by S. E. Sasaki
On departure day, when everyone was lining up to say their final good-byes to loved ones, kissing family for the last time, before boarding the shuttles that would take them up to the gigantic colony ship circling the Earth, a letter was handed to him. It was a letter, scented in her favorite perfume, made of thick, parchment-coloured bond paper, written in her best handwritten script, saying that she had already boarded the ship and was waiting for him in their quarters. She wrote that she hated saying goodbye.
He would have boarded the shuttle in confusion, looking forward to meeting up with her on the colony ship, but not understanding why she hadn’t waited for him so that they could fly up to the colony ship together. Was it not the start of an adventure that they would be sharing? If it were not for her handwriting—which he would know as well as his own—and her sweet, lingering perfume, he would never have believed the contents of the note. He would never have gotten on that shuttle. He would have stayed on the ground, waiting for her instead.
But she had lied. She had written that letter amidst a deluge of self-pitying tears, wanting him to have the chance to fulfill his dream while she stayed on Earth and gave birth to their love child, never regretting for one day, the choice she had made, but always regretting the short time they had had together.
For her, that had never been a contradiction. She had valued each day that she saw their daughter grow. Every day, she imagined telling him all about their daughter and how precocious she was, how precious she was, how brilliant she was . . . and how much like her father she was. She wished he could have held their love child in his arms when she was a baby, a toddler, a teenager, a mother. And she wished with the deepest of pangs that he could have met her, their beautiful, talented child, before she had died - at the age of forty-six, of an aggressive and incurable form of lymphoma, leaving a bereaved husband, two grieving children, and a shattered mother behind.
Now those children waited with her, with their own children, to meet their grandfather, who would look like a son to them.
How she feared what he would say. How she feared what he would do.
Yet, whatever he did, it would be what she deserved, would it not?
Because, in those eighty-two years, four months, twelve days and eighteen hours (but who was counting?), she had come to the realization that he had had a right to know, that he had deserved to know, that he should have been allowed to make his own choice, regarding staying or going, and not had the decision made for him . . . by her.
What she had done, thinking she was being unselfish, had been a sin.
She had been terribly wrong and ‘sorry’ seemed so inadequate. Her punishment—what she had come here to receive—was to stand before her young, vibrant, beautiful man, the man she had so passionately loved for so many years, and show him what a wrinkly, frumpy old goat of a great grandmother she had become. Let his mouth drop open and his eyes bulge out. Let him breathe a deep sigh of relief and think, ‘Thank the heavens he had gone to the stars!’
She would beg his forgiveness and hope for the best.
Tears welled up in her eyes and she dashed them away in disgust. Self-pity was inexcusable. She had drowned in them once before. She would not do so again.
“You alright, Nan?” Victoria asked, always the caring one, looking like a carbon copy of her mother at age twenty-eight.
“Yes, Dear, I’m fine,” she replied, patting her granddaughter’s hand.
“Here. Let’s sit,” Victoria said, trying to draw her to an open seat.
“No!” she cried, afraid to lose her spot at the front of the crowd, at the front of the barrier, waiting just in front of the sliding doors that would soon expel him, along with all of the other colony ship crew members. She wanted a good look at him first, as he strode tall and vibrant down the arrivals ramp, well before he saw her. One last look, before the pity and horror filled his eyes, as he gazed on her for the first time after over eighty-two years and saw what the ravages of time had done to her once-beautiful body.
She wanted to see him looking hopeful and excited and happy, looking forward to seeing her after only three years absence (for him). Even if the expression was for only the briefest period of time, it would be enough. It would have to be enough. She would cherish that sweet image in her mind and nurse it for the rest of her days and would try to forget his look of devastation that would soon come to replace it, once reality hit home. That his three years had been eighty-two years, four months, twelve days, and eighteen and a half hours for her.
“Thank you, my dear. I prefer to stay here,” she said, calmer.
“Victoria’s right, Nan,” her great-grandson, Alexander, said. “You sit down. You be standing two hours least. You be tired.”
Alexander was a beautiful boy, too. She could see him so clearly in Alexander’s features. Sometimes, she would just gaze at her grandson. She wanted to tell Alexander that two hours was nothing. Nothing. Lord, she had waited eighty-two years, four months, twelve days and eighteen and a half hours to see him. She would have waited until her dying day and then some.
Finally, the screen flashed that the shuttle had landed. Her wait was coming close to an end. Her heart began to pound again and her chest tightened as if it were in a vice. Her breathing became ragged and she found herself soaked in a cold, shivering sweat. Burning lances shot into both shoulders and ran down her arms and both her hands and knees began to shake. She felt her old, familiar heartburn beginning to really act up. She could not be more annoyed with the ridiculous old body she was trapped in. She huffed and scowled.
“Nan, you’re shaking. Please! You must sit down!” Victoria said, grabbing her arm.
“No!” she said. “I’m fine, Victoria. I want to stay here.” She yanked her arm free.
She swore to herself that she would stand her ground. She would not be coddled. She would refuse to be budged. She had stamped her foot down and her heart rate, for the moment, had slowed. Finally. It could not be much longer, surely.
She had to see him!
People started to pour through the sliding doors. Young people in crisp, dark, military uniforms, looking excited and eager, hoping to see a familiar face. Older military personnel appeared, looking a little more calm and complacent, either having done this several times before, perhaps, or no longer expecting to see anyone that they knew alive anymore, here to greet them.
She watched, envious, as elderly people like herself shouted and waved at these young arrivals, saw the faces of these young people drop in confusion, then shock . . . and then hesitantly smile and wave back. She watched, with trepidation, as these young people cautiously came forward to be hugged by their dramatically-changed loved ones, who were bursting into tears.
She watched all the reunions, feeling slightly envious of their happiness, of the easy acceptance between the returnees and the greeters. She wished she could feel positive that that happiness, acceptance, and unconditional love, would be hers as well—but she did not.
The next instant, her heart began to pound wildly in her chest, as if it wanted to careen out of the station without her. The shaking was back. Her heartburn returned with a vengeance and she silently cursed at it. What a time for it to act up!
She rubbed her chest with her left hand and bemoaned the fact that she had left her acid reflux pills at home.
Alexander grasped her arm firmly and said, “Nan, you don’t look good. I’m taking you to sit down!”
‘No, I . . .” she protested, annoyed with Alexander.
The most excruciating pain cut into her chest and she was falling. Damn her stupid old legs, to be giving away now! This could not be happening! She could not let him see her like this: a frail, weak, old lady, lying on the cold marble floor like a decrepit, used raggedy doll.
Alexander and Victoria were crowding around her, calling out ‘Nan!’ and ‘Help!’ like silly, helpless children. She drowned in a deluge of shame. If there was one thing she hated, it was calling attention to herself.
‘Get up!’ she screamed at herself. ‘Get up! Stop making a fool of yourself! He will see you like this! You don’t want him to see you like this, do you?’
And her legs obeyed. She pushed herself up to standing and she looked towards the opening and closing doors. She absentmindedly shoved her grandchildren’s hands away. They were grasping at her, overwhelmed with concern. She looked around. He had not yet appeared through the arrival doors. She pushed through the crowd of people, who were all exclaiming and calling and gesticulating and pointing, and stood right at the railing before the arrival doors. There was suddenly no crowd, whereas before, she could barely get close enough to see and had been rudely jostled around. Now, there was no one to get in her way. It could not be long now. After all this time, she was finally here to tell him the truth and to ask for his forgiveness.
She only had to wait a little more.
The noise of the terminal seemed to fade away, as she concentrated on the sliding doors, seeing them open to release someone, whose face she would closely scrutinize, and then look back to the closing doors in disappointment. Where was he? Did he not come home? Was this
perhaps a cruel joke on her—his revenge—to tell her that he was coming and then not appear? It would be just retribution, would it not? Something she deserved?
Oh yes.
It would be justice, she thought, but so not like him.
It seemed like everything was taking forever. She looked around briefly for her grandchildren. Alexander, his face a mask of concern, was hurrying off with a some people in uniforms, pushing a stretcher. Alexander had always been such a helpful, caring soul.
Victoria was standing just a little behind her and off to one side, sobbing uncontrollably. She was being comforted by her friend and a crowd of people she did not know. She had no idea what could have gotten Victoria so upset—she was usually such a calm, dignified girl—but she had no time to worry about her right now. She would go over and see what was wrong with Victoria, afterwards.
She had to see him first.
She would greet him, tell him how sorry she was, and then take him over to meet his granddaughter. Then they would find Alexander and everything would be all right. They would take him back to her home. He would forgive her . . . would he not?
She turned back to the whispering doors. How many people had she missed in that brief moment of turning away? Did she miss him?
. . . No.
She gave a huge sigh of relief. She was like a schoolgirl, waiting to get a glimpse of someone she had a terrific crush on. She was being ridiculous, standing at the barrier gawking and straining for a look, but she didn’t care.
. . . And suddenly he was there! Appearing through the opened sliding doors like a ray of brilliant sunshine, handsome and glorious in his officer’s uniform, tall and straight and bright-eyed and eager, his face not changed a bit since the way she remembered him, his intent look scanning the crowd anxiously.
She waved at him, almost jumping up and down, feeling embarrassed and foolish and excited and ashamed, all mixed into one. He looked right through her, as if she wasn’t there, but she was not too upset about this. She had changed a lot, after all. She saw him wave at someone behind her, dash down the ramp, hurry around the railing, and rush to pick up and hug . . . Victoria?
Victoria was crying and swearing and shoving him violently away. He was looking at her with a confused, shocked look on his face as Victoria was yelling something at him and he was listening to her intently. She saw his face gradually change from happiness to confusion to embarrassment to shock to sadness.
‘I’m here,’ she wanted to yell, waving her arms, but she could not find her voice. She could not make a sound. It was as if her vocal cords had completely abandoned her. She could not even make a squeak. She was trembling so much.
She wove her way through the crowd of people around Victoria and him, to try and get closer. Why wouldn’t they even once look at her? Why wouldn’t her granddaughter point her out? She gazed in confusion at the two of them, Victoria and her beautiful man, Victoria’s grandfather. She wanted to touch them both, hug them both, but she did not want to spoil their moment. She just listened to them, to their voices. She had waited so long for this: eighty-two years, four months, twelve days, and now nineteen hours. A few minutes more would not matter as she drank in the wondrous, glorious vision of him.
Her long wait was finally over. She came up beside him. He still hadn’t seen her. She was quivering all over with excitement. She could see her hand visibly shake as she reached out to touch him, finally, after all these years of waiting. With tears raining down her wrinkled, sagging cheeks, herbreath wheezing in gasps, she reached out to place her hand on his broad, strong arm, to get his attention, to get him to fold her up in an embrace like he’d given his granddaughter, Victoria.
At first she could not understand what had happened . . . why her hand had just slipped completely through his shoulder . . .
The End
Adverse Reactions
Adverse Reactions
Mallory sighed and rubbed her dry eyes. She hated the fluorescent lights in the old lecture halls. It had been a long day, giving lectures to four anthropology classes, filled with first year students who really were a lecture in themselves, only at university because their parents wanted them to be there and madly trying to find a mate. It was a struggle trying to speak and be heard above the constant chatter of the students who she swore were younger and younger every year.
Had she been like this in her first year of university? Of course not, she’d been younger. Her parents would have said that Mallory had never been that young . . . ever. It had actually been a longstanding joke of theirs to insist that when Mallory had been fourteen, she had acted like she was forty. Mallory had never seen what the problem was. So what if she had always been a serious kid? What was wrong with that? Now, at twenty-six, she was the youngest professor in the Anthropology Department at the University of Toronto.
She may have been serious, but nowhere near as serious as her boyfriend, Harold.
Mallory’s mouth quirked up on one side. Harold Kashif Kaufmann, her boyfriend since high school, had been the only kid more serious than her, more driven to succeed. It was lucky their interests were so different and that he was three years older than her or they would never have gotten along. They were both competitive when it came to scholastics, and it would have been all out war if they had been in the same year. Mallory chuckled to herself. She probably would have had to kill him. Thank goodness, Harold had chosen sciences while she had focused on the arts and social sciences. Everyone had called them the ‘odd couple’, primarily because Harold was so different—so socially inept—while Mallory was a bit more of the ‘people’ person, fascinated with psychosocial interactions but more from an analytical point of view.
To Mallory, Harold was odd, but cute, in a very ‘geeky’ sort of way and Mallory loved Harold’s genius, his intensity, his drive.
Harold wanted to perfect the human genome, eradicate the genetic traits that carried hereditary disease, erase recessive genetic traits. He was a geneticist with special interest in biochemistry, immunology, and neurophysiology. By manipulating the DNA in a human genome, he dreamed of one day ridding the human race of many diseases that had plagued man for generations. He also had dreams of making humans smarter, better, faster, stronger. There certainly was no limit to Harold’s imagination or his ambition, although his personality probably could use an upgrade.
Harold was the type of professor who lectured to the corner, with his back to the audience. He hated making eye contact. He did not understand emoji. To say he lacked a sense of humour would be an understatement. The students loved to mock him, but Harold was tall, thin, and handsome in his own geeky sort of way, if you took off his thick, black-framed glasses. Mallory could live with his shyness and his inability to communicate with others. He was brilliant and devoted to her; that was all that mattered.
Her wris
tphone vibrated and she glanced at the screen.
It was a text from Harold.
‘Mal, where r u? Come now’
‘I’m across campus, Harold. I have to go to my office and drop some things off. I’m not carting them all over the place. I’ll come as soon as I can,’ Mallory texted back.
‘No! Now!’
‘Harold, I will come when I can.’
‘O all right. Hurry!’
‘Ok’ she texted back.
As Mallory stuffed her laser pointer, her microphone, her headset, and laptop computer into her briefcase, she frowned. She looked at her wristphone again. Perhaps she should go straight to Harold’s lab. He had never, in all the time she had known him, demanded she attend him immediately—with exclamation marks, no less. Could he be in trouble? Might he have injured himself and not want to say?
‘Are you all right?’ she texted Harold, as she left the classroom.
She stared anxiously at the wristphone screen, but got no reply.
Now Mallory began to worry. What would make Harold so emotional? Harold never got emotional.
Ever.
She walked briskly through the halls of the sociology building until she was outside, and then she broke into a quick jog, her bag bouncing on her back. It was a good fifteen to twenty minute brisk walk across the university grounds from the sociology building to the biomedical building, where Harold’s laboratory was located. Because Mallory was a daily long distance runner, she could probably make it in five minutes, if she want to sprint. At least the weather was good: sunny, warm, with a light spring breeze. She knew she looked more like one of the students than a professor, in her slim-fitting clothes and dark hair pulled back in a pony tail, running across campus.
“Hey, Dr. Campbell!” she heard one of her students yell, as she raced by.
She heard someone else yell, “Where’s the fire, professor?” It was followed by laughter.
‘Smart ass,’ she thought, as her mind seethed with worry. Why did Harold demand she come now? Why didn’t he text her back? Was he injured? Would Harold even know what to do in an emergency?