Severance

by Ling Ma

  But I sent the email anyway. I owed it to the client, Three Crosses Publishing. I owed it to Spectra. I owed it to my contract. I was just doing my job. Balthasar would probably send a polite but sidestepping note in response to my blundering insensitivity.

  I walked around the office, looking out the windows. I hadn’t expected that there would be such little work to do. Maybe I should just go home in the middle of the day, even if Big Brother was watching. Our key cards kept track of our comings and goings. Carole or someone in HR received automated emails whenever we keyed in or out, monitoring us from afar.

  Hee hee hee.

  I looked around, trying to figure out the source of the laughter. It was girlish laughter, disembodied and tremulous, as if someone were being bounced around from knee to knee.

  There was no one else in the hallway. I walked around, following the sound. It led me to the glass staircase, which connected the thirty-second floor to the now-vacant thirty-first floor. The entrance of the staircase was blocked off with a dusty burgundy velvet rope. As an energy-and cost-reducing measure during this interim, Spectra had closed that floor, switching off its lights and closing its blinds.

  Hahahahahaha. Someone else was now giggling. It was definitely coming from the floor below.

  I peered down the length of the staircase, its lower half submerged in shadow. The skunky scent of leftover beer, the aroma of cheap weed. Tinny music coming from a laptop or an iPhone. There was the same laugh, and another voice. They were having a mini party.

  I unhooked the velvet rope and descended the staircase, following the voices in the dark through the empty Accounts, IT, and HR departments, until I arrived at the employee lounge, a haven of vending machines and sectional sofas. It had been converted, years ago, from a conference room, at the advice of consultants hired by the company to boost morale, and to encourage a communal office spirit. Almost no one ever used it.

  I opened the door.

  Sprawled out across the sectional sofa were Blythe and Delilah, drinking out of red Solo cups. It looked like they had ransacked the party-supply closet: a champagne bucket on the floor, some crumpled Amstel Light cans. The flat-screen played The Mary Tyler Moore Show. Regular programming had ended that week, so all the channels played sitcoms on an infinite loop, deep cuts across all seasons and eras. Malcolm in the Middle. Seinfeld. Friends. Family Matters. Who’s the Boss? Will & Grace. Caroline in the City. Boy Meets World. Saved by the Bell. Full House. Perfect Strangers. Murphy Brown. The Cosby Show.

  Hey, I said, still holding the door.

  Heeeeeeey. Delilah glanced up, surprised. Where’s your mask?

  Oh. I guess I must’ve have forgotten it at my desk, I said, though the truth was that I didn’t wear it that much. I didn’t like the way it made my mouth feel hot and suffocated, a bacterial cesspool.

  You should be more careful, Blythe chided. It’s company policy for a reason.

  If the masks actually work, don’t you think maybe there wouldn’t be an epidemic? I asked, facetiously polite.

  Come in. Close the door, Delilah said, playing peacemaker. Want something to drink? Not waiting for my response, she grabbed the champagne bottle from the ice bucket on the floor and poured it into a red Solo cup.

  I sat on the sofa and took a lukewarm sip. How have you guys been? I feel like I haven’t seen anyone in a while.

  A lot of people quit. We thought you’d already left, Blythe said, proceeding cautiously.

  Blythe. If I’d have left, I would have at least said bye, I said, looking at her. We’ve worked together for too long.

  She softened. I know.

  What do you mean, quit? I pressed. Everyone else is gone except us?

  She shrugged. Some said they had finished their projects. Others just left and didn’t come back. I guess they’re forfeiting their fulfillment checks.

  I took another sip. Where did they say they were going?

  Most were headed back to spend time with their families, Delilah said. Apparently, Amtrak’s down, but Greyhound’s still running.

  I’ve made it this far, so I’ll probably keep going. I took another sip of champagne. I’d like to get paid.

  Blythe and Delilah exchanged glances.

  Does it even matter at this point? Blythe snapped, with a quick annoyance that made me feel oddly fond of her. It takes us two hours to get to work in the morning. The buses do absolutely nothing.

  After Storm Mathilde, the city had suffered a series of smaller rainstorms, and though none of them were as severe as Mathilde, arguably they did more damage. With only a skeletal operating crew, the hydraulic pumps of the subway system were quickly overwhelmed, and after the storms ceased, the train lines were never restored. The city offered shuttle buses in lieu of subways, but they were never really that consistent.

  Candace, so many stores have shut down, Delilah added. The only place to get any groceries are the bodegas or those vending machines that the city has put in everywhere. My neighbors had their electricity cut off. There’s barely any Wi-Fi.

  But how is that different from anywhere else? How is New York worse than any other place?

  Delilah persisted: Did you hear about the tower crane that fell on a group of pedestrians the other day? This city is crumbling because there’s no labor infrastructure to maintain it.

  Blythe cut in again. We’ve been planning on leaving the city, to Connecticut. You should think about coming with us.

  I’ll think about it, I said. But right now, I’m still thinking I’d like to fulfill the terms of the contract. I don’t have anywhere else to be.

  You’d be alone! she snapped, increasingly angry. Who would take care of you? Candace, don’t be stupid.

  How are you guys getting out of the city? I asked, addressing Delilah.

  We’re going to rent a car, Delilah said. We already reserved something at Enterprise for tomorrow. It’s their last one, this Lincoln Town Car, so we’re leaving in style. All the vans and utility vehicles were already taken.

  How did you guys decide that now is the right time to leave? What if things start to improve? Maybe not now, but in another few weeks?

  Blythe studied me coldly. Candace. We wait an hour for the shuttle bus already. The hospitals are short-staffed. What is Michael going to do, fault us for leaving when the management have already left? There is nothing keeping us here. And they probably won’t even notice when we leave. When’s the last time you received an email or a phone call from upper management? I haven’t heard from anyone for two weeks. They’ve forgotten about us. Even Manny’s gone. When Manny leaves, you know it’s serious, because that guy never takes a sick day!

  I have a friend who works in the mayor’s office, Delilah added. He says they’re having a problem with city employees leaving, across the board. They know it’s not going to get better. My friend’s leaving too.

  I didn’t respond. I took another sip of the champagne.

  So anyway. We’re leaving tomorrow, Blythe said. Think about it. Seriously.

  Okay, I said. All the air had left the room, had left my body. I went over to Blythe and Delilah and extended my hand.

  Really? Delilah said, taking my hand. Well, good luck.

  What the fuck, Blythe said, and threw her arms around me in an uncharacteristic hug and squeezed me hard. Just think about it some more, Candace.

  Thank you for teaching me how to do this job, I told her. With that, I stood up and walked away, a lump forming in my throat. I walked out of the employee lounge and up to the staircase, back to the thirty-second floor, back into my office, where it was bright and orderly. On my desk, all of the items were arranged in a row: the Swingline stapler, the ruler I used to measure spine widths, a magnifying glass, a mug holding all of my Muji pens, a green tube of Weleda Skin Food that I used on my hands in the winter. The sun was low through the single window. I thought about what I would eat for dinner. In my fridge, there was leftover penne. I had been eating a lot of penne lately, since bags of dried p
asta were light and easy to transport. Mixed in with that shelf-stable Kraft Parmesan and some dried herbs, it had become my main subsistence dish.

  Sitting down again at my desk, I saw a new email from Balthasar.

  Dear Candace,

  Thank you for your response. You are candid with me, so I will be candid with you. Seventy-one percent of our workforce has become fevered. As you know, there is no cure. We have had to close the residence buildings. Phoenix Sun and Moon Ltd. will cease all operations at the end of this week.

  As for myself, I will be taking leave from Phoenix starting tomorrow. I am sorry to say that my daughter is also fevered, and our family is spending her last days together. There is no need for condolences. Almost all of my colleagues here at Phoenix Sun and Moon Ltd. have experienced something similar.

  I am pleased that we have worked together. You are good at what you do. In these sad, uncertain times, however, it is important to be with people you love. I do not know the details of the epidemic in New York, but my suggestion to you: Leave. Spend time with your family.

  Yours, Balthasar

  21

  The morning they discover Evan’s body, snow piles onto the mall skylight throughout the day, snuffing out any trace of sun. I hope it keeps snowing. I hope it snows so much that the skylight breaks in a shower of glass shards and the snow heaves in and obliterates everything.

  From my cell, I watch as Todd and Adam take Evan’s body, swathed in blankets, out of his cell. Todd carries his head and shoulders, Adam the socked feet, which peep out from the blankets. They carry it down the stilled escalators, toward one of the exits.

  Rachel comes to take away my half-eaten bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats and condensed milk.

  What happened to Evan? I ask her, breaking our no-speaking rule.

  She hesitates, then finally says, They don’t know. He wasn’t breathing. They found some pills nearby.

  Were the pills Xanax?

  I don’t know, she repeats, as if to herself. I really don’t know.

  So where are they taking his body?

  She hesitates. They’re taking him outside.

  So they’re burying him.

  She nervously tucks her hair behind her ear. They’re going to put him in the trunk of one of the vehicles in the parking lot. But it’s just for now, she adds hastily. They’re thinking that the body will keep better in the cold.

  I nod thoughtfully, as if my approval matters. I guess that’s reasonable.

  He’s going to get a proper burial. It’s just that we’re waiting until the blizzard lets up. Maybe tomorrow, or the next day. She touches my arm. I’m sorry.

  Why are you apologizing to me? Evan is the one people should be apologizing to. He’s the one who’s dead, I say, laughing a little at the end.

  I know you and Evan were good friends. And Janelle and Ashley.

  I think he was better friends with Bob.

  They’re not good friends, Rachel says. Evan wasn’t allowed to leave the mall. He wasn’t allowed to take any of the cars out, on stalks or anywhere. He was trapped in here, like you.

  All of the day’s planned tasks are canceled. Bob stays inside Hot Topic for the rest of the day. Left to their own devices, the group huddles together in the communal Old Navy on the first floor. At first, I think they’re holding a memorial service, but then I hear the TV playing. They’re watching DVDs of Friends on a giant, monolithic plasma screen. A citywide blackout forces Monica, Ross, Rachel, Phoebe, and Joey to hang out together. They light candles and talk about the weirdest places they’ve had sex. Phoebe sings a song. I hate Friends but I’ve seen most of the episodes.

  The laugh track reverberates throughout this mostly empty space, echoed by their laughter.

  *

  I drift off to sleep in the middle of the afternoon. At some point, in a visitation too lucid to be a dream, my mother comes in and sits next to me. The bed compresses under her weight. She is wearing the navy skirt suit, the outfit in which she was buried. I feel her cool hand on my forehead, checking for fever. Like the Sunday mornings when I’d pretend to be sick to get out of going to church.

  What are you doing, she asks, lying here in the middle of the afternoon? Are you sick?

  I’m not sick. I’m just tired, I say softly, shyly, lest she disappear into thin air.

  Now is not the time for napping. Sit up. You need to figure this out.

  Figure what out?

  She shakes her head at my incompetence. What happened to your friend Evan. How did he die?

  I don’t know. He was found dead in his cell. He wasn’t breathing.

  Ai-yah. You don’t know, she says incredulously. You don’t know. Well, you need to know.

  Evan had a lot of Xanax, I finally say. It’s possible that he self-medicated and accidentally overdosed.

  Or maybe he meant to kill himself. She looks pointedly at me. This should trouble you. What do you think that means for you?

  I don’t know.

  Your group of friends, Janelle, Ashley, Evan, are all gone. What do you think that means for you? she repeats.

  But as long as I’m pregnant, Bob is invested in my well-being, I argue hollowly.

  My mother tsks. Listen to what you’re saying. As long as you’re pregnant. Let’s say you have the baby. Do you think you’ll even have the chance to escape after that?

  I look at her, keep listening.

  As long as you carry this baby, he’s interested in making sure nothing happens to you. But what comes after that? She looks at me empathetically. Do you hear what I’m saying?

  You’re saying that I should try to escape while I’m pregnant.

  You should escape now, she says.

  *

  When Rachel comes in to bring me my dinner, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a side of canned peas, she gives me another one of her tight-lipped smiles and gets up to leave.

  Wait. I grab Rachel’s arm so hard that she loses her balance.

  She pulls away. Candace, stop.

  Sorry. But can you let Bob know that I’d like to see him?

  She pauses. I’ll pass the message on. But you know, he might not come. He shows up when he wants to show up.

  I’m not feeling well. Tell him it’s about my health, I say, then correct myself: Tell him it’s about the baby.

  *

  That night, after everyone is asleep, Bob comes into my cell. I hear the keys as he makes his way from his cell across the mall to mine.

  I lick my dry, chapped lips.

  Slowly, he raises the metal grating and lets himself inside. He turns on his flashlight, a dim beam that shows me just enough, his face.

  Candace, he says quietly. Are you awake?

  Yes, you can turn the lamp on, I say, sitting up.

  Sorry to barge in on you this late. How are you? he asks, pulling up a chair to sit next to the bed. Up close, I take in the ten o’clock shadow and the dark circles under his restless eyes; he looks thin-skinned and almost vulnerable. There’s a jitteriness to his demeanor. He hasn’t been sleeping regularly. I have to tread carefully.

  I’ve been better, I reply, sitting up. I mean, given the circumstances.

  What happened to Evan was a tragedy. He looks down, almost abashed. Anyway, Rachel said you wanted to see me. Is this what you wanted to discuss? Because I don’t have any answers as to what happened to Evan.

  I didn’t call you in here to talk about—

  Because Evan was the one who gave you up, he says, with impassive vehemence. He was the one who told me your secrets. I would be surprised if you were so concerned—

  Bob, I interrupt. I didn’t ask you here to talk about Evan. I need more from you than this.

  His breath catches at my reprimanding tone. He’s caught off guard. I can’t read his complicated expression, but this tiny hesitation gives me confidence.

  It’s about the health of myself and my baby, I continue, moving swiftly. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.

  He
watches me carefully. And how is your health?

  Well, I am feeling flu-y right now.

  Bob places his fleshy hand on my forehead, which I warmed all night by pressing HotHands packets to it. You are a bit warm, he observes. Have you told Rachel?

  I mentioned it to her earlier. But it’s not just that. It’s the dizziness. It’s the back pain. And the mental toll of—well, seeing what happened to Janelle, Ashley, and now Evan. The stress is getting to me.

  So what do you need? he asks, his voice neutral.

  I’d like to discuss what it would take for you to release me.

  This is hardly a prison cell, he says, unmoved. Rachel takes you out for walks every day. We provide you with all the food, all the prenatal vitamins you need. I don’t see how your situation can get any better.

  You’ve locked me into a tiny space, I press. Maybe you don’t call it captivity, but I feel like a prisoner. It’s hard to stay healthy under this kind of duress, especially when I’m pregnant.

  Bob doesn’t say anything. His silence encourages me.

  I’d like to have the same privileges as anyone, I say. I’d like to be able to freely move through the Facility.

  He looks away for a long, awful moment. Candace, he finally says, slowly, as if thinking aloud. What do you really know about the Facility, aside from the fact that I’ve forced you to live here? Why do you think I chose this place, of all places we could’ve settled?

  Because you co-own this place.

  True. But that’s not the whole story. This place—and here, he looks around in the dim nothingness—holds a great deal of sentimental value for me. I used to go to this mall when I was younger.

  It takes me a moment to understand what he is saying. So you grew up around here? In Needling?

  He nods. My parents would drop me off here, and I’d spend hours just walking around. I’ve probably spent more time here as a kid than anywhere else.