A few top astrophysicists, mathematicians, and other adventurous types have also decided to take the plunge. The opportunity was too enticing for them to pass up. I think they’re just as crazy as the other people, but Dominick disagreed and explained their need to explore a part of space “where no [Earthling] has gone before.” I can’t argue with him when he uses Star Trek against me.
Other people have started talking crap about the good the exodus will have on the nation:
“Getting rid of the baggage that’s weighing the country’s economy down.”
“Vertexes are cleaning up the gene pool.”
“Dregs of the streets. Good riddance.”
Even Dad and Benji have gotten onto this train of thought.
I don’t understand how people can be so desperate and so mean. Life on Earth must be terrible for those leaving if they can risk everything for the slightest possibility that the holograms are actually telling the truth. I mean, we have no evidence that there’s a comet. It could all be an elaborate trap.
I need evidence. Facts. Ambiguity breeds overreaction. I should know. I’m the queen of biological overreaction. We simply don’t have enough information to make a permanent decision. How can people, especially scientific people, make this kind of leap of faith? Can this level of hopelessness and disinterest in our planet really exist?
Maybe Dominick’s right. Maybe I really am a Scully. But she always seemed so cool, calm, and collected, not sweaty, shaky, and scattered.
"Come fishing with me tomorrow morning,” Dominick asks over the phone. His request catches me so off guard my bowl tips, sending a cold dribble of cookie dough ice cream down my bare leg.
“But you said, and I quote, ‘I fish alone. Man versus fish.’ I remember the lofty speech.”
I grab a T-shirt from my laundry basket to wipe my leg.
“I changed my mind.”
“Are you sure?” I know what he’s not saying. His father used to bring him on fishing trips. It was their thing.
“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t sure.”
The silent shift in our relationship is palpable. It’s a proposal of sorts. He’s inviting me deeper into his world, right when it’s almost time to let our worlds go.
“Sure,” I say. My mind screams Don’t do it!
“Six a.m. Bring a sweatshirt. It’s usually windy.”
Early the next morning, I search through my bureau for something appropriate to wear on our fishing date. I choose jean shorts, a Patriots T-shirt, canvas sneakers, and a “Life is Good” hat. My anxiety revs up inside my chest. I’m forgetting something. I know I’m forgetting something. Then I remember to grab a navy-blue sweatshirt like Dominick suggested. You would think that remembering I forgot something would make me feel better, but instead it justifies my anxiety, which starts a loop in my brain thinking that I must be forgetting something else.
What else am I forgetting? There’s something else. I know there’s something. Something. Something. If I forget it, something bad will happen. Something really bad. And I won’t be able to fix it.
STOP IT.
The loop continues. I dig through my dirty laundry, then open and close every drawer in my room, searching and double checking for something to remind me what I could be forgetting. My body sweats as I spin in circles.
STOP IT. Everything’s fine.
But what if it’s not fine? What if I left an iron plugged in? What if I start a fire? What if I go fishing and then come back and the house is burned down? What if my parents and Benji are burnt to a crisp and they have to use their dental records to identify the bodies? What if the police think I did it on purpose? What if . . .
I take a pill and wait for it to rescue me.
Dominick and I walk along the wide cement pier that extends from New Bedford’s Fort Taber into the Atlantic. A metal barrier protects us from falling into the water. Old-fashioned light posts line the left side of the walkway. Even at the early hour, the ocean air is cool but thick with late-August humidity. The wind restores the emptiness inside me from panicking earlier. My old counselor used to tell me that spending more time outside would help my anxiety. Maybe I should’ve listened. As we reach the end of the pier, the wide ocean stretches out for us in full panoramic glory. The Butler Flats lighthouse sits proudly in the water. Sailboats drift past on the horizon. Across the harbor, I can see my town, Fairhaven, marked by two wind turbines in the distance. I can see why the pier was a favorite place for Dominick and his father.
The air at the end of the pier, however, reeks like moldy cat food mixed with fish armpit. If they had armpits. There are always certain summer days when the ocean seems to ripen, and the wind carries the rotten stench of decaying beach life. Growing up here, you would think I would’ve adjusted. Impossible.
Dominick bought a bucket of live green crabs for bait. Brownish-green bodies the size of quarters huddle on top of one another.
“Aw, do you have to?” I complain as he grabs one for the line. “It’s cute.”
“It’s eat or be eaten,” he says. “Nature’s way.” He jabs the underbelly of the crab with the hook. I cringe.
“Can’t we be above nature?” I ask.
He gives me that look, the one that says to stop pretending I’m a philosopher to hide that I’m being a wimp. I hate that look.
“Let’s get you fishing,” he says.
Moving behind me, Dominick wraps his arms around my arms and places his hands over my hands to show me how to cast the line. My body moves with his body, and I soak in his strength and confidence.
“Do you think the other planet has fishing?” I ask.
“Don’t know. Probably if they have oceans, they have fish. But I read that scientists believe oceans on other planets might not be made of water.”
“What then? Milk?” I tease.
“More like liquid hydrogen. But then the planet wouldn’t be habitable for people. Or fish.”
I look out at the water. “Imagine if there were alien fish that could survive. They’d be some weird fish.”
“The rain would be killer,” he jokes. “Literally. Fireballs.”
We laugh together and banter under the morning sun. The briny air releases the heaviness in my chest. I reel the line in slowly to tease the fish, but nothing bites. By the third time, I bait and cast the line without Dominick’s help.
“You bored?” he asks.
“No, it’s nice, actually. Calming.”
“I thought you might like it. I hear it’s good for anxiety.”
It’s like he’s stuck me with a pin and deflated me.
“Stop treating me like Anxiety Girl.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“You never do.”
He looks away, and I feel bad for wrecking the moment. I laugh nervously. “Anxiety Girl. That’s like the worst superhero name ever.”
He grins. “I’m sure we can think up worse.”
“Like what? Constipation Girl?”
“Puberty Boy?”
“Dandruff Girl.”
“Blister Boy.”
I move in unnaturally close to him. “Captain Close Talker.”
He breathes directly into my face. “Captain HAL-itosis.”
I giggle and bite my bottom lip. “Super Lips?”
“Super Lips, huh?” He smiles. “I like it.”
He kisses me, and I hold on to the metal railing to keep from falling.
After about an hour of kissing and talking nonsense, taking turns with the pole, and staring at the dark surface of the waves, the fishing pole bends.
“Got one,” Dominick says and hands me the pole. “Don’t reel it in all at once. Pull to the side, then reel. Pull to the side, then reel.” He demonstrates from behind me. “Find a rhythm. Don’t rush it.”
I follow
his directions, which sound sexual to me after all the making out we’ve been doing. Maybe it’s just his voice.
Soon, a fish breaches the water at the end of my line. Mottled olive green and mud brown, it’s uglier and smaller than I expect after all that pulling.
“It’s a tautog,” Dominick comments.
“I caught my first fish,” I announce. “Take a picture.”
I pose while Dominick snaps a quick photo with his phone. As I hold up the fish, I see the bulging lips and gills gape open and close in a desperate attempt to filter the world. I know that feeling. Gasping for breath. Having your body fail to process the environment properly. Feeling trapped. Helpless. Not knowing how to escape. Maybe like going through a vertex.
“We have to let it go.” I can’t get the words out fast enough.
“Alex, I don’t usually—”
Before he can stop me, I grab the fishing line with the dangling victim hanging from its end. It flips its tail when I try to touch it, and the spines on its back stick up. I wish I had scissors so I could just cut the line.
“Hold it by the gills underneath,” Dominick coaches.
I prop the gills up against my thumb and pointer finger. With my free hand, I try to maneuver the hook from its mouth while avoiding further injury to its system. As it opens its thick lips, a set of human-looking teeth startle me. Our fish are freakish enough on our planet. Its prehistoric face and slimy alien eyes make me wonder if it would try to eat me if it could. I concentrate on the hook, but its slippery body and the smell of rotten seaweed trigger my gag reflex. Right when I’m about to give up, the hook dislodges, and I toss the fish over the edge of the pier to freedom. As it swims away into the dark water, I can breathe again.
Dominick must think that I’ve gone over the edge of the pier myself. I can’t look at him.
“Now I know why I fish alone,” he says, breaking the silence.
I turn to face him, ready to argue my case, but when I do, I find him grinning.
“Shut up,” I say and a smile forces its way on my face.
“I’m sorry. I just never knew you had such strong feelings for fish.”
“I don’t!” I giggle.
“Yet I’ve seen you eat Filet-O-Fish sandwiches like nobody’s business.”
I push his shoulder. He grabs me and tickles my stomach.
“Stop!” I say, laughing.
“Hey, you lost me a fish. You owe me.”
“Fine, what do you want?” I walked right into that one. Why do I tease him when I know I’m not ready? Am I ready?
He smiles wide. “I’ll think about it and get back to you.”
“You do that,” I taunt and sit on the pier, exhausted.
“I have to say, this is nothing like fishing with my dad.” His sentence hangs out in the air like a fish on a line. I’m not sure how to rescue him.
“We can keep fishing,” I say to try to help, “as long as I can throw them back.”
He thinks for a moment. “I guess you can be the fish liberator.”
We fish for another hour. Well, Dominick does most of the fishing. We catch two more, and I free them immediately after snapping a photo. The rush of freeing them becomes a challenge, and even though I wouldn’t admit it to Dominick, freeing the fish makes me feel in control for the first time in a long time.
Witnessing each fish struggle to breathe tugs at my memory as I tug the hooks out. I don’t say anything to Dominick, but it reminds me of when Dad returned home after being honorably discharged. I was eight. For months on end he screamed in the middle of the night, flopping around in his bed like a fish out of water. I watched from the doorway as Mom tried to calm him down, but he kept screaming and screaming and fighting with the bedding. When she finally woke him up, he yelled at her for overreacting.
Then one night I found him in the kitchen standing in the light of the open refrigerator. His eyes were vacant, like he couldn’t see the world that I was in. I watched him as he wandered out the back door into the darkness. I don’t know why I didn’t run for Mom, but for some reason I ran for Benji. We watched from the kitchen window as Dad sat in the grass under the automatic security light patting his legs again and again.
“Don’t tell Mom,” Benji said to me. “It’s bad enough. Pinkie swear.”
“Pinkie swear.”
Over the next few months, when one of us would find Dad sleepwalking, we’d wake up the other one to watch, whispering the code phrase “Zombie Night.” We convinced ourselves that it was our secret adventure. We didn’t see the real danger until Dad turned on me.
It started as a typical night, Benji waking me up with the code phrase, me jumping out of bed and following him up the attic stairs without question. We spied on Dad as he searched through storage totes with a blank stare.
Then I sneezed and Dad dove behind the bins. Horrified, I ran to tell him that it was okay and it was only me. Benji told me to stay back, but I didn’t listen. I couldn’t stand to see my father that vulnerable. As soon as I reached out to him, Dad lunged at me and grabbed me by the neck. I gasped open mouthed for air the way fish gasp for water. Benji screamed for him to stop, the two of us prying at Dad’s fat fingers to pull him off me, but we weren’t strong enough. In seconds, the world turned black, my vision closing in like a tube blowing in a television screen.
I heard later that Benji had to bite Dad’s arm and draw blood to stop him. It was never clear if Dad actually woke up in that moment or if he just broke down in pain. But as my vision returned, I saw him sobbing from where I sat on the floor holding my neck.
Benji ran for Mom. Once she saw Dad’s condition and the marks on my neck, she commanded Benji and I back to bed. I listened to Mom and Dad have a huge fight and Dad agreeing to go for counseling and start medication. Mom came into my bedroom to check on me. She gave me an ice pack and said I would need to hide my neck at school to cover the bruises so Dad wouldn’t get in trouble. I couldn’t sleep the whole night. I wore turtleneck sweaters and scarves for over a week. Haven’t worn either since. The Zombie Nights stopped soon after. That was ten years ago. I’ve never talked about that night. Ever.
As I set the last fish free and watch it swim into the dark waters, I can feel a part of me sink with it, knowing it could be captured at any time and experience the same terror once again. If a comet actually hits, all the fish will boil alive, flesh and bones falling off and disintegrating while their home evaporates into the atmosphere. And Dominick thought that fishing would help my anxiety. I wish he’d stop trying to cure me. Trying to guess what will trigger symptoms will only trigger symptoms. Catch-22.
Watching Dominick cast the line displays his natural confidence. It’s him at his finest. I wish I could find and hold onto that kind of peace inside of me. His father gave him this gift. He’d be proud of his son. I almost say this out loud to Dominick, but on second thought it might be too much to hear.
I chip at my You Are So Outta Lime nail polish. What gift did my father give me? How to swear, argue, fight, and drink? How to worry about the dangers in the world? How to fight against the waves instead of how to ride them?
When a family of five arrives with poles, Dominick and I decide to pack up and head back toward the parking lot. At the end of the pier, I notice a small metal sign off to one side of the barrier, warning to catch and release all fish due to high PCB water counts.
“Hey,” I say, pointing to the sign. “Did you know this the whole time?” What if he had taken the fish home, eaten them, and died?
He shrugs and smiles. “You were determined. I wasn’t about to take that away from you.”
“I touched all those fish for no reason? You would’ve done it anyway?”
“You were a pro.”
“You’re such a punk,” I say, bumping him with my hip. “Now you owe me.”
“Anything you want,” he teas
es.
His willingness to surrender to me—mind, body, and soul—is both wonderful and terrifying. Something I don’t think I’ll ever be capable of doing.
Chapter 7
Day 24: August—3,854 hours to decide
Question: Do you have war? Problems with violence? Weapons?
Answer: No, we have evolved into a peaceful planet. We have proactive measures in place to deal with possible violence. Your weaponry will not work in our world. We have global technology that can isolate and contain any explosions instantaneously. Your weapons cannot fire here, bombs cannot detonate. (See also question on judicial system and prisons.)
The media is in an uproar. Major credit card companies are asking governments to stop all vertex travel. They want Congress to pass a law requiring people to pay off all credit card debt before leaving the planet through a vertex. It’s a verbal war between people and banks. I sit on the edge of the couch and take notes.
People interviewed on TV say it’s not fair to technically charge people who want to leave the planet. Companies argue they have the right to collect debt before people leave. One reporter calls the Debt-Departure Debate a “slippery slope.” I remember the term from debate team—a type of logic that leads to an avalanche of other outcomes. The reporter mentions other types of debt. Will people have to pay off mortgages? Car loans? Student loans? Even though Dad said he’d never leave, he looks nervous. We have a mortgage and credit card debt. Not sure if the car is paid off.
Even though I think it’s crazy to leave through a vertex, I don’t like the idea of being told I’m trapped and forced to stay, either.
It gets worse. Breaking news: fifteen vertexes have been simultaneously bombed in the Middle East, including Iraq, Iran, Israel, Palestine, and Egypt. As reported through every channel and media outlet, extremist groups coordinated the attacks using an underground social media channel and coded messages that passed undetected through all government anti-terrorism checkpoints. I frantically copy all information into my journal.
I can’t believe people are so afraid of the unknown they need to attack it. Dad can’t believe it didn’t happen sooner. Mom believes that it will happen again. I wonder if it has anything to do with the Debt-Departure Debate. The if-I-can’t-go-no-one-can mentality.
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