by Gish Jen
“I can tell you who I think should be coach,” said Diego, for example.
Gwen knew, she said later, that it wasn’t going to be Mabel or Andrea. Still, he took her by surprise.
“It should be that Net U coach—that guy who coached you. Coach Link. Everyone who sees him in action is like, whoa. What he gets out of his people. He’s like some kind of super-accelerant.”
Gwen couldn’t disagree.
“He was pretty great,” she said. “And he does coax stuff out of people they didn’t know they had. Like he knows what tune to play. What chords to hit.”
“People say he could convince a goose it’s a hawk,” said Diego. “The question is, What happens when it goes to catch something? And does that make him a saint or an asshole?”
Gwen laughed. “Good question.”
Still, she was surprised when, a few days later, Woody really was named the Olympic team coach. And she was yet more surprised when he publicly insisted that the player he needed most sorely was she.
“Objectively, that can’t be,” she said. She rattled off the names of just a few of the potential relievers: Bento Halifax. Rube Foster. Warren Peese. Joe March. All of whom were trying out, and those were just the possibilities from Net U.
“Then why did he name you, do you think?” I asked her.
“Maybe they need a woman,” she said miserably. “And, you know, I’m Blasian. Plus…” Her voice trailed off.
Was she still taking that MoveTheEffOn course? I hardly dared ask; it had been months now.
But she simply nodded.
“Because he won’t let go,” I guessed.
“Let’s just say I’ve moved up to Level IV,” she said.
* * *
—
Mimi arrived at our door with a look that suggested she hardly expected to be allowed in. But when we shook hands, I squeezed hers in thanks for her help.
“I don’t know, I just get these spells,” she said with a wink, then added somewhat formally, “Forgive me my predictability, but I have come to ask again whether Gwen might be willing to try out for the Olympics.”
“You need to ask her yourself,” I replied, only to find Gwen behind me.
“You’ve asked before,” she began politely.
“Circumstances have changed.”
Gwen hesitated, then admitted, “I guess they have.”
“So the question is, Is your answer still an unequivocal no?” Mimi gazed over the top of her reading glasses, up into Gwen’s face. Her two hands piled on top of her cane were the hands of a supplicant.
Gwen thought. “I don’t know.”
“Does that mean maybe?” Mimi straightened with excitement.
“I think it means I don’t know.”
“Okay, good enough. Let me see what I can do with that.” Mimi pushed her glasses up onto her head. “Isn’t anyone going to offer me some tea and cookies?”
* * *
—
The next day, Winny materialized. His hair was disheveled, and he carried no gun.
“Where’s Gwen?”
They met out in the garden. The way they were standing, I could not hear them but I could see them—Winny gesturing and Gwen immovable. What they had in common was stamina. I would not have thought either of them could stand the other’s company for two minutes, much less a half hour. But they stood and stood, drinking nothing and eating nothing, rooted like statuary.
When finally they emerged, Winny was frowning. Gwen, on the other hand, could hardly wait for the door to close and Winny to disappear. Then she stood by a deflector and whispered, “There’s hope.”
* * *
—
Would Eleanor really be let go if Gwen agreed to play in the Olympics? And did Ondi engineer the trade and why, and how much did Woody know, and had he deliberately overstated Gwen’s value to give us leverage? There were so many questions. We didn’t know whether to celebrate or to worry.
“But first things first.” I tried to think. “Is this a trap? Can we trust Winny?”
“Winny.”
Gwen tipped her cup back and forth, watching the tea slosh one way then the other. The teapot sported a crazy mélange of a cozy Gwen had crocheted when she was younger—an every-which-way of a thing made with an abandon unimaginable now.
“Winny,” she said again.
“Of all people to have to trust.”
“You said it.”
She had been more excited than worried—for any sort of possibility to surface, after all!—but now she was more worried than excited. And something else—she was irritated. No, more. She was angry.
“Mom at his fucking mercy,” she said.
I knew how she felt, and I wasn’t even the one he had finally cornered. Was this payback for Gwen’s refusal to accept Ondi’s “help” back at Net U? Who knew. But for Winny now to be holding Eleanor hostage—Winny! The word “galling” did not capture it. I, too, could have put my hand through a wall at the thought. I, too, if I had the arm, could have thrown at his head.
Still, I was shocked when Gwen suddenly turned on me.
“So are you going to bug him?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why don’t you bug him the way you bugged me?”
If I’d ever wondered what it was like to face the pitcher Gwen had become, I knew it now.
“I would,” I said carefully, “if I could. If I thought our technical team up to it.”
“But you think Winny and Ondi would know.”
“Yes.”
“And you thought I wouldn’t?”
“Gwen—”
“I get it, you did it because you were scared,” she said. “You were worried about me, the way you’re worried about Mom now. But how could you think you would actually get away with it?”
“How did you know?”
“There are BugOut stations everywhere at Net U.”
Strike.
“The sad thing about you is you think you know so much. When if you did once, you don’t anymore.”
Strike two.
“All you know are basement skills. How to spy, how to evade, how to detect. What would you do if you were allowed back out into the world? Would you even give up snooping? Or is that what you’ve become? A snooper like Aunt Nettie?”
I could not hang my head low enough.
But then, as suddenly as she’d begun, Gwen let up. It was as if she’d walked away from the mound.
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry. That was so mean,” she said. “Mom would never have told you. No matter how upset she was. She would never have said those things.”
“Don’t worry. You are still your mother’s daughter,” I said woodenly. “Don’t worry.”
“I am not,” she said, starting to cry. “I am not. Oh my god, her discipline. I am so not her.”
“Gwen. Gwen. Don’t cry.” I managed to hug her even as I reeled. “I’m the one she would be angry at, if she knew. Not you. I was just—as you said—so worried. About Net U. About your being assigned a special room. About that coach.”
She blew her nose. “You’ve always been paranoid.”
I wanted to tell her that I took the ParentalParanoia quiz and only got a 6. But instead I said, “I think anyone would have been a little paranoid under the circumstances.”
She blew her nose some more, then said, “I wish we could bug Mom.” She honked again. “Not that it would do any good. But if we could, we would, wouldn’t we?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t think I knew what worry was before,” she said. “Not really.”
“And now?”
“God do I wish I was still my younger self.” She honked. “My younger self who will never forgive you, as opposed to my older self who has no choice.”
/> “Who not only has to forgive me but who has to deal with Winny Wannabe,” I managed.
“Whose head I’d throw at if I could.”
“Well, better to throw at your father’s,” I said.
Gwen looked at me a moment. Tears appeared in her lashes; her head bowed; her shoulders relaxed. Exit prosecutor, enter daughter.
“Touché,” she said. Then she looked away as if to say, in an Eleanor-like way, Enough. And I agreed. Eleanor, after all. Eleanor in the hands of Winny. There was enough to be sick about. And the questions—the many questions. We tried to sort through them. To answer them. But, of course, there were no answers.
* * *
—
Did Eleanor, a bit the way that Gwen had a younger and an older self, now have a before- and after-self? Had the BioNet split her life in two? Lying in bed alone, I could not accept it.
Eleanor. Nell. Nellie. What have they done to you?
How was she getting through her nights? I did not run the white noisemaker and voice scrambler anymore, as there was no pillow talk to try to mask. Instead, I tried to send Eleanor my thoughts, as if having been married for so long, she would be able to receive them. And, irrational as it was, I was half convinced that she did receive them—that she was lying awake, and knew I was thinking of her, knew I was calling to her. And I believed that she was calling back to me and sending me strength—more strength than AskAuntNettie could ever give. Indeed, I felt I could hear her voice—Sleep, Grant, sleep—even as I whispered to her. You, too, Nellie. Sleep. And, after a moment, tonight: Gwen forgave me, you know. Did I tell you? Gwen forgave me.
Forgave you what, Grant? I could hear her asking.
And what a sad moment that was—how lonely-making. Because I could not explain—because it would be too ridiculous. We were in such different worlds. And so even though I wanted to say, You should have heard Gwen talk. About her younger self who would never forgive me. About her older self who had no choice—I did not. Instead I just said, Never mind. And, Just sleep, please, Nellie. Sleep. Because my poor Eleanor. My poor Nell. Sleep, I said, Sleep. And foolish as it sounds, I believed that she heard me and slept. I had to believe it. She slept.
* * *
◆
Gwen signed up for the tryouts. And—astonishingly—Winny made good on his word.
Then—as simply as if she had returned from a trip to the courthouse—there Eleanor stood, once again, in her study. Even the house seemed delighted.
Where have you been? It’s been too long! it said.
And, Would it have killed you to write? Would it have killed you to write? Would it have killed you to write?
A software update, it seemed, with more compassion in its code, if a few glitches as well.
But never mind. The ceiling was covered with balloons. Champagne was being popped. The house was in a tizzy—Mind you, don’t hit the ceiling with that! If you hit the ceiling, you’ll have to clean it yourself—the assembled guests cheering so raucously that even Eleanor teared up a little. She looked tinier than ever, and below her high cheekbones now lay distinct hollows; she had lost so much weight. She stood perfectly upright, however, as she raised her chin and cleared her throat.
“Well, and now where were—”
She did not finish, as a banner was being unfurled with, WELL, AND NOW WHERE WERE WE? written in enormous purple letters. This was followed by a second banner reading, WE HAVE WORK TO DO.
She laughed. “You have literally taken the words right out of my mouth,” she said.
Everyone cheered, and even the house chimed in, No one took your words. They’re right where you left them.
More laughter.
Gwen and I watched anxiously. Did Eleanor seem herself? Or was she about to prove a mouthpiece of Aunt Nettie?
“It is part of Gwen’s agreement that she should discourage us from pursuing our work as much as possible. But of course that phrase ‘as much as possible’ is open to interpretation,” said Eleanor.
And as people cheered, I thought: Herself. She sounded like herself.
“I think Aunt Nettie imagines that she has shaken me up. And let me say—I have indeed been shaken up.”
Murmurs of dismay.
“I think she imagines that she has taught me a lesson. And let me say—she has. She has taught me a lesson.”
More dismay.
“And that lesson is: We must press on with everything we have.”
Cheers.
“Give me liberty or give me death!” she cried.
That was a bit odd, and I could see Gwen thought so, too. But no one else seemed to notice. Confetti was strewn everywhere, and before Eleanor could continue, she was hoisted up into the air and paraded around the garden. Of course, Gwen and I were among the chief revelers. Eleanor was home! Eleanor was home! Eleanor was home! We hooted and cheered, and dared not ask, What next?
* * *
◆
As Gwen could not have been less interested in the Olympic tryouts, I accompanied her to the stadium, where, to our surprise, reporters accosted her as soon as she got out of the AutoLyft. Who were these people? And were they really there to talk to Gwen?
“Is it true your mother is out of detention?”
“Is it true they only released her because you agreed to pitch?”
“Is it true your mother is filing a suit even bigger than the Surplus Fields suit?”
Was all this thanks to Pink and Sylvie’s GwenWatch? The two roommates had very different online styles—Sylvie’s posts tending toward a disarming, just-thinking-aloud feel, with almost every post ending WDYT? while Pink’s posts were like her serves, powerful and intent on scoring. Both of them had been posting continuously, though, riding on the twin horses of Gwen’s popularity and Eleanor’s fame: for thanks to the Surplus Fields suit, Eleanor had, it seemed, become a cult legend to both the Surplus and Netted teams. The result was tens of thousands of Sweets, or so we learned later. Our first inkling of the phenomenon only came with the reporters and the throngs of fans just beyond them, some of whom held signs saying things like, FUCK AUNT NETTIE, FREE AUNT NELLIE even though Eleanor was, in fact, already free, or at least not imprisoned in the way they imagined. Other fans waved pompons, shouting, Go, Go, Gwen-nie! Save Aunt Nell-ie! Go, Go, Gwen-nie! Save Aunt Nell-ie! while yet others chanted a call-and-response:
What does she deserve? Free-dom!
When does she deserve it? Now!
What does she deserve? Free-dom!
When does she deserve it? Now!
“Should I try to explain?” Gwen asked. But before I could answer she had already realized that all she could do was express her gratitude for the crowd’s support.
“Thank you! Thank you!” she said, as I worked like a bodyguard to usher her through the crush. I was afraid she would not make it to the gate or that someone would grab or yank her arm. Luckily, no one did, and though her progress was slow, she was largely able to keep moving, stopping only to hug Pink and Sylvie when she saw them.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she all but wept. And, “My mother is home for now”—that “for now” slipping out, she said later, before she had allowed herself to think it.
“We’re doing everything we can,” said Sylvie. Still more waif than protester, she shouldered an enormous FUCK AUNT NETTIE sign that she quickly volunteered Pink had made for her. Pink herself, meanwhile, had FUCK AUNT NETTIE tattooed across her forehead—hopefully, I thought, in henna.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
Then Gwen was finally inside the stadium, a ball in her hand, warming up. Her focus was off; her balance was off. She was talking to her glove. But later she said that she pictured Eleanor sitting at that big table with the apple pie untouched in front of her, and everything came together. She was throwing at the Enforcers; she was
throwing at the EnforceBots. She was throwing as if it were she with the stunner, not they. She was throwing to kill whoever had put that BioNet in Eleanor, and she was throwing at the neural lace itself, destroying every last cell of it. She was throwing at Winny and at Ondi—and she was throwing at Woody, too, she said later. She was throwing at them all. She was throwing at Aunt Nettie. I had never seen her so fiercely focused, and others, watching, commented that they pitied the ChinRussians already.
“Though I tell you—we’re going to need her,” said someone. And others said that, too. We’re going to need her. We’re going to need her.
“They have a greatly overblown idea of my importance,” Gwen said on the way home. But she also acknowledged that she had thrown well. “I guess I’ve found my edge,” she said.
* * *
—
As expected, besides Gwen, a number of her old Net U teammates made the team—Beetle Samsa and Bento Halifax, and Pietro Martinez. Rube Foster and Joe March, too. Ondi had declined to try out—knowing, she told Gwen, that even with her Upgrade, she wouldn’t make it. But though they had long insisted they would not do so, upon hearing that Gwen had relented, a few of the Resistance League players had tried out in the end, too. So Diego and Gunnar were now on the roster, Diego in right field and Gunnar at second base.
All agreed that the whole affair was not sports but politics. As Diego bluntly said, “We’re being used.” Still, Gwen told me, each player had his or her own reason for playing. Gwen did not want to talk about hers, though Diego and Gunnar, of course, knew, and rolled up their sleeves when they saw her, that they might flash their Aunt Nellie tattoos. Had they joined expressly to support her and Eleanor? Gwen did wonder. And once they saw the Resisters’ tattoos, other players asked Gwen if her mother wasn’t the person in that case they thought they saw someone post something about.