Redshirts

CODA III: Third Person

Samantha Martinez sits at her computer and watches a short video of a woman who could be her reading a book on a beach. It’s the woman’s honeymoon and the videographer is her newlywed husband, using a camera the two of them received as a wedding gift. The content of the video is utterly unremarkable—a minute of the camera approaching the woman, who looks up from her book, smiles, tries to ignore the camera for several seconds and then puts her book down and stares up at the camera. What could be the Santa Monica Pier, or some iteration of it, hovers not too distantly in the frame.

“Put that stupid thing down and come into the water with me,” the woman says, to the cameraman.

“Someone will take the camera,” says her husband, offscreen.

“Then they take the camera,” she says. “And all they’ll have is a video of me reading a book. You get to have me.”

“Fair point,” says the husband.

The woman stands up, drops her book, adjusts her bikini, looks at her husband again. “Are you coming?”

“In a minute,” the husband says. “Run to the water. If someone does steal the camera, I want them to know what they’re missing.”

“Goof,” the woman says, and then for a minute the camera wheels away as she comes toward the husband to get a kiss. Then the picture steadies again and the camera watches her as she jogs to the water. When she gets there, she turns around and makes a beckoning motion. The camera switches off.

Samantha Martinez watches the video three more times before she gets up, grabs her car keys and walks out of the front door of her house.

“Samantha,” Eleanor, her sister, says, waving her hand to get Samantha’s attention. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“Sorry,” Samantha says. “What thing again?”

“That thing,” Eleanor says. “That thing when no matter what someone else is saying you phase out and stare out the window.”

“I wasn’t staring out of a window,” Samantha says.

“You were phased out,” Eleanor says. “The staring out the window part isn’t really the important part of that.”

The two of them are sitting in the Burbank P.F. Chang’s, which is empty in the early afternoon except for a young couple in a booth, across the entire length of the restaurant from them. Eleanor and Samantha are sitting at a table near the large bank of windows pointing out toward a mall parking structure.

Samantha is in fact not looking out the window; she’s looking at the couple and their discussion. Even from a distance she can see the two aren’t really a couple, although they might have been once, and Samantha can see that the young man, at the very least, wouldn’t mind if they were again. He is bending toward her almost imperceptibly while they sit, telling her that he’d be willing. The young woman doesn’t notice, yet; Samantha wonders if she will, and whether the young man will ever bring it to her attention.

“Samantha,” Eleanor says forcefully.

“Sorry,” Samantha says, and snaps her attention to her sister. “Really, E, sorry. I don’t know where my head is these last few days.”

Eleanor turns to look behind her and sees the couple in the booth. “Someone you know?” she asks.

“No,” Samantha says. “I’m just watching their body language. He likes her more than she likes him.”

“Huh,” Eleanor says, and turns back to Samantha. “Maybe you should go over there and tell him not to waste his time.”

“He’s not wasting his time,” Samantha says. “He just hasn’t let her know how important she is to him yet. If I was going to tell him anything, that’s what I would tell him. Not to stay quiet about it. Life is too short for that.”

Eleanor stares at her sister, strangely. “Are you okay, Sam?” she asks.

“I’m fine, E,” Samantha says.

“Because what you just said is the sort of line that comes out of a Lifetime movie character after she discovers she has breast cancer,” Eleanor says.

Samantha laughs at this. “I don’t have breast cancer, E,” she says. “I swear.”

Eleanor smiles. “Then what is going on, sis?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Samantha says.

“Our waiter is taking his time,” Eleanor says. “Try me.”

“Someone sent me a package,” Samantha says. “It’s pictures and videos and love letters from a husband and wife. I’ve been looking through them.”

“Is that legal?” Eleanor asks.

“I don’t think that’s something I need to worry about,” Samantha says.

“Why would someone send those to you?” Eleanor asks.

“They thought they might mean something to me,” Samantha says.

“Some random couple’s love letters?” Eleanor asks.

“They’re not random,” Samantha says, carefully. “It made sense to send them to me. It’s just been a lot to sort through.”

“I get the sense you’re skipping a whole bunch of details here,” Eleanor says.

“I did say it was hard to explain,” Samantha says.

“So what’s it been like, going through another couple’s mail?” Eleanor asks.

“Sad,” Samatha says. “They were happy, and then it was taken away.”

“It’s good they were happy first, then,” Eleanor says.

“E, don’t you ever wonder about how your life could have been different?” Samantha asks, changing the subject slightly. “Don’t you ever wonder, if things just happened a little differently, you might have a different job, or different husband, or different children? Do you think you would have been happier? And if you could see that other life, how would it make you feel?”

“That’s a lot of philosophy at one time,” Eleanor says, as the waiter finally rolls up and deposits the sisters’ salads. “I don’t actually wonder how my life could be different, Sam. I like my life. I have a good job, Braden’s a good kid and most days I don’t feel like strangling Lou. I worry about my little sister from time to time, but that’s as bad as it gets.”

“You met Lou at Pomona,” Samantha says, mentioning her sister’s alma mater. “But I remember you flipping a quarter for your college choice. If the coin had landed on heads instead of tails, you would have gone to Wesleyan. You never would have met Lou. You wouldn’t have married him and had Braden. One coin toss and everything in your life would have gone another way completely.”

“I suppose so,” Eleanor says, spearing leaves.

“Maybe there’s another you out there,” Samantha says. “And for her the coin landed another way. She’s out there leading your other life. What if you got to see that other life? How would that make you feel?”

Eleanor swallows her mouthful of greens and points her fork at her sister. “About that coin toss,” she says. “I faked it. Mom’s the one who wanted me to go to Wesleyan, not me. She was excited about the idea of two generations of our family going there. I always wanted to go to Pomona, but Mom kept begging me to consider Wesleyan. Finally I told her I would flip a coin over it. It didn’t matter which way the coin would have landed, I was still going to choose Pomona. It was all show to keep her happy.”

“There are other places your life could have changed,” Samantha says. “Other lives you could have led.”

“But it didn’t,” Eleanor says. “And I don’t. I live the life I live, and it’s the only life I have. No one else is out there in the universe living my alternate lives, and even if they were, I wouldn’t be worrying about them because I have my life to live here, now. In my life, I have Lou and Braden and I’m happy. I don’t worry about what else could have been. Maybe that’s lack of imagination on my part. On the other hand, it keeps me from being mopey.”

Samantha smiles again. “I’m not mopey,” she says.

“Yes you are,” Eleanor says. “Or maudlin, which is the slightly more socially respectable version. It sounds like watching these couple’s home videos is making you wonder if they’re happier than you are.”

“They’re not,” Samantha says. “She’s dead.”

A letter from Margaret Jenkins to her husband Adam:

Sweetheart:

I love you. I’m sorry that you’re upset. I know the Viking was supposed to be back to Earth in time for our anniversary but I don’t have any control of our missions, including the emergency ones, like this one is. This was part of the deal when you married a crewman on a Dub U ship. You knew that. We discussed it. I don’t like being away from you any more than you like it, but I also love what I do. You told me when you proposed to me that you knew this would be something you would have to live with. I’m asking you to remember you said that you would live with it.

You also said that you would consider joining the navy yourself. I asked Captain Feist about the Special Skills intake process and she tells me that the navy really needs people who have experience with large-scale computer systems like you do. She also tells me that if you make it through the expedited training and get on a ship, the Dub U will pick up the tab for your college loans. That would be one less thing hanging over us.

Captain also tells me that she suspects there’ll be an opening on the Viking for a systems specialist in the next year. No guarantees but it’s worth a shot and the Dub U does make an effort to place married couples on the same ship. It believes it’s good for morale. I know it would be good for my morale. Monogamy sucks when you can’t exercise the privilege. I know you feel the same way.

I love you. Think about it. I love you. I’m sorry I can’t be there with you. I love you. I wish I was. I love you. I wish you were here with me. I love you. Maybe you could be. I love you. Think about it. I love you.

Also: I love you.

(I) love (you),

M

To placate Eleanor, who became more worried about her sister the more she thought about their conversation at P.F. Chang’s, Samantha sets off on a series of blind dates, selected by Eleanor apparently at random.

The dates do not go well.

The first date is with an investment banker who spends the date rationalizing the behavior of investment bankers in the 2008 economic meltdown, interrupting himself only to answer “urgent” e-mails sent to him, or so he claims, from associates in Sydney and Tokyo. At one point he goes to the bathroom without his phone; Samantha pops open the back and flips the battery in the compartment. Her date, enraged that his phone has inexplicably stopped working, leaves, barely stopping to ask Samantha if she minds splitting the bill before stalking off in search of a Verizon store.

The second date is with a junior high English teacher from Glendale who is an aspiring screenwriter and who agreed to the date because Eleanor hinted that Samantha might still have connections at The Chronicles of the Intrepid, one of the shows she had been an extra on. When Samantha explains that she had only been an extra, and that was years ago, and she had gotten the gig through a casting director and not through personal connections, the teacher is silent for several minutes and then begs Samantha to read the script anyway and give him feedback. She does, silently, as dinner is served. It is terrible. Out of pity, Samantha lies.

The third date is with a man so boring that Samantha literally cannot remember a thing about him by the time she gets back to her car.

The fourth date is with a bisexual woman co-worker of Eleanor’s, whose gender Eleanor obfuscated by referring to her as “Chris.” Chris is cheerful enough when Samantha explains the situation, and the two have a perfectly nice dinner. After the dinner Samantha calls her sister and asks her what she was thinking. “Honey, it’s been so long since you had a relationship, I thought maybe you just weren’t telling me something,” Eleanor says.

The fifth date is a creep. Samantha leaves before the entrée.

The sixth date is with a man named Bryan who is polite and attentive and charming and decent looking and Samantha can tell he has absolutely no interest in her whatsoever. When Samantha says this to him, he laughs.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I was hoping it wasn’t obvious.”

“It’s all right,” Samantha says. “But why did you agree to the date?”

“You’ve met your sister, right?” Bryan says. “After five minutes it was easier just to say yes than to find excuses to say no. And she said you were really nice. She was right about that, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Samantha says, and looks at him again silently for a few seconds. “You’re a widower,” she says, finally.

“Ah,” Bryan says. “Eleanor told you.” He takes a sip of his wine.

“No,” Samantha says. “I just guessed.”

“Eleanor should have told you, then,” Bryan says. “I apologize that she didn’t.”

“It’s not your fault,” Samantha says. “Eleanor didn’t mention to me that she had set me up on a date with a woman two weeks ago, so it’s easy to see how she might skip over you being widower.”

They both laugh at this. “I think maybe you ought to fire your sister from matchmaking,” Bryan says.

“How long has it been?” Samantha asks. “That you’ve been widowed, I mean.”

Bryan nods to signal that he knows what she means. “Eighteen months,” he says. “It was a stroke. She was running a half-marathon and she stumbled and died at the hospital. The doctors told me the blood vessels in her brain had probably been thin her whole life and just took that moment to go. She was thirty-four.”

“I’m sorry,” Samantha says.

“So am I,” Bryan says, and takes another small drink from his wine. “A year after Jen died, friends started asking me if I was ready to date again. I can’t think of a reason to say no. Then I go on them and I realize I don’t want anything to do with them. No offense,” he says quickly. “It’s not you. It’s me.”

“No offense taken,” Samantha says. “It must have been love.”

“That’s the funny thing,” Bryan says, and suddenly he’s more animated than he’s been the entire evening and, Samantha suspects, more than he’s been for a long time. “It wasn’t love, not at first. Or it wasn’t for me. Jen always said that she knew I was going to be hers from the first time she saw me, but I didn’t know that. I didn’t even much like her when I met her.”

“Why not?” Samantha asks.

“She was pushy,” Bryan says, smiling. “She didn’t mind telling you what she thought, whether you had asked for an opinion or not. I also didn’t think she was that attractive, to be entirely honest. She definitely wasn’t the sort of woman I thought was my type.”

“But you came around,” Samantha says.

“I can’t explain it,” Bryan admits. “Well, that’s not true. I can. Jen decided I was a long-term project and invested the time. And then the next thing I knew I was under a chuppah, wondering how the hell I had gotten myself there. But by then, it was love. And that’s all I can say. Like I said, I can’t explain it.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Samantha says.

“It was,” Bryan says. He finishes his wine.

“Do you think that’s how it works?” Samantha asks. “That you have just that one person you love?”

“I don’t know,” Bryan says. “For everyone in world? I don’t think so. People look at love all sorts of ways. I think there are some people who can love someone, and then if they die, can love someone else. I was best man to a college friend whose wife died, and then five years later watched him marry someone else. He was crying his eyes out in joy both times. So, no, I don’t think that’s how it works for everyone. But I think maybe that’s how it’s going to work for me.”

“I’m glad that you had it,” Samantha says.

“So am I,” Bryan says. “It would have been nice to have it a little longer, is all.” He sets down his wineglass, which he had been fiddling with this entire time. “Samantha, I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve just done that thing where I tell my date how much I love my wife. I don’t mean to be a widower in front of you.”

“I don’t mind,” Samantha says. “I get that a lot.”

“I can’t believe you still have that camera,” Margaret says to her husband, once again behind the lens. They are walking through the corridors of the Intrepid. They have just been assigned together to the ship.

“It was a wedding present,” her husband says. “From Uncle Will. He’d kill me if I threw it out.”

“You don’t have to throw it out,” Margaret says. “I could arrange an accident.”

“I’m appalled at such a suggestion,” her husband says.

Margaret stops. “Here we are,” she says. “Our married quarters. Where we will spend our blissfully happy married life together on this ship.”

“Try saying that without so much sarcasm next time,” her husband says.

“Try learning not to snore,” Margaret says, and opens the door, then sweeps her hand in a welcoming motion. “After you, Mr. Documentary.”

Her husband walks through the door and pans around the room, which takes a very short amount of time. “It’s larger than our berth on the Viking,” he says.

“There are broom closets larger than our berth on the Viking,” Margaret points out.

“Yes, but this is almost as large as two broom closets,” her husband says.

Margaret closes the door and faces her husband. “When do you need to report to Xenobiology?” she asks.

“I should report immediately,” her husband says.

“That’s not what I asked,” Margaret says.

“What do you have in mind?” her husband asks.

“Something you’re not going to be able to document,” Margaret says.

“Did you want to make a confession?” Father Neil asks.

Samantha giggles despite herself. “I don’t think I could confess to you with a straight face,” she says.

“This is the problem of coming to a priest you used to date in high school,” Father Neil says.

“You weren’t a priest then,” Samantha notes.

The two of them are sitting in one of the back pews of Saint Finbar’s Church.

“Well, if you decide you need confession, you let me know,” Neil says. “I promise not to tell. That’s actually one of the requirements, in fact.”

“I remember,” Samantha says.

“So why did you want to see me?” Neil asks. “Not that it isn’t nice to see you.”

“Is it possible that we have other lives?” Samantha asks.

“What, like reincarnation?” Neil asks. “And are you asking about Catholic doctrine, or something else?”

“I’m not exactly sure how to describe it,” Samantha says. “I don’t think it’s reincarnation exactly.” She frowns. “I’m not sure there’s any way to describe it that doesn’t sound completely ridiculous.”

“It’s popularly believed theologians had great debates about how many angels could dance on a head of a pin,” Neil says. “I don’t think your question could be any more ridiculous.”

“Did they ever find out how many angels could dance on the head of a pin?” Samantha asks.

“It was never actually seriously considered,” Neil says. “It’s kind of a myth. And even if it weren’t, the answer would be: As many as God needed to. What’s your question, Sam?”

“Imagine there’s a woman who is like a fictional character, but she’s real,” Samantha says, and holds up her hand when she sees Neil about to ask a question. “Don’t ask how, I don’t know. Just accept that she’s the way I’ve described her. Now suppose that woman is based on someone in our real world—looks the same, sounds the same, from all outward appearances they could be the same person. The first woman wouldn’t exist without having the second woman as a model. Are they the same person? Are they the same soul?”

Neil furrows his brow and Samantha is reminded of him at age sixteen and has to suppress a giggle. “The first woman is based on the second woman, but she’s not a clone?” he asks. “I mean, they don’t take genetic material from one to make the other.”

“I don’t think so, no,” Samantha says.

“But the first woman is definitely made from the second woman in some ineffable way?” Neil asks.

“Yes,” Samantha says.

“I’m not going to ask for details of how that gets managed,” Neil says. “I’m just going to take it on faith.”

“Thank you,” Samantha says.

“I can’t speak for the entire Catholic Church on this, but my own take on it would be no, they’re not,” Neil says. “This is a gross oversimplification, but the Church teaches us that those things that have in themselves the potential to become a human being have their own souls. If you were to make a clone of yourself, that clone wouldn’t be you, any more than identical twins are one person. Each has its own thoughts and personal experiences and are more than the sum of their genes. They’re their own person, and have their own individual souls.”

“You think it would be the same for her?” Samantha asks.

Neil looks at Samantha oddly but answers her question. “I’d think so. This other person has her own memories and experiences, yes?” Samantha nods. “If she has her own life, she has her own soul. The relationship you describe is somewhere between a child and an identical sibling—based on someone else but only based, not repeating them exactly.”

“What if they’re separated in time?” Samantha asks. “Would it be reincarnation then?”

“Not if you’re a Catholic,” Neil says. “Our doctrine doesn’t allow for it. I can’t speak to how other faiths would make the ruling. But the way you’re describing it, it doesn’t seem like reincarnation is strictly necessary anyway. The woman is her own person however you want to define it.”

“Okay, good,” Samantha says.

“Remember, this is just me talking,” Neil says. “If you want an official ruling, I’d have to run it past the pope. That might take a while.”

Samantha smiles. “That’s all right,” she says. “What you’re saying makes sense to me. Thank you, Neil.”

“You’re welcome,” Neil says. “Do you mind me asking what’s this about?”

“It’s complicated,” Samantha says.

“Apparently,” Neil says. “It sounds like you’re researching a science fiction story.”

“Something like that, yes,” Samantha says.

Sweetheart,

Welcome to Cirqueria! I know Collins has you cranking away on a project so I won’t see you before we go to the surface for the negotiations. I’m part of the Captain’s security detail; he expects things to proceed in boring and uneventful ways. Don’t wait up any longer than Collins makes you. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Kiss kiss love love,

M

P.S.: Kiss.

P.S.S.: Love.

Samantha buys herself a printer and a couple hundred dollars’ worth of ink and prints out letters and photographs from the collection that she was given a month previously. The original projector had disappeared mysteriously as promised, collapsing into a crumbling pile that evaporated over the space of an hour. Before that happened, Samantha took her little digital camera and took a picture of every document, and video capture of every movie, that she had been given. The digital files remained on the camera card and on her hard drive; she’s printing documents for a different purpose entirely.

When she’s done, she’s printed out a ream of paper, each with a letter from or a picture of Margaret Jenkins. It’s not Margaret’s whole life, but it’s a representation of the life that she lived with her husband; a representation of a life lived in love and with love.

Samantha picks up the ream of paper, walks over to the small portable shredder she’s purchased and runs each sheet of paper through it, one piece at a time. She takes the shredded papers into her small backyard and places them into a small metal garbage can she has also purchased. She packs the paper down so that is loosely compacted, lights a kitchen match and places it into the trash can, making sure the paper catches. When it does, Samantha places the lid on top of the garbage can, set slightly askew to allow oxygen in while keeping wisps of burning paper from floating away.

The paper burns down to ashes. Samantha opens the lid and pours a bucket of beach sand into the trash can, smothering any remaining embers. Samantha goes back into her house to retrieve a wooden spoon from her kitchen and uses it to stir the sand, mixing it with the ashes. After a few minutes of this, Samantha upends the trash can and carefully pours the mixture of sand and ashes into the bucket. She covers the bucket, places it into her car and drives toward Santa Monica.

Hello.

I don’t know what to call you. I don’t know if you will ever read this or if you will believe it even if you do. But I’m going to write like you will read it and believe it. There’s no point in doing it otherwise.

You are the reason that my life has had joy. You didn’t know it, and you couldn’t have known it. It doesn’t mean it’s not true. It’s true because without you, the woman who was my wife would not have been who she was, and who she was to me. In your world, you played her, as an actress, for what I believe was only a brief amount of time—so brief that it’s possible you don’t even remember that you played her.

But in that brief time, you gave her life. And where I am, she shared that life with me, and gave me something to live for. When she stopped living, I stopped living too. I stopped living for years.

I want to start living again. I know she would want me to start living again. To do that I need to give her back to you. Here she is.

I wish you could have known her. I wish you could have talked to her, laughed with her and loved her as I did. It’s impossible now. But at the very least I can show you what she meant to me, and how she lived with me and shared her life with me.

I don’t know you; I will never know you. But I have to believe that a great part of who my wife was comes from you—lives in you even now. My wife is gone, but knowing that you are out there gives me some comfort. I hope that what was good in her, those things I loved in her, live in you too. I hope that in your life you have the love that she had in hers. I have to believe you do, or at the very least that you can.

I could say more, but I believe the best way to explain everything is simply to show you everything. So here it is. Here she is.

My wife’s name was Margaret Elizabeth Jenkins. Thank you for giving her to me, for the time I had her. She’s yours again.

With love,

Adam Jenkins

Samantha Martinez stands ankle deep in the ocean, not too far from the Santa Monica Pier, and sprinkles the remains of Margaret Jenkins’ life in the place where she will have one day been on her honeymoon. She does not hurry in the task, taking time between each handful of ash and sand to remember Margaret’s words, and her life, and her love, bringing them inside of her and letting them become part of her, whether for the first time or once again.

When she’s done, she turns around to walk up the beach and notices a man standing there, watching her. She smiles and walks up to him.

“You were spreading ashes,” he says, more of a statement than a question.

“I was,” Samantha says.

“Whose were they?” he asks.

“They were my sister’s,” Samantha says. “In a way.”

“In a way?” he asks.

“It’s complicated,” Samantha explains.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the man says.

“Thank you,” Samantha says. “She lived a good life. I’m glad I got to be a part of it.”

“This is probably the worst possible thing I could say to you right this moment,” the man says, “but I swear you look familiar to me.”

“You look familiar to me too,” Samantha says.

“I swear to you this isn’t a line, but are you an actress?” the man asks.

“I used to be,” Samantha says.

“Were you ever on The Chronicles of the Intrepid?” the man asks.

“Once,” Samantha says.

“You’re not going to believe this,” the man says. “I think I played your character’s husband.”

“I know,” Samantha says.

“You remember?” the man asks.

“No,” Samantha said. “But I know what her husband looks like.”

The man holds out his hand. “I’m Nick Weinstein,” he says.

“Hello, Nick,” Samantha says, shaking it. “I’m Samantha.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Nick says. “Again, I mean.”

“Yes,” Samantha says. “Nick, I’m thinking of getting something to eat. Would you like to join me?”

Now it’s Nick’s turn to smile. “I would like that. Yes,” he says.

The two of them head up the beach.

“It’s kind of a coincidence,” Nick says, after a few seconds. “The two of us being here like this.”

Samantha smiles again and puts her arm around Nick as they walk.