THE SECOND CHOICE

The end
Wednesday, 18 September

“It’s almost time, Sarah.”

Fourteen-year-old Sarah ignored the voice as a postscript of a dream and pressed her arms over her face, yesterday’s fight with Mum milling through her mind. Even if the argument exhausted her, she wasn’t going to get any more sleep. Mum meant well. She wanted her to have a normal childhood. Fit in.

Relaxed by the sparkling blues and greens and yellows and oranges of the swirling colours and shooting stars behind her eyelids, Sarah crinkled her nose.

Normal?

When mum was her age, she skipped school to go to the mall with her friends. Sarah hated the mall. The crowds, the smells, the noise. The perfect blend for an autistic meltdown.

“Sarah.”

Startled, Sarah opened her eyes and looked around. Two nights ago, she’d heard the same voice when she dreamed of the green cloud – an alien. The same voice which woke her up today. Sarah looked again. No six-foot-tall cloud.

She peered at the labelled and colour coded boxes, stacked against the far wall of her bedroom. Books and manuals, circuit boards and wires. Her soldering kit. And the discarded engine she’d rescued from a skip. It wasn’t that big, not much bigger than a crate, and she put it on an old bath towel and promised to clean it. It smelled nice, of grease.

But still, that’s what had tipped mum over the edge, the engine.

Yesterday, returning home from school, Sarah had found her bedroom stripped of her most cherished possessions. At first, she’d been confused. Until she noticed the books. Advanced Engineering had been replaced by French for beginners, lots of girly teen novels, and a pile of, predominantly pink, fashion magazines. On the wall over her bed, Justin Bieber – who else?! – had joined Mary Jackson.

After frantically searching the house from the attic to her mum’s bedroom to the kitchen to the skip outside, Sarah discovered her belongings at the back of the basement. Working herself into a frenzy, she hauled everything back upstairs. And, as soon as her mother arrived home after work Sarah confronted her. Despite Sarah’s resolve to keep her cool, the argument escalated and panic crept in, constricting her chest and blurring her vision. Curled up on the floor, her face buried on her knees, her hands covering her ears she cried and rocked for the best part of fifteen minutes. Her first full-blown meltdown in weeks.

Sarah shivered and pulled the duvet tighter around her body. She should have apologised. Not for the meltdown – Mum knew she couldn’t help that – but for shouting. She and Mum were just so frustratingly dissimilar, and sometimes she wondered if she was more like her father.

Sarah checked her alarm again, five past five. She lay still, quietly counting as the needle skipped from one luminous grey dot to the next.

“Forty-seven, forty-eight.”

Why did she feel so restless?

“Go see your mother, Sarah, it is almost time.”

The voice was soft but real as life and this time, from the corner of her eyes, Sarah caught a flash of green. She looked around. But the cloud creature was gone.

Sarah shivered, and two hours before the ascending soft blue hues and chimes of her alarm clock were due to prise life back into her, she swung her legs out of bed.

“Mummy?” Sarah climbed onto her mum’s bed and snuggled into her arms.

“Yes, my darling?” Mum said, kissing her long messy red locks.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” Sarah’s voice sounded muffled against her mother’s pyjamas.

“I know, sweetheart, I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have taken your things. We are very different, Sarah, in lots of ways. That’s why we don’t always understand each other. But I love you and I am terribly proud of you.”

Sarah relaxed while Mum stroked her back, “I love you too, mummy.”

Then a cool breeze touched Sarah’s skin. It smelled fresh, like spring, and she looked up at her mum.

Mum noticed it too and smiled at her. One final smile.

Then she vanished.

For minutes, Sarah couldn’t move. She cried silently, her tears falling on the empty pillow which still smelled of her mum’s perfume. She had no idea what happened, and yet, she wasn’t surprised. Sad, but not scared or bewildered. And she knew what to do.

Taking in a deep breath – the fragrant air was soothing and relaxing – Sarah sat up and listened. The sound of silence, someone said once. It made sense now. It was just the voice of the world. No footsteps, no talking or shouting, no cars or planes.

Determined, Sarah flipped the duvet back. It was time to meet the others.

Five days earlier, St. John’s, Canada’s Ultimate East
Friday 13, September

It was a short drive from Maddox Cove to St. John’s. But as he emerged from Pitts Memorial Drive underpass, which separated Newfoundland’s tall green firs, ash, and spruce from the town’s drab accumulation of houses, Lucas wondered, like every day, why anyone in their right mind would want to live in a noisy and crowded city.

If it weren’t for the dollars of the tourists, he’d avoid the city altogether. But since St. John’s was where the tourists flocked to, that’s where he’d moored his boat.

His boat. Lucas frowned. Wasn’t that what his dream had been about? Lingering at the back of his mind, the images mocked him, as he grappled to reclaim them through a stubborn haze that obscured his memories. His boat, black birds, aliens, a warning about the annihilation of all life on Earth ...

Waiting for a break in traffic to turn right into Water Street, Lucas concentrated before crossing Southside. From here it was four and a half minutes to the harbour. And to Charlotte. She’d be back today.

This morning, twenty-seven-year-old Lucas had paid more attention to his appearance than the days before. His thick dark hair had had a close encounter with a comb instead of his fingers, and he’d selected the light blue sweater Charlotte told him she liked.

During her two days off, Graham had taken over as tour guide. The retired teacher meant well, but he could barely tell a Minke from a Humpback. Charlotte had studied marine biology and knew all there was to know about marine life in this part of the world. And, almost as important, she kept the tourists away from him.

With a nod and a caw, a crow welcomed Lucas to the quayside.

Locking his car, Lucas peered up at the iridescent black bird who, from its vantage point on a lamppost, cast a critical eye over his boat. The Leanne was the only green vessel in the harbour, making his boat stand out against the sombre blue and rusty red containers stacked high on the rocky Southside Hills across the water.

After aligning the coffeepot, the coffee container, and a measuring spoon, Lucas gazed out through the porthole of the galley kitchen. From the lamppost, the crow peered back at him, reminding him of his dream. There had been crows and—

Charlotte crossed the gangplank.

Lucas’s heart beat a little faster and he forgot about his dream.

***

From the low bench behind the wooden table in the Leanne’s cabin, Charlotte watched her boss. After carefully measuring out four spoons of coffee – extra strong Columbian – Lucas had half-filled the cafetière with just off-the-boil water and stirred the grounds five times, clockwise, before filling up the pot with hot water. Charlotte smiled; Lucas always stirred clockwise, always five times. Now he waited for the timer to signal the end of the four minutes it took to produce the perfect brew; then he'd push the filter down, slowly.

She pulled her legs onto the green upholstered cushions and leafed through the Journal of Marine Biology. Good coffee and thick comfy cushions were the only luxuries in the matte pine interior of the Leanne’s cabin, but it was all they needed.

She enjoyed these quiet moments with Lucas. That’s why she’d suggested they’d share breakfast and lunchbox duties. She liked her boss. She really liked him. He was quiet and kind, and as hopeless with people and chitchat as he was great with animals. Three years ago, after graduating, she’d accepted this job. Marine biologists weren’t in high demand, and she had seen it as a way to survive until a proper position came along. Slowly but surely, however, she’d come to love her job, and her steady stream of applications had ebbed away until she hadn’t sent out a single one in twelve months.

Also, where else would she get her daily dose of whales and dolphins? More than twenty different species visited these waters. Minkes, Humpbacks, Finbacks. White-beaked and Atlantic white-sided dolphins. Blues. Cetaceans were her passion, and she loved talking about them, to their visitors and to Lucas. What Lucas didn’t know about the wildlife around the Avalon Peninsula wasn’t worth knowing.

“That smells heavenly.” While Lucas poured the coffee, Charlotte breathed in its nutty aroma and opened her lunchbox, “I made mushroom-omelette sandwiches, they’re still warm. Has anything exciting happened while I was away?”

“There was a murder of crows outside my home this morning,” Lucas sat down across the table, took a bite from his sandwich, and chewed. “Corvus brachyrhynchos brachyrhynchos. They are an extremely interesting species. Did you know they can identify individual humans by their faces? Corvids recognise humans after not seeing them for years.”

“Interesting.” A mushroom escaped the confines of her sandwich and Charlotte popped it in her mouth. “They’re the largest subspecies of the American crow, aren’t they? Maybe they’ll hang around and you can study them.” From experience, Charlotte knew Lucas wouldn’t remember to ask her about her day off, so she added, “I did a lot of reading, but I missed the whales.” And your company, she thought. “Maybe I should stop taking days off. Just stay on the boat, with you.”

Lucas hesitated, studying Charlotte’s face, as if unsure if she was serious or teasing him. Then, he said, “I wouldn’t mind if you did. Graham was very annoying yesterday, and he doesn’t engage our customers very much with his rehearsed stories about whales.”

Charlotte frowned. She had been too subtle, again. Yesterday, however, she’d come up with a plan that simply couldn’t fail. But – Charlotte checked her watch – that would have to wait. “Are we still on for our two groups, the first one at ten, and a theatre-package at three?”

Lucas nodded.

“We’d better get started then.” Charlotte drained her mug and shifted off the bench. “Get everything shipshape before they arrive.”

***

The bell rang and Sarah glanced at the round, black and white analogue clock over the door. Two thirty. She reached under her desk for her backpack.

“Not so fast, boys and girls,” Ms Tucker, special needs class teacher by dint of lack of enthusiasm for her services elsewhere, squawked shrilly.

Sarah rolled her eyes ­– Ms Tucker seemed to think she was teaching a group of pre-schoolers – and grimaced at Nathan on her left. Then she grabbed her bag and swung it onto her desk, where it crash-landed and added a crack to the scratched and dented Formica top.

The thump drew Ms Tucker's attention and, glaring at the pink streaked locks of the fourteen-year-old on Sarah’s right, she said, “Stop tapping your foot, Ellie.”

Ellie didn’t look up; her foot didn’t miss a beat either, as she continued to strike the floor with metronomic accuracy at ninety beats per minute ­– Sarah had measured the interval trice.

While Ms Tucker’s hands folded and unfolded her navy and white polka dot scarf, her eyes fell on Alex.

Knocked back by his teacher’s cold blue stare, Alex hunched down further, and the pencil with which he’d been tapping his knee came down harder and faster.

Sarah noticed. ‘The boy has something shifty,’ she’d overheard Ms Tucker, who was obsessed by looking people in the eyes, say. And, right now, that obsession to teach them was about to push Alex in a meltdown. With her elbow, Sarah knocked her bag of her desk.

Bang.

“Sorry, Ms.” Sarah, not particularly keen on eye contact either, gazed at her teacher’s right ear. Then, while Ms Tucker glared at her instead of Alex, she thought, Yes! Mission diversion accomplished.

“I would like to remind you all, that Sunday, we are going on a little trip. You are expected in the parking lot at exactly twelve o’clock,” Ms Tucker spoke slowly and deliberately.

A week ago, the headmaster called Ms Tucker out of class. He’d received a memo from the Ministry of Education. ‘A civil servant, who needs their head examined, tells me these special needs cases would benefit from extra stimulus.’– was what Sarah caught listening at the door. The headmaster grumbled the Ministry pre-booked a whale watching trip and submitted health and safety forms, leaving him to foot the bill. Ms Tucker complained it was her Sunday down the drain.

“That is when the two hands point at the ceiling,” Ms Tucker held up a yellow cardboard clock with red numbers.

“At our home we don’t have clocks with hands, Miz, they only have numbers,” Ethan said.

“I’m sure you can work it out.” When the gaunt boy stubbornly stared at the clock, Ms Tucker dropped it on the table behind her, tied her scarf around her neck, and shifted her chair back. “And tell your parents you need a haircut. I’m not taking you anywhere, looking like a vagrant.”

While Ms Tucker glowered at his long hair and torn trousers, Ethan lowered his eyes, and mumbled, “Yes, Miz.”

“Then you can go now.”

Fifteen minutes later, Nathan leaned against the washbasins in the girls’ loos where they’d hidden since Ms Tucker dismissed them.

“All clear,” he said, keeping an eye on the image of the empty corridor on his mobile, “Everyone’s gone.”

Sticking close together, they stole back to their form room where Nathan used a passkey to unlock the door.

“Are you sure she’s leaving?” said Oliver – at thirteen the class junior – softly, while he took plant food from his bag and added it to a watering can. If ever he spoke above a whisper, the sound of his own voice appeared to startle him.

“Yes.” Ellie had added a trigger to the database which alerted her of any changes in the school’s employee files, “They hired another temp, but we’re not supposed to know, it would unsettle us.”

“Because we’re special needs,” wriggling a paperclip in the lock of Ms Tucker’s desk, Sarah rolled her eyes, and at the sound of a dull click pulled at the top drawer and took out a pair of scissors. “Here,” she handed them to Ellie.

“Thanks. Same as last time?” Ellie asked.

“Whatever, as long as it doesn’t give mizzz a reason to leave me behind.” Reticent, Ethan pulled out a chair and draped a plastic tablecloth over his shoulders.

“What’s that, Alex,” he asked the boy who didn’t talk.

Sarah took the drawing Alex had removed from his bag and studied it. It showed Ms Tucker shepherding them from the minivan to a boat called the Leanne – green, like the image on the website.

"It's us. On our trip on Sunday. Cut his hair like that, Ellie", Sarah said, pointing to the figure in the picture who was clearly recognisable as Ethan.

Sarah looked again. The sketch even included the details of her blue sweater’s cable pattern. She’d intended to wear it on Sunday but couldn’t remember having ever worn it to school. She hopped onto the table beside Ellie’s makeshift barbershop and dangling her legs, kept an eye on her mobile. “Look at Alex’s sketch, Nathan.”

“Hmmm,” Nathan pencilled a note in the margins of his article on dolphins, before looking up to study the drawing of the frail boy who sat down beside him to finish it. “Brilliant, Alex.”

“Shush,” Sarah hissed. “Someone’s coming.”