Nine moments of the next generation in the apartment.
Summer 2056. Jan is 58. Henry is now a software engineer in Seattle. Henry is married (to Anika). Henry has a four-year-old daughter named Mei.
10:14 AM.
Making Mom's soup for lunch, bread from the bakery, a fruit plate I've arranged and re-arranged twice. Henry and his family land at noon. Three decades of being Henry's aunt and I've never made him a meal here. He's been to NYC twice as a kid and never as an adult. Mei has never been to NYC. Anika came once, in 2052, for Sarah's memorial. The soup is the thing I can give them. The soup is on.
12:14 PM.
Henry hugs me first and says Auntie Jan. We've been first-names-only since he was thirteen — this is for Mei's benefit and he knows I know it. Anika hugs me second. Mei doesn't hug, which is correct four-year-old behavior. When Henry prompts her, she says "Hello, Auntie Jan." Small voice. Daniel's cadence in it from across the generation. I don't say that out loud.
Henry shows Mei the apartment.
He points at the chair. "Mei. This is the chair Auntie Jan dragged in off the curb in 2024, before you were born." Mei says "yes" with great seriousness. He points at the lamp. "And this is the lamp." Mei says "yes." Then: does the lamp know. Henry looks at me. I say probably not. But it has heard a lot. Mei accepts this. Henry is narrating my apartment to his daughter like a docent. The apartment is the same apartment it has always been, apparently now a museum.
1:14 PM.
Mei approaches Nine on the chair-arm with both hands behind her back, chin tilted up — the four-year-old I-mean-no-harm posture. Nine is five and deeply suspicious of strangers. She considers Mei. She decides. She allows one pet. Mei says, with complete solemnity: "thank you, cat." Nine closes her eyes. That is the approval. Mei goes back to find Henry and report.
Mom's soup at Friday lunch.
Henry takes one taste and says that's Grandma's soup. I say yes. He says thank you and means several things. Anika says I see and looks at her bowl differently. Then Mei: does Grandma know I am eating it. Henry looks at me. I say recipes know things. Mei accepts this. She eats half the bowl, which at four is a vote of confidence.
Henry comes into the kitchen at 4:42 and picks up the dish towel.
Third dish, he says quietly: "Mom would have liked to be here." I say I know. She would have. He doesn't add anything. Goes back to drying the blue ceramic bowl in his hand. The kitchen holds both of us. The afternoon goes through the windows.
5:14 PM.
Mei spots the notebooks on the shelf and asks what they are. I say they're mine, but you can look at one. She sits at the kitchen table with the third one open — 2030, the move year. She can't read most of the words. She traces her finger along the lines as though she can. Eleven minutes of her attention, which is a long time at four. We sit. I don't read over her shoulder.
Lin's video comes Friday evening — sixty-three seconds.
Hi to all of you. Hi Mei. Hi Auntie Jan. Hi August. Hi Henry. Hi Anika. The Bay is cold today. I love you all. Mei watches from my lap. She says that's Aunt Lin. Henry says yes. Mei says I want to send Aunt Lin a message back. Henry says we can record one tomorrow. Mei says okay and immediately wants to record it now. They negotiate. Mei wins.
8:14 PM.
Mei is asleep on Henry's shoulder by minute four of the goodbye. Anika hugs me: thank you for the soup. Henry hugs me: thank you, Auntie Jan. The Auntie Jan is for Mei; she's asleep; it's still for Mei. Three days later Henry emails that she talked about the cat the whole way back to the hotel. The entire visit, apparently, was about the cat. The right outcome.