Light Years

by Emily Ziff Griffin

  I hear my father’s voice in my head. Or is it the wind blowing across the dusty asphalt?

  Death is not the end.

  I scroll through my texts looking for the photo of the four of us after Ben’s graduation. Our bright eyes, our joy. My parents splitting up was like a stone landing on a windshield, an asterisk of splintered glass spreading out in all directions. It made my sense of safety fragile.

  My father dying is like a sledgehammer. There is no safety now. There is no net.

  I start walking. The fence, the mountains framed by tracks and highway, the sun, sky, and trees. To someone else, everything would appear just as it did five minutes ago. But to me it all looks different—brighter and more alive. It’s in higher definition now.

  Without meaning to, I find myself at the front gates of The Pulse.

  I walk out and keep going.

  I head toward the tall buildings on the horizon. With each step, I replay our last moments together. The fear and sadness in his eyes as we said good-bye. Not knowing what to say, wanting to say everything at once. What regrets flooded his mind at the end? What things did he wish he’d done differently?

  Sensations and tears come so hard that I stop short, immobilized. My legs feel as though they are welded to the pavement.

  A thunderous voice rages purple from deep inside me. “Show me something!” I scream. I’m calling to God or my dad or the Universe or whatever it is that might exist beyond me. I’m talking to whatever it is that might understand something I don’t.

  “Show me something!” I yell again. I wait, looking skyward, turning in all directions. I’m looking for a sign.

  Nothing. Just a breeze.

  “Show me!”

  What comes in response is not what I expect. It climbs up from the bottom of my lungs with the fury and thrust of a rocket’s blast. It explodes from my mouth, knocking me to the ground.

  A cough. The cough.

  The one I have watched consume so many has now chosen me. My stomach twists like a towel being wrung and light the color of blood flashes across my eyes.

  I begin to panic. This can’t be happening.

  But it is.

  My throat is aching. My nose is filling up with fluid. My limbs are suddenly stiff, my whole body chilled.

  I hear Jules’s words from her sunny perch on the rickshaw: Zero-tolerance. Immediate expulsion. I can’t go back to The Pulse.

  I pick a direction and start to walk, slowly. I’m shivering and my mind is cut loose from reality like a boat from its mooring.

  How do you begin to conceive of your own death?

  I trudge along for what feels like miles. My head is pounding, my body feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. But something is driving me forward. Maybe it’s knowing I can’t go back. Maybe it’s that if I stop moving, my fear will swallow me. Maybe it’s something altogether deeper, something beyond logic or physical capability.

  The Pulse’s desolate surroundings eventually transition to wide commercial streets. Storefronts and restaurants. A bank. Most everything is closed and all the signs are in Chinese.

  I stop outside a dumpling house. The windows are lacquered black and painted with red-eyed, golden dragons that shimmer in the afternoon light.

  I turn away from them and pull out my phone. I look at the map. I’m on a stretch of Broadway in Chinatown. To the north stands Dodger Stadium. The dried-up river’s to the east. As I keep scanning for some familiar landmark, some idea of where to go, I notice Spring Street and I remember: the piece of paper Ron gave me.

  I pull it from my pocket, enter the address into my phone, and start walking again.

  The occasional car roars past. Along one deserted stretch of industrial buildings, I hear the muffled sound of techno music and imagine a rave going on inside. Hundreds of sweaty bodies and neon lights. I suppose dancing is one way to greet the end of the world.

  When I make it to 1418 N. Spring Street, a large warehouse on an empty street, I can barely stand. A carved wooden sign hangs squarely on the front. Just three letters announce the name of this mysterious place: Lux—the Latin word for “light.”

  My cough erupts and I double over. My gloved hand slams against the door to keep me from falling. I pull it back: my germs.

  The cough calms. I stare at the door, unsure if it will open, unsure what I will find on the other side. I think of Ron, that mysterious man who knew something about me, something I don’t even have words for. He gave me the address. He told me to come. That means I have to go in. And so I do.

  CHAPTER 15

  Inside, the dwindling sunlight beams through a wall of windows that face an interior courtyard blooming with flowers. Cool air blankets my sweaty skin and white walls remind me of my mother’s smell. I look down at the tiles beneath my feet. A moment later, I am lying in a heap. The chilled ceramic presses against my feverish face. My eyes close and I drift.

  Next thing I know, I feel a presence beside me. I look up. It’s nearly dark outside. A woman is standing over me. She is unmasked, but her features are obscured by shadow. No gloves. I glimpse the skin of her cheek in a shard of evening light. It’s smooth and clear like polished marble. She appears neither young nor old, and as I look closer I realize I’ve seen her before.

  “You’re here,” she says like she’s been expecting me. She turns toward the light. Her eyes glitter and her voice reeks of woodfire.

  It’s Evans Birkner.

  I drag myself to a sitting position. “I think I’m infected,” I say. Shame spreads across my cheeks with a hiss. It’s like any other personal failure—a lost swim meet, a wrong answer on a test. I’ve been beaten.

  She offers her hand to pull me up. I hesitate and she grabs my wrists, pulling off my gloves. A jolt of energy passes from her body to mine. An electric shock, maybe. Suddenly, I’m standing.

  She steps close and gently removes my mask.

  “Evans,” I say, woozy. “Can you help me?”

  She smiles. “Come.” Her warm, smoky voice surrounds me like a cloak. She leads me down the long corridor, past the windows, toward a large white door. I hear the distant, muffled sound of singing. My whole body begins to hum.

  The door opens and we step into a dimly lit room. My eyes land on the faces right in front of me, each of them lit golden by candles that everyone seems to be holding. Different ages, ethnicities. I struggle to imagine what they all have in common.

  I look forward and the room seems to expand, revealing rows and rows of people. No one is wearing a mask.

  At the center of the space, a choir stands singing at full voice. There are no instruments. The wall of sound knocks me back a step like a shove. It’s like a hand on my chest commanding my body to hold firm against the music’s force.

  The room stands and sways as one, their candles flickering. In front of them, laid out on a bed of flowers lies a woman dressed in white.

  “I am in the darkness,

  I am in the light.

  See me if you can,

  Everywhere I am,” they sing.

  The melody is rousing, beautiful. The harmony reverberates against my bones and floods my vision with colors—silver, oranges, pinks. I don’t resist it. I let it wrap me in joy and warmth and safety. I let it become my mother’s green dress.

  I think of my last moments with Janine. I remember Jordana slipping away. I see my father lying in his bed, so still. I see the man behind the gas station and the life leaving his body. All this death pushed me into darkness, and now the music is pulling me back into light.

  The melody reaches a crescendo with everyone chanting “Rise up! Rise up! Rise up!” Their energy floods my veins like fresh oxygen—every cell vibrating like a tuning fork. And with the final note of resonant sound, everyone blows their candles out.

  We stand still in the darkened room. The smell of melted wax and smoke drifts upward. The absence of voices has its own tone and there’s a fragile perfection in the quiet, like the feeling of being effortlessly balan
ced on one leg.

  A single spotlight beams down on the woman in white. My focus narrowed toward her, I recognize the delicate features of her face and her long, almond-colored hair. I realize the woman is Jordana.

  I gasp for breath as Evans places her hand on my shoulder. She pulls me forward and leads me up through the center aisle. Everyone puts down their candles and turns toward us, raising their arms, hands spread wide, palms facing out. Their eyes are on me. A murmur passes through the crowd as yellow waves ripple through me.

  “What are they doing?” I whisper.

  “They are extending their hearts to you,” Evans answers. “They are recognizing the divinity within you.”

  We reach the center, where Jordana lies. We stop. I look down at her serene face. Her head is wreathed with marigolds. Her skin is pale blue, bloodless with no makeup to hide it. She, like my father, is radiant. I hear Ron’s words—she’s dead; she’s not gone.

  “Greet them,” Evans says, bringing my attention back to the hundreds of people standing before us.

  “I’m sick,” I say. “I need your help.”

  “Greet them,” she says again.

  I gaze down and see Ron and Freddie in the front. Their expressions are expectant and trusting, like they’re waiting for the answer to a simple question.

  I tentatively raise my hands, mirroring their strange gesture.

  The room gasps. Everyone bows their heads.

  I lower my arms and step back, becoming more and more uneasy. A bald, olive-skinned man comes forward with a chair. He sets it off to the side and beckons me to sit.

  Evans closes her eyes and breathes in with the whistle of a boiling kettle. “Can you feel it?” A smattering of yeses.

  More insistent: “Can you feel it?!”

  The crowd responds in kind.

  Her hands hover over Jordana’s body. “We celebrate this work of art, one of God’s perfect symphonies.” Her oaky timbre smokes like fire. I grip the edge of my chair. “We have lost the instrument. But the symphony’s resonance, its tone and melody, its emotion, intelligence, and wit—all its qualities and attributes continue to exist, even when the violin has crumbled into dust. This soul’s sweet music will be played again.”

  More yeses flutter through the room. I think of my dad. Of his music. Of the beauty and meaning that he created. I think of how he loved me, how he saw me. Waves of tones and colors course through me. I plant my feet in the imaginary sand and feel the waves. I feel them and I begin to weep.

  Evans brings her hands to rest on her own chest, one on top of the other. Her eyes hinge shut. “Let us turn within,” she calls to the room. I close my eyes reluctantly—for a moment I’m afraid of the dark. But it’s a relief to look at nothing.

  “Deep breath in,” she instructs. My nose completely blocked, I breathe in through my mouth like I would before a dive.

  “And let it out.” We all exhale. Everything settles inside me. “Again,” she calls. We inhale, becoming one giant lung. I feel like I am floating in a pool.

  “You must choose,” she calls, almost songlike. “Is it light or darkness?”

  Now my head begins to spin.

  “Let it out.”

  We release.

  “And again!” she calls. I pull another deep breath through my mouth. “Is it faith or doubt? Is it life or death?”

  Then, as the entire room exhales, I fall to the floor. Pitch black.

  I come to seconds later surrounded by concerned faces—Ron, Freddie, Evans, the bald man, and others. I’m confused. I’m embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter. “What happened?”

  Evans kneels next to me. “It’s okay. You’re all right.” Her tone is hushed.

  “You fainted. The deep breathing,” Ron says. “It can do that.”

  “This is just as they told us it would be,” whispers the bald man, looking excitedly at Evans.

  “Shhh,” she snaps.

  “What?” I mumble, the uneasiness continuing to mount.

  “Help her sit,” Evans says. “Let’s get you some water.” She motions to a young man, who runs off down the aisle. “You’re all right now,” she assures me, stroking my head and looking down at my bare leg, at the scar on my knee.

  The man returns with a paper cup. “Here. Drink,” Evans says. She tips the cup to my mouth and the sleeve of her white shirt slides up. She has a tattoo on her forearm. A tattoo of a wolf. I jump back, choking on the water.

  I scramble to my feet and step away from the crush of people. “Who are you?” I demand, staring at Evans. My heart is revving like a jet in a torrent of yellow.

  “I am Evans Birkner,” she answers plainly. “You already know that.”

  Our eyes drill into each other’s.

  “Why are you looking at me like that? All of you?” I whip in circles. A high-pitched tone pierces my ears. Blue pours in, covering the yellow. Paranoia. My body shivers with chills. The fever. “Does this have something to do with Nam?” I bark. “With Theodore Nam?” I am nearly shouting.

  “Please, be calm,” Evans says, as even and gentle as a child. “I do not know anyone by that name. All I know is that we are here to welcome you. We are here to shine a light on you. We are here to help you fulfill your destiny.”

  “I need the cure,” I say. “You said you have a cure.”

  “You already know what you have to do,” she says.

  “Tell me,” I plead.

  “She’s not ready,” Ron says softly.

  “Yes I am. I’m ready,” I insist, having no idea what they’re talking about. My head throbs.

  “We’ll meet again when it’s time,” Evans says. “You should go now.”

  I search each of their faces. “Please,” I beg.

  “You should go,” she says again.

  I turn and move slowly down the aisle, past the worshippers, who raise their hands up to face me.

  “Stop that,” I snap.

  I reach the door. “Death no more!” cries a voice. I stop and spin back on my heels. A deranged-looking man with long dreadlocks and a beard stands in the center of the aisle. He fiddles with the tunic he wears. “Death no more,” he says again. He glances down and begins muttering to himself. I turn away and hurry toward the exit.

  “Choose the light,” calls the bald man as I burst through the door of the sanctuary. I don’t look back again and by the time I reach the front door of the building, I’m running.

  Strangely, the faster I run, the more energy I have.

  I tear through the empty streets back toward The Pulse. I pass the building with the techno music still pumping, louder now. I look up at the second floor and see that the sound is pouring from an empty window. A beautiful, dark-skinned man wearing a shiny, kelly-green jacket sits leaning out, smoking a joint. His eyelids are painted to match and they shimmer in the streetlight as he calls down to me.

  “Whatchoo looking for, baby doll?”

  Safety is the word that flashes across my mind. I am desperate for some semblance of it. I don’t respond to the man in green, I just keep running.

  I turn back onto Broadway, back along the stretch of closed shops. The dumpling place with its fearsome dragons and next to it, a store selling Chinese trinkets and clothes. I stop in my tracks as a woman throws open the metal grate out front.

  “Hello,” I blurt out, panting.

  She looks at me nervously, then hurries inside. She flips the sign on the door: OPEN.

  I’m soaked with sweat when I get near the gates of The Pulse. My head churns. I stop to catch my breath and look at my watch. Six texts from Kamal asking where I am. I write and tell him I’m on my way back.

  I look toward the checkpoint. I’ll have to pass another physical to get back in. And I’ll have to be careful about not touching anyone or anything once I do.

  The Peacekeeper on duty scans my name into their system. She sends me forward to the medic area, where a man in scrubs approaches with a thermometer.

  �
�It’s gonna be off the charts,” I say, smiling.

  “Oh yeah?” he asks.

  “I just went for a long run. It must be eighty degrees out there.” I think of Phoebe as I casually fan myself with my damp T-shirt, giving him a glimpse at my bra.

  “You shouldn’t be out there alone, especially at night,” he says.

  “I know.”

  He presses his stethoscope against my chest. “So you’re a runner?”

  “Swimmer mostly,” I say. “But we’re kinda far from the beach.” Another smile.

  “I’m a runner,” he says. He holds up the instrument’s metal disk. “Definitely elevated.” He puts the thermometer in my mouth and looks into my ears. “You look a little congested.” He removes the beeping stick from under my tongue.

  “I was running along the riverbed,” I tell him. “I’m super allergic to the tree pollen.”

  “Me too,” he says. “Whoa. 101.8.”

  “Told you,” I say. I open my eyes a little wider. I breathe a little slower.

  He stares at me.

  I conjure an image of every cell in my body standing at attention like soldiers on a line, projecting the appearance of health.

  “Put these on,” he says, handing me a set of gloves and a mask. “And drink some water. Like, a lot of water.”

  “That’s my plan,” I say. I put on the protection quickly and my smile fades the moment my lips are shielded from sight.

  I wind through the tight paths of The Pulse like a warrior returning from battle. I am desperate for the sight of a familiar face. I want all those sensations. Pine, salt, peppermint. I want the sound of my father’s smile shaking the leaves against their branches.

  My father. A wave of recognition: he’s gone. I’d let myself forget.

  I find my way back to our parcels. I half expect Kamal and Phoebe to still be sitting in the dirt, the tents and stakes spread out on the ground. Instead I find the tents assembled and empty.

  I collapse into mine. Everything aches. I lie still and watch my breath—the up and down, the in and out. It’s automatic if I let it be. But I can influence it. I can slow it down. I can hold it.