CHAPTER TEN
"And if you'd ask me today, what's the most important thing about myself, I'd still say: I'm a New Yorker", Sigourney Weaver, "My hometown podcast", spring 2021.
A year later - april, 26
The ancient tugboat slowly and silently slides over the calm waters of the East River in the warm sunset, passes under the ruins of the Ed Koch Bridge, and listlessly approaches Roosevelt Island.
She is pleased, but also in trepidation, as she hears the clattering sound of crockery coming from the kitchen. She knows she gets excited and intimidated easily, despite the confidence they've built together. "Shit!", Ripley's frustrated exclamation makes her laugh with tenderness, she imagines her, retrieving whatever she dropped back from the floor. "Sorry! I'm almost ready, huh? You're not looking, are you?", she senses the emotion in her voice and smiles. "No, I'm not looking!", she banters at her, catching her own reflection in the glass. She is no longer afraid to look away from herself. She likes it, what she sees of herself now.
Through the thick glass panes of the large twentieth-century building, Call imagines the noise the boat would have made if it were still powered by fossil fuel, and the column of dark smoke that would have risen from the small chimney, now nothing more than a melancholy ornament.
Her gaze fixes for a long moment on the little that remains as evidence of the old cable tramway and the newer one that towered over it for over a hundred years, but which was the first to give way, collapsing directly on top of the ther in an intrigue of curled cables, crumpled metal and mangled bodies. A disaster that cost the Big Apple and the Little Apple one hundred and eight victims and deprived Manhattan of two important and fast communication routes. It was predictable, given the poor maintenance of the systems. It could have been avoided. Call shakes her head, to push away the negative feelings related to that event, even if she knows it only as a historical fact stored in her hard drive.
It's a special night, a special day, and she doesn't want to spoil it by thinking of something unpleasant.
She wonders what life was like in 20th century Manhattan. She wonders what life was like in 1950 in that neighbor, in that very beautiful building, overlooking the River.
She can picture the lights in the streets below, the people crowding the streets, the buses turning into the streets, drawing playful colored reflections on the walls of the blocks, through the window panes, right on the walls and ceilings of those apartments.
She can also see the small park below, now almost completely swallowed up by the surrounding plants, teeming with couples out for a walk, children playing and chasing each other, carefree.
She envisions the oblong, flat island right in the midst of the River, and recalls the day they visited it together, the tales she had told Ripley, about the old asylum, about Blackwell House, and the rumors that Typhoid Mary had died within the very walls of that magnificent, decidedly gothic-looking building that used to be the Smallpox. -"Mary who?"-, and so she had moved on to tell her the story of Mary Mallon and how, in the early 1900s, she had decimated, one might say voluntarily, a string of wealthy families in the area, evading the authorities who had identified her as a healthy carrier of typhoid fever. Having escaped the first quarantine to which she had been subjected, she had later died of a stroke while confined back, but she had not found her end at Smallpox Hospital, nor at any other asylum on Roosevelt Island. She died on an island on the East River, yes, but one a little further north, she had told her.
She imagines the statue of the wild pork in all its glory, before it was mutilated by who knows who and who knows when. She smiles, thinking back to Ripley's awe when they discovered the statue, "What the hell is the statue of a...what is it, a wild boar? What the hell is a statue of a boar doing in Manhattan?", and she had told her the story of the original in Florence and all the copies that exist, including the one right in front of them and how it had gotten there in the second half of the twentieth century.
Hearing her companion's light footsteps brings her back to the present and for a moment she is out of breath with thrill.
"Okay, you can turn around now", Ripley encircles her shoulders with an arm, cautiously depositing the plate in front of her, "Happy seventy-third", she whispers in her ear, before kissing her cheek and going to sit across from her, looking proud, satisfied and full of expectation.
On the plate is nothing but a chocolate dome, next to the plate, a small pitcher. Call raises an eyebrow, embarrassed, amused and unsure of what to do.
After a long moment of impatience, Ripley takes over. Sighing and rolling her eyes, she reaches out an arm, grabs the jug and pours the warm liquid directly upon the dome.
In a few moments, it melts, dripping dense drops of caramel and chocolate over the three small squares of brownie sprouting from the newly formed crater.
Call suppresses a laugh, entranced by the culinary trick.
"You've improved, no doubt about it", she comments, still reeling from her usual embarrassment. Will she ever be able to master it?
*.*
356 days earlier
"Stop it, I want to taste it!"
"But it's completely spoiled!"
"But it's only been a few days!
"Call, knock it off, c'mon! I'll make you a new one next year!"
"But I want to taste this one!"
Ripley gives in, rolling her eyes and planting both hands on her hips.
With everything that had happened in the previous days, the forgotten dessert in the fridge was the last thing on either of their minds. Now it will be dry and inedible, at the very least!
*.*
"Why don't you stop kidding around and try it, now that it's fresh?", the woman challenges in a sweet tone, ignoring the playful comment.
She has already tested all the components before assembling the dish, but she doesn't refuse even one of the bites Call offers her, happy that she wants to share it.
Her touched and satisfied smile is a clear mark of appreciation and she feels herself melt a little inside, at the thought of making her happy.
She doesn't regret getting rid of some of her DNA at all, the softening that followed has little to do with the lost genes and a lot to do with that wonderful creature sitting in front of her.
This they both know well. Ripley reminds her of it often, would tell her every day if she had to, and she has been, for some time. Sometimes, she even reminds her even when she doesn't need to. -What a wimp!-
*.*
360 days before
"I've always wanted to go there."
"Let's go then! And if you don't feel like settling down at the Base in the United Nations building, we can always find a couple of rooms in that part of town, or even anywhere else if you prefer", Call proposes, struggling to adjust the height of her chair.
"How long will it take?", Ripley asks, resting her head on her free arm.
"Are you talking about the treatment or our brand new plans to move?", the young woman asks distractedly, still struggling with her own seat.
"Well, right now my main concern is how long I'm going to be stuck with this needle in my arm!", Ripley mutters sullenly.
"You remind me of my younger sister, every time we left for some travel destination with my parents, she would attack with this whine after just five minutes!", the young woman comments with a wistful smile.
Ripley chuckles, how she wishes she had known her back then!
"Tell me something", she offers, reaching for her hand.
Call knows Ripley would like her to share episodes from her past, something remote, far away, but that's not what she needs to tell her now. For the happy memories of yesteryear, there is time.
"You were right, in a way, you know?", she admits in an uncertain voice.
"About what?", the woman asks, gently squeezing her hand, having sensed her change in mood.
Call shrugs, thoughtful, searching for the right words.
"Well, that... well... you had a point... you know, about Ellen Ripley... and the fact that I had her in my head for so long... I realized it while I was... stoned", she chuckles.
Ripley's silence and her thumb lightly stroking the back of her hand is nothing more than a gentle, patient invite, encouraging her to proceed without fear.
"It has been a constant presence and thought for over fifty years. The one thought that kept me alive for so long. I wanted to do something for her. I always felt great admiration, for her, but also great sorrow. For everything that had happened to her, you know? She didn't deserve that. I loved her. I love her, always will. Even though I never knew her. Does that make sense?"
"Of course it does-"
"I mean... I owe her a lot, even before I met you, and after that, more than ever... She is and always will be a part of myself, of my identity", she hastens to continue, for fear of losing momentum. "I can't and won't get rid of it. I don't want it to. But it's a whole different thing with you, Ripley, I want it to be clear to you, always", she catches her breath, finally relaxing into her seat.
"I know, baby", Ripley smiles lovingly at her, gripping her hand a little more tightly, to emphasize the meaning of her own words.
"So… New York?"
"New York!"
THE END