The Lesson
Page 25
There were no abnormalities so far. She had been worried about that, and she likely would for a very long time, as all parents did. She didn’t think she was that different. Not really. Just an extra bit of worry to keep the monsters away, and an extra bit of time to do it.
• • •
Patrice found the box on the foot of her bed when she woke up one morning, weeks after the massacre. She had no idea how it got there. The nightmares had been bad then, and she had hardly ever slept through the night. This time, she did, the morning light greeting her when she opened her eyes.
She saw the box when she sat up, and felt mostly confusion. No panic yet. That would come later. She picked it up, feeling its weight. Something shifted inside it. The wooden box was simple. No aesthetic markings. No symbols. No lock.
Patrice opened the box. Inside, she found a glass case with a dozen thin capsules inside, the kind you would take if you had a headache, except that they didn’t have any markings, either. Underneath the glass case was an envelope. Beside it was what looked like a large blue pearl.
She moved the case and picked up the envelope. It had her name on it. Now she began to worry. But she also was curious. She sat there for several minutes before the stronger of the feelings won out.
The small piece of paper inside the envelope was folded in half. Patrice unfolded it to find a short letter. The words were slanted and cursive. Attractive and methodical. Old-fashioned.
You asked me once what we were doing on your planet, the letter read. I didn’t answer then. I regret not answering. I’ll do so now.
There it was. The panic.
“Yn” means life. “Ynaa”: the living. Yn Altaa is the one true thing that all living beings desire, or so I once believed. If there is a god to my people, it is this one true thing. It has motivated us for a very long time. Above all else, including our souls.
Yn Altaa: life everlasting.
There was a space between those words and what followed—a pause that must have been meaningful. Patrice felt a chill creep up her back, an impulse to flee.
She read on.
Enclosed is that singular obsession. I’m leaving it with you in hopes that you will use it wisely. This is not an apology. I could give nothing that would equal the losses you and your people have endured. It is an offering. Do with it as you will.
The message ended with a P.S.: When the reefs start to speak, listen. They’ll tell you all you need to know.
For a month, Patrice just read and reread the letter, staring at the capsules, considering the proposition. She hadn’t been sure she could trust it, especially after the massacre. But despite her hatred of the Ynaa and of Mera specifically, she trusted her. Mera had killed one of her own to protect Louie’s mother. Debra had grudgingly said so herself. She had never hurt any human, that Patrice knew of. She had tried to protect Derrick. On the other hand, she was also the one who got him in trouble. And ultimately, she had failed to save him.
Patrice considered throwing the whole thing away, and she almost did. Or maybe that was just what she told herself. Almost didn’t count with something so big. Almost was an excuse.
When she was certain Grandma Reed was dying, Patrice showed her the letter and offered her one of the capsules. “I’m worried about what it will do. But maybe you might want to take the risk.” As she said the words, Patrice questioned them, unsure of her true motives.
Grandma Reed turned cold. “Life ain’t up to us,” she said, her voice trembling. “It is up to God!” She said other things, too, such as “get rid of them!” and “they’re evil!”
Patrice promised she would get rid of the box. Instead, she hid it. In the end, she made her decision based on what she wanted, not what she knew for sure. By that time, Grandma Reed had already died and Patrice’s son had been born.
The wooden box was now under her bed, under a stack of books in Derrick’s old crate. On the top of the stack was Oriental Mythology, the book she had borrowed from Derrick when they were teenagers. The Masks of God. Patrice still read it from time to time.
Still standing over her son’s crib, she considered going back to sleep. But fearful of bad dreams, she decided against it. Instead, she leaned over his sleeping body and gave him another kiss. He didn’t wake, only whimpered softly. She listened to the soft noises from the living room for a while until the television flicked off. The couch creaked a few times, and then nothing. The house was quiet except for the hum of the fridge.
She didn’t know when it happened exactly, when she finally lost her faith. She guessed it happened in stages. She had punctured it somewhere a long time ago, and eventually all her belief in high powers and miracles had seeped out through the hole. And at some point, without being fully aware, Patrice had filled those places inside herself with something more substantial, something more real. Her own desires. Her own truth. An existential distrust of all powers besides her own.
And now she had another to look after, another life to preserve.
Looking down at her son, she promised him again what she had promised every night before. She would watch over them both. Keep them safe. She would do so because no one else really could. Because the universe was a dangerous place.
Saying it, she knew that it wasn’t enough, wasn’t true. She couldn’t promise danger away. But perhaps the promise would be enough for now. Perhaps it was a lie she could make true with time.
Acknowledgments
I got a big list.
Anju Manandhar, my wife and love. For listening to all my ideas, reading my stories and giving me honest responses, encouraging me when I was doubting myself, and challenging me when I needed the hard truth. I don’t know how I got so lucky.
My mother, Sharon; my sister, Shawell; my brother, Kareem; and all the extended family that smiled approvingly when I said I wanted to be a writer. I was a strange kid with a lot of ideas. I’m grateful that they believed in me. I’m especially grateful to my mom, for just being who she is. Her strength makes me want to be strong.
My grandmothers. They’ve found their way into everything I do.
My father, Big Will. My grandfather, Pops. Wish they were here for this. Hope I’ve made them proud.
Michael Carr, my editor and worker of miracles. He made this book what it needed to be. And Courtney Vatis, my copy editor, for catching what Carr and I missed. Every writer needs great editors and I got the best.
Martha Millard, Nell Pierce, and the people at Sterling Lord Literistic. For believing in The Lesson. A special thanks to Martha for choosing to represent me when I had only a couple stories and a half-completed manuscript to my name. And for finding the right publisher for this book. I couldn’t have had anyone better in my corner.
Haila Williams, Jeff Yamaguchi, Lauren Maturo, and the whole Blackstone family. For putting so much love and effort behind this novel. I didn’t deserve a publicist as dedicated as Lauren, but I got her anyway.
My MFA instructors: Wilton Barnhardt, Belle Boggs, and John Kessel. For telling me this was a novel even when I didn’t believe it myself. For pushing me and for all the help along the way. Wilton convinced me that NC State was where I needed to be. I’m glad I had the good sense to agree.
My MFA peers. For all their comments in workshop, great and small. I wasn’t very good starting out. I’m a little better now thanks to them.
My people at Clarion West. Team Tuesday and Team Arsenic. My instructors, the directors and the whole staff. I’m so grateful for having such a large and supportive community. Finding all of them changed my life.
Jess and Larry. My home away from home. For all those talks in their dining room about books and life and making a difference. And for letting me play with their dogs.
All the friends I’ve met in Raleigh, Pittsburgh, Greater Boston, and around the world. For all sorts of reasons, too numerous to name. Mostly for just putting up with m
e.
My readers. Thank you for taking this journey with me. I hope I got most of this right. I apologize for where I’ve fallen short. If you stuck around anyway, I’m grateful beyond words.