Yesterday's Gone (Season Four): Episodes 19-24

by Sean Platt

  Mary stared at the top of Paola’s head, willing her to look up, but her daughter’s head stayed down.

  “We all tap our creativity in different ways. Some people are born with an artist’s eye; some musicians have perfect pitch, and some writers can string words together like brushes of color on a canvas. I doubt they’ll ever be able to teach talent, but there are countless ways to train what’s already inside you. Everyone has an artist in them, waiting to be found. One of the best things anyone can ever do for themselves is listen to the people in their life who want to draw that from inside them.”

  Paola looked up, but just for a flicker, as if she couldn’t help it, then looked back down. It was enough. Mary finished her talk, feeling better than she expected, earning smiles and applause from Ms. Slater, parents, and even most of the children, including two of the frowners.

  Two more parents spoke after Mary, a judge and a soft-spoken man with white hair who owned a janitorial supply company, then everyone lined up for pictures, each child with their parent.

  To Mary’s tremendous relief, Paola only grimaced a little.

  **

  Following career day, Mary ran a few errands, then went back to school to pick up Paola. She got into the car, mumbled “Hi”, then turned on her iPhone, chose a song, and buried buds inside her ears.

  Oh no, you are not going to keep ignoring me, young lady.

  Mary grabbed the end of Paola’s cord and yanked the buds down to the console.

  “What the hell, Mom?!”

  Mary stayed firm, turning the engine and backing out from the school lot. Once on the road, she said, “We’re going to discuss last night.”

  “I told you, there’s nothing to talk about, Mom.” Paola’s eyes were out the passenger window.

  “It’s not nothing, Paola. You need to listen to me because I’m your mother and I have a job to do.”

  “Your job doesn’t have to be constantly managing me, Mom.”

  Mom was a knife.

  “I’m not managing you, Paola. I’m helping you.”

  “No, Mom. You’re not. You think you are, but I don’t need to be managed 24/7. You don’t need to tell me to throw my socks in the washer every single time!”

  “Are you kidding me?” Mary put a thousand pounds of effort into muting her temper. “You have failed to put your socks in the washer 100 percent of the time that I’ve not mentioned it, Paola, and I’d be fine with the socks, really, if that’s all it was. I wouldn’t care at all, if I didn’t also have to remind you about your homework, your manners, your coming down for dinner without me calling for you a dozen times, or your media time — all of which scratch the surface of the many, many things that you need to be reminded of.”

  “EXACTLY!” Paola bellowed. “You manage me about EVERYTHING. You tell me when to brush my teeth!”

  “You had six cavities!”

  Heaving, she growled, “We were on another fucking world!”

  Mary gasped.

  Paola often screamed, but never cursed.

  But her daughter was right. They were on another fucking world. And they’d lost Ryan — Mary’s ex, and Paola’s father. And while Mary had somehow been able to cobble a semblance of normality together for them, it seemed sometimes more illusion than reality.

  An illusion that the slightest aggravation threatened to unravel.

  Mary gripped the steering wheel and drove the rest of the way home in silence. Paola grabbed her cord, plunged it back into the bottom of her iPhone, then cranked the volume loud enough for Mary to hear.

  Despite her best efforts, there were some things Mary couldn’t fix. At least not alone.

  **

  Mary stood at the kitchen island, spreading veggies across the cutting board as Paola came downstairs and walked past her mother to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, then went to the living room, and flicked on the TV.

  Mary smiled.

  Paola rarely watched TV any more — she was always on her computer. So her being in the front room was her way of slowly opening the door for Mary.

  “You want to help me?” Mary called out past the island.

  Paola turned around, leaning over the back of the couch, “Whatcha makin’?”

  “Nothing fancy. Just cucumber salad.”

  “Sure,” Paola said.

  “Thanks,” Mary smiled. “Do you want to start the water for pasta?”

  “OK,” Paola said. She grabbed a pot from the hanging rack above the island. “This one big enough?”

  “Perfect.” Mary watched as Paola brought the pot to the sink and turned on the water.

  Mary grabbed a cucumber, then her Consigli knife, and pressed down.

  Paola finished filling the pot and carried it to the oven. “You know,” she said, “If you didn’t nag me all the time I would want to do the right stuff more.”

  Mary kept chopping. “That’s never worked before.”

  “Let’s try it. Just for one week. You can … ”

  “Shit!” Mary screamed, looking down and seeing the deep gash in her left index finger.

  Paola ran to her, “Are you OK?”

  Mary grabbed a paper towel and squeezed it tightly around her finger, breathing in and out, hoping the injury wasn’t as bad as it felt — like she’d cut through to the bone. She squeezed tight, trying not to freak out, not in front of Paola. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Can you get the first aid kit?”

  “Yeah,” Paola said, sprinting up the stairs and returning moments later with the white, plastic box — red cross on the front.

  Paola set it on the counter and flipped it open, then Mary grabbed the peroxide and went to the kitchen sink. She rinsed the wound; it wasn’t to the bone, but the slice was deep enough to leave a chunk of her finger barely hanging.

  “I need stitches.”

  “Let me see,” Paola rushed toward her mother, bandage wrap in hand.

  Paola winced when she saw the wound. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not too bad,” Mary lied. It did, but she didn’t mind the pain so much as the thought of missing the best of her finger.

  “Can you wrap it up so I can run to the all-night clinic?”

  “Here,” Paola said, taking Mary’s hand in hers. Mary watched as Paola leaned in closer. The tip of her tongue stuck out like it did when she was concentrating. The look in her eyes, and the urgency Paola flew upstairs with, were touching. A knot formed in Mary’s throat, she tried to keep her eyes dry.

  “OK,” Paola said, taping the bandage and meeting her mom’s eyes. “Let’s go to the doctor.”

  “No, you don’t have to go,” Mary said. “I don’t know how long I’ll have to wait, and I’m sure you have plenty to do.”

  “No,” Paola said firmly. “I’m going with you, Mom. Don’t argue.” She unscrewed a bottle of Tylenol and handed two pills to Mary, followed by a bottle of water from the fridge. “Take these.”

  Mary smiled, took the pills, then hugged Paola, “Thank you, Sweetie.”

  Mary held their hug, feeling the iciness between them thaw. “OK, let’s go,” she said.

  **

  After sitting in the waiting room for nearly an hour, Paola could take it no longer. She approached the reception window, knocked, and asked, “How much longer will it be? My mom could lose her finger!”

  The receptionist was a heavyset, older woman with short, red hair, who seemed like she was doing her best not to snap back at Paola. “The doctor will see your mother as soon as possible,” she said. “But we have to take patients on a first-come, first-served basis.”

  The receptionist shot Mary a look, somewhere between apology and agitation. Mary shrugged meekly, lightly embarrassed; she didn’t know what Paola was going to do until it was too late to stop her.

  Paola sat, fuming. “That’s just stupid. They should allow emergencies ahead of people who are just sick.”

  Mary looked up, meek smile still on her face, this time making its way around to the waiting room’s other oc
cupants and settling on an old man waiting for his wife, who’d gone back 15 minutes before. The old man either hadn’t heard Paola, or was too entranced in the news broadcast above the receptionist’s window to care. Some crazy story that had been looping on every channel all day about a woman who went nuts and attacked her friends while jogging.

  “It’s OK,” Mary said, “They’ll see us soon enough.”

  As if on cue, the nurse, a tall, young man with bright-blue eyes and blond hair stepped out, “Mrs. Olson?”

  “About time,” Paola muttered as she grabbed her iPad and stood, following Mary into the back. They passed the old lady paying her bill and were directed to an open door. Mary was surprised when the nurse didn’t weigh her, and figured he must’ve heard Paola bitching, and wanted to hurry things along.

  Mary sat on the examination table. Paola took one of the room’s two chairs.

  “So, you cut your finger?” the nurse said, reading the paper Mary filled out while waiting, now in an open manila folder resting in the man’s hands.

  “Yeah, I was cutting a cucumber and sliced right in. I feel so stupid,” she laughed. “It doesn’t hurt anymore, though. I took two Tylenol.”

  The nurse then asked her if she was feeling any symptoms other than the slight pain, what medication she was taking, and a few other questions before leaving her and Paola to wait for the doctor. Mary repeated that she felt no pain and that she had taken Tylenol. The nurse said the doctor would be with them shortly, then left the room and closed the door.

  As they waited, Paola was drawing something on the DrawCast app, though Mary could barely see what it was. Paola had been drawing since she was able to hold a crayon, often when sitting beside her mother as she worked, filling reams of 8 1/2 by 11-inch printer paper. Mary wondered if Paola’s interest in art would survive high school, or if she would find something else. She was already talking about the drama courses offered at the school, and the possibility of being an actress. Mary figured acting was an even longer shot than artist, but never discouraged her daughter’s interests. She tried hard not to be that sort of mother, and had, for the most part, succeeded.

  The doctor knocked on the door, then entered: a thin woman, maybe in her early 40s, with dark hair and darker circles adding weight to her eyes. “Hello, I’m Dr. Farniss, how are you doing tonight?”

  Mary held up her bandaged hand, “A bit klutzy, sliced my finger good. I think I need stitches.”

  “OK,” Dr. Farniss said looking down at Mary’s file and confirming what the nurse had written.

  “Let’s take a look, shall we?” Dr. Farniss took Mary’s hand and began pulling the tape. Mary watched as the doctor unraveled the dark, red-splotched bandage, cringing in anticipation, loath to see the wound.

  The doctor pulled the last of the bandage away, confused. Mary’s eyes went wide. Her cut was gone, replaced by a tiny, pink scar. Her breath caught in her chest as the doctor brought Mary’s finger closer for inspection.

  “When did you say you cut yourself?”

  “About an hour and a half ago,” Mary said, baffled.

  Paola stood up then came over. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s healed,” Dr. Farniss said, eying Mary skeptically. “Did you put anything on it?”

  Mary, without even realizing she was going to, lied.

  “Well, I put some cream on it, though I don’t remember what it was, something a friend told me would work wonders.”

  “I’ll say,” Dr. Farniss said.

  “Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought,” Mary almost whispered, feeling Paola’s confusion over the lie.

  Mary hoped Paola wouldn’t say anything to contradict her.

  “Well,” Dr. Farniss said, “I guess you don’t need stitches after all.”

  “I feel so silly, Doc. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.” Mary was in a hurry to flee the doctor’s office — before she started asking questions. Fortunately, it was late, and the doctor looked ready for a bed, keeping her from inquiry.

  “Well, just keep an eye on it, and call us, or your regular doctor, if there’s any changes, OK?”

  “Will do, Doctor,” Mary said, thankful when she opened the door to leave.

  As Mary stood and met Paola’s eyes, the doctor turned around, “Mrs. Olson?”

  “Yes,” Mary said, suddenly certain the doctor had decided she needed some answers; this was just too weird to let go.

  “If you think of it, can you call the office tomorrow and let me know what kind of cream you used? I’d love to check out anything that works this well.”

  “Sure,” she lied, “first thing tomorrow.”

  **

  Back in the Volvo, heading home, Paola finally asked, “It was me, wasn’t it? I healed you? Just like Luca healed people.”

  “I don’t know,” Mary said, though that’s definitely where her mind was wandering. “Maybe it wasn’t that bad.”

  “Yes, it was that bad. I saw it, Mom.”

  “I don’t know,” Mary said, her voice unable to hide her agitation, or fear.

  Because they both knew what had happened when Luca had healed others: He aged, rapidly.

  Mary looked at Paola in the car’s dark cabin, thinking she did look older.

  No, no, it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. Stop it, stop it now before she figures out what you’re thinking.

  Paola asked, without fear, “Do you think I did it? Do you think I can heal people like Luca?”

  “I don’t know,” Mary said. “It was different when Luca did it. He went into a trance or something. You didn’t do anything like that. You barely touched my hand.”

  “He also aged,” Paola said, flipping down the windshield visor mirror and studying her face.

  “Stop it,” Mary said, “You didn’t age. And besides, Luca aged years, and while I know you’d love nothing more than to get your learner’s permit, you’re still just 13.”

  Paola looked closer, squinting in the mirror, then looking at her hands. “You don’t think I aged at all?”

  “No,” Mary said, clinging to her string of lies.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 6 — Sullivan

  Black Island Research Facility

  September 2013

  Sullivan stood outside the glass cell, deep in Black Island’s bowels, staring at the woman as she lay fetal on the cot. He fastened the seal on his yellow biosuit and glanced at the man standing beside him, looking down at a computer tablet and swiping through the file.

  “What’s her name, again?” Sullivan asked Dr. Simpson.

  “Eva Flores.”

  Eva was the first person in the past six months’ seemingly random outbursts of violence whom authorities had managed to take alive. Sullivan was following his gut, which said this was somehow related to the alien infection, The Darkness, that Boricio Bishop had brought into this world when their world was overtaken.

  He suspected that Boricio Bishop was gathering forces, could feel it. Sullivan wasn’t sure how he was doing it, or of his endgame. If it was a takeover, like the aliens had done on his home world, Sullivan had yet to see any supporting evidence. No visible infections, no mass, unexplained disappearances reported, no corpses piling the streets.

  Yet, Sullivan, who had been touched by The Light, could feel a connection to The Darkness, could feel it here on this world, could sometimes feel its thoughts.

  It was here and searching for the vials, Sullivan knew that much. The vials containing the alien in its purest form had crash landed on this world the same as the other. While on Sullivan’s world, the government had used and tested the vials on Black Island, this world’s version of Black Island seemed not to know anything about the vials.

  It seemed as if they’d either never been found, or perhaps discovered by someone else who was keeping them secret. Sullivan spent his first months bringing Black Island Research Facility up to speed and explaining everything to them. They sent teams to Alaska, searching the crash site, but found not
hing.

  Some suggested that the vials weren’t even on this world. That just because the vials had been on the alternate Earth it didn’t mean they were here as well. While Sullivan believed this was possible, he thought it unlikely. The Darkness would not be here, otherwise. It needed the vials in order to grow stronger. It was, in its current form, too weak to spread as it had on the other world.

  Sullivan looked at Eva, and knew she was somehow connected to The Darkness. He’d felt The Darkness thinking about her after The Event happened. The Darkness had seemed concerned about her, though Sullivan wasn’t sure why.

  “You ready?” Dr. Simpson asked.

  “Yes,” Sullivan said, punching a code on the wall beside the door.

  The door slid open, and Sullivan stepped through.

  Eva looked up, her eyes red and swollen and leaking. Her left arm was cuffed to a metal rung in the wall above her cot. She bristled as Sullivan stood three feet away, moving his eyes from his clipboard to her. “Do you know your name?” he asked.

  She nodded, seemed to consider the question for a moment, then said, “Eva, Eva Flores.”

  She looked so broken, something inside Sullivan softened. He looked down on her kindly, asking Eva what he already knew. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  Eva shrugged.

  “There is no wrong answer,” Sullivan promised. “Just say the last thing that seems clear in your mind. Not a maybe, but a certain memory.”

  It took Eva another minute to find her voice, then she said, “I remember buckling Maria into her stroller. I was going to jog with my Pound the Pounds group down the trail through our neighborhood park.”