Consider (8 page)

STOP IT.

The loop continues. I dig through my dirty laundry, then open and close every drawer in my room, searching and double checking for something to remind me what I could be forgetting. My body sweats as I spin in circles.

STOP IT.
Everything’s fine.

But what if it’s not fine? What if I left an iron plugged in? What if I start a fire? What if I go fishing and then come back and the house is burned down? What if my parents and Benji are burnt to a crisp and they have to use their dental records to identify the bodies? What if the police think I did it on purpose? What if . . .

I take a pill and wait for it to rescue me.

Dominick and I
walk along the wide cement pier that extends from New Bedford’s Fort Taber into the Atlantic. A metal barrier protects us from falling into the water. Old-fashioned light posts line the left side of the walkway. Even at the early hour, the ocean air is cool but thick with late-August humidity. The wind restores the emptiness inside me from panicking earlier. My old counselor used to tell me that spending more time outside would help my anxiety. Maybe I should’ve listened. As we reach the end of the pier, the wide ocean stretches out for us in full panoramic glory. The Butler Flats lighthouse sits proudly in the water. Sailboats drift past on the horizon. Across the harbor, I can see my town, Fairhaven, marked by two wind turbines in the distance. I can see why the pier was a favorite place for Dominick and his father.

The air at the end of the pier, however, reeks like moldy cat food mixed with fish armpit. If they had armpits. There are always certain summer days when the ocean seems to ripen, and the wind carries the rotten stench of decaying beach life. Growing up here, you would think I would’ve adjusted. Impossible.

Dominick bought a bucket of live green crabs for bait. Brownish-green bodies the size of quarters huddle on top of one another.

“Aw, do you have to?” I complain as he grabs one for the line. “It’s cute.”

“It’s eat or be eaten,” he says. “Nature’s way.” He jabs the underbelly of the crab with the hook. I cringe.

“Can’t we be above nature?” I ask.

He gives me that look, the one that says to stop pretending I’m a philosopher to hide that I’m being a wimp. I hate that look.

“Let’s get you fishing,” he says.

Moving behind me, Dominick wraps his arms around my arms and places his hands over my hands to show me how to cast the line. My body moves with his body, and I soak in his strength and confidence.

“Do you think the other planet has fishing?” I ask.

“Don’t know. Probably if they have oceans, they have fish. But I read that scientists believe oceans on other planets might not be made of water.”

“What then? Milk?” I tease.

“More like liquid hydrogen. But then the planet wouldn’t be habitable for people. Or fish.”

I look out at the water. “Imagine if there were alien fish that could survive. They’d be some weird fish.”

“The rain would be killer,” he jokes. “Literally. Fireballs.”

We laugh together and banter under the morning sun. The briny air releases the heaviness in my chest. I reel the line in slowly to tease the fish, but nothing bites. By the third time, I bait and cast the line without Dominick’s help.

“You bored?” he asks.

“No, it’s nice, actually. Calming.”

“I thought you might like it. I hear it’s good for anxiety.”

It’s like he’s stuck me with a pin and deflated me.

“Stop treating me like Anxiety Girl.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You never do.”

He looks away, and I feel bad for wrecking the moment. I laugh nervously. “Anxiety Girl. That’s like the worst superhero name ever.”

He grins. “I’m sure we can think up worse.”

“Like what? Constipation Girl?”

“Puberty Boy?”

“Dandruff Girl.”

“Blister Boy.”

I move in unnaturally close to him. “Captain Close Talker.”

He breathes directly into my face. “Captain HAL-itosis.”

I giggle and bite my bottom lip. “Super Lips?”

“Super Lips, huh?” He smiles. “I like it.”

He kisses me, and I hold on to the metal railing to keep from falling.

After about an
hour of kissing and talking nonsense, taking turns with the pole, and staring at the dark surface of the waves, the fishing pole bends.

“Got one,” Dominick says and hands me the pole. “Don’t reel it in all at once. Pull to the side, then reel. Pull to the side, then reel.” He demonstrates from behind me. “Find a rhythm. Don’t rush it.”

I follow his directions, which sound sexual to me after all the making out we’ve been doing. Maybe it’s just his voice.

Soon, a fish breaches the water at the end of my line. Mottled olive green and mud brown, it’s uglier and smaller than I expect after all that pulling.

“It’s a tautog,” Dominick comments.

“I caught my first fish,” I announce. “Take a picture.”

I pose while Dominick snaps a quick photo with his phone. As I hold up the fish, I see the bulging lips and gills gape open and close in a desperate attempt to filter the world. I know that feeling.
Gasping for breath. Having your body fail to process the environment properly. Feeling trapped. Helpless. Not knowing how to escape. Maybe like going through a vertex.

“We have to let it go.” I can’t get the words out fast enough.

“Alex, I don’t usually—”

Before he can stop me, I grab the fishing line with the dangling victim hanging from its end. It flips its tail when I try to touch it, and the spines on its back stick up. I wish I had scissors so I could just cut the line.

“Hold it by the gills underneath,” Dominick coaches.

I prop the gills up against my thumb and pointer finger. With my free hand, I try to maneuver the hook from its mouth while avoiding further injury to its system. As it opens its thick lips, a set of human-looking teeth startle me. Our fish are freakish enough on our planet. Its prehistoric face and slimy alien eyes make me wonder if it would try to eat me if it could. I concentrate on the hook, but its slippery body and the smell of rotten seaweed trigger my gag reflex. Right when I’m about to give up, the hook dislodges, and I toss the fish over the edge of the pier to freedom. As it swims away into the dark water, I can breathe again.

Dominick must think that I’ve gone over the edge of the pier myself. I can’t look at him.

“Now I know why I fish alone,” he says, breaking the silence.

I turn to face him, ready to argue my case, but when I do, I find him grinning.

“Shut up,” I say and a smile forces its way on my face.

“I’m sorry. I just never knew you had such strong feelings for fish.”

“I don’t!” I giggle.

“Yet I’ve seen you eat Filet-O-Fish sandwiches like nobody’s business.”

I push his shoulder. He grabs me and tickles my stomach.

“Stop!” I say, laughing.

“Hey, you lost me a fish. You owe me.”

“Fine, what do you want?” I walked right into that one.
Why do I tease him when I know I’m not ready? Am I ready?

He smiles wide. “I’ll think about it and get back to you.”

“You do that,” I taunt and sit on the pier, exhausted.

“I have to say, this is nothing like fishing with my dad.” His sentence hangs out in the air like a fish on a line. I’m not sure how to rescue him.

“We can keep fishing,” I say to try to help, “as long as I can throw them back.”

He thinks for a moment. “I guess you can be the fish liberator.”

We fish for another hour. Well, Dominick does most of the fishing. We catch two more, and I free them immediately after snapping a photo. The rush of freeing them becomes a challenge, and even though I wouldn’t admit it to Dominick, freeing the fish makes me feel in control for the first time in a long time.

Witnessing each fish struggle to breathe tugs at my memory as I tug the hooks out. I don’t say anything to Dominick, but it reminds me of when Dad returned home after being honorably discharged. I was eight. For months on end he screamed in the middle of the night, flopping around in his bed like a fish out of water. I watched from the doorway as Mom tried to calm him down, but he kept screaming and screaming and fighting with the bedding. When she finally woke him up, he yelled at her for overreacting.

Then one night I found him in the kitchen standing in the light of the open refrigerator. His eyes were vacant, like he couldn’t see the world that I was in. I watched him as he wandered out the back door into the darkness. I don’t know why I didn’t run for Mom, but for some reason I ran for Benji. We watched from the kitchen window as Dad sat in the grass under the automatic security light patting his legs again and again.

“Don’t tell Mom,” Benji said to me. “It’s bad enough. Pinkie swear.”

“Pinkie swear.”

Over the next few months, when one of us would find Dad sleepwalking, we’d wake up the other one to watch, whispering the code phrase “Zombie Night
.”
We convinced ourselves that it was our secret adventure. We didn’t see the real danger until Dad turned on me.

It started as a typical night,
Benji waking me up with the code phrase, me jumping out of bed and following him up the attic stairs without question. We spied on Dad as he searched through storage totes with a blank stare.

Then I sneezed and Dad dove behind the bins. Horrified, I ran to tell him that it was okay and it was only me. Benji told me to stay back, but I didn’t listen. I couldn’t stand to see my father that vulnerable. As soon as I reached out to him, Dad lunged at me and grabbed me by the neck. I gasped open mouthed for air the way fish gasp for water. Benji screamed for him to stop, the two of us prying at Dad’s fat fingers to pull him off me, but we weren’t strong enough. In seconds, the world turned black, my vision closing in like a tube blowing in a television screen.

I heard later that Benji had to bite Dad’s arm and draw blood to stop him. It was never clear if Dad actually woke up in that moment or if he just broke down in pain. But as my vision returned, I saw him sobbing from where I sat on the floor holding my neck.

Benji ran for Mom. Once she saw Dad’s condition and the marks on my neck, she commanded Benji and I back to bed. I listened to Mom and Dad have a huge fight and Dad agreeing to go for counseling and start medication. Mom came into my bedroom to check on me. She gave me an ice pack and said I would need to hide my neck at school to cover the bruises so Dad wouldn’t get in trouble. I couldn’t sleep the whole night. I wore turtleneck sweaters and scarves for over a week. Haven’t worn either since. The Zombie Nights stopped soon after. That was ten years ago. I’ve never talked about that night. Ever.

As I set the last fish free and watch it swim into the dark waters, I can feel a part of me sink with it, knowing it could be captured at any time and experience the same terror once again
. If a comet actually hits, all the fish will boil alive, flesh and bones falling off and disintegrating while their home evaporates into the atmosphere.
And Dominick thought that fishing would help my anxiety. I wish he’d stop trying to cure me. Trying to guess what will trigger symptoms will only trigger symptoms. Catch-22.

Watching Dominick cast the line displays his natural confidence. It’s him at his finest. I wish I could find and hold onto that kind of peace inside of me. His father gave him this gift. He’d be proud of his son. I almost say this out loud to Dominick, but on second thought it might be too much to hear.

I chip at my You Are So Outta Lime nail polish. What gift did my father give me? How to swear, argue, fight, and drink? How to worry about the dangers in the world? How to fight against the waves instead of how to ride them?

When a family of five arrives with poles, Dominick and I decide to pack up and head back toward the parking lot. At the end of the pier, I notice a small metal sign off to one side of the barrier, warning to catch and release all fish due to high PCB water counts.

“Hey,” I say, pointing to the sign. “Did you know this the whole time?”
What if he had taken the fish home, eaten them, and died?

He shrugs and smiles. “You were determined. I wasn’t about to take that away from you.”

“I touched all those fish for no reason? You would’ve done it anyway?”

“You were a pro.”

“You’re such a punk,” I say, bumping him with my hip. “Now you owe me.”

“Anything you want,” he teases.

His willingness to surrender to me—mind, body, and soul—is both wonderful and terrifying. Something I don’t think I’ll ever be capable of doing.

Chapter 7

Day 24: August—3,854 hours to decide

Question: Do you have war? Problems with violence? Weapons?

Answer: No, we have evolved into a peaceful planet. We have proactive measures in place to deal with possible violence. Your weaponry will not work in our world. We have global technology that can isolate and contain any explosions instantaneously. Your weapons cannot fire here, bombs cannot detonate. (See also question on judicial system and prisons.)

The media is
in an uproar. Major credit card companies are asking governments to stop all vertex travel. They want Congress to pass a law requiring people to pay off all credit card debt before leaving the planet through a vertex. It’s a verbal war between people and banks. I sit on the edge of the couch and take notes.

People interviewed on TV say it’s not fair to technically charge people who want to leave the planet. Companies argue they have the right to collect debt before people leave. One reporter calls the Debt-Departure Debate a “slippery slope.” I remember the term from debate team—a type of logic that leads to an avalanche of other outcomes. The reporter mentions other types of debt. Will people have to pay off mortgages? Car loans? Student loans? Even though Dad said he’d never leave, he looks nervous. We have a mortgage and credit card debt. Not sure if the car is paid off.

Even though I think it’s crazy to leave through a vertex, I don’t like the idea of being told I’m trapped and forced to stay, either.

It gets worse.
Breaking news: fifteen vertexes have been simultaneously bombed in the Middle East, including Iraq, Iran, Israel, Palestine, and Egypt. As reported through every channel and media outlet, extremist groups coordinated the attacks using an underground social media channel and coded messages that passed undetected through all government anti-terrorism checkpoints. I frantically copy all information into my journal.

I can’t believe people are so afraid of the unknown they need to attack it. Dad can’t believe it didn’t happen sooner. Mom believes that it will happen again. I wonder if it has anything to do with the Debt-Departure Debate. The if-I-can’t-go-no-one-can mentality.

We are glued to the screen around the clock, watching the bomb blasts over and over on replay at each location, watching military officials and people ready to enter the vertex instead get lost in a cloud of debris. But the real reason we are glued to the screen is not the devastation, not the shocking fact that there are people willing to destroy the possible salvation of humanity. What is remarkable and horrific to us all, what we cannot stop watching, is that once the shock and the aftermath of the bombings settled, once the cloud of debris lifted, as others cared for the wounded and retrieved the victims, the blue vertexes and holograms stood untouched. Perfect.

Their invincibility gives us a silent, resilient hope. It also bothers us more than we’d ever admit to each other.

I catch Dad
staring at the TV in the living room after watching the bombings on repeat. I don’t mean vegging out after work; I mean zoned out. Like he’s trapped in a dark forest of memory. I know the difference.

“Dad. Dad.” No response. Only a blank stare.

My insides freeze.
Is he breathing?
Yes, his chest just moved up and down. At least I think I saw it move.

I wave my hand back and forth in front of his open eyes. “Dad?”

Nothing.

Lights out.

No, no, no.
I reach over, grab his shoulder, and shake him back into the here and now. “Dad? Dad!”

He finally acknowledges my presence. “What?” he asks, annoyed, like nothing was wrong.

“You weren’t responding.”

“I didn’t hear you. Jeez.”

But we both know that isn’t the truth.

I take a pill.

According to the
Internet, the two Massachusetts vertexes were not a target in the bombings; however, not hearing from Benji after his shift has invited
what-ifs
into our house.

What-ifs
are not good for military families.

I wish he would just answer his phone.

Dad sits in his lounger, drowning himself in beer. Watching him self-medicate is better than watching him get lost in memories. Mom paces the kitchen, frantically dialing her phone. I want to hide in my room, but the masochistic need to watch both parents collapse wins.

I start collecting data in my journal. If I stay in my room, I won’t be able to see what’s happening, and my mind will imagine the horrible possibilities. But if I record the situation for analysis later, then I’ll be able to control it somehow and relax. I sit between the kitchen and the living room, straddling two worlds and reactions.

Dad cracks his knuckles repeatedly in an idiosyncratic dance. He flips through the television stations like pages in a fashion magazine, not even bothering to stop and understand the content. A constant roll of images, all disconnected from the next.

Mom sips a cup of tea, sighs, then checks her phone again. She leaves the kitchen and goes to the bathroom for the umpteenth time. After fourteen minutes, she emerges with swollen eyes and no makeup. She reheats her tea in the microwave, then wraps the cup with a paper towel. She seems older, slower in her movements. There’s a carefulness that comes with waiting for news that could shatter you.

No one discusses the invisible pink elephant in the room. But it’s there. I can feel it like running broken glass across my gums. I want to scream for them to speak. But that would break the silence and shatter the illusion that life as we know it isn’t on the brink of disaster.

I check the time on my phone. It’s getting later and later and still no Benji. I almost text him again, but Mom keeps staring at me, and I don’t want her to think that I think something is wrong, too. I pick at my nail polish, and then at a hangnail, making my thumb bleed.

Where the hell is he? Doesn’t he understand what not answering does to them? Mom’s leaking fluids and Dad’s fingers are about to fall off.

Four hours later, Benji crosses the threshold. Dad and I see him first since Mom is in the bathroom once again.

“Hey,” he says. “What’s everyone doing up?”

“Waiting,” I mutter under my breath.

“Your mother’s been a wreck,” Dad says. He finally stops cracking and wringing his hands.

“Sorry,” Benji offers.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” Dad says. He chugs the rest of his drink.

“We had a briefing after the bombings. Then I went out for a beer with a friend.”

“You could have called. You’ll worry your mother sick.”

Mom rushes into the living room and envelops Benji. He returns the hug, and several awkward seconds tick by as two years of pent-up anguish over Benji’s decision to serve in the military pour from her eyes.

“Thank heavens.” Mom doesn’t bother to wipe the tears streaming down her face. “Where have you been? Why didn’t you call?”

Benji looks around for help, but Dad has turned his attention back to the television remote.

“Answer me,” she begs.

“Mom, I’m sorry. But I’m a grown man. Jeez.”

But his face says something different. He avoids eye contact and his lips tighten, like he’s fighting an inner battle about not sharing military secrets with us. I store the image in my journal for safekeeping. There’s something pressing his mind, and it’s so big he’s having trouble hiding it.

I don’t know what to say to him. Benji’s right, he’s a grown man, but he doesn’t see how different Mom’s been since he left. She used to be a little stronger, a little brighter. An emptiness hangs over the house in his absence, an emptiness I can never fill for my parents.

Benji holds Mom’s face in his hands. “I’m fine,” he says, kissing her forehead for emphasis. “I’m fine,” he repeats slowly.

She hangs her head low, nods, and wipes at her wet face. When she plops herself on the edge of Dad’s lounge chair, Dad and Benji share a conspiratorial look as if telepathically agreeing that she overreacted. Like a typical woman.

I don’t like it one bit. Dad was just as freaked out. It’s not about her. Benji’s being selfish as usual, not caring how his behavior affects the family, but since I can’t put my finger precisely on what’s going on, I don’t have a way to argue against it.

Governments have decided
they cannot play debt police. They conclude that “the right to leave a planet should not be determined by economics.” Easy to say when free vertexes appear for travel. I wonder if they’d say the same thing if they had to provide the transportation.

I’d like to say that the decision fills me with tremendous relief. It doesn’t. Banks have decided to freeze all credit card accounts until the hologram-vertex prophecy plays out. No new mortgages until February 1. No new car loans. Guess they’re afraid people will go on spending sprees, live it up, and then leave through a vertex. The world has shifted to a cash-only system.

Glad I don’t need a student loan until next year, but the whole credit thing leaves me worried about what other problems the vertexes might trigger. Dad immediately empties our bank accounts and buys a safe.

The end of
August brings my senior year of high school and inevitable decisions. Rita and I spend one last summer girls’ night together. We decide to go to a movie, of course, because her religion doesn’t allow it. Something about guardian angels not able to protect people inside theaters. Even though many teens in her church openly rebel against the movie rule, she still pretends to follow it in front of her parents.

Before we leave, she changes into a remarkable outfit—a red sundress with a long, beaded, matching necklace and strappy beige sandals. I dress to kill in a peach dress with baby blue accessories but with nowhere near as much cleavage as Rita. I couldn’t create that much cleavage with duct tape.

At the theater, a group of guys from our high school whistle and flag us over. Rita grins and strikes up a conversation with Nathan Gomes, the star wide receiver for our football team, whom she’s had a major crush on since freshman year. When one of his teammates, a buff guy from my freshman-year gym class, tries to make eye contact with me, I move behind Rita and pull out my cell phone.

Dominick texted me a goofy meme about math where a nerdy cat with a ruler says:

Without Geometry,
Life is Pointless.

It’s so stupid it’s not even funny, which makes me giggle more. Tomorrow’s our last date of the summer, and I’m ready to have the talk with him about picking colleges.

Rita exchanges phone numbers with Nathan, and then we ditch the guys and grab tickets, popcorn, drinks, and seats. I snag an aisle seat so I can escape if necessary.

“Sorry about that, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do,” Rita says.

“It’s fine,” I say and smile. “Just don’t do them all.”

“Hey,” she yells, throwing a popcorn kernel at me. “Not nice. I’m not like that. You know I’ve only been with two guys.”

I laugh and throw popcorn back. She returns the favor.

“At least I’m willing to do something,” she digs.

“I do stuff.” I eat a kernel of popcorn off my lap.

She sips soda. “Define stuff.”

I smile but nervousness kicks in. “Stuff,” I repeat.

She rolls her eyes. “So have you narrowed down colleges yet with Dominick?”

“No. We talked about Boston again, but I’m still not sure.”

“That boy loves you. I bet he’ll go wherever you go.”

I swallow down the welling tears. That’s exactly what I’m worried about. I know his need to accommodate me will hold him back. I can’t let him do that to himself.

I push away the negative thoughts and focus on fun. Tonight is about Rita and me.

“You’re gonna have so much fun living in college dorms. I wish I was planning to go away instead of living at home and waitressing for my parents at the restaurant.”

“Is it still that bad?”

She nods. “Why did I ever agree to go to community college?”

“Remember? Saving money, transferring later?”

“Right. Well, I’m starting to wonder if I can survive two more years taking orders in Jesus land.”

The theater lights fade into black, so we have to cut our conversation short. I’ve spent years complaining to her about how I can’t wait to leave my parents, but now that crunch time is here . . . She admits to living vicariously through me, but she doesn’t really get what it’s like to be stuck in my head. The last thing I need is her judgment.

The movie ends up being pretty underwhelming. Rita drives us to Panera Bread where she orders broccoli and cheddar soup in a bread bowl, and I get a turkey club. It’s funny that she complains about her religion all the time, but she’d be a vegetarian without the religious guideline.

Back at my house, we change into tank tops and pajama shorts and lay blankets on the floor. We talk and giggle about random subjects while she flips through channels on my television and I remove what’s left of my chipped nail polish with remover.

“I miss TV,” she announces. “Our church told everyone to avoid it since so much of the footage revolves around vertexes. Of course that meant my parents put all the sets in storage. Thank God for my laptop.”

“How’s that going?” I ask. “I mean with the church.”

“It’s impossible. They see the vertexes as the ultimate test for humanity in choosing for or against God.”

“But what if you believe that God wants to save everyone by sending the vertexes?” I start painting my nails a deep purple color called Midnight in Moscow.

“Exactly.” She shakes her head. “The more they talk lately, the more judgmental they sound. You’re so lucky your family isn’t religious.”

Sometimes I’m grateful my parents aren’t religious since I don’t accept things without evidence, but sometimes I think I’m missing out on its rules and order. Makes me feel religiously deficient, like I missed out on spiritual vitamins or something.

When we hear someone close the front door, Rita jumps up from the floor and fixes her hair. “Private Benjamin’s home and waiting for me.”

“You just got a guy’s phone number at the movies.”