Woke Up Lonely (8 page)

“I might have overstated it. There’s talk, sure, but probably there’s talk everywhere. I haven’t made too many friends yet—I mean, because I’m rarely at my desk—but the people I know seem moderately interested at best.”

“But you’re
in
the Helix, right?”

“I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”

“How well’s it working out for you? Have you found
true love?
”

Anne-Janet frowned. There was venom here, but who had the energy to care? “Not
yet,
” she said. “But if you must know, I was just out with some department friends, and, since you mention it, I did meet someone. A colleague. It was a Helix event, jam-packed.”

“I see,” Lynne said. “So, basically, if I’m getting this right, you don’t give a hoot about anarchists or revolutionaries so long as you’re avoiding your mother and scouting for love.”

Anne-Janet’s mouth opened. Her front teeth were overlaid, of which she was conscious to the point of never opening her mouth except to yawn, talk, eat—certainly not to express surprise or, in this case, alarm, because this Lynne of the close quarters was the most repellent nurse ever.

“I have to go now,” she said.

Mental notes: Lynne Somebody, midfifties, Reed Memorial Hospital, short in stature, face arranged like an open cash register. Wears surgical gloves at all times; might be wigged. Further research: look up Jewish Orthodoxy or female hair loss. At least Anne-Janet would have something to do at work.

She returned to her mother, who was, in fact, still asleep. No, she was feigning sleep to avoid chat with her roommate, who had grown vocal about how stuff happens for a reason, like maybe a shot to the gut was going to open doors for her. Maybe her son might come to see in her scrambled intestine a reason to stay out of the gangs. Maybe her boyfriend would come to find in the accident purchase for his self-esteem: he could take care of her, be a man. That neither son nor boyfriend had come did not so much rock her theories as grow them to include the virtue of patience.

Anne-Janet sat on the edge of her mother’s bed. “Now, Mom, listen to me. You’re just getting a plate and some screws in your hip. Not a big deal. You will piss off everyone at the airport, but that’s about it. Recovered in a few weeks.”

Marie opened one eye. “I understand I can stay in a rehabilitation center until I am well enough to be self-sufficient. That way I won’t be a burden on you.”

“Mom, you are not a burden.”

“But you can’t handle my needs at your place, can you? It’s too much. I don’t want to be a burden.”

Anne-Janet looked away, settled her eyes on the rise and fall of the roommate’s chest. It was so tedious, this runaround, her mother never saying what she meant but always getting her wants across.

The roommate said, “You ought to talk to each other—don’t just sit there in silence. When my son comes, you can bet we won’t just be sitting here in silence. Unless I’m slapping ’im up the head or something. Ow, don’t make me laugh. Ow, ow.”

Anne-Janet turned to her. “It’s fine to sit in silence. This is a hospital. Silence is
fine.
”

“No, that’s not right. People want to feel like they got people.”

“Feel whatever you like,” Marie said. “But the bottom line is the same. You’re born alone, you die alone”—and she closed her eyes with the thought.

“Mom, you are not alone,” Anne-Janet said. But it’s not like she didn’t know what her sick parent was talking about.

Ned Hammerstein: In my heart, I knew it was true.
DOB 1.18.72 SS# 615-47-2165

Esme couldn’t get her clothes off alone, so she used scissors. She cut through the foam tubed around her arms as well. Probably Martin had doubles in the basement. Doubles and triples. Same for her face—he had all the molds—so she pulled it off in haste. She never went to the basement, but it was like an almanac of all the lives she’d taken on as a means of escaping her own. And Martin was her curator. In this way, her only friend. He knew her better than anyone. He’d lifecast her body a hundred times. He had, over the years, captured its bow to time. He could even tame the outpouring of her moods—acne, sweat, tears. They’d had their glory days, though none so glorious as their stint in North Korea. Even Esme was shocked by what they’d managed to pull off there. Shocked and elated and dismantled in ways she hadn’t thought possible for anyone, certainly not herself.

She put on a nightie and sleep socks, which came up well above her knees. She looked at her console of TVs. At her daughter’s room, where a stuffed platypus was bedfellowed among several sheep and a brindled whale, while Ida kept quarters under the box frame. On a scalloped foam pad. Why choose the underbed instead of the bed itself? Esme couldn’t say, but she imagined it was because down there, Ida felt both denied and protected—safe under the crossbeams but also in self-sacrifice, as if martyring her comfort would keep her mother home.

It was too early for Esme to sleep, and so, instead: surveillance, what she did best. She could do this all night; it would be company enough. Ned, Anne-Janet, one feed per channel. She’d had their places bugged and wired. She took out a pen and paper and sat back to record what she saw.

Ned Hammerstein, 2221 hrs:
At his desk, typing. Wearing a
Star Wars
X-wing pilot’s costume procured via new friends in the 501st Legion’s Old Line Garrison. The 501st was mostly a Stormtrooper outfit, but it had connections. Compassion, too. When a man discovered he had a secret twin, and his response was to brandish affinity with the ur-twin, the 501st understood. The costume was pumpkin romper, chest box, black utility belt, leg straps, and, on the floor, a Rotocast vinyl helmet, which Ned would don for video conferencing. For now, though, he was just in a chat room.

Girlfriend in a dumpster:
But if Luke & Leia were supposed to be twins in Lucas’s grand scheme, why were the actors so dissimilar in appearance, and why all the flirting?

Curious Yellow:
Yeah, I still remember my reaction when I heard, “Leia. Leia is my sister!” I was like, huh? Totally UNLIKE my reaction to, “Luke. I am your father.” In my heart, I knew it was true!

Thomas Merton:
You know, I’m just going to say it. Incest is a taboo because it produces defective children. But if the twins live in a galaxy-spanning Empire, surely they can get gene therapy, or produce their children in a lab so there’ll be no defects. And if that’s the case, there’s NO REASON for them not to get together if they want to.

Girlfriend in a dumpster:
But if Luke & Leia were supposed to be twins in Lucas’s grand scheme, why were the actors so dissimilar in appearance, and why all the flirting?

Curious Yellow:
Yeah, I still remember my reaction when I heard, “Leia. Leia is my sister!” I was like, huh? Totally UNLIKE my reaction to, “Luke. I am your father.” In my heart, I knew it was true!

Thomas Merton:
You know, I’m just going to say it. Incest is a taboo because it produces defective children. But if the twins live in a galaxy-spanning Empire, surely they can get gene therapy, or produce their children in a lab so there’ll be no defects. And if that’s the case, there’s NO REASON for them not to get together if they want to.

Ned leaned back in his chair. He liked where this chat was going. He wondered what his sister’s name was. And whether she knew about him. His father’s company had a PI on retainer, whose job now was to find her. So far, he’d found nothing. But give it time.

The day Ned got back from L.A. with his adoption papers, he changed his voice mail greeting. It still had all the perfunctories—You’ve reached Ned—but with a new variation: No matter who you are, please leave a message. So far, the upshot had been to encourage his mother to leave several messages when she might otherwise have been cowed, the scene in L.A. still fresh in her mind. Ned answered one call for her every six. She was so sorry. She had never meant for it to come out like this; it was just that his father’s antics had her crazy. Neddy, say something. Say something or I will turn on the car in the garage and close all the doors.

Monday was only two days away. What a horror. Was it too soon to call Anne-Janet? He could always find her at work, which might make it that much less of a horror. But it would do nothing for him now.

The phone was ringing. Caller ID said it was his mom. His fake mom. He did not want to answer, but one day she would be dead, and then wouldn’t he be sorry.

As it turned out, she was calling not to apologize but to ask about a rumor she’d just heard at a buffet cocktail fund-raiser for the Los Angeles Philharmonic.

“What rumor, Mom?” He said this with a groan.

“Well,” she said.

He walked to the fridge, in which was a yogurt and a jar of peanut butter. The choice was obvious. He grabbed a plastic spoon and a paper towel and forked a clump of peanut butter into his mouth. He would not be able to talk for three minutes.

“Am I on speakerphone?” she said. “I hate speakerphone. Oh, go on, don’t talk with your mouth full. Okay, so this
rumor.
Wait, you need some background. Ned, honestly, do
not
talk with your mouth full.”

He spun in his chair. Nicest thing in the apartment by far. It had wheels and adjustable features like height and angle of recline. He loved this chair, even as it did not love him. He had not been able to wrest it from its current posture in three years.

“So,” she said. “You know there are a lot of bigwigs at these functions. People who put a lot of money into politics and expect to be kept in the loop. I was at the oyster bar and looking at your father because he was just sitting by himself. I understand we are having a situation at home—”

“You know, Mom, this sounds like girl talk, and you know who likes girl talk? Girls.
Daughters.
Hey, I heard you had a daughter once. Good thing she’s not here for you now.” He sounded angry, but really he was depressed. His sister! Maybe she had twists of hair that pecked her neck and shoulders as she walked. Maybe the naves of her eyes were where you went to pray for happiness and got it.

Larissa’s voice went dead. “Do you want to hear the rumor or not?”

He posted to the forum.
The thing about Luke is that he’s able to do what no other Jedi has so far: he can feel love without turning evil.

“What, Mom, what? What is your rumor?”

“That the Helix is
weaponized
and that the FBI or CIA or whatever is about to launch some sort of campaign to stop it.”

Ned snorted. “I wouldn’t know about that, ma’am, I just till the land. Department of the Interior, yeehaw.” Like he was going to tell his mother about his speed dates, the RYLS, or anything suckered to the baileys of his heart and climbing over.

“Neddy, I get that you are upset, and that I’m supposed to be patient with whatever you say to me, but at some point, my patience will run out.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and then he stopped to consider whether this was true. He tended to apologize by default and figure it out later. But yes, he was sorry. He didn’t want to be an asshole, no matter that his whole life was a lie and it was this woman’s fault. He yanked at the crotch of his suit; it had been riding up his legs. Maybe this was what he should tell his mother, that he was dressed like Luke Skywalker and, let’s face it, would take his privates in hand the moment they hung up. He stared at the strap mullioned down his chest and between his legs.

“Nice rumor,” he said.

“Do you think it’s crazy?”

“Probably. The Helix is dangerous? Far as I know, they’re just trying to help.”

Then again, it was possible. Anything was possible now that so many people had thrown in their lot with a weirdo cult whose galvanizing and inexhaustible resource was loneliness in America.

There was a pause on the line. He could hear her thinking. She was worried; he’d have liked her to worry more. Finally, she came out with it. “Do
you
need help, Neddy? Because I know some people in D.C., and if your insurance won’t cover it, your father and I have, you know, the funds for it.”

He laughed. “You want to palm me off on a shrink?” He laughed again until he noticed a slick of peanut oil on his X-wing fighter jumpsuit.

“No,” she said wearily. “I think it’d be better if you just kept it all inside.”

“The Helix is harmless,” he said. “But even if it weren’t, that stuff never goes down well. What are they going to do? Storm the castle?”

“There’s a castle?”

“Compound. Whatever.”

“They have a compound? How do you know?”

“Mom, stop. I don’t know. I’m just saying.”

“It’s amazing,” she said. “The passion is there. Everyone seems so excited about the Helix.”

“Are you seriously wondering why?”

He knew she was staring at the family photos ordered atop the piano—her, Max, Ned, year after year—because when she said, “No, not really,” it was plangent for all the ways those photos betokened what had been lost to them as a family.

“I gotta go, Mom,” he said. And even though she had not said bye, he hung up.

Esme turned off the TV. She was peeling a clementine. The rind was clotted under her nails and tinting them orange. She was not surprised news of ARDOR had gotten out. Security leaks were a D.C. special, ever since that megalomaniac sprung the Pentagon Papers. These days you couldn’t piss on a toilet seat without someone telling the
Washington Post.
Still, it pained her to imagine the project name on someone else’s lips and contextualized poorly. It wasn’t even her idea, this name, just some guy at the Joint Chiefs tapping the JANAP 299 for a suitable word, the irony being that these words traditionally hewed to projects that did not bear out their meaning (Manhattan Project, anyone?). And yet there it was, ARDOR, which classified Jim Bach’s stint to dismantle the Helix and its guru.

Esme heard a phone ring, but since it was not her phone—cell, inhouse, or the secure line—she looked up at screen two just as Anne-Janet considered the name on her caller ID—Do I answer? Do I have the stamina? Can I alchemize my mood from depressed to effervescent?—and then listened to the dial tone on the machine. Ned had hung up. Damn. Double damn, since now she couldn’t call him back. If she called him back, he’d know she was screening. What sort of a woman screens? A reclusive, awkward woman who doesn’t know how to wear makeup or to feather the underside of a man’s penis with her tongue.