Consider (24 page)

Chapter 22

Day 161: January—572 hours to decide

Question: Does your planet have oceans and other bodies of water? Mountains and deserts?

Answer: Yes, much like Earth’s. Except our oceans look crimson from a distance, and our mountains are bigger. We do not have deserts since we can control the climate.

One week later,
my phone rings at four in the morning. As I reach for it, half awake, I expect Dominick’s voice to be on the other end of the line. At the sight of my mom’s name, I lose my breath realizing once again that Dominick’s gone and that she might be calling to tell me Dad’s gone, too.

On the contrary, Mom’s voice screams into the receiver, “He’s talking. Not clearly, but he’s awake.”

Using my phone as a light, I stumble in the darkness to wake up Benji and Marcus, who have been staying with me in the dark house. Without changing clothes, we race outside, choosing to take Dominick’s car since it has the most gas left. Benji grabs the keys from me since I’m crying so much. I don’t even fight him on it. I’m starting to wonder if people have a finite number of tears. I feel like I’m reaching my limit.

I never thought I’d be so happy to hear Dad’s voice again. Then again, I never thought Benji would be driving around in Dominick’s car while Dominick’s in another universe.

At the hospital, Mom sits at Dad’s bedside.
I am afraid to look. Afraid to celebrate too soon. Afraid of hope.
Dad stares back at me. The ventilator’s gone. His coloring’s still off, though.

“Alex?” His voice barely registers in my ears.

“Dad.” My voice hurts my throat.

He seems to be searching his own brain. “Dominick?”

Whoa. He used Dominick’s full name.

“Dominick’s fine,” I say then choke on the reality of what I just said.

Fat tears roll down my cheeks, and I manage to add, “Dominick’s gone through a vertex.”

“He saved you,” Dad whispers. My skin is on fire, and sweat pours down my back.

“What?” He must be confused. “Dad, no. We were all attacked.”

“No, you went down. I couldn’t.” He takes in a labored breath. “The tear gas. He jumped on top of you. Protected you.” Tears escape Dad’s eyes, and I wipe them for him.

Dominick saved me?
“He didn’t tell me that.”

“I need to thank him. Tell him I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Dad,” I say, sobbing uncontrollably. It’s really not okay because Dominick’s gone, and I should have gone with him. And I’m grateful and pissed off that he saved my life and never told me before he left the planet. He was willing to sacrifice his life for me, and in the end, I couldn’t even say yes.

We gather in
the hospital hallway to let Dad sleep. As people pass us in a stream of unending misery and various states of unrest, I know that I need a team of my own to make it through this. What happens with the comet isn’t my concern anymore. My focus is on leaving, not staying and hoping for survival. I promised Dominick.

“We should convince Dad to leave,” I announce to Mom and Benji.

“About time you say something that makes sense,” Benji says.

Mom looks out the window of the hospital floor and says, “He’s too weak. We have to give him all the time he needs to heal before we can move him.”

Wait, was that a yes?
“So you will convince him to go?” I ask.

“He’ll go if I say it’s time,” she states.

“Since when?” Benji says. “He doesn’t listen to anybody.”

“He’ll go if I say it’s time.”

I realize she’s right. He will.

“Yeah, okay.” Benji walks off. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

His lack of faith makes me all the more determined to help Mom convince Dad and show Benji that we’re stronger than we seem.

On January 10,
the news reports the release of the second round of prisoners to exit the planet via vertex. Dad’s in and out of consciousness, so Mom and I haven’t had the chance to speak to him about leaving. Doctors say his condition is slowly improving, although they are still not sure about possible brain damage. They say moving him now would likely kill him.

So we wait.

Days later, while
Mom sleeps nearby, I watch television in Dad’s hospital room, thinking about Dominick and wondering what he’s doing right now.
If he’s even still alive. Actually, if he’s in some far-away future and I’m living in the past, then for him I am long dead.
The thought unsettles me on such a deep level that I take a pill to stop the roller coaster of crazy, sci-fi paradoxical thinking that my brain cannot seem to avoid.

At midnight, a news flash from Boston appears on the television. The holograms have a new message. I turn up the volume and watch a gray-clad holographic human deliver its new speech to a crowd:

“If you are still listening to this message, you have been unwilling to admit the urgency of your situation. In eighteen calendar days, a comet will strike your planet and destroy your people. This is your known destruction; there is no way to prevent it.

“You are in grave danger. Put aside your pride and possessions for your lives. Simply walk through the vertex. We are willing to help you. You can survive. It is your individual choice.

“This is the last automatic message. You only have four hundred thirty-two hours left to decide. The vertexes will remain open until then.

“Consider. Save your people. Save yourself before it is too late.”

I watch Dad’s unconscious body and will him to get better. I need him to get better.

What would it
be like to leave Earth forever? I mean, really. I imagine the brilliant sunrise and the calming sunset, the thoughtful moon and the hopeful stars, the lapping of the ocean and the magic of snow.
Can I live without these things? Will I be the same if my world changes?

I tried to follow Buddhism a few years ago to try to quell my anxiety. But basically, Buddha says everything changes. Everything. And that if we accept that, we will find peace.

Change can suck it.

I need to hold on to something. I need something to stay exactly the way it should.

It's January 15.
Artemis should reach the comet today. Everyone in the hospital waits, staring at televisions, computers, tablets, and cell phone screens for the play by play. It’s like a cosmic sporting event. Who knew that in a world disaster, rather than fighting for ourselves, the majority of us would simply stare helplessly at technology waiting for someone else to rescue us?

I try to focus on the screen, waiting to hear news, but my mind keeps wondering about Dad’s latest condition so I can ask him to leave. I’m worried that Benji will be right, and I’m waiting for nothing. Either Dad will never wake up again, or he will wake up and refuse to go.

“Did we miss anything?” Marcus asks as he and Benji join me and Mom in the hospital room to watch the state of humanity unfold before our eyes.

“Any minute now,” Mom says. “I don’t think I can take the pressure.”

“You sound like me,” I mutter.

“No one was meant to take this kind of pressure,” Marcus says. “I just hope it works.”

“No trial runs,” Benji says. “One miscalculation and it blows the comet to pieces.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Mom asks.

“The pieces would still kill us,” I say.

“What Ms. Optimism said,” Benji comments.

Sometimes—ugh.
Maybe I’ll lock Benji in a room, and the family can escape through a vertex while he stays here.

The television breaks from regularly scheduled programming for an important announcement. The Secretary of Defense fills the screen, clears his throat, and says in an unwavering voice, “Unfortunately, our efforts with the United Nations to divert the comet with the CORE project have failed. The president will be making a public address shortly. We have a scientist from NASA here to answer questions.”

We watch in horror as the scientist scrambles to show diagrams of what he thinks happened. Some navigational math error. Despite the nuclear blasts’ enormous energy, it had no effect on the comet’s trajectory. The scientist on screen is shaking, apologizing, not understanding what went wrong. The consolation prize: no nuclear fallout as far as they can tell.

It’s over. Within seconds, the media frenzy kicks in. They seem almost happy that it missed. More dramatic footage. More manic reporting with rapid-fire speech and microphones shoved in people’s faces, “How do you feel knowing NASA failed?” How do they think people feel? It’s not like winning the Superbowl. They don’t want to go to Disney World. The world is ending. Drop the freakin’ mic.

Mom, Benji, and Marcus are all on their feet. Mom has her hands over her face. Benji starts moving back and forth from the bed to the windows. People move when they panic. Marcus starts to cry. I rub his back.

Panic: from Pan in Greek mythology, a satyr who was known to create irrational, sudden fear in people for fun. Something that happens to everyone except me, apparently, when an Earth-crushing, hot mass barreling toward the planet is imminent.

What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I not panicking?
I think I’m broken.

When the time is right for the feeling of panic, I feel the way I always do. There’s a comfort in this. Panic cannot get bigger. It caps off. I feel the same tightness in my chest, the same pulse in my ears, the same inability to catch my breath. And for the first time in a long time, I’m not battling it alone.

I fit in. I don’t look weird or out of control to others. Instead, I can stay remarkably calm and provide comfort. I’ve practiced. This is my normal.

Maybe deep down, I wanted CORE to fail so we would finally have an absolute reason to join the others. If CORE had succeeded, we’d have stayed, and Dominick and Rita would’ve been lost forever.
I mean, how would we have gotten them back?
The thought that I would want the planet to blow up makes me start to gag on my feelings.
Just call me Nihilistic Girl.

A flashing news ticker across the TV screen reminds us of our fate: “CORE fails to divert comet. President Lee to address the nation momentarily.”

I wonder if the president had two separate speeches prepared, one for victory and one for failure. We’re getting the Plan B speech. The oops-time-for-an-apocalypse speech. Must have been difficult to write. I wonder if they’ve always had the speech available, saved in a vault for the end of days.

On screen, President Lee sits in the oval office wearing a navy blue suit with a crisp white shirt. I wonder how they decided that should be the outfit to tell us we are all going to die.
Why not black for our funeral? Or red for our fiery destruction?
The American flag and the President’s flag curtain a dark window behind her. Underneath the window lies a table with framed pictures of the presidential family.

She begins her speech after a quick voice-over introduction:

“Unfortunately, as you know by now, our efforts, along with the United Nations and the wonderful scientists across the world, have failed to divert the comet. At this time, we cannot control or predict the outcome and aftermath of the comet’s inevitable impact.

“We suggest that citizens decide for themselves whether or not they will exit through a vertex, or stay and hope to rebuild the world. Our nation began as a pilgrimage centuries ago and so, perhaps, it is only fitting that it ends with another voyage to an unknown land. The pilgrims did not know for certain whether they would reach land, but with faith they took that plunge toward a new life.

“As president, I will not leave the planet. I will stand with my fellow Americans who stay behind to rebuild whatever is left of this great nation. The Secretary of State and his family have chosen to leave through a vertex and will serve as the voice of the U.S. for those who choose to depart.

“Whether you stay or go, we are still one. America will live on. Though we face an adversary greater than any before, though it comes to wreck our world, it will not, cannot, crush the American spirit.”

She stands and spreads out the presidential flag to reveal its national symbol for the camera.

“The bald eagle, as seen on the flag, has for many years symbolized our nation. The eagle is not only a sign of freedom. An eagle with spread wings is a protector, represented by the American shield it wears proudly on its chest.

“In one talon it holds thirteen arrows; in the other talon it holds an olive branch, symbolizing peace. Notice that the eagle’s head faces peace. Given two choices, the eagle seeks peace and grace above all else.

“Last, in its beak the eagle holds a ribbon with the motto
E plu
ribus unum,
meaning ‘Out of many, one.’ We are still a united nation of states unified as one with an undying, unyielding spirit. Carry that spirit with you wherever you go. We may be many families and friends and faces, but we are one country. One human race.

“This is not the end, my friends. It is never the end. This is only a goodbye.

“So for perhaps the last time, I stand before you and say, ‘Good night. And may God bless America.’”

She salutes the camera.

Benji and Marcus salute back. Mom joins them, crying, but I can’t. I swallow and breathe. Tears finally start to run down my face.
It’s really happening. The end of the world.

Benji elbows me to participate. I still can’t salute. The National Anthem plays in the background. The three of them start singing along. Other patients and families in the room join in an off-tune choir of the famous song, getting choked up at various lyrics.

It’s all too patriotic for me. My death will not be patriotic. I’m an eighteen-year-old girl who had plans to be a lawyer and now has to either leave the planet or face a comet. It’s not an American tragedy. It isn’t even a world tragedy. Death is a solo.

When the television returns to frantic media coverage, Benji shuts it off and says, “We need to leave. Now.”

Marcus agrees with him.

“What about Dad?” I ask.

“Screw Dad,” Benji says. “He’d want us to go. He’d want us to be safe. He wanted to give the government a chance, and we did, and they screwed it up. Now he’d want us safe.”