This Changes Everything

by Sally Ember, Ed.D.

  ***************************

  Lying together on the couch under my grandmother’s afghan, which she knits for me when I am 12, I ponder my life. Almost 81, now. My afghan and I must be having my longest relationship. Amazing, how some things last. I lazily trail my hands up and down my husband’s bare back underneath the crocheted knots. I breathe into his shoulder, inhaling his familiar, comforting, perfect mixture of scents.

  “So,” Fanio continues, as if we do not spend about thirty intimate minutes between the conversation’s last portion and now, “what is so difficult, really?”

  I give him both a telepathic and physical nudge. He begins to untangle himself from me and sits up, with my legs across his lap. He snaps for his and my shirts. Once they’re in his hands, he gives me mine and we re-dress our upper bodies. He redrapes the afghan across our lower bodies and looks at me, intently.

  I can feel his mental withdrawal: he indicates that he isn’t listening in my mind. He is waiting for me to speak. I nod in appreciation of the privacy and continue.

  “It just isn’t working. If I were meant to do this, it would be easier, right? I would already know whom I ‘will’ select, and I could just announce my successor at the next IGC. But, every time I timult, I can’t get the name, face, gender: Nada. Nothing. Bubkis. Zilch. I don't timult, lately, but I doubt if it is different for me now.”

  “Don’t,” he agrees. “There has to be a reason it’s not coming easily to you. You still have seven years to go, so there’s no rush. What do you think the obstacle is?”

  I look at his face.

  At 80, my husband is so beautiful it makes me catch my breath to look at him, still. Fanio’s long, white hair is unbound from our lovemaking, flowing around his shoulders and down his front and back. His brown-eyed gaze is clear, focused and brilliant, living up to his name. When he smiles, it seems to light every surrounding galaxy and warms every cell of my being. He radiates calm, compassion intelligence, and wit.

  After twenty-plus years (or almost forty, depending on how you count), I am still so smitten.

  I say, “When you are sculpting downstairs, do you timult, first, or just go at it?”

  “You know I like to be spontaneous and not timult for art,” he reminds me, unnecessarily. “It spoils it if I ‘see’ it finished before I start.” Fanio still spends a part of each week in his woodworking/art /sculpting studio. His pieces are displayed all around the galaxies. He is quite famous for them. I feel another moment of appreciation for his talent and self-discipline.

  “Exactly!” I agree. “That’s how I feel about this. Timultaneity isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, either, right? I don’t want to know, yet, who co is, who takes my place as the CC. But, I do have to come up with a way to choose, don’t I? And, I can’t.”

  Suddenly, I feel his attention shift and I look toward the door. Now, I feel them, too. “Who’s here?”

  “Not there,” Fanio says, seeing where I am looking. He gestures to the ceiling, which is our signal for MWC visitors. He always knows when we’re getting a holo or off-planet visitor before I do. I still haven’t figured out how.

  “Just a minute, please,” I call out to the visitors. I can feel them, now, waiting. We both scramble out from under the afghan, snap the rest of our clothes to our hands and finish getting dressed.

  I go into the bathroom and wash up, brush my hair, and take a drink of water.

  When I come out, Led and Ringo are in the living room. My husband is talking with them, congenially, still sitting on the couch.

  Led says, “Greetings, CC. How are you?” His form is more blue today and seems a bit larger, hovering over the top of the living room table.

  I nod and say, “Greetings, Led, Ringo. I am excellent. You two?”

  “Also excellent,” Ringo replies, extending the two top of six arms toward us, fanning his digits. His holo is beside the table; our chair is visible behind his jacinth form.

  I do a quick global scan. Usually, an unplanned visit means something needs my immediate attention. It takes about two minutes; I want to be thorough. “I don’t see any hot spots, so to what do we owe the honor of this visit?” I ask.

  “Succession planning,” Led says. “It's not bringing you happiness, is it?”

  Ringo adds, “But, you have to come to the IGC meeting next month, you know. We plan a special birthday party and everything!” Ringo is the cheerleader of the MWC contingent and I smile.

  I sit down next to Fanio and he takes my hand. “Checking up on me, eh? You know I am at every birthday party,” I say, somewhat grudgingly. “But, no gifts, OK?”

  Led says, “Gifts are not customary on many of our planets, but they are on Earth, yes?” He goes on, not waiting for a response, “So, there must be gifts." He switches to his official tone: "‘Ceremonies at the IGC must follow the rituals of the celebrant’s home planet,’” he recites, from memory. “You know that; it’s the ‘Branon Rule.’ Solves a lot of logistical and social problems. Great rule,” he says, approvingly.

  Fanio squeezes my hand. “Caught,” he says, “Hoisted by your own petard.”

  I can feel Led’s confusion and Ringo seems perplexed as well. “Never mind,” I soothe, “Earth sailing joke.”

  They make appropriate laughing noises but I know they're scanning to find the meaning.

  I go on, “OK. But nothing personal. Let everyone know that every gift must be put to charitable use, elsewhere. I’m firm about that.” I look at Epifanio, who nods. “We’ll send a list of options next week.”

  “Done!” Ringo sounds relieved. “So, you’ll both be there! Perfect. We plan more next week. ‘Bye.” He extends another orangish, upper appendage in an imitation of an Earth handwave, then wiggles four of his sets of “fingers” in the MWC salute. His holo disappears.

  Led is still here.

  I look expectantly at him.

  His griseous zeppelin holo wiggles a bit, gliding back and forth across the space in front of our couch. He says, “Let him help you,” indicating Fanio by staying right in front of him, bouncing vigorously. When he knows we understand, he says: “’Bye!” and also disappears.

  "'People come and go so quickly here!'" Fanio says, perfectly imitating Judy Garland's Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz film we both grew up watching repeatedly.

  I look suspiciously at Fanio, again. “What are you up to?”

  A look of completely fake innocence on his face, he pulls away, seemingly appalled, and says, “Who, me?”

  I know when I’m defeated. “Want some tea?” I ask, and get up to make some.

  He follows me into the kitchen. “Sure,” he says. He then takes over making the tea and gestures for me to sit down at the table.

  As he moves around kitchen, I admire his grace. Very fortunate in genetic health and well cared for, his body is aging well. Fanio is lithe, flexible and vibrant. Yoga, Continuum Movement, T’ai Chi, dance and other modalities serve him well. And, then, there’s sex. “The best remedy for what ails me,” he is fond of saying.

  I wish my body ages half as well. But, I start out at such a deficit, I remind myself. It takes years to Re-set what I am able to Re-set. Only some, from over thirty car accidents, other falls and sports injuries, can be undone without making too many other changes. It takes me about two years to lose over a hundred pounds of extra weight at the beginning of my CC tenure. And, some things can’t really be Re-set, like arthritis or the mild COPD I have from childhood asthma and several bouts with pneumonia before I become CC.

  Good thing one of us is so fit. I’m glad it’s Fanio….

  I smile, remembering.

  Oh, yes: great moments from the past hour flash in my mind.

  Hearing that thought, Fanio comes over and kisses me on my neck. “Wanna go again?” he leers, in his Groucho Marx voice.

  I shake myself. It’s easy to get distracted sometimes around him.

  Then, I realize, he is doing this on purpose, planting the
se pictures of our couch time, gently distracting me as he makes tea, so I won’t hear what he’s thinking or what he’s planning.

  “No fair,” I claim.

  He smirks at me, lets me go, and snaps our steaming cups to the table, sitting down next to me. “’All’s fair….’” he replies.

  “Only ‘in love,’” I grumble, “No more war, thanks to the MWC.” I take a sip. “Peach: perfect. Thanks!”

  He nods, accepting my gratitude. Then, he becomes serious. “Here’s the thing, CeeCee.”

  I feel myself getting somber. He only calls me that when we talk global business. I nod, showing my readiness.

  He continues, “You ask me to create the succession protocol. I have it.”

  “I do? When do I do that?” I feel happier, already. If I ask him to do it, it’s done. Yeah!

  “Tomorrow, and next week, and next month, and, well, you just keep asking, and then I finally do it,” Fanio explains. “You bring it to the IGC meeting.”

  I feel myself relaxing and begin to enjoy my tea even more. “I’m really smart, eh? Of course, you should do it. I’m too close to it all, aren’t I? I can’t choose my own successor. How could I do that? I never want my ‘reign’ to end. No one can ever be good enough or know what I know or do it as well as I have, blah, blah, blah. Right?”

  “Exactly,” he agrees. “But, more importantly, I’m better at systems than you,” he says, without any pride or bragging. “It occurs to you that it makes sense for me to create the selection system. Then you feel great about the whole thing. Or, as great as you ever feel about retiring from being the CC.” He takes my hand, sweetly, comforting me. “My dear, sweet Clara. So earnestly attached to glory.”

  I smile at him, overwhelmed with gratitude, bittersweet nostalgia and relief. “Thank you, dear Husband of mine. You are the only glory I want to stay attached to.”

  “No; you are,” he responds, automatically.

  “No, you are,” I reply, just as routinely, but with feeling.

  “No, you.”

  “No, you.”

  We kiss over our tea cups and sit back companionably, grokking in silent fullness.