1999 (3 page)

Maybe a guy like
would be good – tender, experienced. She'd lose herself to it and him and afterward he'd hold her whispering, stroking, whispering. And if they had a kid, what would it look like? She tried picturing it, but all that came to mind was a little Carlo nestled in her arms, swaddled and cooing, gazing up at her with wide, astonished eyes.

Esme slid her foot off the accelerator, pulled her hands from the steering wheel, and closed her eyes. Slowly the car decelerated and began to list to the right, toward the shoulder, and blind to the world Esme thought about how she was old enough to do almost everything adults do: she could drive and almost even vote, though now – typical! – there was no one to vote for. There was only
. And not even
him
, just a voice and a promise.

At the crunch of gravel and ice Esme's eyes snapped open and her hands grabbed the wheel. She jerked the car back onto the road, sweat squelching in her palms. Breathing, now, breathing, with the car locked tightly into the lane and her foot steadying the gas. In the rear-view, a little black blip emerged from the point where the grey of the road vanished into the endless snow – not a car, something smaller. A motorcycle, maybe.

Esme stared, unsure whether to speed up or brake. She was reminded of when, at eight years old during Christmas shopping season, her mom had disappeared at Sears. In that split-second of abandonment the world had expanded, reeling outward from her, infinite and unknown. Here was that again, but now, also, not just the threat of space, but a stranger in that space, and her alone, defenceless.

Seeing a service station ahead, Esme pulled in. She shut the engine off and the radio died with it, silencing
mid-line: “Until the end of time, until the end of – ” Immediately the cold began to creep into the car. Esme shivered, wrapping her arms around her shoulders, wishing she'd worn more than a sweatshirt.

The only sound came from the road: whoever was out there was buzzing closer. It became a drone that lulled Esme's thoughts back to herself, and there she found the pulse of a different kind of imminence – something within her, awakening, changing: the end of one thing and the terrifying, glorious beginning of something else. And then, flinging the door open, she leaned out of the car and barfed into the snow.

HOW MANY TIMES
had she dreamt of it, Debbie wondered, reapplying mascara in the rear-view, steadying the wheel with her knees. Would they kiss and kiss? Would
take her face in his hands and hold her like that just stare into her eyes – would he
sing?
But they had all the time in the world, didn't they? There would be time for everything . . . Debbie started to scream at this, at the endless boundless future; from deep in her guts roared great primal yowlings of happiness and potential and everything, everything, her face tingling through the mask of foundation and mascara and lipstick and eyeliner and blush. Dreams really did come true and no one could tell her to shut up or try to stop her, she thought, patting the grenade in her lap – but hold the phone, a sign from the radio! Debbie cranked it, wailing along as the sky deepened into night: “None of them got what it takes / 2 B a future baby mama.”

“LADIES, LADIES.
Each one of U – keep keepin' on. I'm here. I'm waitin'. Each one of U is special. This is the future. We're the future. All of us, 2gether. We're gonna B 2gether. If U R hearin' these words it means it's meant 2 B. I want all U women, every one of U, 2 know each of U is special. I want U 2 think of me and us 2gether and how it's gonna B: champagne and candlelight. I'm runnin' a bubble bath. If I were in your arms 2nite – ”

Sonya clicked the radio off. The planet didn't need this lacy goofball's sperm!

Soon enough it would be over, she told herself. No one would show up to
's lair and the world, such as it was, would go on without him. Alone in her cabin in the woods Sonya could exist and paint, undisturbed and happy. But as she imagined this life, saw herself puttering through the trees, she began to wonder. Would it be worthwhile if there was no one to see her doing it, or to even tell? What would she paint in such a place? Owls? Who would even know and how would anything matter to her, alone, in some loggy cabin?

Head pulsing, Sonya found herself lulled by the steady growl of the Accord's cruise control, the sweep of the road under the car. But slowly this became something more sinister. With her foot off the gas it didn't feel as though she were driving at all; the highway seemed more like a conveyor belt, hauling her through an abandoned world of ice – toward Minneapolis, toward Paisley Park, reined in by
.

WOW
, thought Mrs. Mendelbaum, finally, a service station – just in time! But, wait: was that a person sitting there in the parking lot, behind the wheel of a silver coupe?