Chrysalis

26

Two hundred and fifty miles to the south and west, Janelle Deston was pulling into the driveway of her townhome in the Pocono foothills, just outside Stroudsburg. Turning off the engine, she sat in her car for a moment, as was her custom, letting the stress drain away. The mindfulness app on her phone called it “decompression.”

It wasn’t that her work at Lehigh Valley was uncomfortably stressful — as regional hospitals went — but she wasn’t happy with her recent shift change. She’d been rotated to the 4-a.m.-to-noon slot, and it was busier than the 8 p.m. slot she’d become used to. In the late afternoons and evenings, patients were usually preoccupied one way or another: getting adjusted to a step-down unit; being visited by doctors or relatives; eating dinner; getting their nightly dose of meds. The morning was a different animal. Everything was wearing off by the time they all woke up — pain meds, anxiolytics, benzos — and they were cranky or, worse, cranky and hungry. It wasn’t that she no longer enjoyed caring for people, she most definitely did… it was just that, since Paul had left her, she had problems of her own to deal with — and she’d started to prefer her patients asleep rather than awake.

She closed her eyes, then took twelve deep breaths, ending her routine. Possibly the worst thing about this new shift was that she never seemed to get out on time. Today, for instance: she hadn’t left the hospital until one thirty, and with the lunchtime traffic it was now nearly three. And she still had shopping to take care of at Pocono Commons.

She glanced in the rearview mirror, confirmed that her hair did indeed look like the Bride of Frankenstein’s, got out, and walked to the front door. She reached for a key, noticed it was unlocked. She frowned: Courtney knew better.

Opening the door, she was greeted by a blast of pop music. “Hey, Court!” she yelled over the din. “I’m home!”

A minute later, the volume dwindled to a tolerable level. “Hi, Mom!”

Janelle hung her jacket in the front hall, then began climbing to the second floor. “What are you doing?”

“Just sending out applications.”

Janelle didn’t reply. She knew it was pretty common nowadays to have a grown kid living at home. Courtney had been stubborn, insisting on computer science courses at the local community college. Now she had a freshly minted associate degree… but it seemed all the decent-paying employers wanted students from a four-year college. So far, the only offers she’d gotten were from places like Rochester, Minnesota, or some little town in Texas. Janelle had explained to her daughter years before that nursing was a perfectly good profession. It gave you a lot of options, too. You could go straight for an RN, or you could get an ADN degree, find a job, and then take evening classes through an online program. That’s what she’d done. The hospital had paid for most of it. Now she had the equivalent of a bachelor’s degree, and the salary that went with it. If Courtney played her cards right, she might end up in a private hospital — where there’d be less chaos.

Janelle walked into her bathroom, washed up — even though she’d already done so when ending her shift — then glanced at her hair again. God. What was it about her job that made it so disheveled? She combed it in long, violent strokes as she stood before the mirror, only to see it frizz out. Now she looked like the Bride just after her daily electrocution.

She glanced again at the time. Three thirty. She’d wanted to get her shopping done and be home before the schools let out — never mind the Friday afternoon traffic.

Janelle pulled open a drawer for a hair tie. None. Damn it, that was one of the things on her list. Slamming the drawer closed with a thrust of one hip, she walked out of her bathroom, through her bedroom, and into the hall. “Court?” she called as she entered her daughter’s room. “I’m going to borrow a hair tie. Okay?”

It took Courtney a moment to answer. “What? Oh no, Mom — wait! Don’t!”

But it was too late: atop the dresser was a relatively small box of heavy, coated cardboard, like a jeweler might use. She turned it over in her hands and noticed it was unmarked save for a small logo, stamped in gold on the top.

For a moment, she stared. Then: “Oh my God!”

Courtney had bounded up to the second floor. Now she burst into the room, intent on preventing her mother, but stopped abruptly when she saw she was too late.

“It came!” Janelle said, turning toward her. “And you didn’t tell me!”

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” her daughter said.

“But I’ve been worried sick. You know how I’ve been following the posts. Half the world’s already gotten theirs — and according to the tracking number, this arrived three days ago!” She shook the box in emphasis — then opened it. Inside, beneath a linen-colored protective shield, was something from another world: iridescent, beautifully curved, with j. deston stamped in tiny letters along one edge.

She stared at it for a minute, drinking it in. Then she looked up at Courtney. “Where’s the rest?” she demanded.

Courtney walked back out of her room, returning a moment later with another, larger box. Janelle grabbed it, then rushed downstairs to the dining room, where she spread everything out carefully on the table: user manual, app guide, adjustment chart, accessories. She carefully removed the Venture she’d been wearing, glanced over the “Getting Started” brochure, then seated the new Omega II Voyager unit in its place.

“It fits perfectly!” she exclaimed. “Just like they said!”

Courtney slumped down in a nearby chair, visibly deflated. “This is why I didn’t give it to you,” she said. “You’re not supposed to mess with it yet.”

“Why not?” Janelle grabbed her phone, tapped it. “Look? The app sees it — it’s updating already.”

Courtney let out an exaggerated sigh. “Why do I have to have the only mother in Pennsylvania who’s not only a tech nerd, but an early adopter?”

“I’m not an early adopter.”

“You shouldn’t be putting that on, let alone activating it. I read the emails, too. And they said the enhancements won’t go live until nine a.m. Monday.”

“I know that. They said the device would operate as an ordinary Venture if you tried using it before that. But can you imagine the rush at nine a.m., when all those people try to fire theirs up? The servers will probably go down.” She took a small mirror from her purse, held it up to her ear. “See? That little light turned orange. It’s activated. And now it’s green — online.” There was a pause.

“Well?” her daughter asked, curious despite herself.

Janelle looked around. “I see all the menus — the television, thermostat, refrigerator, alarm. Wonder how they do it without the glasses. Oh!”

“What is it? Your stim?”

“No. I felt a tickle or something — let me adjust this a little more.” She fiddled with the device.

“I’ll bet they can see you’re already online. You’ll be lucky if they don’t ban you for a month. Maybe a year.”

“Don’t you think a billion other people are doing the same thing? In fact, most of them did it already.” She stood up, grabbing her purse, then swiveled her head back and forth. Like Courtney said: no joy until 9 a.m. Monday. At least she’d have the weekend to get used to it.

“I’m headed to the Commons,” Janelle said. “Want to come?”

“No. I’m good.”

“Okay. See you in an hour or so.”

She shrugged into her coat again, went out the front door, trotted down to the steps, and got into the car. An unintrusive bar along the upper edge of her vision told her the ambient temperature and her heart rate, and when she started the car a small map came up. Just as it had with the Venture — except without the annoying glasses. Incredible.

As she backed her car down the driveway, it was odd how everything — from the clouds overhead to the trees lining the street, to the school bus across the intersection — began to seem sharper, more real, than they actually were. That was just projection, of course: a manifestation of her eagerness, like the thrill of excitement spreading like a strange heat to her nerve endings. Monday can’t come soon enough.