I sit on the bed (new mattress) and take a few mouthfuls of tea. It’s very weak. Not worth the wait.
I put down the mug, then run my fingers over the folder in my lap. I wonder whether my mum bought it. Whether it came in a multicoloured pack, or if she chose pink specifically. Whether she always went for the manila folder style, or if she used ring binders. Most of all, I wonder what I’ll find inside. I almost don’t want to open it, though. It’s like unwrapping a present at Christmas. The anticipation is the best bit.
I take out the first sheet of paper, marvelling at the fact that it’s at least thirty-four years old. How long does it take for paper to disintegrate? Should I be wearing white gloves? I hold the paper lightly between finger and thumb. It’s perforated down each side, with holes punched into the margins. I’d forgotten about this—what was it called? Something futuristic. Matrix paper?
The words printed on the page are in a grey Courier New font. They are technical and wise. I don’t understand them at all.
I pull out the next page and immediately feel as though I’ve hit the jackpot. It’s got handwriting on it. The writing is similar to mine, but a little softer, rounder. There are phrases scrawled in different directions across the page, all in blue ballpoint: “IBM compatible,” “replacing the complex commands of the operating system with plain English,” and “a simple ‘point and click’ technique.” Around the phrases are doodles. No pictures, just shapes. In one corner, there’s a tight honeycomb of hexagons, and in another, my mother has encased a small square inside several larger ones. What can I learn about her from these doodles? She liked shapes. A lot of people doodle faces or animals or the name of the person they love. Not my mum. Her doodles look like the inside of a computer.
Next, I pull out a sheet of A4 paper. There’s handwriting on this one too. It’s spidery and off-kilter—written while drunk, maybe? Or did it erupt out in a moment of intellectual fervour? It looks like a flow chart. There are mysterious labels inside the boxes: “Dense Forest,” “Drive Bubble Entrance,” “Red Hall,” “Nesting Cage,” and “Melted Spot.” The lines between the boxes are labelled with letters: P, S, A, F, U, and D. Around the edge of the paper, my mum has written cryptic notes: “Put red rod in second red slot in repair room to fix air?” Looks like she was designing her own computer game. Maybe she was designing something for me to play? Here’s an example of her genius, in black ballpoint. I feel light-headed.
As I reach into the folder to see what’s next, my phone beeps in my pocket. I take it out and look at the screen. Fertile day, my app tells me. Have sex.
I’d forgotten that my fertile window was coming up. I thought James looked at me awkwardly last night when I told him I was going on this spur-of-the-moment trip. We’ve got only two more cycles before my next dive. Still, not having to do it today is a bit of a relief.
There are no weird noises coming from downstairs, thank goodness. Dad sleeps in a room off the lounge these days. It used to be the dining room when I was a kid. When I was little, my dad and I used to play a thing we called “pillow talk.” I’d lie by the headboard of his bed, and he would climb under the covers, saying, “Cor, I’m whacked. Time for some shut-eye.” He’d make this big show of settling down for the night, and then he’d lie back on me as I pretended to be his pillow. I’d let him “fall asleep” for a few moments, and then I’d say something and laugh, and he would look around in shock, going: “What? Who said that? It sounded like it was coming from my . . . my pillow! But it can’t be. Pillows don’t talk!” He’d reach behind his head and pretend to plump me up, making me laugh even more, and the cycle would go on and on. Back then, Dad slept only three or four hours a night.
I put my mum’s folder on the floor and lie back. Have sex, my phone tells me again, and I switch off the reminder. I Google pictures of Irish wolfhounds for a while. Maybe a second dog is what I need. Then, I check my emails. Spam from an estate agent, a weekly fitness report from MapMyRun, and then this: an email from the Mars Project. The subject heading is “Your entry.”
“Dear Ms. Solvig Dean . . . pleased to inform you . . . through to the next round of the contest . . . required to attend a conference day at Center Parcs in Sherwood Forest, Nottinghamshire . . .”
I drop my phone, as if it’s scorching hot, and I look up at the ceiling, where glow-in-the-dark stars were once stuck. I’m not thinking about Irish wolfhounds or childhood games any more. I’m thinking about dark nebulae, giant voids, black holes.
17
“Are you sure you can handle this?” I ask James. “You could always go to the café and hang out with the kids.”
“You’re just nervous you won’t be able to keep up with the robo-leg.” James finishes attaching his running blade and gets out of the car.
“I’m talking about your heart, mate,” I say, prodding him in the chest. “A couple of Parkruns here and there aren’t exactly gonna prepare you for this.”
“Pfft, it’s a mere 17K,” he retorts. “I’m worried about you because you’re twice as likely to get blisters as me. Mate.” He grabs his water bottle out of the trunk.
I bare my teeth at him, then put in my earphones and start running towards
