Severance

by Ling Ma

I treated readers’ requests as assignments. Each assignment, I turned into a blog post. I organized requests by neighborhood and charted a schedule for fulfilling them. There was a pleasure in doing this, a pleasure in knowing that every morning, upon waking, I knew my agenda for the day.

  Once, I went to the Strand bookstore and wandered with a flashlight through overturned aisles of books, reporting on the titles that I took to read. Once, I ate my lunch by candlelight at a booth inside Bemelmans Bar. I took pictures of the mural, to try to preserve as much of the idyllic park drawings as possible. Afterward, I crossed Central Park, with its fleets of horses and rats, and “shopped” for dried goods and prenatal vitamins at the giant Fairway on Broadway.

  Once, I managed to get into Walter De Maria’s Earth Room installation, a huge interior filled with dirt on the second floor of a SoHo loft building, but left quickly after discovering the deceased attendant still sitting behind the reception desk. He must have been fevered, doing his job until the end.

  The fevered stumbled around New York in ever-diminishing numbers. There was the fruit vendor near Ground Zero who moaned indecipherable language, hawking browned bananas. There was the old lady in her nightgown, pushing her food cart back and forth in front of Gristedes. Or the homeless teen couple in Tompkins Square Park, jiggling coffee cups of change to attract nonexistent passersby. I rarely photographed the fevered for NY Ghost because it had seemed disrespectful to depict them without their consent, and they weren’t in a position to give it.

  There had been one exception though. I had been walking down Fifth Avenue, hurrying back toward the office before it got dark. When I passed the Juicy Couture flagship shop, it looked so pristine that, for a second, I actually thought it was open for business. Many retail spaces had been looted, which was why it was odd that it looked untouched. Not just untouched but immaculate. It was sealed up like an enormous glass time capsule, its racks of trademark velour and terry-cloth sweat suits arranged by color into a candy rainbow.

  I noticed movement inside. It was a saleslady, folding and refolding pastel polo shirts. She was clearly good at her job, even in her fevered condition. The wall of bedazzled sunglasses gleamed. The wall of handbags was artfully arranged, by model and by color.

  The subsequent post was a thirty-second video of the saleslady folding Tshirts. I tried to show it from a distance; I didn’t want the video to be too graphic. Half her jaw was missing. But the way she folded each garment, with an economy of movement, never breaking pace, generated a sense of calm and ease.

  It became the most popular NY Ghost post, but also the most controversial. I felt conflicted about it. Some readers expressed their sorrow and concern for my safety. They wrote about their situations—how their countries had closed off most imports and banned most foreign travel, to alleviate the spread of fever. They expressed regret that they could not extend invites for me to stay with them.

  Others accused me of posting disaster porn. They questioned why I hadn’t left New York, why I was compelled to keep going with this.

  How do we know, one skeptical reader wrote, that you’re not fevered yourself?

  *

  One morning, I waited so long for the shuttle bus to arrive that I ended up calling the dispatcher at Yellow Cab. The call went to an automated recorder, which gave me the direct numbers of a dozen or so drivers still working. I listened to all the names, hoping to hear a woman’s name, but they were all male cabdrivers. Finally, I called the last number. After half an hour, a taxi finally pulled up in front of the apartment.

  I slid into the backseat, avoiding eye contact with the driver. Given the minimal law enforcement, I tried not to be alone with a man if I could help it. We drove in silence, past boarded-up storefronts, the overgrown community garden where I foraged for vegetables, assorted vending machines that Brooklyn had set up to deposit dry foodstuffs, the library where I’d forgotten to return my last batch of books. We went underneath the train tracks, whited over with splattered pigeon feces and feathers.

  Nice day out, he remarked, finally breaking the silence.

  I glanced up at the rearview mirror and caught his gaze. He was a middle-aged Hispanic man, wearing a loosened mask decorated with goofy Simpsons decals. This relaxed me.

  I lowered my mask too. Yeah, it’s nice out, I echoed cautiously. For the sun was shining on my arms, some of the trees had turned russet and crimson and saffron, and even though it was fall, the temperature was warm and balmy.

  Do you mind if we take the Brooklyn Bridge? The Williamsburg is closer, but I heard the city closed it. They don’t maintain that bridge anymore.

  I nodded. Go ahead. Whatever you think is safer.

  I guess if you’re going to preserve any bridge, the Brooklyn is the one to preserve, he said, more to himself.

  Do you still get a lot of passengers out of Brooklyn? I asked politely, thinking maybe I could make a NY Ghost post about taxi services.

  Honestly, not that many. You’re my first pickup today. But sometimes, especially on a day like today, I get in the cab anyway. It’s too beautiful not to enjoy. I just like to drive around with the windows down, take a look at the city. Gas is expensive, but taxi drivers get a subsidy and, you know, it’s not that bad. You gotta do something, right?

  I like to walk around the city and take pictures, I offered. I post them on my blog.

  Oh yeah, what’s your blog? Maybe I’ll look it up sometime.

  It’s called NY Ghost. It’s mostly just—

  He swiveled around. No kidding. I’ve been on your site before. He turned back. It’s very nice what you’re doing, keeping people informed. The places you post about—I would’ve never thought about. Like that one inside the subway. I don’t even want to ask how you got down there.

  We crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, which was majestic and resplendent in the sun. It occurred to me that in all my years of living in New York, I had never walked or biked or even driven across the bridge. How was that possible?

  Your blog makes me appreciate New York even more, he continued. And I’ll tell you a story. I just got back from Massachusetts last week. My cousin’s out there. He’s part of this group—they call themselves a colony, which, I don’t know about the terminology—and they all squat in one of those rich abandoned old houses together. They grow vegetables and make art and sing songs around the bonfire. I was supposed to move in with them out there.

  Huh. So why did you come back?

  They didn’t like me! He burst out laughing. No, I mean—I’ve lived in New York my whole life. I’ve lived in Spanish Harlem, in Morningside, in the Bronx. This place is home. What am I going to do at this point, go sailing in Martha’s Vineyard? He laughed again, a little uneasily this time. Besides, now that all the white people have finally left New York, you think I’m leaving?

  I smiled.

  You should put on your blog something about how New York belongs to the immigrants, how it was once the first point of entry for foreigners. The history of it, you know?

  I was thinking about doing a post about Ellis Island, but none of the ferries run out there anymore.

  Well, I guess we shouldn’t be surprised. It’s not like there’s a tourism industry anymore. The type of people who are still here, they’re either very old, fevered, or random solitary types like us. Well, I’m assuming. I apologize—he glanced at me in the rearview mirror—if I’m being presumptuous here.

  It’s not too bad here if you can stand being alone, I corroborated.

  We drove around in silence for a while. As we arrived in midtown, he said, There’s something I like about being in midtown Manhattan. Sometimes I drive here just to remind myself.

  Remind yourself of…?

  That there’s still civilization. In midtown more than anywhere else, there’s infrastructure. You’ve got the Sentinel guards, guarding our prized institutions. There’s less crime in midtown. The electricity still works. You can still get Wi-Fi here. You can still get a cell phone signal. Being h
ere gives me a sense of stability when I think everything is coming apart.

  Yeah, there’s something reassuring about being here.

  So, you’re going to Times Square, huh? Going to a musical tonight? He chuckled at his own joke.

  Yeah, I’m going to see Wicked. Dinner and a show.

  That’s the way to do it, he said, and he didn’t push further in asking about my plans. Okay. I’m going to pull up right in front.

  When he pulled up to the Spectra building, he hesitated. It’s gonna be seventy-two fifty. If you’d like, I can knock twenty dollars off of it or something. They really hiked up our fares.

  It’s okay. I pulled out my wallet and gave him a hundred-dollar bill. Keep the change.

  Hey. My name’s Eddie.

  I shook his hand, his fingertips, through the divider. I’m Candace. Nice to meet you, Eddie. Maybe I’ll call you up again when I need a ride.

  Sure thing. See you later, Candace. With that, he drove away.

  *

  By November, I had moved into the Spectra offices. I could have easily moved in earlier after Blythe and Delilah had left and the office was my own, but I was a creature of habit, as it turned out. It was only the shutdown of the shuttle buses—without notice or warning—that catalyzed me. One Monday morning, I packed clothes, toiletries, my mother’s keepsakes, and whatever else I could fit into a suitcase. I called Eddie to drive me in his cab, but no one picked up. So I called the Yellow Cab dispatcher again and found another driver. When he arrived, I locked up my apartment for good.

  I slid into the backseat with my suitcase and asked, Hey, do you happen to know this cabbie named Eddie? Is he doing okay?

  Doesn’t sound familiar to me. The driver turned around, his voice muffled behind his dirty mask. Just because we drive cabs doesn’t mean we all know each other, you know.

  Sorry, I said, and we drove the whole way in silence.

  The empty office greeted me. I spent the rest of the move-in day doing inventory.

  In the storeroom, there was a generous bounty of coffee, refill water bottles for the water cooler, packets of coffee creamer, which, combined with water, could make a milk substitute. There were also cleaning supplies, two Dyson vacuum cleaners, rolls of paper towels, and refill vats of pink hand soap I could use to wash my body at night.

  In the employee snack room, there was a vending machine full of healthful snacks: roasted honey peanuts, dried fruit assortments, nutrition bars, yogurt-dill kettle chips, lentil crackers. I took a three-hole punch from the copy room and heaved it repeatedly at the glass, which slowly splintered, cracking open as it fissured. When it finally came down, I took all the food items, a fox stealing hen eggs. I rifled through abandoned desks and found chocolate bars, microwavable Kraft mac and cheese, Maruchan Instant Lunch noodles in shrimp flavor, saltine crackers, packets of Heinz ketchup, and, randomly, a box of Manischewitz matzo ball mix. I took all the food items I found and placed them in the cabinets of the employee snack room, organizing them according to their expiration dates. In Blythe’s desk, I found half-filled bottles of Kiehl’s Ultra Facial Cleanser and Ultra Facial Moisturizer, along with a Mario Badescu Facial Spray, all of which I lined up on the counter of the bathroom for my daily skincare routine.

  The move-in day was long and draining. I was exhausted by evening.

  To secure myself a proper bedroom, I took the three-hole punch and threw it at the glass walls of Michael Reitman’s locked office, which shattered on the third or fourth try. Inside, I vacuumed the glass shards glittering on the carpet, crunching underneath my shoes. I dusted the glass from his enormous desk, which was now my enormous desk, and from his beautiful chaise longue, which was now my beautiful chaise longue. I Googled it. It is called the Barcelona sofa, designed by Mies van der Rohe. Rifling through his desk, I found his portable Braun clock, which I would use as my alarm.

  It had grown dark without my noticing. I turned off the lights.

  I took off my office outfit, slipped on a nightgown. I didn’t intend to go to sleep, I just wanted to see how lying down in this new room felt.

  Above me, cut into the ceiling, was a skylight. In all the years I’d worked there, I’d never noticed it, and now that the city no longer lit up as brilliantly with electricity, I could see the stars. They were so bright and clear that the sight of them felt astringent against my tired eyes. So I closed them. Before falling asleep, I felt the baby move for the first time.

  23

  In my new Sephora space, I tell Bob about the last days I spent in New York. We sit across from each other at a little table, sipping tea from cup-and-saucer sets, like old friends who have been through things together. A battery-powered LED lamp emits a cool, dim glow in the darkness. We speak softly because our voices echo in this new space, only half-filled with new furnishings.

  So, in the end, you lived in your office, Bob summarizes.

  And I worked there too.

  Right. NY Ghost. That makes sense. But, he continues, putting his teacup down, I don’t understand why you stayed for that long when it was no longer habitable.

  It was still habitable to me.

  But those stairs you took, though. How many, thirty flights every day? That’s like running a marathon every morning. He smiled opaquely.

  Yeah, it was my cardio, I quip, playing along. I would’ve had to leave eventually, if for those stairs alone. That and the readership fell off when, you know, everyone got fevered.

  Is that why you left, because your blog no longer had a readership? he asked, the mocking now unmistakable in his voice—and something else: a hard contempt, resentment.

  I left because I was pregnant, I reply, which is not exactly the truth, but bringing it back to the baby seems to quell Bob’s moodiness.

  Do you regret leaving? he asks, then catches himself. You don’t have to answer that. I assume that you do.

  It wasn’t sustainable to stay in New York, I say, not alluding to all that has transpired since I joined the group. Should I finish the rest of the story? There’s not much left.

  No, let’s save it for tomorrow. You can keep me in suspense. He takes another sip of tea.

  Bob. I hesitate. What’s it like being back?

  Back, he repeats. You mean where I grew up? Or do you mean this mall specifically?

  I’m not sure. Both, I guess. But this mall in particular, where you spent so much of your time as a kid. Does it still seem the same? Does it seem worth it?

  He looks at me. Believe it or not, yes. It even smells familiar, the way it smelled when I was a kid.

  Can I ask why you walk around the mall at night? I always hear you.

  I don’t know what you mean, he says, emptying the last gulp of cold tea.

  Before I can question him, Todd ducks into the room. Hey, Bob?

  Bob glowers at him. What did I say? Knock first.

  Sorry, Todd mutters. He returns to the entrance, where Adam also stands, and raps his knuckles against the side wall. Bob looks at me.

  Come in, I call out.

  This time, Adam enters and addresses Bob directly. We need the keys to one of the cars. We’re going to get those batteries.

  Right. Bob nods. You don’t need a big vehicle, so I’ll give you the Nissan. He removes a key from his chain, hooked onto his jeans. Next time, you should make sure to get all the supplies in one go.

  Ideally, Adam says. We might be back late. How do you want us to give you the key when we return?

  I’ll be sleeping. Just leave the key outside of my door when you get in.

  Will do. Adam nods at Bob, then me. Good night.

  Perhaps due to their presence, Bob is gruff with me again, authoritative. Have you taken your folic acid pills today? he asks. He frowns. Rachel was supposed to make sure you take them. I specifically asked her to do that.

  She reminded me earlier.

  Well, she was supposed to make sure you take them, not just remind you. They prevent birth defects, they help your body generate
new cells.

  Right. How impressive. You too have read Pregnancy 101, I want to say. But don’t. Instead of arguing with Bob, an unnecessarily risky move, I get up and go to the dresser, where the bottle of folic acid pills is kept, along with packages of diapers, wet wipes, cans of formula, and baby outfits.

  The whole Sephora space is filled with new Ikea furniture, hastily constructed by Todd and Adam. They had brought me a catalog and I picked out everything I wanted. There’s a queen bed with a Tempur-Pedic mattress, and, though I’m not due in the immediate future, all the baby furniture has been set up: a yellow crib with a musical mobile, a matching changing table, a little swing. The best part, however, is the massive bookcase, holding all the books I want to read. And if none of the books suit me, I am now allowed to freely roam to other parts of the mall, to the entertainment room (the Old Navy), to the library (the Barnes & Noble, with its leftover cache of titles).

  Lately, I have been reading The Arabian Nights, in which the narrator of the tale, Scheherazade, keeps herself alive by telling King Shahryar tales night after night, withholding the ending of each story until the next night.

  I sit down again at the table. In full view of Bob, I put a pill in my mouth and wash it down with the rest of my cold tea. Thanks for reminding me, I tell him.

  He nods. Should we pray before I leave? I’ll pray for you.

  I nod. In our chairs, we bow our heads and clasp our hands in prayer, like I used to do in Sunday school.

  Dear Lord, Bob begins, there is a humility in our prayers to you. In asking for what we want, we acknowledge the limits of our power. To that end, please help us keep this child safe and healthy. We would very much like this opportunity to bring this child to term, despite the missteps of the mother. Please help Candace continue to see the error of her ways, to understand that her newly granted freedoms are privileges. Please help us lead her back from her deviated course and set her right in our group. Amen.

  Amen, I echo emptily.

  *

  After Bob leaves, I wait for a few beats before I turn off the lamp and get into bed. For a long time, I just lie there. My heart beats so hard I feel it in my fingertips.