Chapter 13 Sparks #7
“The worse it smells, the better it works,” Clare says. “And aren’t cruises supposed to be fun?”
Laurel sighs. “It was Eli’s idea.”
Clare joins her on the couch. “Silas must be excited.”
“He keeps saying that he wants to ride a whale. We haven’t had the heart to burst his bubble.” Laurel tries her tea. “You know, this doesn’t taste half as bad as it smells.”
“Good.” Clare has brought socks in need of mending: a simple, scrappy pair she knit for Laurel. “I don’t like to see you out of sorts.”
Clare’s sweetness makes Laurel feel more anguished. “I’m sorry. Silas threw a tantrum today when we put the Christmas tree on the curb.”
About this, at least, she isn’t fibbing. By the time they managed to distract him, Laurel was vibrating.
“Poor thing.” Clare threads an embroidery needle with yarn. “I think it should be socially acceptable to keep a tree up year-round.”
“You do?”
This doesn’t sound like her mother. Aren’t there enough trees in the orchard? the Clare who raised Laurel might say. Or: Trees are plants, not pets. But perhaps she wasn’t always so pragmatic. Before Laurel’s grandmother died, Clare One might have had Clare Two’s lightness.
“Of course,” Clare says. “Why do you think I want to buy an orchard?”
For a time, they sit in quiet, Clare darning while Laurel drinks tea. Outside, winter is morphing into fall: warmer mornings, lighter evenings, crisp leaves only dusted with snow.
—
Eli’s entropy device now works in under five minutes. Laurel orders pizza to celebrate. While they wait for it to arrive, she sits in the bedroom with her laptop, sorting through open tabs. The last one is Google Hangouts. Her only contact is luckylouis, and the dot by his name is finally green.
Louis???
His profile picture is a caterpillar. A dialogue box appears beside it.
who, it reads, ru?
It’s Laurel, she writes. From McMurdo.
Minutes pass. Laurel imagines what Louis might be doing. Talking to someone in the lounge? Asking for more computer time? Maybe he’s wandered off, leaving Google Hangouts open.
i see.
Laurel frowns. She thought he’d be happier to hear from her.
Do you remember me?
obviously
Twice Laurel starts a sentence and deletes it. Finally, she sends, Is something wrong?
Another pause. From the first floor, Eli bellows, “Don’t forget to ask for those little cheese packets.”
“I didn’t,” Laurel screams. A timeless marriage ritual, she’s certain, is hollering up and down stairs.
Not that she and Eli are married.
When she returns to Google Hangouts, luckylouis has replied.
u said u wouldn’t forget me.
Stung, Laurel types quickly: I didn’t.
it’s been—a beat, as though Louis is calculating—5 years.
Laurel does the math. He’s right. Her guilt mingles with indignation: Louis doesn’t know what her life has been like since McMurdo.
To be fair, she writes, I haven’t heard from you, either.
i don’t know where u live, types Louis. but u said that u’d write me a letter.
Laurel sits back.
Oh, Louis, she types. You’re right. I’m sorry.
Nita hadn’t been offended by Laurel’s lapse in contact, so Laurel assumed—thoughtlessly, she chides herself—that Louis wouldn’t be, either. But Nita has moved on from McMurdo. Louis hasn’t.
His response is no more than one letter.
k
I can explain. I have so much to tell you.
hm
I’m coming to McMurdo. We’re taking a cruise.
ew
Well, the cruise isn’t really the point. It’s just a way to get back to the continent. Louis, she writes, I’d really love to see you.
ill check my schedule, Louis says. Before she can respond, the green circle turns red.
—
The cruise begins in Ushuaia, the world’s southernmost city.
Silas has never flown on a plane before.
He spends the flight to Atlanta buoyant and the one to Buenos Aires crying, having lost one of the two beads he found at the pool.
On the final leg, he sleeps. Laurel reads about their ship, the Astralis.
During the descent, she notices that Eli looks peaked.
“Dramamine?” asks Laurel, reaching for her purse, but Eli shakes his head.
“I think that you should do the dive,” he says.
At home, they decided that Eli would be the one to test the entropy device. Laurel puts down her book. “I’m sure you’ll feel better when we get there.”
“It’s not that.” In the seat between them, Silas lies with his cheek on the tray table. Eli checks to make sure he’s still asleep. “On the first dive, you noticed things that I didn’t. It’s like you were reading the basin. Somehow you knew what to do.”
“I don’t have those instincts this time.” She feels like an imposter, a pianist who can no longer play a note.
Eli squeezes her hand.
“Don’t doubt yourself,” he says. “When you’re down there, they’ll come back to you.”
—
They step outside to a surge of Patagonian wind. In this summer month, the city straddles seasons: white horses lie in green grass, but the mountains are wreathed with snow.
At a café near the harbor, a sign creaks on its hinges. Bienvenidos al fin del mundo, it reads. Below is an English translation:
Welcome to the End of the World.