Jonathan Foer - Here I Am

“Of course it matters,” Billie said, puzzled and upset by Julia’s behavior.

“Mexico?” a girl asked.

“Iran, obviously,” Yarmulke Boy said.

“ Maybe ,” Julia said, “we should bomb some war-torn, famine-ravaged African country where orphans are so skinny they’re fat?”

That killed the buzz.

“Why would we do that?” Billie asked.

“Because we can,” Julia said.

“ Jesus , Mom.”

“Don’t ‘ Jesus , Mom’ me.”

“We’re not going to bomb anyone,” Mark said.

“But you see, we are ,” Julia said. “That’s how the story always ends. You’re either a country that never bombs, or you’re a country that is open to bombing. And once you make yourself open to bombing, you will bomb.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, Julia.”

“Only because you’re a man, Mark.”

The kids looked at one another. A few giggled nervously, Sam not among them.

“OK,” Mark said, calling and raising Julia, “so here’s another idea: let’s bomb ourselves.”

“Why?” Billie asked, confused to the point of anguish.

“Because Julia—”

“Mrs. Bloch.”

“—would rather die than save her life. So why draw it out?”

“See what you did?” Sam said to his mother.

“Jamaica went up to four hundred billion,” Billie said, holding up her phone.

Someone said: “Yah, mon.”

Someone said: “Jamaica doesn’t have four hundred dollars.”

Someone said: “We should be asking for real money. The kind we can take home and buy real stuff with.”

Sam pulled his mother into the hallway by her wrist, as she’d many times pulled him.

“What are you doing ?” he said.

“What am I doing?”

“I told Dad I didn’t want you to come on this trip, and you made a big deal when I said don’t make a big deal, and you’re more worried about coming off as a cool mom than actually being a good mom.”

“Excuse me?”

“You make everything about you . Everything is always you .”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, and neither do you.”

“You’re making me apologize for words I didn’t write, so I can have a bar mitzvah that only you want me to have. You not only check my online search history, you try to hide the fact that you don’t trust me. And do you think I think the pencils on my desk sharpen themselves?”

“I take care of you, Sam. Believe me, it brings me no pleasure to be shamed in front of the rabbi, or to organize your pigsty desk.”

“You’re a nag. And it does bring you pleasure. The only thing that makes you happy is controlling every last tiny detail of our lives, because you have no control over your own.”

“Where’d you learn that word?”

“What word?”

“Nag.”

“Everyone knows that word.”

“It’s not a kid word.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“You’re my kid.”

“It’s annoying enough when you treat your kids like kids, but Dad—”

“Be careful, Sam.”

“He says you can’t help yourself, but I don’t see why that makes any difference.”

“Be careful .”

“Or what? I’ll realize there’s Internet porn, or break a pencil tip and die?”

“Stop now .”

“Or I’ll accidentally say something that everybody already knows?”

“And what would that be?”

“Be careful , Mom.”

“What does everybody know?”

“Nothing.”

“You don’t know as much as you think you do.”

“That we’re all just scared of you. We’re unhappy because we can’t live our lives, because you’re a nag and we’re scared of you.”

“We?”

Billie came into the hallway and approached Sam.

“Are you OK?”

“Go away, Billie.”

“What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything,” Julia said.

Sam continued to lay into his mother, but now through Billie: “Will you please just mind your own business for three consecutive seconds?”

“Did I say something?” she asked Julia.

“You aren’t wanted,” Sam told her. “Go away.”

“Sam?”

Tears brimming, Sam scurried off. Julia stayed there, an ice sculpture of frozen tears.

“It’s kind of funny, right?” Billie said, her eyes overflowing with the tears neither mother nor son could release.

Julia thought about her injured baby pleading, It’s funny. It’s funny .

“What’s funny?”

“Babies kick you from the inside, and then they come out and kick you some more.”

“It’s been my experience,” Julia said, her hand moving to her belly.

“I read it in one of my parents’ parenting books.”

“Why on earth do you read those?”

“To try to understand them.”

Jacob went online and didn’t scan for breaking news in the worlds of real estate porn, design porn, or porn, and didn’t scan for the good fortune of people he envied and would have preferred dead, and didn’t spend a soothing half hour in Bob Ross’s happy little womb. He found the tech support number for Other Life. No great surprise, he had to navigate his way through an automated service — a sedentary Theseus with only a phone cord.

“Other Life … iPad … I don’t know … I really don’t know … I don’t know … Help … Help…”

After a few minutes of saying “I don’t know” and “Help” like an alien impersonating a human, he was connected to someone with an almost impenetrable accent who did everything possible to conceal the fact that he was an Indian impersonating an American.

“Yes, hi, my name is Jacob Bloch and I’m calling on behalf of my son. We had an accident with his avatar…”

“Good evening, Mr. Bloch. I see that you are calling from Washington, D.C. Are you enjoying the unseasonably nice weather this late evening?”

“No.” Jacob had no patience to lose, but being asked to pretend that the phone call wasn’t international found him some nastiness.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bloch. Good evening. My name is John Williams.”

“No kidding! I loved what you did with Schindler’s List .”

“Thank you, sir.”

“ Jurassic World , not as much.”

“How can I assist you tonight?”

“As I said, there was an accident with my son’s avatar.”

“What kind of accident?”

“I accidentally sniffed a Bouquet of Fatalism.”

“Fatality?”

“Whatever. I sniffed it.”

“And can I ask why would you do that?”

“I don’t know. Why does anyone want to smell anything?”

“Yes, but a Bouquet of Fatality offers instant death.”

“Right, no, I get that — I get that now . But I was new to the game.”

“It is not a game.”

“Fine. Can we just fix this?”

“Were you trying to kill yourself, Mr. Bloch?”

“Of course not. And it’s not me. It’s my son.”

“Your son sniffed it?”

“I sniffed it on my son’s behalf.”

“Yes, I see.”

“Isn’t there some kind of Other Life mulligan, or something?”

“ Mulligan , sir?”

“Do-over.”

“If there were no consequences, it would only be a game.”

“I’m a writer, so I really do understand the gravity of mortality, but—”

“You can reincarnate, but without any of your psychic upholstery. So it will be as if you are beginning again.”

“So what do you suggest I do?”

“You could reacquire psychic upholstery on your son’s behalf.”