“My Star Girl,” Mom says. “Please stop crying. It’s breaking my heart.”
Grace tries, she really tries, but the tears don’t stop and neither does the hollow black abyss spreading right under her ribs. It used to be filled with research and classes and exams, the dream of what lay ahead. Now there’s just nothing.
She cries, and all that nothing eats her up. The stairwell echoes with it.
She stays there until eventually someone wraps their arms around her and holds her tight.
“Let me go,” she says, choking on her voice as she struggles in the grip. “Let me go.”
“No,” Agnes says. “I’m not letting you go.” She sounds scared, voice shaky. “You’re hurting yourself. Look. Look.”
Grace looks. There are long, red scratches on her knuckles, on her wrists and arms.
“Hello?” Agnes says, picking up Grace’s dropped phone. “Hi, Ms. Mel, this is Agnes...Yeah, I’m gonna get her home, I promise...Yes. Yes, I promise. I have to go now...Okay. Yes. Bye.”
She hangs up, still wrapped around Grace. “You never sound that polite,” Grace says, enough of her energy gone that she goes limp. Agnes takes her weight.
“Yeah,” Agnes grunts, shifting so they don’t fall. “Well, you never scare the shit out of me like this,” she mutters. “Twenty minutes, I said. Twenty minutes.”
“Did you tell Ximena?”
“You already know the answer to that.” She holds Grace tight. “She called Raj to pick us up. Fuck if I’m dragging you on a train or into an Uber like this.”
Grace sighs, closing her eyes. “Aggie,” she says quietly. Her throat and her eyes ache. Her heart aches. “I’m so tired.”
“I know, dummy,” Agnes says. “But you’re not allowed to hurt yourself. I don’t care how tired you are.”
Grace nods. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Agnes says quickly. Grace can’t see her, but she hears the salt water in her voice, and her stomach lurches. “Just don’t scare me like that.” She clutches Grace’s hands, her palms, her wrists, where on Agnes’s there are moon craters. The terra firma skin there has been brutalized and torn up and scarred over. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
“I won’t,” Grace mumbles clumsily. She grips Agnes’s hands back, tight as she can. “Just tired.”
“Okay,” Agnes says. “Okay, Porter. We’re gonna go home, okay?”
Time passes in a blur. There is Agnes, ever-present Agnes who doesn’t let go of Grace’s hands. There is Ximena on Grace’s other side, who holds her up. There is Raj, who curses and helps Grace into the car. He looks into her eyes, kisses her forehead and says, “Hey, little sis. You good?” He presses quick, insistent kisses on her face.
There is a long, quiet ride. Agnes doesn’t buckle up. She sits as close to Grace as possible, so close she might as well be in her lap. As the trees and roads and buildings race past, Grace hears Ximena and Raj talking in whispers up front.
He carries her, bridal-style up to Ximena’s bed.
“We’re having a sleepover,” Ximena says. “That sound good, babe?”
All four of them squish together in the bed. They hold Grace together, hold her bursting seams closed. Eventually she tumbles into a weary, dizzy sleep.
Nine
It is as if the first mournful tears shed serve as permission from the vast, black, formidable universe for Grace Porter to feel all that she has been pushing down, folding up, holding back. All the frustration, all the spitting anger, all the bitterness at relying on the goodwill of networks that were never created with her in mind. If she wants to be her own version of Professor MacMillan, she will have to meet her own people, find her own right fit.
Raj tells Baba Vihaan she’s sick. She’s sick, Baba, don’t worry. She’ll be fine soon. She says she’s sick for almost a week before the guilt churns like a real sickness and despite all of them telling her to stay home, she makes the trek alone to the tea room.
Baba Vihaan is a stern, sweet man. His eyebrows are dark and furrowed, but when he smiles, it warms you from the inside.
He waits for her in the doorway to his office, keen eyes on the way Meera clings to Grace and doesn’t want to let go. Eventually, they have to part, even though Meera almost refuses to go. She walks Grace the few feet to the office and tilts her chin up.
“Grace doesn’t feel good,” she says to her baba. “Be nice to her.”
“And you go be nice to our customers,” he says, pushing her away. “Come in, Grace. Rajesh said you’ve been ill.”
She shrugs, slumping into a chair. Feeling ill would be good. Feeling ill would mean she could take some medicine, drink some soup and sleep it off. Instead, Grace feels bone-tired. She feels like she is drifting in space, calling back to command, Houston, do you copy? and there is a purposeful silence.
“Yeah,” she says. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk about, Baba Vihaan.”
She sees a flash of fear on his face and immediately feels guilty for causing it.
She remembers Meera and Raj’s mom. Mama Niya was a kind, beautiful woman, draped in gold bangles and bright scarves and glittering designs. She didn’t say much, couldn’t say much, because the oxygen tank that trailed behind her took up all her energy. She had a commanding presence that not even the cardiomyopathy could take. She could bring Raj down with just a look, one Meera is still trying to perfect.
When she died, the tea room closed for two weeks. Raj and Meera and Baba Vihaan stayed home. Grace received occasional texts and one sobbing, hysterical phone call from Meera, hiding in the bathtub away from her family and whispering her grief to Grace through a staticky phone line.
“I’m not sick,” she says hurriedly. “I think everything just sort of caught up with me at once.” Things are not going my way, and I dealt with that by getting married in Vegas. “I put my head down and grit my teeth for a long time, and I never stopped to consider if it was good for me. If—if things would be different now if I had been honest with myself from the start about what I would need and how I would get it. I haven’t been—” She starts to pinch her skin and catches herself. “I haven’t thought about myself or taken care of myself for a while now.”
“You worked hard for a very long time,” Baba Vihaan says. “Meera admires you so much for it. My Niya was like that, a hard worker, never taking enough time for herself.” He sits back and stares at Grace. “I wish you could have known her better. You are a lot like her. Meera and Rajesh, they are like me. But you, I see her in you, like you really did come from us. Working too hard, thinking all the time.” He taps his temple. “You get lost up there. She did it all the time.”
“I’m not lost,” she says. “I’m—I just need time to—shit.” She grimaces. “Sorry.”
He laughs a low, gentle chuckle. “You get it from Meera and your white girl. The one skinny like a bird,” he says. “Terrible mouths, those two.”
Grace smiles. She always feels comfortable with Baba Vihaan. She doesn’t want to leave and face the real world. She wants to sit in this office and listen to him talk.
“I bet you wouldn’t say that to Meera’s face,” she says.
He shrugs. “Maybe not. I like my peace.” He pauses. “She said life after graduation has been hard for you.”
Grace shrugs back. “Harder than I thought it would be,” she says. “Now I have too much time to think, like you said.” She looks up at the ceiling, like she can reach up and pluck the words from the tiles. “Everyone says I need a break, Baba.” It is easier, somehow, to say the words now. “Maybe it’s true. I think maybe I do.”
One hand moves to the top drawer of his desk, which stays locked. “You need money?” he asks.
Grace laughs and ignores how it makes her eyes water. “No,” she insists. “Thank you, but no. Mom sends me some, you know that. And Colonel takes care of me.” She takes a de
ep breath. “I think maybe I need to leave Portland for a little while.”
“The rain doesn’t make you feel better?” he asks wryly. “These cold, gray skies?”
“Somehow, no,” Grace says. “I’m sorry. I should have given you some notice.”
“Gracie,” he says, disapproval heavy in his tone. “I treat you like one of my own. You are one of my own,” he says, “Rajesh and Meera and Gracie. My kids, you know that.”
He reaches across the desk, and she meets him halfway. Both of his hands wrap around hers.
“I’ll miss the tea room while I’m gone,” she says. “I’m a snob now. I don’t want to get my tea anywhere else. You taught me well.”
“Then don’t stay away too long,” Baba Vihaan says. “I have only the wisdom of my own life to share with you. And my life has taught me to take care of myself, so that I can take care of everything else. You’ll figure out how to do that.”
She spends the next few days lounging around the apartment. There is a foil-covered plate on the counter. There’s a note chicken-scratched on the fridge that says “Eat” and also “Will check on you later.”
Grace heads for her room. She hasn’t slept there in days, but she aches for the comfort of her own bed. Her weighted covers envelope her in warmth and darkness when she crawls underneath them completely. Suddenly, Grace feels happy to have locked her door. She might think too much, get lost in her head, but sometimes she just needs to be alone with her own thoughts.
Her phone buzzes. She sighs, mentally typing out the I’m fine to appease her friends. It could be Mom’s now daily text, checking in to see if Grace is still planning on heading to Southbury soon.
The text is not from any of them.
Yuki
12:23 p.m.
feel free to ignore in case this is weird
but it’s been quiet for a little bit so
i just wanted to ask are you dead?
if yes, did you get a chance to add me to your will
Grace lets out a small, hiccupy laugh. In her world beneath her covers, she’s allowed to focus only on this and not the rest of the big, wide world. She’s allowed to smile at the stupid ring emoji she put next to Yuki’s name. She’s allowed to cry a little at how good it feels to have someone talk to her like she is not broken.
Grace
12:25 p.m.
would you cause a scene at my funeral?
Yuki
12:26 p.m.
10/10 would real housewives that shit.
maybe throw a prosthetic leg or two
Grace
12:26 p.m.
your own or someone else’s
Yuki
12:28 p.m.
why not both, grace porter?
also if you hadn’t understood the prosthetic leg ref
i would have filed for divorce
Grace
12:29 p.m.
you know we’re probably going to hell for this
Yuki
12:33 p.m.
i’m already a lesbian. you can’t go to jail for two things
Grace
12:35 p.m.
you definitely can, yuki
Yuki
12:36 p.m.
i grew up watching law and order svu, i’m basically a lawyer
mostly bc i had a huge crush on olivia benson
but if my parents ask it was for bd wong #asianrep
Grace
12:37 p.m.
am i allowed to laugh at that
Yuki
12:41 p.m.
thank you for asking for permission to laugh
at my niche asian jokes
and yes you can, it was funny
also
me asking if you were dead was code
only cowards ask their wives if they’re okay after days of silence
Grace
12:42 p.m.
yes i’m fine
Yuki
12:43 p.m.
and i watched law and order svu for bd wong
wanna try again or you want me to drop it
Grace sighs and stares at her phone. It’s hard to explain that you are tired, bone-deep, rib-deep, belly-deep tired. It’s hard to explain that someone held their hand out to the stars and said all of these can be yours, and you believed it. You believed the climb and the barrier and the gate would not break you. You spent eleven years ignoring that your mind and body said, Stop, breathe, be kind to yourself, and you punished yourself for even thinking it.
Yuki
12:45 p.m.
that was pushy right
tell me to go away
put me out of my misery
you are legally obligated
but you can tell me
omg i can’t stop talking
Dialing Yuki...
“Grace Porter,” Yuki answers, out of breath. “I was doing that thing where you text something embarrassing and then throw your phone across the room, only it kept buzzing. Because you were calling me.”
Grace curls up under her blanket world. Yuki doesn’t sound gentle or soft or hesitant. She doesn’t know Grace has been falling apart and doesn’t treat her like she has. It’s freeing.
“Hello?” Yuki says. “God, you didn’t really call me on your death bed, did you? That’s gross.”
Grace closes her eyes so tight that fireworks burst behind her eyelids. “No, just my regular bed.” Her thoughts are still racing, and she plucks one out. “Did you ever hear about the Opportunity Mars Rover?”
There’s a weighted silence. “Is that your kind of science? Mars rovers?”
“Not me,” Grace says. “I still think it’s fascinating.” She pauses. “Do you want to hear about it? The Mars Rover?”
“Tell me,” Yuki says.
“They named it Opportunity. It was only supposed to survive for ninety days,” Grace says, like a quiet eulogy. “But it stayed and did its mission for fifteen years. Because it had a plan, you know. And when you have a plan, you don’t fuck it up. You keep going.”
Yuki clears her throat softly. “That sounds like a lot of pressure.”
“It is,” Grace murmurs. “It had like arthritis, you know? I mean, not really, it’s a robot but—”
“I get it,” Yuki says. There’s shuffling and creaking and then Yuki’s voice, low and muffled like she, too, has entered her own blanket world. “Tell me some more about it.”
“It started forgetting stuff,” Grace says. “Like, information it was supposed to send back to the command center. I’m sure it was hard. It’s hard when you have a plan. Plans are so goddamn hard.”
Yuki doesn’t say anything, so Grace keeps going. Her words trip over one another. “There was a dust storm,” she says. “And then the temperature dropped. And it couldn’t—sometimes you fight so hard to follow what you’re supposed to do, but it’s hard and you can’t.”
“Yeah,” Yuki says. “Life is shit like that.” There’s more shuffling, and Yuki’s voice drops to almost a whisper. “What happened to it?”
“Died, as much as rovers can.” Grace sniffles. “The last message it sent to Earth was about its measurements of power production and the atmospheric opacity. Both were critical.”
“I’m a waitress,” Yuki murmurs. “I have no idea what any of that means.”
“God, sorry.” She clutches her blankets tight. “The team behind the rover simplified its message, you know. It’s kind of ridiculous, that we anthropomorphized this machine so much, but I can tell you what they translated it to if you want.”
“I want.”
“‘My battery is low, and it’s getting dark,’” Grace says quietly. “Those were the last words of a Mars Rover that was only supposed to survive for ninety days. It follo
wed its plan until it couldn’t anymore.” Grace wipes her eyes. Little hiccups of grief come for plans followed and plans dismantled and in need of repair.
“Hey,” Yuki says. “Can I tell you something?”
“Yeah.”
“I feel like that little fucking robot sometimes, I think. I feel like I’m sending my last message out into the universe, and I’m hoping that someone is listening. I think that’s why I started my radio show. So I could talk about all the things that lurk in the dark that reminded me of me, and I would know that someone, even one person, was listening.”
Grace swallows hard and pulls the covers up even more to hide the smallest rays of the afternoon sun.
“Grace Porter,” Yuki says. “Are you there?”
Are you there? It’s the question that starts every session of Yuki’s radio show.
When Grace first listened, it felt directed at her.
Hello, lonely creatures. Are you there?
Now it is.
“Yuki Yamamoto,” Grace says, voice scratchy and stuffy.
“Yeah?”
“My battery is low,” she confesses, and the hurt of it unveils like a thorned flower. “And it’s getting so dark.”
She tells Yuki she had a plan, a good plan, and when she got to the end, there was no trophy with her name etched on it. There was no welcome committee thanking her for all that she had sacrificed to get here. There were no offers waiting for her. There is just Grace Porter with a piece of paper that says doctor and another that says married.
She stays curled up through all of it. She stays folded in, protecting the soft, vulnerable parts of herself from the world and her unrelenting brain. She stays with the phone low on speaker and her knees pulled up to her chest. Yuki stays with her.
“That sounds really hard,” Yuki says, like it’s a fact and not pity. It makes Grace relax. “It must be scary, right, getting to the end and realizing how much more work there is to do.”
“Everyone tells me what I need, what I should do,” Grace says, “but I don’t even know. The responsible thing would be to keep pushing. To keep applying for jobs and promoting my research and forcing them to see me, to hear me. That’s the responsible thing, right?”
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