I want to cover her with a blanket and force feed her oatmeal.
She puts up a valiant fight against invisible demons, her eyes focusing on inanimate objects instead of people.
“Between the idea and the reality,” she screams at a wall.
“Relax,” I hear a male voice command from a HAZMAT suit. She kicks and bites at his uniform. One person preps a syringe. They lay her on a bed and hold her down.
“Falls the shadow,” she yells at a monitor.
Someone pulls the curtain closed. “She’ll be out in a second,” I hear one HAZMAT suit say.
The curtain opens, and most of the HAZMAT team leaves her private cocoon.
As they pass by me, I hear one of them say to the other, “This is only the beginning.”
As I sit on my hospital cot waiting for the next round of testing, I can just make out the crazy lady through a crack in the curtain. Her chest rises and falls like a robot on a schedule. I’m not sure what they gave her, but whatever it was, it worked. Something about her stirs a deep fear in me, and I think about my dad. After returning from active duty, he suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Gulf War Syndrome. When Benji and I were little, we used to watch Dad secretly as he unraveled at night. Seeing the crazy lady spout nonsense reminds me of Dad back then. I hated watching him self-destruct, yet I couldn’t stop being the ever-vigilant daughter. Still can’t.
Hours tick by. If it takes any longer, I might need some of crazy lady’s medication when mine runs out. I wish I had my journal to keep track of everything. Plus it would give me something to do rather than just sit and think in circles.
The HAZMAT worker with the cold blue eyes returns. “Your parents are here. They have to wait in a separate area apart from vertex patients, but I’ll let them know you’re okay.”
“Thanks,” I say. I almost ask how my dad seemed, but I stop myself. “How much longer?”
“I have no idea. It’s up to the CDC.”
CDC. Center for Disease Control. My anxiety antenna spikes at the thought of having an alien disease.
Another staff member turns on television sets and plays Aladdin on all screens.
I close my eyes and visualize my safe place. It’s a scene I remember from a screen saver. Bright blue island sky. White rope hammock tied to palm trees. A book waiting for me. Pages flipping in the wind. I wonder how Dominick is doing. If they called his mother. If she actually showed up. If he’s as afraid as I am.
The staff brings cheese or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with milk or juice. It’s weird to accept food from people wearing head-to-toe protective gear. All I can think about is the Doctor Who episode where people’s faces turn into gas masks. Makes the food much less appetizing.
An hour later, my legs can’t sit still anymore. I need information. As soon as the workers move out of our section, I scramble off the cot, patter across the plasticized floor for the remote, and change the channel to the news. I run back to my cot before anyone can blame me.
I watch as the media replays a hologram’s message for the public. It’s identical to the one I witnessed in Quincy, but the bottom of the screen says it’s located in Springfield, Massachusetts. The newscaster returns to the screen with a microphone in her hand.
“As of the hour, scientists claim that no comet of this magnitude and trajectory has been detected anywhere in our vicinity. Scientists across the globe are rushing to verify the information. Governments warn everyone to stay away from the phenomena until further testing can be done to determine their origin and safety. They are asking people to remain calm and wait for more information.”
One worker returns and stops short when she sees the television screen.
“Who put the news on?” she asks.
No one tells on me. She clicks it back to Aladdin and moves to the next bay, taking the remote with her.
So they’re telling us the truth. Well, the truth as far as anyone knows it. As far as they can tell, there’s no comet. That’s good news. But then why are the holograms here?
After Aladdin, the workers play Cinderella, and then start Mulan. I try to pay attention to the talking dragon and the battle scenes, but I can’t get past the musical numbers. After what must be more than five, agonizing hours, they reevaluate us with the same checklist of questions and tests. The little boy nearby has fallen asleep on his mother. I watch as they try to examine him. When he wakes, he screams like his brain is being probed with an electrode. My hands start to shake again, so I hold onto my thighs through the paper gown. There’s only so long I can live in an outfit that crinkles like a potato chip bag.
Another HAZMAT worker approaches me for reevaluation.
“How long is this going to take?” I ask for the umpteenth time.
She answers with the same response as every other time I’ve asked. “Depends on the CDC findings.”
“But I feel fine.”
“So far. Radiation symptoms show up within the first six to twelve hours. Depending on the tests, doctors will make a call whether they want more tests at the twelfth hour.”
“What?” I complain. “Six more hours?” I lie back on the cot. They will need to strap me down soon if they think I can stay here much longer.
I focus back on Mulan, trying to ignore how strange and terrible my date night has gone, when exhaustion hits. I wake up to a woman handing me a black T-shirt, jean shorts, and flip flops. They aren’t the clothes that I arrived in, but they are clothes that I recognize from my wardrobe at home.
“What’s going on?” I ask, groggy.
“Everyone’s been cleared. All testing came out negative so far—on people and at the sites.”
She hands me a cup of water. As I drink, I realize she’s the same woman from before without the HAZMAT suit. She watches me with the same cold blue eyes, but now I can see her cropped black hair. She is younger and prettier than I expected. Tormentors should be hideous.
“So they aren’t afraid we’re contagious anymore?”
“No,” she answers. “The government released a statement. Scientists have tested several vertex sites, and all of them are completely sterile and benign. Cell phones have worse radiation emanating from them. It took a while because the data kept scrambling. Some sort of incompatibility with our technology. Speaking of cell phones”—she returns my cell phone and purse—“I believe these are yours.”
I hold on to my phone like she’s handing me a newborn. “So this was all for nothing?”
“If that’s how you want to look at it. I’m just happy to go home like you.”
“Where are my other clothes?” I ask.
“They were sent for decontamination. If anything had been found, the CDC would’ve burned everything. You can pick them up at the front desk.”
The attendant hands me discharge papers that explain the warning signs of exposure to radiation. If I experience vomiting, diarrhea, hair loss, dizziness, weakness, or end up with a fever, I must return immediately. Apparently, there’s also the chance of death at any point in the next two weeks if there was actual exposure that our primitive earthly machines cannot measure.
Stuff to look forward to. Worry about. Overanalyze. Thanks a lot for supplying my brain with dire side effects and possibilities.
She closes the curtain and leaves me to get dressed. As I pull the T-shirt on, my brain replays everything she just said, everything I just experienced. Something inside me finally breaks and releases an avalanche of tears. I pull tissues from the box on the counter and try to piece myself together. Hands shaking, I hunt through my purse for my pills. My bag slips and goes into a nosedive, contents scattering everywhere. I crawl on the plastic lining the area and collect the items. Lipstick. Tampons. Loose change. Hair elastic. Pill bottle. Gum. Wallet. Tears blur my vision. I check to see if my money, license, and debit card are all still there. Everything seems int
act. Normal. On my phone a string of texts wait to be answered, mostly from Rita.
Dominick texted a few minutes ago:
Are you okay? I’m waiting for clothes. Meet outside?
My hands shake so out of control they don’t feel like mine. I text back:
I’m fine. Just tired. Do you need a ride?
He doesn’t respond. I wipe more tears with a tissue and pop a pill before leaving the bay.
Everyone in my unit is allowed to leave, everyone except crazy lady. As I walk past her curtained area, I can’t help but peek inside. She’s alert and makes eye contact with me.
“Mississippi?” she says and climbs out of bed.
I pull back from the curtain.
Her IV stand crashes to the ground. She gets a weird look in her eyes and starts patting at her paper gown and frantically searching the floor around her bed.
“No!” she screams. I back farther away. Thankfully, the nurses arrive, pulling her back into bed. She flails, about to fight them, but keeps focused on me. I turn and run.
I need to go home. The world is not safe. The world has gone mad.
The moment I hit the waiting area, Mom runs and hugs me. Dad stands and waits.
“Thank God,” she breathes into my hair. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just tired. I can’t believe they kept us so long.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Dad mutters, looking everywhere else but at me. First sign. My heart drops lower in my chest.
I look around at the crowd of people waiting for loved ones. Dominick’s mother and little brother are nowhere in sight.
“Did you see Dominick?”
“No, honey,” Mom says, taking a cursory look around.
“Wait, I need to see if he needs a ride back to his car.” I pull my phone back out.
Dominick has texted back:
Probably. Be right there.
“Doesn’t that boy have a family of his own?” Dad complains. Mom touches his shoulder. It’s a love warning. It means, “I know you are annoyed but you are crossing the line.”
While we wait for him, I head to the front desk to pick up my clothes.
“Last name?” the attendant asks.
“Lucas. Alexandra Lucas.”
“One moment.”
She disappears behind another door and returns shortly with my clothes and shoes neatly folded in a plastic bag.
“Thanks,” I say. As I turn to leave, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a door window. My curly hair is flattened on one side, sticking up on the other. I grab the hair elastic in my purse and pull my frizzy, brown hair into a quick bun. Just in time—Dominick appears around the corner.
His face perks up when he sees me. He’s dressed up in his clothes from our date, the same dark jeans and striped button-down shirt. His shirt is wrinkled and must be misbuttoned since it doesn’t meet evenly at the bottom. It’s not fair that he looks sexier disheveled while I look like the bride of Frankenstein. He walks over and hugs me. The stress in my shoulders releases, but I push away sooner than usual since I feel Dad’s eyes staring at us. Dominick’s back straightens to full attention. He notices the difference.
“Sorry,” he announces, and I think it’s because of the hug. “It took me a little longer since I didn’t have another change of clothes. I had to wait for them to find mine.”
“Nick, stop with the excuses,” Dad comments. “Guys like you in the military—always behind, always an excuse—didn’t last long.”
Dominick cringes at the nickname. His father’s name was Nicholas. I’ve reminded my dad a million times.
“Dad, not now. Please.” My medication kicks in faster since I haven’t had much food, filling my body with warmth and laziness.
“He put you in danger,” Dad mutters, “and I’m the bad guy.”
“He didn’t know we were gonna have a freaking hologram invasion,” I argue in exhaustion.
“Enough,” Mom says. “Let’s go home. It’s been a long night.”
Dad grunts his disapproval as we walk to the car. Mom rubs his lower back. Like taming a lion.
Outside, the August morning air soothes my aching skin. I breathe in for an easy five counts, hold for two, and let it out in five more. The early sky holds the sun in one corner, the moon still visible in another. Neither look the same anymore.
Chapter 3
Day 2: August—4,380 hours to decide
NASA CLAIMS NO COMET THREAT DETECTED
ABC 6, Boston 7 news, and every other news media outlet I flip through broadcast the same loop of information. Five hundred vertexes. The hologram’s message playing in different languages depending on the country. Maps of vertex sightings across the globe with clusters of them spotted in China, India, and the U.S. Some small countries without any sightings.
They’re guessing that the placement of the vertexes is connected with population percentages. Officials are still asking everyone to stay away from the vertexes for their own safety. They have no way of knowing how many people may have been exposed before they set up perimeters and emergency medical protocols, but all tests show no ill readings as of this point.
That means no radiation poisoning for me or Dominick. Give it two weeks, then I’ll believe it. Doctor’s orders.
I grab my navy-blue journal with the hot-pink polka dots that Grandma Penelope sent me for Christmas last year. Not my style, but if there were ever a time to chronicle something, now would qualify. I scribble details about my ordeal last night and list all the facts I can glean from the news. My hand can’t write fast enough.
President Lee appears in front of the White House for a press conference. She repeats again that “there is no credibility in the holographic message. No such comet has been located at the present time.”
At the present time. So there’s still a possibility.
NASA is all over the news explaining the importance of “planetary protection” and warning about “interplanetary contamination.” They are “deeply concerned” that the arrival of these vertexes may have “contaminated our biosphere with extraterrestrial bacteria.” The CDC is running every test imaginable at various sites, but so far “nothing of interest” has been uncovered.
Nothing of interest. They can’t be serious.
Newscasters report live from various locations across the world, and despite the warnings, throngs of people have flocked to see the phenomena for themselves. How can they not? It’s a spectacle—something so extraordinary and overwhelming that you have to see it to believe it. Even though I saw the one in Quincy, I already want to see another one. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it.
Why would the holograms come to rescue us from nothing? Did they get the date wrong? What are they hiding?
Maybe it’s all a lie, and our very own scientists created the vertexes by accident. The holograms could be just an elaborate cover-up for their mistake. Weren’t they trying to make their own black holes, their own Big Bang in some large underground collider machine? I bet they screwed up an experiment and cracked the universe.
The whole thing is just unreal. My mind won’t stop spinning.
My phone rings, and Benji’s name and face appear on the screen. I’m surprised he’s called me twice and not Mom or Dad. Whenever we talk, either it’s awkward or we get into a fight. I set my journal aside and click off the TV to shut out the media before answering the phone.
“Hey,” I say, “What’s up? Where are you?”
“Doesn’t matter. They’re sending me home.”
“Home home?” I grab one of the striped side pillows from the sofa and hug it.
“Yes, but not off duty. They’re stationing me at one of the vertexes. Not sure which one yet, but they’re supposed to assign us to one close to our families.”
“Lucky us,” I comment. “You�
�ll be back.”
“You would think that, wouldn’t you?”
We both allow seconds of silence to tick between us.
“I can’t really talk details,” he continues, “but from where I sit, none of it looks good. Every country is having a different reaction. It’s bad.”
I think about what he’s saying and what he’s not saying. He’s usually a die-hard patriot, like Dad, a rare creature to find these days. For him to say something is bad in our country, it must be catastrophic.
“Why didn’t you call Mom and Dad?” I ask. I pull on a tiny string on the corner of the pillow, and it starts to unravel the seam.
“Because Mom will be emotional, and Dad will be Dad. What does it matter? Can you just tell them that I should be back in a week?”
“Sure,” I say, annoyed. “They’ll love having you back.”
He sighs into the phone, and I get the impression that he’d rather be overseas in a foreign land dealing with foreign wars than be on the home front dealing with the new unknown. Or maybe his real problem has less to do with the holograms and more to do with the family.
“One week. Tell them.”
Curly hair is a punishment, especially in August humidity. Rita’s coming over around three o’clock to hear all about the hologram and the vertex firsthand, and then Dominick’s coming after dinner. I have an hour to shower and tame my hair into submission. I step into the tub, careful not to get the bandage on my elbow wet. The smell of disinfectant from last night burns into my memory. I grab a loofah and lather half the bottle of berry vanilla body wash on every inch of my skin. The water rinses over me as I let the wall hold me up.
Stepping out of the shower, I wrap myself with a huge mintgreen towel and dry off. It’s a struggle to put on my clothes, a Paramore T-shirt and jean shorts. As I lift my hands to slick my wet curls into a ponytail, a dull pain shoots through my heart and takes my breath away. My heart spasms into a million little unnatural beats. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was having a heart attack. But I know better.
During middle school, my parents brought me to the emergency room three times for supposed heart attack symptoms. By the third time, the diagnosis was panic attacks caused by general anxiety disorder. Either way, the doctor implied that it was all in my mind and recommended counseling, which I tried for a while but found medication more effective than talking about my physical symptoms to a stranger.
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