New Worlds, Old Ways

by Karen Lord

“And what about your name?” she asked. “No one mentioned it.”

  He looked up at her, his expression blank.

  “Sometimes I wish I could remember that too.”

  “Sorry.” She did not know what else to say.

  “Don’t waste your time pitying me. It doesn’t make sense. And, soon enough, I won’t even remember that you did. Just keep your word about advocating for me, and keep what I told you confidential–doctor-patient and all that–and I’ll just go back to my routine.”

  “You could stop by,” she suggested. “Make it part of your routine. I’d . . . forgotten what it’s like to just have a conversation. It’s a welcome change.”

  He shrugged with pronounced effort.

  “Sure, Doc. Just be prepared to hear me repeat myself a lot.”

  “I’ll try to not point it out.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  She chuckled lightly.

  “What a strange friend I’ve made.”

  A smile brightened his countenance somewhat.

  “Is that what we are, friends?”

  “Not really sure. Been so long since I had one. But I think so.”

  “Not sure I remember how friendship works.”

  “There must be some balance,” she said, feeling as if pleading with the universe. “Some way to hold onto the pleasant memories, and let go what came after.”

  “Think you’re describing Alzheimer’s, Doc–been dreading that . . . You can have balance; remembering good and bad.”

  “But you can’t.”

  “Guess not. Also can’t help you live in the past without losing your mind, just provide momentary escape into fantasy. But, if you want to talk, I’ll talk. Maybe you’ll tell me about your boy someday. The written word sticks in my head more easily, so you’d have to repeat yourself a lot, telling me what makes him special, what it’s like to treasure pleasant memories of him. The ones that came after . . . just leave out.”

  “That . . . might just be wonderful,” she said sincerely, images of better days flickering in her mind. “You’re a good man . . . whoever you are.”

  “Guess I made a good impression.”

  “Unforgettable.”

  He laughed with surprising volume. “Think I’ll enjoy this friendship thing, Doc.”

  No point, she supposed, in asking him to call her Melissa.

  “Think I will too.”

  H.K. Williams

  Cascadura

  Trinidad & Tobago

  It is the morning of the interview and I wake up to the smell of vomit. There on the floor, right next to my face, is a puddle of sleeping pills half melted in bile. How many did I take? I see the bottle under the bed and in reaching for it, I push it further away. Doesn’t matter, they didn’t work. Not that I expected them to, but it has become a habit to hope. Too tired to move, I remain propped against the bedframe. Failed suicides are exhausting.

  “Syndra.”

  My house-bot glides into the room and greets me with her metallic staccato. “Good morning, Renae.”

  I really have to get her voicebox fixed.

  When she sees the mess, she immediately gets down on her knees and begins cleaning, so I pull myself up onto the bed and out of her way. I have to be in the studio by noon, but the cool sheets are a welcome relief after spending the night contorted on the floor.

  My handheld lies dormant on the pillow. There are no messages. Jackson hasn’t replied, but the video he sent last night is cued for replay. He wants to run it before we begin the interview. One tap and an image of Jackson in soft focus projects onto the bedroom wall. His voice, weighted with gravitas, asks, “What would you do if you realised you could not die?” I mute the sound; no need for the melodrama with the memories. He fades from view and the montage silently continues with pictures from my wedding.

  Richard and I in front of City Hall–he in his light-grey suit (he never liked wearing dark colours, since he figured they did not go well with his sapodilla complexion), me in a knee-length white dress. Richard smiling at the camera, me smiling at him, our friends smiling at us in the background. The picture then morphs into our first interview, a couple of weeks after we received confirmation. My features unchanged, his beard slightly salted by then. My geneticist Dr. Klein beaming at me as he explained to the world how my cells have stopped aging, refusing to die even when exposed to the most virulent diseases.

  “I am cautiously optimistic,” he declared. “However, I am certain that Renae holds the key to human longevity.”

  They never found the key in time for Richard. I see myself in the video in an old press photo at his funeral. I stop the clip and the image fades from the wall. Cancer. We never had children; it seemed that I could only retain life, not give it. Richard always said that he didn’t mind, that we would be our own legacy. Even now I can never get used to the cool emptiness on the left side of the bed.

  “What would you like for breakfast?”

  Syndra, finished with the cleaning, displays today’s menu from her hand.

  “Just coffee. Thanks.”

  Strong and black. Of course, now it is made from synthetic beans, but after all these years mankind has not found a better drink. Maybe I can say that in the interview. She returns with the steaming mug, which I take to the window. It is raining below. Lightning blossoms through the dark grey clouds hundreds of feet below. On days like these I am grateful to have a rent-controlled apartment above the weather. Those living on the lower levels will have to activate their rain shields. But even that is better than living in the inner core of a sky-tower. There, one is engulfed by the dimly lit darkness, which is punctuated by the noise and lights from the sky trains.

  “Any messages, Syndra?”

  “There are no new messages.”

  I am starting to feel anxious. Why hasn’t he sent over the question list?

  “Would you like me to put you through to the studio?”

  “No, never mind; bring my closet.”

  She joins me at the window and displays a holographic image of my closet; selecting a long-sleeved navy-blue dress for my approval.

  “It’s slimming, and covers your scars.”

  She knows I’m self-conscious about the two keloid scars which formed after I slit my wrists. I am sure Jackson will bring it up; and the media circus that followed. He will lean in, probably even hold my hand, and say something like: “I know it must have been hard for you, knowing that your husband and loved ones have passed on, leaving you behind.”

  Camera two will zoom in for a close-up, anticipating tears.

  “Is that why you tried to take your own life? Did you ever try again?”

  My life is now entertainment. I only agreed to do this for the Bitcoin. Longevity is expensive.

  “Your taxi will be here in exactly seventeen and a half minutes,” Syndra announces.

  “Bring me another cup of coffee.”

  “You will be late,” she counters.

  “They’ll wait.”

  As the world’s oldest living human, all I have is time.

  * * *

  “Take me to Sky Tower Ten in the Metropolitan quadrant, level 187.”

  An hour later and I am making my way through the inter- tower highway to Aexus Studios. Usually I take the sky trains when I need to go out, but not today. My face appears in the 3D Holo-ads promoting tonight’s interview, so I’ll be easily recognised.

  Hovercycles dart in and out of the traffic. People stand along the moving pavements on their way to back to work from lunch. Most stare ahead blankly as they drift through the countless ads popping up in their path. It really isn’t that much different from when I came to New York over two centuries ago. Back then it was said that you could always pick out a stranger in New York City. Tourists looked up. New Yorkers looked ahead.

  Winter was early that year, and I was not prepared. The boots I salvaged from the Goodwill were too loose around my ankles, so snow kept getting in. I needed a job. My options, even with a
bachelor’s degree, were taking care of either an elderly person or a baby. One way or the other, it would involve diapers.

  “Why you sounding so?” was always the first question my mother asked when I called home; “When you coming back?” the last. I couldn’t tell her the truth: that I was lonely and earning much less than I had anticipated. The Rosens–the couple who eventually hired me to care for their twin girls–were nice enough, but they both worked long hours in Manhattan, so I hardly saw them.

  “When you coming back?”

  “I just need to save a little more money.”

  “When you coming back?”

  “As soon as the girls finish school.”

  She had stopped asking after I had stayed away for three years.

  My face pops up in front of me. I’d forgotten to ask the driver to turn off the Holo-ads. Here I am, smiling, cheek to cheek with talk-show host Jackson Ross.

  “Join me tonight for my exclusive one-on-one with Renae Celestine, the world’s oldest living human. Find out what life was like before the Shifts. Does she hold the key to our survival as a species? Tune in on . . .”

  “Can you turn off the ads, please?”

  “Sure, no problem. So what do you think about that Renae woman? You’re going to the studio, right? You work there?”

  I keep silent, avoiding his eyes as he glances at me through the rear-view mirror.

  “I tried to get a ticket for the studio audience, but I wasn’t picked. I’m really into history, so I wanted to meet her, you know.”

  I toy with the idea of introducing myself just to see his reaction, but he continues: “Imagine, she lived outside. I mean, now they’re saying that the gases are decreasing, but that might take years, you know, centuries, even before we can live outside. I mean, two hundred and seventy-five years! Can you imagine? Most of us are lucky to pass fifty. I wonder if they will ever figure out what is so special about her DNA. It might be too late for us, but the next generation, or maybe the one after that, could live forever.”

  I glimpse his face through the rear-view mirror and notice the crow’s feet at his eyes and the deep creases bracketing his mouth. He cannot be less than thirty. More than half his life gone. He dyed his hair green, and it clashes with his caramel-coloured skin.

  “Don’t you think she probably suffered through enough experiments–and for what? They still aren’t any closer to figuring it out. They say her survival is a mystery. For all we know, she might be just as fed up of living as you are of watching people die.”

  “Nah, nobody wants to die,” he counters with a grin. “Besides, she witnessed everything. It must have been so exciting . . .”

  “Exciting? Exciting, you say. The earthquakes, feeling like the entire planet was falling apart. Billions dying. I thought everyone was going to die, I thought I was going to be the only one left . . .”

  I stop talking, realising that we have stopped moving. My outburst seems to echo in the cab.

  “I can’t believe it’s actually you . . . I didn’t mean to . . . I’m sorry . . . I didn’t realise . . .”

  I stop him before he can utter any more incomplete sentences.

  “It’s fine. Can we go? I’m already late as it is.”

  “Yeah, sure, sure.”

  And after he fumbles with the ignition, we continue on our way. How am I going to handle this interview, if a few questions from a cab driver can upset me like that?

  “Excuse me, but can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Were giraffes really that tall? Did you ever see one? They said New York had one of the best zoos in the world. Were their necks really that long?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sebastien.”

  I decide to tell him what he needs to hear.

  “Yes, Sebastien, they really were that tall. Life was really great back then. We didn’t know how good we had it.”

  A satisfied smile spreads across his face and we continue to the studio in silence.

  * * *

  “I am sorry, Ms. Celestine, but Mr. Ross is in a meeting right now. Maybe . . .”

  “Look, just tell Jackson that he can interview himself if he doesn’t come and explain this.”

  I press the remote and the door to my dressing room slides shut. The production assistant has just dropped off the interview questions, and the first question is a surprise. It is about Trinidad. Jackson did his homework.

  I am not prepared to talk about that. What can I say? It was so long ago. That we should have recognised the signs? They used to say that “God is a Trini.” So it made sense that he would warn his children first.

  I remember watching the young East Indian fisherman as he related his discovery to the news camera. Bare-backed children hovered around him, grinning, as he revelled in his sudden importance. How he was late that morning. How he was walking through the track to the beach and all he was studying was where he would find the money to get a new engine for the boat and schoolbooks for the children. How he did not notice anything until he stepped on one, and when he saw it was a hummingbird, he crossed himself. Don’t mind he wasn’t a Christian, but everybody know that the hummingbird sacred and he didn’t want no bad luck to follow him out to sea, especially with all them Venezuelan pirates around. How is only when he reach the beach he realise what was going on.

  The camera then followed his outstretched arm. Littered on the shore were hundreds of little bodies, wings splayed as if crucified, each one a bejewelled canopic jar laid out on an altar of sand. Waves weeping at the feet of those nearest the water.

  Strange thing, memory: the things it allows you to forget. I can still see that scene so clearly, yet I cannot remember my mother’s face. But I do remember her voice; the sing-song accent, which left this world centuries ago; and her scent–garlic. She constantly drank garlic tea for her pressure. It was especially high when I told her that I was leaving for the States. I was twenty-seven at the time, and her only child.

  “America! You don’t watch news? What you want to go live in that ketch-ass place for? I mad call the embassy and tell them to deport your ass as soon as you land in JFK.”

  But I had already quit my job as a receptionist at the Hilton, lied on my visa application, and converted my entire savings to US dollars, so there was no turning back. Besides, it was only to be for a year, just until I saved enough to put my business degree to use and start my own company.

  “I don’t see why you can’t take your time and save your money here. But no, allyuh must have everything one time. After how I sacrifice and send you to school, you going up there to be a maid. Eh, is that what you go do your poor mother, girl?”

  She stopped speaking to me, and for the weeks leading up to my departure I endured cut-eyes and sighs every time I entered the house. Then one day she surprised me by cooking curried cascadura and rice.

  “To make sure you come back,” she explained.

  “I will come back, I promise. I don’t need no fish to bring me back,” I replied, touched by the gesture. “Besides,” I continued through the forkfuls, careful to avoid the tiny bones, “you know that legend not true.”

  “You don’t know that. Once you eat the fish you bound to end your days here. Everybody I know who eat it and went away come back and dead right here. It real scarce these days, but I was able to get some.”

  I remember asking her why she didn’t eat.

  “No, I don’t want none. I ain’t going nowhere. Make sure and eat all.”

  I did, and though my memories have faded, I always remember that she smiled as she cleared my empty plate.

  * * *

  The production assistant returns without Jackson.

  “Mr. Ross is really sorry, but he’s still tied up in meetings. But he did say to tell you that he would make some time to chat with you a few minutes before the show.”

  Tied up in meetings. Yeah, right, he’s probably getting his beard dyed.

  He continues throug
h my silence.

  “This is Misha. She will be doing your hair and makeup,” he says, introducing the woman at his side. “And I see you’ve brought your own outfit.” He gestures to my dress, which I’ve laid out on the sofa. He doesn’t seem impressed by my selection.

  “If you feel like wearing something else, please feel free to let me know. We have several options available in all the latest styles.”

  “Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind.”

  He continues when he realises that I have refused to take his hint. “So, I will be back in one hour to take you to the set.”

  I am now alone with Misha, who has been openly staring at me throughout the exchange. She is dressed in black and sports a steel-grey mohawk with several tribal designs shaved onto both sides of her head. I can’t tell how old she is. Her face is unlined and dewy looking. It could be the makeup, or it could be youth. I’m leaning towards it being the makeup.

  “Well, I guess we should get started.”

  She nods and begins to take out her tools from her metal case. As I settle into the chair by the mirror I am surprised to see brushes, liquid foundation, eyeshadow, blushes and the like emerge.

  “You do makeup the old-fashioned way?”

  “Yes, I specialise in vintage beauty trends. I thought you would feel more comfortable that way.”

  “Oh.” I am touched by her consideration.

  “There is just one small problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t have your shade. I’ve never met anyone with your complexion. It’s such a rich warm brown, like chocolate. I can mix something . . .”

  She trails off when she sees my expression in the mirror. She’s right, no one has my shade any more. Those who survived were forced to live together, and as a result ethnicities are now blurred to the point where everyone–she, Sebastian, Jackson, everyone–is the same shade of caramel brown. She looks at me with a mixture of helplessness and pity. It is the same look that Mrs. Rosen gave me the day it happened. The day I stopped aging. October 3rd, 2021.

  I had just returned home from dropping the twins to school. The phone rang and my friend Althea, who looked after Mr. Charles in the neighbouring apartment, was screaming for me to turn on the TV to CNN. I was afraid that it was a terrorist attack, since I was set to return home in a few days. My mother was ill. After seven years in the US, it was time to go back.