“How are you doing this?”
“Let’s start with something interesting. I discovered a long time ago that humans have cackle too. They just don’t have that much. Their cackle is how I survived all these years, hopping from one human to another. If I’m careful, I can . . . occupy them for a great deal longer than I can a mobiak, and be relatively safe from Arawok’s vomit reflex while doing it. You know, humans can even travel to whorls, as long as they have a connection to the infinite. Mobiaks were like them once. There was no such thing as whorls for our kind until the First Sojourner. She made our link to the infinite, and now her blood flows through every mobiak, although in tiny amounts. But you, you have so much of it. You can do for humans what the First Sojourner did for us mobiaks.”
“Are you talking about the rekulak?” I said. “You can have it. Just let my family go.”
“I’m sorry but it’s not that simple.” She looked up at the bearded Zaditorian, “I think Number Three will do for the young Charlie.”
He pulled an envelope out of his inside jacket pocket, handed it to me, then took out a phone and pointed it at Blanche/Sheryl. He was the one who’d produced the milk that had saved my life. I couldn’t look at him without picturing the disgusting spider-like nipples I knew he had under there somewhere.
The other Zaditorian, the bald one, took out two phones, held one out in front of him, pointing at me, and held the second up and back as if to capture both Blanche/Sheryl and me in a shot.
“Are you filming this?” I asked.
“Of course,” Blanche/Sheryl said. “These men are from Zaditor, where there’s no need for cell phones, but they’re learning. Aren’t you boys?” They said nothing. “Not everyone can capture memories with whorls. It would be elitist of me not to document this with video for the less endowed.” She brushed the air with her fingers in my direction. “Please read the script.”
Over the last half week, I’d built up a tolerance to the absurd, but this was too much to take in stride. “What the hell is going on?” I said. “Is this really what you people want from me?”
Blanche/Sheryl slapped the table and spoke through her teeth: “I have granted you a privilege. Your niece and sister are watching. Don’t disappoint them.”
Interpreting that as a threat, I opened the envelope and pulled out the pages inside. Lou’s potion needed a little more time to set in anyway. I began to read. My mouth was dry from fear, my speech was stilted and monotone, and I swallowed a little too often. The room was quiet otherwise. “‘My guest for this evening,’” I read, “‘is a world-renowned and award-winning author, most famous for her memoirs, The Groundskeeper’s Daughter and Pancake Whore. Blanche Duluth, welcome.’”
I looked up from the pages to see Blanche/Sheryl nodding at me with a satisfied smile. “Thank you for having me.”
“‘It’s an honor,’” I read. “‘First, I want to get this out of the way, because I’m dying to know: Are you writing again?’”
Blanche/Sheryl let out a short puff of laughter and said, “You might as well ask me if I’m me again, writing is so integral to my identity. But the answer is yes, oh thank God, a thousand times, yes, I am me again. I am writing, and in such a joyful way now. I’m in such a good place. I feel so blessed. The words are just pouring out of me.”
“‘I am so happy to hear that. That’s so exciting. What are you writing about, if you can even tell me?’”
Blanche/Sheryl wiggled a little in her chair. “Well, I don’t want to spoil the surprise, Charlie, but I can tell you my next memoir will touch on my travels through the so-called ‘magical’ stomachs of Arawok. And they really are so magical. I don’t think the people in this stomach realize just how magical they are. And of course, it will touch on my encounters with my less digested selves, who are just delights, each and every one of them. I also talk about the dark periods, of course, trying to reestablish myself in my native stomach. I inhabit mostly barrens. Arawok doesn’t seem to notice them as much. But I’m in constant fear of regurgitation. It is no way to live.”
I scanned ahead. There were three more pages of script for me, and Lou’s potion would be taking effect by now. If I wanted some questions answered, now was the time. “This is ridiculous,” I said. “Where’s my mom? You’re her bond, right? What did you do with her?”
Blanche/Sheryl frowned. “Your mom is on her own path. And I’ve given her her space because that’s important to her, important for her growth as an individual.”
“The lymphid with the golf course said you took her.”
“Took her? No. I did check in with her, though. I was curious about her journey. That was it. Then we went our separate ways. I care about your mom. She’s very special to me.”
“As is my whole family, I’m guessing. I see how you treat people who are special to you.” I caught movement in the corner of my eye and looked out the window. Three people, featureless in the low light, walked around the back of the building. A moment later, from either side of the street, two fast-moving crowds spilled into the parking lot, merging into one.
Caroline sprang to her feet, shouted, and pointed at the door, but Warren was already on his way. In two more strides, he reached it and flipped the lock.
The crowd was eerily silent as it pooled around the building. I heard only their footsteps, no conversation. The individual faces looked confused, and their eyes darted around as if they were looking for something they’d lost. They appeared to have no interest in the locked door.
The green
