The Merge, page 5
Amelia is sitting by herself in The Oasis. She’s tucked away in the corner, sunk deep in one of the large, squishy chairs filled with tiny beads, the sort you can mould into different shapes. I’m standing close by, racking my brain for the name of these peculiar chairs, when Amelia spots me.
‘Mum!’ She pushes herself up from the comfy seat and envelops me in a tight hug as if we’ve not seen each other in months. ‘How was your session?’
‘Fine, fine,’ I reply with a laugh, rubbing her back. She’s far too thin, her spine prominent beneath my hand. ‘How was yours?’
‘Emotional,’ she says, still clinging to me. ‘Draining, actually.’
We pull apart, and she gently touches my face, resting her hand lightly on my cheek, the way I used to comfort her when she was little. ‘What happened in your group?’ she asks.
‘I believe we’re not allowed to talk about it,’ I say. This rule is useful. It spares me the ordeal of recalling the session’s details. It was mostly the angry young girl speaking. I jotted down bits and pieces. Enough, hopefully. I try to be selective with my notes. When there’s too much scribbled on the page, the words are difficult to decipher.
‘Sit down, Mum,’ Amelia says, her voice gentle. ‘I’ll get you a green tea.’
‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ I say, though I can’t understand why she thinks I’d want green tea. I settle into the low seat next to the one Amelia was using, open my notebook and begin to read.
TRANSFERS ONLY NOTES
Merge = very important. Big risk. Change the world.
Good thing to do!
Lara, 17 (see p10)
Struggles w/ addiction (started 13 at party, offered cocaine – hospitalised x5 – rehab x2 – heroin) Who: Dad, Jay (see p9) Mum also volunteered but L more compatible with J.
L clean now, promises to stay clean. Doesn’t need Merge to help her. Doesn’t want to die. Doesn’t always like J – annoys her – don’t agree – how will she cope?
Has offered to—
‘Here you are, Mum.’ Amelia reappears, holding a steaming mug and a plate with two cupcakes. I quickly close the notebook, smiling up at her.
‘Thank you,’ I say, and carefully adjust myself on the seat before taking the mug from her. The tea bag is still steeping, staining the water a murky green. I take a tentative sip and wince, then quickly set the mug on the floor, abandoning the grassy water. ‘That’s lovely,’ I say. ‘Just what I needed.’
Amelia sits beside me and passes me a cupcake, iced with the Combine mandala. I study the delicate pattern of the two brains before looking at her. ‘How was your session?’ I ask.
A flicker crosses Amelia’s eyes. ‘Emotional,’ she says. ‘Really quite draining.’
‘You’ve already told me that, haven’t you?’
She rests her hand on mine, and I sigh. We sit in silence for a while, Amelia absentmindedly picking at her nails, me staring at the closed notebook on my lap.
‘Lara was talking in my session,’ I say eventually. ‘It’s a difficult time for her, but I feel like I can help her somehow. I think I can reassure her.’ I look at Amelia, so small in the large seat that it seems to swallow her. ‘It’s funny, this whole thing, isn’t it?’
‘How so?’
‘Well, this girl needs convincing that she can’t remain clean on her own, that if she’s going to have a worthwhile future her father has to save her. It’s so different to everything people are usually told. It’s just… funny.’
I wait for Amelia to rationalise this for me, to laugh and tell me I’m ridiculous to think it’s strange. I wait for her to roll her eyes and say, It’s the only way she’ll be okay, Mum. Her dad wouldn’t be doing this otherwise. They’ve exhausted all other options. But she remains silent. She seeks the young girl out and watches her, as though she’s sorry.
‘Is that what they told her? That she needed to do this to get clean?’
‘I can’t remember specifically. But if my notes are any indication.’
Amelia eyes my closed notebook. ‘How do you feel about having everyone over for dinner next week?’ she says. ‘I think it would be nice to get to know each other properly, outside of this place.’
‘Really? It’s not like you to want people over.’
‘I think it’s important. I’d like to get to know everyone better. What about inviting them over next Friday? For your birthday?’
‘I’d be honoured.’
Amelia smiles, and I smile too. It’s not the prospect of a birthday meal that excites me, but the thought of Amelia wanting to get to know new people. Her lack of interest in expanding her social circle, choosing instead to stay home with me, has been one of my biggest concerns regarding my dementia. Her being cooped up at home, caring for me once I’m no longer able to care for myself. I put my half-eaten cupcake down next to Amelia’s. She’s only taken a small bite of hers.
The film is shown to us in a large circular room. It feels like a planetarium. The chairs, slightly reclined, aren’t in rows but curved into a horseshoe shape. The screen stretches along the walls and onto the ceiling.
‘We’ll soon be opening the cinema to the public.’ Eliza paces slowly in front of the screen. She speaks loudly, as though addressing an audience far larger than the eight of us. ‘We hope these films will inspire open-minded individuals such as yourselves to consider their role in sustaining our future. Fair warning, it’s not especially pleasant viewing, but it’s necessary. Vital, in fact. I hope that, for all of you here, the film instils in you a sense of honour and reminds you just how important your sacrifice is.’
The room goes dark. I blink at my notebook, straining to make out the faint blue lines on the pages. Amelia reaches for my arm. ‘I’ll remind you,’ she whispers. ‘We can take notes together once the film is finished.’
I nod, swallowing hard, refusing to let any tears spill. How pathetic to tear up just because the lights went out. But I rely on my notes. Without them, I’m utterly lost.
The film begins, and Amelia tightens her grip on my arm.
The opening shot is a sweeping bird’s-eye view of London, revealing a panorama of skyscrapers and historic architecture gilded by the morning sun. The River Thames flows freely, its water level healthy, a vital artery winding through the city.
As the scene unfolds, a voiceover begins. ‘London,’ it intones, ‘was once a vibrant metropolis, a dynamic hub of culture and commerce.’
We watch as happy people move among one another on streets that are busy but not crowded. Shops bustle with customers. Covent Garden brims with street performers, artists and applauding crowds. Tourists browse the produce at Borough Market, enjoying lively conversations with the vendors.
‘Not long ago, Londoners lived in harmony with nature, enjoying green spaces and tranquil parks.’
The scene shifts to Richmond Park before the construction of those ghastly flats, erected without a thought for their design. Grey brick sores on the landscape. Children run through the grass, their laughter reverberating around the cinema. I smile, remembering Amelia splashing about in the fountain in Hyde Park, Mitchell laughing as she squealed with delight at getting soaked.
The cheerful images fade, and the upbeat music is replaced by a sombre string-heavy soundtrack. I’m reminded of Elgar, or Walton maybe. ‘In a few short years,’ the voiceover continues, ‘the world we once knew has crumbled under the weight of our own excess and neglect.’
We’re shown shots of London today: tired crowds moving slowly in packs, unable to pass one another. Shops boarded up, those still open sporting patched and broken windows. Bloodied security guards huddled outside.
‘The aftermath of last winter’s looting serves as a grim reminder of the lengths to which desperate individuals have been forced to go to secure essential items. It is not the fault of any single person, but rather the consequence of our collective failure to confront the looming threats.’
A montage of newsclips plays. We watch scenes from our overstretched hospitals, listen as nurses and doctors break down in tears. ‘The National Health Service,’ the voiceover declares, ‘once a beacon of healthcare excellence, now struggling to cope with the relentless pressures of a world in crisis.’
Then comes a harrowing montage of disasters from around the world. The Netherlands in the wake of the floods: a woman weeps as she wades through her front room, a crying toddler clinging to her hip, furniture floating around her. The droughts in Somalia, Sudan and Yemen flash by – shots of arid landscapes, parched fields and desperate people searching for water. We see the wildfires that scorched through Australia, the US and southern Europe. The mass migrations of Kiribati and Tuvalu, and the subsequent bloody conflict. Crop failures in India. The relentless spread of disease.
I can’t bear it any longer. I close my eyes. I’d forgotten the extent of the horrors that have filled these past years. How many years has it been? When did it all begin? Was Mitchell still here when the world started to crumble, or did he escape before then?
I open my eyes. On the screen a familiar-looking man dressed in a suit – the prime minister, I presume – stands solemnly in front of 10 Downing Street. ‘Our world is facing an unprecedented challenge, a crisis that threatens not only our environment but the very fabric of our society and economy.’
Newspaper headlines plaster the screen, variations of the same urgent messages.
The screen fades to white.
A shot of an empty chair slowly comes into focus. Footsteps echo softly. A woman wearing a forest-green robe, her hair neatly styled in a bun, enters the frame. She sits and smiles at someone just out of view.
When she speaks, her voice is slow. Careful. As though she’s weighing each word. ‘For years,’ she begins, ‘we were warned about the repercussions of our growing population. We knew, with absolute certainty, that our resources were finite, and dwindling rapidly, that our immediate future was not guaranteed.’
An image of the woman, visibly younger and wearing a lab coat, appears on her left. On her right, a young man in a matching coat materialises. ‘Having dedicated our lives to environmental research and activism, we – Winston and Adelaide – began working with politicians to push for stronger climate policies. While it initially seemed that we were being listened to, we soon found ourselves frustrated by the lack of urgency among decision-makers.’
The screen fills once again with shots of wildfires, floods and protests. A furious crowd, a seething mass of environmental activists.
Amelia grips my hand tightly. She’s searching for him, just as I am.
‘This is what it took,’ the woman says, ‘what it came to. The world reached breaking point before we were finally heard.’ The images fade. ‘But it was too late. The crisis had gone too far for the strategies we’d hoped would be successful. We had to rethink our approach, not only to environmental protection, but also to the very essence of what it means to be human.’
The woman smiles, and the upbeat music from the beginning of the film resumes. ‘With the support of visionary leaders and the dedication of countless scientists and activists, we’ – she gestures to the images of her younger self and the young man – ‘founded Combine, a company committed to pushing the boundaries of possibility in the pursuit of restoring our climate. Through tireless research and radical advancements, we discovered a way to merge our minds and bodies, amplifying our strengths and surpassing the limitations of individuality. We chose to be the first to put our theory to the test and merge, to exist in one body and halve our environmental footprint.’
The images fade, leaving only the woman in the chair.
Not a woman, I now remember. A Combine.
Two people in one.
Winston and Adelaide.
Our Combine.
‘But our journey is far from over. The Merge is not just about combining two individuals. It is about the merging of humanity towards a shared destiny. It’s about recognising that our differences are our greatest strength and that, together, we have the power to heal our planet.’ They twist in the chair and point to the tattoo on their neck. ‘Merge and pave the way to a brighter future.’
Winston-Adelaide fades, and an array of Combines pop up across the screen, each dressed in the same forest-green robe. One by one, they speak of their lives before the Merge. We listen to tales of exhaustion, ill health and overwhelming guilt. They speak of financial struggles and appalling living conditions. Then the narrative shifts. They begin speaking of their current lives, how much happier they are, how much stronger, more fulfilled. Their faces brighten as they describe the financial relief provided by tax breaks, the housing generously gifted to them by Combine. They tell us about their improved job opportunities, their greater societal influence, their vastly increased quality of life.
One by one, the happy faces fade from the screen, until only a swirling grey background remains. Then Winston- Adelaide reappears, smiling in their green robe.
‘Why not try it?’ they say.
The screen fades to black.
Laurie
I’m wearing the earpieces that contain Amelia’s voice. I like to wear them when she’s out, to have her keep me company when I’m alone. She worries I’ll become dependent on the recordings for comfort, but I won’t. I’m careful. I make a conscious effort to remove the earpieces every so often, to embrace moments of silence.
What Amelia talks about in the recordings is often dull. I tend not to pay too much attention to the words, just letting the cadence of her voice quieten my mind. Sometimes I catch myself speaking aloud, replying to her, expecting a response. It makes me laugh when I remember she’s not really there.
Amelia chats away as I sort out the apartment. What a lovely day. Perfect picnic weather. We could go to the park and enjoy the sun. Throw a frisbee or play football. Her voice is welcome background noise as I organise the drawers and tidy up the bookshelves. Everything gets in such a muddle these days. One moment the apartment is clean and tidy, everything in its place, and the next it’s as though someone’s ransacked every room. Invariably, I am that ‘someone’. I’ll be partway through a task, remember something I forgot to do earlier and rush to complete it, leaving a trail of misplaced items in my wake.
Just now, for instance, I was flipping through a book when I remembered the art supplies left out on the dining room table. I started clearing them away and accidentally knocked over a vase of flowers, sending water and petals cascading over my half-finished painting of the roses, turning it into a soggy mess of colours.
I take a moment to collect myself. It’s only a bit of water. Nothing broken. Nothing worth getting upset about. I reach for the fallen vase, but my elbow nudges a tray of paintbrushes, sending them clattering to the floor. I close my eyes, a lump forming in my throat. Everything I touch seems to lead to chaos.
All the while, Amelia’s voice continues. I think I’d like to plant vegetables and contribute to a more self-sufficient lifestyle. We could save money and connect with nature.
I open my eyes, place the vase back on the table, and try to salvage what I can of the roses. Once everything is cleared up, I carry the bag of art supplies to my room. I used to have a studio, a little annexe in the garden, where I’d retreat after work. Mitchell would deliver me cups of tea, even dinner on nights when I became too immersed in my painting to stop. ‘Just a bite,’ he’d say. ‘A nibble.’ I’d begrudgingly comply, and we’d laugh as he teased me for being as stubborn as a toddler.
Now, I make do with painting at the dining table, clearing away my work between meals. Sometimes I forget, and Amelia gets cross. ‘This place is small enough without all your clutter.’
As I pass her room, I notice something of mine on her desk. My notebook, open on a double page. I hover in the doorway, hesitant to intrude. I don’t like to enter Amelia’s space when she’s not around. She’s a grown woman, forced to live with her mother in a cramped flat, and I strive to make that as easy as possible for her by keeping my nose out of her business.
I should probably start eating healthier. It’s so difficult though. How are you supposed to resist all these tempting snacks?
I put down the bag of art supplies and remove the earpieces.
Did I give Amelia my notebook to help me write up something about the sessions? Or has she taken it without permission? I’m sure I’ve told her I’d prefer she not read my notes, at least not without me there. I enter her room. Her bed is made, the covers pulled tight, pillows perfectly plump and carefully placed. No matter the state of the apartment, Amelia’s bedroom remains immaculate. She inherited Mitchell’s meticulousness. He was forever straightening the sofa cushions, unable to abide them being askew. We’d be chatting, and I’d notice his eyes flitting towards the sofa. ‘Go on,’ I’d say. ‘Sort it out so you can stop worrying and concentrate on me.’ When Mitchell passed, I tried my best to keep the house up to his standards, but it soon fell into disarray.
I sit at Amelia’s desk. It’s not unusual for me to be here. I’m familiar with the view of her incredibly large monitor and the neatly stacked hard drives, each labelled with a different letter of the alphabet. She has backups of backups. Not one for risks, is my daughter.
I often join Amelia at her desk when she’s editing. I like to watch as she drags clips onto the timeline and the video starts to take shape. ‘That’s a great shot,’ she’ll say on the rare occasion I’ve managed to film something worthy of inclusion in the final product. ‘You’re getting good at this, Mum.’
Amelia ‘hired’ me to assist on her shoots after the school made me redundant. At first, I didn’t do much filming. Amelia set everything up, and I stood nervously behind the camera, praying it was doing what it was supposed to. But over time, I’ve grown more confident.
Now, I can set up the tripod myself. I enjoy it. I take time to ensure it’s at precisely the right height, perfectly level, and in exactly the right position for the shot we need. I like twisting the camera onto the tripod’s attachment, securing it tightly before adjusting it and setting it in place.
