Unbound

by J. B. Simmons

  “I make time for you when you need me.”

  “Is that a joke?” I asked. It was April Fool’s Day, after all. “Besides, what makes you think I need you?”

  His gaze hardened, then softened again. “Don’t try to live your life alone, son. You can do it, but it hurts.”

  “I’ve seen that.” An emotion gripped me, something like sympathy. “That’s why you have to let me take the test. Naomi is already in.”

  “Isn’t it enough that I let you date her?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “She and her family, they’re not like us.”

  “You mean they love each other?” I regretted the words as they left my mouth.

  “They’re many things we’re not. Like Christians, for starters, and not the mainstream kind.” His voice was full of disgust and contempt. “You get my point?”

  “They’re real people, good people. And she’s more beautiful every time I see her. Isn’t that what you always said about mother?”

  “Yes.” He pressed his eyes closed. “But she was even more beautiful inside. She had the most amazing faith, the most amazing dreams.” His eyes blinked open. “What about your faith, son? What do you think she would say about this?”

  “What about it? She’s been gone ten years. It doesn’t matter anymore. Are you going to tell me now that you believe in God?”

  He looked away, out the window, and was quiet. I took that as a no—I figured his only gods lived in the dollar and the bottom of an empty glass. But then something he said hit me. My mom had dreams? He’d never mentioned that before.

  “What kind of dreams did mom have?” I asked.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” He sounded hurt. “They were just dreams. Vivid dreams about things that it seems were not to be.”

  “Like what?”

  He turned to me with a curious gaze. “She dreamed you were something special, son. She told me her dreams were like shadows of what you would see.”

  Shadows. That reminded me of Bart’s words.

  “Does that mean you once believed in her dreams?”

  He nodded. “I once did,” he said, “before they found the growth in her brain. You know what they said, it affected her thinking those last years…until we lost her.”

  His head sagged, and I went to him. We embraced each other for the first time in years, and we were silent then, silent for a long time. Was he right about mom and the growth? Or was she right? I realized my dad was not the one to ask.

  “I’m sorry,” I said as we released each other. “You’re right, this has been a tough stretch. I’ll hold off on the ISA test if you stay out of my relationship with Naomi, okay?”

  When he turned to me, he looked like he understood. “Okay,” he nodded, “better to love and hurt than to never love at all. Enjoy Rome. I’ll see you at graduation.”

  * * *

  That night, after talking to my dad, I had V search my database of memories for anything about my mom and dreams. She found one match. It was from April 2051, during Passover. It was the year they’d found the abnormal growth, five years before my mom died. I was almost three years old. I’d watched the memory many times, but I hadn’t revisited it in years. I’d forgotten what it had to do with dreams.

  I closed my eyes and asked V to play the memory.

  Suddenly I was in the modest home of my mom’s parents in Jerusalem. A bright blue toy truck was in my pudgy hand. I pushed it along the old wooden floors, making zooming sounds as I went.

  The truck’s path led around the room where my parents were staying. The smell was so familiar. It was my mom’s fragrance of oil and citrus and sweet spices. Over the zooming noise from my mouth, I could hear her and dad talking. I could not see them, with my gaze locked on the truck, but the toddler-me felt secure in the memory.

  “Rabbi Zachariah will be there,” my dad was saying.

  “Who better to preside over the Seder?” Was that a hint of irony in my mother’s voice? “He’s one I will not miss after we return home.”

  My almost three-year-old mind must have understood the word “home,” because the memory’s view swung to my parents. My mother was standing in front of a mirror and wearing a beautiful black dress. My dad stood close behind her, rubbing her shoulders. They smiled at each other through the mirror. The scene ripped at me, chewed me inside. No wonder I avoided memories like these.

  “Zachariah is just an old man,” my dad said, as my view returned to the truck and the floor. “Wouldn’t you be curious about someone with dreams like your recent ones?”

  “I should never have mentioned them,” my mom said dismissively.

  “But you believe they’re important,” replied my dad, in a tone suggesting he did not quite share that belief. It reminded me of the tone I’d used with Naomi about her faith.

  “We agreed not to talk about it anymore,” my mom sighed. “No one knows what the dreams mean. My family, the Roeh from Samuel on down, we’ve long had visions. We keep saying Israel is hardening, but the gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable.”

  “And your dreams say Elijah has the gift. That’s why you picked the name, right?”

  My little face had turned up to them again upon hearing my name. I rolled my truck to them and reached my short arms as far as I could to hold onto both their legs.

  “We agreed not to talk about it,” my mom repeated, as she swept me up in her arms. Her touch and smell were paradise. Her dark eyes looked deep into mine. “My little man will chart his own path someday. He is a Roeh as well as a Goldsmith, so his vision will guide him.” She tapped my nose playfully, and I laughed.

  She glanced to my dad. “But let’s not contaminate his innocent mind. His precept is recording all this. He’ll have clearer memories than we ever could. So remember,” she spoke to me, “trust what God reveals to you, no matter what. Okay, Elijah?”

  “No!” toddler-me proclaimed in response, obviously not understanding what she meant. My parents both burst out in laughter and pressed me between them in a hug.

  V stopped the video. There were no more records of my mother mentioning dreams. Good thing, too. I could not bear to see her and my dad like that, happy and together.

  I wondered whether my dad was right about loving and hurting. Was it really better? From what everyone seemed to be saying, I was going to get my chance to find out. I resolved to test my dreams, to see whether there was any truth to them. More than that, I resolved to be with Naomi however I could—even on a plane to Rome.

  SEAT 2A WAS the best on the jet, because Naomi was in 2B. I’d offered her the window, but she had declined. My right arm was on the armrest between us, and her hand was on mine. I loved the feel of her fingers. Her grip was assuring, holding me in the present, keeping the past and future at bay.

  “We can watch any movie we want?” She flipped through the options on the screen before her. We’d lifted off just a few minutes ago.

  “Anything ever made,” I said. “That’s how it works in first class. We could probably watch three movies before this flight is over. These commercial jets are more comfortable than they used to be, but hardly any faster. It’s too bad my dad’s jet wasn’t available. Then we’d be in Rome in a couple hours.” Not that I was in a hurry for Naomi to move her hand. I put my other hand on hers.

  She kept her eyes on the different movie titles scrolling in front of her. She pulled her long legs up onto the seat and crossed them. Her knees bounced up and down lightly, like she was an excited little girl. I leaned over her shoulder and watched the screen with her.

  “How about something older?” she asked, turning to me. “I’d love to watch a classic.”

  “How old?”

  “I don’t know, something really old, like before digital manipulation.”

  V helped me sort through every classic in my mind, searching for a perfect mood-setter. Not too happy, not too dark. Not too sappy, but romantic, artistic, with a great score. Maybe somethi
ng set in Europe. Then it hit me.

  “Have you ever seen Amelie?” I asked.

  “Amelie?” She shook her head. “You know I didn’t watch many movies growing up. I’ve never heard of that one.”

  “It’s definitely a classic. Filmed at the end of the last century and set in Paris. The soundtrack is a thing of legend. I study to it sometimes. It’s beautiful.”

  “Amelie it is.” She leaned close to me, putting her forehead against mine. “Everything I get through our sync makes me more intrigued. I’d love to see and hear what’s beautiful to you.”

  We each entered the selection into the plane’s system, and seconds later the movie was rolling. The opening song danced into my ears, taking me away with Naomi to a simpler time. She squeezed my hand, tight.

  Our attendant served dinner while we watched the movie. It was a delicious wild salmon, rare these days. I had a glass of white wine. Naomi had water. Amelie went on her adventures through Paris, secretly helping others in her charming way. The piano and accordions made her movements look almost as graceful as Naomi’s. By the time the credits scrolled, I felt a million miles away from the recent weeks.

  I turned off my screen, and Naomi did the same. She had joyful tears in her eyes. I’d never seen her like that. It was even more enchanting than her smile.

  “You think it was sad?” I asked.

  “No, you were right, it was beautiful.” She wiped the tears away and sighed. “Sorry, I just did not expect you to pick something so…I don’t know, something like that.”

  “Thanks, I guess. You know, I’m not all money and prestige.”

  “I do know. You are much more than that. I think you’ll surprise even yourself with what you’re capable of.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Her face had its usual disarming smile, but she seemed guarded. “I just mean you have the brightest of futures,” she said, “in ISA-7 or wherever.”

  The past came crashing back. “You passed the test, not me.”

  “But you will, next time.” She put her hand on my cheek. “Let’s not talk about ISA-7 this week. We’re here to celebrate Easter and a wedding. It’s going to be so much fun.”

  “It already is.” I smiled. “But before we leave ISA-7 behind, I have to ask you about Charles.”

  Her mouth closed and tension crossed her composed face. “What about him?” she asked.

  “You haven’t told me anything beyond your one message. How did he die?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think you do.”

  “I don’t know exactly what happened.” She paused. “And you know that I can’t talk about it. Everything about it is classified at the highest levels.”

  “Just tell me if you were with him before it happened.”

  She shook her head slowly. “Sort of…but not really.” Tears were in her eyes again.

  “Was Patrick with him?”

  She nodded.

  “When did it happen?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “A while before your message?”

  She nodded again. “Why do you ask?”

  “I saw him…after he died.”

  “What!?” Her face showed genuine shock. Our sync showed her pulse skyrocketing. “When?”

  “Remember I told you I went to the Super Bowl?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was my guest.”

  Her face hinted at her precept calculating something. She eventually breathed out, “That’s impossible. You should have told me!”

  “Who killed him?” I asked.

  “We don’t know,” she said without hesitation. “What did he say to you when you saw him?”

  “A lot of things. He told me not to trust you.”

  “Oh God!” She lifted her hand from mine and put it over her mouth. Her eyebrows lowered in anger. “Someone must have been controlling his body. You know whatever he said was a lie, right?”

  “I trust you,” I nodded, leaving unsaid the “mostly” that I thought. “But it’s hard not knowing, being on the outside. And why would anyone want to warn me?”

  She took my hand again. “I know it’s hard,” she said. “That’s why I didn’t want to talk about it. And I don’t know all the answers, far from it.”

  “What do you know?”

  “I know losing Charles was a tragedy. I know the world’s undercurrents are swirling, and I fear dangerous things will rise from these currents.” She blinked slowly and then looked at me with a gentle, somber smile. “I know that, despite all those things, you and I were meant to be together in the days ahead. Can’t that be enough for now?”

  The way her face was set, I figured it had to be enough. It was time to move on for now. I tucked away my questions about Charles. I focused instead on the present, on Naomi.

  “Okay,” I agreed, “but does this mean we have to spend a whole week in Italy falling madly for each other, instead of thinking about international crises and secret orders?”

  She shrugged. “There’s a decent chance.”

  “Good, I like falling for you.”

  “I might say the same, especially after that movie.” She leaned her head on my shoulder. Her honey curls fell down over my chest. “But we better sleep if we hope to enjoy the Easter service tomorrow. It’s going to be unique.”

  “I like that plan.” I leaned my head over to rest on hers.

  We were quiet then. She fell asleep within moments. It took me longer, but I slept all the same.

  WE LANDED IN Rome at 7:15 am, Easter morning.

  I’d always been amused by Easter, and not just because of the pastel bunnies. People like Naomi picked this random day every year to celebrate a guy rising from the dead. Rising from the dead. It had always made me laugh. Before Charles anyway. Sure, science could make us live to 150. We could transfer every organ except the brain, and that was around the corner. But nobody could rise from the dead. Dead was dead. Even though I’d seen Charles walking and talking after he died, it wasn’t really him. Someone controlled him. No one could have pulled off that technology two thousand years ago.

  But the airport was full of these people making their pilgrimage to hear the pope talk about a dead man. Looking at them, it wasn’t that funny anymore. It was comedy with a sad ending, like a Shakespeare play.

  “What’s your favorite play by Shakespeare?” I asked Naomi. We had reached the airport’s line for country entries. It would be a long wait.

  “Shakespeare?” She raised her eyebrows. “You’re full of surprises. Want me to say Romeo and Juliet?”

  “No, I want you to say your favorite.”

  “Macbeth. It shows the tragedy of sin. How about you?”

  “Hamlet.” If she’d given me ten choices, I would not have picked Macbeth for her. “To be, or not to be…in love.” I recited.

  She smiled. “I think you added something.”

  “It’s implicit,” I said, stepping forward in the line. At least it was moving quickly. “Don’t you get some special pass for lines like this?”

  “I wish,” she said. “Remember, though, I’m a normal citizen on this trip.”

  “Normal like me?”

  “I doubt that. Can’t you buy your way past all this?”

  “There are a few things money still can’t buy.”

  “You would know.” She laughed as a security guard pointed us toward a booth for scanning our chips. Two people remained in front of us. “What else can’t money buy?” she asked.

  “Skipping the country-entry line, eternal life, and true love. I think that’s about it.”

  It was my turn at the booth. I held my wrist up to the scanner. The guard was watching a screen in front of him. I told him where I was staying and for how long. He didn’t seem to care. He glanced up at me, pressed a button, and then waved me on.

  I moved forward and waited for Naomi. She held her slender wrist up to the scanner. The guard’s eyes went wide as he watched the screen. A red light started bl
inking above his booth.

  Two more guards approached, electric guns in hand. One of them said something to Naomi, and she walked off between them. She waved to me as if this was all normal.

  But then our sync disconnected. I waited there at least ten minutes, pacing, before the sync blinked on. A moment later Naomi came back. She was breathing heavily and her face was flushed. The top button of her shirt, which was done before, was undone.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “They searched me.” She breathed deeply, as if to calm herself. “Everything is fine. Let’s go.”

  “Did they strip search you?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s ISA. We agreed not to talk about it. You said there would be a car waiting for us?”

  “Yes,” I said, following her lead as she walked toward the airport exit. “Our bags will be delivered to the driver. But why did the security guys pick you out?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “You remember they warned us about airport searches during training, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Well, this was nothing unusual, and they didn’t learn anything. They just think I’m normal ISA personnel. I think that’s all.” She grabbed my hand and walked faster. “Come on, Rome waits!”

  I almost had to run to keep up with her long strides as she rushed out of the airport. Glass doors opened onto a warm pre-dawn and a line of black cars. A man with a black suit and black hat was standing beside one with a big card saying Goldsmith.

  “There’s our ride,” I said. “Shall we?”

  “We shall!” Maybe she thought her enthusiasm would make me forget that two Italian guys had just made her undress for a strip search. If so, she was wrong. I added it to the growing list of mysteries.

  We got in the car and began cruising into Rome. Naomi rolled the windows down and leaned her head out slightly. Her hair blew behind her in the wind. Her face was beautiful in the early morning light.

  I looked out my window and watched the city. The further we went towards the center, the more removed we were from the modern world. Everything was marble and tile and stone. I saw hardly any trace of steel as we crossed the Tiber River and approached our hotel.