Farah Rishi - I Hope You Get This Message

Seven billion lives were at the mercy of some distant planet, a speck they could hardly see with even the best telescopes. What did they want, really? They said Earth was going up for judgment: But what kind of judgment? What more could they want? The whole thing felt unfair. And why even send a message of warning if humans could do nothing to change the outcome? She almost wished they’d just torch Earth while everyone was sleeping. Get it over with.

Schools across the state had been suspended in light of the news, and since Ivy had yet to respond to any of her texts, Cate couldn’t even ask her what she thought about it all, though, knowing Ivy, even aliens wouldn’t scare her. Some people on TV were suggesting the whole thing was one big scam, or a ploy by the government to distract from rampant unemployment and a massively unpopular new Supreme Court justice. But Cate wasn’t optimistic or dumb enough to believe that.

It seemed to Cate no one in San Francisco had slept last night: everyone walked around like dull-eyed zombies. Maybe it was that no one could stand to be in darkness, or bear the inevitable The Day After Tomorrow –style nightmares. Apartment lights burned all night long, and as a result, the state was experiencing rolling blackouts. But some people were already accusing Kepler-88a—no, Alma —of interfering with the grid to cause chaos. It didn’t help that the local government was silent about whether this particular blackout was a scheduled one. The government was silent, period. And that’s what scared her most of all.

She was actually relieved when she got a request from Bethany, her boss at Lickity Split Creamery, for help: the freezers were dark and the ice cream would soon become worthless, watery milkshakes—if rioters didn’t loot the place first. So Bethany had decided to pass out the inventory for free.

“Even the end of the world can’t kill people’s taste for good ice cream,” she had said with a wink, and it was true. All day, there was a line around the block. Bethany turned up the radio extra loud, and the Creamery was filled by old Motown classics, the music pulling more customers inside. Some of the littler kids in line giggled watching Bethany overenthusiastically bob her head to the beat, and their parents smiled tiredly, perhaps grateful for the momentary respite.

Cate even recognized a couple of classmates who shuffled in joking about being called sinners by four different Jesus impersonators, though their faces were waxen with exhaustion. She didn’t know their names, and they probably didn’t know hers, but they nodded at her in acknowledgment, as if seeing Cate work a shift at an ice cream shop when all of humanity would be eradicated in a few days were the most ordinary thing in the world.

Working in the heat, talking to people, scooping until her bicep ached—Cate was just happy for the excuse to do something, to shut down her mind, to keep it from cycling around the same news like a fly headed for a bug zapper.

Was it possible—even remotely possible—that all human existence could end, just like that? The grocery store lines and the math tests, the basement parties and the beach concerts, summers at Fort Funston and the early morning rush—all of it just gone, evaporated, extinct ? What would come next, if anything?

What could Cate say she had done in her life?

It was after six p.m. when Bethany told Cate to go home: they’d reached the end of the supply, and still people were coiled around the block. Cate knew they weren’t there for the ice cream. They were there for a slice of summer, a slice of happiness, packed into a cone. A scoop of forgetting.

Ivy still wasn’t answering any of her texts or calls. Cate’s worry was slowly devolving to panic. Ivy’s parents were always prone to fighting, and the news about Alma was bringing out the worst in everyone. With school canceled, Ivy couldn’t exactly bury herself in schoolwork, or go to a house party veiled as a study session to avoid the fighting. And the last time she’d tried—and failed—to break up an argument between her parents, she’d gotten so frustrated, she stormed out and blasted through her allowance on a giant plum blossom tattoo at some seedy parlor in the Tenderloin. It would have covered her entire back if Cate hadn’t made her reconsider.

But she told herself that Ivy could take care of herself. She always had.

Public transportation was down, and a logjam of traffic fleeing the city—as if there was anywhere to go—meant taking a cab would be pointless. She passed a prayer circle right in the middle of the street, cars honking and people shouting as their leader chanted. It all gave her the chills—she didn’t know what to make of it and felt dazed as she floated through the city where she’d lived nearly her whole life, all of it transformed. At least it wasn’t as bad as New York or Chicago, where they’d had to dispatch the National Guard to keep order.

Cate’s legs ached. All day she’d been fending off the exhaustion of a sleepless night, and she’d been walking and weaving through the thin spaces between car bumpers for miles. She had to fight her way through some sort of spontaneous dance party in the middle of the street—hands trying to pull her into the throng of bodies. Her weariness was enough to make her forget for a second why it was all happening—why people were partying like it was the end of the world. Not metaphorically, either.

Literally.

When she got to her own street and saw more flashing lights, she paused for a second, confused, thinking she was back at another party. And then suddenly her mind went clear and panic wormed into her gut. Shit.

Not again.

She broke into a sprint. It was uphill, and she was panting by the time she got to her address, where, sure enough, a police car and a white van were parked at the curb. She counted two police officers and another two people in dark green uniforms. One of them was escorting her mother into the back of the white van. She recognized the logo on the van now: Saint Francis Memorial Hospital.

“No!” Cate cried out. This couldn’t be happening. Not again. Not so soon. She could barely bring herself to think about what this meant—two episodes back to back. Were the meds no longer working? “Please! You can’t take her.”

One of the officers got in her way before she could barrel past him to the door. His name tag said Davis , and she recognized him from the last time.

“It’s Cate, isn’t it?” He gently put his hand on her arm. She shoved his hand away. “Listen to me, Cate. We’re going to help her, okay?”

Lies. “Let her go. You have no right.”

“You’ve got to be strong now,” he said. “Your mom needs help. She’s a danger to herself. She’s a danger to you .”

“You’re wrong. She wouldn’t hurt me.” She wouldn’t, would she? They might only have seven days left together: it was impossible and true. There was no way her mom would spend it in the hospital. “She’s already seen a doctor. She’s on medication. She’s just confused. It’s all this planetary stuff. Please. You can’t take her.”

“It’s for her own good. Believe me. And we’ll be sure to notify… Dr. Michel, is it?” He briefly consulted his notepad. Cate wondered where he’d gotten the name.

“She’s just going through a rough patch. It’s nothing we haven’t dealt with before.” Her mind was spinning uselessly, but finally it landed on something Dr. Michel told her during one of their sessions. “B-besides, you can’t hospitalize someone against their will. It’s—it’s the law.” She knew it was probably silly to be lecturing the cops about the law, but still—desperation had forced her hand.