“No,” said the minister, and he drew something from the pocket of his uniform, which he handed me. “I believe you’re mistaken, Dr. Griffith. It reads quite clearly in his will that his entire estate is to be left to your granddaughter, with you as its executor.”
I unfolded the sheaf of papers, and there it was, as if I had not been witness to the creation and signing of this will just a year ago: There was to be a trust established for Charlie, but David would inherit the house, with the provision that he must leave it to Charlie upon his death. But now here was a document, signed by Nathaniel and by me, watermarked and stamped with all three of our name seals—the lawyer’s, Nathaniel’s, and mine—attesting to what the minister had said. And something else: Charlie’s official name on the document was listed not as “Charlie Bingham-Griffith,” but as simply “Charlie Griffith”—her father’s name, Nathaniel’s name, edited out of existence. I looked up, and the minister looked back at me, a long, unreadable stare, before standing. “I’ll leave you that copy for your records, Dr. Griffith,” he said, and then he left. It wasn’t until I got home that night that I held it to the light, looking at how perfect the signatures were, at how exact the seals were. And then I was suddenly frightened, and convinced the paper itself was somehow bugged, although that technology is a decade off, at least.
Since then, I have tried to find the original will, even though doing so would be both pointless and, even, perilous. I’ve removed all the documents Nathaniel kept from the safe, and every night I go through a few of them, watching life present itself in reverse: papers assigning Nathaniel formal, legal guardianship of Charlie, signed three weeks before the attack; papers signed by Eden forfeiting any legal claims to her daughter; Charlie’s birth certificate; the deed to the house; Aubrey’s will; our divorce papers.
And then I begin to wander. I tell myself I’m looking for the will, but I don’t suppose I really am, because the places I look are nowhere Nathaniel would have put it in the first place, and if he had kept a copy in the house, it had been removed long ago, without us noticing. There was no point in looking, just as there had been no point in calling our lawyer and listening to him claim that, no, I had been mistaken, that the will as I described it had never existed. “You’re under a lot of strain, Charles,” he said. “Grief can make people”—he paused—“misremember.” Then I became scared again, and told him I was certain he was correct, and hung up.
I am lucky, I know. Much worse has happened to relatives of insurgents, to people associated with far less deadly attacks than David has been. I am still too useful to the state. You don’t need to worry about me, Peter. Not yet. I’m in no immediate danger.
But sometimes I wonder if what I’m really searching for is not the will but evidence of the person I was before this all began. How far would I have to go back? Before the state was established? Before I answered that first call from the ministry, asking if I wanted to be an “architect of the solution”？ Before the illness of ’56? Before the one of ’50? Earlier? Before I joined Rockefeller?
How far back do I have to go? How many decisions must I regret? Sometimes I think that somewhere in this house is hidden a piece of paper with the answers, and that if I hope hard enough, I’ll wake up in the month or year when I first began to go astray, only this time, I’ll do the opposite of what I did. Even if it hurts. Even if it feels wrong.
Love, Charles
Dear Peter, August 21, 2067
Hello from the lab on a Sunday afternoon. I’m just here catching up on some things and reading some of the reports from Beijing—what did you make of Friday’s? We haven’t discussed it, but I doubt you’re surprised, either. Christ: to learn, definitively, that not only those stupid decontam chambers but also the helmets are completely useless is going to spark riots. People went bankrupt installing them, maintaining them, replacing them for fifteen years, and now we’re telling everyone that, oops, it was a mistake, get rid of them? That announcement is scheduled for a week from Monday, and it’s going to be bad.
But the next five days will be the hardest. On Tuesday they’ll announce that the internet will be “suspended” for an indefinite period of time. On Thursday they’ll announce that all international travel, to and from other countries, including Canada, Mexico, the Western Federation, and Texas, will also be suspended.
I’ve been very anxious, and Charlie can sense it. She crawls into my lap and pats my face. “Are you sad?” she asks me, and I tell her I am. “Why?” she asks, and I tell her it’s because people in this country are fighting, and we have to try to make them stop fighting. “Oh,” she says. “Don’t be sad, Papa,” she says. “I’m never sad with you,” I tell her, although I am—sad that this is the world she lives in. But maybe I should tell her the truth after all: that I am sad, all the time, and that it’s all right to be sad. But she’s such a happy baby, and it seems immoral to do so.
The Justice Ministry and the Interior Ministry seem certain they can quash the protests in three months. The military is ready to deploy, but as I know you saw in the last report, the number of infiltrators in the ranks has become alarming. The army says they need time to “test the loyalties” of its members （god knows what that means）; Justice and Interior say that they can’t spare any time. The most recent report claims that large numbers of “historically disadvantaged groups of citizens” are helping the insurgency efforts, but there’s been no talk of special punishment, and thank goodness—I know I’m protected, I know I’m an exception, yet it makes me nervous all the same.
Don’t worry about me, Peter. I know you do, but try not to. They can’t get rid of me yet. My digital access isn’t being curtailed, of course—for one, I need it to communicate with Beijing—and although all our communication is encrypted, I may start sending you letters through our mutual friend just as a precaution. This means they’ll likely be less frequent （lucky you） but also lengthier （unlucky you）。 Let’s see how it goes. Though you know how to reach me in an emergency.
Love to you and Olivier, C.
My dear Peter, September 6, 2070
It’s very early in the morning, and I’m writing you from the lab. Thank you and Olivier for the books and presents, by the way—I meant to write you last week, when they arrived, but I forgot. I’d hoped Charlie would be discharged in time to spend her birthday at home, but she had another grand mal seizure on Tuesday, and so they decided to keep her for a few more days; if she remains stable over the weekend, they’ll let her leave on Monday.
I’ve obviously been spending every day with her, and most of the nights. The Committee’s been almost too humane about it. It’s as if they knew that one of us would have a child or grandchild who’d get infected—the odds were too great for that not to be the case—and they’re relieved that it was my grandchild, not theirs. Their relief makes them guilty, and their guilt makes them generous: Charlie’s hospital room is filled with more toys than she’ll ever play with, as if the toys were a kind of sacrifice, and she a minor god, and by appeasing her, they’ll protect their own.