It wasn't that he was scared. Nay, he was not scared. . . sad yes, but he was not even disturbed. The only thing that bothered him was what he had yet to finish-so much, and so little time.
It was in this moment that he thought of his family, neglected, perhaps . . . why, he realized with a start, he had not seen his grandchildren since Christmas last year!
The light in front of him turned green, and he acclerated slowly, his mind mulling on what he should do. How he should fix everything . . .
He picked up his mobile and dialed, realizing with a shock that he had to search for the number, it had been so long since he had last called it. "Hello?" The voice was surprised, and no wonder, because Ian Kabra never took time out of his busy political life to dial up his only daughter.
"Hi, Irina." He forced his voice to sound normal, rather than deeply sad, as he felt. "I was wondering if little Hope and Vikram were available this afternoon."
Irina coughed. "Dad?"
Ian smiled. It was no wonder she was surprised. He watched the white cherry blossoms of Washington fade away as he merged onto the highway. "That's right. I'm coming over to pick them up. How does the zoo sound? Or maybe that science museum?"
There was long silence; Irina had probably muted the phone. The sound came back on a few minutes later; Ian heard shouts and laughter in the background. "They want to go the museum."
Ian nodded briskly, even though his daughter couldn't see him. "Alright. I'll be there in ten minutes. Have them ready."
Irina didn't answer; Ian heard the click of the phone as it was hung up.
He smiled to himself, yes, Irina would have plenty to think about while he took the children on an unexpected outing.
The children's excitement was not infectious. Ian's knees hurt as he plodded on, struggling to keep up with both the children's pace and their excited chatter.
They hadn't even made it past the lobby.
"Grandpa? What's this?" Hope said, pointing towards a sculpture of a rhino, her dark eyes wide.
"Does it kill its food with its horn?" Vikram asked, looking up at Ian with love and admiration, so much of both that it made Ian's heart hurt . . . more than it already did. Vikram's hair stuck up in a few random spots, giving him the look of someone who'd just gotten out of bed.
Ian blinked, distracted. Vikram reminded him of himself.
But before Ian could think up an answer that instructed the children, without sounding harsh, they had moved on, running towards yet another sculpture, this one of an atom.
"What's this?"
"Why is it pink and purple?"
"Why are there little crosses in it?"
"Grandpa?"
Life was so simple, Ian reflected, as he watched the children scurry from one thing to the next, not caring that their questions went unanswered.
Life was so simple. And Ian realized he enjoyed it. Why, he mused, had he never known before? He would have spent much more time doing simple things, loving his family, going for walks, snuggling on the couch with his children.
Power. Power had corrupted him. Power-lust had instilled a thirst in Ian that he had not known how to break-until he must give it up.
After the museum, he took the children for ice-cream. He did not get any, doctor's orders, but he enjoyed watching the children slurp theirs up, muss their clothes with chocolate drips, and turn their little fingers and mouths sticky.
Their little voices rang in his ear, even after they had fallen asleep on the ride home.
Yes, Ian decided, in the following six months, he would get to know his family-for the last time.
He dropped the sticky children off to a bewildered mother, waved cheerily and pulled out of the driveway.
Ian had a phone call to make. And it wasn't a business phone call. He needed to talk to his wife, really talk, rather than just a hurried, "Hello, yes things are good, what about you, ok, great, hey, the president's calling me, gotta go, love you, bye."
He picked up his cell phone and dialed Italy.
He wasn't angry that Amy had left him. He supposed he would have left her too, had their roles been reversed. Why, he'd never had time for his wife, so caught up in the political web he'd been.
Well, that was all over now.
"Hello?"
Ian smiled. Amy's voice, like her daughter's, was bewildered. "Hello. Will you come home?" He didn't bother to waste any time with needless formalities. There wasn't time.
"Come home? Ian, I'm at home!"
Ian bit his lip. Amy's reaction was expected, but it still hurt, now that he cared. "Honey, I'm going to die in six months. Will you come home?"
It was his heart that would kill him. Everything else was fine, normal, even, for a man of his age. The doctors told him he was in exceptional health, considering all the work hours he put in, the bare minimum amount of sleep he'd gotten over the years . . . yes, everything was fine, except for his heart.
Ian had only six months to live.
His overworked heart could not be guaranteed to last any longer than that.
"But isn't there anything I can do?" Ian had cried, begged, pleaded.
"No." The reply was firm, blunt, and it had struck Ian to the core.
He'd been about to drive back to the office, when he realized that perhaps . . . perhaps he needed to reunite with his family.
Amy came as fast as she could from Italy, but to Ian it wasn't fast enough. Their meeting was awkward, probably because the last time he had seen her, she'd been crying, begging him to spend some time with her.
"Ian, it was different when I had the child! But she's grown up, and I'm so lonely by myself!"
Ian hadn't cared, there were the elections of '32 to worry about, and Amy had left, going to their unused condo on the Italian coast.
He'd won the position of Senator, and hadn't cared that Amy wasn't there to see him in all his glory.
And right now, he should have been beginning to worry about campaigning for elections of '44.
Yes, Ian Kabra was very successful. He smiled to himself as that thought crossed his mind. The whole world knew of Ian Kabra . . . he was successful, he was well-liked . . and he was going to be President of the United States of America . . . until his heart began to fail.
Dying was a lot of work. There were so many accounts to close, arguments to forgive, enemies to begin loving, insurance companies to be consulted.
Letters to write, a will, and of course, the office.
The office needed to be cleared for the next Senator who was to come in.
He was in his office, deciding which papers his replacement would find useful, when the ghost showed up.
Dr. Theiste wasn't a real ghost, of course, but no one had seen him for so long, that it took Ian a while to recover from his shock to properly (awkwardly) greet the man.
"Hello." He said. "How are you? The artificial atmosphere in space isn't killing you?" He smiled on the cruel humor. The atmosphere near Mars appeared to be treating Theiste fine, while Earth's atmosphere was killing him, not directly of course, but it was here that he would die.
The doctor smiled. "I'm fine. But you . . ." he let the sentence drag on, and then awkwardly cleared his throat. "Look, Kabra. Remember last time we met?"
Yes, he remembered very well. It had not gone well, mostly because Ian was directly opposed to what the good doctor had been proposing to Congress.
Unfortunately, Theiste had won, and perhaps that was why they had not parted on good terms.
Theiste had gone to space, to orbit the earth in an experiment that, Ian thought, was a waste of the United States' money.
"Yes." Ian nodded. "I remember."
He remembered how hot it was in the room, how Theiste's forehead had glistened with drops of perspiration, how sweat had pooled in his own armpits . . .
"Look, Kabra." Theiste said. "Let me cut right to the chase. Remember my experiment?"
"Of course. I lost, one of the few times failed to win."
Theiste cleared his throat. "Kabra, look. I know you don't agree with me on everything, but I know of a way for you to be cured."
"But that's impossible . . the doctors . . . they . . ."
Theiste held up a hand. "Right. But these doctors have not studied the same things I have. In fact, if you remember what I proposed, you'll remember that space is less harmful to the body, due to the lack of gravity."
Ian nodded. "I remember. And . . . the air that is supplied is not tainted with smog or dirt or . . ." He frowned. "That won't help my heart. I asked if a change of air would do anything . . ."
Theiste smiled. "Ah, but you do not know what I am about to tell, what I have recently discovered, what I am about to release to the public." He cleared his throat. "I introduced heart disease, fatal heart disease into several rabbits and rats. I took them into space and fed them a healthy diet, exercised them, and just like that, their heart disease was cured. Would you like to know why?"
Ian's curiosity was sparked. "Of course."
"Out oribiting the earth, in zero gravity, your heart doesn't have to work quite as hard, pumping blood, and a miraculous recovery on earth is expected in space."
Ian frowned. "So you're telling me this because . . ." He shrugged. "It's not like I own my own spaceship! Private jet, yes, but not a spaceship."
The doctor smiled. "It doesn't matter. I'm offering this to several people of interest. We'll give you first choice, however, you need to fly to Russia where my clinic is, and we'll examine you to make sure you're a candidate."
Ian nodded, and suddenly his whole world, which had before been so simple, was now complicated again. Why . . . he could be back in for the elections of '48!
"Before I leave earth, I'll let you know." Ian promised the crowd of reporters.
Before I leave earth . . . It was so mysterious, so intriguing, and something Ian never thought he would hear himself say.
Why, when he returned, he'd be popular, the people would view him as a hero, and getting elected for President would not be hard in the least . . .
But then he saw Amy's eyes. They were sad as they stared at him from the crowd. She was surrounded by desperate reporters, thronging to get the best pictures, the best insight for their next article.
Her eyes seemed to say, "Not again . . ."
Ian felt a stab of sympathy for his wife. He'd returned, become part of her life, and now he was to leave, and when he came back, he would be caught up in the web of politics once more.
Inwardly shrugging, he decided he'd figure out how to make it up to her. There was no rule about being a Senator that said one had to work twenty hours a day.
He waved cheerily to the crowd, blew his hassled wife a kiss, gave his grandchildren a hug, and hurried away, past the security gates (he was a VIP, so of course, he was already cleared) and towards his flight.
Ian hated waiting rooms with a passion. But this waiting room was worse. It was crowded with people, old people, fat people, young people, thin people, and all of them had heart disease.
Ian smiled. At least he had been practically guarenteed a spot.
His eyes wandered around the room, over the splotchy carpet that was supposed to be cheeful, but really just made him stressed. The chairs that looked comfortable, until you sat down and began to worry.
The meaningless photographs and paintings stared out at him, waterfalls, perfectly still lakes, a drop of water clinging to a leaf, reflecting the rainbow sunlight.
It was supposed to be calming, such serene pictures of nature, but Ian couldn't make himself relax.
He kneaded his hands desperately, folding, and unfolding, weaving his fingers together, leaning forward on his chair, leaning back, shifting his weight . . .
His wandering eye caught a young couple. The woman was heavily pregnant and the man by her side seemed a mere boy. But it was obvious that they were deeply in love.
The man leaned into the woman, his hand resting on her thigh, and his hand intertwined in hers. The woman stroked his hand thoughtfully, carelessly, her eyes staring into space.
Every once in a while the man coughed and glance the woman shot him was heartbreaking (which, Ian thought, was probably not good for his condition). She leaned over, put both her hands on his shoulders and whispered something to him.
The man smiled, nodded, and then the pair went back to their original positions.
The woman's hair was braided into two braids running down the side of her head. She looked so small, so girlish that Ian would have thought she was a young teenager, except for her protruding stomach.
Just as Ian was thinking up a way to "accidentally" start a conversation with the couple, the door opened and a nuse in navy scrubs stepped into the room, a clipboard held against her chest. "Mr. Kabra?"
Ian stood and walked into the room, hoping, praying, that he was good enough to go into space. Hoping that he would beat the list. Hoping that it would work, so that he could live.
The call came a few days later, just as Ian was tickling his granddaughter, laughing at her laughter.
His phone vibrated in his pocket and he froze, a stab of fear running down his spine. His heart beat picked up, wildly beating his rib cage. Just answer it, before my heart gives out! He thought, and swiped accept.
"Hello, Mr. Kabra. We are delighted to inform you-"
Ian didn't really hear the rest. "I'm going!" he shrieked, feeling childish. "I'm going to space! I'm not gonna die, Amy!" He grabbed his wife and swung her around the room, pulling her close to him, and burying his face in her hair, something he hadn't done in a long, long time.
Amy blushed and pushed him away. "Ian." She reproached. "We're too old for this! And not in front of the children!"
"To hell with the children!" Ian said. "I'm going into space!"
He grabbed his wife and gave her a lingering kiss before releasing her and grabbing one of his grandchildren (he wasn't really sure which one it was at this point) and tossing the child into the air.
Irina came into the room, her eyes laughing. "Good news, Dad?" She asked, stepping in for a hug, something, Ian realized, she never would have done three months ago.
"You bet it!" He said.
The phone coughed, and the whole room went silent.
"Oh. Right." Ian said. "I gotta go discuss details. I'll be back guys." He felt so much like a scatter-brained teenager that he wanted to laugh.
"Are you sure you really have this place in space?" He asked, giddy, not only because his words inadvertently rhymed, but because, well, heck, why wouldn't he be happy? A huge smile stretched across his weathered face. "Because I think your call just cured me!"
The man on the other end laughed. "That's what the other nine said too."
The other nine? Just nine? "Wait . . .only ten people get to go up?"
The man paused. "Well . . . at first, yes, but eventually we'll have room for me. This is very expensive, you see, and even though you don't have to pay too much, someone does."
"Oh." Ian paused. "Ok, then, give me the details. What do I need to know?"
He couldn't sleep. Usually, (whenever luck was on his side and Amy was in bed with him) he fell asleep quickly, listening to her gentle breathing. But tonight, the sound of her breathing did nothing for him.
Only ten. Out of thousands of elgible heart-disease patients, only ten were chosen. What made him elgible? If he hadn't been a politician, a well-known and well-liked Senator, would he have been chosen?
If he had just been a nobody, someone not important to the world as a whole, but equally loved by family and friends, would he have been chosen?
The answer was obvious. No, he would not have been chosen. It was only because of his wealth, of his power, of his position that he had been chosen.
The young couple from the waiting room flashed into his mind, for not the first time since he'd last seen them.
Would they be up there?
Would they even be considered? It was presumable that they were not rich, the woman had been wearing simple clothing, nothing like the clothing of the rich women he associated with. These woman's clothing practically screamed, "I'm an important person! Notice me!"
And then there were her two braids that framed the girls's face. Ian had never seen someone "important" braid their hair like that woman. They always curled it, or put it up, or did something drastic.
No, Ian told himself. They had not been chosen. If he had learned anything from his years in the seat of power, it was this: those who were not rich or beautiful or smart were not noticed by the world as a whole.
The young couple was neither wealthy, nor were they exceptionally good-looking, and Ian didn't assume they were that smart, otherwise they probably would have been up in space, working, like the rest of the really smart people since 2030 had been doing.
A sense of guilt ran through Ian's body, mind, and soul. He wanted to scream. He wanted that couple to be able to go, to fix whichever one was ill.
He rolled out of bed and groped for his phone in the dark room.
When he found it, he hurried out and called the number that had called him only six short, but yet infinitely long, hours ago.
"Hello?" The voice sounded bewildered. "Is everything ok? It's the middle of the night, you know."
"Yes. I know." Ian said, feeling perfectly rational, despite the fact that he was about to throw away the chance to save his life. "Look, I just wanted to tell you I'm not going to be able to go to space therapy camp or whatever you doctors call it. I want you to locate someone for me, and I want them to go in my place."
The Chesapeake Bay was beautiful. The forming, roaring waves crashed against the sandy shore, then slid away, back into the endless drifting water.
"Grandpa? Can we go in the water?"
Ian shot Irina a look. She shook her head. He nodded. "Of course!"
Irina glared at him, and he shrugged helplessly. "What can I say? I'm enjoying being a grandparent. You gotta spoil them."
Irina rolled her eyes and hurried towards the children, who were already soaked through, their T-shirts and shorts clinging to their scrawny bodies.
Ian settled down heavily next to Amy on the blanket covered with bits of sand. He put his arm around her and drew her close to him. She leaned in, looked up, met his gaze and smiled at him.
Ian picked up a handful of sand and let it run through his fingers. He wasn't glad he was going to die, because he'd just discovered what it truly meant to live. But death was inevitable, and he'd go quietly, he knew, accepting, just like he'd accepted that his wife would never be First Lady.
"You'd have made a beautiful First Lady." He said, leaning in close.
Amy looked up at him, some emotion in his eyes that Ian couldn't read. "No, I wouldn't." She said. "Ian, I hate crowds. And First Ladies are supposed to give speeches and lead out in stuff, and I just like to stay at home."
Ian looked at her. She was so genuine, so honest, and it surprised him that he hadn't known that before. No wonder she'd declined all the formal invitations they'd received to banquets and such. "I'm sorry." He said, caressing her hand gently. "I should have known, and I shouldn't have tried to pull you into my political mess."
Amy leaned her head against Ian's shoulder, staring out at the ocean, where the children played, and Irina desperately tried to tell them not to get any wetter. "Ian, I admire you." She said at last. "You fulfilled your dream, and you were going to live it, but then you gave it up for your family."
"But did I?" Ian asked. "I still dream about President. I still sometimes, when on my way to a doctor's appointment, out of habit I drive towards the Capital . . ." he paused. "Amy, I've been so selfish. I put my own dream ahead of my family. Will you forgive me?"
Amy's eyes connected with Ian's, and she nodded. "Of course. I was hoping you'd ask. I didn't want you to . . . to leave without knowing that I'd forgiven you."
Ian smiled and leaned against her, there were no words to speak.
"Ian?" Her voice was soft, questioning.
"Hmm?"
"Remember when we got married, forty five years ago, and we promised to be faithful until death do us part?"
Ian nodded. "Of course. How could I forget? You were so beautiful, but I broke those vows. I wasn't faithful to you, I put my dreams before you, when you should have come first." He could hear the regret in his voice.
Amy held up a hand. "It doesn't matter, Ian. I just wanted to tell you that . . . even when death does part us . . . we're not really parted. I'll carry you with me until I die. We'll still be one soul."
Ian took her hand and intertwined his fingers with hers. There was nothing more to say, so they sat in silence, each brooding over the future and the past, over the present and the children laughing in the waves.
It was too late, they were too old to begin a physical relationship again, but that didn't mean they couldn't sleep as close as possible.
They held each other their arms wrapped around the other's body, the sheets a tangled mess around their legs.
It had been a glorious day, Ian thought. As perfect as a perfect day could be, the children had clung to him when he'd said goodbye and a eerie feeling had settled over him . . . it was a good feeling, but he didn't want to say goodbye. He wanted to stay with them longer.
It was love, but a deeper love than anything he'd ever experienced before for such young children.
And now, with his arms around Amy, he tried to fall asleep. She stirred, and blinked her eyes open. "I love you." She muttered, and then shut her eyes again, burying her face against his chest.
"I love you." Ian whispered, his eyes closed of their own accord, and he breathed out for the last time.
I cannot believe I wrote this in less than forty-eight hours.
I also cannot believe I wrote this.
I cannot believe...
Wow.
So I read something very similar to this in a book of science fiction by Arthur C. Clarke and I was like whoa! I've gotta try this.
Hi. I tried it. And this is the result.
I'm pretty happy with it... (that's a first!)
what do you guys think?