It was the first week of May, yet the sun-baked prairie felt like mid-July with spring washout creeks already half-dry. Callie lowered the window, her foot heavy on the accelerator as the dark blue sedan barrelled along the county two-lane. 

Kris scanned the landscape from the passenger side. “How often have you been out here?” 

“Bunches,” Callie said, “so I need you to pay attention. It’s up here on the left, another mile—give or take. Did you find the Starchart website?”

Kris tapped her phone. “They say it’s most active after one a.m.” She bunched her hair into a ponytail and stuck her head out the window. “Clear as a bell tonight.” 

“Damn. Thought we’d hit Vickers Road by now,” Callie whispered. Seconds later, a street sign materialized from the indigo twilight. “Okay—this is Matson. Vickers is next.” She juiced the accelerator, angling the timeworn Crown Vic around the long curve.

“You touched it again as you read that street sign.” Kris rubbed her chin.

Callie dabbed a finger against the red pock below her lip. “It’s no use. I can’t help it. This one’s about to blow wide open.”

“Better leave it alone, or you’ll make it worse.”

“Leave it alone, or you’ll make it worse,” Callie mocked.

“Dr. Barlow said you shouldn’t so much as look at it,” Kris shot back.

“I know what Dr. Barlow said. She’s my dermatologist.” 

“Okay, okay,” Kris said. “You’re so grumpy when you’re broken out. Lucky for you, tomorrow’s a half-day.” 

“If we both obsess about my acne, it won’t improve my stress level.”

“True. Stress isn’t helpful. But I heard birth control pills can help.”

“Well, at least I’d have a legitimate reason to take them,” Callie muttered. 

Exposed by the headlamps, a horse’s silhouette came into view, head down in a water trough beside a barn, then disappeared into the inky black. Callie slowed the car into the next intersection. “Here’s Vickers. We ought to see a corn crib soon.” 

They chugged up a series of hills and followed the bluff’s edge until the road began to slope downward and, near the bottom, stopped at a gravel turnout with a line of mailboxes fastened to a fence rail. Callie dimmed the lights and motioned across a soybean field. “The House of the Future is just beyond those trees.” 

“House of the—ha.” Kris snorted. “What nerd made that name up?” 

“Might’ve been Grandma Nena, for all I know.”

“Oh. Sorry. You said she’s been kind of strange since they changed her meds.”

 Callie’s palm hit the seat. “No, stupid. Nena brought me out here once when I was a kid. We had a picnic.”

“Thought you said you came here bunches?”

“Shush now. This is it.” 

The car inched ahead, its rear bumper scraping the ground as they rolled over a shallow ditch, past a faded no-trespassing sign, and continued down the overgrown two-track. In the fields to either side, the fog lingered like an apparition over the nightscape and poured through the open windows in one great gulp. 

Kris sprang up in her seat. “A shooting star!” she shrieked.

“Saw it,” Callie said, the residual embers of the meteor still visible overhead. “Must have been at least three seconds. The Eta Aquarids never let you down. What’d you think?”  

Before Kris could answer, a second fragment, ten times brighter and more spectacular than the first, skittered through the lower atmosphere, a trail of teal-white speckles in its wake as it went over the rise. 

“Fantastic,” Kris cooed. “I’ve never seen one burn so long, and this close to the earth. Do you think it landed in our county?”

“Dream on, Carl Sagan,” said Callie. She eased the great beast over the rut-filled track toward a dense thicket, the tires prying fist-sized stones from their earthen pockets. Fireflies danced in the tall meadow grass, and as they climbed the ridge, a shadowy shape in the shell of a giant tortoise emerged on the horizon. The domed phantom, skeletal remains of a solitary structure, revealed itself fully as Callie drove past. She parked at a wooden staircase that fell away over a cliff, snatched a duffle bag from behind the passenger seat, and hopped out. 

Kris paused outside the car to assess the abandoned home’s desolate outline. A raccoon stole aimlessly across the cement pad amid the charred logs and debris. “House of the Future. So, fifty years ago, the future was concrete?” she said.

“Yo. Earth to Krissie. The pond’s down here,” Callie shouted from the stairhead. 

The two bounded down the steps and out to the platform. They sat back to back on the dock, shoulders touching, bare feet over the side. As Callie’s toes skimmed the water, the reservoir croaked alive with frogs. She uncoiled a towel from her gym bag and a beer can rolled loose. Callie popped the top and handed it across. 

Kris took a sip. “Good old Grandma Nena. Never without her beloved tallboys. How long will you stay with her this time?” 

“Just until she finishes the latest batch of treatments. This round seems worse.”

Callie snared the beer from Kris’s hand. Twenty minutes went by in somber solitude. A handful of particles skipped through the atmosphere, but none so perfect as on the way in.

 “We should go soon,” Callie said. “Nena doesn’t know I have her car.”  

“Woah. Automobile theft is more serious than a can of beer.”

“Well, technically I didn’t steal the car. She’s let me drive it before.”

“To school, sometimes, and when you take her to the grocery store. But never without her knowledge! This is bad juju,” Kris said, using an eerie voice.

“What Nena doesn’t know won’t hurt her. She’s so knocked out these days, anyway.” Callie fanned her neck with her shirt collar. “Anyway—join me for a dip?”

“Hell no. The water’s not warm enough for me. And I didn’t bring a suit.”

Callie tilted her head back. “This show is played out,” she said and scrambled to her feet. Between swallows of beer, she peeled down to her underclothes. Then she dove into the waterhole.

At the end of the school day, a knot of smokers gathered in loose allegiance behind a cluster of bushes outside Gibson High’s south entrance. Kris shouldered on her pack, trudging past the mob of jocks, slackers, nerds, floaters, and goths—poor and rich alike—and headed for her car. Someone made a remark about her clothes—how she shopped at the feed and grain store. Few hid their laughter. Kris scurried down the sidewalk, then heard her name and swung around. 

Callie squirmed free of the group. “Krissie . . .” she squealed, letting go of a boy’s hand. Her flat sandals honked against the sidewalk as she scooted forward with glee, arms curled inward, wing-like, and enveloped her friend. 

Kris backpedaled out of Callie’s embrace. “You’re glowing!” she said. 

“I know. They’re gone.” Callie held still while Kris examined each cheek. 

“Monumental,” Kris exclaimed. “So—you used the retinoid cream I gave you?”

“Not a chance in France. Woke up today, flicked on the bathroom light, and yelled holy shit! Literally. Because I mean, come on, not a blemish? No makeup?” 

The group across the lawn broke apart. “Hey, Callie,” someone yelled. “See you Saturday.” 

Callie waved back. “Okay—sounds neat, Doug,” she said with a toothy smile.

“Okay—see you then, Dougie-wuggie. Super-neato,” Kris mocked, and she stomped toward the parking lot with Callie a half step behind. She whirled around as they reached her car. “Since when does Doug Filburn give two shits about you?” 

“Since when do you care?” Callie said, incredulous. Kris seldom struggled with so much as a blotch. Callie imagined she was unable to truly empathize with the unwieldy rush of emotion of someone whose complexion—for years, the surface of the moon—had somehow, overnight, grown softer than silk, minted marble, Aphrodite delivered through the mid-ether. 

Kris climbed behind the wheel of her sedan and squinted back at Callie—into the sun. “I don’t know, paint me sentimental, but the uninhibited rebel Callie Bass I grew up with was never interested in two-timing stuck-up jocks like Doug Filburn.”

“He asked me to the movies.” Callie teetered on the balls of her feet, a geography book squashed against her stomach. 

Kris shut the car door and rolled down the window. “Don’t get caught up in a situation that isn’t real. Catch you later, loser,” she said and drove off. 

The details of their mild clash of tempers swam laps inside Callie’s head on the drive home. Krissie was sometimes defensive about her impoverished upbringing, but Callie hadn’t seen her this spikey in a while. She was about to call Kris and apologize when her phone buzzed with an incoming call. 

“She’s had a rough day. Could use your help.”

“Mom?” Callie said. “Where are you?”

“Grandma Nena’s. Can you come?”

“I haven’t been home in days—need to get a few things.” Callie drummed the gear shift knob. “Be there in forty-five.”

“Please hurry. I have to get your brother to his soccer game.”

The front door of Nena’s house was ajar when Callie arrived. Inside, the place felt steamier than a hothouse, and Callie closed a window, wandered down the hall, and switched on the air conditioner. 

Nena shuffled out of her bedroom. “Utility bill’s high as it is,” she said and went straight for the thermostat.

Callie intercepted her in a hug. “Hi-hi, Grams. Coffee?” she said and steered her up the hall to the kitchen table.

“Tea, dear. If you don’t mind,” Nena said. She adjusted her houndstooth headwrap, and Callie carried the empty kettle to the sink. “Be sure to use the boiled water from the fridge,” Nena said as she sat. 

The tap water had been tested less than six months ago. Callie knew this. But health issues clouded many of Nena’s recollections these days. Arguing was no use, and in any case, what kind of granddaughter confronts her housebound, leukemia-riddled grandmother over such a trivial matter? Callie filled the pot from the refrigerator and stuck it on the stove. 

Nena’s spindly limb fluttered from her pajama sleeve, and she aimed it at the patio door. “Will you please close those curtains? It’s so bright this afternoon.” 

“Gram, can I ask you a question?” Callie adjusted the drapes and settled onto a chair across from Nena. “Remember when I was six or seven, and you took me for a picnic? Out past the Wahlbergs?”

“Where?” Nena blinked, bewildered. 

“The House of the Future, I think you called it?”

“Oh, heavens. I hope I didn’t take you out there. Did I?” Nena folded one hand over the other. “I could’ve sworn the town council voted to fence the place off twenty years ago. Promise me you’ll stay away, honey. I’ve heard stories of vagrants and dope addicts.”

“I won’t. I mean, I will. No worries. The memory just popped into my head.” A puff of steam spiraled from the teakettle’s spout. Callie prepared two cups and brought them to the table. “Mom said you don’t feel well today,” she said.

“Your mother’s a worrywart,” Nena said, and her rheumy eyes took stock of the strong-willed youngster. “Have you changed your hair?”  

Callie twirled the tip of her pixie cut between her fingers. “Not in a while. I could use a trim.”

“No, it’s not your hair. You had a skin treatment yesterday, didn’t you? Probably had it done at—wherever you drove off to.” 

“Wait. How’d you know?” 

Nena gestured at the cupboard drawer next to Callie’s hip. “Check in there. The plain red notebook, in the back.”

On the second tug, the overstuffed drawer lurched open, and Callie rummaged through the mess and found the small journal. She opened a page and turned with a smirk. “You keep track of the mileage?”

“Every day, dear, but not just for the reasons you think.”

“Oh?” Callie thumbed her belt loop. “And what do you think I think?” 

“See if you can find my memory book in there—a blue one with flowers.” 

Callie fished a slim, daisy-print photo album from the drawer and brought it to the table. She slid a chair close enough to lay her cheek against Nena’s shoulder, and they flicked through the many poorly-taken, unremarkable photos and came to a black-and-white of a younger Nena, a teenager perhaps, one arm flung around a man’s neck.

Watery canoes formed at the bottom of Nena’s eyes. “This handsome gentleman—is not your Grandpa Nick,” she said as she reached for a tissue. 

Callie studied the picture: Nena in her ankle-length polka-dot dress, arm around the taller man. His hair was darker than Grandpa Nick’s, and he was dressed in a double-breasted pin-stripe jacket, wide-leg trousers, and a tan fedora with a fat hatband.

“His name was Glenn.” Nena tapped the photo. “I used to sneak out in my dad’s truck to see him. I’d shove our jalopy out of the barn, let it roll down the hill, then fire it up. There was a dance hall in the next town. That’s where we first met. He could sure cut a rug. After an hour, we stopped and went out to the back patio. He had a smoke while we listened to the band, and as we headed back inside, a meteorite flashed overhead. We stood there awhile and talked about constellations. I showed him how to find the corona borealis, he took hold of my hand, and we kissed. We met up at the dance twice more before he deployed. I wrote letters but never heard back. He was killed at the Battle of Monte Cassino in Italy. Your Grandpa Nick came along three years later. We were introduced at a picnic.” Nena closed the book. “Callie, dear. Was he worth it?” 

“What? Yesterday?” Callie said. “No—I was with Kris. You know Kris. We went to Brunfeld Park to watch the meteor shower.”

Nena patted Callie’s hand. “See any?” 

“A few. One was fantastic.”

“What color was the tail?”

“White, some blue, maybe a hint of green.”

“Oh. How nice.” Nena’s head drooped. “Well, I’ve prattled on enough. Nobody wants to listen to an old woman reminisce.”

“You’re wrong. I like your stories.” Callie glanced up at the faded picture on the wall. “I sure miss Grandpa Nick. I liked his stories, too.”

“So did I.” 

Callie stirred her tea. “Gram, do you think there’s—you know, an afterlife?” 

“Oh, I’ve prayed plenty on that in my day.” Nena blew a kiss at her husband’s photo. “All I hope is to find a passage to a better place—where I feel like myself again. I’m useless as a stone nowadays, and your mother needs help with the open house.”

“I told her I didn’t want to have one.”

“Well, you’re too late. The cake’s already been ordered.” Nena’s tone sharpened. “Now, you listen to me. It’s a big moment in your life, and you deserve a celebration. I already missed your eighteenth birthday because of this damn disease. I’ll see you walk across the stage and get your diploma, one way or another.” She pushed herself up from the table. “But right now, I need to lie down. Wake me in an hour?” Nena tottered down the hallway toward her room.

“Oh—by the way, Callie, girl,” she called over her shoulder, “The meteor you saw? There was copper in it.”

That evening, as she’d done multiple times this month, Callie slept in the spare room of Nena’s two-bedroom bungalow. She woke at half past seven, made an iced coffee, crept out the utility room door, and crossed the cinder driveway to the Crown Vic. With the key in accessory mode, she nudged the shifter into neutral, and the machine coasted down the brief incline onto the street. The back tires bumped the curb, and Callie fired the engine and roared away.

At the first stoplight, Callie inspected the beet-red blotch on her cheek in the sun visor mirror. Its magnitude had increased twofold since dawn, with another taking root on her forehead. She reached the outskirts of town and, fifteen minutes later, the familiar row of silver mailboxes. 

In the light of day, the tractor path to the House of the Future had lost its otherworldly lure. Copious bags of trash and an array of household items were strewn about the ruins: appliances, old dressers, mattress sets, and other indefinable objects in every manner of decay, true to the adage, all things useful, forever abandoned. At the lip of the pond, a specter of fog retreated from the banks. In the tranquil, amber light of the new day, Callie slipped out of her clothes, down to her swimsuit, and dove in. She flipped over in the water and floated on her back, wistful. One arm pinwheeling over the other, she left the warmer shallows for the spring-fed middle, swam in a circle, then returned to the dock. 

After the swim, Callie ascended the staircase. Crouching low to unlock the car door, she caught her reflection in the side mirror and raised straight as a pencil. The pimples had vanished, the transformative force of the water once more confirmed. She went around to the back bumper and opened the trunk. Beneath the wool blankets, wedged against the spare tire, lay the gallon of distilled water Grandpa Nick kept there for the leaky radiator. She worked the jug loose, emptied the contents onto the ground, and vaulted down the stairs to refill the container.

The car windows down, the radio blared “Shake it Off” as Callie tore down the neglected stretch of road. An endless pool of asphalt mirages shimmered in the distance, one puddle receding as another surfaced, and Callie eyed the rearview mirror. The affirmation, more divine than she could imagine, caused her spirit to soar. She was a buoy cut loose on a windswept lake—the pearly luster restored to her face. And between glimpses of the roadway, delicate sprites capered through her mind, for a life force unto itself was buckled into the passenger seat, its super-enriched contents—remarkably clear and sediment-free—were a vital cure unfathomable days ago. 

The house was still quiet when Callie arrived at Nena’s, so she put the water jug on the pantry shelf and slinked down the hallway into the bathroom. After a quick shower, she wiped the fog from the mirror and was made breathless by the reflection. She went into the guest room, tugged on her clothes, and laid down in the bed to scour the web for posts that mentioned anything about this terrifically peculiar phenomenon, however accurate. A half-hour’s search proved fruitless, and Callie gave up, rolled onto her side, and closed her eyes. 

It was almost noon when she awakened to the rattle of dishes in the kitchen. Callie ran a comb through her hair and came up the hall. The patio drapes were drawn, a mop bucket stood near the open door, and Nena was seated at the table, ramrod straight, a picture of tranquility. 

“Someone’s perky today,” Callie sang.

“Sit down. I made the most delicious pot of tea. This is my second cup.” Nena pointed at the floor. “Not dry yet.”

The tiles below Callie’s feet gleamed in the midday light. “Wow—your latest round of therapy must have really kicked in.”

“Yes, and none too soon,” Nena said. “I’m done with all those damn doctors. And I imagine they’re done with me.”

The two laughed. Callie stirred a white spiral of milk into her cup. The teakettle began to pipe, but before Callie could move, Nena scooted over the linoleum and switched off the burner. “Another cup?”

“No, thanks.” Callie stumbled over the words, noticing the half-empty jug at the sink. “Gram. You didn’t—"

“Thanks for the fresh gallon of water,” Nena said. “You know how I hate to make tea from the tap.” She plucked the car keys from the counter and jiggled them impishly in front of her nose. “What do you say? Tripsies into town for a hot fudge sundae?”

When the knock came again, it shook Callie awake. “Hey, in there,” Callie’s mother hollered through the bedroom door. “If you recall, this is Saturday, and I have to work. I’ll be home at three. Breakfast is in the oven.” 

For the first time in over a week, Callie had slept at home,in her own bed. She laced her hands behind the pillow, the highlights of yesterday’s trip with Nena—hot-fudge sundaes, manicures, lunch, and the movie—still fresh in her mind. They’d had a regular playdate. Ever hopeful, Callie wandered into the kitchen and removed the plate of French toast from the oven. A text message from Kris buzzed her phone:

You up?

Sort of.

Saw you downtown yesterday with Nena. Did you have fun? Sorry, we didn’t stop. Mom had an appointment.

All is forgiven. Busy this afternoon? Can we meet for lunch?

Later in the day, Callie picked up deli sandwiches and a bottle of mineral water and drove to a remote section of Brunfeld Park. She pulled up to the passenger side of Kris’s junker and climbed in. 

“You’re silent as a stone—can’t say I blame you, with finals and all. I suppose you want help with your studies,” Kris said as they ate. “Food is a good bribe.”

“No. I’m fine—my brain’s a little slow right now. Must have gotten carried away with Nena yesterday,” Callie said. A message chirped on her phone. She worked it free from her jeans and smiled at the screen. 

“So, did Doug ask you out or what?” 

“It appears so,” Callie tucked away the device. 

“Figures. There had to be a reason you wanted to get together—other than exams.” Kris said, a wry grin fastened to her jaw, and she lifted a flat plastic square from her purse and flipped it into Callie’s lap.

“A condom?” Callie said. Laughter percolated her stomach, and she slugged the door with her fist. “Are you out of your mind? With Doug?” 

“It was just a hunch. You’re so weird these days—who could tell?” Kris probed Callie’s profile. “And you’ve got that damn glow again. How do you do it?”

Callie touched her cheek. “I think it’s the water, but the effect doesn’t last long.”

Kris grabbed the bottle and read the label. “Geyser Springs. Is this a new brand?”

“No, stupid. The pond water. The asteroid.” 

“Give me a break. It’s a new cream. Who makes it, Estee Lauder?”

Callie’s phone buzzed alive, and she took the call. “Hi, Mom,” she said. “Did you find my note?”

“Callie—thank goodness I caught you. You need to come right away. It’s Nena.”

She sat on the cedar chest at the end of the Jenny Lind bed and picked through Nena’s scrimshaw jewelry box, found a pair of dangle earrings in the shape of copper stars, went to the mirror, and slid them into her lobes.

The preacher announced that the gravesite ceremony had been postponed due to the oppressive heat and elevated likelihood of thunderstorms. Instead, the local ladies held a memorial luncheon in the church basement. Callie didn’t attend. After the funeral service, she followed her heart to Nena’s house and tried to sort through Nena’s storage boxes to keep her mind busy.

Seconds stole minutes from the day, and Callie’s activities helped orchestrate the heist. But once the front closet stood empty, her energy waned. She crumpled to the living room floor and began to sob. Outside, the rain fell harder, and branches clawed at the window, caught by the wind. Callie folded her knees against her chest, powerless against the burgeoning regret.

The wall clock chimed the half-hour mark. It sounded again, and the doorbell rang. At some point, she’d managed to crawl onto the couch. She pulled the blanket over her head.

“Can I come in?” Kris poked her head through the unlocked door.

Callie stretched out lengthwise. “Yeah, sure. You want a soda?” 

The pair went to the kitchen table, sat side by side, and stared out at Nena’s unattended garden; quarrels of finches flitted in and out of the ivy-laced arbor with uncanny rhythm.

“I sorted a few boxes, then just kind of—,” Callie said. 

Kris looked back at the mess and shook her head. “It’s okay. Relax. It can wait.”

“No, it can’t. Mom won’t keep this place for long. She doesn’t have the money, and her child support gets cut in half after I graduate.”

“One day won’t make a difference. You can start tomorrow.”

“A single day can mean all the difference,” Callie said in a huff. “It’s all my fault, you know.”

“Hang on. What’s your fault?” Kris stiffened. “Nuh-uh. No way, Callie Mae.”

“The chemo had begun to work. If I’d have just stayed away, left Nena alone.” Callie rested her chin on her palm.

“What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Callie peered across the kitchen, the teakettle on the stove, the empty jug on the floor. “It was too much for her to handle. I shouldn’t have taken her out. We wanted to have some fun. But she was my responsibility, and I blew it. I’ll never forgive myself.” 

“Forgive? For what?” Kris shook her head. “Who says you’re responsible? Does your mom blame you?” 

“No. Mom doesn’t know about this. Some outcomes are better left to fate.”

Kris’s hand hit the table. “Stop it right now!” she protested. “Nena loved your company. What you did with her, for her, and vice-versa, was a gift. Thanks to you, her last day was a grand one. So what if you messed with forces greater than yourself? I forgive you. And so does Nena.” Kris fanned herself with a magazine. “But right now, it’s suffocating in here. Doesn’t the air conditioner work?” 

“We can’t afford to run it.” 

“Well, there’s AC in the car, right? I’ll chip in for gas. Let’s drive someplace.” Kris locked her car while Callie changed her clothes, and with little discussion, they got into Nena’s car and proceeded toward the House of the Future. 

The tangerine orange rays of the westering sun spread paper fan-wide behind the domed ruins as the behemoth shuddered up the trail and out to the pond where Callie parked. She snatched the half-empty water jug—all that hadn’t been brewed into tea—and paraded down the steps. The two plopped down next to each other on the deck. Kris zipped open her daypack and, to Callie’s surprise, produced a sixteen-ounce beer can. Kris cracked it open. 

“A tallboy, in honor of Nena,” Kris said as she handed the container to Callie. 

Callie gazed upward, then splashed a few drops of beer over the water. “For the gods,” she said solemnly.

“Since when did you get religious?” 

“Call it a counterbalance—for future passages.” Callie shared a wan smile and felt Nena’s earrings brush against her neck. Without another word, she unscrewed the water jug cap and reunited its contents with the pond.

Kris looked at her friend, puzzled. “Yeah, I guess I understand,” she said after some thought. “Why lug it back and forth when you have access to an entire pond?”

“No. This is the last from the house. I don’t think I’ll ever come back here.” Callie laid the jug of the deck and searched the cloudless skyline. “Sometimes, to find out what’s real, you have to let go—like Nena did with Glenn before Grandpa Nick.”

“But what about—?”

“What? Some magic potion? I don’t need this to be me. Besides, those changes weren’t permanent. It was all a mirage, a misconception on my part. Categorize it however you want. Nena always said adversity builds character. Nobody gets through this world unblemished, so why wish it in the first place?”

__________

D. B. Gardner, a graduate of Michigan State University, has appeared inWordrunner eChapbooks, Black Fox Literary Magazine, East by Northeast, Hive Avenue, South 85, and elsewhere. His work has been shortlisted for the GristProForma Prize, the Letter Review Fiction Prize, the Leapfrog Global Prize for short-story collections, and awarded second place in the 2023 Writer’s Digest short story competition.