Somehow the day is gone.
“Seamus, dinner time,” Dad calls down from the top of the stairs. He doesn’t even ask if I’m down here anymore; he knows. But still, I can’t believe dinner is going to interrupt my work. If this solar sail theory holds up, we’re probably five years away from having speed-of-light technology that will allow us to travel to another universe, and Dad wants me to put that on hold for grilled chicken and “the last of the season’s tomatoes.”
But I know what he would say. It’s not about the chicken or tomatoes. “It’s about the family, we need to stick together. Who knows when we will need each other?” I know he’s right. Dad has worked so hard to help me get and keep friends. And I need friends. I want friends. But there aren’t enough hours in the day. Half of one hour for family is what I can spare.
As we finish up dinner, the kitchen screen lights up. Must be Mom skyping from California. Liam walks over to answer and immediately starts to tell Mom about how bummed he is that Saturday’s soccer game was canceled because of so many kids being sick. They think they could have enough people to play, but they don’t want to get everyone together and spread germs.
Grace thinks this sickness thing is a joke, we all feel fine. Together we’ve hypothesized that thanks to big media the entire world is having the opposite of a placebo effect. People think they are sick because the news has been talking about how many people are sick. I know it is real, but I want to shield her from the awful news.
Mom laughs when Grace tries to share our theory on the fake sickness, but she isn’t buying it. The person she flew out to California to meet is too sick and the meeting will have to wait until Monday. She is not going to make it home for the weekend. That’s a bummer. It’s not like we spend a lot of time together or have special things planned, but it’s always nicer when Mom is home.
Mom and Dad share some niceties while we do our chores. One of my earliest planned inventions was a robot that could do my chores. I wanted more free time. I was six—all I had was free time. But that one desire is what has driven me to this point. I realized that if I were to make a robot functional enough to learn and do chores, it would have to be small and have tons of processing power. This means lots of energy. Dad, who is forever thinking “in the box,” pushed me toward a design tethered to a wall socket. But that just wouldn’t do for something that was supposed to function somewhere between a puppy-dog and a servant. I started looking into fuel cells and innovative new power sources.
Power: my passion for the last eight years.
Chapter 3
Weekends are glorious. I think I finally went to bed around 4 a.m. on Friday night. Now it’s about noon on Saturday. Dad has the screen in the kitchen on; must be a college football Saturday.
As I pour myself some orange juice, I realize that this is not the trivial sports contest I expected my dad to be watching. He has CNN on and is listening intently to the report. It seems I was right to be concerned about this virus. The newsreader is calling it an “epidemic” that they have been tracking for 48 hours, right after Mom left. I have been aware of the virus for a week. The last day, though, I have been so wrapped up in the solar sail theory that I forgot anything else was going on in the world. I wonder if the solar sail theory and the virus are somehow related.
There is a reporter on the screen that claims he went to a small town in Germany and found all the residents dead. Not one survivor. Then they cut to a doctor in a French town. He’s standing on a country lane in what could be a Cézanne painting. But then he starts coughing. Between coughs, he says people from this area are dying fast. His hospital is full and he has taken to local airwaves to encourage citizens to stay home and die in the peace of their own beds.
Dad gives a weird chortle.
“I think the French get it. They don’t confuse movement with progress.” I’m not sure what he means. Does he mean don’t fight death? Or does he mean that if you’re ill you shouldn’t try and get better?
“Dad, do you really think this is an epidemic that could wipe out the planet?” I ask, sounding more like an 8-year-old than I ever care to. “Should we just stay around the house today?” as if I had plans to go any further than my lab. “Is Mom going to be okay in California?”
“Why do you think it’s going to wipe out the planet?” Dad asks, his face turning ashen. “Have you been looking into this and found something?”
“I’m asking. I have no idea if this is going to wipe out the planet.” Why does he think that anything he doesn’t understand has something to do with me? Just because I can figure things out does not mean I am an evil scientist.
“I’m sorry that came out like that. I’m scared,” Dad says quietly as he tries to bring the tone down. “It’s just that you figure things out faster than a lot of people. Sometimes you assume it’s obvious to everyone and it’s only clear to you. I thought that if you found something that could be helpful we should share it with someone.”
So my dad thinks there is a viral epidemic that is going to wipe out the planet and his course of action is to sit in the kitchen and watch TV. Great, I feel safe.
“Dad, I have been reading a new paper on solar sails, I barely even noticed that people were getting this sick,” I said, while realizing I need to start growing up a little. “Have you heard of anyone in Hollis dying?” I ask him.
“No, but it seems like the traffic is way down.”
We both slowly make our way to the front porch where the rocking chairs are. We sit down and wait. When I was little, Dad, Grace and I would sit in these chairs and try to guess what color the next car was going to be. Dad and Grace could do it for hours. They never seemed to care if they were wrong. I could only play the game for a couple of minutes; it was pointless. There was no way to be good at it and no way to get better at it. But now there seem to be almost no cars at all.
After a few minutes, we walk back inside to the kitchen. The news anchor is reminding people to cough into their elbows and wash their hands. It seems a little pathetic. Dad shakes his head and says, “Something doesn’t seem right about this.” Then he walks out of the kitchen.
I am already on my way to the lab. I would rather bury myself in work than think or talk about feelings. Before I can get to the door, the screen beeps, signifying a video call. I want to ignore it, I know its Mom. What if she’s sick?
Before Dad can get to the screen to answer, I walk-run over and click “answer.” Mom’s face fills the screen and lights up when she sees it’s me who answered. Making someone else feel good makes me so happy, but I didn’t really do anything. This is what Dad says I need to learn from school: people. Mom isn’t the only one who likes to see me, but I spend too much time stressed out about why people like me. What do I do or need to do so they keep liking me? When I try and talk about it, they say, “Just be yourself.” My self worries about what to do so people like me. But I don’t want to do anything just because other people want me to do it. Being yourself is really hard.
“Hi Mom. How are you feeling?” I ask, dreading the moment when she coughs and gives me the sad knowing smile of impending death.
“I miss you guys. But I have a few books to read and I got some snacks yesterday. I think I’ll make this a jammy day and read in bed until my eyes bleed.” No cough.
How can such an intelligent person get so wrapped up in trashy vampire novels? Do they stimulate her creativity or are they just an escape from the world? Mom is brilliant; I know I get my intelligence from her. Is reading how she copes? Sometimes I have trouble shutting my brain off when I am thinking about something. It wouldn’t surprise me if she has the same issue and uses fiction to get to a quiet space. Maybe once my reactor is complete I can start reading more. I would be happy to be more like Mom in every way.
“Hey babe,” smiles Dad as he finally gets to the kitchen. “Are you going to have a jammy day or do you have work to get done?” Absent is any hint of concern in either of their voices. Does not knowing whether t
he person you love is going to die make it easier when they die? Or maybe they don’t love each other? Or maybe they know each other so well that they don’t need to ask the deep questions. I can’t figure out relationships, and I’m not ready to try. At least not now; I’ve been given my cue to leave.
I spend most of the daylight in my lab. Dad keeps the screen off all day and stays busy outside.
It’s puzzling that I share DNA with him. I cannot think of a trait that we have in common. Grace and Liam have no biological ties to him but have personalities that are almost direct derivatives of his. The three of them work outside at mindless physical labor. They interrupt yard work with random bouts of football, Frisbee, croquet and swinging.
I get the vegetable garden. While I do not like vegetables, I have arrived at the point where I know the difference between an heirloom tomato fresh from our garden and a mass-produced tomato from the grocery store. The garden provides food and reduces costs—makes sense. But the flower beds full of mulch? Purely for aesthetics? Seems pathetic to me.
I can’t resist checking on the epidemic. In the last six hours it has become apparent that this thing is under-appreciated, at least by the news stations. People everywhere are dying. In poorer countries where hygiene is a challenge they are going fastest. One estimate is that 80 percent of the population of Africa will be dead in the next 24 hours.
I can’t find a prediction for 100 percent of humans dying, but it must be a possibility. Even statistically speaking, if 1,000 people survive the epidemic, you could say we had 100 percent population loss. Scientists shouldn’t be afraid to speak the truth, but they hedge their bets too much.
Before bed, Dad has the screen on again. I stand behind him and watch as the pretty newsreader gravely warns people to stay home, cough into your elbow and wash your hands. After coughing herself, she forces a smile and says “The best doctors in the world are working on a cure right now. Officials assure us there is nothing to worry about.”
My guess is she’ll be dead tomorrow, along with about 7 billion other people.
Chapter 4
Sunday passed in a blur. I spent the day mostly sequestered in my lab. The “killer cold” gnawed at the back of my mind, but I was able to make some progress on my reactor.
Upstairs there was a lot of shuffling about. The TV never came on and there were some board games and music but it didn’t sound like the fun I usually hear. Do they think the “killer cold” will stay away because they are ignoring it?
Now it’s Monday morning at 6:00 a.m. and Dad is waking me for school. Almost comical, Dad and his intractable routine. The last news we heard was telling people to stay home and avoid the sickness, but not my dad. Unless the school calls to cancel classes, Dad expects his children to be ready for the bus on time.
By 6:30, Grace, Liam and I have eaten breakfast and pulled our backpacks together. Dad is rushing us out the door so we don’t miss the bus that I have no doubt will not be coming. In the commotion, he fails to notice that not a car passes by.
Liam forgot something. His gym clothes probably, or maybe a pencil. I don’t think he cares about school much more than I do. But he seems to love going, which is the opposite of me. Is he using school to learn the things he needs to learn societally accepted interaction skills like Dad says, or his he just oblivious? Does this make him a “willing learner” who magically learns what he needs to from whatever situation he finds himself in? I guess that makes me the “reluctant learner” who can only learn things I want to learn in the way I want to learn them. I’m jealous and dismissive of him at the same time.
Finally “dawn breaks on Marblehead” and Dad starts to look at the road. He notices the complete lack of traffic. He stands there bewildered for a minute and Grace catches on too.
People are stupid. People don’t listen to the news. When we have blizzards, hurricanes and lengthy power outages, we still see cars on the road, joggers, dog walkers, people of any kind. And somehow we all know. They aren’t staying home to be safe or avoid something potentially inconvenient. They are dead or at home dying.
As Liam comes back through the door, Dad slowly sinks to the top step and sits quietly. Liam stops talking about whatever he was saying and we all silently sit together on the steps, watching nothing.
For the first time in my memory, my mind is completely empty. I’m not waiting to get away to somewhere else. I’m not thinking about how dumb other people are. I’m not frustrated with the simplicity I must sit through. I just am. And I am afraid. It is probable that everything I knew as fact two days ago is entirely different today. That is not even accounting for the fact that we can’t be sure if Mom is alive or dead, or somewhere in between. Everything I knew is gone. It’s wrong, but I feel excited by the opportunity, and petrified at the same time. I can focus on the things that really matter: friends, family and being a good person. My reactor can be important but not all-consuming. Finding Mom is more important. She has to be alive, and we have to be with her.
We sit like this for a long time. Not moving, not speaking.
Grace finally breaks the silence. “I guess there’s no school today?” she asks.
“No school today, or maybe ever,” whispers Dad.
After another moment of silence comes a wave of activity. We are all up and in the house. Dad is kind of in a daze. It’s like when he gets drunk at a holiday party. There is movement with no urgency. Thoughts come out of his mouth but they have no importance. It seems he’s worried about Mom even though we spoke to her yesterday and she is not sick either.
I want to go to my lab. Research in peace or maybe just escape the emotions. But I know we all need to see each other right now. As if being in sight of each other will keep us from getting sick and dying. So I sit at the keyboard in the kitchen, looking for a Facebook page, blog, Twitter feed, or something that will identify other healthy people.
Grace is on the phone. I hear her leave her first message, unclear on what to say or how to say it. None of us have ever thought about leaving a voicemail for someone who is dying or already dead. When do you learn the right way to do that? I’m worried that we will all know how before today is over.
“Hi Gramma, it’s Gracie calling to say hi. We don’t have school today and I thought that if you weren’t busy I could come up and we could have tea.” We all know it’s Gramma’s reading time. She should be sitting in her sunroom with coffee and a book, the phone right next to her. But Grace is talking to the machine that picked up instead of Gramma.
“She’s probably in the bathroom, honey. She’ll call back in a few minutes, I’m sure,” Dad tells Grace. But he’s not sure, and we all hear it in his voice.
Liam still hasn’t “earned” a phone of his own, so he’s on the house phone, calling friends. No answers. He’s leaving uncharacteristically short messages. “Hi Jason, it’s Liam. Call me if you want to hang out today.” He’s manages twenty calls in the time it would normally take him for two.
Dad is texting friends and leaving voicemails for his brothers and sisters. He’s trying to use his standard; “It’s Paddy just calling to check in. Call me back and let me know how things are going.” But the fear in his voice scares me. He’s not expecting callbacks. Which means he thinks our family, our DNA, can catch the “killer cold.” He thinks we, those of us with him in this room, are going to die.
“Ryan?” I turn to see Dad’s face light up as he connects with his brother. “How are things in Groton? This cold thing is getting crazy, right?”
After a minute or two of listening quietly, Dad speaks again. “Okay, if you guys want to come up here and hang out, we are just laying low and would love to have you. I’ll check in tomorrow and see how everyone is doing.”
“Are they coughing?” I ask, since I am the only one not engaged with finding friends.
“Aunt Stacie and the twins have the sniffles, but they don’t think it’s this “killer cold.” They are drinking organic vinegar and eating garlic. Uncle Ryan thi
nks they’ll be better in a day or two.” Dad relays the conversation he just had.
“Do you believe him?” I can’t help but feel like it is a naïve point of view.
“Well we’re not sick, so I’m not sure why we should assume they are.” Dad does not want to doubt Uncle Ryan’s prognosis.
I send two quick instant messages to users who are offline. Unlike Dad and my brother and sister, I have hardly any friends to worry about. It’s a strange feeling, wishing that you had someone close to you so that you could worry about whether they were alive or dead. I should have made more friends when there were other people alive. Now that most of the world is dying or dead, I’m starting to see the value in friendship and human contact. But it’s ironic. Even if I had 100 friends they wouldn’t be calling to check on me. They would be dead.
“Dad, why haven’t you called Mom?” I ask, accusingly. I desperately want to stop thinking about my own faults and failures.
“It’s only five in the morning in California, I don’t want to wake her,” he answers without delay.
This is the most normal and controlled voice I have heard from him this morning. Maybe he has thought of calling her. Maybe that was the first text message he sent. But shouldn’t he be worried about her? Did he speak with her yesterday? I’m frantically trying to remember the last time I spoke with her. Was it Friday or Saturday? Did she cough? Was she getting sick? I’m not sure if I’m worried about her health or if I’m worried about what her health will indicate for mine.
Annihilation (The Seamus Chronicles Book 1) Page 2