I wouldn’t even ask to see his face;
I’d settle for the music of his voice from down the hall —
a three a.m. cry for his mother’s milk.
— EPITAPH FOR LUKE HONEY (MAY 6, 2067–AUGUST 7, 2067),
BY MARIA HONEY, HIS MOTHER,
NOVEMBER 2, 2068
JUNE 16, 2097 — THIRTY YEARS LATER
Glum and restless, I stared out through the living room window as rain ticked sideways against the glass and flowed steadily down. In the late-afternoon murk, the glossy streaks of wet looked like narrow metal bars. This wasn’t a prison, but the nonstop Sunday downpour made it feel like one. Outside, the sprawling carpet of grass drank in the cloudburst. I could practically see the individual blades growing, which meant more work for me. But not today, a bad day for mowing lawns. Or hopping on my bike and heading off to somewhere — anywhere — more exciting.
Maybe the rainfall was trying to tell me something. Because what I should have been doing was getting ready for my trials. Confined by the weather to this big old house, with most of its other residents in their rooms or otherwise quietly keeping to themselves, I had only one excuse for not studying: Mom had asked me to meet her here. She was going to make time in her busy schedule for a “visit” with me. How could I have refused?
Anyway, I had a reason — besides just getting a chance to talk to her for a change — to meet with her. I had my own topic to chat about. It was a topic I believed she’d been avoiding.
I heard the office door open, and a moment later she appeared. The two other women in the room glanced up and went back to their reading. She smiled and plopped down on the couch next to me and for a moment joined me in gazing silently out the window. Her mascara looked clumpier than usual, maybe to mask the fatigue in her eyes. It wasn’t working.
“How are you, Kellen?” she said finally. She rested her hand on mine. It felt comfortingly familiar but irritating at the same time.
“Terrific,” I said. “Smooth summer so far. We won our game yesterday. I got two doubles.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Too bad you weren’t there.”
“I wanted to be.”
“Three,” I said, silhouetting three fingers against the gray daylight.
“What?”
“Three. Games. You’ve been to three. I’ve played eleven.”
“Work keeps getting in the way. We’ve had…complications. But they’re temporary. Things will be back to normal soon.”
Normal. “Normal” meant she would’ve gotten to four or five games. Her job with PAC — the Population Apportionment Council — was her top priority. I was number two. “It’s okay.” I’d raised a subject. Not my main subject, but a start. I’d made a point, maybe.
“It’s not okay. I simply don’t have a choice.”
I shrugged. She had a choice. She had smarts, degrees, experience, other employers sniffing around. She would’ve had no problem finding a different job. But I was done with this topic. I freed my hand from hers and pretended to straighten a sock.
“How are your studies going?” she asked, getting to what I figured all along was her motive for our “visit.”
“Have you talked to Dad yet?” I said. “About me going to see him?”
“I’ve been so busy. And you need time to prepare for your trials.”
“My studies are fine. You said you’d get him a message. Or talk to him about it the next time he called.”
“What about your history class?” Mom said, not wavering from the topic of my education. “What do you think of Ms. Anderson as an instructor? Is she getting you the essential material? I’ve heard she can be…unconventional.”
Anderson? She was unconventional, maybe, but in a good way. “She’s doing great. I’m doing great. Why?”
“I want you to think about something,” she said, lowering her voice.
“I’m already thinking about something.”
“This is more important than your travel plans, Kellen. What I want you to think about is your trials. Your life, in other words.”
“Travel plans? You think I’m just interested in travel? What I’m interested in is seeing Dad. I want to spend time with him. I want to see how he lives. I want to see how guys live.”
“And what I want is for you to consider something really vital,” she said, plowing ahead. “I want you to consider seeking help if you get close to your exam date and don’t feel completely confident you can pass with flying colors.”
“Help studying, you mean?”
“Dr. Mack knows the chair of the regional trials board.”
Dr. Mack. Rebecca Mack. Mom’s big boss. The head of PAC. She wouldn’t just know the chair of the PAC trials board, she probably had the final say on the woman’s appointment to the position. The chair, whoever she might be, was no doubt firmly under Rebecca Mack’s thumb. She would fold if Dr. Mack pressured her, even just a little.
I fidgeted with my other sock. “What about Dad?”
“I know this feels as if I’m stepping on your toes, Kellen, but I just want what’s best —”
Her e-spond chimed. She got to her feet and moved to the window, eyes out on the gloom and splash. “Heather Dent,” she said into the mouthpiece, just loud enough for me to overhear. “I’m home,” she said. “I was just talking to Kellen. We’ve hardly had time —”
A pause. “Nothing new,” she said after a long moment of listening.
Another pause, then: “Four days. We may not hear from her again.”
More listening. A glance at me. “It’s all in motion on this end. I’m monitoring everything.” She snuck another look at me. I tried to put on a bored expression. “And there?”
She hesitated, listening. “If you need me,” she said. Then: “Let me check.” With her back half turned to me, she fingered her display, studied the feedback, and resumed her conversation. “The earliest flight will get me to San Diego about eight. I’ll be on it.”
She returned to the couch but didn’t sit. “Give me a hug,” she ordered.
A hug. Her cure for everything. “You’re leaving again?”
“I have to. But Paige will be here.”
Aunt Paige. Aunt Reliable. “How long this time?”
“A few days. We’ll talk when I get back.”
“Sure.” I got up and let her put her arms around me. I let her stand on her tiptoes and kiss me on the cheek. Then she was off, hurrying across the room and angling for the stairs.
An angry rat-a-tat-tat sound pulled my attention away from her and toward the window. Hail had replaced rain. While strong gusts of wind threw the hard white ice pellets against the glass, I stood and watched and wondered what was going on.