The Fugue

Evan kisses me with his hand still on the television remote. I take it away and put it on the table, which seems to help. His fingers settle against my cheek. I have spent three months arranging this and now that it is happening, I am afraid to move.

His mouth is warmer than I expected. There is a small, unpleasant feeling in my stomach, like the drop before an elevator catches. Then he draws back and I follow him.

“You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. You got quiet.”

“Well, I’m a little busy.”

He smiles. I kiss him again before he can ask anything else.

Beyond his shoulder, the kitchen curtains lift in the draft. Across the backyards of Lyndhurst, somebody’s recycling blows along a chain-link fence. The afternoon has turned a strange yellow, and the maples are showing the pale undersides of their leaves. I should close the window. Instead, I put my hand on his neck.

***

My mother thinks Evan is helping me prepare for the mathematics placement exam at Bergen Community College. He is eighteen and attends classes there. If I place out of introductory algebra, she might permit me to take a course in person next semester.

Permit is her word. She likes it because it suggests there is a process.

At sixteen, I have spent more time discussing the conditions under which I might leave our house than actually leaving it.

Evan’s first visit was in August. I wore a sweatshirt with a toothpaste stain on the sleeve and corrected his explanation of a quadratic equation. He checked my work, said, “Oh, yeah,” and went on to the next problem. That was the entire afternoon.

By September, I was wearing mascara.

By October, I knew his class schedule, his favorite food, and the names of three people he played Fortnite with whom I would have been pleased to see deported. They could get an answer from him at any hour. I could send him a photograph of myself and receive a thumbs-up the following morning.

I tried jokes. Flirtatious little memes. A cartoon about falling for your tutor.

He sent back a correction to the equation in the cartoon.

Eventually I asked if he thought I was pretty.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Research.”

He laughed, but at least he had answered the question.

My mother’s conference in Philadelphia supplied the opportunity. I encouraged her to go. She had worked hard on her presentation. People would be disappointed if she cancelled. Besides, didn’t she always say I needed to demonstrate responsibility?

“You understand what being alone involves?”

“I’ve been alone before.”

“For an afternoon.”

“Then I’ll do several afternoons consecutively.”

“Clara.”

“I’m serious. You can’t keep saying I need experience and then refuse to let me have any.”

She studied me across the table. I could see her deciding whether this was maturity or insolence. With my mother, the distinction often depended on whether she had already eaten.

I softened my voice.

“I know you worry. I’ll follow the schedule.”

That helped. I would follow most of it. There was no reason a person couldn’t practice French and kiss somebody on the same day.

My mother has watched me closely since I spent eleven nights in the hospital with pneumonia when I was seven. I remember an orange ice pop and a nurse who let me work the bed controls. She remembers things I was asleep for. The cameras came later: one in the kitchen, another facing the front hall, a doorbell camera overlooking the steps.

“For emergencies,” she says.

Emergencies apparently include my eating cereal over the sink.

On Friday, after her train left Newark, I unplugged the kitchen and hallway cameras. When she texted about them, I told her the internet was acting up. There was already a weather advisory. I didn’t have to invent much.

Evan came through the side gate.

“You’re making this weird,” he said when I waved him away from the front steps.

“Would you prefer meeting my mother on the doorbell?”

He considered that and followed me.

Now his backpack is on the floor, his book is unopened, and I have accomplished something that did not appear on the yellow legal pad beside the refrigerator.

***

“You’re really warm,” I tell him.

“Thanks.”

“No. Your face.”

He rubs his forehead. There are two small red marks near his hairline.

“Headset,” he says. “I was on late.”

“You could answer your phone occasionally.”

“You could get on the game. I told you.”

“I’m supposed to fight fifty people to ask how your day was?”

“Hundred.”

“That makes it much better.”

He takes my laptop and helps me get into the account he made for me. I let him explain things I already understand. He enjoys being useful, and I enjoy having his arm along the back of my chair. There are arrangements in which everybody benefits.

When he leaves, I keep him at the side door for another kiss.

“Tomorrow?” I ask.

“Maybe. Depends on the weather.”

“You’ll survive a little rain.”

He looks toward the trees. A branch comes down in the next yard, catches on a fence, and hangs there shivering.

“Your mom’s going to kill me.”

“She doesn’t have to know everything.”

He doesn’t look entirely convinced. I kiss him until he forgets to argue.

***

By Saturday morning, the wind has worked something loose beneath the eaves. It knocks above my bedroom at irregular intervals. I keep expecting the next blow and listening when it doesn’t come.

Evan hasn’t answered my messages.

I make breakfast, finish the assigned French exercises, and send my mother a photograph of the completed page. Then I call her.

“Did you sleep?”

“Very well.”

“You look tired.”

“You can’t see me.”

“I can hear it.”

Outside, rain sweeps across the kitchen window hard enough to obscure the neighboring house. She asks about the cameras. I say I’ll look at them after breakfast.

“Don’t touch any wiring.”

“They have plugs, Mom.”

“I know what they have.”

I tell her about the French. She tells me about the conference. We have a perfectly satisfactory conversation in which neither of us learns anything.

Afterward, I put on the news.

A commentator named Jared Black is talking about the Fugue.

There have been reports all week. A few people got sick in Connecticut. They traced a flight back from Hungary. More questions about bats versus labs. A hospital ward closed in Westchester to quarantine the infected. Until this morning, they occupied the space between the election coverage and the storm. But suddenly the news was everywhere.

Now the storm is in a little box beside the commentator’s head.

“Patients describe a fading out,” he says. “Familiar tasks become difficult. They lose track of conversations. In some cases, deterioration has occurred within twenty-four hours. The full progression and pathology of the illness is unknown at this time.”

Beside him is a photograph of a man with red marks above his eyebrows.

I turn up the volume.

A doctor objects to the phrase fading out. She says it makes the illness sound peaceful.

“Are patients aware of what’s happening?”

“Some are. We don’t yet know how much awareness remains once they become unresponsive. One patient began moving and foamed at the mouth while comatose. The rest have remained in a stupor.”

I send Evan the photograph.

Does yours look like this?

Nothing.

I call. It rings until his voicemail picks up.

My mother has taught me not to panic. Panic impairs judgment. You establish the facts and proceed accordingly.

I open Fortnite.

***

He is online.

For a moment, I’m so relieved that I want to scream at him.

“Evan?”

Gunfire comes through the headset. Somebody laughs.

“Evan. It’s Clara.”

“Hang on.”

“No, don’t hang on. Answer your phone.”

“Who’s that?” another boy asks.

“Give me a second.”

I watch his character run across open ground. He stops beside a wall, turns, then runs back the way he came.

“You saw what I sent?”

“What?”

“The picture.”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“Looks like mine.”

He says it as if we are comparing sneakers.

“Then tell your father.”

“He knows I’m sick.”

“Does he know about the rash?”

Evan coughs. His breathing is loud in the microphone.

“Clara, I’m in the middle of something.”

“You’re standing against a wall.”

The other boy tells him to move. I hear keys clattering, followed by a dull knock.

“Dropped my water,” Evan says.

“Go get your father.”

“In a minute.”

I know that tone. If I push harder, he’ll stop listening.

“Okay. Just do something for me first.”

“What?”

“Tell me what you brought yesterday.”

“The book.”

“Which book?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Evan?”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to tell me.”

His character turns slowly. The other player is talking now, asking whether his connection has frozen.

“What’s your name again?” Evan says.

I take one side of the headset away from my ear, as if that will change what I heard.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“It’s Clara.”

There is a long scrape, the sound of a chair being pushed back. Then a heavy thud. His character remains standing, looking at the wall.

I say his name until the other boy stops talking.

Someone farther from the microphone calls, “Ev?”

A door opens. I hear footsteps, a man swearing, then the headset striking something.

“He was talking to me. He just—”

The game disconnects.

I call Evan’s phone again. This time his father answers.

“What?”

“Is he okay?”

“Who is this?”

“Clara. I was just talking to him.”

“I’m calling an ambulance.”

“Can he hear you?”

“I don’t know.”

***

That evening, my mother tells me she’s coming home.

The conference has ended early. There are problems with the trains, and she’s trying to get a car.

“Stay inside. There are reports of flooding by the river.”

“I know.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Yes.”

The lasagna is still frozen on the counter. I remember taking it out. I don’t remember what I did afterward.

“You sound funny.”

“I was sleeping.”

“Take your temperature.”

“Mom.”

“Please.”

I put the thermometer beneath my tongue. While it works, I watch a stream of water crawl down the inside of the kitchen window.

102.6.

“What does it say?”

“Ninety-nine.”

There is a pause.

“Point what?”

“Point two.”

The number comes easily. It’s the sort of number that permits concern without requiring action.

“Drink something. I’ll call from the station.”

When we hang up, I sit holding the phone. She believed me because I have spent years being reliable. I’m good at schoolwork. I put things away. I don’t make her ask twice.

I call her back to tell the truth.

The call fails.

I try again, then notice a message from Evan’s father.

He’s in a coma. They’re taking him now.

For several minutes, I can’t make my fingers move.

***

The 911 operator asks my address twice.

I tell her the house number, the street, Lyndhurst. I spell Schreiber although she hasn’t asked for my name.

“I’m sixteen. I’m alone. I have a fever and I was with somebody who has the Fugue.”

“Has your exposure been confirmed?”

“He’s in a coma.”

“Are you having trouble breathing?”

“No.”

“Any confusion? Difficulty walking?”

“I keep forgetting things.”

“What kinds of things?”

I look at the lasagna sweating on the counter.

“I don’t know. That’s the problem.”

She asks when my symptoms began. Behind her, other voices repeat addresses and telephone numbers. She sounds patient, which frightens me more than irritation would.

“Can you send somebody?”

“Stay with me. I need to establish—”

Thunder breaks so close that the windows shake. The lights go out and return weakly, the kitchen taking on the brownish cast of an old photograph.

“Hello?”

“—remain inside. Can you—”

Then she’s gone.

I stare at the phone. She has my address. I told her twice. But she never said an ambulance was coming.

I write CALL BACK on the legal pad and put the phone beside it.

A tremendous crash comes from upstairs.

For a moment I think somebody has broken in. Then I remember the loose piece beneath the eaves.

I go to see what has fallen.

***

My mother calls while I’m standing in her bedroom. Rain is blowing through the open window. I don’t remember opening it.

“I can’t get out of Philadelphia,” she says. “I’m trying, honey. I’ve called everyone.”

“Close the window,” I tell her.

“What?”

“No. I’m closing it.”

I pull it down. Water has darkened the carpet beneath the sill.

“Clara, listen. I need you to tell me exactly how you feel.”

“Not good.”

“Did you take your temperature again?”

I look at the phone, trying to remember the number.

“Evan was here.”

“What?”

“Yesterday. I let him in.”

For once, she has nothing to say.

“I know you said—”

“It doesn’t matter. Listen to me. We’ll deal with that later. Are you having trouble breathing?”

“Everybody keeps asking that.”

“Well are you?”

The hallway tilts when I turn. I sit down before she can hear me fall.

“I called 911.”

“Good. What did they say?”

I remember the operator. I remember spelling our name. There was something else I was supposed to do.

“Clara?”

“I gave them the address.”

“I’m calling them too. Keep your phone with you.”

The line breaks while she is still talking.

I want her to be angry. I know what to do when she is angry.

***

Downstairs, the power goes out.

The refrigerator falls silent. Beyond the window, the row of houses disappears, except for a porch light that blinks twice and dies. Somewhere toward the Meadowlands, a blue flash lights the clouds from underneath.

I find the legal pad.

CALL BACK.

Below it, I write MOM KNOWS.

That should help. She knows about Evan. She knows I’m sick. There is less to keep straight now.

My phone lights up with her name. I touch it, but the call has already stopped. There are messages beneath it.

I’ve spoken to dispatch. They’re overwhelmed. I’m still trying.

Keep answering me.

Clara, please.

I start typing that I’m here. Then I see CALL BACK and remember the ambulance. I need to find out whether somebody is coming.

I open the keypad.

From the laptop, a voice says, “Evan? You there?”

The game is still running.

For a moment, I believe he has come back.

I put on the headset.

“Evan?”

It’s the other boy. He asks whether I’ve heard anything.

“He forgot who I was,” I tell him.

“What?”

“I was right there.”

He doesn’t answer. I take the headset off, ashamed, although I don’t know what I have said that I should be ashamed of.

My phone is somewhere.

***

I wake on the kitchen floor with my cheek against a cabinet. There is a white cord beside my hand.

For a while I study it.

Then I remember the camera.

I unplugged it so my mother couldn’t watch me. If I put it back, she will see that something is wrong.

I push myself upright and try to fit the plug into the socket. My hand keeps striking the wall. Finally it goes in, and I sit beneath the camera, waiting for the little light.

It stays dark.

Of course. The power.

I knew that.

My mother is calling from another room. I can hear her, but when I listen harder it is only the wind pressing against the house.

I should get up.

There is something I need to explain, and I want to have it ready before she comes home. I have been working on it for a long time. There are good reasons. She will understand if I can put them in the right order.

I look toward the hallway.

I can’t remember which room I’m in.

The camera hangs above me, its black eye pointed at the table. I raise my hand so she can see it.

Or I try to.

I wait for her to say my name.

But she doesn’t answer.

Why isn’t it working?

I lie down in the bed.

I am very tired.

More tired than I have ever been.

***

 I lie in the bed. Power comes back. The TV is on. Jared Black is reporting about some disease that is sweeping the Northeastern states.

 I was supposed to do something. What was it?

 I try to lift my arm. But it stays fastened to my side. Strange.

 “Reports out of Union by Nipmuck State Forest. A group of hikers at the Laurel Campgrounds were reportedly attacked last night by a rabid group of individuals, foam coming from their mouths. Reports of red eyes. Multiple bite wounds. The hikers are in intensive care. They said they attacked from all sides like wolves. Reported super-human strength. One suffered a broken arm. None of this is verified. Toxicology reports show the hikers were taking magic mushrooms and could have been hallucinating.”

 Bunch of hippies. I bet they were just tripping balls. Speaking of. I’m really hot. The shadows seem to be moving all around me.

 The lightning forks a snarled finger, pointing at the wall. The boom echoes. It isn’t scary anymore.

 I try to lift my arm to mop my forehead.

 It stays fastened at my side.

 The phone is ringing.

 Who’s calling? Is it the boy? His lips were warm too. What was his name?

 Is it my mom?

 What is my name?

 Where am I?

 It doesn’t matter.

 It doesn’t hurt much.

 The storm is calming.

 The noises in the dark. The rustling of leaves. The heavy wind laden with rain. The crackling of the lightning and rumbling thunder. I am drifting into sleep.

 My arm stays fastened at my side.

 They are coming for me.

 I remember that.

 Who are they?

 Who am I?

 I close my eyes.

 And I see them… and their eyes are red.