We are glued to the screen around the clock, watching the bomb blasts over and over on replay at each location, watching military officials and people ready to enter the vertex instead get lost in a cloud of debris. But the real reason we are glued to the screen is not the devastation, not the shocking fact that there are people willing to destroy the possible salvation of humanity. What is remarkable and horrific to us all, what we cannot stop watching, is that once the shock and the aftermath of the bombings settled, once the cloud of debris lifted, as others cared for the wounded and retrieved the victims, the blue vertexes and holograms stood untouched. Perfect.
Their invincibility gives us a silent, resilient hope. It also bothers us more than we’d ever admit to each other.
I catch Dad staring at the TV in the living room after watching the bombings on repeat. I don’t mean vegging out after work; I mean zoned out. Like he’s trapped in a dark forest of memory. I know the difference.
“Dad. Dad.” No response. Only a blank stare.
My insides freeze. Is he breathing? Yes, his chest just moved up and down. At least I think I saw it move.
I wave my hand back and forth in front of his open eyes. “Dad?”
Nothing.
Lights out.
No, no, no. I reach over, grab his shoulder, and shake him back into the here and now. “Dad? Dad!”
He finally acknowledges my presence. “What?” he asks, annoyed, like nothing was wrong.
“You weren’t responding.”
“I didn’t hear you. Jeez.”
But we both know that isn’t the truth.
I take a pill.
According to the Internet, the two Massachusetts vertexes were not a target in the bombings; however, not hearing from Benji after his shift has invited what-ifs into our house.
What-ifs are not good for military families.
I wish he would just answer his phone.
Dad sits in his lounger, drowning himself in beer. Watching him self-medicate is better than watching him get lost in memories. Mom paces the kitchen, frantically dialing her phone. I want to hide in my room, but the masochistic need to watch both parents collapse wins.
I start collecting data in my journal. If I stay in my room, I won’t be able to see what’s happening, and my mind will imagine the horrible possibilities. But if I record the situation for analysis later, then I’ll be able to control it somehow and relax. I sit between the kitchen and the living room, straddling two worlds and reactions.
Dad cracks his knuckles repeatedly in an idiosyncratic dance. He flips through the television stations like pages in a fashion magazine, not even bothering to stop and understand the content. A constant roll of images, all disconnected from the next.
Mom sips a cup of tea, sighs, then checks her phone again. She leaves the kitchen and goes to the bathroom for the umpteenth time. After fourteen minutes, she emerges with swollen eyes and no makeup. She reheats her tea in the microwave, then wraps the cup with a paper towel. She seems older, slower in her movements. There’s a carefulness that comes with waiting for news that could shatter you.
No one discusses the invisible pink elephant in the room. But it’s there. I can feel it like running broken glass across my gums. I want to scream for them to speak. But that would break the silence and shatter the illusion that life as we know it isn’t on the brink of disaster.
I check the time on my phone. It’s getting later and later and still no Benji. I almost text him again, but Mom keeps staring at me, and I don’t want her to think that I think something is wrong, too. I pick at my nail polish, and then at a hangnail, making my thumb bleed.
Where the hell is he? Doesn’t he understand what not answering does to them? Mom’s leaking fluids and Dad’s fingers are about to fall off.
Four hours later, Benji crosses the threshold. Dad and I see him first since Mom is in the bathroom once again.
“Hey,” he says. “What’s everyone doing up?”
“Waiting,” I mutter under my breath.
“Your mother’s been a wreck,” Dad says. He finally stops cracking and wringing his hands.
“Sorry,” Benji offers.
“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” Dad says. He chugs the rest of his drink.
“We had a briefing after the bombings. Then I went out for a beer with a friend.”
“You could have called. You’ll worry your mother sick.”
Mom rushes into the living room and envelops Benji. He returns the hug, and several awkward seconds tick by as two years of pent-up anguish over Benji’s decision to serve in the military pour from her eyes.
“Thank heavens.” Mom doesn’t bother to wipe the tears streaming down her face. “Where have you been? Why didn’t you call?”
Benji looks around for help, but Dad has turned his attention back to the television remote.
“Answer me,” she begs.
“Mom, I’m sorry. But I’m a grown man. Jeez.”
But his face says something different. He avoids eye contact and his lips tighten, like he’s fighting an inner battle about not sharing military secrets with us. I store the image in my journal for safekeeping. There’s something pressing his mind, and it’s so big he’s having trouble hiding it.
I don’t know what to say to him. Benji’s right, he’s a grown man, but he doesn’t see how different Mom’s been since he left. She used to be a little stronger, a little brighter. An emptiness hangs over the house in his absence, an emptiness I can never fill for my parents.
Benji holds Mom’s face in his hands. “I’m fine,” he says, kissing her forehead for emphasis. “I’m fine,” he repeats slowly.
She hangs her head low, nods, and wipes at her wet face. When she plops herself on the edge of Dad’s lounge chair, Dad and Benji share a conspiratorial look as if telepathically agreeing that she overreacted. Like a typical woman.
I don’t like it one bit. Dad was just as freaked out. It’s not about her. Benji’s being selfish as usual, not caring how his behavior affects the family, but since I can’t put my finger precisely on what’s going on, I don’t have a way to argue against it.
Governments have decided they cannot play debt police. They conclude that “the right to leave a planet should not be determined by economics.” Easy to say when free vertexes appear for travel. I wonder if they’d say the same thing if they had to provide the transportation.
I’d like to say that the decision fills me with tremendous relief. It doesn’t. Banks have decided to freeze all credit card accounts until the hologram-vertex prophecy plays out. No new mortgages until February 1. No new car loans. Guess they’re afraid people will go on spending sprees, live it up, and then leave through a vertex. The world has shifted to a cash-only system.
Glad I don’t need a student loan until next year, but the whole credit thing leaves me worried about what other problems the vertexes might trigger. Dad immediately empties our bank accounts and buys a safe.
The end of August brings my senior year of high school and inevitable decisions. Rita and I spend one last summer girls’ night together. We decide to go to a movie, of course, because her religion doesn’t allow it. Something about guardian angels not able to protect people inside theaters. Even though many teens in her church openly rebel against the movie rule, she still pretends to follow it in front of her parents.
Before we leave, she changes into a remarkable outfit—a red sundress with a long, beaded, matching necklace and strappy beige sandals. I dress to kill in a peach dress with baby blue accessories but with nowhere near as much cleavage as Rita. I couldn’t create that much cleavage with duct tape.
At the theater, a group of guys from our high school whistle and flag us over. Rita grins and strikes up a conversation with Nathan Gomes, the star wide receiver for our football team, whom she’s had a major crush on since freshman year. When
one of his teammates, a buff guy from my freshman-year gym class, tries to make eye contact with me, I move behind Rita and pull out my cell phone.
Dominick texted me a goofy meme about math where a nerdy cat with a ruler says:
Without Geometry,
Life is Pointless.
It’s so stupid it’s not even funny, which makes me giggle more. Tomorrow’s our last date of the summer, and I’m ready to have the talk with him about picking colleges.
Rita exchanges phone numbers with Nathan, and then we ditch the guys and grab tickets, popcorn, drinks, and seats. I snag an aisle seat so I can escape if necessary.
“Sorry about that, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do,” Rita says.
“It’s fine,” I say and smile. “Just don’t do them all.”
“Hey,” she yells, throwing a popcorn kernel at me. “Not nice. I’m not like that. You know I’ve only been with two guys.”
I laugh and throw popcorn back. She returns the favor.
“At least I’m willing to do something,” she digs.
“I do stuff.” I eat a kernel of popcorn off my lap.
She sips soda. “Define stuff.”
I smile but nervousness kicks in. “Stuff,” I repeat.
She rolls her eyes. “So have you narrowed down colleges yet with Dominick?”
“No. We talked about Boston again, but I’m still not sure.”
“That boy loves you. I bet he’ll go wherever you go.”
I swallow down the welling tears. That’s exactly what I’m worried about. I know his need to accommodate me will hold him back. I can’t let him do that to himself.
I push away the negative thoughts and focus on fun. Tonight is about Rita and me.
“You’re gonna have so much fun living in college dorms. I wish I was planning to go away instead of living at home and waitressing for my parents at the restaurant.”
“Is it still that bad?”
She nods. “Why did I ever agree to go to community college?”
“Remember? Saving money, transferring later?”
“Right. Well, I’m starting to wonder if I can survive two more years taking orders in Jesus land.”
The theater lights fade into black, so we have to cut our conversation short. I’ve spent years complaining to her about how I can’t wait to leave my parents, but now that crunch time is here . . . She admits to living vicariously through me, but she doesn’t really get what it’s like to be stuck in my head. The last thing I need is her judgment.
The movie ends up being pretty underwhelming. Rita drives us to Panera Bread where she orders broccoli and cheddar soup in a bread bowl, and I get a turkey club. It’s funny that she complains about her religion all the time, but she’d be a vegetarian without the religious guideline.
Back at my house, we change into tank tops and pajama shorts and lay blankets on the floor. We talk and giggle about random subjects while she flips through channels on my television and I remove what’s left of my chipped nail polish with remover.
“I miss TV,” she announces. “Our church told everyone to avoid it since so much of the footage revolves around vertexes. Of course that meant my parents put all the sets in storage. Thank God for my laptop.”
“How’s that going?” I ask. “I mean with the church.”
“It’s impossible. They see the vertexes as the ultimate test for humanity in choosing for or against God.”
“But what if you believe that God wants to save everyone by sending the vertexes?” I start painting my nails a deep purple color called Midnight in Moscow.
“Exactly.” She shakes her head. “The more they talk lately, the more judgmental they sound. You’re so lucky your family isn’t religious.”
Sometimes I’m grateful my parents aren’t religious since I don’t accept things without evidence, but sometimes I think I’m missing out on its rules and order. Makes me feel religiously deficient, like I missed out on spiritual vitamins or something.
When we hear someone close the front door, Rita jumps up from the floor and fixes her hair. “Private Benjamin’s home and waiting for me.”
“You just got a guy’s phone number at the movies.”
“Alex, I’d give up every guy in the universe if Benji would give me a chance. Do you realize how hot your brother is?”
“Um, no. Gross!” I throw a pillow at her.
She throws it back, then fluffs up her hair again. “I don’t know how he’s still single.”
“He hasn’t had time for a girlfriend. He just got back.”
She touches up her makeup in my mirror. “Well, wish me luck. Do you need anything from the kitchen?”
“No. And I’m not going to help you seduce my older brother. That’s just wrong.”
Rita takes a deep breath and tiptoes out of my room like we’re in some ridiculous comedy. We would’ve made awesome college roommates.
By the time she returns, I’m waving around all twenty of my fingers and toes to get my nails to dry faster. She has a weird look on her face that’s hard to read. I’d call it disappointment, but that’s not quite right.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
She takes a minute, like she’s considering something, then blinks a few times. “He pretty much put a nail in that coffin.”
“Ouch. Was he a jerk to you? If he was, I’ll give him hell for it.”
“No. He’s dating someone.”
“Oh, I didn’t know.” I feel like I set her up for failure. “He keeps his relationships top secret. You know he doesn’t talk to me about stuff like that.”
“It’s fine,” Rita adds. “Like you said, I have a new potential date from the movies. Let’s text the number.”
And just like that, she moves on. Why can’t it be that easy for me to move on? I get stuck on things. Let them dwell. Feel guilty. There must be so much freedom in acceptance. I blow on my fingernails. There is so much Rita can teach me about female confidence—something my own mother fails at miserably.
We spend the next hour texting Nathan and laughing. It makes me miss Dominick, but I told him that I wouldn’t call or text so I could have girl time with Rita. That was partly true, but mostly it was so I could train myself to start thinking without him. It’s not working.
While Rita’s busy flirting, I click on the TV. More names of the departed—not dead, just gone; there’s a difference now, and the difference matters—tick across the screen with select footage from sites across the globe. A local reporter takes center screen at the Quincy vertex, reiterating the same hypothesis about the poor and the mentally ill seeing the vertexes as an escape from their problems and hoping for a clean slate on another planet. I’ve always pictured college as a clean slate where I could rewrite myself and start on a fresh path without the burden of my family to follow me. Until now.
On screen, I spot a familiar silhouette move into the background of the shot. The crazy lady from the hospital is back at the Quincy vertex. I’m surprised she hasn’t gone through the vertex, disappeared into the woods, or been locked up in a mental ward.
“Turn it up,” I ask Rita since she’s closer to the remote.
The reporter doesn’t realize that crazy lady is approaching from behind until it’s too late. But hey, it’s newsworthy material—the reporter adapts quickly and uses every second to her advantage. She shoves the microphone in crazy lady’s face and asks, “What do you think of the holographic message?”
The camera zooms in and catches crazy lady at a terrible angle, accenting all the wrong features to fill both eye sockets with gothic shadows and outline every wrinkle in her forehead. She might as well be Jack Nicholson in The Shining.
“Ma’am?” The reporter prompts again, “What do you think of the holographic message?”
“The hope only of empty
men,” she mutters.
The camera pans out to normal view. “Interesting,” the reporter comments. “So, are you saying we should wait and have hope? Are you planning to stay here?”
The crazy lady dismisses her second question and peers directly into the camera so that her face fills the entire screen. Rita stops texting to watch.
“Paralyzed force, gesture without motion.”
The reporter in the background tries to weasel her body back into the frame. “Um, okay. I’m not sure if you answered my question.”
“That lady’s tripping,” Rita says.
“It’s the same lady we saw get arrested at the vertex with the megaphone.” Same one from the hospital. “I feel bad for her. She’s not right.” For some reason, crazy lady’s words seem familiar to me. Maybe I’m reaching a new level of crazy.
For the grand finale, crazy lady lets it all hang out, pointing her finger at the camera and crying, “This is the way the world ends.” She glances around as if expecting someone to react to her declaration of imminent calamity.
The camera pans back to the reporter, but before she can respond, crazy lady grabs her and says, “Heroes are born. Heroes are born.”
Crazy lady pushes her into the camera and runs from the screen. The reporter clears her throat and wraps up the story as if crazy lady is a phenomenon in her own right. I’m sure they’ll repeat clips of the interview for ratings.
Suddenly, my brain clicks. I understand why her weird speech patterns seem familiar.
“Rita, the way she talks . . . I think she’s reciting a poem I’ve read before.”
“Weird.” I look over, and Rita’s already texting again.
I search one of the phrases on my phone, and sure enough, everything I’ve ever heard crazy lady spew from her mouth is from T. S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men.” Everything except her last line about heroes. That part doesn’t make sense. I copy the whole thing into my journal so I can reread it later. I vaguely remember reading the poem during English class sophomore year. It didn’t make much sense to me at the time other than having a really depressing tone. I read it over and realize that I understand more of it now since it’s appropriate for the current doomsday circumstances. Maybe that’s how literature works; you understand more of it as you go through different experiences.
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