Light Years

by Emily Ziff Griffin

  “You know the news likes to make everything so much more dramatic than it is,” my dad says after a bit.

  “I know. Are you worried?”

  “Not worried, no.” He clears his throat. “I think it’s just the normal media hype thing.” The piano trills. The un-oiled hinge on the oven door whines as he puts the banana bread in. He throws the onions into a hot pan. They smell like onions, nothing more. I exhale a deep breath. “I think the real concern is how late Ben is going to sleep and whether we should save him any breakfast.”

  “I vote no,” I reply.

  “I heard that.” Ben is lumbering down the stairs.

  “You do realize it’s still morning?” I tease.

  “I’m a high school graduate now. It’s time to start living responsibly.” He flashes his crooked smile and grabs three plates from the cupboard.

  We all sit and dig into a steaming plate of eggs and chopped veggies.

  “How was the party?” my dad asks.

  “Fine,” Ben answers.

  “Yup,” I echo.

  “You know that answers like that are described in the parenting handbook under the heading ‘Be Concerned When.’ ”

  Ben rolls his eyes. “Good one, Dad.”

  My dad turns and whispers to me: “Did you think that was funny?”

  I whisper back: “No.”

  “Huh,” he mutters to himself. “But I know. Why should you tell your lame dad anything? Your childhood wasn’t exactly filled with reasons to trust me.”

  “It’s not about our childhood,” Ben snaps. My father swallows his food, stung.

  “What’s your problem?” I demand.

  “Nothing. Sorry.” He softens. “It was just a party. It was fairly lame. There’s nothing to tell.”

  “We met Kamal’s girlfriend,” I blurt out.

  “Who, Phoebe?” Ben asks.

  “Is that her name?” As if I could possibly forget even the tiniest of tiny details about her, let alone her name.

  “She’s not his girlfriend. I mean, he probably wishes she were, but they’re just friends or whatever.” I stuff my mouth with food to keep the smile from exploding across my face. They are not together.

  “I always liked Kamal,” my dad says. “Your mom thinks he’s a spoiled—”

  “Un mequetrefe, bueno para nada,” I interrupt.

  “That’s right.” He laughs. “But I always liked him.” A flash of silver like metal glinting in the sun. He’s looking at me as if he knows the whole story, even the part that hasn’t happened yet. No, he wasn’t always around, he wasn’t always nice, but when he looks at me like that, he sees a part of me that no one else can. And I love him for it.

  “Dad, you’re sweating,” I say, noticing beads of moisture along his hairline.

  “Hot stove.” He wipes his face with his napkin as Ben’s watch buzzes.

  “It’s Mom. She’s asking if we saw the news?”

  “There’s a flu going around,” I say. “They’re warning everyone to be careful.”

  “And they’re making it seem like the world is coming to an end, right?”

  “Pretty much,” I reply. Ben believes the media has only one goal: terrorize as many people as possible to drive up ratings and make money.

  He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “LA, Seattle, Austin, Detroit, San Francisco, and New York.” He looks up from his screen. “Seems like a lot of places.”

  “Fifty people have died.” My father begins clearing the dishes.

  “Forty-one,” I correct him.

  “I’m with you, Ben. I think it’s mostly hype,” my dad says.

  Ben gets up and heads toward the stairs. “I’m telling Mom we’re ordering HAZMAT suits on Amazon.”

  “She’ll love that!” my dad calls back. I start loading the dishwasher, then catch him staring at Ben’s empty seat.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Hard to believe how fast it goes. I can see him five years old sitting in that chair. I close my eyes for a second and he’s going to college? Not possible.”

  I smile. “Now you’re stuck with me.”

  “That’s the good news,” he says.

  I go upstairs to my dad’s bathroom looking for a thermometer. I take my temperature. Normal. I stare at my father’s toothbrush by the sink. I picture the millions of microscopic germs swarming all over it. Gross. I look at my throat with a flashlight in the mirror. It seems fine. I don’t look sick. I don’t feel sick. I go to my room and lie down on my bed. My eyes drift shut.

  • • •

  They started to arrive, one by one, with their parents carrying gifts. Sarah, Morgan, Bridget, Lizzie, Missy, Molly, and Janine. It was August and we were out in the yard. There was lemonade on the table and little sandwiches. The raspberry bush was bursting with fruit. We made a game of shaking the pear tree’s branches, unleashing a shower of small white petals. We spun around underneath, becoming covered in a kind of summer snow.

  My mother had gone to the bakery. Even at eight years old I knew she had been gone too long. She came back looking flushed and flustered. My father couldn’t seem to look her in the eye. Something had come up with work, she said. She’d had to take a call, she said. She was lying and I knew it. I sat with Janine at the table. I watched through a haze of brown as the other girls picked berries and my dad drank whiskey over ice. I wished they’d just go home. Janine put her hand on mine and gave it one short squeeze as the sky began to darken.

  It was time for the cake. My mother brought it out proudly, lit with candles. Everyone sang. Then, the first few drops on my cheek and ear. They were heavy and wide—big splats of water. And then the lightning, followed by the unnerving boom of thunder that made us all jump. The rain came swiftly and we ran inside, the adults grabbing what they could and the girls shrieking gleefully with each explosion in the sky.

  I watched the pear tree through the window, the branches and leaves shaking violently, its trunk still deeply rooted. My mother came over and stood next to me. She smoothed my hair. The soft, white wave of her scent swirled around me. I took it in, her smell and her touch. Then I turned and walked away.

  • • •

  Missy lives in a typical Brooklyn Heights brownstone with the kind of living room no one ever actually sits in. Except when there’s a raging high school party happening, in which case every surface is covered in plastic cups and beer cans. I head immediately to the backyard to find the keg. My brother’s friends Des and George are next in line.

  “What’s up, Luisa?” George asks, handing me a cup.

  “Not much. What’s up with you?”

  “Chilling. Ben here?”

  “I think he’s coming later.”

  “Cool.”

  “Is Kamal here?” I ask. “Ben wanted me to let him know.”

  “Nah, he’s not around tonight.” My chest deflates. Des steps up to the keg and offers to fill my cup. The whoosh whoosh of the pump. We all watch the beer flow from the spigot. We have absolutely nothing else to say to each other.

  I lift my foamy beer to meet their empty cups. “Cheers,” I say like an idiot. I turn and head off into the garden. My brother’s ex, Annalise, is holding court at the picnic table.

  “Hey Lu.” Her friends all turn and look at me. They have the guts to wear things like bright scarlet blazers and green floral dresses. Their skin drips with gold jewelry and their lips glisten with gloss. I feel flattened by their glow in my denim cut-offs and “Models Suck” T-shirt, which seemed cool when I left the house.

  Annalise beams at me. “Is Ben coming out tonight?”

  “Later, I think.” I tap my foot. I wish they’d stop looking at me.

  “Thanks, honey.” She turns back to the table, taking the spotlight with her.

  I find Janine sitting on a wooden tree swing. She’s head-down with her phone and she looks pissed.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. I sit and pick up an empty cup. “This yours?” She nods and I pour in half my beer.


  “I didn’t get it,” she says. She swallows the whole cup in one gulp. “He said it was down to me and one other photographer, a guy of course. And they chose him.”

  “That blows.”

  She brightens slightly. “Whatever. Their loss, right?”

  “One hundred percent,” I tell her.

  “I’m gonna have to go to Europe with my parents now.”

  “Oh, poor baby.”

  “I know. I know! I’m an asshole. But I was so psyched to be here this summer, alone, doing my thing. Working. And I know most people would kill to kick it in a Tuscan villa for two months, but like, how many pictures of laundry hanging from a rustic clothesline does the world need?”

  I laugh. We swing back and forth. I sip my beer. “Thomas Bell told me my work was a waste of energy.”

  “Whoa,” Janine mutters. “Did he really say that?”

  “Yeah.” I stare off into space. “So I guess I know how you feel.”

  “We are, like, total failures,” Janine announces.

  “Yup.” I knock back the rest of my cup. “Washed up at sixteen.”

  “Washed up and out of beer,” she adds. We can’t help smiling.

  We make our way back to the keg. We fill our cups and suddenly there’s a horrible sound. Even though I feel pretty even, I see it for a split second before I hear it: red. I whip around. Clara Adams is kneeling on the deck. She’s coughing her brains out and she sounds like she is dying.

  Some other girls stand around her. No one moves or says a word. It’s too intense. Then, my stomach rolls over on itself. Another flash of red light. I tap my foot to get a grip.

  Janine drops to the floor next to Clara, brushing her hair off her face and patting her gently on the back.

  “Hey,” snaps Kelly Printz. “We’re her friends. We’ll help her.”

  “Seriously,” adds Rose Gerson. She pushes Janine out of the way.

  “Careful, Rose,” whispers Madison Dewy as Janine stands up. “Didn’t you see the news? That flu thing.”

  “Whatever,” Rose replies. She rubs Clara’s back. The coughing dies down. “Clara’s not sick.”

  “Let’s go,” I say. I grab Janine and pull her into the house. I look back at the girls. A woozy Clara is trying to stand. Her friends offer her another drink.

  Janine and I find a bathroom. We lock ourselves inside and she sits down to pee.

  “I’m, like, not good enough to help them? What the fuck is that? None of them moved a muscle until I did.”

  “They suck,” I say.

  “And what flu? What are they talking about?” Janine looks at me in the mirror.

  “There was some stuff on the news about a new flu. Like forty people died.” A burst of red. “Clara was probably choking on her drink though. Just wash your hands, you’ll be fine.” Janine stands up, flushes, and gives her hands a rinse.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she says, heading for the front door.

  I stop in the den, looking for a pint of something we can take. I grab a bottle of whiskey, then stop. A familiar voice: “Hey you.”

  I freeze.

  Alex Murphy is sitting against the open window swirling a rocks glass in one hand. A chill runs up my back.

  We kissed last New Year’s. We were at Shane Franklin’s party, upstairs in his little sister’s bedroom. Alex had never said two words to me and suddenly we’re lying on a little girl’s pink carpet making out. I kept one hand on the floor, my fingers moving slowly over every single loop of that rug’s yarn. That was the only way I could handle how good his body felt on top of mine.

  “What’s up?” I say, not moving.

  “Come here.” He winks at me.

  “Don’t do that.” I try not to smile, and fail.

  He winks again. “Just come over here. Just for a minute.” I look across Missy’s den at him. His legs are spread wide. One arm is resting on a bent knee. He’s as confident as anyone has ever been. “Just for a minute,” he says again. Another shiver.

  I put down the bottle. The sound of it hitting the bar, a tether to the ground as I start to float away.

  I walk over to him. His breath is heavy. His stare doesn’t break.

  “Blonde, huh?” he whispers.

  “Yup.”

  “It’s hot.” He reaches up and traces the neckline of my T-shirt with his fingers. My chest rises against his hand as I inhale. He presses his palm against me. My head whirls with golden light and we start kissing. Slow and sticky. The warm air bleeds through the open window with a low, heavy tone. I feel for something to grab besides him. Something steady, heavy.

  He shifts onto his feet, lifting me up and swinging me to the arm of a couch. His full weight moves against me, the piece of furniture a counterforce. My hands feel for the fabric. Velvet, soft. I keep my mind there as best I can, but it starts to be too much. Plus, Janine is waiting.

  “I can’t,” I say, pulling back.

  “You said that last time,” he whispers.

  I smile. “Well. It’s still true. I have to go.”

  “Tragic.” The warmth of his voice burrows deep in my ear.

  “Yes,” I agree. He steps back and lets me pass. I pick up the bottle and walk out, counting my steps until I feel normal.

  Janine is waiting on the stoop. She looks at my face. “Uh, what the fuck is up with you?”

  “Sorry, I got held up for a minute.”

  “You look like you just swallowed a pocketful of M.” We head down the steps and out into the quiet, cloudless night. “Did you? Swallow a pocketful of M?”

  “I ran into Alex,” I confess.

  “Ah. So pretty much the same thing. And? How is he?”

  “Hot,” I tell her.

  “He’s so damn hot.”

  “So hot. So weird and so hot.”

  “So what, you, like, just boned him in the bathroom?”

  “God. No. We just kissed a little. And then I left. Because my best friend was waiting for me.”

  “Mistake!” she yells, laughing. “Big mistake. Shoulda boned him in the bathroom!”

  “Damn it, you are so right.” I fake a smile as I worry that I’ll never be able to handle anything more than thirty seconds of making out.

  We head to the long promenade that faces New York Harbor. We find a bench hidden from the streetlights under the shadow of a tree. We open the whiskey. We sip. She takes out her tiny point-and-shoot camera.

  “Oh Jesus, no,” I say. I put my hands in front of my face.

  “C’mon!” She starts snapping pics. “Drop your hands.”

  I look up at her. “You know a single image being a true record of anything is an impossible idea, right?”

  Janine looks stricken. “Shit. Really? We better tell people. Maybe they can start, like, a camera buy-back program so everyone can get rid of these useless pieces of junk.” She struggles to keep a straight face.

  “You are the worst.”

  “If by the worst you mean the best.” She fiddles with the settings on the camera.

  “Don’t you feel like sometimes we forget to have actual memories and just have photos instead?”

  “Give me a sex face,” she says.

  “Oh. You’re not interested in my brilliant insights. That’s cool, whatever.”

  She looks up from the camera. “Art is not optional,” she says. Her authority is like a face full of cold water. This is why I love her. “Sex face, please.”

  I give her the finger and sip from the bottle.

  “Let’s see what you looked like tonight with Alex.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Or think about Kamal,” she yells. Kamal. I had almost forgotten about him. But I’m fully drunk now, so I don’t care. I don’t feel.

  “You are truly insane,” I protest.

  “Do it!” she cries, bringing her camera to eye level.

  “Okay, okay,” I say. I close my eyes and I think about Alex’s hands on me. I think about Kamal’s voice in my ear. I open my eyes
with a start.

  “Hot!” she squeals.

  “I love you!” I yell.

  “I love you too!” We collapse in a torrent of drunken giggles.

  If I were going to look back and point to the last hours of my old life, when I was still my old self, it would be that night, laughing and posing for stupid pictures with Janine. Because by the next morning, nothing would ever be the same again.

  CHAPTER 4

  I lie in bed for a long time thinking about last night, about Alex sitting in that window, his hands on me. I think about Bell and where our meeting went wrong. How I can only go so far with people that matter before my senses make it impossible for me to focus or connect.

  I think about what Dr. Steph will say when she gets back from vacation. How she’ll tell me to be patient with myself. Patient and kind. “Would you judge a friend so harshly?” she’ll say.

  I look out at the big maple swaying in the sunlight. It’s already afternoon. Eventually I get dressed. I follow the sound of the television blaring downstairs. Before I even hear what they’re saying, I feel it. There’s an energy in the air, a charge. It was like this on the morning of the Blackout Bombing.

  I stop at the doorway of the living room. The reporter says they were off base about the number of flu victims. It’s more like three thousand people dead, not forty-one. They say officials are scrambling to make sense of it.

  My father notices me standing there.

  “You should go back upstairs,” he says. But the room is already starting to take on a dandelion hue. Before I can decide what to do, the news cuts to a clip of Bell speaking from his company’s headquarters. His blue eyes coat my tongue with the taste of chocolate.

  “The fact that the outbreak has gotten to this point without the public being informed, without any sort of protocol being put into place, just shows what so many of us have known since day one of her administration: Joan Cartwright lacks the leadership skills necessary to protect our national security.” Even though he’s talking about the president, I feel his attack like it’s directed at me.

  I look away as the newscaster returns. “That was tech tycoon Thomas Bell speaking from his California campus, where he says the world’s top scientists and engineers are working around the clock to determine the cause and eventually develop a cure for ARNS.”