And before she hops down the chute, perhaps one of them will pause, looking at the rotating silver statue of Amea Amaau’s namesake waving a mechanical good-bye at the top of the chute drop station. Perhaps she will stop and wonder about Amea Amaau for a moment—before she plunges on into the chute, ready for adventure, ready for anything.
* * * *
Previous city (Ahavah)
All published cities
Copyright © 2001 Benjamin Rosenbaum
* * * *
Benjamin Rosenbaum lives in Basel, Switzerland, with his wife and baby daughter, where in addition to scribbling fiction and poetry, he programs in Java (well) and plays rugby (not very well). He attended the Clarion West Writers’ Workshop in 2001 (the Sarong-Wearing Clarion). His work has appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction and Writer Online. His previous appearances in Strange Horizons can be found in our Archive. For more about him, see his Web site.
Other Moments
By Daniel Goss
12/31/01
Anna bumped the portly man reaching for the bag of low-fat chips with her cart. “Sorry,” she said. Again. This was her third vehicular assault in twenty minutes. The man scowled at his chips—not bothering to look her way—and slouched off down the aisle. Anna resisted the urge to bump him a second time.
Shearson’s Market was suffering through an epidemic of irritable, last-minute Christmas shoppers—and Anna realized she was becoming as caustic as everyone else. She glanced down at her dog-eared list. Only the cranberries were left. What aisle were they in? What aisle was she in? Jesus. She put the cart in reverse, trying to glimpse the sign hanging above her head, and backed into someone. Again. “Sorry!”
This was impossible. Why had she listened when Philip blithely suggested switching grocery stores? A few dollars saved each month was not worth this. But would she really tell him that? Not likely. She’d rather brave the throng.
SOFT DRINKS/SNACKS/WATER. What the hell was she doing in this aisle? Anna rotated the cart out of the lane, offered the right-of-way to the two oblivious old ladies at the intersection, and wheeled around the bend. Not because she needed SHAMPOO/DEODORANT/FEMININE HYGIENE products at the moment, but because no one else seemed to, either. Also, she thought she’d spied CANNED something over the next rise of shelves. She’d zip down this vacant aisle, turn the corner—hopefully without major incident—and be right where she needed to be.
The strategy worked perfectly until she made the turn. “Sorry!” she said to the startled blonde girl she’d whacked. “Where’s your mommy, sweetheart?” And why are you running, you little shit?
The girl stuck out her tongue and ran off.
“Merry Christmas to you too,” Anna said, putting the cart in gear. And in about seven months I get one of my very own. Terrific. She continued down the aisle, shaking her head.
And, finally, there were the damn cranberries.
She navigated past the sullen shoppers clogging this aisle and snatched a can off the shelf, feeling let down at the dullness of the prize after the gauntlet she’d run. She turned to dump the cranberries into the cart … and froze.
There was already a can there, nestled between the bottles of turkey gravy and applesauce. She must have already been down this aisle. But I don’t remember doing that at all, she thought. I don’t remember any of that.
She shrugged and wheeled the cart off to the checkout, deciding it was just one of those things.
* * * *
It happened again on New Year’s Eve.
Anna was staring out the passenger’s window of Philip’s Explorer, counting the houses decorated with holiday lights as they rushed past, wishing for the hundredth time that it snowed more often in Southern California. She also wished Philip would choose a different movie to watch tonight. “I really don’t like action movies, you know,” she said, hoping it would sink in this time, but realizing there was a better chance of blizzards in LA. “They’re all just exercises in male wishful thinking. And my eyes are always covered through most of them. Why do you still want to watch them with me? I don’t get it.”
Philip put a hand on her knee, etched a figure-eight with his finger. “How about this?” he said. “You give me a son. We wait a few years. Then I’ll take him to the action movies. How about that? Sounds fair to me.” He laughed, eyes on the traffic ahead.
Anna watched his angular features flicker in and out of existence with the flash of brake lights. His five o’clock shadow was already darkening his chin, despite the fact that he’d shaved before they left the house. “Who says we’re not having a girl?” she replied. “Besides—even if I am carrying a boy—are you saying I have to wait around for him to grow up before you’ll let me off the hook? What’s fair about that?”
He smirked. “Hey, time flies,” he said, squeezing her knee. “At least you liked this one a little. You said you enjoyed the story, anyway.”
“When did I say that? I haven’t heard a single thing about this one. I don’t even know if it got a ‘thumbs up’ or whatever.”
His thick brows furrowed and he darted a look at her. “On the way out of the theater. You said: ‘Story eight. Acting three.’ Remember?”
She pushed his hand off her leg. “Very funny. Talk about wishful thinking. We haven’t even seen the damn thing yet.”
He chanced a full look at her this time, his expression taut. She knew that look. He was considering getting pissed off. “What are you talking about, Anna? We just watched it. We’re on our way home. Stop playing games.”
She glanced out the window and realized they had turned onto Rosewood Avenue. The house was just ahead. “What?” she whispered. “What?” A nameless fear slithered behind her eyes and she began to shake.
“Anna?”
“Philip? Philip? What’s happening?”
* * * *
“Blood sugar a little elevated,” Dr. Varza said, tapping a pen against his front teeth. He flipped a page on the clipboard. “But acceptable. Fetus appears healthy.” More teeth tapping. The difficulty of translating what he was saying was compounded by his thick Indian accent.
Take that damn thing out of your mouth and look at me! Anna wanted to shout. She felt miserable. More frightened than she’d ever been in her life. And no one, especially not this HMO mumbler, would take her situation seriously. She crossed her arms against her blouse, still feeling as exposed as she had in the sadistic paper-doll gown she’d worn during the examination.
“And no family history of neurological disease?” Dr. Varza shook his head, glancing up at her for the first time since striding back into the room. “I really don’t know what to tell you, Anna.” The sudden familiarity rang false, especially after his disinterested prodding during the exam. “Except not to worry too much. Pregnancy, you know, is a very difficult time for women.” He gave his teeth another tap. “And you say this memory lapse occurred a few weeks ago? And only once? Twice?”
Anna tensed, concentrated on keeping a level tone. The bastard had the bedside manner of an end table. “They’re not ‘memory lapses,’” she said. “You can’t forget something that never happened. I know the difference. I didn’t watch that movie. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Dr. Varza? That wasn’t me. It’s as if something wants in. I can feel her! I can feel—” Her voice was crescendoing out of control. She jerked a hand to her mouth.
Dr. Varza moved the pen aside long enough to manufacture a smile. “Bahram,” he said. “Call me Bahram.” He laid the clipboard down and patted her shoulder. Then he tapped those teeth again.
Anna bit into her palm, deciding that it was either her or him.
“What about your husband?” he asked, glancing at the clock.
Anna winced, recalling Philip’s frustration with her, his mounting disdain—his hands slamming her against the kitchen counter the last time she broached the subject. She shivered, drew her arms across her shoulders.
Dr. Varza pretended not to notice the reaction. “I’m sure he’s there for you,” he announced, hand still resting on her shoulder. “Have the two of you discussed counseling? This seems a problem more conducive to therapy of some sort.”
Anna could take no more. She pushed his clammy hand away. “I’m not crazy! Something is happening to me.”
Dr. Varza picked up the clipboard and moved toward the door. “If your symptoms recur, be sure to call the staff to schedule another appointment,” he said, pulling the door wide. “After you’ve gotten dressed,” he added, “there may be some additional forms to fill out.”
Anna resisted the pointless tears that wanted to fall. She was tired of fighting, tired of battling this ephemeral thing that pried at the very periphery of consciousness. Most of all she was weary of trying to make people understand what even she didn’t understand. She leaned back against the wall, in no hurry to climb down from the table and struggle into her clothes. Just a moment to pull myself together, she told herself, closing her eyes. Just a moment of peace.