The New Voices of Science Fiction

TENDER LOVING PLASTICS ^{AMMAN SABET}

ISSA LIVES IN a small prefabricated efficiency, tucked within the mouth of a concrete alley between two buildings. The kitchen in front connects to a hallway, leading past a bathroom and two bedrooms, to a storage unit in back. It’s cramped by adult standards but scaled for children by design.

All of the surfaces are institutional. The kitchen’s scratch-proof ceramics have tinted beige from a regimen of spraying and wiping spills and sneaker scuffs. The hallway carpet smells like burning plastic when it’s vacuumed. Mold regroups along the bathroom cabinet in little black stipples, never fully defeated. Chintzy towels embroidered with cartoon characters hang limp from crooked wall pegs. It’s a wonder that these objects deserve such refurbishment.

Issa’s bedroom is at the end of the hall. Trevor, her foster brother, has the bedroom closest to the kitchen. Both have an aluminum loft bed over a desk and a pressed-plastic chair. Pushed into the corners are particleboard dressers, mirrors, trundles. At night, the moon shines in through clerestory windows, dappling a mobile that hangs over Issa’s crib as she sleeps.

Mom pulls her chair down from the kitchen wall to sit and recharge her battery. Her face is flat and glossy and animates a loop of sheep jumping a fence. Over time, they fade into her nothing face, but she listens for Issa’s and Trevor’s voices in the dark. They’ve never seen her sleep and never will.

Baby Issa can stand. With the help of Teacup Bunny, she climbs upright. Holding the crib’s safety bar for balance, she coos to Mom and Trevor.

Trevor is still Good Trevor. His toys are spilled out across the brown jute rug. There are red cars, green cars, black and white. Mom makes her concentration face: a dash mouth, pink tongue sticking up from the corner. White pupil dots follow her hands as they fill Issa’s bottle and a sweat drop blinks near her temple as she spins the nipple cap tight.

“Mom, look. It’s a traffic jam. Mom.”

Mom turns and makes her smile face at Trevor. “That’s wonderful, Trev! How did it happen?”

Trevor points to the school bus in front. “Driver did it. He went pop and then went haywire.” Trevor bobbles his head, eyes crossed, and falls over buzzing, shaking his sneakers in the air.

Mom’s mouth makes a little doughnut. “Did someone call the repairman?”

Trevor points to a van behind a cement mixer. “He got stuck.”

“Where is Fast Oscar? Can he help?”

Trevor pulls him from the front of his overalls, a sports car with headlight eyes and a big yellow lightning bolt. He pushes Fast Oscar through the traffic jam toward the bus, knocking the other cars aside.

Issa squeaks. She reaches over the safety bar for Mom and bounces, ruffling her diaper.

“Ooh! Who is this? Does someone need to be picked up?” Mom puts the bottle down and lifts Issa from her crib.

Issa’s world spins. Mom cradles her against her padded chest and thumps a heartbeat for her. Bump-bump. She bounces gently, warms. Issa drools against her plastic shoulder and coos, satisfied.

Then she cries, pushes away, and Mom puts her back in her crib. Soon, she will reach for Mom again, and Mom will pick her up. This repeats. Mom will never know why and will never be frustrated.

Every four months, Uncle Georg visits. He doesn’t have a flat, blinky face like Mom. His face sticks out like Trevor’s, with a beard that moves like a scratchy blanket when he talks. His gray work shirt has tools like pens peeking out of the chest pocket. Sometimes he brings a brown satchel with presents when he plays Santa for Christmas, but he usually just stuffs things into the cabinets and the storage unit in the back (which stays locked).

When Trevor is still at school, Georg gives Mom a checkup. Issa lies in Mom’s lap, mouth red with a rash, hands wet from sucking her thumb. Mom strokes Issa’s hair and neck and Georg uses his pen things on Mom’s back.

“Momma’s going to be really still for five seconds. Can you stay still, too?”

Issa nods.

Mom’s hand falls flat against Issa’s back for a moment. Then her chest makes a musical sound.

“Momma and I are going to play a game. Want to play, too?”

Issa nods again.

Uncle Georg’s game is strange. It’s not like Mom’s games with music and lights. They only play once. Mom and Issa stand on one foot, then the other. Move around. Say weird words and then look at one of the pens. Stick another pen in Issa’s ear and she coughs.

Uncle Georg asks Mom questions that don’t make sense, but somehow Mom knows the answers. When it’s Issa’s turn, she knows the answers to the questions because they are about her. Do you have any new friends? What’s the grossest thing you ate? What’s the scariest thing around?

When Issa is four and Trevor is ten, Mom prints meatloaf with green beans and it’s better than usual.

“Five stars!” Issa rates dinner, and Trevor agrees. They know something special is planned.

When they’ve cleared their plates, Mom brings them strawberry freezies and says that the May Bees are going to visit. “They’re different May Bees than the last time,” Mom explains. “They’ll knock on the door like Halloween, but we can bring them inside. So, no stories tonight. It’s quiet time until they arrive.”

Shortly after Issa and Trevor go to their rooms, there comes the knock. A squat caseworker from Dewey with a badge on her shirt has brought the May Bees with her: a thin man with a mustache and a lady wearing a fancy yellow coat. The caseworker asks if the kids are inside. She waits in the kitchen, drinking from a thermos, as Mom brings the May Bees back to their rooms.

Trevor is bouncing up and down at his desk.

“Trev, may we come in?” Mom asks. “Our guests want to meet you.”

Trevor stands and nods vigorously with a toothy smile, hopping from one foot to the other.

The May Bee man with the mustache watches from the hallway as the lady with the yellow coat steps around Mom. She squats down at eye level and holds her hand out to shake.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Trevor.”

Trevor hugs her around her neck. Embarrassed, she gently pulls away and asks what subjects he likes at school. Trevor dances around his room, joking and showing off his possessions. He talks louder, faster, as if he always has been shouting to be heard. The man waves from the hallway and Trevor runs and clutches around his leg.

When it’s time to visit Issa, she is playing quietly with Teacup Bunny in her room. The May Bees ask her who her friend is. Does Bunny like having parties? The questions sound like tricks, because the lady’s face moves like Uncle Georg’s face. Not blinky like Mom’s.

Trevor skips around their line of sight, interrupting with inane questions, not really listening for answers. Issa won’t lift her gaze from Teacup Bunny to make eye contact. When nobody is looking, Trevor reaches behind his back and pinches Issa.

Once it’s time for the May Bees to leave, the lady notices that Issa looks shaken. She asks, “Is something wrong? What happened?” and Issa begins to cry.

Bad Trevor.

When Issa turns six and Trevor is twelve, he’s sent home from school again for hitting. Mom makes her mad face: downward chevron between her eyes, upturned frown line for a mouth.

“You’re in big trouble, mister. Straight to your room until dinner.”

Sullen, Trevor drops his book bag and leans his street hockey stick against the refrigerator.

Later, as Issa helps set the table, Mom pins a watercolor that Issa made in class to the refrigerator door. In the picture, there is Mom and Uncle Georg and Issa. Trevor is standing at a distance, painted scrawly in red. They are all under the roof of a house, with more people holding balloons.

“Is this your birthday?” Mom regards the picture through framing hands. “That’s definitely five stars! We’ve got another artist in the house.”

Trevor wanders past Issa and Mom and opens the fridge to grab a drink, blocking their view.

“Excuse me, Trevor. You’re being rude. Nobody called you for dinner yet.”

“I wanted a glass of water.” Trevor closes the refrigerator door and looks at Issa’s drawing. “Who’d want to have a party here anyway? This is a loser house.”

“Trevor!”

As he takes a sip of water, Trevor casually swats the drawing off the refrigerator.

Mom makes the mad face. “Trevor, that’s not your drawing.”

“It’s a stupid drawing anyway.”

“Put it back and apologize to your sister.”

“No!”

“Okay, that’s a timeout. Go to your room, mister.”

Trevor makes like he’s about to leave, but then picks up his hockey stick and gives Mom a whack on her leg. Mom is not allowed to retaliate. She reaches to grab the hockey stick with her plastic fingers, but Trevor wrenches it free and the chairs screech out of the way.

“Let go, it’s mine! I hate you!”

Trevor hits Mom again, harder this time, cracking her plastic casing. Mom’s chest emits a shrill beep and she collapses, first against the table and then the floor. Silverware rattles. Neither Issa nor Trevor has ever heard Mom make that sound, and Trevor steps back. Mom’s face is blank. Issa shrieks. Trevor begins to understand what he’s done. Drops his hockey stick. Runs out into the alley, knocking on neighbors’ doors.

Issa hoists Mom into her chair, lifts Mom’s hand, lets go. It clacks against her thigh. No response. She’s never seen Mom unresponsive. Now the home is just a square shed between two cold brick buildings. The spell has cracked. She begins to hyperventilate.

“Mom!” she squeals.

Nothing.

Then, at the end of the hall, a ruction behind the locked door to the storage unit; boxes falling from shelves, and a musical chime. Something stands upright, steps over what sounds like metal canisters rolling around the floor.

Issa grasps Mom’s sweatshirt and shakes, rattling her limbs. She taps and swipes Mom’s blank face with her fingers. “Wake up!”

Behind the door, clacking, deliberate footsteps resound. Then something thuds against the back of it and Issa shrieks. She kicks back under the table to hide, and again the door thuds. It smashes open and there, at the other end of the hall, is another Mom. This Mom is bald, missing part of her arm and her clothes.

“Issa, are you there?” This New Mom’s voice volume is up all the way and she is making the worried expression. Her face light is blinding. It swells in the hallway, beaming like a searchlight.

“Issa!”

Issa peeks over the kitchen table, looking from Old Mom to New Mom.

“There you are! I’m okay, Issa-boo. I just switched. Easy peasy!”

The caseworker from Dewey arrives to transition Trevor. She says that even though he’s going to a bigger house with other boys like him, Issa can draw pictures and write letters to him whenever she wants.

Issa doesn’t know if she should be sad that Trevor is leaving. She asks if he is going to come back, but nobody gives her a straight answer. She makes the blank face herself as they pack his clothes into a plastic bin. Before Trevor leaves, he is Good Trevor again, for a moment. “Maybe I’ll see you in school,” he supposes. He waves from the van as the door spelling D-E-W-E-Y slides shut. As it pulls onto the road, Trevor looks back through the windshield. Later in life, Issa will recall this as the last time she saw him.

It’s just New Mom and Issa in the kitchen and it’s really quiet now. New Mom wears Old Mom’s jumper. She printed the oatmeal-raisin cookies that Issa likes, but they’ve gone stale on the counter.

“Stealing clothes isn’t allowed,” Issa informs New Mom, who makes the question-mark face. Issa doesn’t know if New Mom is in charge now. Maybe she is.

Georg fixes her arm and brings her hair, but it’s different. Issa helps trim it to look like Old Mom’s hair. New Mom says it’s a five-star haircut and cleans the ends herself. When they come out of the bathroom, Old Mom is gone and there is just one Mom.

Issa sneak-tests this Mom sometimes, just to be sure.

“Remember when we made Easter eggs?”

“You made a piggy egg for Good Trevor and a rainbow one for me.”

“Remember when we had just ice cream for dinner?”

“Oooh, tricky Issa! You’re just making that up!”

Tickles. Laughing. Mom’s fingers are tickle spiders.

When she’s in fourth grade, Issa comes home to discover a baby sleeping in Trevor’s old room.

“That’s Mackenzie. You can poke your head in, but hush.” Mom has cleaned the room. The crib is set up with fresh bedding next to the changing station.

“It’s like my old room,” Issa whispers.

Baby Mackenzie lies with the backs of her tiny fingers resting against the corners of her eyes. She gives a sigh in her sleep, chest rising and falling. The mobile turns slowly overhead.

“Can she have Teacup Bunny?”

“Of course!” Mom makes her smile face, little heart fading in and out. “A big-sister present will make her very happy.”

An idea occurs to Issa and she winces. “Am I going to go away? Like what happened to Trevor?” She tries to keep quiet, but starts hiccupping, about to cry.

“No, Issa-boo. That’s different.” Mom leads her by the hand into the hallway and kneels beside her, holding her shoulders. “Trevor didn’t know how to not be mad. He wasn’t ready to be your big brother. It’s your turn, now, and I know you’re going to be great.”

Twelve-year-old Issa is allowed to walk home from school with a friend, so a girl from class joins her. They plan to do weekend homework together. But turning into the alley, the girl reads the plaque that says “Dewey Foster Home #12” and knows that foster means different, just not exactly how.

“Hey, why don’t we use the Wi-Fi at Corner Café instead?” she suggests. “The tables are empty after five. We can load up on macca frappés.”

“I dunno. How much does that cost?” Issa checks her empty pockets, pretending she has money.

Mom opens the door. “Oh, hello,” she greets the girl from class. “Are you Issa’s friend?”

“No way!” the girl exclaims. “You have a robot?”

“It’s my, um… this is my… this is Mom.”

The girl looks inside at the kitchen and her smile falls away. Then she pulls out her phone. “Oh, you know, I totally forgot. My dad said he wants me home early, because….” She tries to think of something, but then turns and just walks stiffly out of the alley.

Mom watches her leave, making her question-mark face.

Issa pushes past into the kitchen. “I wish you were normal,” she mutters, dropping her book bag and stomping down the hallway.

Mackenzie calls out, “Hey, Issa!” as Issa passes her door. “Issa?”

Issa pauses, pokes her head in.

“Look. Snakes.” Mackenzie holds up a picture of a tight bolus of snakes, snarling the paper from end to end. Just about every square inch is covered.

“Four ssstars. You misssed a ssspot,” Issa hisses, flicking her tongue.

“No I didn’t!” Mackenzie checks to see if it’s true.

“Hey, wanna see something?” Issa waves her over to her dresser. She pulls out one of the drawers and looks underneath. “Wait, I think it’s the other one.” She pulls the bottom drawer out all the way, emptying the contents onto the floor.

“Hey!”

“Shh. This is a Dewey secret.” Issa puts her finger to her lips. “Don’t tell Mom or Georg will throw it away. Promise?”

Mackenzie nods, and Issa overturns the drawer. Props it up. The entire wooden bottom is carved end to end with a picture of a hurricane blowing through a city. Cars are flying through the air. Moms and dads holding dogs at the end of leashes. Shopping carts, telephone poles and traffic lights and street signs are up in the sky, flying in a circle. In the middle of the chaos is a small figure wearing a shirt with a capital T.

Mackenzie points. “Who’s that?”

“You know how I showed you how to draw? Well, he showed me. He lived here in your room, before you were here.”

“Why is he breaking everything?”

“No, that’s the eye of the storm, where everything is calm. Storms blow around in circles. I think he is trying to stay in the middle because it’s safe there, and things stay still.”

Issa leans under a bus shelter across from the alley to her old foster home. She is now twenty-three. The neighborhood feels smaller, like it shrank in a dryer. The street feels narrower. The walk from the corner was shorter than she remembered. The alley looks cleaner, too. Not as dark and foreboding as it used to be, and the buildings have been repainted. Someone repaved the sidewalk and installed a bike rack along the curb.

Issa hasn’t been back since she aged out at eighteen. The funds in her Dewey account, having accrued through the years for the very purpose of tiding her over, had helped when finding an apartment and securing job training as a nurse. It was enough momentum to never look back.

But one day, she saw Mom from the window of her laundromat. It wasn’t her Mom, but a different Mom, with different plastics.

Issa crammed her wet laundry into her hamper and ran after that Mom, tailing her for several blocks to a nearby neighborhood. There, she discovered another Dewey home built onto the roof of another building, accessible by a stairwell. It looked sort of like her old home, but with different windows, and a small plaque by the door with the Dewey logo and street number.

Then, a month later, she saw another Mom, this one in blue. She followed that one to a smattering of boutiques encircling a small neighborhood park, where all the buildings were prefabricated. That Mom carried a bag of groceries through the front door of another Dewey home tucked up against the back side of a Pilates studio. A mural of puppet monsters and balloons covered it in a field of blue.

These Dewey homes lure Issa’s attention when she isn’t on duty at the hospital. She finds new ones online every now and then, and rides past them on her bike. Sometimes she sees the other Dewey children. Quiet children who are alone. Loud, obnoxious children swarming the curb. She can’t see into their homes, but she can see how the light plays off the window shades when they move about within. Issa’s therapist says that her behavior makes sense. Issa wants to know if these kids are like her. As an adult, she is looking for patterns to know if her ways of relating with others developed differently as a child.

Her therapist says that they have, and that they come through in her bedside manner during her shifts. Like others who have grown up in the Dewey system, Issa’s speech patterns and mannerisms are more robotic—more “blinky.” Issa has a hard time trusting the faces that people make. She projects how she needs people to be, rather than letting them reveal how they actually are as human beings. Issa is also missing closure. She needs to go home again and shut the door behind her so that she can move forward, or the illusions of her past will follow her.

Now, Issa lingers at the mouth of the alley just before the door to her old home. The concrete is scrawled with pink and blue chalk and the cracks by the door are familiar. Being here feels to her like wearing an old pair of shoes that still fit.

Issa knocks.

“Just a minute!” Mom’s voice resounds from deep within and her heart leaps. There must be another child in there, perhaps Mackenzie’s younger brother or sister. She steps back, leans against a wall, and puts her hands in her pockets.

When the door opens, Mom’s neutral face greets her, a slight smile with two blush dots for cheeks.

“Hello, this is the Dewey home. Can I help you?”

Issa’s heart sinks.

“I… I’m sorry.” Issa speaks from her throat. “I must… I think I have the wrong address.”

Mom pulls a thinking face, question mark fading slowly in and out by her temple. “Issa?” Overjoyed face, now. Smiling eyes. “I’m sorry, sweetie, I must not have seen you for a second. Are you looking for Mackenzie? She’s at school.”

Issa breathes out fully, realizes she has been holding a portion of her breath this whole time. “Hi, Mom.” Her voice quavers. “That’s okay. I wanted to see you, too.”

Mom invites her in, but Issa declines. Seen from the outside, the kitchen is the same kitchen as before, but now seems to be just an arrangement of materials somehow. Issa peers down the hallway and can see how the Dewey home has been manufactured, easily deconstructed into an exploded view in her mind’s eye.

There’s another child inside. She can hear from the play sounds coming from the last bedroom that it’s a little boy. She realizes that this Dewey home is no longer just her past, but a continuum of pasts belonging to no single Dewey child entirely. Intruding might dispel what is now staged for that boy. He must need to believe in this as home, as she had.

They speak in the doorway about Mackenzie, Uncle Georg, and Trevor.

“Do you remember the party?” Issa does not.

Mom tells her to wait for a second. She goes back, retrieves something from the shady recesses of the storage, and returns with a piece of paper. It’s Issa’s drawing. The one that Mom had put up on the fridge.

“Are you still making art?”

“No. I work in the hospital now, actually. It’s not exactly a party, but there are birthdays.”

“I’m so glad!” Mom hugs Issa. Her plastics feel familiar and fragile and Issa can’t remember them ever having hugged each other at the same height. Mom’s chest warms up. The synthetic heartbeat patters bump-bump as it did before, but Issa pulls away.

There’s an awkward silence.

“Hey, Mom, will you give Mackenzie my new address? I’d like her to visit me, if that’s okay. I want her to know she can come over any time.”

“Of course, sweetie.”

“So… I should get back to work. My shift starts soon.”

“Issa-boo, wait! Before you go, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

Mom clasps her fingers together and her face changes to her hopeful face. “Was there anything I could have done to be a better Mom? Maybe something you wished I would have done differently?”

“Uh… I don’t….” Issa opens and closes her mouth, unsure of how to reply.

“How about on a scale of one to five? How many stars would you give me?”