THE DAY BEFORE THEY CAME

Mary Soon Lee

The morning before the aliens came, Molly Harris busied herself preparing her son’s lunch-box. Since it was a Friday, Justin would be going to school in person for his social skills classes. Molly put a generous handful of cherries into the lunch-box. Even the vat-grown cherries cost more than she could really afford, but she wanted Justin to have a treat to swap with the other second-graders.

Most of the younger mothers Molly knew worried when their kids went to school, checking the germ count hourly, scared their children might come home with a bruise, or a scrape, or a runny nose. But Molly had been 53 when Justin was born, and she remembered when classroom violence meant knives and guns, the way her heart had thudded during the weekly bomb drill.

So instead of worrying about Justin on Fridays, Molly worried about him on Monday through Thurs-day. She would peek into his bedroom as she moved around the apartment. No matter how absorbed Justin looked, the tip of his tongue sticking out as the computer led him through a problem, Molly couldn’t convince herself that it was right for a child to spend hours on end netted-in.

A terrible din erupted from Justin’s bedroom: screeches and bleats, neighs and howls and squawks-Molly slapped her hands over her ears. She had bought Justin the Noah’s Ark alarm clock for his sixth birthday, a year ago.

The din subsided for a moment, but Molly wasn’t fooled. She kept her hands pressed to her ears as the

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alarm clock exploded into the deep bass trumpet of the elephants. In the silence that followed, Molly wiped her hands on her apron, then reached for the peanut butter jar.

Sounds of hasty splashing came from the bathroom, followed by bare feet running toward her. Two thin brown arms, somehow sticky despite the bathroom expedition, wrapped themselves around Molly’s waist.

“Good morning, Justin.” She stared down at the top of her son’s head, pressed tight against her stomach, his fine black hair tousled.

“It’s my birthday tomorrow.”

“Really? I don’t believe you.”

Justin let go of her, and rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. “Yes, you do. You do, you do.”

“I do,” said Molly, wishing he had hugged her a little longer. “Tomorrow’s your birthday and we’re going to the water park. But today you have to go to school.”

“Uh huh.” Justin poured the milk onto his cereal, holding the milk carton with both hands, and managing not to spill any.

Breakfast took less than five minutes, and then Justin clattered down the staircase ahead of her, down the four flights to the porch to wait for the school bus.

The bus came early. One quick hug, and Justin scrambled on board.

The afternoon before the aliens came, Molly went birthday shopping. The city tax paid for glass roofs over the downtown streets. Molly told herself she approved of such a sensible precaution against the ultraviolet, but the enclosed air seemed stale despite the constant whir of fens, and the filtered sunlight seemed somehow flatter.

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MARY SOON LEE

Molly spent half an hour choosing new swimming trunks for Justin. She couldn’t decide between a pair covered with dapper penguins and another pair with plain blue and yellow stripes. Six months ago she would have bought the penguins without hesitation, but perhaps Justin would think them too childish now.

She tried to remember what his best friend, Adam, had worn the last time she took the two of them to the water park. Something simple she thought. She paid for the blue and yellow striped trunks, secretly yearning for the penguins.

Outside again, the air temperature fixed at the calculated summer optimum, warm but not hot. Perversely Molly wished the system would break down, even for an hour or two, just long enough for a mini heat wave. She paused for a minute, remembering playing on the beach one summer holiday. The sun had burnt the back of Molly’s neck, too hot, too bright. Her face had stung from blowing sand. And yet everything sparkled, the very air buoyant, as if she breathed in tablespoons of undiluted joy.

People surged past Molly as she stood there on the downtown street. She pulled herself together with a shrug. She would have loved to take Justin to the beach, but no use dwelling on it now.

She set off again, heading for the AI store. She knew how much Justin wanted a pair of AI shoes, but even though most of his class had them by now, he had only asked for them once. When Molly had told him they cost too much for her to buy, he bit his lip and never asked again.

So two months ago, Molly had canceled her subscription to the interactives, making do with ordinary TV, and she thought she had saved enough to buy Justin his shoes.

Entering the AI store, Molly blinked. The floor, ceil—

THE DAY BEFORE THEY CAME 79

ing, and walls were velvet black. Glowing holograms danced to either side, marking the corridors. Molly took one cautious step forward.

“Can I be of assistance?” A caterpillar-shaped mechanical appeared in front of her. The mechanical raised the front of its long body until its head was level with her chest, its silvered skin gleaming. “I’m looking for AI shoes.”

“Please follow me.” The mechanical started down a corridor, turning its head to check she was following. It stopped by a vast array of shoes. “First select a shoe style, and then I will demonstrate our selection of AI personalities.”

Molly nodded, trying to look as if she came to shops like this every day. Sandals and ballet shoes, ice-skates and boots and babies’ bootees stretched before her. After long pause, she pointed at a pair of orange sneakers. “How much are those ones?”

“Eighty dollars, without any program installed. Did you have a particular AI personality in mind for the shoes?”

“No. They’re for my son. He’s turning seven.” “Perhaps an educational supplement?” The mechan-il lifted its forelegs to a small keyboard, and typed in a command.

The left sneaker twitched. “What’s two times twenty-six?” asked the orange shoe.

Molly said nothing. The mechanical made throat-clearing noise, though she knew it didn’t really have a throat. “Fifty-two,” said Molly.

“That’s right!” said the shoe. “What a clever girl!” The right shoe twitched beside it. “Two times twenty-six is fifty-two, and do you know how many states there are in America?”

“Fifty-two,” said Molly. She looked at the mechanical. “I wanted something a little more fun.”

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MARY SOON LEE

The mechanical keyed in another command.

“Let’s all sing to the sing-along-song,” sang the two orange sneakers.

Molly shook her head. “Definitely not.”

She declined the next dozen offerings. The cops and robbers program amused her, but she had overheard Justin and Adam discussing how old-fashioned police games were. Finally she settled on a program with no gimmicks at all. The left shoe and the right shoe just chatted away as if they were children; the left shoe, Bertie, was a little bossier, the right shoe, Alex, seeming shyer.

The mechanical wrapped up the shoes in orange tissue paper inside an orange box, explained how to switch off Alex and Bertie’s voices, and assured her the program automatically deactivated during school hours.

Molly clutched the gift-wrapped shoe-box to her all the way home on the bus, picturing Justin’s reaction the next morning.

The evening before the aliens came, Justin was hyperactive, overexcited about his coming birthday. Molly gave him a mug of hot milk, hoping it might calm him. But still Justin scaled Mount Everest (the sofa and the shelves beside it), using his scarf and six kitchen forks as equipment.

“But what if my birthday doesn’t come?” demanded Justin, as he sat triumphantly atop the mountain peak, having retraced Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Nor-gay’s route along the Southeast Ridge.

“Of course your birthday will come, silly.”

“What if there’s a fire, and my presents are burned?”

“There won’t be a fire,” said Molly, lifting Justin up and sitting him on her lap, back down at first camp.

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“But if there were a fire, I’d get you more presents. I promise. And now it really is time for bed.”

“Just five more minutes, Mom. Please.”

“Okay,” said Molly, and watched him set off on a second ascent of Everest. She would have liked to have someone to share Justin with, to sit beside on the sofa while Justin played, to talk to when Justin fell asleep. Justin had aunts and uncles, but that wasn’t the same.

Molly had waited till she was past 50 before she realized Mr. Right might never arrive. Her sister had accompanied her to the family planning clink, waited patiently while the official checked that Molly hadn’t already used up her one-child quota. Then Molly and her sister picked a father from the database, a gentle-eyed biochemist, with long fingers and a talent for playing the cello.

Molly knew it was silly, but from time to time she dreamed about Justin’s father, wanting to tell him all about his son. She checked her watch. “Time to sleep.”

She tucked Justin into bed, read him a chapter from Watership Down, kissed him once, trying to hold onto the moment as she had tried to hold onto every moment of his childhood, forcing herself to let go until the morning.

The night before the aliens came, Molly watched two mediocre comedy programs on TV, then got up to make a mug of cocoa as the late night news came on. She heard something about a group of meteors detected by the deep solar tracking system. Half-curious, thinking about the shooting stars she’d seen one night a decade ago, she wandered back to the living room.

A triangular formation of blue and green dots flickered on the TV screen, somewhere out past Saturn, according to the newscaster. Past Saturn, For a moment,

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Molly rolled the words around in her mind; it sounded like the start of a fairy tale, “Far, far away …”

With a shake of her head, Molly turned off the TV. Time for bed. She knew Justin would be up early tomorrow. She paused by Justin’s room, opened the door a crack for one last peek at her son, fast asleep. Silently she closed the door.

END

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