End of the Line

Stories =+= Characters =+= Companies =+= Sagas =+= Timeline

It’s funny the way sunsets never get old. You watch old movies and the fashions date the production; it ages them, like a pillar box with the initials of a long-forgotten monarch. Certain cars you see on the street remind you of another time and place, and look lost, in a world that has all but forgotten them. The memories drift sleepily from active to passive memory, to the point that only these brief encounters on the street remind you of their existence. These fleeting reveries help you remember that you lived. The big moments in your life are the ones that stick around, but these mundane, flashes remind you how it felt to be ten and hiding from a bully, or fifteen and falling in what you laughably called love, or twenty-three and falling in actual love, and losing yourself so far into someone else that the openness of your feelings makes it feel like home. But sunsets are always fresh. Sometimes no more than a gentle glow, as a tired star arcs slowly along its ceaseless journey. Other times, menacing angry clouds obscure the light until the last few moments of dusk when the sun blasts its way through and the in the glorious yellows and reds you could swear you see a freeze-frame of the dawn of life itself and you feel like your heart can’t contain this new feeling you have, of understanding the universe, and your place in it. The euphoria is short-lived, and hard to remember after the fact, but it lies dormant until you next see the sky on fire and the eternal conflict between sea and heavens. So when you see it again, you feel that hope again.

I have a nice enough space. I’m not sure I would even call it home, though the company that runs the place advertises it with that name. What is home though, really? It’s not a physical place, though it can be, if it has the right people in it, at the right times, for the right durations. It’s belonging. Not to someone else, though again, you can find home in that belonging. It’s the feeling that right now, right here, is where you should be. It’s not even necessarily where you choose to be, but where you need to be to achieve the next big step in your journey towards understanding the universe, and your place in it. Your sunset.

They’re baking. I wonder if that’s for us. Cinnamon is a confusing smell. it’s distinct enough to attach to memories but common enough to be commonplace in your mind palace. They smell seems also tethered to dusk though, so you relax into the familiar warm place and see where the memories take you. I’m twenty-five now. On the sofa with a blanket, hot water bottle, and cramps. You’re there. You’re bringing me cinnamon toast. Your go-to comfort food. Now I’m twenty-seven. You’ve been having a bit of a crisis recently, but don’t seem to be able to talk about it. It feels strange, like there’s a distance between us. I’m not concerned for us - I know that you’re dealing with something and when you’re ready you’ll tell me - I’m concerned for you. I infer that it’s the uncertainty again. You’re working hard, but you don’t know whether you’re betraying yourself by doing it. You’re due home any minute, so I’m making you cinnamon bagels, and I smile, as I hear your car on the dri…

“Mrs Kairos, I have your test results back”

And we’re back in the room. I pretend not to notice the single tear that finally rolls down my cheek as I sit up, and the nurse obligingly pretends not to notice either. I’m spending more time there than here these days, and he knows it. That’s why he’s here now, in a roundabout way. Seems I’m something of a medical anomaly. I have some disease I shouldn’t have. Shouldn’t be possible the docs say. I’m glad of the extra company, and of being a minor celebrity, so I play along. It’s a good excuse to live in the moment.

You were good at that. People say to live each day like it’s your last, but they never really do it. You never said it, but I could see that you were thinking it. Every action meant something. Nothing was trivial for you.

It wasn’t always like that. I got the feeling you dodged a bullet at work. Not literally. There was a while where you seemed cut off from me. It never felt threatening, but I felt sad having to watch you deal with something alone. Whatever it was, you knew that I couldn’t help, and implicitly asked me to trust you, without ever asking it outright. And then one day you woke up and it was like the last six months fell off you, like a buildup of dust. You were suddenly alive again. more so than ever. I hadn’t seen you look so relieved since…

“It’s interesting, to say the least”

Oh. Ok, I’m in the doctor’s office now. Don’t remember getting here. Nod and smile. Ok, where are we up to. Right, results. Nod and smile again.

“It’s positive, I’ll say that much first, but that’s good news for you because it means that we know what it is, and it’s curable”

I nod. I’ve only half been paying attention, so I’m just waiting to hear something that sounds like it might require me to do something more than acquiesce.

“What’s confusing is that when we checked, your medical records show you were scheduled to receive buffer serum along with the cure for this. Nowadays we’ve eradicated it completely of course, but back when you were tested we only knew how to cure it, not prevent you being a carrier. It was an automatic disqualifier though. So you shouldn’t have it now”.

“I passed the test though. I was never scheduled for the serum”.

“Mrs Kairos, when we told you we have your results, I meant your MSA results. You failed the test, and were due to be sterilised. So if you still have the disease that suggests you were never sterilised either”

Of course, there was never any option of getting help conceiving. In-vitro fertilisation, hormone therapy, even fertility tests, had passed into history, along with steam power, neoliberalism and religion. It seemed a cruel trick of fate, in a world determined to lower the birth rate, that while those of us who had passed the test were encouraged to reproduce because of our “good genes”, I would still be unable to get pregnant, and yet people who didn’t even really want to be parents seemed to have no issues propagating.

Guided Selection, a means to improve the race as a whole, while also combating climate change, was a noble goal, but I must confess that sometimes I had no interest in being noble, only in being a mother.

It’s funny the way life presents your regrets to you at the times when they are most potent, and poignant. Hearing the other inmates denigrate and criticise their offspring, smarted in a way that ran much more deeply than simply disapproval at their inability to be grateful for what they had. At 96, having no one to come visit was heartbreaking on a number of levels. The loneliness was a burden in itself, and even with the clock ever-ticking towards an escape from the mortal coil, in the Centre, when you’re alone, time, and your thoughts, are the only real company you have.

Add that to the knowledge that against all odds you had state approval to procreate, but were unable, and the absence of children felt even more of a blow.

So was it just coincidence I never got pregnant? Was one of us just infertile? Were we destined to never have kids? Nature and nurture working against us. Society and biology. But wait, had I had the procedure and forgotten? I couldn’t have, could I?

“We want to run some more tests, to see if you ever had the serum”

Oh I’m still here. Ok. Tests. Sure. Yeah, arm out. Ok, yeah, as much as you need. Oh, back to my room now?

“Just you never mind them, Ellie. they think they’ve got a lead in a 60 year old mystery, all looking for their Reichenbach Falls. What really matters is that we’re going to make you better”

Listening. Not responding yet. Pops and bubbles.

“Get this down you”

The nurse has champagne. He’s seen me drift away from him. We get on. He thinks this will bring me back. I’m ninety-six. I’m right where I need to be. But I humour him. I take a heavy swig of the champagne.

I’m twenty-seven again and I’m drinking the last few drops from the last glass and getting ready for sleep. You’ll probably be up later, but maybe you’ll wake me when you come to bed.

Now I’m in bed. I reach over but you’re not there. The clock says it’s after two. I can hear something rumbling in the distance, thunder maybe? Where are you? It’s not concern, more curiosity. Asleep on the sofa most likely, sleepwatching the static.

It’s light. My head’s heavy. You’re having hair of the dog and cinnamon toast. This was the day. This was when it all changed. what did you do?

Janet and Arthur are having apple & cinnamon tea again. How long have I been out? It’s sunny, but cold maybe. Or am I just always cold now? I’ve been seeing you a lot recently, when I go to the memories, but always when you’re just out of reach. Are they memories? Or dreams? Were you always just out of reach, or are you trying to tell me something? If they “cure” me, will this stop? Will you be gone? What do I have here, in the present?

I stop a moment and try to take stock. Ah! The sun is a phoenix again - that one never gets old. Maybe I could be a phoenix. Ninety-six is nothing, people live to a hundred and thirty now! maybe you’re telling me I can go, and be, and you’ll always be just there on the periphery if I should need you. Maybe your point is that if I stay I’ll just be forever chasing you and always waking up here, feeling lost.

But this isn’t taking stock. Ok, come on, brain, mindfulness. Someone here knows their lilies. I never noticed it consciously but when they’re here, it’s only ever for a couple of days.

Lilies have about two days where they smell, just, divine. The rest of the time they’re ok, but you get them on those good days and you’ll remember it. Why did you buy me flowers? You weren’t apologising for anything, it wasn’t an occasion. When’s the last time you got me “just because” flowers? It’s like breathing in honey, and you knew that didn’t you? Checked them before you bought them. I stand up, to watch you drive away. I chuckle a little. That beaten up little truck you bring home from work, that always sounds like it’s looking for a fight.

That’s what I heard that night. The champagne night. It was your beaten up little truck. I failed the test, and you took the burden from me.

"Bad day?" I asked

"No", you smiled, like you were just remembering how to, "today I was a hero"

"You always are to me”