The End of Eden (Water Worlds 1)

Chapter 21

21

Mother and I came to the last of the drawings. By now, it was getting hot on the balcony and past time to go in.

She gathered them together, squared them up as best as she could with her gnarled hands, and re-tied the ribbon ever so carefully.

First a loop forward, up and behind, then through and pulled tight. Even, flat and with perfect lengths.

I could see that it hurt, in her thumbs especially, but I let her finish. I knew she'd shrug off any help.

She returned the package to the small black portfolio and zipped it closed, gently wiping off the fresh dust with her handkerchief. Despite the devastation all around us, Mother was determined to keep at least this part of our family's memory alive.

Joo Chen said he'd come back. He said he had to see for himself if it was any better up north, but we never heard from him again.

Father died suddenly, two years after Joo Chen left. Now, he is long since cremated and spread to the winds. Just a memory.

My anger has eased over time, and I remember Father now, if I ever think of him, only as a sad little man. It took me years, but I finally found a sense of peace. A sense of place. Even though the world continues to fall apart around us.

Many people have died and it isn't over yet. Now Mother is fading before my eyes. We don't talk about Father or Joo Chen or even Kali. She doesn't care. It's ancient history. I squinted at the sun and sniffed the air one last time before we went in for the day.

People keep migrating north where they hear the air is better, but really, the air in Vancouver now is not much worse than it was in Beijing those many years ago when I was a child.

The memory startled me.

Did those days really happen? I asked myself.

Crews continue to work on the massive tunnel projects, hoping to dig deep and survive a little longer underground. But Mother and I will likely remain here in our birds-nest flat as long as we can. There's the remnant of a strong Chinese community in this building, and I know that's a comfort to Mother. We take care of each other here.

I noticed a layer of soot on the little solar panel bolted to the rail, hanging over the edge of the balcony. One night's accumulation.

I leaned over and gently blew it clean. I didn't want to wipe. That could scratch the glass and replacing it would be difficult. We needed all the power we could get.

A bit of the dust hit an updraft and swirled into my eyes. I swatted it away with my hand, and, blinking fast to clear my vision, looked down at the empty, broken streets, far below.

The sun was strong now and most everyone was indoors.

"It's time for tea," Mother announced, standing.

I slid the glass door open. The air pressured out with a whoosh as we stepped back into the small flat. Mother, still clinging to the black portfolio, wiped her feet on the dusty mat before stepping through. My heart sunk at the futility of that small act.

Just habit, I thought. That's all we have left. Old habits.

I wiped my feet too, out of respect, and followed her in, sliding the tinted glass door closed behind me, sealing out the sun and the soot with a comforting shuk. My ears popped.

I took off my shoes and helped Mother with hers.

There was some water in the kettle and, by now, enough sun to power it. Water ran infrequently these days, so when we could, we filled every tub and container we had. I wondered how long it would be before it stopped entirely.

I touched the kettle and the little red light came on. We sat next to each other, Mother and I, at our tidy kitchen table, and waited quietly for the water to boil. I wanted desperately to draw just then, but I had no pencil, no paper.

It may take a thousand years for Humanity to recover, but by that time they would have two new worlds to explore. She would see to it, of that I was certain.

Soon, I'll be the only one left who knows, I thought.

I really should have found some way to let others know, but how? And who would have believed me?

Likely, no one would even care, I convinced myself.

Until Kali returns.