Shine Shine Shine

by Lydia Netzer

  *

  SUNNY WENT INTO HER house and shut the door. She locked it, doorknob and bolt. They would have to burn it open with a torch, pry it open with a pitchfork. They would have to crack her open like a nut. Inside the house, she dropped to her knees with another contraction and began to crawl toward the living room. She made it to the rug, so immaculately dyed and tied, a million knots per square inch. It had cost eighteen thousand dollars. As many knots as there are stars in the sky, said the salesman, a lively Moroccan. Bad analogy, Maxon had said. You’re looking for density, not quantity. Try rods and cones on the retina. That gives you both.

  When Bubber was a baby she had laid a plastic mat over this rug, to protect it from stains. She kept pushing the mat down at the edges, then replaced it, and then she took the mat up and they abandoned this room altogether. It became the shrine, the holy crypt of urban respectability, a resting place for the crystal pieces she acquired, the Indian carvings, the silver. Cabinets ringed the walls, glass cases sparkling. A museum of only five years of history. This is unbearable, she thought. I can’t bear it.

  She rocked on her hands and knees. She could feel the baby, and the baby was coming down. There was a turn, a big somersault in her stomach, and at that moment, she knew that the baby was about to come out. The baby was about to be born. In the darkness on the inside, everything was in the right place. There was no communication from outside to in, or inside to out. But there was a process in place inside the womb that no external timetable could hinder or accelerate. She dragged off her underpants, pulling them back, down, and kicking them to the side. The contractions were now coming one right after the next, rolling like particles, not like waves, bombarding her, turning her inside out.

  She put her forehead on the rug and strained, and the straining finally gave her some relief. In the straining, she finally felt better. There was no one coming to help her. There was no backup plan. If she would be torn apart, then she would tear herself apart. There was a change in Sunny’s mind. A new sense of this-is-happening. She erased all contemplation, all reflection, until there was only Sunny herself, a raw and bleeding thing in a lemon yellow silk chiffon babydoll dress hiked up wet around her waist, dripping sweat, ass in the air, trying to explode.

  In the pain and the inversion, with all her blood a hot bubble in her head, she finally knew. She was unfit, and she was bald. But she was the only mother that was here. In the dark, where all the muscles were, where the baby had turned herself around and kicked for home, there was no bald and no unfit. There was only a body with a baby in it, doing its best. I’m sorry, said the body to the baby. I’m bald. I’ve made terrible mistakes. Almost all of your grandparents are dead because of me. I’m going to embarrass you. I’m going to fuck things up. But I am your mother, and I will do my best. Whatever I actually am, and whatever I can actually do, I am the mother you have. Here I am. Doing it.

  The contractions overtook her. She tried to climb the drapes. She wrapped her wrists in the soft fabric and lay back against them, rocking her body against the curtain rod, writhing and groaning. The curtains held, but her mind wavered. She slipped out of time, out of this painful anchor. Maybe it was an accumulation of everything that had happened, or maybe it was an experience common to every woman who labors alone. She did feel the pull of her hands on the drapes and the burning, heavy urgency between her legs. It made her push, push, right down from her throat to her thighs. But beside it, under it, and around it, she saw a purplish fog rise up over her eyes, and she began to see things that weren’t there: her baby, and the life she would have.

  She saw a beautiful long-legged six-year-old with a face like a valentine, and bright ropes of orange hair flashing in the sun. Hair just like Bubber’s. She was carrying a bamboo stick, and expertly piloting a small sailboat around the pond at the Luxembourg Gardens in Paris. The wind was brisk, spraying water from the fountain in a wide arc and whispering in the beech trees. The boats moved fast, some almost lying down sideways, about to capsize. But the red-haired girl put her stick right against the divot on the deck of her bright blue boat and gave it a big push away from the wall, her eyes intent on its progress. She does that really well, thought Sunny. She is an expert; she must do it all the time. My name is Emma, said the girl to a little boy standing next to her. Emma.

  She saw a fierce, happy nine-year-old cantering on a chestnut pony across a meadow full of comfrey and mint. She had her hands buried in the pony’s mane and her bare heels dug into its sides, making it go faster. Her sunny hair was short now, cut off at her chin, bouncing in wavy layers. The girl was laughing, her knees pinned to the pony like a clamp, teeth bared. Sunny knew her breath was coming short. Sunny knew she had to push this baby out. Maybe it was the wind in her face, cantering across the meadow. Maybe it was everything in her body pushing on down. She whisked along the deer path, parallel to the tree line. Those were Maxon’s woods. Stay in the meadow, girl.

  She saw the girl again, older, on a rocket to the moon. She was asleep in a bunk, her hands thrown back over her head and wrists knocking into the wall, her chin up, as if she were resisting some invisible restraint, some band across her belly, some wire in her head. She wore a white leotard with long sleeves, and Sunny could see it was just a little bit too short in the arms, a little bit too wide in the waist. She was covered by a thin, plastic sheet. Wake up, Sunny thought. Let me talk to you. Do you remember being born? Did it all come out all right in the end? At what moment did you know: I’m alive! This woman is my mother!

  The girl grew up, she was twenty now, and she was leaving the family on the moon. They were all there: Sunny, Maxon, and Bubber, to say good-bye. Sunny wore a gray cardigan, pulled tight around her. She smiled and waved at the girl, while her tears fell down. Maxon and Bubber stood still as statues, right next to each other, exactly the same height. They wore space suits and rigid expressions. But the girl went over and kissed them both, hugged them, clamped her hand under Bubber’s armpit playfully to make him laugh. Sunny saw Bubber put his arm around his sister and pull her tight around the shoulders. Don’t go, she wanted to say to the girl. Bubber needs you. I need you.

  She saw the girl on Earth, taking a human shape, living a human life, falling in love, making friends. She would visit the moon, but she would never really go back. She would be okay. They would all really miss her. Sunny would visit sometimes, but she could never ignore the distraction of the moon. She could always see it. It made her feel critical of her daughter. It made her feel rushed and anxious. She always went back, but the girl never did. Her place was on Earth. Sunny had known that this would happen. Come out, Emma, so I can have my time with you. I’m waiting for you, I’m going to help you get there. I’m going to be on your side. Whatever happens.

  *

  MAXON WAS NOT MOVED by the sight of the moon’s dusty surface. There was no desolation magnificent enough to distract him from unloading the robots and getting on with his work. He was moved, however, by the sight of the lava pipe, a huge chasm in the moon’s surface, on the back side of a newer crater. The pipe went down for miles, an old vent for a hypothesized prehistoric volcano, now just a tube riddled with caves and protected from meteors and the sun. They had landed so well, so perfectly close to the place they were supposed to land, that he had found the lava pipe almost immediately. He felt, in that moment, a surge of triumph. I’m right, he thought. I was right. Here it is. This is the difference between success and failure. The humans had landed. They would colonize the moon.

  While Phillips and the rest walked around making footprints and repairs, Maxon took the cargo container down on a tether. Lowering the massive box full of mother robots in low gravity was a breeze. He could almost manage it on his own. He thought he might say, “You boys stay here and clean the shit out of your pants while I finish the mission,” but then he didn’t say it. Sometimes it’s better to say nothing.

  Maxon didn’t think, Look, this hapless little biological sliver has redeemed itself. Look, i
t has survived. Look, the plaintive little push toward the cosmos has won us a foothold in the universe, a first footstep out. He didn’t think, Suck it, universe. We’re here, which is what Fred Phillips said he’d thought. He only thought about the latitude and longitude, and how it was exactly as he had imagined it. No more poignant, no less grand. Just exactly how it had looked in the plans; that’s how it was.

  Maxon and the robots reached a cave that had been identified and mapped by ultrasound and chosen by geologists as the site for the future colony. Maxon maneuvered the cargo box into the spot where it was supposed to stop, stood beside it, and opened the main door. It was dark in the lava pipe. Dark and cold. He had a light, and a warm space suit. Did he remember being stuck down in a well, and crying to be let out? Did the lava pipe bring back memories of that fear? He did not, and it did not. Wells were not in his memory.

  Did he remember being expelled from the womb, thrust from that dark pipe to another, through the years of misunderstandings, approximations, and nervous fixations? Did he feel the pressure of the lava pipe on his body, forcing him onward, downward, toward the completion of the mission? Did the baby in the womb understand the father in the lava pipe, setting up the robots, fixing the cameras, laboring for hours in the darkness? Or did she only know this: Now it’s time for us to come out.

  At the time they had agreed upon, Phillips and Conrad pulled Maxon up from the pit on a rope. One of his thumbs was crushed, and he was hungry. Otherwise his arrangements on behalf of mankind in launching the robotic construction of a lunar colony had been a complete success. The robots chugged and whirred on below the surface, mining their materials, creating their children, teaching them to walk, move, mine, create children of their own. For ten years, the world would watch on cameras as the colony took shape. In twelve years Maxon would come back with his son Bubber, freshly graduated from MIT, and open the airlock. Everything just as he had left it to be.

  *

  SUNNY HELD HER BABY and wiped the blood from her face. They lay together on the rug. The baby was on Sunny’s chest, and Sunny’s back was on the ground. Every breath felt like a miracle, pain free. There was no cry, no knife, no scale, no iodine. Pressed up against her mother’s heart, wrapped in a red silk scarf from the hat rack, the baby lay blinking. Sunny’s relief was so intense that she felt she might be able to go to sleep right there, but she knew that while they were getting cold, the neighborhood was in a hot panic. She could hear the ambulance outside, and lots of voices. She didn’t want Bubber to be alarmed, coming home with the nanny from the pool. She pushed herself, still sitting, to the door, scooting herself carefully along so as not to disturb the little bundle. At the door she reached up, flipped the bolt, and turned the handle. Right there were Rache and Jenny, standing on the step. It was as if they were waiting, ready to come in and have sandwiches or drink margaritas. They were just waiting, each with one foot on the stoop.

  “Look,” said Sunny, and she pulled the scarf back to show the baby’s face. “She’s here.”

  “Sunny,” said the women. Those friends of hers said, “Sunny, she’s amazing. And she looks just like you.”

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my husband, Dan Netzer, and my friend Andrea Kinnear for understanding and interpreting Maxon for me, and writing the equations, proofs, and code snippets in this book. I came to you with a messy idea and you translated it perfectly into math.

  Thank you to my agent, Caryn Karmatz Rudy, and my editor, Hilary Rubin Teeman, for the vision you had for this book. When I think back to that very first draft, I am struck by the way you both made the book immeasurably better.

  Thank you to Sara Gruen and Karen Abbott, whose early support, ongoing wisdom, and loving encouragement have been invaluable in birthing this book.

  Thank you to my early readers C. J. Spurr, Bekah James, Kate Bazylewicz, Heather Floyd, Kristen DeHaan, Sherene Silverberg, Patricia Richman, and Veronica Porterfield.

  Thank you to the December mothers, the Quilt Mavericks, Cramot, and all my Norfolk Homeschooling comrades, for cheering me on, and for your radiant examples of excellent mothering.

  Thank you to Susannah Breslin, who refused to let me settle, and kept pulling me back out of the sleep of motherhood, and making me be better.

  Thank you to Joshilyn Jackson, who has been my fierce champion, and without whom this story would not have become a book.

  LYDIA NETZER was born in Detroit and educated in the Midwest. She lives in Virginia with her two home-schooled children and math-making husband. When she isn’t teaching, reading, or writing her next novel, she plays the guitar in a rock band. Visit her on her Web site at http://www.lydianetzer.com or Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/lydianetzer.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  SHINE SHINE SHINE. Copyright © 2012 by The Netzer Group LLC. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Cover design by Rodrigo Corral design

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Netzer, Lydia.

  Shine shine shine / Lydia Netzer. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-250-00707-0 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-25001507-5 (e-book)

  1. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. 2. Accidents—Fiction. 3. Family secrets—Fiction. 4. Marital conflict—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3614.E528S55 2012

  813’.6—dc23

  2012007426

  eISBN 9781250015075

  First Edition: July 2012