Julia Phillips - Disappearing Earth

No one near Marina understood. Without her girls, all she had was this breathlessness. Terrible as it was—and it was, it was—it was all she had left to mother. She jumped.

Don’t cry. Listen. Do you want to hear again about the girl with the golden slipper? Or the two identical palaces? Did I ever tell you there was an orphan kid in the south who was raised by a pack of wolves? Yes, she was. It’s true! They found her when she was a teenager and she couldn’t speak human words. She ended up getting married, living in the city, and raising a family, but for the rest of her life, she ate nothing but raw meat.

I saw it once on the news. She grew up to be one hundred years old.

Don’t cry…

Sophia, look at me. What do you want to hear to go back to sleep? How about the story of the villagers, after they washed out to sea?

Yeah? You’d like that again?

Do you want to say it yourself or do you want me to? Okay.

So.

The wave scooped everyone up from the ground. It carried them, their houses, their cars, over the cliff. If the villagers hadn’t been shut in on all sides by water, they would’ve been hurt, but they were, so they weren’t. They were just locked in place like bubbles in ice. They were in the center of the wave holding their breath. Their eyes were open, and their arms and legs stuck out by their sides.

Like this. Puff out your cheeks—there you go. Like that.

This wave pulls them five hundred kilometers from where their town was. There’s nothing but blue wherever they look. Only a minute’s gone by since they were first picked up, but they’re already halfway to Alaska. The wave slows, and then it stands still, and then…it collapses. All around them. The people were frozen, but now they’re free.

Well, right, they’re still out in the ocean. But they can swim around.

They’re swimming and coughing and pushing their hair back. All the heavy things that washed out with them—their homes, the sidewalks, whole trees—sink away. Everything that was light, though, is floating. Groceries. Toys. Remote controls. What else? Pillows, blankets, and books. The people can’t believe it. There are even cribs floating with babies inside.

They spend the whole first day and night just gathering. The ones who aren’t as strong—the old people and the really little kids—tread water, and shout directions to the ones swimming after their stuff. Like “There’s my hat! My favorite hat!” Or “Don’t forget my hockey stick!” Or—

Exactly. “Two cartons of orange juice over there! To your right!”

Everyone is kind to each other. Nobody gets hurt. No. Sophia, not that. Because that can’t happen there. They’re taking care of each other. They pull mattresses together, so people can rest. They even find some fishing poles. It’s summertime, a nice warm summer. The water isn’t too cold. It’s the perfect temperature. This far out, the ocean looks so clear that the villagers can see to where whales pass under their feet.

Did you hear that?

Be quiet for a second. No. You hear that, don’t you?

You’re okay, right? So hold on one second. One second. Hold on.

He isn’t…it doesn’t sound like him. Does it? Is he coming back up already? No—I’m sorry, shh, I’m sorry. He’s not. Listen.

It’s not her, either. Definitely. It came from downstairs. I don’t…Just stay quiet until we hear her knock back.

Hold on.

Come over here. Please come over here. I know, I know that’s her now. I don’t know why she’s banging like that. It’s not for us. It’s not our wall. Please don’t cry. We’re going to get under the bed, okay? She’s yelling for no reason. We’re just going to get under the bed and listen.

Shh. Good. I know. It’s dark.

You’re doing a great job, Soph.

You hear it? She’s yelling and she’s banging but there’s something else, right? From downstairs.

Like people. Like a lot of people. No, I don’t think it’s burglars. He might have brought…What I want you to do is keep very, very quiet. Are your feet under the bed?

I’m staying next to you. Don’t worry. She’ll get in trouble, like before, but we won’t get in trouble with him. We’re not the ones making noise.

Come closer. I’m going to whisper, okay? And you don’t pay attention to anything else.

In that place, way out, the water is warm. Whales and dolphins and a friendly octopus. The people wait and wait and wait for someone to rescue them. Then somebody says, “It’s time to start swimming.” But the people are scared. Aren’t they? Of course they are. They’re more scared than they were at any moment since they first saw that wave coming.

Somebody says, “What about our groceries and toys and pillows?”

Somebody else says, “What if there’s danger out there?”

But they decide they have to try. They can’t wait in the water forever.

She’ll stop soon. She’s just screaming like she does but she’ll stop soon. Hold my hand.

I know. I hear them. Try not to be scared.

Are you listening to me? We’re going to be brave if our door opens. Even if it is burglars, or if it’s other people, friends of his, we’re going to be strong.

Okay? Do you remember the end of the story? What the villagers say? No one helps them but they help each other. Even though their town is gone, and all they see is water in every direction, they swim for land. We can make it, they say. We’re going to help each other the whole way.

Will you remember that? We have each other. No matter who opens the door. Remember that Mama’s out there. She still loves us. After they go away, we can knock to Lilia, she’ll knock back. She’s just on the other side of the wall. Yes. I’m here. I promise. We’ll stay together. We have each other. We are not alone.

This book would not exist without the hospitality, generosity, and guidance of the people of Kamchatka. I am especially grateful to Tatyana Oborskaya for bringing me to Kamchatka, Denis Piculin for taking care of me, and Anastasia Streltsova for being my friend. Thanks to the United States Fulbright program and Kamchatka State University for supporting my 2011–2012 research year. During that time, the collectives at the Beringia and the Kronotsky Reserve offered invaluable help and insight. My 2015 trip back happened thanks to Elena Lepo, Aiva Lāce, Lilia Banakanova, Martha Madsen, Bystrinsky Nature Park, OOO Olenevod, and Esso’s Herd 4. Meeting these people and seeing these places changed my life.

Disappearing Earth was inspired by Russia and written in America. My thanks go to Alizah Salario, Claire Dunnington, Boo Trundle, Brittany K. Allen, Leigh Stein, Alison B. Hart, Mira Jacob and the Resistance, Jennie Baird, Mika Yamamoto, and Lena Tsykynovska for reading and believing in this novel. The space and support to write it came from Brooklyn’s PowderKeg workspace, Chinelo Okparanta and the Tin House Summer Workshop, Christine Schutt and the Sewanee Writers’ Conference, Dionne Brand and the Banff Centre, VCCA, Hambidge, Ragdale, and Yaddo.

Thanks to Jean Kwok for being a guardian angel. Suzanne Gluck, Tracy Fisher, Andrea Blatt, and the whole WME team have given me the happiest moments of my whole life. Rowan Cope and Jo Dickinson at Scribner UK nurtured this book’s growth from across the Atlantic—I am so thankful. At Knopf, Annie Bishai, Lydia Buechler, Pei Loi Koay, Josie Kals, Kathy Zuckerman, Sara Eagle, Rachel Fershleiser, Paul Bogaards, Nicholas Latimer, and Chris Gillespie guided me through every step of the publishing process and made my dreams come true. And enormous thanks go to my brilliant, kind, unfailingly patient editor, Robin Desser. There aren’t words in English or Russian that can express what she has meant to this book and to me.