Julie stares past me through the window, watching the hellish death of whatever city this was, burned at the stake for the heresy of surviving. I see memories rushing past her eyes, sadness and pain and anger. Then she closes them and curls up in her seat, her back to the window and to me.
I watch the blaze until it disappears behind us and darkness reclaims the view. Darkness or fire. Are these our only options?
MY MOTHER.
She believes in a better world. But it’s far away and mysterious and we will have no part in building it. The new world will be handed to us fully formed and perfect, dropped from the sky to cover the mess we’ve made of this one. This one’s doom was written into its creation, never more than a disposable stage for a brief drama whose plot no one understands and whose ending no one can revise. The only change we can effect is how quickly the end comes, because we have nothing in us but destruction. We are corrupt from before birth, and if it ever appears we’ve done good, it’s not us but God’s hand inside us, moving our limbs to accomplish his plan. Our greatest sin is believing that we matter.
This is what my mother believes and what she teaches me, so I can’t understand why she works at a refugee camp. Feeding the children of war casualties, finding homes for displaced families . . . aren’t these people supposed to die? Isn’t this the Last Sunset we’ve been waiting for? Why is she trying to pull the sun back up?
I ask her these questions and they upset her. They dim the glow that fills her face when she works at the camp, mending clothes, administering medicine, cooking huge vats of stew. Helping people brings her joy, even though it’s pointless. I decide to leave it alone.
I go with her to the refugee camp whenever I can because my father isn’t there. I get to choose clothes from the donations pile to replace my worn-out rags from home. My father says we have plenty and don’t need anyone’s help, but I think we’re not far above the refugees themselves. At the end of each day, my mother throws a few cans of food into her purse. She says not to tell my father.
Grass-stained acid-washed jeans. A turquoise Mickey Mouse sweatshirt. My choices don’t reflect any personal aesthetics. I am ten years old and poor. I take the clothes that fit.
“Hello, Mrs. Atvist.”
“What are you doing here?”
I stop digging through the shoe bin and listen to the two voices out on the curb. My mother’s is soft but stern and I can picture her standing with her hands knotted in front of her, demure but unmovable. The other is dry and smoky, the creak of burned timber breaking. It’s just barely familiar. I must have been a toddler the last time I heard my grandfather’s voice.
“I’ve been trying to talk to my son but he’s balls-deep in this Holy Fire bullshit. I can’t get a word through his skull. Thought maybe I could talk to you instead.”
“What would make you think I’d go against my husband? Or our church? Holy Fire is our family.”
“I’m your family, God damn it. I want to help you.”
“We don’t want your help.”
“It’s a fucking embarrassment. I run one of the last corps in America and my son is living in a shack. My grandson’s pulling piss-stained jockeys out of charity bags . . .”
“Leave him out of it.”
“. . . and my daughter-in-law is stealing canned beans from a hobo shelter.”
“Your money won’t be worth much in a few years.”
“Money’s not the only currency.”
His thin face. His tobacco-stained grin leering through the window of his hulking white Range Rover. I watch him from behind my mother’s legs like a much younger boy.
“Hey, kid!” His eyes dart to me, catlike.
“Go back inside,” my mother tells me.
I obey, but I stand inside the doorway and listen.
“What kind of a mother are you? I could make your kid prince of the new world and you’re gonna let him starve with the peasants?”
“The world is God’s, and he’s about to burn it away.”
“Listen to me. I’ve been working my whole life to put this family on top of the food chain. I’m not letting you or my little bitch of a son turn us back into rabbits.”
“Leave us alone. Don’t come here again.”
“When things get bad, you’ll call me.” He raises his voice, shouting through the doorway. “Call me anytime, R—! I’ll be waiting.”
? ? ?
His voice echoes in my ears as my third life—my real life—reclaims my mind. I hear my name on his lips and I mute it out. I redact it. No matter how far my past encroaches on my present, I will not take its name. I won’t let it scribble over the one I built with Julie.
The plane is dark, but the world outside is gray, the sun lurking somewhere just below the mountains. Julie is asleep by my side, still curled into a tight ball. The air is cool and her arms are wrapped around her bare shoulders, trembling. I tuck her old quilt around her, but her spasms don’t subside.