Iceling Read online

  “Hey,” I say to Stan, after we catch each other’s eyes. “How’s yours?”

  He kind of coughs and kind of laughs, and then he takes down his hood as if to let the world in a little. “Been better,” he says.

  “Mine too.”

  “Sorry to hear it.”

  “Mine too.”

  He smiles at that, which is nice, but he does it in this way that makes me think it’s been a while.

  “So,” I say.

  “So.”

  “Is he getting worse? Than usual?”

  He takes a breath and holds it in a bit.

  “I know how weird it is to talk about them. You know, with anyone besides family. And Jane,” I say. He looks at me like he agrees, so I lean in, and I decide I’m just going to go for it. “But my sister is getting worse, and I don’t really have anyone to talk to about it. She’s been having fits more and more, and, I don’t know, maybe I’m just being paranoid, but I feel that if I talk to my parents, all they’ll do is worry and maybe just make things worse, and if I talk to Jane . . . I don’t even want to know.”

  “Ugh, Jane,” he says, then pauses to think. “Jane is either, like, a vice principal desperate for you to like her, or she’s completely terrifying and her whole life is a front.

  “Ted’s,” he starts, but then stops. “I don’t know how your sister is,” he says, restarting. “I used to like to think that, like . . . that they were all the same. But now I feel like maybe they’re not.” He pauses, looking more thoughtful than I would have assumed he could. “Ted is pretty aggressive. My dad has us, like, wrestle, to let his aggression out. We can play football. We can’t really play basketball. When I say ‘football,’ I mean my dad throws me passes and Ted tries to tackle me. And when we play ‘basketball,’ it’s just layups and dunks. And his fits,” he tells me, “have been getting rough. Dad feels as though this means we should work harder to give Ted outlets.”

  “And what do you feel?” I ask.

  Stan shrugs. He makes a face, and then another one, but I can’t read either and don’t know if I want to try to right now.

  “With Callie,” I say, giving him a break from talking about Ted, “what’s scary is how quiet and under control she is until something just, like, grabs her.”

  So I go on and tell him how her body is calm, but her eyes look to me like she wants to escape. But maybe “escape” isn’t the right word. It’s more like she’s running from something, but she doesn’t know what it is, or if she does know she’s afraid to think about it, and she can’t escape it, and it’s everywhere. And it’s like I think that maybe when I’m feeling like everything is calm and under control, maybe it actually isn’t. I tell him how sometimes I feel like maybe she’s always fighting this thing.

  I stop talking, and he just looks at me. I don’t know what to say. I want to ask him for his number, so we can keep talking like this. Before I can think more about it, I’m handing him my phone to have him put his number in it. Just as he’s finishing up, I hear someone saying something about needing a turkey wrap on rye with pastrami instead of turkey. Someone else says, “That’s not a real thing,” and then the first person responds, in vaguely threatening overtones, saying something along the lines of “You know what will happen if she finds out failure is even on the table as an option.”

  All of which seems pretty extreme for a hospital, let alone a dinner order. Who gets that serious about dinner? Then Jane comes striding through those doors to that hallway.

  She beckons me over, as if I’m simultaneously her best friend and a worker minion over whom she can exert some ominous administrative authority. I got my phone back from Stan just before she walked through the doors, but she’s still looking at it in my hand like she wants to ask me about it. But she doesn’t.

  “Lorna, dear,” she says instead, “has Callie been acting . . . strange? Lately?”

  Whenever Jane calls me “dear,” I feel like a deer, in that I feel like she is trying to trap me or track me. I am not completely certain about this metaphor, but I am certain about this feeling.

  I try to look thoughtful before telling her no, and then I put on a face of sincere determination to make sure she knows I have nothing more to say on the matter. “Things are fine, you know, other than the fits.”

  “She hasn’t seemed . . . I don’t know . . . anxious to travel or leave the house or anything like that?” Her face, while she’s saying this, looks totally inquisitive, but like she’s acting. Like she wants this answer from me, an answer she already knows, and for a minute I want to give it to her.

  “I mean,” I say and then stop, because I haven’t thought my answer through, and I’m starting to think that I need to start being more cautious around Jane. “No.”

  “Okay!” says Jane. She says it like Wow, what a relief! And there’s this flicker of something on her face for an instant. As if she’s silently trying to tell me how no is totally a good answer to give and I did a great job giving it. “Well, long story short, Callie’s fine. Nothing to worry about! I know it was scary, but it was nothing major. We still don’t know exactly what happened to those poor children abandoned up there like that. All of us involved just shudder to think . . .” And her words trail off as she actually shudders here. “Anyway. It’s clear your sister loves you very much, Lorna. You’re such a genuinely calming presence to her.” She puts her hand on my shoulder again, just a beat faster than last time.

  THREE

  “SO . . . SHE’S FINE?” I ask. “I can see her?”

  “All of Callie’s treatments are closed to friends and family,” Jane says. “You know that, Lorna.”

  Right. I do. Because of “the rules.”

  So, pretty much right after the babies were brought back from the Arctic, the government came up with a guide for adoptive families about the care and treatment of Arctic Recovery Orphans. Some of the more memorable selections are as follows:

  -To ease the transition to American culture, and to ensure companionship, only those adoptive parent(s) with at least one existing biological child no more than one year older than the Arctic Recovery Orphans (AROs) are eligible to participate in the Arctic Recovery Orphan Adoption Program (AROAP).

  -Before taking AROs on extended (three days or longer) trips or vacations, doctors and caseworkers must give medical clearance and assign in-network care providers in areas of travel, in case of emergencies.

  -All adoptive parents must sign a medical waiver stating that the government-appointed caseworker—not the adoptive parents/legal guardians—will serve as medical proxy and/or in loco parentis decision-maker regarding all medical issues and emergencies.

  -Make sure AROs stay hydrated, as they will easily become dehydrated, exhibiting such symptoms as fatigue, jaundiced and flaky skin, and a generally depressed disposition.

  -Conniptions are common and expected in AROs. Conniptions, however, should always be reported. Not all conniptions are alike, but common symptoms are as follows:

  The ARO appears to be in distress.

  His or her eyes may be rolling up in his or her head.

  His or her limbs may be flailing about.

  He or she may be exhibiting behavior that warrants outside attention.

  And then there’s this particularly instructive section:

  -To prevent any ARO from becoming the topic of gossip or conjecture among curious, confused, or otherwise uncouth strangers, be up front about who the ARO is and where he or she comes from. Inform interlopers that your adopted child is an ARO and is therefore a victim of trauma. Inform them that even though your adopted child cannot speak, they are nevertheless a human being and should be treated thusly. [I can never tell if this one should freak me out, or if I should be glad that someone came up with the idea to dole out a polite, reasonable line to use in these uncomfortable but inevitable situations. Although referring to
everyone else as “interlopers” is really weird, and also, you wonder what had to happen for someone to come up with this idea/polite line in the first place. Right?]

  -Sunlight is a must! [I’m kidding. I think. Although there is another pamphlet, and it says something like “AROs require plenty of personal space and privacy—the same amount as your biological child—and a private bedroom with access to windows. And also, please have a garden.”]

  -All Arctic Recovery Orphans must attend monthly medical check-ups at their designated hospitals. Friends and family members are strictly forbidden in the exam room during check-ups.

  So, yeah, Jane. I know the rules. And I want to see my sister.

  “Most of these rules seem just as arbitrary to me as they do to you,” says Jane unconvincingly. “But we do need to follow them. Though, honestly, you probably know more about the history behind those rules than many of my colleagues.” She means because of my parents. “When your father found those poor babies . . .”

  Yes, Jane, I know.

  But I like the way I tell it better. It’s the 1990s, and it’s very cold. My mom and dad are part of a university-funded expedition, but my mom can’t make this particular trip due to me being a baby that she just had. And so! It is very cold in the Arctic, on their ship, en route to this remote Arctic island that has been exhibiting some completely bizarre seismic activity. Suddenly, off the portside bow, a crew member spots another ship. They try to signal to it; it doesn’t respond. My dad and a couple of others board the ship, and they find it completely abandoned. Except for hundreds of infants, who happen to be totally and completely silent, just huddled there with no parental supervision or guidance, just a bunch of really quiet and totally alone babies, on an abandoned ship, in the middle of the Arctic.

  So my dad and his team haul the babies on board. And then, as if this day wasn’t already full of sadness, most of the babies end up dying. From the state and style of the boat, the scientists deduce that it probably came from some Balkan state and that someone had hurried all of the babies into it before pushing it off to sea in some desperate attempt to give them a fighting chance at a life. But that’s just conjecture. I guess wherever they came from was a place that was already full to the brim with some fate worse than death at sea. Because whatever’s happening around you that makes you think putting a hundred babies into a boat and setting it adrift, unmanned, into the sea . . . whatever makes you think that that is the safest alternative . . . whatever that is must be horrifying.

  And so my dad and his team shelter and feed and care for the babies that live. And soon they notice that something seems off. Though they seem to be able to see and hear, and they understand what food is, and they understand blankets, they don’t react to normal stimuli. Other than some screams, they’re basically totally silent. Which to me and based on what I know about babies doesn’t seem so odd, but to these scientists it was something worth getting alarmed about.

  So Dad alerts the sponsors of the university-funded expedition, and he wrangles permission to bring the babies to the United States, where they will be processed into adoptive families that meet a very specific set of requirements, some of which we’ve already discussed.

  Jane is still going on with her version of the story, but I think she’s wrapping it up. She gives a heavy sigh and tells me Callie will be right out, and then she is, escorted by a familiar-looking doctor in a lab coat that matches Jane’s. I want to say bye to Stan, but I also can’t tell if we’re not supposed to know about each other. So what I do is I text Stan: stan it’s lorna. this is me saying goodbye, like a spy, because of jane. i hope ted’s ok. :/ Stan almost looks up at me, but instead he makes a small smile and texts back: Good thinking. We r real spies now. And thanks. Me too.

  And then there’s Callie.

  I almost feel bad about throwing my arms around her in front of Stan, considering all he’s maybe had to deal with. But I do anyway, I hug her close, and I smile, and I feel her hug me back a bit too. Which is not her usual thing, but man, it is nice right now.

  I put my arm around her shoulder and say, “How are things, kid sister?” She sort of looks ahead, and her face doesn’t look too sad, or too hurt, and I smile at her, and we make tracks to the door, which will lead us to the parking lot, wherein is parked the car, which will take us home.

  I look over at Stan, who has to wait around for Ted a while longer. He waves, like It’s fine to go, don’t wait up for me, is how I choose to interpret that. As we’re heading to the door, I hear Jane say, “Ted’ll be with you in a moment, Stan. We gave him a little something to cool him down a bit, nothing to worry about.” I look back at Stan one last time before we push through the doors, and from the look on his face, this is not the first time that a conversation with Jane about Ted has ended this way.

  Only about a mile into our journey, it starts to rain.

  “It’s raining,” I tell Callie. I glance at her and watch my words wash over her like the rain does over us, here, now, in the car, just gliding off and sliding to the floor in a puddle to be stepped in.

  FOUR

  IT’S BEEN A few days since the hospital, and Callie’s calmed down a bit. Mom and Dad are acting a little off, walking around the house as if trying not to wake a sleeping monster, whispering furtively. Why they would whisper instead of text, I have no idea. I ask Callie if she thinks that Mom and Dad whispering instead of texting has something to do with them being old, and a general reluctance to change or grow or adapt. Callie smiles at me and puts an entire Ritz cracker in her mouth.

  “What was that, honey?” asks Mom from the other room, thinking I was talking to her.

  “Oh, nothing. I was just talking to Callie. Just remarking on progress and its wants,” I tell her.

  “Well, look at you,” she says, entering the kitchen.

  “We have something to tell you, sport,” says Dad, coming down the stairs behind her.

  “But first,” says Mom, “do you have your fake ID on you?”

  ABOUT FORTY OR fifty minutes later we’re sitting at their favorite restaurant, this Italian place, which is great since I gave up being a vegetarian around the time I realized that idealism wouldn’t save me from my own feelings, and their chicken parm is amazing. I’m looking over the menu like I have any idea about wine, or like there’s any chance I’m going to order anything other than chicken parm. We’re in the back, behind a wall that separates us from the rest of the restaurant, with Callie vaguely boxed in, like we usually sit at family gatherings. Callie’s going to have the salad, I know, and is right now really into eating all of those breadsticks that are basically sticks.

  Me, I’m trying really hard to be nonchalant about Mom’s nonchalance about my fake ID. Was she just assuming I have one because she knows all of her college students have had one since freshman year? Or did she actually find mine in the laundry or something? I’m starting to worry that all of this is just a trap and a prelude to a big punishment, and then they start in with it, using their sincerest voices. Their change in tone causes Callie to look over at me, smile, and then put an entire dinner roll in her mouth.

  “Kid sister,” I say to her conspiratorially, “did you just make a joke? ’Cuz of what you did earlier, with the cracker?” Callie stares straight ahead, keeps mum. “And did I just ruin the joke by explaining it?” Probably I did, and I could swear she’s nodding at me. “I did,” I say, and then the parents begin to speak.

  “Honey, we are just so proud of you for the other night.”

  “Just the proudest, sport.”

  “Really.”

  “The way you took care of your sister shows true strength of character. Port in a storm, good in a crisis.”

  Callie starts nodding again, assuming she even stopped in the first place, after I ruined her joke. Mom and Dad are looking at me and smiling, and so is she. Or that’s why she’s smiling, because Mom and Dad are. I can l
ook at it however I want, right? Because I’m special and important and reliable and basically the world’s best big sister.

  “Tom, what are you getting?” Mom shifts topics when the server arrives to take our orders. The server smiles at us, but especially at Callie. Everyone here loves Callie. She’s cute, she smiles, she’s quiet, and she has never had a fit here. When we were littler, I used to think we should just live here and then she’d be fine forever.

  Dad gets the oxtail ravioli in a bone marrow sauce, Mom the linguine with lobster. I get the chicken parm, and then they ask for a Montepulciano or something, and we get wineglasses all around. Except Callie. Obviously. I order Callie a few salads, because Mom’s doing her thing of sort of talking around her, and Dad’s doing his thing where he includes her in the conversation, even though, you know, no language.

  The appetizers and the first of Callie’s salads come. Do I take some of Dad’s fried calamari? I do. Does Callie take them off my plate? She does. Does anyone else notice how adorable this is? They do not seem to.

  “Listen, sport,” Dad says halfway through dinner. “We have an announcement. There’s a research expedition coming up. In the Galápagos Islands.”

  Wait. Are they going to invite me? They could be inviting me! Visions of beachside accommodations, giant turtles—there are giant turtles there, right?—begin to fill my head, then Dad speaks up again.

  “There's all kinds of weird stuff going on down there in terms of seismic/meteorological confluences.”