She says, “Mmmm,” but nothing more. She reaches around my neck but doesn’t open her eyes. She rests her helmet on my shoulder and I cradle her.
And then the screen flickers. A new image rises as if from colored ink stains. We’re in a kitchen. The windows are sunstruck. But then they go dark as if it’s suddenly dusk, then night. I grab Evelyn’s hand, and I can feel her hand in mine. I’ve broken through in some way. I’m not here looking in. I’m in that future with her; we’re together.
We move to a patio door and the yard is sunny, the grass a brilliant green. The trees then burn to a bright orange as if it’s instantly autumn. I yank open the sliding door. And we walk out into the yard as it starts to flurry. The air is suddenly gusting and the snow covers our shoes.
“Evelyn!” I say. “What is this?”
She looks at me, wide-eyed. “It’s moving too fast,” she says.
And then the snow melts. Grass muscles up from the ground. There’s rain. I feel it on my skin. There’s sun. I feel the sudden warmth on my skin.
Evelyn’s stomach broadens through another season and another.
And then there’s a baby in my arms—beautiful and fat-cheeked. My God! A baby! Evelyn and I stare at the baby, mesmerized, and then the baby is gone. She’s tottering around us—a little girl.
The seasons roll, one to the next—the sun, the chill, the snow, the sun . . . And the girl grows and then Evelyn’s stomach broadens again. Another baby! She holds the baby for the length of one deep breath. And then there are two girls.
In a heartbeat or two, they’re chasing each other until they’re older. They seem distracted and grown up and beautiful and then they wander from the yard, as a garden of flowers sprout, flare into blooms, then die, flare and die, flare and die and flare.
“Wait!” Evelyn says—her face older now—beautiful and weathered. “Make it slow down, Godfrey!”
I look around in a panic. “I can’t.”
And then with no children we both wander the yard. We touch the leaves that wither and fall to nothingness. I’m scared and we’re quiet. I walk away and away. There are rolling hills. I crest a dune. There’s an ocean.
Evelyn isn’t with me. I miss her. Is this how it ends?
The sea is calm and then roiling, beaten with sun then cold and gray. I remember my father, Mart Thigpen, before he pushed his old, heavy body into the waves, telling me to fight for Evelyn. I run back and she’s in the yard still. I walk up to her and she touches my face. “There’s too much between us to let go.” I’m old now but still strong enough to lift her up off her feet, and I hold her as the seasons come and go.
One of my knees gives. I kneel. Evelyn kneels, too. She’s crying and I am, too. We hug each other tightly. Our daughters, now older themselves, hover and circle and cry.
Evelyn looks at me. Her breath is rattled. My head is shaking, ever so slightly. We’re scared. I grab my chest. I can tell that it aches, deep inside of me. I say, “It goes too fast. How can anyone accept this?” I shake my head. “I can’t take it.”
But Evelyn says, “I’ll take it.” Winter melts around us. Spring shoots up. “Because I’m with you.”
“And I’m with you,” I say.
Summer gives to fall.
Winter is back.
Evelyn presses her ear to my chest, her grip tightens—snowflakes collect on her lashes then melt—and her hold goes slack. Her eyes stare blankly, and I know she’s gone. I rock her as the snow and sun whip around us and then the dusk turns to night. And the night lasts.
The screen is blank.
I’m sitting in the examination room, cradling Evelyn.
She draws in a breath so quick I feel her ribs expand against my chest. “Godfrey!” she says, staring up at me.
“It’s that quick,” I say. “Our lives. That fucking quick and then it’s over.”
“It’s that quick,” she says. “But we never stop yearning. We don’t give that up.”
“I’m not on parole. I don’t smoke bath salts. I love my mother but not too much. I really haven’t followed Twilight. I’m not any of those things you thought. And I’m not engaged to someone else. I’m not perfect. But love’s rare,” I tell her. “The true lifetime kind. Someone told me that once. And we can endure. You’re the one who said that—or you will one day, I hope.”
“I have a hole inside of me that’s never going to be completely filled. It’s not possible. I felt it even when I was holding the children. I felt it even in the end when you were holding me.”
“I love that about you,” I say. “It draws me to you.”
“We could really build a family,” she says. “And it’s not perfect and even though we saw it, that’s not how it’s going to happen. It can’t.”
“We can’t know,” I say. “Whether you think you know the future or not, it’s all a leap of faith. You’ve got to be willing.”
“I’d like to try some now with you,” she says. “One now after the next.”
“Let’s make it so they add up after a while,” I say.
“I think that’s the way it is with good nows.”
“Like this one,” I tell her.
“And this one.”
Author’s Note
The original idea for The Future for Curious People came from Julianna Baggott. I was sleeping on an air mattress in my childhood bedroom when Julianna approached me to write this book with her. At the time I was thinking about my own future—not in any curious way, mind you, but more of a I’m twenty-seven sleeping on an air mattress in my childhood bedroom, this will probably be me at forty with a widow’s peak and a penchant for microwavable Salisbury steak, holy shit kind of way. But then I looked at the world Julianna had begun to create, and was immediately consumed. I saw pieces of myself in all of the characters—Godfrey and Evelyn and Bart and Madge and Adrian—and I grew curious. I groped over past romances. What if the one who got away didn’t? What if she just stayed? What if I was cooler in high school and girls actually noticed me, and instead of eating lunch in Ms. McNeely’s classroom I was outside by the bike rack, making out with Carey Henderson? These were characters to love, to dream about, and eventually, to learn from. I had to be a part of it.
It would be an understatement to say that this book you are holding wouldn’t exist without Julianna. For those who don’t know Julianna, she’s a bestselling, critically acclaimed author who’s published twenty books under her own name—most notably The Pure Trilogy—as well as two pen names, Bridget Asher and N.E. Bode. (You can find out more about her at www.juliannabaggott.com.) A mentor of mine for eight years now, Julianna has not only cultivated my voice, but she has also become a friend and someone whom I love dearly. Creating this book was a ride that I didn’t want to end. From the moment I agreed to take on this project, we shared the same vision of what this book should, could, and eventually did become. I can’t tell you how excited I am to share The Future for Curious People with you. Thank you for picking it up. Take it home with you. This book is ready for a good home.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my agent, Nat Sobel, as well as Judith Weber, Julie Stevenson, and Kirsten Carleton. I am in constant awe of your brilliance.
Thank you to my editor, Andra Miller. You fell in love with the novel before you even finished it, and if that’s not foreshadowing, then I don’t know what is. You’re kind of amazing.
Thank you to Justin Manask for being the novel’s West Coast lifeline. You were one of the earliest champions of the book, and your constant persistence has meant so much.
Thank you to Gregory Greenberg and Megan Laurel for your promotional help before the novel even went to auction. Your likeness is not just in the art and music you put together, but it’s on every page. Your friendship has made me a better person.
Thank you to David Scott for typing in edits and keeping all of the paperwork in order. Also, for loving Julianna (which is way more important than typing in edits).
Thank you to my
early readers Dario Sulzman, Abigail Cory, Lorin Drinkard, Ashley Harris Paul, Alise Hamilton, Ariell Cacciola, and Mindy Friddle.
Thank you to Julianna Baggott, for everything I’ve already said. There are not enough words to thank you, so I will make up some of my own. Look for that email soon.
And never the last, thank you to my parents for keeping me going these last eight years. I know it hasn’t been easy; I’m sorry for all of the premature wrinkles and gray hairs I’ve given you.
MIKE STANTON
Gregory Sherl is the author of three collections of poetry, including The Oregon Trail Is the Oregon Trail, shortlisted for the Believer magazine’s 2012 Poetry Award. He currently lives in Oxford, Mississippi. His website is www.gregorysherl.net.
Published by
ALGONQUIN BOOKS OF CHAPEL HILL
Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225
a division of
WORKMAN PUBLISHING
225 Varick Street
New York, New York 10014
© 2014 by Julianna Baggott.
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
eISBN 978-1-61620-426-6
The Future for Curious People Page 27