Lukey’s voice gets louder. “And when my family found my bloated corpse, they all keeled over and died of remorse!”
Mom looks at Dad. He looks at me. I look at Mom. We all look at each other and then without anyone going first we’re all suddenly just laughing and laughing and my guts hurt and Dad’s got tears coming out of his eyes and then Mom wheezes, “See? He’s becoming a wordsmith already.”
*
When I go to bed it’s to find Lukey lying on the floor, banging his feet repetitively against the wall. There’s nothing left in here except two beds and an empty desk. Even the closet has been locked shut.
I’ve covertly been to the garage, to one of my genius hiding spots. Without a word I thrust my favorite game console and a screwdriver at Lukey. He stares at it in surprise.
“What’s this for?”
“Just don’t tell Mom.”
“But this is your favorite!”
“Yeah, you owe me, weirdo.”
We share a grin and before I’ve even climbed into bed with my book he’s already started unscrewing the console.
It drives Mom spare, but secretly I kinda think it means Luke’s going to be something special one day. And like I said, he’s my favorite person. I’d take him over any of our stuff any day. Plus it’s really funny when he gets caught. Just ask Mom and Dad – they laugh more than any people I know.
*
November 1st, 2046
Dave
It’s stopped being funny today.
Because today whatever this curious thing within my little brother is made him cut open his own arm just to see what was inside.
When we get home from the hospital he’s already bouncing around like a maniac again. His arm’s stitched and bandaged and the doctor said he’s fine, but the rest of us feel heavy with what he did. We’re not laughing now, of course we’re not. I feel a little freaked. I want to shake him and make him stop and listen but he never will.
Mom takes us all into the backyard. I don’t know what this is about but I remember their conversation in the hospital.
I was in the room with Lukey, trying to keep him entertained while we waited for the doctor to discharge him. Mom and Dad were in the hall right outside so I don’t know why they thought we couldn’t hear, or maybe they just didn’t care.
“It’s too early,” I heard Dad say.
“Do you want him to keep digging? Because soon it’ll be his legs and his stomach and then it’ll be his chest! He won’t stop!”
I didn’t hear what Dad said.
“He needs something. An awareness of his body, at the very least. Respect for it.”
“It’s brutal, Claire. He’s only nine. I promised myself I wouldn’t put either of them through what Dad did to me.”
“This world grows more brutal by the day. What do you think will happen when he tears his way out of our house, and wants to tear out of the city? What happens when he tears his way out of his own damn body, Tobias?”
The doctor came then so we didn’t hear any more. But I kept thinking about how hard Mom’s voice goes when she’s scared. Lukey only gets the stern parts of her, or the amused ones, but when he’s not looking I see the softness under her frowns. I see her vulnerability. Since Luke cut himself she’s been way more scared and soft than ever before, and that means it comes out as angry and loud.
Now we’re standing in the backyard in the dark. A mozzy lands on my arm and I slap it. Mozzies always get me more than anyone else in this family. Dad says it’s because my blood’s the sweetest.
“It’s your decision, boys,” he says now. “Would you like to learn to box?”
I bounce on the balls of my feet. “Yes!”
Lukey makes a face. “Not particularly.”
“Why not?”
“It’s boring.”
Dad walks over to Luke and pins him onto the grass in between two of his holes. Lukey wriggles in surprise. “Dad!”
“Listen to me,” Dad says in a soft voice I’ve never heard him use before. “You are not invincible, my boy. You are very, very fragile.”
I think to myself that I will never forget him saying that. Because when I look at my brother’s face and see that he’s finally listening, my chest fills with relief. I think maybe Mom and Dad have just saved Lukey’s life.
*
June 12th, 2052
Luke
Even though I turned fifteen yesterday I’m still not half the size of Dave. I catch myself looking at his body all the time, feeling envious of the strength of it, the speed and the muscle tone. He’s always flexing his biceps to annoy me. He loves wrestling when we’re not out the back with our gloves on, because when we’re out the back with our gloves on I beat him every time, no matter how much tinier I am.
School sucked balls today and I’m really ready for training. Instead of going through the house I cut round the back: I’m not in the mood for a lecture from Mom about something or other. Just to make my day worse I arrive in time to find Dave making out with his girlfriend. Sighing, I lean against the side of the house and wait for them to be done. The hours that Dave and Livvy have spent kissing could probably date back to the Big Bang, so I’m not holding out hope it’ll be any time soon.
I’m at window level now so I can see into the kitchen. Mom’s sitting at the table with a woman I’ve never seen before. She’s wearing a black suit and has very dark skin, and not even the suit can disguise how tall and athletic she is. I see it straight away: there’s motion in her stillness.
I strain to hear what they’re saying.
“It’s unusual to see intellectual scores this high in someone equally physically elite,” the woman says.
“But it pays well?” Mom asks.
“Extremely.”
Something pummels into my chest and scares the shit out of me. It’s a pair of boxing gloves, pressed there by Dad.
“Eavesdropping, boyo?”
I clutch at my heart. “God, Dad.”
“Come on. Training.”
“Who’s that lady?”
He shrugs in this very casual way. “Friend of Mom’s.”
I don’t believe him for a second but I dump my schoolbag, take off my uniform shirt and pull my gloves on. “Let’s do this, bro!”
Dave extracts himself from Livvy’s mouth and bounds over to me. “Stroppy, are we? You gotta get laid, kid.”
“Shut up!” I hate it when he talks about me getting laid in front of Livvy because she always smiles as though I’m some little kid they both laugh about behind my back.
We put our mouth guards in and soft helmets on. Then Dave and I touch gloves and get straight into it. He’s always leaving himself unprotected, the idiot. I go in for the attack and hit him a few times in the ribs, just to warm him up. He may be bigger and stronger but he’s slow as shit and lately he’s always distracted by his girlfriend.
We go a few rounds and then I start really laying into him. For the sex comment. For bringing Livvy to our private trainings. For not being around as much. For growing up without me.
“Get your hands up, Dave!” Dad shouts. “Christ.”
But Dave’s got no hope. He puts his hands up and I just punch him in the guts. He moves them down and I punch him in the face.
“Push back, Dave! Get your head up!”
But he doesn’t, and he doesn’t even seem to be trying that hard.
“Stop, stop, stop. That’ll do.”
Dave and I both spit out our mouth guards. He’s bleeding from a cut on his eyebrow. I grin and lift my gloves high, dancing around like a bit of a prick. Dave doesn’t get offended though – he never does. He just laughs.
“What’s wrong?” Dad asks him.
Dave shrugs. “I told you I’m not into it anymore.”
“Dave’s a pacifist,” I tease.
He shrugs again, sharing a look with Livvy that makes me think that’s exactly what he is.
Dad pulls Dave’s gloves off for him and starts putting them on
his own hands.
“Woah, big Daddy’s in for it now!” I crow.
As I wait for him to do them up I can’t help looking back at the kitchen window. The woman’s still there with Mom, only now they’re both standing at the glass and watching us.
“Who is that?” I ask, not of anyone in particular. Nobody answers me.
Instead Dad just attacks with a full-on blow to my face that I only manage to block at the very last second. Jeez. I spend the next few minutes moving as fast as I can to avoid Dad’s mammoth punches but pretty soon he lands one in my guts and I hit the ground, winded.
“Not so cocky now are we, pal?” Dave asks from the side.
I’d give him the finger if I could.
Instead I look up at Dad, who’s standing over me like an ancient Viking god of war or something. He does this every now and then to remind me, to make sure I never, ever forget.
“I get it, Dad,” I tell him.
He nods and helps me get my gloves off.
I do get it: my fragility.
*
After dinner I find Dave in the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror. He has his shirt off and there are a bunch of bruises darkening over his chest and stomach. I drape my arms around his shoulders and grin at his reflection.
“Get out of it.”
“Sore loser, as usual. Who was that lady here?”
“Dunno. No one.”
I frown, zeroing in on his eyes, which won’t meet mine.
“You do know. Who was it?”
There’s this long, weird silence. It’s like Dave doesn’t know what to say, but he always knows what to say so that can’t be it. After a minute he reaches up to clasp my arm still draped around him.
“You’re different,” he says.
“To what?”
“To us.”
I try not to let that hurt. “Meaning?”
Dave turns around so he can look me in the face. “Meaning there will always be people who are gonna try to make you into something, or push you, or use you. You’re gonna have people pulling at you all the time, bro. They’ll want so much of you because you have so much to give but the thing is that you don’t have to give anything. You don’t have to.”
I don’t understand what he’s talking about. My skin feels hot. “Who was she?”
“I tried to stop them. They wouldn’t listen.”
My heart’s beating funny in my chest now. My guts feel tight. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Dave takes my chin and it’s way too intense and I don’t know why the hell he’s doing this and then he says, my big brother, “I love you best of all.”
“What? Fuck off.”
I push him away, hard enough that he hits the edge of the sink and winces. Dave starts to leave the bathroom but in a panic I reach for him and pull him into a tight hug. He clutches at me and I know something’s really wrong. I can feel it in his arms, his strong, strong arms.
*
December 17th, 2067
Luke
I’m thinking of this, all of this, right now as we stagger our way home. I’m in his arms again, my big brother’s arms. We’re supporting each other because I’m weak from being held captive in the lab and he’s just weak. Years of our lives are rushing through my mind and I just keep thinking how stupid it was that we were always afraid for me, for the little brat who couldn’t keep still, the boy who liked to pull everything apart, the one who got taken away by the Bloods. We were always so sure that one day my own voracity would get me killed, but in the end it was Dave we should have been worried about. Dave who got lost when everyone was looking instead at me.
*
There is hatred in my guts as we reach the infirmary. Pure self-loathing. If I’d watched him closer, if I’d been a better brother I would have seen him get stolen, I would have stopped it or gotten him back. I would never have accepted the lie of his suicide, I would have known in my heart that it couldn’t be true and I would have saved my parents from having to endure the death of their son. Instead I hated him for leaving me.
Josi read me a Leunig poem once, the first lines of which I can’t forget and I don’t remember it very well, but one piece of it really stuck with me. It was about suffering lifeache, about having a life that was sore, one that hurt to move.
This was how I came to see my mother in the days and weeks and years after we were told that Dave had killed himself. Her whole life ached; she could hardly bear it. She was silent. She grew still as a sarcophagus in her tomb. She hurt too much to move.
It was my father who began to move more than any body should move and who made the sound, who wailed with a noise I’ll never forget. There are no words for that sound, except to call it animal. Wild animal grief. The end of life. The beginning of something much less.
For my part, I dissolved. My favorite person had left me as I’d always feared he would. I scattered and vanished.
Now he’s here in my arms once more and it’s a miracle, it is, only he doesn’t feel like my brother. He doesn’t feel like my Dave. If only I’d held him tighter back then, when I had the chance. If only I’d never let him go.
*
We arrive to see Zach inspecting Josi’s gruesome leg and to see Mom taking Will’s blood pressure. Dave and I stop in the entrance and I find I have no voice. I feel panicked and excited beyond words.
It’s Dave who speaks up.
“Hi, Mom,” he says.
“Get over here and help, Luke,” she answers.
Dave and I glance at each other. “I’ll come back?” he asks me softly.
I shake my head and we shuffle farther into the room.
“Mom,” Dave says again.
“What?”
He starts laughing a little. It surprises me so much that I laugh too.
And that’s when Mom goes rigid. She’s hearing two of the same voice when there should only be one. Her whole body tenses. She has a stethoscope in her hand as she turns and makes this high-pitched sort of yelp and then she just stares.
I don’t remember the poem’s cure for lifeache. I’m sure it was beautiful. I’m also sure we’ve found our own, here in this grotty smelling tunnel. Here in the look that passes between mother and son, between two people who have been altered and changed and made a little less than they used to be. And less though they may be, the look they share reaches up through the ground above us, through the earth and the sky and through the roof of the world and it finds a space for itself in the things that last forever, in the things that cannot be stolen. It is beyond love, beyond any ability to cure love. And when Dave takes her in his arms and holds her I can see the evidence of him, of his soul or spirit or whatever it is that makes him him; I see it still there in the tremble and strength of his hands as he holds his weeping mother who laughs when she’s supposed to cry but who is crying now, finally.
I can do nothing but sink onto the edge of a bed and watch them. I think I have lifeache too. My whole life is sore. It hurts too much to move.
Chapter 9
March 15th, 2067
Josephine
I play to Phillipe. I’ve been playing to him for hours. In my head I’ve decided he’s going to be Phillipe and not Shadow, just as I’d want him to call me Josi and not Dual. I think the Inferno names are a shield and you shouldn’t have shields among family.
What a bizarre thought. I can’t shake this uncanny feeling that it must not be true. I’m not a person who has family, certainly not parents. It doesn’t seem real that this man could be related to me. I keep asking myself why he never told me. He must have known I was his daughter. And in all that time he didn’t say a word. It makes me think, of course – the persistent whining rumbling nauseating thought – of my mother. But she’s too big an ache so my thoughts slide away from her to easier things.
Like the cello made by my very own boyfriend. Fiancé. (God, what a trip.) In my hands this homemade cello lives and breathes and in its hands I do the same. I’m mor
e returned to my strange dreams, my otherworldly imaginings. I keep thinking of these other versions of me; I can’t stop. I wonder if once upon a time they all got engaged to Luke in the ocean at night. I wonder if any of them did. I wonder if they are each as stained as I am or if they escaped that fate somehow; I wonder if they fear sleep.
People come in and out of the infirmary to listen to me play. Luke spends as much time as he can afford sprawled on the bed next to Phillipe’s, reading and listening to my long slow notes. Claire hovers a lot, checking the patient endlessly and sometimes humming along. Zachariah checks on him too, now that he’s no longer tied up in the arena. He says the wound is infection-free, which was the biggest concern. He’s also explained that Phillipe is still unconscious because of the state of his body before the stabbing. From the spaces between Zachariah’s words I can gather it was a terrible six months for my father. The young surgeon sits in the corner and watches me play. I get the feeling his dark eyes see a lot. Pace brings Hal here when she wants him to fall asleep. The only one who doesn’t seem to be enjoying it is Phillipe, who won’t wake up no matter how hard I musically beg him.
Tonight it’s quiet. Everyone else is already in bed or on watch duty. It’s just Phillipe and me. I’ve played him some very rowdy Prokofiev and some schmaltzy Debussy but now I put my feet up on his bed and rest my aching shoulders in a moment of silence.
“So you don’t like any of that, huh?” I murmur. “I wonder what you do like.”
“I have a request.”
I turn to see that Luke has returned. He was here not long ago but he left to go to bed. I’ve lost track of time – I think it’s very late. “What are you doing?” I ask softly. “Go get some sleep.”
“I’m bored with sleep.” He lies on the second mattress and rests his arms behind his head.
“What’s your request? If I have to play Ennio fucking Morricone again for you I’ll chop my ears off.” I’m fairly sure he’s the only cello composer Luke can remember, or else he just really likes the cheesiest of all cheese.