Cycling to Asylum

by Su J. Sokol

  The apartment, without the kids and with everything packed, seems unnaturally neat and quiet. It’s like we’re already gone and I’m a ghost, haunting my own home as I pass our now-empty walls, drawers, and cabinets. The fact that Laek and I are still here fills me with a preternatural dread. I imagine someone coming for us during the night and dragging us away by our throats—maybe a federal cop or maybe our own ghosts.

  I wander into the bedroom, the only room with some life in it. Laek is doing his pilates exercises. He’s been at it for almost an hour. I lean against the wall and watch him, trying to calm myself. His movements are fluid and graceful, filled with energy and intention. He climbs onto the bed and drops to his hands and knees, arching his back and breathing deeply.

  Whatever position he puts his body into, it’s gorgeous. He lets me watch without missing a beat. This total lack of self-consciousness, it’s one of the things that gives him that aura of childlike innocence. Or masculine self-confidence. One or the other. All I know is that watching him makes my heart beat strongly and quickens my breath. There’s nothing more I can think of that needs doing. I get undressed.

  He’s resting now, kneeling in the middle of the bed, hands on thighs, eyes closed. He almost looks like he’s praying. I fold my clothes and pack them away quickly, then climb up onto the bed and face him, my knees touching his. He opens his eyes.

  “All done?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Just waiting for you.”

  “How’d it go this time? You were careful not to overdo it?”

  “It was fine. It’s just … I’d hoped to be back to my full strength by now. You know, for the trip. I feel pretty good, but I still tire quickly.”

  “Maybe it’s not such a bad thing for you to see what it’s like to actually have a limit to your energy, or to need eight hours of sleep a night, like the rest of the world. As for the trip, look at it this way: I won’t have to feel so guilty all the time, like I’m holding you up, especially on those long climbs.”

  “Do I make you feel guilty, waiting for you on the tops of hills?”

  “OK, maybe just inadequate. Now I’ll tell myself I’m going slow for you, so you can rest waiting for me.”

  “Well right now I’ve waited long enough. Climb up here.” He removes his underwear.

  I do, mounting him in one swift motion and wrapping my arms around his shoulders. I still can’t get past the idea that we’re in a position of prayer, here in the middle of our bed. This bed, where years ago, I lay breast-feeding Siri. And where we conceived Simon. This bed, which will have to stay here in Brooklyn, too big for my parents to ever sneak across the border.

  What is it that makes me feel so much like praying right now? I’m an atheist, but a non-practicing one, as I’ve often joked. Maybe I want to hedge my bets. I’ll pray right here, on this bed, while I’m having sex. I think to myself: “If I believed in God, what would I pray for? And if I were that God, how would I bless this world?”

  I feel Laek’s arms around my waist and I hold him more tightly, the way I know he likes it. I feel his heart beating against me. Time holds its breath.

  My thoughts are floating. I think back on our life here. It doesn’t distract me, not while my body is tightly connected to his. I try to visualize everything good we’ve struggled to do here, the individual gestures of kindness, the collective planning for social justice, the decisions we’ve made and stuck by, motivated by a desire to improve the world. I pray with all my heart that these acts be imbued with a force and a power all their own to bring good, however badly we failed in their execution, however mixed-up and confused were our ideas and intentions.

  I also imagine everything I may have thought or done that was motivated by selfishness, by weakness, by bad faith. I pray that all of it be drained of power and forgotten, dissipating like a poorly created holo. And that we are pardoned. That our friends forgive us. And our children. Please forgive us … forgive me.

  Laek rocks us slowly back and forth, my heart beating faster with his. I pray: Let all good intentions become actualized, incarnate in this world. May they all join together to have more power, more sway over the future. And let us continue to be a part of that, wherever we may be. I feel Laek inside me and squeeze him with all my strength, envisioning a spinning, glowing ball of hope and goodness grow huge and then explode, dripping down to fill the cracks in the world, the broken world of religious mysticism I’ve read about—a world that can only be healed by the good acts of living beings.

  Laek’s lips are pressed against my ear. I think I hear him say, “Amen”.

  Book Two: Changing Gears

  Cycle tracks will abound in Utopia.

  H.G. Wells

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Simon

  It turns out I can see the borderline between the U.S.A. and Québec, even though it’s supposed to be invisible. Daddy warned me not to expect it to be like on a map, where there’s a thick black line between the two countries, but I didn’t need Daddy to tell me that. I mean, all lines are invisible ’cause they only have one dimension—length. The thing you see on a map isn’t a line at all but more like a long, very skinny rectangle.

  I think the reason I can see the invisible borderline is because of my super-powerful eyesight. Otherwise, I might’ve missed it. But there it is, sitting right between the Vermont pavement, which is darker, and the Québec pavement, which is lighter.

  I wonder if crossing the border will change me—if, once I’m on the other side, I’ll become different, like in a parallel universe. Maybe my bike will become even more powerful. I’m already going so fast that the rest of the family can hardly keep up with me.

  The other thing I wonder is what the animals will be like on the other side. Can the animals sense the borderline somehow? Will they act different in Québec? Siri thinks I’m being dumb, that animals don’t care about national boundaries and stuff. I know that. I’m not stupid. But if people act different on the other side of the line, maybe that influences the animals or something.

  Mommy says that we’re all connected—people, animals, the earth, everything!

  This is the greatest trip ever. We’re on a real adventure, just like in a story, and anything can happen. I can’t wait to meet the people and animals on the other side of the invisible line.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Siri

  Mommy and Daddy are acting even weirder than usual. I noticed it the minute they got to my camp. Daddy’s hyper-intense one minute and all spacey the next, and I keep catching Mommy watching me when she thinks I’m not looking. Plus they took my screen and won’t let me use it without permission. I wonder if they know about me and Michael?

  They’re worried about something, that’s for sure. I can always tell with the two of them, even though they do opposite things: Mommy can’t stop talking and Daddy closes up completely, like a pistachio nut that you can’t open with your fingernails. If you’re hungry enough, you might bite down hard on it instead, but half the time you end up with a mouthful of shells. So there’s no way I’m gonna ask Daddy what’s wrong. I could get it out of Mommy, though. She’s terrible at keeping secrets. Anyway, I’m sure I’ll figure it out myself eventually.

  The bike ride has been pretty fun so far, even though Simon keeps trying to get ahead of everyone. Usually when we bike together, Daddy’s in the lead, but this time, he seems to want to bike next to Mommy all the time. I thought that maybe he was still weak or something from his accident and being in the hospital and all, but then a few times he biked way ahead of everyone, very, very fast, and then all the way back. I guess he was scouting things out. Maybe he just doesn’t want Mommy to feel like a slowpoke and that’s why he mostly stays back with her.

  Daddy’s back from scouting again. He puts his hand up for us to stop.

  “The border’s ahead, around the bend. I need to pee.”

  He looks around, but there doesn’t seem to be anywhere to go.

  “Daddy, can’t we wait until there’s a res
t stop or something? I gotta go too.”

  He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t he know that it’s harder for girls to pee in the middle of nowhere? I can do it if I need to, but I’d rather wait for a real bathroom where I can sit on the toilet like a normal person and then wash my hands afterwards.

  Daddy walks a little ways off and then stops and turns around in a circle, first looking behind the way we came and then looking ahead. Is he going to pee right there, where everyone can see him? What’s wrong with him?

  “Daddy, are you OK?” I get off my bike and start walking in his direction.

  “Stay with Simon, Siri,” Mommy says, then walks over herself.

  I turn around and look at Simon. He’s staring up into the trees, like he’s searching for birds or something. I look back at where Daddy and Mommy are and see the two of them kissing. I can tell that they’re using their tongues. Even though there’s still something disgusting about watching your parents kiss like that, I have to admit that the idea of tongue-kissing seems less gross now than it did at the beginning of the summer.

  Daddy and Mommy come back to where Simon and I are. We get back on our bikes.

  I’m excited about finally getting to the border. None of my friends have ever been in a different country. I crane my neck to try to see Québec. The border station has a building that looks just like a little white house with a toll booth window, but inside there’s all this tech—big screens and mini-scanners and complicated controls. When I try to look past the house into the distance, the air looks all hazy and weird, like there’s some kind of blurry barrier. Is it a distortion field or just the rain? It’s been drizzling on and off, but now it seems like it might be stopping. How long will it take before they let us in?

  This is getting hyper-boring, standing here in the middle of nowhere between two countries, especially since Daddy insists on speaking French, even though the border person can speak English. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. The woman who’s the border person is very pretty and Daddy’s giving her one of those smiles of his. Maybe he’s feeling less worried now, or maybe his face just does those smiles automatically. Mommy doesn’t seem to mind, though. She’s even holding his hand. Maybe Daddy’s nervous about the border crossing, though I don’t know why. It’s not like we’re doing anything illegal, like smuggling stims or plotting terrorism or something.

  The border lady is now talking to us in English.

  “Hello children. I have gifts for you.” She hands each of us a holo-sticker that says “Bienvenue aux cyclistes!”

  “Welcome cyclists,” Daddy translates.

  “Thank you,” we both say at once.

  “Merci beaucoup,” Daddy says, and then makes us say it in French too.

  I put my sticker around the middle part of my bike and Simon puts his on his handlebars.

  “Perfect!” the woman says.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Janie

  The first thing I notice is that the border guard looks about twenty-two years old, max. I find myself staring at her hair, an unnatural shade of reddish-purple. Interesting, kind of. I must be nervous, paying attention to bullshit like hair. The important thing is that she seems nice, not suspicious or anally bureaucratic or power-crazy, although the niceness could simply be a way of catching us off guard.

  Laek is standing there smiling and comfortably conversing with her in French. If you didn’t know him like I do, you’d think he was enjoying himself, maybe even flirting. But there are certain telltale signs, something about the juxtaposition of his relaxed pose and warm smile with the hyper-alert look in his eyes and the way he’s gripping the seat of his bike. I take his free hand and hold on tight.

  I can’t understand what she’s saying. I thought I might be able to catch some of it, at least. There are similarities with Spanish, although if we’re not talking about cucarachas and ratas or el pueblo unido, I’m pretty lost in Spanish too. I did study some French vocabulary in the hospital, but nothing sounds familiar. I try to listen more carefully but what I hear is something like “Ooskavoo la la la …” Yet, when Laek speaks, I can follow what he’s saying a little bit. Is there some magic thing where you understand a foreign language better when it’s spoken by your partner? I guess it’s mostly the accent. I can tell that Laek’s trying to mimic hers, but his vowels don’t sound quite right—more like they’re leaning in that direction.

  I look around, noticing the flags. There are four of them. There’s the Canadian flag with its innocuous maple leaf, making one think of forests rather than the rockets’ red glare and bombs bursting in air. It’s positioned highest of the four, but there’s something that makes it seem less dominant. Maybe it’s how thin and washed out it is compared to the blue and white one with the fleur-de-lys just below it. Or maybe it’s the fact that the second flag is actually bigger even though it’s lower down. There are two other flags nearby. I’m not sure what they represent. I ask the kids if they know.

  “That’s Canada and that’s Québec.” Simon says, pointing.

  “Good job, Simon, but how about the one that has an ‘H’ inside a ‘C’?”

  Simon shrugs, but Siri smiles. “That’s the hockey team. They’re hyper. Too bad we’re not here in the winter. We could see them play.”

  I don’t say anything, but I dearly hope we’ll be here in the winter. And that come winter, Siri will still feel this way.

  Laek is looking over at me expectantly so I hand the woman Siri’s screen, where I’ve beamed the eco-travel passes issued by the Québec government. I don’t want to appear nervous, so I look over at the fourth flag. I concentrate on its image of a round globe, hands reaching across it to clasp one another in a symbol of international solidarity. This is the first time I’ve seen this flag somewhere other than at a demonstration, where it’s usually a harbinger of increased police presence, as though the idea of abolishing borders were a direct threat to the State. Which, in a way, I suppose it is. Seeing the flag at this particular international border should be reassuring. Perhaps it’s the irony of it, or perhaps just how it’s associated in my memory with police violence and repression, but either way, the sight of this flag makes my heart race and my stomach clench. I’m not sure if its presence here is a good or bad sign.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Laek

  At the border, I’m alert and in control. Janie comes over. Takes my hand. The woman at the border station is young. Very pretty. She says: “Bonjour/Hello?” I answer her the same way: “Bonjour. Hello.” Smile back broadly. She laughs. Asks me what language I would like to speak. I answer her in French and she seems hugely pleased by this.

  There are fewer questions than I thought there’d be. Food, weapons, alcohol, drugs, smartech. I know all the vocabulary. Studied up on the usual inquiries at border crossings. I’m not thinking of what this conversation really means. I’m pretending it’s one of my practice dialogues. A part of me, though, is sharply aware of what I’m actually doing here. That part of me is ready to jump in. To take over if necessary. Meanwhile, the Laek that’s present in this conversation is paying attention to words, to grammar. A beautiful language. The woman sounds a lot like the voice on my learning program for Québecois French. Her voice is younger and warmer, though. And I can watch her lips and teeth and tongue as she makes the sounds. I’m in love with this language. I want to make my vowels sound like hers. I concentrate harder. She laughs. Asks me if I am understanding everything. Yes. Yes I am.

  Then she asks me if the purpose of our visit is business or pleasure. I think hard about pleasure. The pleasure of being on our bikes, of being free. Of being free from fear.

  “I teach high school history in Brooklyn, in New York City. So definitely not business,” I explain, laughing. She laughs with me. It’s easy to make her laugh. But I don’t let my guard down. I can see that she’s also very sharp, very observant.

  When she asks me about the length of our stay, I tell what grade each of our kids are in, and how school restarts after Labour Day.
“But Québec doesn’t celebrate Labour Day, does it? You have May Day, like in Europe, oui?” I ask.

  “Très bien,” she answers. “You have also done your studying.”

  I try for a grin which is pleased but also a little shy.

  She finally asks for our travel docs. I turn to Janie. She catches on and hands Siri’s screen to the woman. I let the student of French slip away. A tougher, colder me comes to the fore. My heartbeat quickens, but I keep my breathing slow and deep, my body relaxed, my brain clear and sharp. The woman scans the info. Waits. Her movements are deliberate, professional. She’s staring at her screen as our images come up. And now stealing glances at each of us, one by one. When she looks at me, I smile again. Make sure the smile reaches my eyes, warms them, even though I feel like my heart is enveloped in ice. She finally speaks.

  “C’est un mélange, je dirais.”

  “What’s she saying?” Janie asks nervously. I don’t answer, but I’m thinking: Mélange is mix. Mix up? Is she talking about my background data?

  I force myself to stay calm. Maybe I can talk my way out of it. Maybe I should simply give myself up right now. Could I then make sure somehow that Janie and the kids get across?

  “Your children,” the woman responds and I feel like she’s peered into my mind. But then she says: “I am looking to see of whom they resemble. Some of Maman, some of Papa, I would say. Beautiful children.” She hands Siri’s screen back to Janie.