One Last Shot

Hi, it’s Yaro. Can we talk? Please.

After reading his message, I said SCREEN OFF to put my phone’s display in standby mode. Since he returned from the pilot colony on Mars last week, he kept calling and sending messages, expecting I would agree to meet. I lost count of how many times I blocked his number so he couldn’t bother me anymore. Maybe, it was thirty times. Maybe more. But he always had a new number to use for bothering me.

A tiny ant on my dashboard tried to drag a cookie crumb, reminding me that my last visit to the car wash was more than a month ago.

“Good luck!” I told the insect.

I was amused at its persistence but the thing it wanted to carry was twice its size. There’s no way it can succeed. So, I thought of pressing the crumb with my finger just to break it down into smaller particles and make it easier for the small creature to carry. But before I could interfere with the normal affairs of the insect world, a honk from behind reminded me to move my car forward. I drove through Highway 65 at the speed of an ant, hoping there was enough time to reach the intersection before another red light holds the lane again for a quarter of an hour.

Two days ago, Yaro sent a message confessing a long list of regrets. He regretted his choice to leave for Mars. He regretted not being present for me and my sister. I understood what he felt. Anyone in his position would be regretful. He always told us their project was mankind’s last chance to survive. But everyone knew Operation Colonize failed and went bankrupt.

Yesterday, he begged me to come and have dinner with him. But reconnecting was a waste of time. He had his chance when we were little. When life was simple. Our home was small but we had lots of fun. We played hide-and-seek and all sorts of games that made our nocturnal neighbors shut their windows. But it was all because mom was there to raise us.

Him?

I only saw him once every five years whenever he came home from the Red Planet. It was like that since I learned to say “dad.” He did call once or twice a week but the signals were often poor and interrupted by the distance between their planet and ours.

But on those days when he returned to Earth, his mind was elsewhere. He’d rather spend an entire day checking on his colleagues 140 million miles away than spending time with his family.

I still don’t understand why he signed up for the project. Maybe it was the 1-million-dollar reward politicians promised to scientists who’d volunteer to help Mars become livable. I once asked mom why she let him leave for the Red Planet. She said he had nowhere to go in his career. He was desperate for the money or else we’d lose the house.

One day, I saw mom on the porch crying. She never told me what happened although I was old enough to connect the dots. She sacrificed everything to keep the family intact while he was away. But she could take it no longer. When I turned sixteen, a year before she died from alcohol overuse, she told me Yaro got his prize money and was not coming back. Mars gave him a new life, a new family.

So, why should I give him the chance to talk? After what he did to us, there was no turning back.

---

There was no turning back for me either. I had a scheduled meeting with investors from Shenzhen but I made a wrong turn. There was a large sign at the entrance of Highway 65: “ROAD REPAIRS UP AHEAD.” But from my calculation, it was still the fastest route to the hotel where we agreed to meet. The alternative was twice the distance. Plus, the road was wide and many cars were taking the same route I took.

Who knew that halfway down this three-lane motorway would be reduced to a single lane!

I was so eager to get to the end of the motorway and turn right to the road leading to our meeting place. All I could do was wait for the traffic light to turn green again so my car could crawl at least two meters forward.

Yaro sent another message but I did not bother to read it. I just rehearsed my spiel and made sure my Chinese was formal and business-like. But it was difficult to focus, especially when the man I once called dad was trying to reconnect.

Another message from Yaro arrived. I told my phone to DELETE the message. Then two more messages came from the same number. It was annoying. Yaro kept trying although he knew I had no plans to let him back into my life. The light turned green so I ignored the messages and drove on.

“C’mon. C’mon. C’mon. Faster!” I was shouting inside my car. I needed to get to the meeting on time. My promotion to VP of Marketing depended on it.

Unfortunately, the traffic light turned red again. My face blushed and my visage almost lost its suave. What kept my emotions in check was there were only two cars ahead of me. I was damn sure that once the light turned green I’d be speeding off to my destination.

Another message from Yaro lit my display. I could have told my phone to TURN OFF just to end the nuisance. But I can’t. Chéng Fen, the point-person for the Chinese investors, said she’d send me a text when they arrived at the hotel. So, I had to endure the message alerts from my estranged genitor while I waited for our lane’s turn to go.

Waiting was a torment.

I was in high school when I had enough of Yaro’s promises. He promised he would go online to see me receive my award on stage. I waited for him before the program started. I waited while the program went on. I waited a few seconds before I read the first sentence of my valedictorian speech. But when the auditorium erupted in applause, there was still no sign of him anywhere on the virtual screens.

Signals were not bad during the event. My classmate, whose mom also worked in the pilot colony on Mars, was virtually present. Yaro had no excuse. When I got home, I received a message saying he was sorry because an oxygen pipe in their laboratory had to be replaced. Blah, blah, blah.

I never replied to his message. Ever. After what he did to us, I had to move on.

---

I was desperate to move on from the heavy traffic as well. When Ms. Chéng said they had just arrived, my heart pounded fast and my stomach churned. The group was fifteen minutes ahead of our agreed time but I was still stuck at Highway 65.

I called my boss about my condition but her response was far from what I wanted to hear.

“You won’t the promotion if you lose them,” she said with indifference. “Am I clear?”

“But it’s not my…” She ended the call before I could say “fault.”

I wanted to scream and curse her with all the foul words I could think of. She never supported me since I arrived at the company. But it was not my fault I got stuck in traffic.

Then I entertained the idea of faking an emergency so the traffic officers would let the two other cars move forward a little so I could pass. But I would look stupid since I was not good at acting. Plus, they would require me to turn left to where the nearest hospital was.

My destination was to the right.

So, I told Ms. Chéng my ETA was 10 minutes although my GPS support predicted a much longer travel time. I instructed my phone to play my favorite songs to keep my spirits high while waiting for her response. Music was my life. For seven years, music kept me sane during those days I had to live with our aunt because mom was in and out of rehab. Life was tough. One day, my aunt told me Yaro was online offering help.

“Please tell him not to call again. I already have a job,” I said with a sense of conviction.

I had to show Yaro I could take care of myself and my sister without his help. It was hard to crawl up the corporate ladder but, at least, I was true to my word. I made it in life without his help. Now, I was ready to meet with these investors and get the promotion I always wanted. But when the traffic light turned green, the two cars ahead of me did not move an inch.

“Move it!” I screamed, honking for five seconds, perhaps longer, to get the drivers’ attention. But the only attention I got was from the traffic officer who approached and asked me to lower my window.

“Hello, Officer,” I said calmly, trying my best to hide my frustration.

“There’s a large sign back there, before you entered this street, about the repairs going on. Did you notice it?” The officer’s eyes were apathetic, his hands ready to pull out a ticket and flag me for disturbing the peace.

“But the lights are green. Our turn to go.”

“There’s a road accident on the Express Way. We need a clear path for the rescue team.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m just having a bad day, Officer.” I scratched my head and did my best not to make eye contact. I released a heavy sigh, hoping he would sense I was in a hurry. But I was not the only one stuck in traffic for more than two hours.

The officer smirked and went back to his post. His mild tap on my roof was a strong reminder he would issue a ticket if I made the annoying honk again.

So, I had no choice but to wait. I sent my client another message - My apologies. I will be late due to heavy traffic on Highway 65 – and anticipated a reply saying: “It is okay. Take your time.” 

After five minutes of waiting, no response came. Fifteen minutes passed and my phone was still irritatingly silent. There was no new message from Yaro either. I could at least read one of his irksome messages to keep me eager to get the promotion. 

I was also ready to drive at top speed. But even if I drove at 50 miles per hour, I was already late for the meeting. I called Ms. Chéng. Her line was busy. I tried again. Busy. I tried one more time. Same busy tone.

A crowd of workers passed by with raincoats and heads bent down towards their phones. A short drizzle muddied the corners of my dusty windshield. I looked up. Gray clouds were covering the bright morning sun. The wind showed signals of incoming rain. Two medical drones drifted from the left towards the Express Way followed by several ambulances with loud sirens.

Meanwhile, the ant on my dashboard was still trying to pull the cookie crumb. “I said you can’t make it!” I shouted at the ant. I thought of flicking the insect off my dashboard because I was getting annoyed by its persistence. But before I could harm the innocent creature, a call from a new number caught my attention.

“Hello. I need to speak with Divan Markimo.”

“Speaking. Is this Chéng Fen?” My lips were ready to apologize for not making it on time.

“I’m Nurse Kali from the Parklink Hospital. Yaro Markimo is at the emergency room. He asked me to call you.”

I could hear my heart pound like a drum.

“What happened?” I said it monotonously so I would sound like I didn’t care.

“He was caught in a car accident a few minutes ago. He’s conscious but in bad shape.”

I was about to say, “I’m not in the city and could not come.” But I’m not good at lying. So, I thanked her and ended the call. Parklink Hospital was less than a kilometer to the left from where I was.

But was he worth my time?

My right turn signal was already blinking and my steering wheel inclined in the same direction. Perhaps, I could still find the investors at the dining place or at the lobby waiting for their chauffeur. The traffic light turned green. The first car turned left. The one in front of me moved forward and went right. Then, it was my time to turn. Several honks behind told me to move faster.

But where should I turn?

---

I entered the Emergency Room. The doctors were busy reviving a male patient. The nurse at the entrance confirmed it was Yaro. I stepped closer, curious to see what he looked like after years of living on the Red Planet. A thick bloody bandage was wrapped around his forehead, exposing only a small portion of his bald head and thin gray hair. The respirator covered more than half of his rough, freckled, and bearded face. His almond eyes were closed and wet. His tan hands and arms were limp and unresponsive. His heart monitor showed a flat line.

The head nurse noticed me standing by the door and approached.

“Excuse me. Are you Divan?”

“How’s he doing?” I asked with a cheap smile, trying hard to show I didn’t care.

“He’s in a very fragile condition. But you might want to hear this.” The nurse showed me the recorded file on her phone.

“Your father asked me to record it earlier while he was still conscious,” she continued. “He made me promise to give it to you when you arrive.”

 “We’re not exactly on good terms,” I said, backing off one step. “But – it’s okay if you play it. I – I don’t mind.”

She played the record:

"Divan. My son, I’m (heavy breathing) – I won’t last long. I don’t know if this will reach you. But – I’m – I’m so sorry for everything (voice cracking). I made a bad – a very bad choice (heavy breathing), and I – I can’t undo what I did – I don’t deserve you and your sister. I don’t (heavy breathing) deserve your mom. I’m so sorry (voice cracking). Please – please forgive me."

Back then, his voice was deep, strong, and confident. This time he sounded different. I don’t know if I would pity him or not. My heart for him was already dead. But each time the defibrillator pumped his chest I felt a jolt of anger inside me wishing I turned the other way; wishing I never came.

The doctors managed to regain a weak pulse and rushed to maintain his oxygen level. From where I stood, I was screaming inside my mind, “I hate you! I hate you!”

The head nurse offered to lead me to the visitor’s area but I insisted to stay and watch the doctors struggle to sustain his vital signs. Then I felt her light palm brushing my shoulder and handing me a box of tissue paper. I didn’t realize I was sobbing heavily, trembling, and mumbling words like a child. I couldn’t hold it any longer.

I called the head nurse. “Please tell him I came. And – tell him I forgive.”

It took me all the strength in my body to release those words. With damp eyes, I watched her whisper my words into Yaro’s ear. His fingers jerked as if he wanted to say something in return. I thought he tried to open his eyes and turn his head to where I stood. I thought I saw him smile. Then his pulse got weaker and weaker and turned flat. I stared on while the doctors did their final efforts to resuscitate Yaro – the man who, for the past two weeks, kept begging for a chance to speak with me. And in his dying moments, despite no assurance that I would come, he still gave it one last shot.

I took a deep breath and walked out of the room.

­---

After signing some papers and calling my sister, I returned to my car. The tiny ant and the cookie crumb on my dashboard were no longer there. Perhaps, the insect found a way to get it to their tiny colony hiding somewhere inside my car. Maybe, it was blown off the dashboard when I closed the door. The rain started to pour and I drove away.