“That sounds like her, all right. She keeps saying how we were chosen. For this special thing.”
“Well, you were,” he said, and he wrote down the word “chosen,” underlined it. “But probably not by aliens. Just don’t tell her I said that.”
“So I’m pretty much doomed,” she said.
“You’ll be okay,” he said. “You’re strong. All of you. And you seem like, I don’t know, good kids. So whoever raised you seems to have done a decent job, if you discount the fact that it wasn’t his or her or their right to do it in the first place. Either that, or you all formed a support system for each other.”
“Can I try?” She nodded at the game, and he pushed it toward her.
“Actually I have one more question for you,” he said. “It’s really just for my own research purposes.”
She took the tiny horseshoe in her hand and aimed. “What’s that?” she asked.
“I know you were only five, but do you remember anything that was happening in the world before you disappeared?”
“Such as?”
“Anything. Like a presidential election or space shuttle launch. I’m interested in when a shift occurs and memory starts to include not just small personal memories but has more context in the world.”
Scarlett’s kneejerk feeling was to just say no, but she took a minute.
The world?
The news?
Her mother’s clippings came to mind.
“Oh, like that school shooting?” she said, adjusting her grip on the toy.
“You remember hearing about that?” Sashor sat up straighter.
Well . . .
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“No,” she said. “I saw it mentioned in some articles about The Leaving.” She tossed and her horseshoe clinked around the pole. “I imagine that would be the kind of thing my mother would have gone out of her way to make sure I didn’t hear about, right? Since I was going to be going to the school.”
“Probably, yeah,” he said. “Makes sense.” He held up another tiny horseshoe. “My turn.”
Lucas
Ryan wasn’t home for Lucas to ask questions about the book, so he started reading it.
The Leaving, by Daniel Orlean—copyright 1968—was a slim 150 pages.
The author bio said only that Orlean lived in Florida and this was his first novel.
In it, Frank Mamet has decided that he doesn’t want his son, Joseph, to go away to the newly enforced government Leaving period. “They think they can raise my kids better than I can?” he says at one point. “They’re wrong. Because sure, children should be protected from society’s evils—but by their parents—and they simply can’t be raised without an awareness of the realities of the world around them. A whole generation oblivious to the truth of the human condition is a recipe for the collapse of society.”
On the eve of Joseph’s Leaving, Frank takes Joseph on the run. And while they’re being chased down by Leaving police, he tries to teach Joseph what life was like before the new government was formed and The Leaving started—telling him stories prompted by a small collection of old family photos. All the while, they are searching for a mysterious man who supposedly grants exceptions to families who are willing to go to work for a burgeoning shadow government.
His wife wants her children to go away like all the other kids. She wants them to be protected from the horrors of childhood; she is newly diagnosed with cancer and wants her children to not witness her decline and death. She wants them to leave and come back like the others have, with memories of having had a happy young life.
Frank has taken their son against her wishes.
Eventually Frank finds a community of people who are off the grid, living the old-fashioned way. Raising families together in an underground city cut off from society. He very much wants to stay, but he has left behind a dying wife and a daughter. So he leaves his son there and goes out to try to bring them back.
Turns out, his wife has died and his daughter is being cared for by a very pro-Leaving neighbor. He has to kill the woman—a childless widow—to claim his daughter and bring her with him. Alas, forces align against them and they are caught. He’s sent to prison. His daughter is sent to The Leaving. His only hope is that his son will one day rise up and fight back. His son, the keeper of those family photos, the keeper of all that is real about life and loss, may one day become a hero.
By the time he was done reading, Lucas was starving. The pickings were slim, so he grabbed a slice of cold pizza and wondered whether he knew how to cook. If he didn’t, it was time to learn.
What was taking Scarlett so long?
Why hadn’t she texted yet?
The keeper of photos.
The camera tattoo.
He went back to his room and lay down on the sagging mattress, watching dust dance.
His brain sought connections but found none.
Then, soon, noises.
Ryan.
Miranda.
The TV.