Chapter 23
New Possibilities
JOHANNA
Riding in a three-person zipzap makes my teeth ache.
I’d expected Anamaria to order a car service, which would’ve meant a nice, comfy solar car with well-cushioned seats and solid shocks, or maybe lead me to one of the county-run upholstered trams that whisk around city and suburbs in twisty routes to ensure everyone can get just about anywhere without waiting forever.
Instead, we’re crammed into a tiny, jittery plug-n-power thing not rated for more than forty miles an hour, if that. It rattles and bumps over every single crack in the road and barely holds three people.
Anamaria is scrunched up in the sideways back seat. She keeps moving, trying to find a more comfortable perch, which jolts the back of the thinly padded seat I’m clinging to for dear life as the vehicle whips around corners and down narrow roads.
Bebe’s driving, having cheerily informed us she’d borrowed the zipzap from a friend when she picked us up.
She has her license, unlike most of us city dwellers, but I’m not sure how much driving she does on a regular basis—all the more reason to hold on tight, even with the safety harness pinning my back against the seat rest.
There’s no talking over the rattle and purr of the motor, only yelling, which I’m not up for. Bebe and Anamaria make up for my silence, Anamaria shouting directions and Bebe brushing them off, bellowing back that she knows what she’s doing and where we’re going and this is a ‘short-cut.’
Despite decades of taking trams, buses, and hire cars around the city, within moments we’ve taken too many unfamiliar turns for me to have any idea where we are, apart from still not knowing where we’re headed.
At length, we finally disgorge from the zipzap like a troupe of circus clowns crowded into a tiny car.
I shiver as a gust of wind whips down the street. My thigh-length coat keeps my torso warm, but the silk of my dress skirt flutters, and goosebumps pebble my legs. There must be an Indian restaurant somewhere nearby, for the particular blend of spices in the air makes my stomach rumble.
Whatever neighborhood this is, it’s seen both better days and worse.
The zipzap fits into a narrow lane with signs limiting parking to two hours without the proper zone sticker.
Tram rails run down the other side of the one-way street.
A mix of three- and four-story buildings stand across the way, with storefronts on the first floors.
One is empty, and two have papered-over windows with Coming Soon!
signs advertising a new coffee shop and games store, respectively.
The side we’re on is taken up by a single U-shaped building filling a whole block.
Made of brick, it’s mostly in good order, but a few places need repointing.
An ornate wrought iron fence at least eight-feet tall blocks access to the gardens and paved walkways inside the U.
The plant beds are covered in fallen leaves from two old oak trees growing to either side.
When a breeze whips through, the leaves skitter and rustle as they skip across the paths.
At the center of the fence sits a tall, arched entry point with double gates that seem welded shut, and a smaller gate set in one that’s open. A call box hangs on the smaller gate right next to the opening. A small placard above warns entrants that the grounds are monitored twenty-four seven.
Faded banners droop over the iron archway and, further in, over the main door of the building. I squint to make out the letters on the one farther away, but it reads the same as the closer: Sage Street Community.
“What is this?” The name is vaguely familiar, but I can’t figure out why—and there’s no need, when I have two beaming nieces, seemingly delighted to have brought me here.
“It’s sort of a cross between an apartment complex, commune, and independent living facility for people without packs or families to age in place.
” Bebe tells me as she leads the way up the path to the big doors to the actual building.
“I would love to live here—not now, of course, but someday, when I’m old, especially if Anamaria and Caity don’t provide me with niblings. ”
“Same here, except I’d like in sooner.” Anamaria sighs and leans her head against my shoulder. “The waiting list is three digits long, and I’m on it, but probably never getting off because I don’t have enough need to rack up points.”
“You need points?” I ask, trying to reconcile the glee that had driven Anamaria to drag me out of the meeting—granted, I’d wanted to escape—with the building before me.
“It’s not for just anyone. They base priority on certain needs.
” Anamaria ticks items off on her fingers.
“Preference is given to single omegas; older omegas without a family or support network, regardless of whether they ever had a pack or not; and those in emergency circumstances, regardless of designation. They also prorate rent based on need and income. Of course they have a waiting list.”
“But demand doesn’t necessarily equal success.” A familiar voice sounds from the entryway, where the door had opened so quietly, I didn’t notice.
I blink. “Hester?”
“Hi, Johanna.” Prematurely white hair, pulled up in a messy bun with loose strands, frames a tawny, sharp-boned face I’ve often seen peering over the top of a book or laughing over a glass of wine at our monthly book club.
We’re friends thanks to that, but not close.
Our calendars never meshed for getting together outside the group, and eventually, we gave up trying.
A pumpkin-colored kaftan and a long, fringed shawl in black and gold hang loosely about her, hiding the lines of her body except when the wind presses them against her. Fitting choice of colors, for as she steps aside to let us in, the scent of pumpkin pie and omega musk follows her.
The entry features a half-circle desk staffed by a large man in a T-shirt and blue overalls, whom Hester introduces as Henry, a resident, sculptor, and maintenance man with whom both Anamaria and Bebe are evidently friends.
He’s another omega, given the musk underlying his sharp, sweet smell, like the air just before it rains.
The beads in his four thin cornrow braids chime as he moves.
He and Bebe go through a convoluted series of shakes, and he and Anamaria exchange a hug before he leads us into a big community room with sofas and chairs arranged in a half-dozen conversation areas.
As we pass through the entryway, harsh white light casts Hester’s features in sharp relief and highlighting lines I hadn’t noticed before. Once in the community room, she pulls me into a hug as strong and bracing as the one she’d given me at Max’s memorial service.
“I thought you were a therapist and lived up by the lake,” I say. Wherever we are, it’s not by the shore, though granted I can’t quite recall the last time we met at her place. She’s one of the members who prefers to host meetings at a local library branch.
“I was, and I am—I did and I do. It’s complicated.
” She runs a shaky hand over her head, dislodging more strands.
“Basically, we’ve decided that whoever has primary responsibility for running this place—which is me for now, though I’m hoping we can hire more administrative staff soon—is better off living elsewhere.
We provide housing to on-site security and maintenance staff, such as Henry, so it’s not as though no one’s here to help outside of regular hours.
When I first came on as the main administrator and lived here, I was a little too available for anything and everything, and you can imagine the complaints and gossip people loved pouring in my ears. ”
“But what is this place?” I shake my head as I sit, sofa cushions squeaking beneath my weight. Hester’s nutmeg-pumpkin smell sits at odds with Anamaria’s lilac even to my nose, the combination making my stomach uneasy. “And why am I here?”
“It’s a planned community, Aunty. Just the kind of thing Uncle Max would’ve liked.” Anamaria sits next to me, taking my hand in hers and leaning close. She seems needier, more eager for touch, than I’ve seen in a while. Apparently, Bebe notices, too, as she squeezes in on her sister’s other side.
Hester takes a seat opposite. “It started with a group of single omegas, ranging from late forties to early eighties. Some were single by choice, others because we just never found anyone we wanted to settle down with—and none of us had much in the way of family nearby.” She picks up a thick folder from a side table, clutching it tightly.
“We looked at our futures and didn’t like what we saw. ”
Anamaria takes up the thread. “Alpha and Omega Centers are good at what they do, but they mostly serve younger populations: alphas and omegas, right after they present and through their thirties. People like me and Caity.” She squeezes my fingers until I squeak, then continues.
“By their forties, alphas are expected to have packed up or, at least, shaped themselves into useful members of society. Omegas are given much less time. We’re pushed to bond to one or more alphas as young as possible so that we’re less in need of anything from Omega Centers—certainly not heat assistance, even though we keep having heats until we’re really old.
Granted, heats become shorter and farther apart as we age, but an omega in their seventies deserves consideration and help avoiding pain even if their heat is only a couple of hours twice a year.
” Anamaria snorts. “Some of the Omega Center staff are already hassling me over not having packed up!”
I stiffen and clench my teeth. She’s only twenty-three—though, as an adult, she likely wouldn’t want me or her father meddling on her behalf.