The Rememberers, a novel by Martin Edic

Chapters 34, 35 & 36

34 Rita

Rita got up and automatically went through her morning routine, all before the rise of the sun. She went downstairs, taking the Freezy, and began the opening process for the cafe. With her own coffee in hand she watched the day come up. There was still the moisture from the sudden rain on the dusty land and it had risen into a fog, either that or the residual clouds had fallen to the earth. She saw a barrier of fog that, for a moment, suspended her place in its own world, detached from any sense of place or time. Then the first red instance of light appeared here and there, rapidly flooding the spaces between the buildings as it ignited the mountain peaks in the distant western range. She opened the door and stood outside watching as she did each day, though most days were not foggy but hot and dusty even at that dewy hour. But this one felt different, it smelled different, the rain had awakened the fragrance of earth and greens and the citrus and eucalyptus smell of the reclaimed desert. She watched the fog drift down the street, dissolving in the light when she heard an old familiar sound, the grunt of a diesel, the screech and release of air brakes and a bus came into view out of the fog, slowly coming down the street, its interior lit up and empty, its sign saying 7 River Road. As it went by, all curved battered aluminum and chrome, she looked to see the driver but he or she was hidden. In moments it was gone around a bend in the Main St.

She could never be sure of memory but she felt she had never seen this bus before, in spite of opening each day and going through virtually the same ritual. Buses run on schedules she thought, and so do I. Why haven’t they corresponded? A decision made, she went in and opened the Freezy and hung it back in its place, the white message so many letters in its folds. Something may happen today she thought. Something must happen today.

She stood still for a moment, waiting for a sign. The door was still propped open and everything was still. Then in the distance a train whistle, once, twice, a third time. She shivered and turned her back. Work will anchor things she thought. I need an anchor, I’m starting to drift.

The door clacked open, its bell chiming and the deaf delivery man came in. She signed a hello and he spoke, hands moving and voice croaking out a few words, a greeting. He was followed by her regulars and the time went by as she made familiar orders, wrapped pastries and reloaded coffeemakers. Then the rush was over and she thought, it is always the same.

Not similar. Exactly the same. The same people in the same order, with the same orders, every day.

This morning she had watched them, their faces and their movements. Listened to their greetings, always the same. The heat of the day came in each time the door opened but she was chilled through with fear. They never looked up at the umbrella above their heads, never mentioned that odd thing hanging from the ceiling though it stood out as very strange, like some conceptual artwork mounted in a place where it could not be ignored. Yet it was, studiously. It may as well have been invisible.

To her the white letters glowed, they were burned into her consciousness, they said ‘you can go, you can leave, you can find your way.’ But the night before she’d made no progress towards the mountains, she had learned little from the old man. She had found shelter from the storm but that shelter, with its preternatural calm, was in itself disturbing. She was disturbed, she thought. Finally.

This last thought reverberated in the now empty cafe. The fear was mixed with relief. I am alive she thought, I am alive. But now what? She waited expectant. Who would come in next? Would they be alive or whatever those others were? Shadows? Content with their ways and place? Did they exist beyond this cafe, this street this town, this world? She had no history of any of it, no history of herself except this: She was alive.

Who else? The deaf man. Randall at the bar. That man Ray. What about the woman? Maria. She might be alive, she felt fear that day when the umbrella snapped open to reveal its message. Rita had seen it on her face. Confusion and fear. When Ray had asked her to go with him she had been confused. She had responded in the negative, made excuses, fled. But Rita knows where she lives. She thinks, what if I went there? Would I find a human, alive and aware? Or would there be nothing, a shadow like those lovers, once embracing on a rooftop, now charcoal shadows, Hiroshima impressions? They had been alive, she was sure of it. Where had they gone?