Blue Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  The Fiction Studio

  P.O. Box 4613

  Stamford, CT 06907

  Copyright © 2010 by The Fiction Studio

  Jacket design by Barbara Aronica Buck

  Author photo © 2010 by Kim Anderson

  ISBN-13: 978-1-936558-00-1

  Visit our website at www.fictionstudio.com

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by U.S. Copyright Law. For information, address The Fiction Studio.

  First Story Plant Paperback Printing: January 2011

  Publication Date: January 8, 2011

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Molly,

  who taught me a very real form of magic

  I never realized existed.

  Acknowledgments

  This novel was a very long time in the making, and many people helped, in a variety of ways, in the process.

  My family—my wife Kelly, and my children Molly, David, Abigail, and Tigist—have always known what this story means to me and they’ve always supported it.

  Early readers kept me on track. Special thanks to Peter Schneider, Keith Ferrell, Debbie Mercer, and my sister Fran Alesia for their encouragement and their comments.

  Rick Levy and Lisa Tatum played a key role at a critical point in my taking this novel to a different plane. I wouldn’t have seen it without the two of you.

  Danny Baror and Scott Hoffman both threw themselves into this at vital moments, for which I am tremendously thankful.

  Thanks to Barbara Aronica Buck—who, I want to make as clear as possible was not the inspiration for Polly in this novel—for designing the cover, and Brooke Dworkin for preventing me from making stupid editorial mistakes. If you find any stupid editorial mistakes, blame my obstinance.

  Finally, I’d like to thank Ray Bradbury, mostly because all of us should, but specifically because he showed me first hand what a writer should aspire to be.

  1

  The soft whir of the DVD player was the only sound in the room. Chris sat on the sofa opposite the television, the remote control in his hand, though he didn’t intend to use it. He would just let the machine continue fast-forwarding.

  On the screen, the video record of his daughter Becky’s life spun by. The smile he believed to be her first. Her masterpiece, Still Life with Smeared Pureed Pears and Cheerios on Tray Table . Her toddler form calming temporarily for a brief nap on his chest. The two of them running through the sprinkler. The perfectly orchestrated wedding service for her teddy bear and toy dog where Chris served as both best man and maid of honor. Her kerchiefed head at her sixth birthday party. Modeling her new coif when her hair returned once the treatments were over. His ex-wife Polly looking gaunt and tired—or simply angry about something—as she walked out of the auditorium with Becky after the second grade play. Back dives into the swimming pool at the resort in the Berkshires. Becky rolling her eyes at the camera during the school picnic. The forced laughter at the family reunion. The footage she took of him sleeping in the Adirondack chair on what would turn out to be his last full weekend at the house. Becky and Lonnie walking toward Becky’s room in this apartment before they closed the door on him.

  Hours and hours of motion sped by at greatly accelerated speed. Like a time-lapse image of Chris’s growing irrelevance in Becky’s life.

  Chris had watched the old tapes often over the past four years. He’d done so several times since he’d finally gotten around to digitally transferring them six months ago. It was something to do on Friday nights. The first time he heard Becky’s preschool voice on the videos, he wept instantly. He missed that voice desperately, more than he’d even realized. He missed the way she spoke to him, how the sound of her saying the word “Daddy” defined everything that was right with the world. How she gave him every reason to believe that all promises could be fulfilled, all odds overcome. Becky’s voice had been dismissive tonight when he called the house. She had plans with her friends and she was running late. He was no competition for her eyeliner, let alone the schoolmates who would soon be waiting.

  To make things worse, Polly had answered the phone. Always a highlight. At least when her second husband, Al, answered there was the possibility he might say something funny. When Polly got on the line, she always mentioned some newly discovered financial obligation or suggested obliquely that their household purred just a little less smoothly when he called. A month ago, he hadn’t phoned Becky at night for the first time since the divorce. He had been through a simply terrible day at work and he just didn’t have the emotional energy. He missed calling twice more after that. If Becky had noticed, she didn’t say anything about it.

  The final images on the disc were less than a year old. His parents’ visit from Florida. Polly let him have Becky the entire weekend, and they spent Saturday in Essex and Old Saybrook. He bought Becky a bracelet in a craft store and she dangled it on her wrist in front of the camera, laughing carelessly. Chris had hated seeing his parents go that Sunday. Maybe it was time to get them up here again.

  The phone rang and Chris hit the pause button on the remote. On the television, Becky walked ten feet ahead of him down Main Street in Essex.

  The phone call was from a telemarketer who wanted to give Chris the opportunity to buy vacation property on Victoria Island in British Colombia. Chris had been to Victoria and thought it was beautiful, but he wasn’t sure why anyone thought a person from Connecticut would want to own a vacation house on the other side of the continent. He politely declined the “opportunity.” Pointless phone calls seemed to be the only ones he got at home. He’d been meaning for years to put his number on the nationwide no-call list for phone solicitations, but he just hadn’t managed to do so.

  The interruption left him feeling miffed and unsettled. He probably should have let the answering machine pick up the call, but he’d never been able to do that. Even if he had, the ringing still would have distracted him, taken the focus from his viewing experience.

  He looked at the television screen showing the back of his daughter. For the first time, he noticed a woman coming toward the camera. He didn’t recall seeing her there before. Probably because he was always looking at Becky. The woman was in her early twenties, pretty. Her face seemed somewhat familiar, though Chris couldn’t place it at all. She looked a little like his niece Kiley; maybe that was it. Obviously, he had seen the woman every time he watched this video, but it had only registered on his subconscious. Chris picked up the remote, flicked the DVD player out of pause, and watched the image on the screen come to life at normal speed. The woman passed the range of the camera and disappeared.

  A moment later, Becky turned and made a face at him that said “Don’t you think you’ve used that thing enough today?” A few seconds after that the picture faded and the screen went blue.

  “Two more stops and then ice cream,” Al said, sounding more like an eight-year-old than an adult. Becky thought it was hilarious that he couldn’t go more than an hour without some kind of snack. She had no idea where it all went. He actually seemed to be in pretty good shape for an old guy.

  “I definitely need to go to American Eagle,” she said.

  Mom gave her a thumbs-up. “We also have to go to Papyrus to get something for Patricia’s birthday.”

  Becky’s best friend Lonnie raised her hand as though she were in Honors English. “That’s right next to The Body Shop. I absolutely need to go there. I
f I don’t get some new lotion, my skin is simply going to flake right off of my body.”

  “That’s more than two stops,” Al said in something very close to a whine. Becky grinned.

  Mom leaned across and kissed Al on the cheek without breaking stride. “The ice cream will wait for you, hon. They keep it in freezers so it doesn’t melt.”

  “If we have to go to three stores first, then I’m getting two scoops.” He whirled and pointed at Lonnie. “And you’re not getting any. It’s bad for your skin.”

  Lonnie laughed and threw her package-laden arms around Becky. “That’s okay; Becky will share hers with me.”

  “No, she won’t,” Al said, still pretending to be upset, “because I’m eating hers, too.”

  Mom patted Al on the arm and turned toward Lonnie. “You can have ice cream if you want, Lonnie.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” Lonnie had been calling Becky’s mother “Mom” since she and Becky were in Brownies together, but it still brought a little sparkle to Mom’s eyes every time she said it.

  They made a left and headed toward American Eagle. While she was reluctant to admit it, Becky felt as if she could use a little break herself, even though she wasn’t in the mood for ice cream. They’d been at the mall for a few hours now, trying on shoes, browsing the bookstore, buying some new shirts for Al, a spring jacket for Mom, a couple of birthday presents, and a half dozen things for Lonnie. The only thing that Becky had gotten was a copy of the new Neil Gaiman novel, which she’d been dying to read. That was enough for her. She always liked shopping a lot more than she liked buying.

  While the rest of them looked like they could go at this all day and night, what Becky really wanted to do was sit down. Not that she would ever mention this. The teasing from everyone else would be endless and merciless. In this family, marathon shopping was a point of pride and this wasn’t one of the places where Becky felt like standing out from the crowd.

  Before they could rest for a little while, though, she really needed to get some jeans. In the past month, several of her pants had crossed over from well-worn to ratty. She could barely wear them in public anymore, so the situation was bordering on an emergency. They turned into American Eagle, and as soon as they did, Becky knew she’d come to the right place. She always had luck here, and within minutes she had chosen several pairs of pants to try on.

  “Not those,” Lonnie said, pointing to one pair in her arms. “They’re too cutesy.”

  Becky held up the jeans. They didn’t look cutesy to her. “They are?”

  “The teal piping on the pockets? Come on, Beck, you’re not eight anymore.”

  Becky examined the pants again. “I like them.”

  Lonnie shook her head. “Wear them at your own risk.”

  Becky glanced over at her mother. “I’m going to try all of these on.”

  “We’ll be here waiting for you,” Al said. “Dreaming of Mocha Chip Explosion.”

  Becky threw him a smile. Al was such a goof. He was actually kind of fun to shop with, though, and he had really, really good taste even if he didn’t want you to know that he did. It was kind of hard for her to believe that, at fourteen, she still enjoyed going shopping with her mother and stepfather.

  Becky had to wait a couple minutes to get into a dressing room. The mall was extremely busy today and this particular store was rocking. While she waited, she looked around the room, her eyes landing on the terrific-looking guy behind the counter (she was pretty sure he was a senior in her school, not that he ever would have noticed her) and then the girl with the great clothes who worked the floor. Maybe she’d get a job here when she was sixteen. It wouldn’t be a bad way to make some money, and there had to be some kind of discount involved.

  Once inside the dressing room, Becky hung up the jeans she planned to try on, took off her sneakers and pants, and reached for the pair with the teal piping. She had no idea why Lonnie thought these were too cutesy. She thought they looked stylish, maybe even a little edgy. Lonnie could be very narrow-minded about fashion sometimes.

  As Becky bent to try on the jeans, suddenly, out of nowhere, she nearly tipped over. The dressing room seemed like it was spinning on her. She threw an arm out to catch herself on the wall, but the lurching continued.

  Her head swirled and she couldn’t focus on anything.

  For a few moments she couldn’t do more than hold on to the wall, and then she slowly lowered her body onto the floor, feeling light-headed and a little nauseous. A second wave of dizziness washed over her and she leaned to the side, trying to take deep breaths.

  This one was worse than the other times had been.

  A moment later, the disorientation faded. But it was still a few more minutes before she felt steady enough to stand up. She did so only long enough to sit again on the bench in the room. She cupped her face in her hands and tried to calm her breathing, using a technique she’d read about in a book. Eventually it slowed down and she felt something like normal.

  Becky didn’t want to think about where this was coming from. They had been shopping a long time. She hadn’t eaten much for lunch. She probably just needed to put her feet up and chill for a while. She stood carefully, thankful that she no longer felt faint, and stepped out of the pants that were halfway up one leg. She was nervous about bending down again, so she picked them up with her foot, grabbed them, and put them back on the hanger. Standing as upright as possible, she put the pants she’d worn to the mall back on and exited the dressing room, taking one more deep breath before opening the door.

  “Nothing?” Lonnie said when Becky returned to the front of the store empty-handed.

  “You were right; that one pair was too cutesy. The others just didn’t fit right.”

  “That’s too bad. You usually do really well here.”

  “Just not my day.”

  Al walked over with Mom. “I’m trying to convince your mother that I would look great in one of those hoodies over there.”

  “Trust me, hon,” Mom said, “you’d just look creepy.”

  Al frowned and seemed about to say something when Becky said, “Mom, I’m really wasted. Do you think we can head home?”

  “Ice cream first, right?” Al said hopefully.

  Becky just closed her eyes. She wanted nothing more right now than to lie down on the couch and watch television.

  “Al, we have ice cream at home,” Mom said, observing Becky closely. “Come on, let’s get going.”

  Becky felt relieved, but she hoped she hadn’t just turned this into a big deal. On the way to the parking lot, Mom put an arm around her. “You all right? You look a little pale.”

  “Just used up. I’ll be okay.”

  “You sure?”

  Becky nodded. “I’ll be okay.”

  They got to the car and Lonnie and Al (who’d taken the ice cream thing extraordinarily well) started blabbing at each other about the woman giving perfume samples at Nordstrom. It had been a running dialogue throughout the day. For some reason, they seemed obsessed with the way the woman had said, “May I scent you with Chanel?”

  As Al drove out of the parking lot, Mom turned and patted Becky on the hand. Becky sent her what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Mom patted her hand again and then turned frontward to make sure Al kept his eyes on the road. He wasn’t always the best at that.

  As they headed toward home, Becky realized she was feeling fine again. She knew she would.

  It always passed after a little while.

  It was terrible and thrilling. With every step Miea took into the planting field, she grew more certain that something was very wrong here. At the same time, though, she couldn’t help but feel a bit of excitement at simply being in this place again. To be doing something instead of presiding over everything.

  She knelt to examine the cancerous blond spots on a cluster of leaves. She ran a finger over the deep green striations on another set. She understood what it all meant and this weighed upon her.

  Yet the smallest part o
f her felt somehow lighter. Some reachable part of her mind felt the faintest measure of buoyancy at simply returning to a place where she could be close to the earth. She felt sense memories of the thousands of days of her youth spent planting, nurturing, and cultivating, and especially the liberating summer out in these very fields, perpetually dirty, wearing the grime as casually as her colleagues did, thankfully unaware of the changes that waited only months in the future.

  The lightness evaporated and the full gravity of her current function returned. Miea was too young to recall the Great Blight clearly, but there were reminders everywhere. In the bleak pigment sculptures of Naria Solani. In the discordant tone poetry of The Age of Wither . In the dozens of volumes of history and analysis and revision that had been solemnly committed to the page in the years since. What she did recall from that time was the clipped exchanges between her parents, the way they’d challenged, questioned, and criticized each other as their world teetered. Miea had felt uncomfortable being near them, unaccustomed to seeing them act this way together. She remembered wishing desperately that there would be less tension, that her home could have the harmony she’d always believed was there.

  Then suddenly it was so. The Blight was gone. Without explanation. Within two seasons, the ebony loam of the fields had spawned shoots as azure, indigo, and cerulean as ever before. Miea assumed that her parents had never forgotten how close everything had come to falling apart and probably always remembered that they’d nearly alienated each other forever. Things had never really seemed the same between them after that. Regardless, life on the other side of the Blight had been prosperous and promising.

  But now these blond marks. These green veins.

  “This does not necessarily signify anything,” Thuja said gravely.

  Miea turned to face the craggy minister of agriculture, more than four decades her senior. He hadn’t wanted her to come here. He’d tried to use his considerable influence to prevent it, failing to understand how much Miea needed to see this herself.