by Nick Lake
Comet has altitude sickness. Grandpa came & helped take him to the medical bay.
i didn’t know dogs could get altitude sickness, but apparently they can. the good news is that he’s not dying, or anything like that. the bad news is that he isn’t up to doing very much. he spends most of his time lying at the bottom of the bed, looking miserable. his ears still prick up when i tickle behind them tho, when i stroke them.
apparently altitude sickness doesn’t get better either. that is: most people who have it, they just have it. there isn’t really much they can do about it. there’s a drug but a lot of people get bad side effects. they find out when they trek to Everest base camp or what have u. that’s what the doctors told me. & basically then some just have to go back down—it’s something u’re either born with or not.
the same is presumably true of dogs.
which means as long as he’s here with me, Comet is condemned to feel dizzy. nauseous.
i don’t like that thought.
but i don’t like the thought of being without Comet either. & anyway, where is he going to go?
(to the ranch, i answer myself. to the ranch.)
most of the time i watch movies on my screen. the screens here have their connectivity limited too, even tho we know why now. i don’t think they want us watching news stories. there’s a lot that might upset us, apparently. as if being in this place is not upsetting enough.
it’s a little like being back on the space station, i suppose. cut off from the world. in it but not of it. looking thru glass, at things we can’t touch.
only, on the station, while we were limited in scope & scale & the ability to go outside because outside would kill us in a heartbeat, we were free in every plane. we could float up & down & to the sides & our world was a sphere all around us.
the earth, meanwhile, looks like a sphere from above, but when u’re on it it’s just 1 plane, the 1 below u, the 1 that sucks at u, anchoring u to the ground.
it is a place of endless down.
& now we’re trapped here, having been born as part of an experiment that no one today thinks should have happened, but no one really knows what to do about since it has. & our mothers chose to have us as some kind of employment contract not because they wanted to be mothers, & basically no one wants us, really.
these are the cheerful thoughts i fill my day with.
sometimes i go to the garden with Libra. i find that even with my wrist brace i can use crutches a little, pivot my weight about the axis of their handles, walk for short distances without putting too much strain on my broken leg.
sometimes i watch vids with Orion. or we listen to audiobooks. there is 1 about a Stradivarius violin & the different people who owned it over the centuries, which Orion likes.
we sit together, on his bed. closer than i mostly wanted to get, on Moon 2, after we hugged on his & Libra’s birthday & our bodies got weird with each other, magnets turned to push each other away.
it’s something i would have panicked about, back then. the proximity of his body. his arm, next to mine, his hand near enough to touch.
here at Mountain Dome it doesn’t feel like that, doesn’t affect me in the same way, because of his frailty. because of his sickness.
right now, tho, i’m lying on my own with Comet, not wanting to get up.
then there’s a knock on the door.
“come in,” i say.
the door opens & Grandpa enters. his hair looks a little grayer than the last time i saw him, tho it’s barely been a week. he seems to have acquired new lines in his face, like there are harsh winds that only he can feel. maybe it’s just my imagination. he walks over to my bedside & sits down, doesn’t wait for an invitation.
“hi,” he says.
“hi.”
he sighs. “ur mother.”
“what about her?”
he rubs at his stubble. another new thing: he was always clean-shaven before. “she didn’t mean to hurt u, u know,” he says.
“well, of course not,” i say coldly. “she didn’t know me. when she decided to be part of the experiment, i didn’t exist. i was just supposed to be a scientific outcome.”
“ok.”
“she didn’t mean to hurt me. but she didn’t want me, did she? i mean, not really.”
he touches my hand briefly. “first,” he says. “i don’t know how much choice she had. u didn’t belong to her, she wasn’t allowed to…mother u. not really. second. ur mother. she…she’s different. u must know that. she doesn’t…experience things in the same way as u & me. but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t care about u.”
silence, on my part.
outside the glass, the shadow of a cloud moves over the mountainside before us.
“ur mother loves u,” he says. “in her way. & i love u. when u came along…when i saw u, on the screen, from down on the ranch…u know i saw u when u were 1 hour old? they held u up to the camera. i felt my heart lurch, like u put it into a new rhythm.”
pause.
“i knew what she was doing. i didn’t like it. we fell out & she left & went to Nevada & then up there to the station. but when u arrived…u were the best thing. the best thing. & i have loved u since the moment i saw ur little face, ur hands, opening & closing like stars. u were small enough that when ur mother held u in her arms, u almost disappeared. a conjuring trick.”
pause.
“& all i wanted, for nearly 16 years, was to meet u.”
i don’t say anything. still. there is a tear on my cheek & i wipe it away.
“& then i did, & u were even more amazing than i imagined. stronger. braver.”
“not so strong now,” i say.
“oh, i don’t know,” he says.
pause.
“u know i wasn’t the best dad to ur mother either,” he says, after a while. “i was always working. always at the base. or in space. on a mission. remind u of anyone? & when i was home…i was stressed. angry. some people…some men…i don’t know. it takes our testosterone a few decades to calm down.”
i think of him testing me. challenging me. leaving me on that fence. i imagine it x 5, x 10, x whatever factor it must have been when he was younger, when he hadn’t had time to mellow.
huh.
“well,” he says. “i didn’t come to chat. not just, anyway.” he reaches out a hand & pets Comet. Comet lifts his head & rumbles a little & curls up tighter.
“what else did u come for then?” i say.
“ur mother’s here.”
“here where?” i ask. i look around me.
“here, as in outside the room,” he says. “waiting to come in. if u will let her.”
“i don’t have anything to say to her,” i say.
“i figured as much,” says Grandpa. “but she has something to say to u.”
he stands there just looking at me until i say, “ok, fine.” then he goes over to the door & opens it, & my mother comes in.
mother.
even the word now seems like some kind of cruel joke.
she’s beautiful, as always, beautiful & empty.
like where i grew up.
like most of the universe.
“hello, Mother,” i say, ironic.
“hello, Leo,” she says. because she doesn’t do irony.
my mother walks over to the bed & stands next to it, not looking at me, but instead out, onto the snow & rocks.
Comet yaps with joy, at least as close to it as he can manage, when he sees her & lifts his muzzle to her, & she reaches down & pats him. he licks her hand.
“i would say i was sorry,” she says. still not looking at me. “but i don’t think it would adequately cover it.”
“no,” i say.
“but i am,” she says. “sorry. i…i didn’t mean for any of this to happen. they asked me to do something. it was an honor, i thought. a mission. i didn’t think…i didn’t think past the birth. what it would mean. having a real person.”
“like me.”
pause.
“i…i am very proud of u,” she says.
i stare at her, surprised.
“i am,” she says. she meets my eyes & then looks away. “the space walk. ur math. ur physics. u are…u are a lot like me, when i was younger.”
huh.
i don’t know if that’s a good thing to be.
she sees that in my eyes, that thought, & looks down, her eyelashes fine, sweeping her cheeks. on another person her features would be delicate. but delicate is not a word you’d associate with my mother.
i sit up a little straighter in the bed. i want to seem strong. capable. “if u think i’m just going to be ok with this because we’ve had some kind of mother & son bonding session, then u’re wrong,” i say. “we’re not going to be playing happy families.”
“no,” says mother. “i c that.”
pause.
“so what, then?” i say. because i can tell she’s there for something.
“i’m going to go back to the ranch,” she says. “i’ve talked to ur grandfather about it. someone needs to fix the fence. look after the cattle. ur grandpa could go…but of the 2 of us, he’s the 1 who’s…who’s better staying here. with u. i mean…he knows how to…how to be with u. look after u. better than i do.”
there’s a sadness in her eyes that i have never seen before & i wish that i could tell her that none of this is true, that she’s my mother, she’s the 1 who should be with me, but that would be a lie.
& we both know it.
so instead i say, “oh.”
it hangs there in the air, a small sound, a fractional sentence.
“but,” says Grandpa. i kind of forgot he was there. he steps forward.
“yes, but,” says Mother, suddenly brisk & business again. “i’ve spoken to the doctors & to ur grandfather. & i thought i could help with something. maybe.”
“help with what?”
she reaches forward & strokes Comet again. “i thought i could take him. Comet. back down to the ranch.”
a pause in which the mountain rises from the ground, trailing tree roots & crumbling earth & rocks, snow dusting into the air, creaking & groaning with epochal, earth-shaking sounds that vibrate thru us, send all the lights crashing down from the ceilings, as we lift into the sky, birds cawing & wheeling away from this landmass taking into the air, the peak breaking thru clouds.
& then crashes down again, & is in the same place, birds settled on their stones & branches, as if the mountain never moved at all.
“no,” i say.
Grandpa puts a hand on my shoulder. “Dr. Hendricks says the altitude sickness is most likely not going to improve,” he says. “it’s cruel to keep him here.”
“i know but—”
“Leo,” says my mother softly. surprisingly softly.
i turn to her.
she moves her hand toward the bed. Comet struggles his head up again & nuzzles it.
“he likes me,” she says. “u must have noticed that.”
i have. i have noticed that.
“yes,” i say.
“i promise i’ll keep him safe,” she says. “he knows the ranch. his mother is still there. i’ll take him for walks. keep training him, like Grandpa says u’ve been doing.”
i notice she’s calling him Grandpa now.
“& we can vid call,” she continues. “u’ll c him all the time, & 1 day u’ll come down from here & he’ll still be ur dog. this will just be like…dog-sitting. temporary.”
i look at Comet. feel his warmth on my legs. the coiled energy of him. he is a spring disguised as a living being. i remember him jumping up at the man who broke into the house. running ahead of me, his paws hardly seeming to hit the ground, as if he were something liquid flowing across it. i remember when i first felt his heart beating thru him, drumming his rhythm thru his little body.
i sigh.
“ok ok ok,” i say. “i get it. he’s sick. he can’t live here.”
“it’s for the best, Leo,” says my mother.
“u don’t get to say that,” i say, a little petulantly. “that’s for me to decide. but yes, i think he should go down. i don’t want him to suffer.”
she nods. “i’ll leave as soon as i can arrange things with Boutros. & ur grandfather. u’ll want a bit of time to say goodbye, of course.”
“no,” i say.
“sorry?”
“no,” i say again. “take him now. just do it. just take him now.”
i turn away from her, so she can’t c me crying.
“what about…i mean, u were training him, weren’t u? i don’t want to get it wrong, to…”
“it’s easy,” i say. “sit, heel, stay. a puppy could learn it. u’ll pick it up.”
my voice comes out too sharp. she takes a tiny step back.
i ignore her.
i lean forward, lean my face down toward Comet & press it into his fur. he makes a little growl deep inside, resonating inside the chamber of his chest. i hug him tight.
“goodbye, Comet,” i say.
bark.
then i lift him, & hand him to my mother, into her arms. she cradles him like a baby, & i get a flash of her holding me as a baby, my grandpa seeing me over the vid screen, as she floats in 0 g, & i can’t imagine it ever happened & yet at the same time it did. it did happen.
i turn to the snow & the rocks, & i feel like my hot salt tears would melt them away if they touched them, to nothingness.
“go,” i say.
i am untethered.
unmoored.
an object in space with nothing to orient me, nothing to tell me which way to spin, & why. things lose their gravity; the center fails. everything is edges & outsides.
i don’t c Grandpa for a few days. i guess he is with my mother, making preparations. maybe he even goes with her, to the ranch, to help get her set up, & then flies back. i don’t know & i don’t ask. we’re not really in a position to know things about the outside world, here.
i pass the time, when i’m not watching vids or reading books, with Libra & Orion. right now we are in the garden. it’s night, & the great dome that covers most of the room—until it ends at the wall leading to the hallway—has dissolved into the darkness, the glass liquefying into black, pinpricked with stars. it is as if we are beneath the canopy of the heavens—earth’s counterpart rises above us; something for us to aspire to.
for me to aspire to.
Libra is pruning something or taking a cutting or something. i was not really listening when she explained. she is standing with small shears by a plant, bending over it. even tho i’m missing Comet, now that i’m over the shock of seeing Libra & Orion so sick, it’s good to be with them again. they’re my family, i realize.
Orion is in a chair with an oxygen mask strapped to his face. he is conducting with his hands, but gently, very gently. from hidden speakers in the walls, Vivaldi is playing.
we don’t lack for luxuries. only freedom.
he pushes his mask aside for a moment. “i’m not a fan of the romantics,” he says, “but in the present context it seems appropriate. the garden.”
he covers his mouth again, takes a deep breath.
Libra will have to return to her chair soon. she can’t manage standing for too long. i meanwhile am on my crutches. it is as if we are on an EVA from the world itself. reliant on oxygen to support us. devices made of metal & plastic, to which we are tied.
i am not on oxygen yet. but it’s only a matter of time, i imagine.
Libra snips a leaf & it flutters to the ground. around us, moths or butterflies fly, clumsy & soft.
“what are we going to do?” i say.
Libra turns to me. “what do u mean?”
i make a gesture that takes in the garden, the dome, all of it. “this. our lives. what are we going to do with them?”
“well, it doesn’t seem like we have much choice, does it?” says Libra. she returns to her chair & sits. sweat is beadi
ng on her forehead. i can smell the intensity of flowers, all around us. a smell that is made of night colors: velvet in texture. “we’re staying here.”
“till when?”
Orion moves his mask. “till we die.”
i shake my head.
“what are u shaking ur head for?” says Libra.
“what do u think?”
“u have some other idea of what we should be doing, i suppose,” she says. “u have some kind of dream.” she throws the shears & they disappear in the undergrowth, in the darkness beyond 1 of the round lights at our feet.
i shrug. “everyone has dreams.”
Orion shakes his head now, lifts his mask. “i don’t think ur mother dreams.”
i smile. then i picture her, on the field in front of the house, shouting to Comet as he moves fleet over the earth, over the clumps of grass. “i don’t know,” i say. “she’s revealing unexpected dimensions.”
Orion nods slowly. his hands are still moving to the time signature of the music.
clouds move, & the moon appears above us, bright & shining. Libra indicates a point just off to our right. “night-flowering jasmine,” she says. “c?”
i do c. little flowers, white, stars in the bushes near us, fallen from the sky.
fallen.
pause.
“what do u want to do then?” says Libra to me.
“isn’t it obvious?” i say. my heart tap tap taps in my chest.
she looks at me, as if to say, no.
i point up. past the dome. at the vault of light-splattered dark, the endless night sky. “i want to go back up there,” i say.
Libra opens her mouth, then shuts it again.
Orion presses the joystick on the left arm of his chair, & it whirs as it turns to face me. he withdraws his mask. clear plastic, a tube running into it—secured by a green rubber strap that circles his head. the hiss of oxygen. “why?” he says.
i didn’t know i was going to say it till i said it. but still. it is obvious.
“because it’s home,” i say.
he is breathing shallowly. “no. it’s space. it’s empty. hostile.”
“& the place i grew up. where we grew up.”
he frowns. “&…what? u’d just stay up there forever?”
“i guess,” i say, having given it precisely no thought until this moment.