Who Is Brittany Condon?

The following afternoon, El Horgas suffers deeply disturbing dreams. His mind holds him in a world of garbage hills beside people covered in bodily lumps, people like him attacking with merciless vehemence. Later in the dream, he sees himself stoned in a lynching. The people of Baybeach try to kill him without being splashed by his poisoned blood. Finally, he dreams that Brittany Condon assures him she hates him. Then he screams with all his strength. That last part is the worst.

"No! No! Enough!" His scream is excessive.

He opens his eyes, unable to tell whether he still dreams or has awakened. He studies his surroundings. He sits in the passenger seat of a modern family SUV. Outside and ahead, meters away, stands an interdistrict checkpoint that also serves as a toll station. Beyond it lies an enormous, broad highway whose horizon promises a brilliantly colorful sunset. The strong frontal light dazzles him and hurts his eyes. Through the closed window on his right he sees other vehicles inspected by interdistrict authorities. When he looks left, his world spins like an uncontrolled compass. Dream or nightmare, he sees a familiar woman smiling.

"Easy, sweetheart. I think you had a nightmare."

"It’s… is it you?" El Horgas’s face shows absolute disbelief.

"It’s me. Give me a minute and I’m all yours." Smiling, she turns to an interdistrict agent standing beside the SUV.

"What’s wrong with that man? Is he all right?" the frowning officer asks. "Anything to declare?"

"He just left the hospital. He’ll be fine," she answers.

"I need your documents and his."

"Of course, here." She sends holographic documents with photographs. The agent receives them on his device and reads.

"Mrs. Eva Hausen."

"Correct." She attempts a one-sided smile.

"Has anyone told you that you look very much like Brittany Condon?"

"Every fucking day of my life, Officer." The agent smiles, then immediately turns serious.

"All right, you may pass. Move along, move along."

"Thank you very much, Officer."

Eva returns both hands to the wheel. Before the barrier to Midtown’s highways rises, she looks at El Horgas and smiles. He regards her as one might admire any deity materializing in an idyllic dream after a brutal nightmare. She is dressed very simply in a clean new dress that attracts no attention, broad and falling below her knees. Her hair is the color he always knew from childhood, tied above the nape perhaps because of the intense heat. Her abdomen is swollen.

The barrier rises. Eva sets the SUV moving and attends to the road ahead. They enter a land of asphalt appearing infinite from the heights of the highway into the district. Without neglecting the road, she stores the virtual documentation on her mobile device. Confused and dazed, El Horgas tries to distinguish dream from reality or nightmare. He examines the inside of his left forearm and clearly sees that the tattoo is gone. Suddenly terrified, he jumps in his seat, panicking at the danger she faces beside him.

"Stop the car, Britu! You’re my Britu, aren’t you?"

"What’s wrong, Dave?" She startles slightly.

"You can’t be in here with me. Oh no, no—you’ll be infected." Desperate, El Horgas tries to get out.

He tries lowering the right window without success, then desperately attempts to open his door. Eva has locked every door and window, increasing his desperation.

"Easy, Dave. You have nothing to worry about."

"Let me out! Open it. You’ll be infected; I’ll infect you. You’ll die a horrible death immediately! Let me out. I’ll throw myself onto the highway, anything so long as I don’t infect you. Can’t you see what I look like? This is what will happen to you if you don’t open it!"

"Dave, you’re no longer sick. Not anymore. It’s over. You were vaccinated after intensive treatments. You’re as healthy as anyone, sweetheart. Relax, relax."

El Horgas’s desperation does not immediately calm. Amid his frenzy to hurl himself onto the asphalt, his gaze meets her smile, gradually soothing his frantic impulses. He has missed that smile more than anyone could miss the Sun or Moon.

"Healthy? How do you know? I can never be healthy."

"Just look at yourself. You’re cured." He cannot take his eyes from hers. "Look, Dave. Go on, use that mirror."

El Horgas examines himself and confirms there is no longer swollen flesh. Where his skin was covered in blisters filled with contagious blood and pus, it is normal. His arm seems as it once was, as do his hands, arms, legs, and the face he touches. His torso is covered by an uncomfortable, shapeless hospital shirt and matching trousers. He is barefoot; Eva has not yet had time to buy shoes since leaving BioGenLife.

"I can’t believe it," El Horgas admits, smiling.

"I told you. You’re perfectly healthy."

"It’s impossible."

He feels his face further and finds it as smooth as before his living hell. He even detects the beginnings of beard and mustache, hair that had not grown for months. Suddenly he brings both hands to his head and discovers some hair has returned where it was lost. He releases laughter that infects Eva through sheer overflowing joy. Both laugh, their laughter irresistibly attracting like strange magnets of skin.

"How can I be sure this isn’t a dream?"

"Want me to show you how?" They stop laughing but continue smiling.

"Of course. I can’t be sure. This must be a dream."

"Give me your hand."

"Are you certain? Maybe I can still infect you."

"Give me your hand, Dave. Don’t be frightened." She insists, her smile illuminated from ahead by twilight.

Timidly, El Horgas raises his left hand, healthier than he remembers. Slowly and trembling, he moves it toward her. She releases the wheel with her right hand and takes his without ceasing to watch the road. Then she gently places his cold palm upon her voluminous abdomen. She smiles, moved. El Horgas feels an immensity of emotions and sensations he cannot absorb.

"It moved! Oh! It’s moving!" he exclaims in surprise.

The sensation makes him try withdrawing his hand, but she prevents it and holds it against her moving belly.

"My Hypatia is very restless—too restless, I’d say. I think she’ll be an athlete or something," she confesses with great emotion.

"A dancer, singer, artist like you," he suggests.

"Anything but that. Better an architect."

"I can’t believe it. But when? I’d be lying if I said I’m ready to be a father. I can’t remember the last time we…"

She gently releases his hand and slowly returns both of hers to the wheel. She lowers the car’s visor; powerful sunlight at full twilight dazzles her. She concentrates on the highway, growing more serious though not entirely. He keeps his hand on her abdomen for another second before sensing something wrong and removing it. Readjusting in his seat, he turns right to look through the window. Their road is a very high bridge passing above other major highways. Among Midtown’s elevated highways, interweaving between buildings and over smaller structures, he appreciates beautiful Stormport landscapes he had forgotten.

"Britu, what is it? This still feels like a dream."

"There are many things I must tell you, Dave."

"You don’t have to. The baby isn’t mine, is she?" She sobs, unable to speak, and shakes her head. "I knew," he whispers.

"I’m sorry. I waited for you. Everything was confused in those days."

"I know. I waited for you too. I was very stupid."

"Don’t say that. We weren’t meant to be together."

"Is he a good man?" She looks at him, then the road.

"He is."

"Do I know him?"

"No, I met him recently. You don’t know him."

"Is he wealthy?" He snorts; she takes a moment.

"No. He has a very well-paid job, but he isn’t rich. I’m the wealthy one."

"Of course. You’re Brittany Condon: rich, famous, beautiful."

"No, listen. There is something I must ask. Just one thing."

"Of course. What do you need?"

"Please don’t call me Britu anymore. Can you do that for me?" A bucket of icy water pours over El Horgas.

He looks through the window and takes several seconds before speaking again. A thick knot forms in his throat, producing deep anguish.

"You’ll come home. I’ll take you there so you can have the good life you deserve. I’ll ask only that you not try to seduce me or win me back. Don’t think of me as someone who might be with you again. I need you to see me as a friend, a good friend willing to do anything for you. And remember: please don’t call me Britu anymore. Can you do that for me?"

"This must be another nightmare after all."

"Please, it’s the only thing I’ll ask. Will you do it for me?"

"You know I can’t refuse you, but I don’t know."

"Thank you. I truly appreciate the effort."

"I’ve called you that since childhood. Is this because of him? Would he get jealous?"

"Not only because of him. I must respect him as my husband, but besides, my name is Eva Hausen now. Please call me Eva—no diminutives, only Eva. Can you do that?"

"I can. It will feel strange, but I will."

"Thank you, Dave. It truly matters to me."

"What happened to your name? Why the change?"

"It disappeared. The María Britania Machado you knew on Lawrence Island no longer exists."

"Is it so fans can’t find you? I don’t understand."

"No. Understand that I am not Brittany Condon. I was, but I haven’t been for a long time."

El Horgas stares as if awaiting the punch line to a joke or something similar. When she remains serious, he becomes worried and confused.

"What do you mean, you aren’t her? How long?" He takes his head in both hands and shakes his short hair.

"Since I attempted suicide. I stopped being her precisely after that."

Eva extends an arm and shows scars across the veins of her wrist, then returns both hands to the wheel. He is deeply surprised and affected.

"You tried to kill yourself? When did that happen, Britu?"

"What did I ask you?"

"Sorry, Eva." He reflects before continuing. "You have no idea everything I did to be with you again. Finally, I don’t know how, but everything I’ve done—every decision, step, instant—has brought me here, sitting beside you. I love you."

She stops watching the highway for a moment, looks at him, and smiles. Two tears fall from hope-colored eyes. Without speaking, she soon attends to the road again. At the end of their path, beyond the asphalt, the Sun sinks into the sea. The sky’s colors intensify across Stormport.

"You don’t love me anymore, do you?"

"Never say that. Never. Of course I love you, very much, though not as you love me."

"Then how? In what way do you love me now?"

"Try to understand."

"Britu…"

"Eva."

"Yes, Eva. You always wanted fame. What happened?"

"While I was recovering from my suicide attempt at the clinic I picked you up from, a very cheerful man named Abraham entered my room one day. Another, older doctor named Aaron came with him. Together with Gabriel, my manager, they made a proposal. I could stop being famous and leave that turbulent life behind if I agreed to take part in an experiment."

"What experiment?"

"The clinic needed to conduct real-world trials for a scientific project. Gabriel did not hesitate: the show had to go on; Brittany Condon could not leave the artistic world. He accepted immediately. He wants to remain Brittany’s manager forever, whether I’m there or not, becoming richer and richer."

"But how? What did the experiment involve?"

"I don’t know the scientific details. I know only that it was unique. Apparently they took samples while I was hospitalized. From them they generated something used as the experiment’s raw material."

"Something like what?"

"I don’t know. They call it reagent."

"It’s very confusing."

"I know. When I was discharged, Gabriel awaited me with new documentation naming me Eva Hausen. I signed a contract I had to reread five times because its clauses were so dense. They opened a new bank account and deposited a nine-digit sum. Their idea was that I would never claim anything again. That’s all. I returned to Lawrence Island for a while, then bought a house in Pearl Beach."

"Pearl Beach? Wow. A mansion, surely."

"It’s large, yes. I can’t complain, though it isn’t the most luxurious. I moved there, met the man who is now my husband, married, became pregnant, and here I am. What I assure you—though you probably already imagine it—is that while I vanished from the world and quietly returned to an anonymous life, Brittany Condon continued singing on different stages."

"I don’t understand, Britu—um, Eva, I’m not used to it. You aren’t her, and at the same time that singer isn’t you, so who is Brittany Condon?" She smiles at his confusion, for she shares it.

"It’s complicated. We are both the same and, at once, neither of us."

"That doesn’t help. How do I know I’m speaking to my Britu? Maybe my Britu is the one onstage and you are… whatever you are."

"What do you think?"

The car crosses a Midtown zone where the highway becomes a bridge between buildings, vehicles passing directly below while another equally large highway passes overhead. For the next kilometers, only the almost imperceptible hum of the electric motor can be heard. Eva looks ahead without diverting her gaze. El Horgas instead looks inward, searching his memories. He sees the little girl who rose each morning without combing her hair and went onto Lawrence Island’s muddy, often flooded paths to play with him. He smiles foolishly. His eyes look outside without blinking or seeing the landscape.

The pain in his soul is profound; the knot in his throat is ready to burst. He feels worse than during the days when the virus ravaged his entire body. He almost prefers those days, when hope at least kept him motivated, strong, alive. Healthy again and beside her, he now feels dead.

"You’re very quiet, Dave. Talk to me, say something," she asks as they pass a tangled stretch of roads intersecting in three dimensions, breaking the deathly silence.

"Stop the vehicle, Britu, please."

"Why? No, we can’t here. Do you need the bathroom?"

"Stop. I’ll get out here so you can go live your family life. Thank you for collecting me from the clinic. Let me out. Stop."

"No, Dave. You’re coming with me. Until you find work, you can stay as long as you want. It will be your home."

"I don’t want to. I don’t deserve it. Stop the vehicle."

"No."

"Stop the fucking vehicle!"

At such a shout, Eva finally brakes, though not abruptly. She moves right and parks in the highway’s emergency lane.

"Dave…"

"Open my door, please."

"Don’t do something stupid. We both made mistakes—too many for one life, perhaps two. Start again." She takes his hand.

"You cannot imagine the sacrifice I endured to be with you."

"That again? I know. I can imagine. I also sacrificed greatly to be with you, to avoid leaving sooner, and suffered terribly when we stopped seeing each other. You weren’t the only one who suffered. Life continues; we must move forward."

"You gave up everything to have the family life we wanted so much. When you finally achieved it in that strange way, you made a family with another man, damn it."

"You are my family, Dave, and always will be. Not as partners or lovers; we won’t have children together, none of what we discussed in the past. It ended. You must overcome it. But we’ll always be together as family, helping one another. Where will you go, Lawrence Island? Back to the mud? What will you do there? Your family is gone, your friends don’t recognize you, and you left that life."

"I left it for you, only you."

"All the more reason to come with me and begin a new life as I did." She takes his hands in hers.

"I can’t." He tries to contain imminent tears.

"At least try. Let me show you the house, the area, work you might do."

"I’ll have to see you with him."

"Dave, I’ve known you since I learned to put on socks. I don’t want to lose you. Try."

He considers it while they look into each other’s eyes. Sunset light falls full upon the delicate face that has stolen his sleep night and day for so long.

"I love you," he confesses again.

"I love you too. We fell in love with idealized versions of ourselves, Dave. That was our mistake—at least one of them."

"Not for me."

"Time will show you it was."

"It’s just…"

"Come here, dummy," she says, suddenly embracing him.

He embraces her too, uncertainly at first, then more tightly. She smiles and cries at once, moved as El Horgas bursts into inconsolable tears in her arms. They remain there a moment beneath the day’s final rays. Other vehicles hum past at great speed. Oblivious to everything, they fuse in an embrace that heals El Horgas’s soul after prolonged, torturous suffering. Finally they separate. She looks into his eyes, smiles, and wipes tears with her thumbs. She kisses him, looks at him, and smiles a little longer.

"What do you say? Shall we go home?" Eva asks. Her pleading face leaves few options for refusal. He nods faintly.

They resume toward Pearl Beach. Eva drives south along the coast opposite Baybeach. Crossing a bridge, they appreciate Pearl Beach’s beauty. To El Horgas it is a dreamlike natural landscape mixed with period architecture preserved through time. They reach Eva’s house at night, nocturnal lights illuminating the area uniquely. She stops before the façade. They arrive and leave the car. El Horgas smells the sea; the aroma is exquisite, penetrating, incomparable.

"Welcome, Dave. You’re home now."

El Horgas stands on the verge of overflowing tears, almost losing the ability to breathe. He only wishes this were part of the nightmare, that he might finally wake in the eleventh-floor apartment of Destiny Building, where he fell asleep beside cockroaches and rats, unbearable itching across enormous blisters filled with pus and blood. That is what he wants, but nightmares cannot be controlled—not even ones as vivid as this, in which he still does not know who Brittany Condon is.