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~T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land
Only the silence echoes off the walls, the stone walls, taunting me with its breath, but her words linger in my mind, the last thing she said to me. I try to think of what she’d say to me now. Michael. Michael. It’s not over yet. You just need to— What? What? You know. And I can almost see it, the slow curving way that she smiled. But I don’t. And I don’t know. I don’t know. ***** In the end—for that is how I think of it, for lack of a better term—it was down to us. Bruised, broken, beaten, backed into a corner with no way out, hiding in the only place left to hide and still, still she thought we’d make it. But that was the way Liz was—out of all of us, she was always the last to admit defeat. Liz was the one to pull me away from Isabel’s lifeless body, to scream now, now, Michael, we have to go now and to get both of us to the pod chamber. And then we waited, and waited, for something to happen, for something to end, for anything. ***** I suppose that, technically, I am not alone. I have the Granolith for company, and I know that Liz is right, that as long as it pulses this isn’t over. My hands slide along the cool metal surface, my eyes mesmerized by the blue light. I’ve stared at it for hours, searching for a pattern, for something regular and stable, for some sign that it was worth it, that it was all worth it. It’s worth it, Liz said, the first night. It was the first either of us had spoken, and I remember I just looked at her when she said that. Alex and Maria, Kyle and Max, Tess and Isabel—I couldn’t see it, I couldn’t see how it was worth it. It is, Liz said, it has to be. We’ll wait, she said, something has to happen, the certainty of her voice betrayed by the brightness of her eyes. But I pretended not to notice that. ***** Maria and Alex were first. It happened so quickly. We weren’t prepared for the attack, none us believing it would come so soon, but I think that, had we been, it wouldn’t have made a difference, that there are just some things you can’t stop. We left Roswell that night. Max made the call, and I was too shell-shocked to argue. A day later, Roswell was gone. That was the beginning. Liz was furious. You knew, she said to Max, to me, to Isabel, you knew they were coming. Yes. We did. And you didn’t tell me. We could have done something. We could have, I don’t know, warned them. My parents—and then she’d stopped, and turned away from us, and didn’t speak again for a week. But she adapted. We all did. ***** We learned how to survive. How to kill, with our minds shut off, not thinking again until we’d washed away the blood. How to hide, when night was no cover, not when the enemy could see in the dark, and knew us better than we knew ourselves. Kyle died a year later. Then Max. Stupid, he was so stupid. Stopped to help some stranger bleeding in the street of some cold northeastern town, and they got him. Took him from behind. He never saw it coming. I was the closest, but it was futile; by the time I got to where he’d been standing Max was gone, and when I looked down the stranger was dead, blood spilling out, the red of it bright and almost beautiful against the white of the swiftly falling snow. I tell myself that it was over quickly for him, like it was for the others, that he’d died an easy death. But there’s another voice sometimes, and it knows better, knows that they’d have relished Max’s defeat, and that it was neither quick nor easy and sometimes, sometimes I imagine I can hear his screams. ***** We were weak at the end, Liz and I. It didn’t help that we had limited water, limited food. It didn’t help that we knew the world was ending all around us, and there was nothing we could do to stop it. I don’t believe it, Liz said one night, when we’d been hiding for a few weeks. I don’t believe that I did everything I did, only to have it all happen again. Almost, I said. It’s a little different. I’m here, not Max. A minor variation, she said, staring at me, her expression unreadable. Then she smiled, and laughed, a little wildly. Almost enough to make you believe in destiny, wouldn’t you say? She looked at the Granolith then, and fell silent. I knew what she was thinking. No, Liz. It might be the only way— No, I said again. I’m not leaving you here alone. I’m not going back to try to change something that can’t be changed. You don’t know that. I watched her face grow stubborn, resolute. Fine. Not yet. We’ll wait. But this isn’t over, Michael. Like I said—Liz never did like to give up. ***** And so we waited. Hours, days, weeks—time meant nothing then, not when we had no way of measuring it, not when every hour was as dark as the last. It got to Liz, the darkness, being confined. She slept by the Granilith, wanting the light. During the day she paced the cave like a trapped animal, until I half-expected her to begin clawing at the walls. Would you just stop, I said finally, staring at the floor. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I couldn’t stand watching her and knowing she still thought something would change. I wanted to grab her shoulders, to shake her, to remind her of what it had felt like to watch entire cities disintegrate into piles of rock and ash, to watch her closest friends die, and know it was all for nothing. Yeah. I wanted her to give up. The way I had. But she did stop. And I looked up, because I hadn’t expected her to. She was looking at the pods, her face solemn. That got to me, too, the way she looked so damn contemplative all the time, the way I never quite knew was she was thinking. What was left to contemplate? What was left to care about? Michael? I rubbed my hands over my face, looking back down again. What. What was it like? Coming out of the pods? The question surprised me so much that I didn’t even think; had I, I would have just kept staring at the floor and not answered. But something in her voice caught me off guard, and the words were out of my mouth before I could swallow them back. I don’t know. Cold. Dark. Strange. She nodded slowly, her hand lifting to touch the edge of the pod. Mine—though I don’t know how she knew that. It must have been hard, she said, being all alone, starting out alone. Max and Isabel had each other—Tess had Nasedo—but you were alone. She looked at me then, with those wide dark eyes of hers, her face dulled by the dim shadows. I swallowed, looking back down. I didn’t want to talk about this. What did it matter? That was years ago, and hardly relevant. It doesn’t matter, I said, and it was my own fault, anyway. A long silence stretched between us. I could feel her eyes on me, but I didn’t look up. The floor of the cave trembled with vibrations—the only sign we ever had that life still existed, somewhere. Whether any of those lives were human, we’d never know. All right, she said finally. I’m going to sleep. I nodded. Good night. Right. But later, when I was sure she was asleep, I crawled into the space where the Granilith pulsed, and looked down at her. Her head rested on her hands, her dark hair spilling over the cold stone ground, her skin glowing softly in the dim blue light. Carefully, I laid down beside her, and watched her sleep. And when I woke, I found her curled up against me, her head under my chin, and, panicked, I slid away, careful not to wake her. If she even knew it happened, she never mentioned it. ***** Soon after, the vibrations stopped. I didn’t know what to think about that. Or maybe I did. Maybe I just didn’t want to think. Thinking hurt. Breathing hurt. Living hurt. Not long after, Liz stopped eating. That hurt, too. But like everything else, like the last few years, like my whole damn life, I knew there was nothing I could do about it. I watched her in silence, just as I’d observed everything else that happened to me and to those I cared about. She’d stopped pacing the cave. She slept more, moved less, spoke less. I knew she was weakening, and there was nothing I could do. Something woke me from sleep one night, and I looked up, my eyes adjusting quickly to the familiar darkness. Liz was sitting in the center of the chamber, staring at her hands. What, I’d said, what is it? Nothing. Go back to sleep. But I didn’t. I felt myself growing angry, and I clung to it; anger was what kept me alive when I was young, all those years, and maybe anger would save us both now. No, I said, no, this needs to stop. I’m not going to sit here and watch you— Kill myself? My mouth closed. Liz looked at me, a smile sliding over her face, and the anger was still there, but something kept it from coming out. Something made me wait. I was thinking, she said, of what we learned in astronomy about black holes. Do you remember? Then she laughed. Wait, no, of course you wouldn’t- you never went to class. They’re nothing, she said. black holes. At least, nothing we can really understand. They’re just...holes in space, created by gravity when spacetime is stretched too far in the death of a star. Her voice was soft, distant. Her eyes looked through me now. She’s delirious, I thought. I had to get her to eat something. But she kept talking. Time changes, then, with black holes, the nearer you get to one. If you were to approach one, time on the outside would seem to speed up. And the moment before you crossed the event horizon, you could conceivably watch the entire span of the universe happen before your eyes. All of it. Stars would be born and die in an instant, galaxies would form in seconds. You could see everything, straight to the end of the universe. She paused, her eyes focusing, and she looked at me. If there is one. Except, I said, you’d eventually fall into the black hole. Well, yeah. She laughed. That’s the catch, isn’t it? Then what’s the point, I said, getting frustrated. You’d know, she said. For that one instant—you’d know. Know what? Everything, she said, her voice surprised. And then the ending wouldn’t really matter, would it? She was definitely delirious. And I was tired, and I didn’t want to sit around philosophizing about black holes or anything else. You have to eat, Liz, I said. She shook her head. No. No. I don’t. Liz— I’m so tired, she whispered, staring at her hands again. Because you’re not eating, I said, my voice rising, anger flaring up again, anger at how damn stubborn she was, at how stupid she was. Just like Max, I thought, and I hadn’t been able to save him either. I stood up, pacing from one wall to the other. And then I remembered how I’d wanted this, I’d wanted her to give up, and I stopped and looked at her, only to find that she was already watching me, a sad smile on her face. I felt something else then. Fear. An old friend. A distant memory—the kind you try to forget but never quite do. Liz, I said, trying to keep my voice low and calm. Liz, listen to me. You’re going to be fine. You just need to— No, she said, her voice strained. It won’t help. I stared at her, uncomprehending. Then I shook my head. No, I said, no— Michael—don’t. Please. You know what’s happening as well as I do. Don’t make it harder. She was right. She was always right. I had known. How, I whispered. What— Does it matter? Yes. I don’t know. Radiation, maybe. Or maybe not. It could be anything, Michael. Of course, I thought, of course. Of course this would happen. I thought of the bombs the US government had set off in a desperate attempt to stop what was happening. That was three years ago. I hadn’t understood it then, how destruction could stem destruction, and, clearly, it couldn’t. Okay, I said, okay. But it’s not over yet. That’s what you always say, Liz, that it’s not over, and you’re right, it isn’t. You’ve still got time. We can figure something out. Maybe if I can figure out what it is, I can fix it— No. It was just one word. I didn’t understand how one small word could convey so much certainty, so much finality. She was staring at her hands again. Her hands. I felt panic, cold and unyielding, as I stared at her hands, at what, in the darkness, I had failed to see. Liz, I whispered, my voice stiff. Oh God—Liz— I didn’t even know what she could have used. A sharp rock? A scrap of metal? It didn’t really matter, all that mattered was the fact that she was bleeding, slowly bleeding, and she was going to die if it didn’t stop, and she’d done it, and the truth of that stood in such violent opposition to the person I knew Liz to be, the person I think I knew better than I’d known anyone, the person who would never ever give up, and those extremes refused to reconcile themselves in my mind, and all I could think was no. I dropped to the ground beside her, reaching for her wrists, saying I can fix this, it’s okay. But she wouldn’t let me touch her. Don’t, Michael. Don’t. Don’t argue with me, I said fiercely. She laughed weakly. Argue with Michael Guerin? I would never subject myself to such a fruitless exercise. She lifted her uninjured hand to touch my face. It’s going to be okay, you know. How, I said. Tell me how. Her eyes drifted shut. There’s always the Granilith. I wouldn’t even know where to begin, I said. You said that Max thought everything happened like this because Tess was gone. But we were together this time. You could find me, she whispered, her voice faint. I wouldn’t be surprised. It wouldn’t take much to convince me of who you are. And then what? We live happily ever after. I didn’t say anything after that. There was nothing left to say. I wrapped my arms around her. God, she was so cold. I listened to her breathe for awhile, listened as it began to slow. I held her hand, because that was all that I had to give her, and I waited, because that was all that I could do. Michael, she said, after awhile. I don’t have any regrets. I held her tighter. Listening to the sound of her breathing, to the moment when it stopped, to the silence that came to replace it. I laid her gently on the cold stone ground, and leaned over, and kissed her cold, sweaty forehead. That was an ending. But only one. I’ve finally learned that there’s never just one. ***** I am alone now. It makes sense, I think, that I should be alone—especially here, and now, and in this place. I don’t have any regrets. I think Liz was trying to tell me something. But what? I don’t understand that, not when my entire life seems to be a timeline of regret. Here’s the moment I messed things up, there’s the moment I screwed up again, and there, there’s the time I should have said something and didn’t and that was when I said the thing I wish I could take back. My hands trace the stone walls of the cave, feeling the bumps and crevices I’d memorized a dozen times, and I memorize them again. I remember a young boy, stupid and scared, who felt more than he knew how to feel, telling a girl that he needed to be alone, that he needed to be a stone wall. I wish I could talk to him now. I wish I knew what I would say. But we aren’t so different, that boy and I, and I think I regret that most of all. I sit and stare at the Granilith, wondering what I should do. I hear Liz’s voice, in my mind, telling me that I could go back, and I know it’s true. I could go back, and watch it all happen again, and maybe I’d do some things differently this time, and maybe the ending would be a little different. A minor variation. And maybe it wouldn’t change anything at all. Maybe I wouldn’t want it to. And I think, maybe, I understand what Liz meant. I sit, among stone walls, and I think of a girl I could have loved, a girl who knew which ending to choose. I think of all the regrets that led me to this ending, to knowing her, to finally knowing myself, and I smile. I sit, waiting for my own ending to come, an ending that’s just one more ending and isn’t really an ending at all. And I think, it was worth it. END |