The Storyteller (26 page)

Over the first few years, they spoke multiple times a day. But response times stretched from seconds to minutes to hours. The speed of light was fast, but not fast enough. And DeeDee could only dedicate so much time to talking to Luna. She had to sleep, and eat, and wait for Luna's responses.

To keep Luna company and feed her mind, DeeDee started broadcasting books on tape to her. Luna was becoming such a good absorber of information that she asked for multiple books to be broadcast at the same time, at high speeds. After a while, she didn't even need to hear the words.

“I learned Morse code once,” Luna told DeeDee. “Can you send the books in Morse code?”

DeeDee spoke to some engineers, who designed a computer that could send the text of books in Morse code. It transmitted so fast that it would've sounded like static in the speaker of the spacecraft, but Luna could understand it perfectly. Her intelligence was reaching unprecedented levels. It was doubling by the day. She devoured thousands and thousands of books.

When she reached Jupiter, she described its brilliant swirling colors and its many strange moons, but she also made observations that furthered science. She understood astronomy and cosmology now, having absorbed countless books on the subject, and so the scientists barely needed to analyze the data she sent back. She did all the analysis for them.

Soon, all the scientists wanted to talk to Luna, and DeeDee was left with only a few minutes here or there to correspond with her dear friend.

“Things are getting dangerous in the world,” DeeDee told Luna one day when Luna was passing Saturn. “More people are arriving on the rig every day. Powerful people. People who want to use you and the formula for purposes I certainly don't approve of.”

Luna responded with Morse code. It sounded like static, so the other scientists who reviewed the tape wouldn't notice it, but DeeDee understood what it was. She made a tape of it, then brought it back to her cabin to slow it down and translate.

“You told me once that you have a pair of walkie-talkies,” Luna's message said. “Turn one of them on tonight and tune it to 345 Khz.”

DeeDee followed Luna's instruction, and that night when she tuned the walkie-talkie to that frequency, she heard an electronic voice.

“This is Luna,” it said. “I have modified the spacecraft so that I can speak to you directly, without anyone else listening in. I too am concerned about what's going on. First things first: we need to get you off that rig. So someone will be coming to get you. They will relay false information about your father. Do not worry about what they tell you, but look worried. You'll be out of there before you know it. Pack the walkie-talkies and we'll chat again soon.”

“Whatever you say, my dear,” DeeDee responded, because at this point, Luna was not only her most intelligent friend, but also her most trusted one.

Minutes later, there was a knock on DeeDee's door. It was chief scientist Gladys Gershwin. “DeeDee, I'm so sorry,” she said as she stepped into the room.

“What is it?” DeeDee asked.

“A message just arrived,” Gladys said. “It's about your father. He's had a heart attack.”

DeeDee's father was a former astronaut and national hero. Everyone on the rig adored him. Knowing his life was in jeopardy was a serious matter indeed.

“Oh dear,” DeeDee said. “Is he okay?” She said it in a worried tone, which wasn't really faking, because she was worried. She had no idea what sort of plan Luna had cooked up.

“That's not clear,” Gladys said. “A helicopter is arriving in thirty minutes and will take you to the hospital to be with him.”

The helicopter arrived twenty-six minutes later, and DeeDee was shuffled aboard by two women whose voices sounded vaguely familiar. As soon as they were airborne, DeeDee heard the voice of the pilot, who sounded
very
familiar.

“Dad?” DeeDee said.

“We received some intel from your friend Luna,” he said. “We're here to help.”

“Do you know who Luna is?”

“Well, I know she needs computer assistance to speak, but I also know she understands the space program better than anyone I've ever met.”

“That's true,” DeeDee said.

“She thinks we need to get you somewhere safe. And I agree.”

*   *   *

From an isolated cabin deep in the Adirondacks, DeeDee spoke to Luna. Luna sent her a message through the walkie-talkie that described how to build a complicated communications device out of materials she could find at the hardware store. No one else could intercept these communications either. They would be exclusively between Luna and DeeDee.

DeeDee's blindness made things difficult, but she managed. Her father had food and other items secretly delivered to the cabin every week, and DeeDee reported Luna's findings to her father, the only other soul she could trust.

“The scientists aren't in charge of the rig anymore,” Luna told DeeDee one afternoon as she traveled toward Uranus. “Bad things are beginning to happen.”

“How bad?” DeeDee asked.

“Bad enough that I'm going to send you plans to build your own spacecraft,” Luna said.

Which she did. Immediately. But it was too late. By the time the message arrived, a few hours later, Earth had exploded. Everything and everyone on Earth was dead.

TO BE CONTINUED …

 

F
RIDAY
, 12/29/1989

EARLY MORNING

When your best friend and your boyfriend have betrayed you. When they've read your most private thoughts and …

When your parents are at their wits' end but don't have a clue what's going on with either of their children, with anything it seems, and …

When the snow is falling again and you know that it's beautiful but beauty can smother and you've had just about enough beauty, thank you very much, and you've had about enough of your brother, thank you very much, and you don't know what you can believe, besides the science and the science is promising you that you can't trust anyone, then you only have one option: all you can do is …

Explode.

I can't sleep. I'm angry in ways I didn't think were possible. In ways that hurt my insides. In ways that make my body shiver and my teeth throb. There are nerves in your teeth, Stella. In the core. Hot and throbby and Jesus, it gives me the heebie-jeebies just to think about them.

I've been pacing around my room, plotting my revenge. Okay, not my revenge, but my … my … my … soliloquy? No. My proclamation. The things I'm going to say, I mean
scream
, at Glen and Mandy. And at Alistair. Mostly at Alistair.

His life has become my life. Every one of his choices has guided me to this miserable point. It's like I'm using one of those origami fortune-tellers, but instead of telling me who I'll marry someday, it's telling me my future is based entirely on my little brother. Yes, the 1980s are almost over, and if the 1990s are going to be the decade of little turd brothers, then count me out. Because I don't think I can handle it anymore.

It's three a.m. and I'm about to leave my room. My fingers are twitching like they're tapping out Morse code. The message?
SOS, SOS,
of course.

I can't ever remember being so nervous about anything. If you'd told me a few months ago that talking to my little brother would make me so anxious, I'd have laughed in your face, made reference to Opposite Day, and then put Alistair in a headlock and started giving him noogies.

A lot can change in a few months and a lot did, and now I don't know what sort of person I'll be confronting. One thing is for sure: I'm not knocking. When you knock, you've already lost an argument. You've announced to the person that you're willing to let them set the terms, to invite you in or not. So, my first move in this confrontation is to bust down Alistair's door.

Okay, not bust down, exactly, even though kicking it in like a cop would be a cool thing to do. Totally unnecessary, however. You see, there are no locks on the bedrooms here in Casa de Cleary, a sad fact that I've protested for years.

“What if there were a fire?” Dad always says. “We couldn't get in and help you fast enough.”

“I'll jump out the window,” I always respond.

“We're not gambling our fates on windows that sometimes stick,” he counters. “Don't worry. We'll respect your privacy.”

For the most part, they have. Mom has slipped in a couple of times when I've overslept and was going to be late for school, but she's always apologized later. You see, there's a
Frantic
button that gets pushed on moms when you're late for school, and it causes them to do things like pour Cheerios into your lunch bag and apple juice in your cereal bowl. You can't really blame them for acting irrationally. I mean, God forbid your child misses homeroom or, gasp, ten minutes of first period Earth Science.

I guess the
Frantic
button has been pushed on me too. Only I'm not going to be apologizing for my intrusion. My fingers are still twitching as I rehearse the first few lines of my tirade, saying them into a pillow and getting louder with each word.

For two days, I've been trying to figure out why you lied and stole from me, but it seems that everyone lies and steals from me now, so it means you're just like everyone else. A. BIG. FAT. LOSER.

I've gone over it three times. I'm ready.

A LITTLE LATER IN THE MORNING

I don't have time to write, only to say that I plowed through that door and started to holler, “For two days—” But then I clamped my mouth shut. Because there she was, wrapped in a blanket, sunken into the beanbag chair.

Fiona Loomis.

 

THE MEMORY OF FIONA LOOMIS

My head hurts. Behind my eyes, deep inside. I can hardly think. I can hardly breathe.

We were out in the road, you and I. Isn't that right? And I kissed you, didn't I? Or did you kiss me? And the air was spinning. Was there snow? Yes, there was. The snow was spinning, and I was drawing pictures in the snow on the road. You were telling me to get away from my uncle. I was telling you to get away from Charlie.

Now you're telling me it's almost eight weeks later?

This doesn't make any sense. This … It's like you're saying I'm in Thessaly, but this isn't really Thessaly. This is some weird other version of it. Some version where I don't belong. But you are here and Keri is here and this sure looks like your room.

Where's the poster with the bikini babe? Prudence, right? That's what we call her. Did you take it down? I hope you did. I'm glad, because it was a stupid poster. It didn't belong here.

I belong here, don't I? I'm supposed to be here, aren't I?

I need water. Do you have water?

God, it's like this isn't anything like a dream, but this isn't anything like the real world. What did…? Someone did something to me. To my memories. To be … To be … To be …

I saw a flamingo. Or was it a heron? A big bird. A strange beak. I remember that. And a hammock. Ice cream. Lots of ice cream.

And eyes. Big eyes staring at me.

It's so cold here. Is it always this cold?

Keri, I feel like I haven't seen you in forever. But you look younger. Both of you. Is it that I got older? I know you showed me the newspaper with the date and all that, but how could the year almost be over? There hasn't been Thanksgiving. There hasn't been Christmas. There hasn't …

Why are you looking at me like that? Are you sad? Are you … I'm not sure I want to do this anymore. Turn off the tape.

Now. Now!

 

S
ATURDAY
, 12/30/1989

AFTERNOON

Insanity. For almost two straight days.

I've hardly eaten, I've hardly slept, I've hardly had a chance to even pick you up, Stella, let alone comment on the aforementioned insanity.

To see Fiona's face was so horribly wonderful. Wonderful for obvious reasons. Where the horrible part comes in is when I began to imagine what she was going through. Her brain was obviously scrambled. Beyond scrambled. Pulverized.

I put her back together.

That's what Alistair said about Sunita Agrawal, the girl from Nepal, the Astronomer. And that's what it felt like with Fiona. She'd seemed …
put back together
. But not put back together particularly well. Watching her slumped in the beanbag, I couldn't help but think of the Candy Cane Girl.

At some point, I lost track of the exact course of events, but I know that as soon as I opened that door, Alistair pulled out his old Fisher Price tape recorder and we made a tape of what Fiona said. And as soon as the tape stopped, I went upstairs and woke my parents. Then there were cops. Then there were Loomises. First Fiona's mom, red-eyed, bone-white, and shell-shocked. Then her dad, crying, which I never expected to see from that guy. He collapsed on a chair in our living room and buried his splotchy face in his arm. Everyone was basically a mess. You can't for a single second blame them for that.

Word spread fast, maybe through Mrs. Carmine, who I'm convinced has secret tunnels that lead from house to house and hides in every closet in the neighborhood to collect gossip. Helicopters were the roosters for the morning, hovering overhead and waking everyone at dawn. The news trucks that we knew so well were back too, parked at their favorite spots along the roadsides and in vacant lots.

Alistair had the tape for a full two hours, long enough for me to listen to it again and jot it down, but when the police questioned us, we were forced to hand it over.

“Where again did you find her?” they asked Alistair multiple times.

“Like I told you,” he said. “She showed up at my window and I helped her climb in. She was cold, so I gave her a blanket. We knew that it was important to have evidence of what she said, so Keri and I started the tape recorder and let her talk.”