Blue Hearts of Mars (29 page)

“Those places sound exciting to me. I’ve never been anywhere.” She played with a loose thread on the white hospital sheet, looking glum.

“Hey come on. They’ll still be there when you’re better.” I squeezed her forearm encouragingly.

“
If
I get better.”

“Pish. Don’t talk like that. It’s bad for your mental health.” Still standing beside her bed, I gave her hand a little squeeze. “So, do they know what’s wrong?”

“Something with my heart. Some kind of heart disease. It’s making me tired and weak. I fainted when dad and I realized you were gone. It sucks.”

“And do they have a treatment for you?” I ignored the uncomfortable feeling that it was my fault she fainted.

“They’re working on it, I guess. For now I’m stuck here.”

“What, is it like, new or uncommon or something?”

Her tiny shoulders rose in a weak shrug and I felt a batch of warmth behind my eyes like I was going to burst into tears. She was so small and innocent. So undeserving of this. Hadn’t she already been through enough?

“Is it genetic? Is it something you catch? Have they told you much?”

“Not really. Dad knows more than me, I think.”

“Well, isn’t that killing you? I mean,” I stuttered, totally horrified at my choice of words, “sorry, um, isn’t not knowing completely frustrating?”

“I don’t want to know. I don’t care. If I never find out, I can keep thinking I’ll get better and it will vanish, whatever it is. I’ll get better, Retta. I know I will.” She looked up at me with her pale complexion and those green eyes that seemed to confess a fear of being defeated. She was being so calm and mature about it. I wondered where her strength came from.

I leaned over her bed and hugged her. She felt like a tiny bird in my arms and I shoved my tears down and told her she would get better if I had anything to do with it.

“I miss mom,” she said when I let her go. That almost did me in. I nearly lost it. I bit my lip hard and smiled around it like there was nothing heart-wrenching about my hospitalized little thirteen-year-old sister telling me she missed our mom. “Do you ever miss her?” she asked, squinting at me and fiddling with that thread. She’d wrapped it around her finger and was pulling it tight.

“Yeah, I do. All the time. But you know what, Marta?” I took a deep breath. “Mom misses us too. She’s here with us, right now, I can feel it. She never leaves us. She never really
left
us. She’s just changed,” I said, surveying the room. Marta looked around too like she might be able to see mom. I went on, “She’s a spirit now. But she’s real.”

I don’t know if I believed what I was saying, but I wanted to comfort Marta. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t true anyway or whether I believed it. What mattered was how it made Marta perceive her situation. Did it make her feel less alone? Did it make her feel like there were more people on her side? If so, then I was willing to tell her the things she needed to hear.

“How’s it going in here?” Dad asked, poking his head into the room. He came in and sat down in a chair behind me. He took a sip of the coffee he’d returned with. I backed away from the bed and sat down next to him.
I backed away from the bed and sat down next to him.

“Good,” Marta said, flashing me a look that said she wanted to keep our conversation to ourselves. “I’m glad Retta’s back.”

“As am I, Marta. As am I.” He folded his arms across his chest and shook his head at me as though to say, “I can’t believe you ran off like that.”

“What?” I asked, defensively. “Dad, there’s a lot you don’t know. So much. I didn’t just run off because I’m bad, or a runaway, or something.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Real mature, Dad,” I said, shaking my head.

Marta laughed. Both Dad and I looked at her, then back at each other. That was the first time I’d heard her laugh since my return. I smiled. If verbally sparring with Dad got Marta feeling good, I was willing to fall on that sword for her.

*****

“You what?” Dad shouted, his face quivering in barely contained rage.

We were back at the apartment. Marta was still in the hospital, but Dad would be going back later to stay with her through the evening and night. I’d just told him about the marriage ceremony I’d done with Hemingway.

“I married him,” I said resolutely. I wasn’t going to let him bully me into backing out or changing what I’d just said, which is what yelling is supposed to do, I’ve always thought.

“What? You . . . how . . . what?” He sputtered loudly again. His face turned purple. A vein began popping out of his neck as he stood, stock still in the middle of the great room. His fingers were clasped tightly around a glass of ice water. I worried he was going to crush the glass and cut his hand up.

“Dad, look. It was bound to happen someday anyway. I mean, maybe not to Hemingway, but to someone. If not him, then someone else, although I don’t really want anyone else, so it’s him.” I crossed my arms over my chest and lifted my chin up. I would hold my ground. That’s what adults did and I was going to be an adult about this.

“Retta! He’s a blue heart. A blue heart! You can’t marry a blue heart, you can’t—you can’t be with one, like, like that. Intimately, I mean. He’s—he’s a freak.” He closed his eyes, put his free hand to the bridge of his nose, and tilted his head back like he was so appalled. It was dramatic and unlike my father. “What do you think? That you’re some sort of crusader? You won’t change the world, Retta. If anything it will change you. You’re messing with forces that are far bigger than you can possibly imagine.”

I stared at him like he was being a total moron. Which he was. I’d never say that, though.

“Dad, you’re being a total moron.” Well, maybe I would. “This is ridiculous. It’s done and you can’t stop it. We’re together. It’s what we both want. And I’m old enough to make my own decisions. And what do you know about being intimate with a blue heart? Have you tried it?” I folded my arms, challenging him to making some admission about his possible sex life with the blue hearts.

“No, no. I’ve never done that. More important, I’ve never wanted to.”

“Why not? They’re always beautiful. So much more beautiful than humans.”

“Retta, they’re
artificial
. They were created by human hands.”

“So were humans. But not their hands, generally. I mean, humans are created by humans.”

“Not the first human.”

“No? Who created that one?”

“Well, God, I think, but I don’t really know,” he said, looking distracted and putting his glass of water down on the circular, wide rim of the living room Gram. He sat on the long sofa and leaned back with a deep sigh. He’d finally calmed down enough for us to have a real conversation.

“So you’re telling me you believe in God?” I asked quietly. Dad wasn’t religious. He never took us to church even though there were thousands of them, the strongest of which was the Church of the Atheists for the Triumph of Scientific Thought, but when mom was alive, she only took us a few times to the Methodist church.

“No, no. I’m not. I’m just saying, humans were first. It was our advancements that brought the blue hearts to life. You’re like a God to them. All humans are. You’re taking advantage of your position of power over them.”

“They don’t worship us,” I said, gasping and going to sit across from him. “They’re just like us. They have souls. Do you even think about that? We made them, and from somewhere, consciousness came to them, they became awake. They have souls.”

“So? Why would I think about it? They were made to do a job and now they’re still here, living amongst us out of our own goodwill. They haven’t the right to marry us and you shouldn’t have done it.” He leaned forward, fixing my gaze with his intently. “Retta, do you really want to tie your future up with him? You’ll never be able to have children. You know how important you and Marta are to me. Don’t you want that for yourself?”

I straightened, appalled and slightly pissed off that he’d play the children card. “How do you know I can’t have children with him?”

He turned his palms toward the ceiling, cocked his head to one side and shrugged. “Common knowledge.”

“I don’t care. I want to be with him. You don’t even know him. You don’t know what we’re like when we’re together.”

“I know he’s hurt you, that’s enough for me.” His voice was grim and accusing, as though I had run to the arms of some abusive monster and he was disappointed in me for not being stronger.

“He was doing that to protect me!” I shouted. “He knew how bad it would be for me—and he was right. Look at you. You don’t even know him, Dad,” I spat. “Mom would like him. Mom would have supported me.” I couldn’t help it. It came out of nowhere. But before the words were fully out of my mouth, I regretted them. I watched him, feeling my eyes widen, a bit worried that he would—I don’t know, hit me? Or something, for invoking my mother. My dad had never struck me. I knew he wouldn’t, but I’d never really pushed him as far as I was pushing him.

Dad glowered at me, then heaved a sigh. “Fine, Retta.” He ran his hands over his face and blinked a few times, as though he was clearing his vision. “Fine. You want to use your mother’s name, so be it. I can’t stop you from being with Hemingway. It’s your choice. Just remember that I warned you. You’re not picking an easy road for yourself. Marriage is hard enough without stacking the deck against it.”

That was it? Wow. I couldn’t believe I’d won. I suppressed my euphoria, trying to be mature, and raised an eyebrow. “Maybe so. But we’ll cling to each other because the world will always try to tear us apart.”

“I hope you do. For your sakes,” he said, taking a long drink.

I stood, wiped my palms on my jeans, and went to my bedroom. Knocking lightly, I paused before pushing the door open softly.

“Hey,” I said.

Hemingway lay on my bed, staring up at the ceiling with his hands behind his head. He sat up and smiled. “How’d it go?”

“What, like you weren’t listening,” I said from the doorway.

He began to act like he hadn’t been, shaking his head and appearing innocent, but gave it up quickly. “Yeah, yeah, I was. Your poor dad. He just wants what’s best for you.”

“What
he
thinks is best for me.” I went into the room and shut the door behind me. “I’m the one who has to live my life. Not him. If I only did what he wanted me to do, I’d be living his life.”

“Do you think he’ll be OK with it? Us? Forever?”

“Who knows?”

“He’s wrong, I think, about blue hearts and humans having kids together.”

“It doesn’t even matter to me. I picked you—kids or no kids. We can also do what your mother did and have blue heart kids.”

“She wants to talk to us, together, did I tell you? I meant to. But your dad’s greeting distracted me.” When Hemingway had gotten to the apartment, earlier, Dad had glared at him coolly and said nothing. He just left the door open and walked away, turning his back on Hemingway and everything. It was very grown up of my dad.

“When?”

“It sounded urgent, but . . . I don’t know for sure.”

“Have her come over?” I offered.

“Smart. I think I’m safer here. From, you know, the agents or whoever they’ll send for me.”

“They won’t send anyone if they know what’s good for them,” I said, threateningly. It made Hemingway laugh, but I was serious. I knew what kind of ferocity was in me now. I was fiercer than Mei. Than Hans. Than anyone I had ever known except maybe Hemingway.

“Retta, it’s so good to see you again,” Sonja said as she breezed into my apartment, her velvet voice full of friendly energy. She gave me a light peck on the cheek and streamed warmly through the small foyer, into the kitchen area and great room. My dad’s apartment seemed safe—Hemingway did a sweep (he called it) of the area—so we were using it for now. Sonja went on, “Although, I do object to how you and Hemingway just ran off like that.”

“Hemingway explained, didn’t he?” I glanced at him. He shook his head and gave me a look.

“He explained
something
.” Sonja turned from inspecting the apartment in time to see Hemingway biting his lip. “Apparently not everything.” She pursed her lips and tilted her head down in motherly disapproval. The gesture was so reminiscent of my own mother that I felt an ache shoot through me.

“Nikodemus,” Sonja said, sidestepping me to get to my dad. “It’s been too long, hasn’t it?” She smiled and took his hands warmly, then gave him a kiss on either cheek. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“Nice to see you again, Sonja,” Dad said. His cheeks flared red. He cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m on my way back to the hospital for the night.”

“Marta?” Sonja asked, letting his hands go reluctantly. At least it seemed reluctant to me.

Dad nodded.

“What’s wrong with her, if I may ask?” She watched my dad with concerned eyes as he explained the diagnosis—heart disease, dilated cardiomyopathy. Sonja’s hand went to her chin as she listened, nodding sympathetically at appropriate times. Occasionally she asked a question, which Dad answered as best he could. Hemingway and I went back to our seats on the couch, whispering together about their conversation.