ignore her mother’s genes.

  So all that Grace had seen was that her father was not her father.

  All she had seen was half of the picture.

  And this woman, Orla Cadden? The one who, at the Archive that day, had prompted the eerie search result message: 404, not found. Marlow was putting it together: Orla had been her mother’s friend, her roommate, an extra in Floss’s life. And she had come to Marlow’s—Which birthday party? Oh, yes. Marlow remembered. The one that Floss had filmed, for the footage that got them into Constellation. It gave Marlow chills to think Orla had been there, just across the lobby, close enough to touch.

  That woman was her real mother? Not Floss?

  Marlow bunched and smoothed the pages, staring at the script. “Do you know what 404 means?” she asked Honey.

  Honey pointed at the letter. “Her? She’s 404?” When Marlow nodded, she sighed. “It means she lives in Atlantis,” she said. “It isn’t far from here. But of course, it’s impossible to get to.” Marlow must have looked blank. Honey said, “You know about Atlantis, don’t you?”

  Marlow searched her mind, but nothing came up.

  “Well,” Honey added, “maybe you don’t. They probably don’t teach you about it, out there. I suppose it would be counterproductive.”

  Marlow ran her thumb over the daisies at the top of the letter.

  “What are you thinking?” Honey said softly.

  The stationery looked different, Marlow thought, than it had on Twenty-First Street, back when it was something stolen. Now she knew it was a gift. It was meant to belong to her. Now she was thinking that, when she was small, she would have loved this paper.

  * * *

  Back in Honey’s pla
ce, at Honey’s command, David spent the rest of the afternoon pressing comforting measures on Marlow. He had brought her so many herbal somethings to eat and sip and be rubbed with, she was beginning to feel allergic to herself.

  Atlantis. She was turning the word over and over in her head, along with what Honey had said: it was close to here. She didn’t know how she would get there, only that she had to. She started packing.

  Honey came in to check on her, took one look at her things and her face, and said: “I’ll arrange it.”

  “You don’t have to,” Marlow began, but stopped when Honey lunged toward her. It was a violent motion, a frightening one. Somehow, between the lunge and her hand coming up, Honey recalibrated her force. She chucked Marlow on the shoulder in a lighthearted, friendly way, though Marlow noticed the fist she made was so tight, the color drained from her knuckles.

  Honey gave a canned half laugh. “Oh,” she said, a little too loudly. “Do you know how to get into Atlantis? I didn’t think so.”

  She had a guy who could do it, she said, who could take Marlow to Orla. The plan was that the guy would pick her up before sunrise the next day. They would pass at dawn into Atlantis, gliding over the land border without the guard’s face even changing, all because the car had been sent by Honey Mitchell, privacy princess. The leaders of Atlantis appreciated her work, even if it was a thin, commercial knockoff of theirs.

  The guy came to the apartment that afternoon. He gave Marlow a sober nod as he shook her hand. He handed her a little paper map of the tristate area and traced the path that they would travel with a chapped, thick finger. He told her about contingency plans, about public transportation she could take, and where to find it, on the off chance that something went wrong, separating them along the way. When the guy got up to leave, Honey thanked him. “I’m eager for Marlow to see Atlantis,” she said. “I’ve told her how beautiful it is.” The second the door closed behind him, she turned back to Marlow. “It’s a shithole,” she said. “And I say that as someone who grew up without indoor plumbing. But there you go, it’s all set. Anything you need for the trip, go out now and get it on me. There’s a silicone press of my thumbprint in the drawer next to the stove. Sunglasses on my vanity. My wig closet’s in the hallway, third door on the right. Don’t worry,” Honey said. “Everything will go according to plan.”

  And as far as Marlow knew, everything else did. But she did not.

  Instead, she waited in the dark until she was sure that Honey was asleep. Then she did several things she had never done before, all in a thrilling row:

  She found Honey’s expensive tequila and poured it, slowly, over the security system sensor by the front door, the one that would have told Honey she was going. She watched the sensor’s blue light flicker and die.

  She sneaked out.

  She made a person on the street stop and meet her eye. It took several tries, several frustrating episodes of her pleading and shuffling her feet. Finally, someone paused, looking put out, and told her where to get the bus.

  She saw a bus.

  * * *

  She had not gone along with the plan because, shortly after her Atlantis escort left, Marlow decided to take Honey up on the shopping. She lifted a pair of sunglasses—a chunky, shapeless set that hid the whole top third of her face—from a felt-covered bar in Honey’s room. She stood in front of the wig closet, marveling at the strands that rippled from ceiling to floor, quivering like ghosts when she opened the door, and wondered what Orla Cadden’s hair looked like. In the end, she chose a sleek bob in silver, piled her hair on top of her head, and pulled the wig down hard.

  Marlow was halfway to the block of shops David had directed her to when she realized: she had forgotten the silicone print of Honey’s thumb, the one she could slip on to use her credit account.

  She was on Hudson Street, headed back, when she spotted Honey. She was doing the strangest thing: walking, instead of being driven. She was on the opposite side of the street, headed north, wearing a blinding getup: white sneakers, white wide-legged pants, white turtleneck, white headscarf, white-framed aviators. A disguise about as subtle as an extra exclamation point.

  Somewhere in Marlow’s mind, a soft bell went off.

  She took up Honey’s route, keeping half a block back and close to the storefronts, so that she could duck into one if Honey turned around. She followed her until Honey turned abruptly, in the middle of a block, and disappeared into a wall.

  When Marlow got closer, she saw that Honey had walked through the gate of a garden sprouting out of nowhere. She peered down a gravel path that was shaded by curving, white-flowered branches. At the end of the path was a bench that leaned on a fat column of brick. Honey sat down on the bench. She spread her arms and legs, taking up all the space. She took the hard, impatient breath of a person kept waiting.

  Marlow circled the block, looking for another entrance, and found a gate on Barrow Street. She spotted the brick column. By the time she had flattened herself against the other side of it, out of Honey’s view, Honey was no longer waiting. Marlow could hear her talking to someone. “Just think there’s a lot of upside here,” she was saying. “For both of us.”

  There was a pause. Then a man spoke up. “I’m grateful you got in touch with me,” he said. “I want to be—cooperative. But I’m not sure how.”

  A shiver shot down Marlow’s neck, her back, her legs. She clapped a hand to her mouth. There, just around the corner from her, was her husband. Ellis.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” Honey said. “When Marlow comes back to Constellation, she’ll get pregnant. Then she’ll breastfeed. Maybe do it all again right afterward, if your baby ratings are good.”

  “So...” Ellis sounded impatient already.

  “So Marlow will be off Hysteryl for the foreseeable future. She’ll need a new sponsor. And I was thinking, if I turn her over to you—” Honey drew in her breath. “Her new sponsor could be me.”

  There was a long pause. “You?” Ellis said finally. How strange, Marlow thought as she tried to picture the encounter, that his features were blurred in her mind, impossible to pin down. Whereas Honey’s were crystal clear, down to her scar’s ragged borders. “You’re a privacy advocate,” Ellis said slowly, like he found Honey mind-bendingly stupid. “And you’d like me to hand you a major ad campaign on the Constellation Network, which exists to promote sharing.”

  Marlow heard the soft scrape of sneakers on the ground. Honey was on her feet, pitching him, undeterred by his response. “Easy,” she said. “All you need is a story, and half of it’s played out already. Marlow and I meet, after all these years. We make amends. She sees what I do. She has a revelation. She’s moved to consider the merits of privacy.”

  Ellis scoffed, but said, with audible curiosity: “Then what?”

  “In the end, she doesn’t go private,” Honey said. “She goes back home. She chooses Constellation, but she’s been changed by what I told her. She feels it’s only right her followers—her sixteen-point-three million followers, last I checked—get to make the same choice themselves. So I become her sponsor, and her followers get to hear all about me, all about privacy.” There was a small spray of gravel; Marlow pictured Honey turning to look down on Ellis.

  “Can you explain to me,” Ellis snapped, impatient, “what exactly is in this for me? I mean, what do I really need you for? She won’t last out here, with the hunt on. She will come home on her own.”

  “I think you underestimate her,” Honey said. “I’ve spent the last few days with Marlow, and guess what? She likes privacy. She was angry that I filmed her writing down information at the Archive. She went completely wild at this off-line party I had last night. I think you’re in danger of losing her permanently.”

  “We are not,” Ellis scoffed, and Marlow almost had to laugh. The “we” meant that Ellis had taken Honey’s comment to mean that the network was in danger
of losing Marlow. Whether he would lose her, too, seemed to him less pressing a question.

  “How’s it going out there, Ellis?” Honey’s voice had grown lower, threatening. “Because here’s what I see. I’ve been watching Antidote’s stock since Marlow ran. Your company is tanking—because of your wife. How’s that playing, at work? What does Liberty think of this whole mess? Let me guess—the merger’s on hold? And Hysteryl prescriptions? I hear they’re dropping already. People see it didn’t fix her crazy after all.” Honey whistled, a low, piercing sound. “A shitshow of Broadway proportions, Ellis. And your name’s on the marquee.”

  “The hunt will take care of—” Ellis said.

  “The hunt,” Honey cried, “is a failure! Two measly tips, in a city of millions. It’s obvious: I’m the only one who knows where Marlow is. And as that person, may I just say: I don’t think she’s coming home on her own.”

  Marlow held her breath. The sun was setting, sinking into the crevice where she stood. She closed her eyes and let it wash over her, balled herself against the wall.

  “You’re right about everything,” Ellis said. “Except the last part. I don’t underestimate Marlow. I estimate her exactly right. I have her eggs. Did you think of that? No? Well, she will, sooner or later. At the end of the day, she’s a woman. She’s not going to abandon her children.”

  Honey snorted. “Eggs are hardly children.”

  “Try making children without them,” Ellis said calmly.

  Marlow was shaking so hard against the brick, it began to scratch pulls in her sweater. She thought of Ellis with her at the doctor’s office. In her physical long-term absence, one form she had signed said, he was authorized to deal with her frozen eggs as he saw fit.

  “If you don’t take my deal,” Honey said, “and I let Marlow go to Atlantis, she will not get back out. You’ll never see her again. Your current shitshow? That becomes permanent. But say the word, and when her driver shows up tomorrow, I’ll send him to your hotel instead.”