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Back to Issue 3 - Fall/Spring 2013
The Last Day
Nguyen Le
“Bleep! Bleep! Bleep! Bleep! Bl--” - the radio clock makes itself heard, singing the same lines all over again. I land my palm on it, halting its flow.
“Friday, December twenty first, two thousand and twelve”, a monotone voice sprouts from the clock’s speaker.
I straighten myself up, landing my feet on the wooden floor, not yet recovered from Sandman’s dust. To make up for my abuse earlier, I turn on the radio with extreme care. The voice of a female newscaster speaks, now and then interrupted by static:
“On --, an asteroid-- and-- plotted trajectories, it will hit-- major firestorm-- . Leaders from around-- funded Project Salvation, which will compose of two gravity generators named-- to suspend Astrid 9 in place. Trained astronauts-- land on it, plant-- at weak points and--detonation. According to NASA’s-- statement -- by night of December 20th--, the explosion can be observed from Earth. However, the ten-year project has failed. An explosion has damaged-- unknown-- and the Mankind is disabled-- alone the Eternity couldn’t hold--. Everyone-- stay indoors. May-- protect you.”
I snatch my jacket hanging on the door and the bunch of keys in the right outside pocket. In the garage, Stephanie - my green 2003 Land Cruiser - sleeps under a thick blanket of dust. She wakes up soon after realizing someone is behind the wheel. The garage door rolls up, revealing a scene straight out of a supernatural thriller. Houses belonging to the Hardys, Johannsens, Nguyens and McGarths now belong to nature’s white curtain.
No cars can be seen on the driveways or the street, except for a black baby stroller that slowly rolls by Stephanie’s nose. Motherly gusts are pushing it deeper into the heart of the neighborhood, conjuring leaf tornadoes to entertain the invisible offspring. A glance at my watch takes me back to the driver’s seat, prompting me to step on the gas and begin to head towards the only destination I can think of. As the main street comes into view, the stroller becomes whole with the fog.
Stephanie hums her sophisticated V8 symphony as well as ever, despite hiccups every few seconds or so. The left front wheel seems loose too, placing some discord into her performance. Or perhaps it’s just because she has sensed an accident involving her friends, a Corolla and a Sienna, just a few blocks down First Avenue.
More cars start to appear. And then endless more ahead.
The vehicles, some damaged, are left abandoned on the sides of the road, doors and trunks flung wide open. Houses and buildings with different names and services are tattered, now completely boarded up. Up above, traffic lights and street lamps illuminate this part of town with difficulty through the ghastly grey. Snow, leaves, and papers fly about, redecorating every surface with haste, vertical or horizontal, normal or shattered. The lack of human presence sends a chill down my spine and sweat to my palms. Perhaps I’m just one step behind, but soon I’ll be where everybody is right now.I only have an hour to go, I guess. Stephanie lets out a visible sigh as I press down the pedal, her left front wheel squeaking louder.
“Objects in mirror will no longer exist in view”, I mutter to myself as the car speeds through the once-bustling streets.
“Welcome to West District - A Historic Utopia in Modern Society”
The sign to my mother’s community provides a sense of pure relief. I’ve made it in time.
The metal merry-go-round still screeches after all this time. I see a 7 year-old me and the hazy figure of Mrs. Clarke showing me the reason behind the noise. She doesn’t care about tainting her ivory nightgown, lying down on the damp ground just to point out the rusty joints. God, I miss her kindness... and all those tangy and tender lemon meringues she made on my birthday. How I wish I could’ve learned the ways of making a red velvet cake, or just a muffin, to thank her. But wherever she has gone, another place or the other place, I’ll never know.
“Ooh, ooh, I know, I’ll just run home and call The Incredible Mechanic!” my squeaky voice echoes in the air. “The Incredible Mechanic” is the superhero identity I assigned to Grandfather, the family’s sole specialist in car restoration. I don’t remember much of him, except for the time Mother and I became the first witnesses of the flat line on his ECG at Central Hospital.It was a morbid start to my summer holiday that I’ve tried hard to forget. Come to think of it, the merry-go-round’s wailing is eerily similar to that undesirable, hospital-bound sound.
A startling “CRASH!” not far up ahead. Mr. Herbert’s pigeons must have flown into a window, thinking their homo sapiens father has bought them a brand new coop... again.
Now the high-school version of me and a couple of friends come into view. We were helping him clean up the mess in front of the house opposite Mr. Herbert - an IRS Agent, politician... or something - whose face and name are declassified by my memory. His window was reduced to a million pieces, all the shards diamonds in the grass. Its fate was similar to the vase of daisies now residing in my room, a long time ago an unwilling victim to Mother’s throwing arm after a quarrel with Father about “fractured fidelity”.There are more, so many more memories in the air around me, fighting for my attention. Once Mother’s house comes into view, however, all the merriment and melancholy dissipate. The same also happens to the ghosts within them.
Stephanie’s headlights direct me to the door. As soon as I know where to go, it’s time to give her the good long rest she has been waiting for. Just an anti-clockwise turn of the keys will do. I knock twice. It’s been a year and a half since my last visit, but still her house has undergone no change whatsoever. The same vines still creep about the porch, over the weathered Georgian bricks that glue everything together. The old-fashioned wooden door is now home to more chipped marks underneath. It’s no wonder why she chose this place - it was old-fashioned. Despite my constant disdain about the prehistoric atmosphere of the place, my mom taught me there is charm in everything the eyes can see. It seems that she speaks true as every inch of the house is coated with tangible warmth. It greets me as the door glides open.
Mother and Father approach to give me a hug, hints of a smile substituting for an emotional speech. Mother sets her glowing eyes on me, giving me a look as if she is waiting for an answer. I nod. She does the same to my Father. He also nods. Hastily retreating into the house, Mother says she will give me something that I like and urges Father to let me in, escaping the cold, white world. It’s strange, thinking how I’ve always wanted to be as far as possible from this place. For today though, returning to it isn’t a bad idea. Other people might have done the same.
Emerging from the kitchen, Mother presents three plates of her trademark hot, butter-laden and honey-coated pancakes. Father and I decide to jump in to set the table. We sit down and proceed to enjoy the fusion of heavenly sweetness and crispiness that only genuine homemade food can deliver.
Once the five-story tower of flour has been demolished, silence infiltrates the dining room. From under the table, Mother places three small jars in the middle of the table with a solution inside. I watch my mother pour hers, to the very last drop, into her drink. Father and I follow suit. Upon consuming the glass of water, I see through its bottom distorted images of my mother’s certificates hanging proudly on the olive green wall. “Excellence in Medical Studies”, “Recognition of Talent in the Fields of Pharmacy” etc., all the goodness that defines her occupation - Central Hospital’s head doctor. Being the experienced physician that she is, I believe that whatever happens next in her plan - it should be comfortable.
Only ten minutes to go.
Mother leads everyone upstairs. I choose to lie down in the middle of her bed, succumbing to the pressure on my eyelids. Since my vision is going dimmer by the second, I realize my departure will be sooner than I expected. I know I won’t go alone, but I just can’t shake the feeling, lying all by myself on this comfortable magic carpet. I call out to my parents.“Just a second, son”, Father answers.
Although their figures are blurry and seemingly weightless, I can make out that my parents are facing each other by the window. “I’m sorry”, Father says under his breath. Mother sniffles.
The wind lets out an unearthly roar. The ground shakes.
Then everything stops. A blazing beam of light descends upon the horizon. The brightness reveals two things about my Father - he is holding my Mother’s hands and a part of skin on his finger that is whiter than the rest. A ring used to be there. Contentment closes my eyes.
Another lovely Saturday for me.
