Veneer (17 page)

“There’s nothing to see out there,” said Deron. He was sitting at attention, with one hand on the window, peering out. “Where are all the roads?”

“It’s nighttime. This precludes you from seeing anything.”

“But we could see them when we were coming in,” he protested.

“No,” said Sebo, “that was on the other side of the road. You were facing the other direction. You see?” That seemed to shut him up for a minute.

“That’s just not right. I didn’t know it was so empty.”

Sebo muttered something under his breath and reached for the window again. He reconciled a cartoon picture of a rabbit under a watercolor sky. Two eggs in the foreground sparkled blue and white. “There, look at that for a while.”

After a few minutes, Deron said, “I see something.”

“It’s called a rabbit.”

“Rabbits don’t glow like that. But it’s very...” He paused, searched for the word. “It’s almost like low resolution. Blurry, I guess?”

That didn’t make any sense. The image he had reconciled was perfect down to the last pixel.

“It’s so far away,” continued Deron.

“What are you talking about?” demanded Sebo. He sat up and gestured to the window. “It’s right there: a rabbit, eggs, and the sun. The veneer looks fine.”

Deron narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“Fine, whatever you say.” Sebo settled into his seat again and crossed his arms. “This blindness act isn’t very amusing.”

“You’re the one who’s blind,” mumbled Deron, barely audible over the noise of the road passing beneath them.

20 - Ilya

The street name for the drug was Mellow, so-called because of its ability to pacify even the most hyper or anxious user. It didn’t come on immediately; there was a period when the world seemed to sparkle, when everything was funny, and love in all its forms was reciprocal. That lasted about half an hour, most of which Ilya and Rosalia spent riding the tram back from the Tsugumi Galleria. It wasn’t that it was far away, just that there were so many stops, so many people still getting on and off as Saturday crossed into Sunday. They kept climbing aboard and casting veiled glances at the two giggling girls sitting in the back.

Ilya loved the feeling that Mellow brought on, the way it took even the toughest puzzles and reduced them to an afterthought. Even though she was still cognizant of reality, she found that it no longer mattered to her. The tram would get them where they needed to go, so there was nothing to do but sit back and enjoy the ride. Beside her, Rosalia slumped in the seat with her head on Ilya’s shoulder, laughing every now and then at a funny shape that passed by.

The commerce sector’s fancy light shows gave way to residential neighborhoods as they turned off Parker Avenue. The streets were mostly empty, but the convenience stores on the corners were still bright and welcoming of the late-night shopper. Surrounding those beacons was the soft glow of amber street lights set just close enough to afford no shadows between them.

At the end of Rosalia’s street, the tram came to a stop and Ilya had to put considerable effort into navigating the rows and stairs to the sidewalk before it took off again. She watched her friend barely escape the last step before the warning bell tinkled and the electric engine revved up. They both found it hilarious, the idea of Rosalia hanging by the ankle as the tram sped down the street. Ilya smiled when Rosalia put her arm around her shoulder to steady herself. Walking had become quite a chore, but together they managed to make it halfway down the street to her house without falling over once.

Fortunately, her parents were asleep when they entered. It wasn’t until they were opening the door to Rosalia’s room that her step-mother—or as Rosalia called her, Lynn The Evil Bitch—poked her head out from the master bedroom and inquired about the late hour. Ilya didn’t listen to the whole exchange; she was lost in the veneer on Rosalia’s door.

There was water that sparkled at different angles, not moving but alive in some way. It contrasted with the darkness behind it, a deep black that extended into the distance where the tiniest flame silhouetted two figures. They seemed content at having found each other in the reconciled emptiness. One figure was likely Rosalia and it didn't take much effort to deduce who the other was.

Rosalia’s bedroom lit up as they entered. It was the first time Ilya had been in her room and her first thought was how messy everything was. The bed was just a mattress on the floor and Rosalia’s desk looked like a drafting table with the legs cut off. Her possessions formed a small mountain in the middle of the room, leaving a border along the walls so that a person could sit or stand next to them. It took a moment for the portals to buzz in, but when they did, Ilya understood the design choice.

Rosalia was still standing by the door with her hand on the wall, smiling and looking intently at Ilya. She blushed under the attention. It didn’t matter what appeared, Ilya would act like it was the most amazing thing she had ever seen. The words were already forming when the first image shimmered into view, a placid lake ending in a waterfall in the distance. The shadows gave it depth, made it appear like the room was floating on the water, perhaps even fated to fall over the edge. The statues on either shore were regal and imposing; they held out their hands in warning to all who approached. Beyond, she saw the canopy of a forest, imagined the trees moving in the breeze. Ilya put her hands to her mouth.

“I did this in Canvas,” said Rosalia, looking up to reconcile the ceiling. The default lights softened until the room was lit by the reconciled landscape on the wall. She moved to a bean bag in the center of the room and plopped down, her Victoria’s Secret bag crumpling in a heap next to her.

“It’s fun, right?” asked Ilya, moving closer to the painting. “You’re supposed to be able to find people who dream like you.” She was fully aware that none of her dreams remotely matched what was on the wall.

Rosalia giggled, put her legs out in front of her, and tried to reach for her toes. “I found someone who painted something like that, but they haven’t played in a while.”

“Have you done more?” Ilya turned, caught sight of Rosalia in her stretch. “What are you doing?”

“I need my toes.”

“Your shoes are still on,” she replied.

“Oh,” said Rosalia, bending her legs and pulling her feet closer. She began untying the shoelaces. Once her feet were free, she rolled off the bean bag and crawled along the floor and over her bed to another wall. Speaking into her pillow, she said, “I did this one the same day, but no one else has.” She sounded disappointed.

Ilya joined her on the mattress, sitting on the edge with her legs folded to the side. She watched as the moon formed, part of it reconciled on the window, breaking up the masterpiece. The proximity of the heavenly body made her heart beat faster, frightened by the possibility that it might strike the Earth. Ilya shuddered and looked with new appreciation on Rosalia, on the unassuming girl who had entered Mellow’s second stage. Just enough energy would drain from her body to make her languid but not unconscious.

With a huff, Rosalia rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. There were words on her lips, which parted and closed purposefully, but she said nothing. Instead, her hand found its way to the wall again and suddenly all four began to shimmer with photo streams. The little rectangles fell from the crease in the ceiling, tumbling end over end through the waterfall or in front of the moon. They landed in piles along the floor like blocks, some of them upside down, some of them backwards, until finally they slid through the floor and out of view.

“I never knew,” said Ilya, leaning back on her elbows. It was hard to tell which images were photos and which were pure reconciliations; Rosalia’s skill enabled her to create either interchangeably. There were so many virtual destinations, places of pure fantasy that existed only in a young girl’s mind and as two-dimensional representations on her wall.

“Yeah. I draw a lot.” Rosalia’s speech was beginning to slur as she dragged herself back to the bean bag. She found a comfortable position and put her head back.

It was then that Ilya realized the ceiling was a reconciled portal, not just a veneer that needed to be touched to be changed. Rosalia was running some kind of program that dropped pictures like rain from clouds. They came out of the distance, fell with simulated physics, and landed on the artificial barrier of the ceiling. Ilya joined Rosalia at the bean bag, carved out her own little space, and rested her head near her shoulder.

Together, they watched the downpour.

Ilya saw the sum total of Rosalia’s existence expressed in hundreds of thousands of pictures, from things that actually happened, like a junior high dance, to things Rosalia had only dreamt, like a school on the edge of a cliff with its playground hanging precariously over the edge.

“Beautiful.” It was all Ilya dared to say because deep down she knew that pictures were just pictures and while enticing, they were only tiny encapsulations of the beauty within the artist.

It was fortunate that Rosalia had such a command of reconciliation, that it allowed her to translate the beauty inside so that everyone else could share in it. Such talent languished in the ugly, even in Ilya herself. She thought about what was inside her, a mix of unrequited emotions and generational prejudices. There was nothing remotely beautiful except for the love she so desperately wanted to give away.

A bluish-white picture caught Ilya’s eye as it fell in the corner of the room. It looked like an elongated light bulb at first, but as she turned to get a better look, she realized that it was an x-ray. Raising her wobbly hand, she pointed to it.

“What’s that?”

Rosalia mumbled, tried to look where Ilya was pointing. “Bitches wouldn’t let me into Deron’s room,” she said. “I had to sit outside. The doctors were looking at his x-rays in the wall. I reconciled...” She drifted off for what felt like minutes. “Onto my palette.” A thin smile. “I was born.”

“Born?” Ilya turned back to Rosalia.

“Bored,” she corrected, repeating the word a few times as if to verify it. “I reconcile everything I see.” She spread her hands in demonstration.

“Do you ever make mistakes?”

Rosalia huffed, blew a raspberry. When she finally spoke, the words came so quickly and so close together that Ilya had trouble understanding. “I reconcile what I
see
. I don’t even think about it. I could close my eyes and reconcile you and get every detail in your face from your eyebrows to your pupils to your lips to your teeth and chin and...” She ran out of body parts and trailed off.

Ilya tried to ignore the warmth filling her cheeks. “So that x-ray is exactly what the doctors were looking at?”

“Sure.” She rolled onto her side; her breath smelled vaguely of strawberries. “Why?”

The question hung in the air for a long time during which Rosalia’s eyes darted back and forth over the features of Ilya’s face. They were mere inches from each other and for a moment, it appeared that Rosalia’s inhibitions would succumb to the Mellow and she’d close the distance with a kiss. Ilya reached out and placed her hand on Rosalia’s cheek and then slid it to the back of her neck. Her fingers moved tentatively, seeking out the hollow under the base of her skull, pressing firmly, trying to feel something: a lump, a scar, anything. Then, something hard pushed back against her finger, making her heart jump. She looked quickly to the ceiling again.

“Are you sure that’s
Deron’s
x-ray?”

Rosalia looked up. “Yes. I remember reconciling it.”

“Are you sure it’s not yours?”

She laughed the way she had on the tram; the questions weren’t really reaching her anymore. “My head isn’t shaped like an egg.”

Ilya continued to prod, at one point feeling what she thought was a tiny scar. She ran her finger over it several times. “Do you see that little square on Deron’s neck?”

“Yeah,” said Rosalia, as if noticing it for the first time. “What is that?”

Whether from the Mellow or just the situation, Ilya struggled to get the next words out. There was apprehension on Rosalia’s veneer, reconciled concern for her lover’s welfare. Ilya could see the gears turning, could see her trying to imagine the different explanations for why this bright white speck appeared in Deron’s neck. It could have been something from the attack, a metal plate inserted to patch a crack in his vertebrae. And those were all reasonable explanations, to some extent, but only because she was missing a vital piece of the puzzle.

Ilya removed her hand, hesitated before touching her own neck. “I don’t know what it is,” she said. Then, with just a hint of alarm, “But you’ve got one in your neck... and so do I.”

Deron was sitting at the small table in the dining nook, looking through the sliding door to the patio where two red-chested birds had stopped to survey their breakfast. They were vibrant, so out of place on the gray railing and against the equally gray backdrop of the patio walls. The only other color in sight was green, the tips of trees peeking over the wall. He couldn’t see the sky, couldn’t confirm whether it had lost its color too. One thing was for sure—reality was broken.

He had spent most of Sunday in his room staring at the walls, touching them gently, trying to coerce them into changing. Thinking back to elementary school, he employed the old maxims, tried to remember what teachers had told him about reconciling. A lifetime of instant access to information on the network made him reach for his palette, but he quickly realized it would be as useful as an audio recording that taught the deaf how to hear. If he couldn’t reconcile a veneer, then he couldn’t use a portal. The reach of the veneer went far beyond his imagination. It covered everything, from walls to bed sheets, from magazines to chairs. His room used to have color; now it just looked like a reconciled picture that someone had shopped to grayscale.

It wasn’t until Monday morning when his alarm went off that Deron realized the veneer wasn’t really gone; it was his perception that was flawed. There was sound emanating from the wall, but there were no numbers indicating time, no portal providing a black background to the red digits. He had to psyche himself up to reach out for it, to hit the snooze as he had a thousand mornings before. There was something ominous about the bland drywall, a possibility that it might suck the pale pink from his fingertips.