Page 34 of A Better World

“She’s a penis face,” Gal said. “Takes after her brother-baby-daddy. She wrote her own biography. That’s why it’s so long. It’s longer than her grandfather’s, and he invented Omnium. She writes all the brochures, too. That’s why they’re so useless.”

Linda had the presence of mind to recognize that openly criticizing Anouk Parson was a very bad idea. “Penises are very unexpected. They’re like if you’re in the woods and a leprechaun jumps out.”

“They act like they’re on your side around here, but they’re not,” Gal said. It was as if they were having separate conversations with theirghost selves. “They used to watch my kids in the river. They’d tell me they saw them, that they were great swimmers. But the river’s poison and I had no idea. Nobody told me. Can you believe that?” Gal asked, kicking the seat.

Linda was trying hard not to vomit. This drive was lasting too long, and they were headed in the opposite direction from her house. Why had she told them to drop Gal first? Why was she always such a goddamned martyr?

“It’s hard to help people. You don’t have to tell me. I tried with my kids. I made all the offerings on my altar and none of them worked,” Gal said, seemingly in response to her own internal thoughts. “But what if Hollow’s all a lie? Birds are just birds and kids just get sick?”

“What’s Hollow got to do with sick kids?”

“You’re a dummy,” Gal said. “Dummy, dummy, dummy.”

Linda felt the heave in her stomach, the deep pockets of sour in the back of her mouth. Dear God, they weren’t here three months yet, and she was about to vomit in a cop car in the middle of the night.

The driver, a wet-behind-the-ears kid, pulled over. They parked in front of a small one-bedroom house surrounded by other small houses. A siren sounded in her mind: Had they left Plymouth Valley? Crossed the border? Would she be allowed back in? But then she saw the tall, unscalable wall just behind. This was the southwestern town limit, where retired people, floating temps, and the lowest-level executives lived.

Linda moved with deliberateness, performing her best approximation of sobriety. She was outside, even though this wasn’t her stop. But moving felt good. She waved at the cops. For an instant, they looked too small and too human inside their metal chassis cage. Her mind played a trick, and the cage was made of caladrius bones.

“I’ll walk from here! Thank you!”

The guy on the passenger side rolled down his window. He was young enough still to have a peach fuzz beard. “Are you sure, Dr. Farmer?”

Linda nodded, afraid to open her mouth. Acid had climbed up her stomach to her throat.

Gal was beside her, pressing a nauseatingly warm hand between her shoulder blades. “She’s fine! She’ll be fine. We’re besties!”

The cops pulled away. Headlights shined down the empty street and were gone. Linda kept it in. She waited until everything was dark. Then came the heave.

“Don’twalkhome. It’s so far! Stay here. I have a fresh sourdough. You need something to soak it all up.”

Linda was standing over the scene of the crime—a grotesque replay of her evening’s choices deposited on Gal Parker’s narrow front lawn. She felt better, though. More present. “What time is it?”

“Too late to wake your hubby. Come inside. You can wash up in my toilet room,” Gal said. No smart lights bloomed, so Linda could see only her silhouette. She was at her front door, using a metal key instead of her palm for entrance. Low tech.

Linda looked down the dark street. It stretched long and unfamiliar. She was tired and thirsty. How far was home? Three kilometers? More? A caladrius on the lawn had gone statue still as if sleeping, but its eyes were open.

Did these creepy fuckers sleep with open eyes?

Inside, Gal flicked a low-light lamp that colored the room a sickly brownish yellow. “Sit!” she said, and Linda landed on a funky plaid couch that was, somehow, warm. The air was cold. The house was cold. Almost as cold as outside.

“I’ll just go check on the kids,” Gal said.

Linda squeezed her hands into fists, her fingers swollen from dehydration. Small children whispered. She didn’t hear what they said, only their sleepy kid voices, and Gal’s surprisingly soothing words of comfort:Rest, babies. Momma’s home.

Things weren’t spinning anymore, which was good, but the room was wrong. There were crucifixes nailed to all the walls. Some hung upside down, others sideways. In the corner, on a midwall-height altar, was one of those Virgin Marys on the half shell. Stuffed bunny rabbits and bears were bent down in worship before it. But she wasseeing it wrong. Had to be. It was some kind of play structure the kids had designed. Kids go through weird pagan stages when they’re little. They’re always making shrines in their pretend-play and would be all the more likely to do so in a town like this.

…Right?

There was medicine everywhere, too. Pills and vials, some empty and some half-full. Bleary, she lifted a used syringe and vial off the foot table. The contents were identifiable: Zovolotecan, a chemotherapeutic agent that had been prescribed a lot when she’d been in medical school but had lost favor with the discovery of more targeted drugs. The drug was made out to both children: Katherine Parker and Sebastian Parker.

She knew they were sick, but cancer? How could they both have it? She replaced the vial and syringe as Gal returned with a tray holding bread, plates, glasses, a bottle of aspirin, and a jug of water.

Gal poured the water, handed it to Linda with two aspirin. Then she sat across from her, in a grease-stained wingback chair.

“Feeling better?” Gal asked, newly cheerful and alert. But the whites of her eyes were veiny red.

Linda didn’t feel better, but she nodded politely. “Do your children have cancer?” she asked.

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