to just disengage from this, Adán?" my mother said. "Sure, yell my ear off in the car about working as a team, and now it's just me that's the harbinger of bad news. Mom plays the good cop."
"This was your idea,” he said. “So here we go, team. You get to tell Clara the big news."
My mother swept my hair back with her fingers. Unhappy with the results, she pulled out a brush from her purse and ran it in strokes away from my face. Each brushstroke hurt my head a little, but I let her go on. Her eyes went very dark, and she never dropped them from mine.
"They're calling the event the Millennium Riot," she said. "The police and the other troops who were there shot the protesters many times. There are rumors that a few of the protesters in the crowd might have shot back, but it's all on shaky cell phone videos, and the country is in chaos, pointing fingers."
"Really?" I said. I felt a sick dread, but also a sense of victory in my heart.
Change. Was it possible?
"I saw a few clips of the start of the riot,” my mother said, “and I had to stop. There was so much gas -- and when the shots started, I kept on thinking, 'She's dead, she's dead.' I had to turn it all off."
"We were very lucky to get you back," my father said. "We had no way of knowing if you were there, buried beneath somebody."
"I escaped the park when the gas canisters hit the stage," I said. "I got pretty far, and then--"
I trailed off. My father had warned me to stay away from the lake, and that's exactly where I had run. My mother's side of the family kept many secrets, and so did my father's. I kept this bit of information from him, at least for now. I couldn't stand to see him lose his temper like he had just moments ago.
"Do you remember who did this to you?" my mother said.
"Men in uniform."
"How many?"
"Not sure. It happened fast. I ran into them, and then I can't remember much after that."
It was true. The dark visors had made the people in uniform anonymous, faceless. And then the baton swung. I did remember the baton.
"I think they were the same people who dragged me back to the pavilion, where they brought the rest of the dead and the injured," I said.
I couldn't keep everything secret. I decided to share this part of the story before my mother had a chance to ask me. "They put me next to a pile of bodies. There was a woman at the bottom and what I saw was horrible--"
I sobbed.
"Clara, you don't have to--" said my father.
"It's okay, Clara," my mother said. "Tell us what you saw. The details matter."
I needed a little space, but my mother would be hurt if I told her not to crowd me in with her body. It was better just to get this over with.
"She was the last one alive under that pile of bodies. Until she wasn't."
"So, you saw her die. That's what you're telling me?" my mother said.
I nodded.
We all fell silent for a moment, and my mother tightened her grip on my hand. My father paced around the room, as if he were formulating something long and intricate. He dug in his brown leather bag. He pulled out a petri dish, which I recognized immediately. He handled these often at his job at the Botanical Gardens, and he kept a few at home for odd projects in our back porch. The dish was lined with clear agar, and white spirals coiled around its surface like the trail left by an ice skater. My father pulled out the tray built into the bed, and he placed the disc in front of me, like some sort of present.
"This is a fungal spiral," he said. He traced the white tendrils over the plastic. "They call this little beauty the Yellow-Gill Damsel . Its job is simple. It thrives off of dead things. Dead wood, dead plant matter, but its favorite is dead flesh. This powerful little fungus spreads itself deep in the ground, and when things go to die, it extends tendrils like these."
The tendrils made me want to puke.
"Don't fear it," my father said. "These swirls, Clara -- this is what death looks like, from a microscopic level. What you
"This was your idea,” he said. “So here we go, team. You get to tell Clara the big news."
My mother swept my hair back with her fingers. Unhappy with the results, she pulled out a brush from her purse and ran it in strokes away from my face. Each brushstroke hurt my head a little, but I let her go on. Her eyes went very dark, and she never dropped them from mine.
"They're calling the event the Millennium Riot," she said. "The police and the other troops who were there shot the protesters many times. There are rumors that a few of the protesters in the crowd might have shot back, but it's all on shaky cell phone videos, and the country is in chaos, pointing fingers."
"Really?" I said. I felt a sick dread, but also a sense of victory in my heart.
Change. Was it possible?
"I saw a few clips of the start of the riot,” my mother said, “and I had to stop. There was so much gas -- and when the shots started, I kept on thinking, 'She's dead, she's dead.' I had to turn it all off."
"We were very lucky to get you back," my father said. "We had no way of knowing if you were there, buried beneath somebody."
"I escaped the park when the gas canisters hit the stage," I said. "I got pretty far, and then--"
I trailed off. My father had warned me to stay away from the lake, and that's exactly where I had run. My mother's side of the family kept many secrets, and so did my father's. I kept this bit of information from him, at least for now. I couldn't stand to see him lose his temper like he had just moments ago.
"Do you remember who did this to you?" my mother said.
"Men in uniform."
"How many?"
"Not sure. It happened fast. I ran into them, and then I can't remember much after that."
It was true. The dark visors had made the people in uniform anonymous, faceless. And then the baton swung. I did remember the baton.
"I think they were the same people who dragged me back to the pavilion, where they brought the rest of the dead and the injured," I said.
I couldn't keep everything secret. I decided to share this part of the story before my mother had a chance to ask me. "They put me next to a pile of bodies. There was a woman at the bottom and what I saw was horrible--"
I sobbed.
"Clara, you don't have to--" said my father.
"It's okay, Clara," my mother said. "Tell us what you saw. The details matter."
I needed a little space, but my mother would be hurt if I told her not to crowd me in with her body. It was better just to get this over with.
"She was the last one alive under that pile of bodies. Until she wasn't."
"So, you saw her die. That's what you're telling me?" my mother said.
I nodded.
We all fell silent for a moment, and my mother tightened her grip on my hand. My father paced around the room, as if he were formulating something long and intricate. He dug in his brown leather bag. He pulled out a petri dish, which I recognized immediately. He handled these often at his job at the Botanical Gardens, and he kept a few at home for odd projects in our back porch. The dish was lined with clear agar, and white spirals coiled around its surface like the trail left by an ice skater. My father pulled out the tray built into the bed, and he placed the disc in front of me, like some sort of present.
"This is a fungal spiral," he said. He traced the white tendrils over the plastic. "They call this little beauty the Yellow-Gill Damsel . Its job is simple. It thrives off of dead things. Dead wood, dead plant matter, but its favorite is dead flesh. This powerful little fungus spreads itself deep in the ground, and when things go to die, it extends tendrils like these."
The tendrils made me want to puke.
"Don't fear it," my father said. "These swirls, Clara -- this is what death looks like, from a microscopic level. What you
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