Hannu Rajaniemi - The New Voices of Science Fiction

Issa squeaks. She reaches over the safety bar for Mom and bounces, ruffling her diaper.

“Ooh! Who is this? Does someone need to be picked up?” Mom puts the bottle down and lifts Issa from her crib.

Issa’s world spins. Mom cradles her against her padded chest and thumps a heartbeat for her. Bump-bump. She bounces gently, warms. Issa drools against her plastic shoulder and coos, satisfied.

Then she cries, pushes away, and Mom puts her back in her crib. Soon, she will reach for Mom again, and Mom will pick her up. This repeats. Mom will never know why and will never be frustrated.

Every four months, Uncle Georg visits. He doesn’t have a flat, blinky face like Mom. His face sticks out like Trevor’s, with a beard that moves like a scratchy blanket when he talks. His gray work shirt has tools like pens peeking out of the chest pocket. Sometimes he brings a brown satchel with presents when he plays Santa for Christmas, but he usually just stuffs things into the cabinets and the storage unit in the back (which stays locked).

When Trevor is still at school, Georg gives Mom a checkup. Issa lies in Mom’s lap, mouth red with a rash, hands wet from sucking her thumb. Mom strokes Issa’s hair and neck and Georg uses his pen things on Mom’s back.

“Momma’s going to be really still for five seconds. Can you stay still, too?”

Issa nods.

Mom’s hand falls flat against Issa’s back for a moment. Then her chest makes a musical sound.

“Momma and I are going to play a game. Want to play, too?”

Issa nods again.

Uncle Georg’s game is strange. It’s not like Mom’s games with music and lights. They only play once. Mom and Issa stand on one foot, then the other. Move around. Say weird words and then look at one of the pens. Stick another pen in Issa’s ear and she coughs.

Uncle Georg asks Mom questions that don’t make sense, but somehow Mom knows the answers. When it’s Issa’s turn, she knows the answers to the questions because they are about her. Do you have any new friends? What’s the grossest thing you ate? What’s the scariest thing around?

When Issa is four and Trevor is ten, Mom prints meatloaf with green beans and it’s better than usual.

“Five stars!” Issa rates dinner, and Trevor agrees. They know something special is planned.

When they’ve cleared their plates, Mom brings them strawberry freezies and says that the May Bees are going to visit. “They’re different May Bees than the last time,” Mom explains. “They’ll knock on the door like Halloween, but we can bring them inside. So, no stories tonight. It’s quiet time until they arrive.”

Shortly after Issa and Trevor go to their rooms, there comes the knock. A squat caseworker from Dewey with a badge on her shirt has brought the May Bees with her: a thin man with a mustache and a lady wearing a fancy yellow coat. The caseworker asks if the kids are inside. She waits in the kitchen, drinking from a thermos, as Mom brings the May Bees back to their rooms.

Trevor is bouncing up and down at his desk.

“Trev, may we come in?” Mom asks. “Our guests want to meet you.”

Trevor stands and nods vigorously with a toothy smile, hopping from one foot to the other.

The May Bee man with the mustache watches from the hallway as the lady with the yellow coat steps around Mom. She squats down at eye level and holds her hand out to shake.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Trevor.”

Trevor hugs her around her neck. Embarrassed, she gently pulls away and asks what subjects he likes at school. Trevor dances around his room, joking and showing off his possessions. He talks louder, faster, as if he always has been shouting to be heard. The man waves from the hallway and Trevor runs and clutches around his leg.

When it’s time to visit Issa, she is playing quietly with Teacup Bunny in her room. The May Bees ask her who her friend is. Does Bunny like having parties? The questions sound like tricks, because the lady’s face moves like Uncle Georg’s face. Not blinky like Mom’s.

Trevor skips around their line of sight, interrupting with inane questions, not really listening for answers. Issa won’t lift her gaze from Teacup Bunny to make eye contact. When nobody is looking, Trevor reaches behind his back and pinches Issa.

Once it’s time for the May Bees to leave, the lady notices that Issa looks shaken. She asks, “Is something wrong? What happened?” and Issa begins to cry.

Bad Trevor.

When Issa turns six and Trevor is twelve, he’s sent home from school again for hitting. Mom makes her mad face: downward chevron between her eyes, upturned frown line for a mouth.

“You’re in big trouble, mister. Straight to your room until dinner.”

Sullen, Trevor drops his book bag and leans his street hockey stick against the refrigerator.

Later, as Issa helps set the table, Mom pins a watercolor that Issa made in class to the refrigerator door. In the picture, there is Mom and Uncle Georg and Issa. Trevor is standing at a distance, painted scrawly in red. They are all under the roof of a house, with more people holding balloons.

“Is this your birthday?” Mom regards the picture through framing hands. “That’s definitely five stars! We’ve got another artist in the house.”

Trevor wanders past Issa and Mom and opens the fridge to grab a drink, blocking their view.

“Excuse me, Trevor. You’re being rude. Nobody called you for dinner yet.”

“I wanted a glass of water.” Trevor closes the refrigerator door and looks at Issa’s drawing. “Who’d want to have a party here anyway? This is a loser house.”

“Trevor!”

As he takes a sip of water, Trevor casually swats the drawing off the refrigerator.

Mom makes the mad face. “Trevor, that’s not your drawing.”

“It’s a stupid drawing anyway.”

“Put it back and apologize to your sister.”

“No!”

“Okay, that’s a timeout. Go to your room, mister.”

Trevor makes like he’s about to leave, but then picks up his hockey stick and gives Mom a whack on her leg. Mom is not allowed to retaliate. She reaches to grab the hockey stick with her plastic fingers, but Trevor wrenches it free and the chairs screech out of the way.

“Let go, it’s mine! I hate you!”

Trevor hits Mom again, harder this time, cracking her plastic casing. Mom’s chest emits a shrill beep and she collapses, first against the table and then the floor. Silverware rattles. Neither Issa nor Trevor has ever heard Mom make that sound, and Trevor steps back. Mom’s face is blank. Issa shrieks. Trevor begins to understand what he’s done. Drops his hockey stick. Runs out into the alley, knocking on neighbors’ doors.

Issa hoists Mom into her chair, lifts Mom’s hand, lets go. It clacks against her thigh. No response. She’s never seen Mom unresponsive. Now the home is just a square shed between two cold brick buildings. The spell has cracked. She begins to hyperventilate.

“Mom!” she squeals.

Nothing.

Then, at the end of the hall, a ruction behind the locked door to the storage unit; boxes falling from shelves, and a musical chime. Something stands upright, steps over what sounds like metal canisters rolling around the floor.

Issa grasps Mom’s sweatshirt and shakes, rattling her limbs. She taps and swipes Mom’s blank face with her fingers. “Wake up!”

Behind the door, clacking, deliberate footsteps resound. Then something thuds against the back of it and Issa shrieks. She kicks back under the table to hide, and again the door thuds. It smashes open and there, at the other end of the hall, is another Mom. This Mom is bald, missing part of her arm and her clothes.