Life is Strange, page 8
When we visited Mom in the hospital, he might have been blue, perpetually. Until Gabe couldn’t understand what Mom was asking for enough to get her a cup of water. Then he would have been red. But mostly, when all was quiet, when nothing was happening, when Gabe wasn’t pissing him off and I didn’t have to jump into the middle to mediate, he would have been purple.
Worried.
Anxious.
Terrified.
That was Dad. “And what, may I ask, are your names?” he asks, adjusting his weight to one foot and looking from Steph, to me, and then back.
“I’m Steph,” she offers, although I sense hesitation in her voice. “And this is Alex. Our car broke down because we ran out of oil and blew out the engine. Do you… happen to know anyone with an open afternoon tomorrow? Or… a Saturn with pistons they don’t need?”
“Well, I might!” replies Mayor Biggs with a beaming smile.
“Know someone?” Steph and I both ask in unison, as all attempts to hide our desperation fade quickly at the prospect of some kind of rescue.
“Have a Saturn with pistons I don’t need,” he elaborates. Steph and I look at each other, and her smile matches mine. Finally. Finally we’re getting somewhere! “My daughter Clover has been fixin’ up a Saturn way in the back of our barn. I’m sure she’s given up on the project. Maybe it’s a match! I live right up there,” he says, looking behind him and pointing up to the hill just beyond the town, where there’s a clear view through the trees of a house—not a large one, or at least not a house the size you’d expect from someone named Mayor Griffin Biggs. A white house, average size, looks like a rancher—single story. Modest.
“I won’t be able to join you, unfortunately. Too much election business to handle in town.” His voice drops a bit at that last part, and I get the feeling this whole election is weighing him down. I mean, it’s to be expected, right? It’s a lot of pressure for a mayor of thousands of people. Dealing with the paparazzi and political entourages and fancy cars and parades and welcome processions. I can’t imagine Mayor Biggs has ever dealt with anything of this magnitude before.
Although, I guess Mayor Biggs is a politician himself, so… maybe he has.
A thought crosses my mind that tightens my chest like little else has lately.
Gabe would have made a great, great mayor for Haven Springs. I could totally see it. Mayor Gabriel Chen. Although he would’ve insisted on “just Gabe,” because that’s the kind of guy he was. The kind of guy to risk his life—to give his life, to save someone.
“Hey,” comes Steph’s voice, and I feel her arm around mine, snapping me back into the moment. “I think that sounds like a great idea, don’t you?”
“Uh, yeah!” I reply, assuming whatever part of the conversation I missed was related to Mayor Biggs inviting us over to his house.
“Hey, before we go…” I pause, resting my hands on Steph’s, which is still resting on my arm, “how’s uh… how are things with the drought? I heard Barbazal is really going through it.”
“Yes,” sighs Mayor Biggs, shoving his hands in his pockets and gazing up at the statue. “We, the people of Barbazal, have weathered storm after storm through the years. You don’t get to be a hundred-year-old town of twenty thousand and fifty three—” I smirk inside because I was damn close with my population guess. “—without a fair share of hardships. But we’ll figure it out. We’ve got resources in the meantime, you know. Water bottles were flown in from Denver just last week so we can save Barbazalians the drive. You know, most stores don’t deliver out here.”
“But,” I have to ask, “is there a long-term solution?”
“Alex,” whispers Steph.
“No, it’s a fair question!” acknowledges Mayor Biggs. “Long-term solutions are for long-term problems. We’re in a bit of a dry spell because of a recent heatwave, but now that it’s over, our climate should return to symbiosis as quickly as it left.”
“No offense, but… have you had experts out here to confirm that, or are you hoping that’s the case?”
“We have made assessments,” Mayor Biggs nods, even though that’s not what I asked. “And our assessments have concluded that this was a temporary event, a fluke in the weather, if you will. We’ve had lower temperatures here than we’ve had in weeks, you know.”
Oh god, it’s the old “global warming can’t be happening because it’s cold where I live” argument. I like Mayor Biggs and all, I like his smile, I trust his heart, but if he believes climate change isn’t a problem, if he thinks this recent heatwave that ripped through Barbazal isn’t indicative of a larger problem, I have to side-eye his politics.
“Do you believe climate change is a real problem?” I ask.
“Of course!” he replies, to my great surprise. “Of course we do, but we can’t uproot our lives and move out of Barbazal just because of a little weather shift, you know? We have to adapt, we have to bring our people resources so we can adjust, you know?”
He’s throwing in a lot of “you knows” for someone who’s not trying to give political answers. And sure enough, seconds later, a purple aura flares up around his head, and then it fades into blue.
If only I could get inside that head of his…
And then, as if the universe heard my silent wish, Mayor Biggs turns around and stares up at the statue again.
“As sure as Augustus Jeremiah Oscar Rhett Barbazal the second founded this place on love and compassion, we will continue this place—our home—on adaptation and resilience.”
I glance at Steph, who’s looking up at me with questioning eyes like What the hell are you up to? and I wink at her to let her know that I’m definitely up to something, and that I know exactly what I’m doing. I’ve had these powers for so long now, it feels like I’m holding a painter’s palette in my hands. Just call me the Michelangelo of emotions. I’m a professional, and I know exactly what Biggs needs. I pull away from Steph and step right up behind Mayor Biggs, my hand outstretched so I can tap into that purple haze around him.
Voom! I’m sucked into his world, hazy and sickly plum, like the color of a bruise, and a dull pain creeps down my arms. Those golden goldfish are back, but when I look down at them, I realize they’re not fish at all—they’re leaves. My arms are covered in vines, coiling up over my fingers and wrists, anchoring me to the floor.
I’m standing in a living room filled with white, green, and light brown rattan. I’m not the only thing in here covered in plant life. Huge bursting ferns and monsteras line the baseboards, vines hang down from the ceiling like hair, a hazy mist covers the room. I’m in a literal jungle, which I guess is what living in a house with twelve kids must feel like. By the vintage design of the furniture and the realization that the carpet itself is green, I guess I must be looking at a place that’s been in the family for generations. And then I get my answer.
“Girls!” coos a man’s voice from the doorway.
A young man—maybe in his thirties?—stands there in jeans and a white T-shirt.
“Your mother and I have a surprise for you!” He pulls his white cowboy hat—exactly like the one Mayor Biggs was just wearing, just far, far crisper looking, brand new. His big blue eyes go even huger, and he squats down, arms outstretched at the sight of about a dozen—no… I count exactly a dozen girls, ranging in age from two to teens who sprint in from the kitchen, squealing for their father. A couple are dressed identically, which makes me think they might be twins, but they all run in with unbridled enthusiasm. They rush him right there in the living room, tackling him and covering his face in kisses, and I’m sure I’ve never seen so much love in one room.
“What is it, Daddy?” screams one.
“Are we getting a puppy?”
“Are we going to the park?”
“Is a storm rolling in, and can we watch it on the veranda?”
“No no no,” he laughs, cuddling them all in close.
“Well, what is it, Dad? Don’t leave us wondering!”
“Yeah, tell us!”
“Is it about the baby?”
I gasp.
A baby?
“Why, yes,” he grins. “It is about the baby.”
I hold my breath and wonder if I really want to be here. That aura I saw—an aching purple blotch—does not look like a father running in to meet his twelve daughters and talk to them about the thirteenth.
Oh no.
“You’re getting a little sister!”
All of them erupt in squeals and cheering, throwing their arms around their father.
“Yay, another girl!”
“What should we name her?”
“I think we should name her Petunia.”
“Petunia’s an ugly name. What about Peony?”
“Peony isn’t a name at all!”
“Your mother and I have chosen a name already, actually,” assures Mayor Biggs, squeezing them all again tight. Suddenly another dogpile befalls him, all of the girls ready with more questions, rapid-firing at him so fast. I wonder how he copes with all this attention all of the time. But I guess that’s how his job is too, as mayor and all.
“What is it, Papa?”
“Is it Tulip, Daddy? Is it Tulip?”
“Petal?”
“Orchid?”
He throws his head back in laughter at their curiosity. They seem like delightful kids.
“Magnolia May Biggs.”
The silence is palpable, and then the questions start anew.
“Magnolia?” asks one with utter confusion.
“But that’s not even a flower name.”
“Neither is Laurel, Blossom!”
“Or Opal!”
“But Opal’s at least a gemstone. Rosemary’s just a plant!”
“A yummy and useful plant, thank you, Daisy.”
“Girls, girls,” coos Mayor Biggs, “there’s a very good reason behind the name Magnolia, and do you know what that is?”
He looks up at the oldest, who can’t be more than fifteen years old, with long curly red hair. She leans in close, a few of the ceiling vines bending with her.
“Is it because magnolias are strong?”
His smile beams so brilliant, I would expect a golden aura, but instead, those little purple flickers dance through the air like tiny tetra fish do. A thin haze of anxious purple all over, with flecks of absolute terror sprinkled across it. His bottom lip trembles so subtly, I almost miss it.
“That’s exactly right, Clover,” he nods. “Magnolias are strong. Resilient. They’ll weather the driest earth and the cruelest of storms, and right now, your sister needs to be strong. Like a Magnolia. And she needs us to be strong for her, okay?”
I try to swallow but can’t, and all twelve girls nod together, the oldest few exchanging glances like they know something’s wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.
Vines shoot up from the ground, racing up my legs and torso and over my arms, yanking me down, threatening to swallow me whole. I shut my eyes, but before I can scream, the vines vanish, disintegrating against my skin like dandruff and flaking into the wind. I open my eyes again.
I’m in a hospital. Mayor Biggs is holding a woman with long red curly hair, who is sobbing into his shoulder. Her knee-length floral dress looks like a hospital gown—it is a hospital gown—and he holds her so close, so tight, as she cries, that I feel tears spring to my own eyes at the realization of what’s happened.
The thirteenth daughter of Griffin and Wisteria Biggs is…
… gone.
Grass sprouts up through the tile and up around my shoes. I’m standing on lush green grass, and when I look up, I find Mayor Biggs standing to my right, and exactly a dozen women, many of them around my age, some in floral dresses, some in shorts, standing in a circle across the yard. It’s blazing hot out here, and some of them fan their faces against the scorching sun. But all of them—every single one—is staring up. Up at a tree as tall as the single-story ranch house behind them. A tree with big green leaves, bursting with pillowy white flowers as big as my head. One of the women reaches up and dabs at her eye with a napkin, and the next woman pulls her close against her.
I leave Biggs’ side and approach, the sounds growing fainter as I walk.
I look up at the tree. A magnolia.
One of the girls, the tallest, with long curly red hair pulled back in a braid halfway down her back, breaks from the group and steps forward.
Slowly.
Her face is tear-stained, but she’s not crying now, almost like she’s cried every tear she has to cry. Her brows are knit together determinedly as she cradles something in her arms. I strain to see what it is, but soon I get my answer. She kneels at the foot of the tree and gently nestles a big glass fishbowl in the grass, as carefully as if it were a newborn baby.
In the fishbowl, a huge orange goldfish flits from wall to wall, sucking at the water as it swishes its fins around playfully.
She—I’m guessing this is the oldest, Clover, based on her hair—stands back up and rests her hand on the tree.
“Before you were born,” she says, her accent sharp like her father’s, “Daddy said I could get a pet goldfish, and if I took real good care of him, I could hold you when you joined us earthside, feed you bottles, and even roll you around in our little red wagon.”
I feel my cheeks burning with more tears, and I glance down at my feet and take a deep breath before Clover continues.
“Well,” she says, looking down at the fish, “I took care of him. He’s an old man now. His tank uses too much water to keep him. We’re in a drought, you know. We’ve all gotta do our part.”
She glances around at her sisters, all of whom nod before turning back to the Magnolia.
“So,” sighs Clover, shoving her hands in her pockets, “I thought he’d make a good friend for ya. ’Til his time is up too. He’ll keep you company out here.” Her voice cracks now, and I hear her sniff. “His name’s Boy. Since he’s the only boy among us. I’m not creative.”
Several sad laughs ring through the group, and even I can’t help but crack a smile.
“You take good care of him out here for me,” she says, wincing in pain. “We… we won’t forget you.” She turns to leave suddenly. Right toward me. A moment of panic grips me, and then I remember she can’t see me.
She steps right into me, walking through me like a cloud of smoke, and I feel a wave of cold come over my entire body. I begin to shiver, shutting my eyes and embracing the darkness until I hear a familiar voice.
Steph’s voice. “Ha! Totally.”
I look up at the back of Mayor Biggs’ head. At the statue before him. And then I look over at Steph, who’s mid-sentence.
“You’d think those people up in Denver wouldn’t mind not watering their lawn for a few weeks, am I ri—”
Steph sees my face, and a breeze rolls through and I realize my face is wet. Just as Mayor Biggs begins to turn around to look at me, I wipe away my tears ferociously before he can see. But he does.
“That statue,” I explain, my voice cracking, “something about it just… it’s beautiful.”
Fuck, that’s probably the most unbelievable thing I’ve ever said, and from the look on Steph’s face, she knows it too.
“Isn’t it lovely?” asks the Mayor, sighing up at it. “I had it commissioned from an artist out of Denver. Over thirty years ago now.” He whistles. “Man, does time fly.”
“That water shortage,” I say, wanting to cut to the point so Steph and I can get out of here. “Is it really because people in Denver don’t want to stop watering their lawns? Is that why you’re diverting the river?”
Mayor Biggs turns to look at me, his face just a shade or two paler.
“Actually, we’re diverting the river to produce hydropower for Barbazal. I know the dam isn’t exactly what folks around here wanted, but we’re devoting funds to more sustainable power harvesting practices, and we’re supporting farmers in their mission to switch to farming practices that use less water.”
He steps closer to me; it reminds me of my dad—when he used to come forward, menacing as hell, and tell me to go to my room, or demand that I “stay out of this.” But something about Mayor Biggs’ posture, and the warmth in his blue eyes, assures me he’s only being earnest.
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Alex.” He sounds almost like he’s pleading. “Or even everything you read. We’re in the middle of an election, and people will slant stories and twist facts into anything shaped like what they’re trying to push. That’s how politics go, I’m afraid. Everyone here has an opinion on your vote. Hell, I have an opinion on your vote. We here in Barbazal just want to do the right thing. I want to do the right thing. And I want you to do the right thing too.”
Steph steps forward now to rescue me, her shoulders just slightly higher than they usually are.
“Thanks, Mayor Biggs,” she says, resting both her hands gently on my shoulders and coaxing me to move. “We’ll stop by your place later and talk to Clover like you said. Appreciate you letting us have a look around.”
But I can’t just let this end here. I can’t just… let him get away with these platitudes about staying neutral. Where is the emotion about all of this? Why isn’t he furious?
He chuckles.
“Yeah, I’m sure she can help you get the pistons out. Girl knows her way around a car,” he says. “Got enough friends with tractors, you know?”
Steph’s laugh is the most exaggerated, fakest, throatiest laugh, and she shuffles me away and down the road back toward town so quick I nearly lose my footing.
He’s just so… neutral. So painfully, unnaturally neutral about what this drought is doing to Barbazal, to his town, to his family. I remember Charlotte’s face weeks ago, as she looked at me and said, “I felt… horrible this afternoon. I didn’t know if I could survive that feeling. But now… It’s like when your leg falls asleep. And even though it’s still attached, it’s become something other than ‘you.’ My whole life, I’ve always felt so deeply. But… maybe this is better?” and the guilt hits me right in the chest. I shut my eyes against it.
