Page 88 of The End of the World As We Know It
“I’ll get it,” Gemma said.
As she moves down to mid-deck, she feels them talking about her. She doesn’t actually hear this, but senses it in her gut. They sit up there and whisper, snicker, calling her a disgrace, scheming about how to get rid of her so that they can share her rations. She sees it in their eyes. She hears it in their voices.
She opens the small locker and grabs the bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
Of course they talk about you,the Graceful Man says, and beyond the air lock door she hears his boot heels clacking at his steady approach, and then…scritch, scritch… against the door.They’re jealous. Because of what you’re going to do for me.
She stares at the bourbon bottle in her hand, but what she really sees is the memory of her disgrace.
She was in her bedroom with Paul Nevill. They were both naked, hot, flustered, and it felt deliciously daring and vital, because she had never been this far with anyone before. Neither had Paul, she knew that from his wide-eyed delight, his fluttery breaths. He was hard in her hand. And as she tugged softly, urging him closer, their hottest parts meeting at last, the bedroom door slammed open.
Her father’s furious shout shattered her senses and echoed painfully in her skull, like a bullet fired into a tank. That scream never ran out of energy, and it is as powerful now as it was fifteen years before.
Gemma, you disgrace me!
And then her father is someone else and she seeshimfor the first time, standing in her bedroom doorway like a shadow given life, smiling. But that smile is terrible.
Poor Gemma. What an evil father. You never did anything wrong.
“But I did…” Gemma says, and she burns with the deep guilt that sustains her self-hate. Her silence around the house, unable to meet his eye. The awful names she called herself.
The dreadful thing she did.
What a bad man he was.
“No, he wasn’t bad, my dad was…”
Changing around medicine capsules in the cabinet by his bed, just to make him feel sick so that she could help him, show him that she wasn’t as bad, asdisgracefulas he believed.
His eyes when they found him later that night, rolled back in his head as if in his final moments he chose to deny everything he had ever seen.
But I am good, the man says, smile filled with too many teeth, eyes aglow with the red light of eternity.And you know it, Gemma. A good man, agracefulman, and if you’re good for me, you’ll know that forever.
She’s squeezing the bourbon bottle too hard, afraid that it will shatter and cut her hands, splashing glass shards and booze and blood around the cabin. And the small part of Gemma that clasps on to sanity realizes that this might be her last chance to make a decision of her own. She grips tighter, squeezing––
…scritch scritch SCRIIIIIITCH!…
Gemma shakes her head, afraid that he’s going to scratch and tear all the way inside. She can feel him looking right at her, through the solid door and its protective packing and across the impossible gulf between them, and there’s a frantic, animal eagerness in those deep, red eyes.
At last, the Graceful Man tells her what he wants.
Matt hoped that time might have settled Gemma’s dreams.
They took it in turns sleeping two or three hours at a time so that at least one of them monitored communication, in the vain hope that there might be some good news. His own dreams were of a deep kindness sitting in the unseen distance like a rising sun. He was sad, because however fast he ran, he knew he would never reach that place. The rabid dog was just a shadow now, something left behind. Lizzie had a similar dream. They must have talked about it enough for their minds to be working in sync, consciously or otherwise.
But Gemma’s sleep had remained light and very troubled, and she was growing more and more distant. He guessed they were all handling this nightmarish situation in their own way. Perhaps more time together might help them all.
As Gemma came back onto the flight deck with the bottle of Jack, Lizzie drifted across from the pilot’s seat and nodded for her to sit. Gemma seemed surprised at this act of kindness.
“Let’s raise a toast,” Matt said.
“To who?” Gemma asked as she lowered herself into the seat.
“Who, what, where, when,” Matt said. “Maybe just to us.” Gemma handed him the bottle and he popped the top, revealing the drinking nipple he’d already attached before smuggling it on board.
“You’d have been in so much trouble if Flight had caught you with that,” Lizzie said.
“Uh-huh. Last thing I’d want to be right now is in trouble.” He chuckled, Lizzie laughed, and Gemma turned away, looking through the window at their dying world. “So… I’ll make this to my wife and girls,” he said. His voice caught and he blinked quickly, focusing only on the bottle in his hand, watching how light danced and burned in its auburn depths. “Because I was always in trouble with them when I was chosen for one of these flights.” He raised the bottle quickly, and though he didn’t need to, he tipped his head back as if to hold in the tears. The swig scorched deep and fine, warm and intimate, and the taste and smell brought good memories he held close.
