A New World

Evan spent a lot of time thinking about nothing. He learned that the mathematical concept of nothing, zero, hadn't existed from the beginning. Why would one need to account for zero cows or zero eggs? Yet he found that nothing could seize his mind with tremendous force, occupying his every thought for hours on end. As it would turn out, Evan found that a void wasn't nothing after all, and absence could be felt just as powerfully as any presence he'd ever experienced.

Evan shuddered, letting the vibrations knock tears free from his trembling eyes as he tried to fill his tight lungs. A gentle breeze fought voraciously to keep the air out of reach. He had stood on this doorstep a thousand times before, but this time was different. The whole world felt cold and unwelcoming. Nothing was familiar. He struggled to lift his fist to the door to knock. It felt as though his entire arm was made of lead. It was easier to keep the arm close and hold his torso tightly. He shrank away from the door, shriveled and defeated.

He couldn't do it.

Evan shifted his weight to leave and jumped when the front door's tight seal broke and his mother burst out at him, throwing her arms around him.

For the first time in a month, Evan felt warmth, and it destroyed the remains of his defenses. Fifteen years' worth of anguish and pain flowed forth from his entire face, soaking into his mother's soft hair and scratchy sweater. Her arms held him aloft as he collapsed and unleashed a flood of moaning sobs and shaking tears.

"Oh honey," he heard her saying, "I am so, so sorry."

Evan's father emerged and joined in the embrace. Evan felt his father's strong hand on his back and remembered how reassuring it had always felt when his father patted him between the shoulders, gently and quietly pounding his love and strength down through the spine. Evan felt detached from such moments now, undeserving of any affection or praise.

"Let's go inside," his father said as mother squeezed tighter.

With shaking knees, Evan allowed his parents to lead him into their home. They patiently guided him to the couch where he collapsed into its deep cushions. Their clean, warm space made him painfully aware of his sweaty, rancid stench. He felt a week's worth of grime and filth sticking to his skin and soaking into the clothing he'd been wearing for the last three days. Over his own odor he caught a whiff of something savory and his stomach roared to life.

Beside him, with an arm around his back, mother looked down at his belly and smiled. "Let me get you a plate."

Evan's face fell into his hands and his shoulders heaved with gasping sobs. His parents weren't running a soup kitchen. He didn't deserve their charity.

"After you eat I'll get a hot bath going for you. You can wear some of my old pajamas tonight," father added.

Evan cried. There was nothing more he could do. He tried to nod, but his whole body crumpled under the weight of their kindness. He tried to speak but his vocal chords could only howl the haunting song of grief. Most of his body fluids were still streaming down his face when a cloud of steam drifted up onto his wet cheeks. Mother set a hot plate of rice and chicken on his lap and handed him a napkin.

"For your face," she said. He could hear the warmth of her smile in her words.

After wiping away a thick mess of tears and snot, he took a deep, shaky breath and looked around. He knew he had visited their house a matter of weeks ago, but now he felt like a stranger in a new place. The family photos hanging on the walls contained unfamiliar faces. Though he had watched his mother spend countless hours huddled over her various needle and thread projects, the cross-stitch artwork on the end table was foreign to his eyes.

Evan looked down at the chicken and rice. His stomach grumbled impatiently, but his will to eat was weak.

Mother sat down by his side on the couch and quietly rubbed his back while his shoulders trembled and shook with each breath.

Father came in carrying an old canvas bag. "I set out a towel and some clothes in the bathroom. We can run the water in a minute. First I wanted to show you something."

He set the bag down on the coffee table. It was black, or it had been at one time. Now it bore the bleached stains of time spent in the sun, the rimmed blotches of spilt beverages, and the odd frayed lines of scrapes and scuffs. Dad wrapped the zipper pull around the lid of the bag, tracing its rectangular perimeter until the top flap was free, then cracked it open like a treasure chest. He reached in tenderly, as though gently lifting a newborn from its cradle, and produced a nearly pristine camera body with a banged up cover screwed in where the lens should attach.

"Do you remember this camera?" he asked.

Evan sniffled and shook his head.

"I got this when you were a baby. I gave it to your uncle almost twenty years ago, but he recently sent it back to me. We were thinking you might get some use out of it."

Evan stared at the camera, wondering if there was any reason he should be able to remember it. He couldn't remember what he did last week. He was struggling to remember his own phone number.

Father pulled out a short, stocky lens and removed all the appropriate protective covers before carefully joining the two parts with a satisfying metallic click. "Now," he began, "it's an older camera that still uses film, but I hear there are a lot of amateur photographers who are into that sort of thing these days." He turned the camera over and checked the numeric readout by the manual film advance lever. "I think this means it still has a few shots left."

Putting the viewfinder to his eye, he swiveled around the room trying to find something to shoot. Evan's mind seeped into the scene, expanding into the moment. The hunger subsided. The bulk and weight of the camera dominated the void. When his father pressed the shutter button Evan's ears sighed, as though that single click had scratched an itch and relieved some portion of the tension in his muscles.

Weightlessly, Evan's hands drifted up toward the camera. Father smiled and handed it over. The cool metal and rough plastic fell perfectly into his palms. The device was a symphonic medley of crisp textures. Tiny mountain ranges prickled his fingers at the edges of smooth plains. Moving mechanisms twisted with snappy clicks and spun with grace. It was a beautiful marvel in his hands. But it was more than just the sum of its physical manifestations.

Evan lifted the camera to his face and peered through the viewfinder. Looking through that little window he saw a tiny, clear world. He could twist the lens to bring it in and out of focus. He could press a button and record the view, burning it into the film for later. Something in his brain began to thaw and he became painfully aware of just how lethargic and paralyzed his mind had become. He couldn't work out why the camera excited him, but the urge to capture the world on film boiled and gurgled like a primordial soup deep within.

Evan aimed the camera at his rice and chicken, twisted the lens until his teary eyes were satisfied that the photo would be in focus, and he clicked the shutter. The camera sprang to life, the internal mechanisms cracking and snapping in an instant. He advanced the film and sniffled quietly, gazing down at the camera, turning it over in his hands.

"What Michelle did..." his father began.

Mother reached out and grabbed father's wrist as Evan's lip began to tremble.

"I just hope you can get some use out of that old camera," father concluded, smiling.

Evan almost handed the camera back to his father, but instead lifted the plate of food and slipped the camera between his knees. He fumbled with the fork and took a deep breath, trying to steady his shaking hand.

Mother rested a hand on his forearm. "Everything will be alright," she said. "I'm really glad you're here with us now."

Evan looked up at her and met her gaze. He saw love, pain, compassion, and deep sadness in her smiling eyes. "Thank you," he choked, tears running out the corners of his eyes.

He squeezed the camera between his thighs, its strong, firm body pressing into his muscles. He took a long, deep breath and let out a sigh. He gripped the fork and looked around the room again. He allowed himself another look at the photos. Now he saw them. He saw his siblings and their families. He saw the past. He saw people that he knew he would never see again. He saw his old life. He felt his femurs cradling his future, and he took a bite of chicken.