Severance

by Ling Ma

  It’s not long until my mother comes over. I feel the weight of the bed shift as she sits down. She doesn’t say anything.

  I know what you’re going to say, I tell her, but let me just think this through.

  You have to get the key, she presses. You get the key, you get the car, then you get out.

  You think it’s that easy?

  I think it’s an opportunity and you don’t have many opportunities.

  Tonight? Is it the right time?

  My mother scoffs. Ai-yah, yesterday was the right time. Last week, last month. Things will change for you after you give birth.

  She hashes out the details: Stay awake. Wait for Todd and Adam to return. Todd will place the car key on the floor in front of the Hot Topic entrance. I will retrieve it. The timing has to be right. If I do it as soon as possible, Bob might catch me on his walk, or notice that it’s missing. But be careful: Even if I manage to grab the key and get into the car, it will likely still be dark when I make my getaway, dark enough I’ll have to turn the headlights on. If they notice I’m gone, I’ll be easy enough to spot on the roads.

  Better to wait, then, until early morning, when there’s enough light to drive without turning on the headlights. The sun will be barely peeping over the horizon. And everyone will still be asleep as the engine turns over and I quietly pull out of the parking lot. There will be other survivors out there.

  But what if I get caught? I ask.

  My mother’s voice turns cool. You’re just taking a stroll around the mall, just like Bob does at night sometimes. You’re uncomfortable because the baby was shifting around and you needed to stretch your legs. That’s plausible deniability. What?

  I’ve just never heard you use the term plausible deniability in real life before.

  May you live long enough to see how little your children think of you.

  I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just strange now, how you speak perfect English.

  Well, I can’t communicate with you in your terrible Chinese, she deadpans. Anyway. She gets up. Be careful.

  As she is about to leave, she turns back. If you do manage to escape, then it will be a long time before I see you.

  Just like that? I ask.

  Just like that, she says, and goes.

  I wake up. It is so silent. I could fall through the cracks of such silence. There is nothing to do but wait. And wait. And wait.

  I don’t know what else to do, so I close my eyes. I begin to pray.

  24

  One morning, I left the office at the same time as usual, to take more pictures. Just as the door closed, I realized I had forgotten my key card. I reached to grab the handle, but it was too late. It had shut with a click.

  Shit, I muttered. I double-checked the pockets of my coat, making sure I hadn’t misplaced it. I tried not to get angry at myself. The fact that it hadn’t happened before, given the numerous times I’d forgotten my wallet or iPhone, was a miracle. But it was still a shock.

  I stood at the entrance of the office, assessing the situation. I should have placed a doorstop at that door, something that had been on my to-do list for too long.

  The enclosure and the door were made of glass. I could go outside and find a big heaving rock, a concrete block, or something I could throw at the doors. It wasn’t the tidiest solution, but it would do the trick. It would be a pain, though. I thought about going to other floors to scrounge for something heavy, but I knew they were either vacant or locked like the Spectra offices.

  I went downstairs. At some point, around the seventeenth floor, I had to sit down from dizziness. The dizzy spells came and went, and I ascribed them to the symptoms of pregnancy. As I sat there in the stairwell, lights buzzing, I thought about how I could not do this forever. As my pregnancy advanced, I couldn’t go on taking such enormous flights up and down every day.

  I stood up. I went downstairs.

  Outside, the sun shone at a low, friendly angle of light. It was colder than I expected, so I quickened my pace. I had a lot of work to do.

  I headed north toward Central Park, with the idea of finding a throwing rock. I passed all the places I used to frequent, now closed. I passed the Starbucks where, for a whole disgusting summer, I used to buy a Frappuccino a day. I passed my regular lunch buffet, which featured daily holiday banquets of rotisserie chicken, haricots verts, glazed sweet buns, all garnished with intricately cut carrot flowers and zucchini flowers. My stomach rumbled in memory.

  At that moment, I spotted a rare food cart, the basic kind that sold coffee and pastries, usually frequented by Sentinel guards on their breaks. It was located two blocks away. I didn’t have any cash, but there was a Chase Bank on the corner. I checked all five ATMs in the lobby until I found one that worked.

  I withdrew a hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills. The screen asked me whether I wanted a receipt, and on instinct I punched Yes. It took a long time to print. I folded the receipt up and put it inside my wallet, behind the bills.

  As I was about to leave, something stopped me. I opened up my wallet again, unfolded the receipt, and squinted to read the barely visible printing. The amount listed under my checking account was insane, bloated, more than I’d ever had. There must have been some mistake, some system glitch. My eyes scanned toward the date, something about the date. November 30, 2011. November 30, 2011. I kept running it over in my mind. My heart quickened, my body understanding before my mind.

  November 30, 2011. The day my contract was up.

  Shit, I muttered.

  Wait, was it true? I took out my iPhone. Carole from HR had sent the contract as a PDF attachment, which I opened again.

  Spectra will deposit X after the termination of the agreement, November 30, 2011. It will be direct deposited to your preferred bank account in arrears on this date.

  It was true. Today was my last day.

  I walked out of the Chase and onto the empty street, cautiously, as if a meteor might strike me. The expansive valley of midtown engulfed me. Broken windows of high-rises whistled with wind. For the first time, I felt scared. I hadn’t thought of what I would do when the contract ended. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Why had I been getting cash again? Right, the food cart. It was right in front of me. Instinctively, I walked toward it. Coffee and pastry. My intention had been to get coffee and pastry.

  Maybe I had meant to lock myself out, with the subconscious knowledge that today was my last day. Maybe I was telling myself it was time to stop. But even if I was no longer contracted by Spectra, did it matter? My father used to say: Work is its own reward. It was also its own consolation.

  Reaching the food cart, I asked, Can I get a coffee and pastry, please? Any pastry is fine, just give me your freshest.

  I took a twenty-dollar bill out and placed it on the counter before I realized. In the display cases, the bananas were completely brown, desiccated. Flies had collected. The pastries—muffins, croissants, Danishes—had grown mold, were putrefying, liquefying in their plastic bags. I peered inside the food cart. There was no one there.

  Shit, I muttered.

  I walked away. I wandered in a daze, forgetting my plan to go toward Central Park. I’d heard somewhere that to prevent shock, you’re supposed to bite down on lemons or limes. And of course, I needed rocks too. That’s what I had come all the way out here for. Rocks, lemons, and limes. I needed rocks, lemons, and limes.

  I was muttering aloud until I stopped myself. I kept wandering.

  At some point, I looked up and saw that I was standing in front of Henri Bendel. I looked inside the windows; it had been ransacked and looted, with upturned cosmetics tables, the Annick Goutal perfume display, handbags.

  The last and only time I’d ever been inside the Henri Bendel store was when I tried to resign from Spectra. Having only been there for a little longer than a year, I’d considered carefully the decision to leave. I couldn’t see myself as a product coordinator forever, coordinating Bibles, shaving razors, Nike sneakers, or whatever,
from my desk in New York to various plants across Southeast Asia. Just because you’re adequately good at something doesn’t mean that’s what you should do.

  Before leaving the office that day, I had handed my two-week notice to Michael Reitman. He had been perplexed; we had never discussed it before and I’d given no indication that I was planning to leave.

  Have you given thought to what you’ll be doing next? he’d asked.

  No, I had replied. I just don’t see myself doing this long-term.

  When did you decide this? he asked, studying my resignation letter like a piece of evidence.

  Just last night, I said. Then added, I’m sorry.

  You don’t have to apologize to me, he said, so calmly that I wondered whether he was actually seething inside. But I’m sorry to see you go. You’ve been a great product coordinator.

  I made the decision last night, but it’s been on my mind for a while.

  You’ve learned fast, he continued, and you’ve managed to take on new projects of increasing difficulty. The team in Hong Kong speak highly of you. We’ve noticed your troubleshooting work on many Bible projects, and your ability to run impactful, large-scale production jobs is an asset to our company.

  Thank you.

  The next words he spoke carefully. But you’re young. You haven’t worked here for much longer than a year.

  About a year and three months, I said.

  You’re young, he repeated. You’re maybe under the impression that everyone gets to do what they want for a living.

  I just … I floundered, trying to find the right words. I just don’t want my life to narrow so quickly. This job is fine. I just don’t see myself here forever.

  He folded the resignation letter and put it back into its envelope. It’s your choice, but I want you to be sure. If you’re lucky enough to find something you’re good at, where people appreciate you, don’t thumb your nose at it. If it’s an issue of salary or benefits, I’m open to discussing. He handed the envelope back to me. Why don’t you take until Monday to decide. Take Friday off. Spend the weekend thinking. You should be sure.

  I am sure, I said hastily.

  Be very sure, he said.

  I left the office quickly and walked around midtown to clear my head. It was a cold Thursday evening. Faced with Michael’s arguments, I felt insecure in my decision. Trying to talk myself out of my job felt like trying to justify an extravagant purchase I couldn’t actually afford. Unnervingly, he had undercut my certainty so briskly, in just a few minutes.

  At some point, I wandered into Henri Bendel and somehow, after looping up the spiral staircase, skirted into the lingerie department, its racks of teddies, nighties, bras, panties. I felt wary, now that I was basically jobless, of being caught by a sales clerk and asked whether I could be helped. Yet I slowed my pace, marveling at these alien delicacies and confections; the flimsy swaths of expensive fabrics, the abnormal growths of lace, seams of fringe, stitched hard leathers. I wondered about the manufacturing process. Such beautiful frivolities could only be produced by specialty artisans in Italian foothills, fed a diet of soft, runny cheeses and flowered honey. Maybe nuns.

  I touched a Victorian-style lavender teddy and glanced at the label sewn in the back: Made in China. Of course it was. I looked at a powder-blue camisole printed with bluebells. Made in Bangladesh. And a set of panties. Made in Pakistan.

  No matter where you go, you can’t escape the realities of this world.

  By Monday, I was back at Spectra.

  *

  By this point, the sun was low in the sky. I was just wandering around aimlessly, in circles, never venturing farther than midtown, where I never saw anyone, not even the Sentinel guards standing outside the landmarks and cultural institutions. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I saw a Sentinel guard standing on duty. Had they all left?

  I burrowed deeper into the collar of my coat. My teeth were chattering. I kept my hands stuffed in my pockets.

  Across the street was Juicy Couture. It was no longer the pristine, untouched jewel box I had seen and documented for NY Ghost. The glass had been punctured, and approaching it from across the street, I saw that, like Henri Bendel, it had been looted. Inside, the wares were in disarray, a velour and French terry-cloth rainbow explosion, strewn with sunglasses, handbags, smartphone covers. I peered inside the puncture of glass. I saw the saleslady almost right away, lying on the floor. Dried blood stained the wares. She had been bludgeoned, hit upside the head.

  Jesus, I said.

  At which point I fell down. Or rather, I backed away from the scene and tripped over the curb, hitting my tailbone in a clumsy landing. I could feel the pain—immediate, jarring—all the way to the bridge of my nose. For a long time, I didn’t move, just stayed there on the ground, half on the sidewalk, half in the street. The metallic scent of blood filled the air. I checked my nose for blood and confirmed the nosebleed.

  The baby moved inside of me, fluttering frantically.

  It came to me in a rush, my understanding: I needed to leave. Not just this scene, not just midtown, but New York. I needed to leave New York. I needed to go now. Today. This minute.

  As if by teleportation, I found myself standing at the mouth of the Lincoln Tunnel.

  I walked timidly inside the tunnel, taking the walkway along the right-hand side, fenced in by a metal railing. I ventured inward for only a few yards, maybe half a mile, but reversed my tracks. The darkness was too overwhelming. Most of the lights had burnt out, a few still flickered, casting a light on some of the abandoned cars. I didn’t want to think about what was inside.

  Frustrated, I tried to summon up the courage to walk into it again.

  At the mouth was a billboard for New York Life, some insurance company, that greeted all traffic entering the city. It showed a picture of a grandfather hugging two grandsons, next to the slogan LIFE IS KNOWING WHAT YOU LIVE FOR.

  At that moment, in the distance, I saw a single cab driving down the street. It moved slowly, at a school-zone creep, swerving sluggishly across lanes. The whole day was so dreamlike, so riddled with signs, that I thought I must’ve been hallucinating.

  Nevertheless, I raised my arm to hail it.

  Miraculously, the taxi stopped, sort of. I looked inside.

  Eddie? I said.

  He didn’t look at me. He kept looking straight ahead. The car kept moving, at a snail’s crawl. I opened the driver’s door, unleashing a strong scent of body odor, and reached over and pulled the parking brake, bringing the car to a stop.

  Eddie, I said again. It was him, I was sure of it, though his face was more gaunt than I remembered. He wasn’t wearing a mask. I touched his shoulder, but there was no reaction, just the blank stare straight ahead. His foot was still pressing on the gas pedal. By this point, I had seen enough people who were fevered. I knew what it looked like.

  So maybe that justified the fact that I pulled Eddie out of his own cab, out of his livelihood. There was no struggle.

  I climbed into the old, shaky Ford and drove away.

  That is the true story of how I left New York.

  And yet. It’s possible that there is another true story. In this version, maybe he wasn’t fevered. Maybe he had been trying to get out of the city like I was. Maybe, despite his frail, weakened state, he had stopped to help me, a familiar person he knew by the side of the road, and maybe I had misidentified him as fevered. It’s possible. I can’t be sure. Because I wasn’t really all that careful. All I thought about was myself. It got me where I needed to go.

  25

  It is time.

  I get out of bed. I begin to change out of my flannel pajamas but think better of it. The change of clothes would give me away, should anyone catch me. Instead, I just throw on my big Marmot coat. I’m just going for a stroll. I’m just talking a walk because I’m restless and I can’t sleep. Because everyone knows how pregnancy messes up your sleep cycles.

  The one concession I make is to put on sneakers. The
floors are cold.

  My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingertips, throbbing, throbbing. Luna moves inside me, unusually alert this morning, her motions like frantic popcorn popping. She’s nervous too. Don’t worry, I tell her.

  Sell the story to yourself. Believe in this story up until the moment you can’t anymore. You’re just going for a walk at five in the morning. You’re in your pajamas, and the only reason you’re wearing shoes is that you need to use the porta potties in the parking lot. Who would go out into a parking lot without shoes? You’re having trouble sleeping, and you have to use the bathroom.

  In order to get from Sephora to Hot Topic, I have to cross about half of the second floor, go past two escalator stations, pass about a dozen shops. The recent snows have melted off the skylight, letting in a bit of daybreak. I scan the second floor; it looks safe, empty. I almost feel silly.

  I want to break into a run, but I don’t. I walk purposefully, not too fast, not too slow, the gait of someone who doesn’t have anything to hide, who has no ulterior motives. Peering over the balcony, the first floor also scans as empty. Maybe I’ve even hidden my intentions from myself. I’m surprised by how relaxed I feel.

  There is Hot Topic, a massive black storefront to my right.

  From afar, I don’t see anything on the floor. My heart sinks. I try not to panic. Maybe it’s there but I can’t see it from this distance. It is a small key, and perhaps it blends into the beige tiles. I’ll find it. I’ll find it, and I’ll bend down and close my fingers around it, finally betraying my intentions.

  I hold my breath and approach. It isn’t until I am right in front of Hot Topic that I see that the key is not there. There’s no key. There’s nothing.

  The sound of jangling keys.

  Oh god. I look up.

  Bob emerges from Hot Topic.

  I swallow. Bob, I say, as he walks toward me, his face betraying no emotion.

  I’m looking back at him, ready to make up lies, ready to deny all accountability. I have seen his face in its many variations. I have seen it when he’s angry, when he’s satisfied, when he tries to project control. I have been on his good side and his bad side. It is a face I have spent a lot of time trying to read, trying to appeal to, trying to capitulate to, trying to pretend for. I have always positioned myself in relation to him, thinking I could toe the line, thinking it would be fine if I just cooperated, thinking if only I compressed myself a bit more.