Family of Origin

by CJ Hauser

  This was why she had to go to Mars. She couldn’t bear to look over her shoulder and see one more sad, wounded bird laid out behind her.

  Mars began as a joke, a dare to prove to Dylan how little she needed him. How little she needed anything, not one thing on the whole planet.

  She and Dylan had watched the 60 Minutes story about the Mars Origins program together while drinking beers and eating pizza and they’d both been fascinated. Had both laughed about it. People would live in domes? There would be people willing to go, knowing they’d never come back?

  I could do it, Elsa said. I don’t have so many ties.

  Dylan swiped his hand along her thigh.

  You’re as caught up in this planet as the rest of us, he said.

  That’s it, I’m going, Elsa said. You heard it here first.

  Dylan continued to stroke Elsa’s legs as she typed all her information into her phone, requesting materials for Mars from right there on the couch.

  Within a week, a packet arrived in the mail. Elsa read it out loud to him over breakfast. She left it between the salt and pepper shakers.

  One day Dylan said, Can I throw this away?

  No, Elsa said.

  Cut it out, Dylan said, which meant she’d got under his skin, which meant she couldn’t stop.

  By talking about Mars, Elsa hoped she was making Dylan insecure, was making him realize he loved her more than she loved him, because if that were true then Elsa was safe. As long as his side of their love had more ballast to it, she felt in control and like he would not leave. Everyone left Elsa, and so she needed to be sure.

  Surprise! (I’m Sorry.)

  After she made the first round, Dylan started having dreams. He had a dream about Elsa in an astronaut helmet where he knocked on the shield and could not bear the sight of her face behind glass. He had a dream of Elsa choking to death on red dust. He had a dream where she was floating upside down and eating dehydrated ice cream and missing him while “Space Oddity” played in the background.

  Elsa suggested that Dylan had invented these images and that they were not dreams at all.

  Dylan suggested that Earth was not over.

  When Elsa made the second round of cuts, she received in the mail a pair of undeniably real airline tickets to the Netherlands to interview for the trials.

  She showed them to Dylan.

  Cut it out, Major Tom, he said.

  I’m doing it. I’m going to Mars. I’m serious, she said.

  It turned out, this was the last straw. She’d found it.

  Kicking her heels against the porch railing on the last day of school, drinking behind this terrible bar, Elsa wanted to cry. Dylan had been gone for a month and her father was dead and she wanted to tell James Peacock he needed to grow the fuck up and cleave every sorry soft bit of himself away, and fast. She wanted to float away to Mars and be held in her spacesuit and map the finite borders of her own longing.

  The bartender came outside and lit a cigarette.

  You okay?

  Elsa nodded and hopped off the railing.

  Give me one of those, hey?

  As he lit her a cigarette, the bartender’s face was suddenly so close it seemed inevitable. Elsa dropped the cigarette from between her lips and kissed him.

  Whoa, he said. Elsa moved in closer. She grabbed his belt buckle and twisted it, pulling his jeans tight at the crotch. She bit his neck. He groaned and it sounded like old country from the jukebox.

  The bartender grabbed Elsa by the arms and turned her around. The bartender pinned her to the wall. He pressed himself against her, his hands holding her wrists against the vinyl siding that smelled of bleach. He drove his knee between her legs.

  Is this what you want? he said.

  A truck’s lights briefly passed over them as it pulled out of the parking lot, spitting gravel.

  You want this? he said again.

  But Elsa could not have anything she wanted. The things she wanted were lost or impossible or unnameable or would collapse under the weight of her need for them, so no, she did not want this, but this, at least, she could have, and so it was yes.

  Leap’s Island

  The southside beach Gates took them to was nicer than Ian’s. There was surf, and pipers ran along the shore like urgent children. Esther Stein and Gates were neighbors, and both of their shacks were raised on tall stilts, decks built out in front. The steps to the decks were warped in a way that suggested the tide ran up them. Esther had an ancient canoe tied to a post with a mezuzah fixed to it.

  Ahoy, Greys! Esther said as they approached.

  Esther spoke in the strong honk of a Long Island accent.

  The Greys waved at the small, wrinkled woman in a deck chair who was looking at them through binoculars. She sat next to an inflatable baby pool, neon blue, bulbous, and patterned with beach balls.

  Hello, Gates, Esther said. I haven’t seen you at home much. Are you camping out?

  Gates waved at Esther without saying anything and headed for her own house, which had a bright yellow kayak tied out front.

  Children, come! said Esther Stein, and the Greys climbed the water-warped stairs to meet her. They were adults, yes, but there was a part of them that longed for someone to make them small again. To send them back in time to when mistakes had not been made and relieve them of their own agency. And so, when Esther called them children, the Greys obeyed. Children. It made them young. It made them Ian’s.

  * * *

  ——————·

  They sat in low chairs next to Esther’s patio table with the baby pool on it. They crossed their hands in their laps, trying to be deferential as they had been taught to do with the old and the insane. Esther was eighty if she was a day. In a bin next to her chair were a pad of lined paper, multiple pairs of binoculars, a stopwatch, a mess of pens, and a small device that looked like a miniature fan.

  Well, I think it’s wonderful you want to talk about your father, Esther said. Such a charming man. Such a loss.

  We’re mostly interested in his research, Nolan said. Elsa rolled her eyes, but he continued. Did you know much about it?

  That’s rich, you asking me. Esther poked Nolan in the chest. You’re the one who has all his notes.

  We aren’t biologists, Nolan said. They don’t mean much to us.

  Esther shrugged. I don’t know the specifics, but you’ve got seven scientists out here trying to show how screwed we all are and then Ian—

  Esther cut herself off and lifted her binoculars. They were on a long beaded chain that sparkled pink and green. Elsa suspected Esther had made this chain herself.

  Ian what? Elsa asked.

  Oh! Esther said, spying something delightful. She handed Elsa a pair of binoculars. Sweetheart, I’m going to need you to help me with a behavior sample. She thrust a pad of paper and stopwatch at Nolan. You log.

  Nolan took the stopwatch. It seemed rude not to. We don’t really know anything about birds, he said. We just had a few questions about—

  Esther gestured to Elsa. Quickly, dear. Do you see them?

  Elsa found the binoculars enormously heavy. I don’t really know how— she said, although this wasn’t strictly true. When she was small, Ian and Ingrid had taken her bird-watching on Sanibel Island several times. Elsa wondered if Leap’s had ever reminded Ian of those summers.

  Scan the shore over there. Do you see the pair? Esther said.

  Elsa lifted the binoculars and scanned. The sight was fuzzy, and it felt as though the lenses were too far apart. Or like her eyes were set too close together. But Elsa pushed the barrels together and twisted the focus and there were the buffleheads, standing on the shore, dripping wet. Their white caps looked smooth, and the green around their necks was striking when wet. Elsa could see beads of water like ornaments in their wings. What had become of the bino
culars Ian had given her on Sanibel? They’d been pink, she recalled; she had picked them out at the gift shop, pink instead of functional black, a choice Ian had disapproved of. Still, he had written her initials on the nylon cord in Sharpie, and she remembered feeling inordinately proud of this. To be trusted with equipment.

  I see them, Elsa said.

  Nolan, are you ready? Esther said.

  I don’t know, he said. Nolan felt panicked. He liked to be prepared for tasks. He didn’t like being bad at things, and without preparation he was bad at most of them.

  Just write down whatever I say they’re doing, Esther said. Comfort, Resting, Locomotion, Interaction, Alert, or Foraging. There are two ducks, so I’ll tell you two things and just write them on a fresh line.

  This seems like a lot, Nolan said.

  Set the watch, Esther said, and every fifteen seconds, I want you to call out “Mark” and I’ll give you data, okay?

  I’m ready, Elsa said.

  Go, said Esther.

  Nolan set the watch. It beeped. At fifteen seconds he said, Mark?

  Resting, Resting, Esther said.

  Nolan wrote down Resting, twice, next to the time on the watch.

  Mark?

  The second bufflehead was pecking at something along the shore.

  Resting, Foraging, Esther said.

  Because the second one is eating? Elsa said.

  Exactly, Esther said.

  They went on like this and soon fell into a comfortable rhythm. Elsa found she enjoyed Esther’s narration of the ducks’ activity.

  Locomotion, Locomotion.

  Locomotion, Alert.

  Locomotion, Foraging, Esther said.

  Elsa said, The second one isn’t eating. He’s biting his feathers.

  Good girl, Esther said. Locomotion, Comfort then. He’s preening. You take over with your young eyes. I’ll check you.

  In spite of herself, Elsa was proud. Her arms ached from holding up the binoculars, but she didn’t dare put them down or she’d lose her sight of the ducks.

  Mark, Nolan said.

  Alert, Resting, said Elsa.

  Alert, Comfort.

  Comfort, Comfort.

  Nolan notated the actions. After a while, he realized it would be easier to divide the sheet into two columns, one for each duck, and to list only the first letter of the word Elsa said. He revamped the sheet and between observations he scrawled a key at the top of the page. He numbered out the time slots in increments down the page. It was quicker this way, more efficient.

  Foraging, Comfort.

  Comfort, Comfort.

  Resting, Alert.

  The stopwatch beeped. That’s it, Nolan said.

  Well done, children! Esther said, letting her binoculars rest against her chest.

  Elsa put down her binoculars and the immediate world swam up to meet her: Nolan chewing on his pen, sweeping his hair behind his ear as he studied the notes he’d made. How much easier it was to look at something through the scope. Detailed, tiny, and comfortingly far away.

  Nolan handed Esther the pad of paper.

  What have you done here? Esther said. Is this shorthand?

  I made a key, Nolan said. It’s much faster, which means it’s more accurate too. You could make copies of it even, and just have the template ready to go.

  Esther frowned. I’ll just transcribe the notes over, don’t worry. You did a good job.

  But don’t you eventually have to log this information anyway? Really, you should have a digital spreadsheet open, with the template in there. That way, you could immediately calculate percentages.

  I appreciate the spirit of ingenuity, Esther said, but I’ve been doing observations this way for twenty years.

  Let her do it the way she wants, Nolan, Elsa said.

  But it’s better this way, he insisted.

  Esther laughed. Every generation wants to reinvent the wheel, she said.

  I was just trying to help, Nolan said.

  Charming, helpful millennials, Esther said, and took out the small fanlike device. She began taking a reading of the wind speed.

  Nolan asked, What do millennials have to do with anything?

  You’re neither of you much like your father, you know, Esther said.

  Are you saying we’re dumb? Elsa said.

  She’s saying we’re not as smart as Dad, Nolan said.

  Well, everyone knows that.

  Yeah, but—

  Don’t even. We’re so much dumber than Dad.

  Esther sighed at Nolan’s sheet and put down the fan, notating something.

  Do you need us to do it again? Nolan asked. I can do better notes this time.

  Elsa said, Don’t be a sore loser.

  I’m sorry, Nolan said. Are you under the impression you just won?

  It’s not really a win/lose outcome, Esther said. It’s data collection. She was now staring through a tiny black sight at the ducks.

  What exactly are you trying to get out of this? Elsa asked.

  Information about shifts in the ducks’ behavior, Esther said. To support my theories.

  You really moved here for these ducks? Elsa asked.

  Nolan handed back his stopwatch, but Elsa found she didn’t want to give up her binoculars.

  Everyone says they moved for the ducks, Esther said. But it’s not for nothing that you wind up out here. We’re all a bunch of old kooks, if you ask me. Don’t tell the others I said that. They’ve been trying to kick me out for years, but I’m the only one who publishes anything, so they can’t.

  What have you been publishing? Elsa asked.

  Bird counts. And an analysis of mallard migration shifts last year. They fired me from the Audubon Society board in ninety-eight, but I got my degree at Cornell, and the alumni community is tight, so some people will still publish me.

  Cornell? Elsa said.

  Don’t act so surprised, sweetheart, Esther said, it’s unbecoming.

  It’s just, if you went to Cornell, what are you doing here?

  So Esther Stein told them her story. Everyone on Leap’s had one.

  * * *

  ——————·

  A lifelong birder, Esther Stein had a PhD in ecology and evolutionary biology from Cornell University. She was a vice president and chief scientist on the board of the New York Audubon Society. She could have taught anywhere, but chose to teach environmental biology at a high school in Ronkonkoma, because she loved where she lived and loved children. She often received letters from former students about the hikes they had taken and creatures they had seen; leaves and bark rubbings fell out of the envelopes. Her students’ innate curiosity and enthusiasm for the natural world, Esther claimed, was what kept her going.

  But recently, the children were changing.

  In her Enviro Bio classes, Esther was famous for making her students run to their various study sites to maximize class time. She shouted: Be light, be quick, keep up or you will be culled from the herd! Previously, people had found this charming.

  But this winter, when she made the students run out to the field of their second-rate football team and take off their mittens and press their hands into the snow to imitate the tracks made by different types of animals, the students complained. They showed her their hands, wet and red. It hurts, they said.

  Everything good hurts, Esther wanted to say, but relented.

  Let me see your fisher cat tracks and then you can go back inside, Esther said. And the kids toppled over and waddled in their designer coats until they’d made some semblance of the tracks. Then they pointed at the divots in the ice crust and said, Can we go now?

  Can we go now. It broke Esther’s heart.

  Esther decided she needed to take action. The problem was winter, she decided. The children we
re not unenthusiastic; they were just short on sunlight. They needed a reminder that spring was coming.

  That day, it was windy. Twenty degrees. Two boys in the last row of the classroom kept using a pencil to lift the back of one of the girls’ sweaters so they could see the top of her thong. The other students were texting under the table, as if she could not see this, as if Esther were somehow not a person, with eyes, at the front of the room.

  Outside, Esther said.

  I have a doctor’s note, the girl in the thong said.

  I said outside, now.

  Esther’s plan was to march them up to the ridge, and from there they would see the whole of town laid out in white-blanketed patches. She would show them the thawing lake. From the shore, the lake still looked frozen, but from above, a black melted pit appeared in the middle. The first sign that spring was nigh. She would give them this moment of hope. It was a forty-minute class period. She had just enough time to hike them there and back.

  Except for one kid in rain boots, the students did not have proper footwear. One of the girls was wearing yellow canvas sneakers. One boy wore boat shoes with no socks.

  How did you even get to school like that? Esther said.

  I’m just moving from one heated space to another, the boy said.

  Esther had a large purple down coat ribbed in fat sections. She had a fleece neck warmer and an ear band and thick gloves and a hat with a knitted flower on it. Her wire-rimmed glasses fogged when they pushed the door open and headed outside.

  They marched silently at first, dutifully, but as Esther continued to give them no idea what they were walking toward, and the hill grew steep, they revolted. My ankles are so cold, boat shoes said, slipping. This is bullshit, said one of the boys. The girl in the canvas sneakers was quietly crying. But Esther would show them. They would be grateful. This is what it meant to be really alive.

  They reached the peak. Twenty-five minutes, longer than Esther had planned on it taking them.

  There, she said. And it was just as she hoped. The fields of white. The supreme quiet with the low drone of obscured traffic below. And the black heart of the lake: a wobbly kidney-shaped hole thawed through at the center. Irrefutable.