Songs for the End of the World - Saleema Nawaz Page 0,160
ARAMIS: Bryce and Keelan. Jejo, Cam, Lucas, Declan, Teresa, Paloma, Felix. Another incomprehensible list.
There was a slowdown around a car being towed, and Elliot peered in the windows of the cars merging into the next lane. His children could be as old as eighteen. They could be driving. They could be anywhere, anyone.
He turned on the radio as he approached the Triborough Bridge. The Dove Suite single followed by some boppy holiday earworm by a recent televised-contest winner. (The song: intolerably catchy. The teenaged singer: old enough to be his son?) At the tollbooth, a middle-aged Bridge and Tunnel Authority officer asked him to roll down the window. Then he slid open the wicket and pointed a temperature gun at Elliot’s neck.
“Normal. All clear.”
“Good idea, that,” said Elliot, nodding at the thermometer. Such instruments would have been handy screening tools at the hospitals, shelters, and the quarantine cordons he’d been stationed at. “Just hope it’s not too late.”
“Things aren’t as bad as you think, man.” The window slid closed.
Elliot drove down East 39th Street. Coloured lights were strung up everywhere: in front of the deli with no name, the entrance to the parkade, and the pizzeria with the ninety-nine-cent slice. Never mind the power outages. Some things were more important than prudence. Elliot could sense his mood lifting. He should have known better. How quickly he’d forgotten a fundamental truth: the closer you got to the heart of a calamity, the more resilience there was to be found.
He swung into a parking spot a few blocks from home as flakes began to fall. Slush on the ground whitening as he walked. Steam rising out of the sewer grates. A dusting of snow on the ledges and fire hydrants. A few pieces of windblown detritus skittering across the asphalt from one gutter to another. There were no bodies in the street, no smashed windows. No wrongdoers at all; only wayward litter flouting the city’s ordinances. A crushed packet of jaywalking Junior Mints. A jaywalking disposable razor. All the people he passed were traipsing where they needed to go, carrying groceries or backpacks or, in one case, a bright pink Hello Kitty umbrella. Scarves and mitts and hats combined with other protective gear in a way that looked almost normal, weather-appropriate. Everyone was carrying on, living their lives with a persistence that was at once extraordinary and completely typical. Elliot felt like an animal returned to its natural habitat, with an animal’s surer sense of rhythm and purpose. Relief flooded his limbs and he wanted to take off in a sprint, a doggy lap of joy. He was where he needed to be, his certainty born out of a hope he’d thought extinguished.
Elliot was so relieved that when his phone rang, he actually answered it.
“I’m a grown woman,” said Keisha in a dry voice, “and I realized I don’t have to wait for you to call me.”
“Very funny,” he said. He stopped walking. He was glad that he hadn’t checked the caller ID and that, whatever her news, it was coming to him this way, outside of any normal decision-making process. The knowledge, just like the result, was out of his hands. “What’s the prognosis?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say you’re immune. Resistant, though. Antibodies are present. It’s extremely promising from a research point of view.”
“So I’m a medical marvel.”
“It’s a breakthrough, anyway. Some other researchers have discussed testing for resistance among hospital staff who haven’t become ill, but those tests are still underway.” Keisha’s voice was buoyant. “You’re the first real subject on the books, though there are also a few labs across the country doing DNA tests on people with multiple exposures, trying to pinpoint a common genetic marker.”
Elliot used his foot to kick the snow off a fire hydrant. “You’re trying to find more marvellous people?”
“Yes. It’s possible there was a similar outbreak, thousands of years ago.” The connection crackled. “In tandem with the vaccine, we’re looking to develop a genetic test for susceptibility. You know, manage prevention and medical resource allocation, blah blah.” Elliot could tell by the descent into slang that Keisha’s excitement was practically at frenzy level. “Next I’d like to test the DNA of your immediate family, too. Parents, sister. Okay?”
“I’ll talk to them.”
“Great. And in the meantime, don’t drop out of touch like that again.”
“I was with my parents in Lansdowne.” He was ashamed saying this, thinking of her working in the hospital. “But I just got back to the city.”