The Word Exchange

by Alena Graedon

  But it didn’t mean I suddenly started loving Laird again, or wanted him as family.

  Nonetheless, I was willing to brave his company that night if it meant I could talk to my mom. She was extremely—sometimes painfully—rational; I knew she’d be able to calm me down. Impose a narrative on what seemed to me like terrifying chaos. Whenever I’d had an odd rash as a child, or taken a bad fall, had a fight with a friend, or a less than stellar school report, she’d always been the one to soothe both me and Doug. If I was ever in trouble, especially if I was sick, he’d get nervous and wan himself, start pacing, and quaff seltzer in vast amounts. Vera always kept a very level head.

  But the real reason I’d decided to cross the island was this: I missed her. I wanted to put my arms around my tiny mom. So I got in a driverless cab and returned her call, my Meme dinging just before she picked up with a warning that my bank balance was low. I realized I’d have to stop taking taxis if I didn’t want to go begging to her or my grandparents. Things had gotten much tighter since I’d started paying rent myself.

  “Oh, darling,” she said, arching her shapely brows into her Meme’s camera. “I didn’t mean tonight. We have dinner with the Perelmans. I meant tomorrow, for Thanksgiving.” I’d forgotten that I’d dropped her a hint about Max’s mother being “sick,” our normal holiday routine changed “last-minute.” And without warning my eyes began to sting. This one last little disappointment was just a bit too much, after everything else. I’d really wanted to see her.

  I thumbed over my own camera. Let myself shed a few silent tears into my sweater sleeve, mostly for Doug and what had become five days of silence—his departure so strange, so confounding, the timing so wrong, it could be explained only by something I couldn’t say aloud. But the sadness didn’t stay contained, and a few tears fell because I was sick and I was alone and afraid. Because of what I’d seen in the Creatorium, and the empty space left in its wake. And now the canceled launch and the deal with Synchronic.

  That was the last time I’d cry for quite a while, and it didn’t go on very long. After I’d been dark and quiet on the line for a minute or two, my mother’s voice chirruped from my lap. “Anana? Is something wrong?”

  Gathering myself, dabbing my eyes, I uncovered the lens. “Sorry,” I said, with as much composure as I could. “Just dropped you on the floor.” But I knew she’d use her secret mother sense to intuit my distress, so I added, shrugging, “And I forgot it was Thanksgiving. Which is kind of weird.” That, of course, was true as well.5

  My mother peered at me suspiciously, and in that moment I assumed it was because she was trying to guess what was really wrong. I thought I could almost hear her thoughts: Is she upset because it’s only the second Thanksgiving that Doug and I have been apart? It’s not about you, I almost wanted to say. Although of course it was, in part. “That sounds unsettling,” she offered carefully.

  By then my cab was approaching Fifth Avenue, not far from what I still thought of, after more than a year, as my mother’s “new apartment,” and the Meme turned itself to mute so I could redirect the car back across town.

  “So?” Vera said after a moment. I saw Laird’s manicured hand pass her a sweating glass of yellow wine. When his fingers grazed her arm, I flinched a little.

  “So, what?” I asked. Vera didn’t answer. Took a sip of wine. Murmured to Laird. Laughed lightly. “Mom?” I said, annoyed. Then realized she couldn’t hear me. I turned mute off on my Meme. Said, “Sure, dinner tomorrow sounds nice.”

  “What was that?” she said, her face hardening a little. I checked the mute again, but it was off. That was when I realized, with a tumbledrock feeling in my gut, that she might not have understood me. “Yes, tomorrow,” I repeated, trying to smile.

  “Good,” she said, smiling back. “Come at six.” Offscreen I heard Laird say, “Tell her five.” He murmured something else, and she added, “Tell Max he doesn’t need a jacket.”

  My eyes pricked again for just a second, but I nodded brightly. As the cab dodged two slow, down-coated tourists crossing the Sixty-sixth Street transverse, I could see her steeling to hang up. I debated for a moment. Then said, “Mom? Can we talk about one more thing?”

  There was a pause. The shadow of a crease darkened her brow. “What is it, Anana?”

  “It’s about Dad.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. Took a few steps toward the fridge. “What about him?” she said, her voice hushed and a little strained. “I’m worried.

  I think something might have happened to him,” I said.

  At least that’s what I meant to say. But Vera looked perplexed. “You’re what?”

  “I said I’m worried about Doug,” I repeated, frustrated, scared, wishing we could talk in private, without Laird hovering so close to her.

  “Anana, are you all right?” my mother said, frowning. “You’re not making sense.”

  I nodded. Tried to say, “I feel fine.”

  But I didn’t. And I wasn’t just upset, I was hot and headachy. Queasy. I hoped it was carsickness or something psychosomatic, not my symptoms coming back. The Meme slowed the taxi as it took a curve. I wondered if I should have the car take me to a walk-in clinic. But what would they say? The Meme, like the coil device, hadn’t been able to diagnose me; I wasn’t sure a clinician could. And I didn’t have the money.

  I inhaled and exhaled. “I said I’m worried,” I tried again. “About Dad.”

  “Oh, worried,” she said, taking another sip of wine. “Well, that’s not surprising.”

  That made my hair stand on end. “Wait,” I said, chilled. “What do you mean?”

  But my mother just sighed. “He can have that effect on people,” she explained. “Is it something specific?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “He’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Her eyebrows lifted.

  I nodded, feeling sick. “I guess you haven’t heard from him?” I tried. I had to repeat myself.

  She confessed it had been a while—since before her trip. “Though … the last time he did seem a little agitated,” she acknowledged. “I assumed it was because of the launch.”

  Agitated: so I hadn’t imagined it. I thought back to the night he’d named me Alice in the train. It seemed as if it had been forever, but it had been less than two weeks. “How long has he been gone?” Vera asked, lightly biting her bottom lip.

  And for some reason I didn’t really understand at the time, I lied. “Since last night,” I said, guiltily glancing down at the dirty floor mats. I liked to think I was an honest person, but lately I’d been lying a lot. Sometimes our subconscious is wiser than we are.

  My mother frowned. “Last night? Anana, I don’t think that qualifies as a disappearance,” she said in the indulgent tone she reserved for my “theatrics.” Inherited, apparently, from Doug. But then she said something else that would prove invaluable. Draining her glass, she asked, “Have you tried the murk?”

  At first I didn’t know what she meant. “The murk?” I said. Imagined Doug in a headlamp and waders, trudging through a dark marsh.

  But even as she added “The Mercantile Library,” I knew she was right.

  The Merc was Doug’s favorite place to hide out: a small private library somewhere in the forties on the East Side. One of the last of its kind. Libraries, like bookstores, theaters, cinemas, had mostly died out. Been turned into condos, boutiques, restaurants, spas. Even the New York Public Library was used mostly for events. But when I was a child, Doug had taken me with him to the Merc many times. Where I’d been bored out of my mind.

  “Try the second-floor reading room,” Vera offered. “The librarians were always catching him napping under the piano. He may be there now, poor man. Although I’m sure it’s closed for the night.”

  I was nearing Forty-ninth—my block. It made more sense to go home. But my mind snagged on the thought that Doug might have at least visited the library at some point in the past five days. It was irrational, but I could picture him perfectl
y, snoring under the baby grand. Of course he couldn’t still be there, if he’d ever been. But maybe someone had seen or spoken to him. It was at least worth a try. I was willing to follow even the faintest footsteps by then.

  And I assumed Vera was wrong—the Merc couldn’t be closed; it wasn’t even five. My Meme said I should be fine. As the cab slowed in front of my building, I said, “Mom, thanks. See you tomorrow,” and hung up. Then I sent the taxi shuttling back across town, even though my Meme chimed again, louder, and said, “You do not have the funds to make the return journey home.”

  By the time the car dropped me in front of the Merc, it was dark. A siren blared a contrail of sound as I approached the stone façade. I tried the door; it was locked. A small placard on the glass said the library had closed early for the holiday. But I noticed a few lights on inside, and when I peered in, I thought I saw shadows stirring. When I tapped the glass, though, nothing happened. If I’d seen someone inside, they’d seen me, too, and stopped moving. I waited a bit longer. But nothing.

  I ducked into a nearby deli to buy a tea for my walk home. When I stepped out again a few minutes later, I glimpsed someone in a red watch cap approaching the library. He was camouflaged by baggy winter clothes, but something in his height and build and the way he walked, stooped slightly, made me think of Dr. Thwaite.

  I called out to him, but he didn’t seem to hear. I called again as he unlocked the door, and this time he looked around, tense. But I was blanketed in shadow under the deli’s scaffolding. He peered into the gloom, then hurried in and shut the door. And when I knocked a moment later, there was no response.

  Disquieted, I trudged numbly toward home. But I didn’t want to arrive there. It would be dark at home. I’d be alone with my thoughts. I took a long, circuitous route, past Rockefeller Center’s slow gyre of skaters. Down through Times Square’s manic lights, where I saw the slightly bygone sight of a tired but fiery proselytizer passing out pamphlets. Maybe I’d seen him before, maybe not; either way, I dropped the papers he handed me in the trash unread after I rounded the corner. (Most people, of course, didn’t take them at all.) Then I went north again, up the few blocks still violate with peepshows on Eighth. And as I turned the corner back onto my block, walking into a grainy blast of wind, I thought I saw a man scuttle from the entrance to my building.

  My stomach clenched. Just to be sure my edgy mind had invented him, I waited awhile at the nail salon across the street. Watched my door. Thought of calling Bart. But when no one appeared, I eventually crossed over and went in. Climbed the stairs a little warily, toes frozen in my boots.

  Boots that, a couple hours later—after I’d eaten a few spoonfuls of soup and fallen asleep with my head on the kitchen table—nearly trod over a small white rectangle on the dirty floor. It was an envelope. One I hadn’t noticed when I’d come in. Which was because someone had slid it under my door while I was sleeping—the scraping shush of paper probably what had woken me.

  Skin tingling, I opened the door. Peeked out into the hall. But the messenger was gone. Double-bolting the lock, slatting all the blinds, I perched on the bed to open the note. Got a paper cut, unused as I was to handling envelopes. Inside were a couple pages, strangely warped and curled, printed at very high contrast, and covered in a silky black rime. The letter ended abruptly—a jagged edge under the last line of type, and, slightly to one side, signed “Doug” in what was clearly not Doug’s writing. I’ve attached it here.

  * * *

  1. I’d texted Dr. Thwaite: “Is this phone okay? Have you heard from my dad?” But he hadn’t replied.

  2. It rang four times before I realized it was mine.

  3. Cell service didn’t always work so well these days, the guy in the TriBeCa store had warned me ruefully.

  4. It was only when I finally gave it up for good that I realized just how much I’d ceded to the Meme: of course people’s names and Life information (numbers, embarrassing stories, social connections) but also instructions for virtually everything. It interfaced with my appliances. It could change traffic lights. And it told me how long it would take, given train connections and delays, to get from Williamsburg to Turtle Bay. How many minutes I should set aside, at my current pace, to finish writing copy. (And to be honest, it usually wrote it for me—charging, of course, for any words from the Exchange.) It suggested when to arrive at parties—it could tell me pretty well who was there already—and how best to approach the different people I met when I arrived.

  And so many other things, I didn’t know all it knew—and that I didn’t anymore. In the few years I’d had it, it had swallowed up most of my past and present. The future, too: its predictions were extremely accurate. Getting rid of it was like cutting off a hand or breaking up with myself. Only later did I feel truly horrified that for years I’d invited something to eavesdrop on me. And not just my gainful breathing apparatus but the careful, quiet thicket of my thoughts. Exposed as a called hand of cards.

  5. A lot had happened in the week since I’d beamed Vera my “hint” about changed holiday plans. And I hadn’t heard back, so Doug and I had vaguely decided to try the Fancy. But it helped explain why the office had been so empty, which I’d chalked up to the police investigation. Also why Chandra had been hurrying to catch a train, and why the only cab I could find had been driverless.

  G

  G–d g–d n 1 : the word 2 : the ineffable

  Dear Alice,

  The first purpose of this letter is to assure you that I’m fine. In fact I’m thriving: putting hot sauce on my eggs, asking for bread with everything, rogering around here with friends. I wanted to explain that right away, as I’m sure my departure was surprising. I nearly forgot about my flight Friday, and just barely made it out on time. I’m sorry I left you stranded at the diner.

  I know how you feel about analog reading, so I’ll keep this letter brief. But I also wanted to say, as a precaution, in light of the possibility that you might not read this to the end, that you can call off the search and rescue. No need to bring in the police. Also—and this might sound a bit strange—you should destroy this letter immediately.

  In the hope that you’re still with me, there are several urgent things I meant to tell you before I left town:

  1. Don’t visit the Dictionary’s subbasement. Please trust me on this. In fact, if you could avoid the building more or less completely for the time being, that would probably be safest.

  2. Don’t use any Meme, whether or not it has a Crown or Ear Beads. I know this is a tired refrain. But it’s absolutely crucial. And please don’t lose the pills I gave you.

  3. Don’t visit the Synchronic website or any of its affiliates, and don’t open messages from its employees. And certainly don’t download any terms from the Word Exchange. Again, this is imperative. Any device compromised in this way may need to be jettisoned.

  4. I hate even to mention this, but you should avoid all contact with Max and any friends of his.

  5. Under no circumstances should you be in touch with a Russian national named Dmitri Sokolov. If he should contact you—well, let’s hope he doesn’t.

  6. Please don’t discuss this letter with your mother or Laird. And to be safe, I’d include Bart Tate on this list, too, much as it pains me. But he seems to be a friend of Max’s.

  7. You can trust Phineas implicitly.

  8. If you’ve appropriated my Aleph, please be sure it’s somewhere safe. It should probably be destroyed, but I’m not sure that can be done very easily.

  Doug

  H

  heu•ris•tic hy -′ris-tik n 1 : a way of solving problems that generates more problems 2 : a word preferred by undergrads adj : of the family Bromeliaceae

  When Dr. Thwaite yanked open the door to 6B, he looked startled and sleep-creased. It was seven a.m., and I’d been banging. Loudly.

  The doorman had just called up to warn him I was on my way, he said, breathless, not inviting me in. Not, needless to say, offering me a Coke. “What d
o you think you’re doing?” he asked, crooked fingers gripping the jamb.

  “Dr. Thwaite,” I said. “Phineas. I think we need to have another talk.” I pulled the crinkled letter from my coat pocket.

  I’d been practicing what I’d say, and I hoped it had come out intelligibly. After finding the letter the night before, I’d considered going straight to Dr. Thwaite’s, but I thought showing up in the early morning would surprise him more, which would work in my favor. I’d also hoped another dose of pills and night of sleep might help ameliorate my symptoms enough for me to communicate. It seemed maybe to have worked; before walking over to Beekman Place, I’d tried asking directions from someone in the street, and he’d said, “Just take the M50” without giving me a funny look.

  I actually hadn’t gotten much rest, though—I’d been keyed up and full of questions. I’d done some research. And on my way to bed I’d almost tripped on that old, mangled box. I’d pulled out a few books, thinking they might be soporific. But reading hadn’t made me tired; it had made my brain flicker with memories: Doug squeaking the Max and Moritz voices to put me to sleep when I was a kid, singing “Beautiful Soup” from Through the Looking-Glass; Vera stealing Persepolis and then, even more surprising, the Black Hole series. Even a couple of ratty old judo manuals gave me an unexpected flurry of curiosity. Finally I did manage to doze off. And it’s hard to know—the antivirals had also had a few days to work—but I wonder now if those hours reading didn’t account in part for my aphasia’s abatement.

  Anyway, it seemed that what I’d managed to say to Dr. Thwaite had been clear enough.

  He fished glasses from his pajamas. Reached for the letter. But I didn’t let it go.

  “May I come in?” I asked, holding my ground.

  He hesitated. Peered at me intently with runny, blue-fogged pupils. “How are you feeling?” he asked, suspicious. And abruptly, standing in front of him again, two words he’d used in our first meeting swooped back at me: “word flu.”