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The world swirled at his feet.
His shoes—once polished brilliant black—trudged with effort, covered in dust. Whatever he sludged on, it reached his ankles, and held on like a leech. A chain.
Pure silence encompassed him. Not even ringing haunted him, like it did for days after that first test. He waited, waited, waited for the deafening explosion to follow the silence. He waited for the blow of pure energy and creation to slam into him, worse than a train. He waited for the crush, or the acid rain. Nothing. Nothing. It never came.
His cough struck like thunder, but it didn't break the silence. Nor did it clear the itching lump in his throat. It snapped him awake. For a moment, there was no ash flooding his legs, no fiery doom awaiting in the sky.
He shook himself with his usual mantra. You are in America. He blinked, fast and hard, until the bleary visions cleared. Stop being a child. You're alive. You were the most powerful man, at least for a moment. You aren't the one dying at your own hand. You aren't the one dying at your own hand.
He wondered, then, why he felt that he did.
With a deep breath, a long drag of a cigarette, and a cough, he steeled himself. Slim legs entered the building, strode him through a flooded hallway, where he was offered a napkin, hiding a mandarin cut into pieces. His eyes and a tip of his head thanked Rabi as well he could, words fizzling out.
Taste buds couldn't perceive the sweet acidity as he bit into the first small piece. He tasted burning ash instead.
When he swallowed, it burned.
≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾
No one held any reputation for him as a good father. He concerned himself with great scientist and grand man instead.
Ever since Peter was born, holding the baby left Robert with gritted teeth and goosebumps on skin. Hearing his shrill cries seized him with a visceral devastation. The lump in his throat wouldn't let him ruminate on quantum possibilities. But in good days, when he wasn't so buried in work, or when he was too exhausted to think, he'd stare at him. If he trusted himself, he'd try to pick him up. Once, he'd let his son touch his face as he carried him.
At first he thought nothing of it. Only when his second child did the same thing—when Kitty dumped Katherine into his arms with an exhausted grumble—it began to sink in. A part of him realized, Oh. My children are trying to know me. He didn't know how to make faces or speak to them gently, so he forced himself to be as still and peaceful as he could. If his physics-like face proved to be such a mystery to them, they held the right to explore it, at least.
But then, it happened.
And after it happened, he couldn't bear to touch them. Their touch sent his mind reeling to depths Kitty couldn't slap or pull him out of. She never learned the intricacies of empathy and comfort, and neither did he. He didn't understand what was wrong with him. The doctors couldn't explain the nightmares and the visions, for how could he have been shell-shocked? He was a mockery of the true man who fought for his country. (These were Kitty's words on an awful day.) But as a failed father from the beginning, they only made do with the new development. Daddy was away again, and no excuse could truly explain why. After all, the bomb had been finished. The bomb had been dropped.
Plural. Bombs.
Truman had told him he'd dropped it. He'd pushed the button. Had it been really him? Or had he merely waved a hand, said a word? Had someone else done it for him?
If he knew, he needn't use the passive voice. He'd love to know, and give the perpetrators a name, instead of hiding them in the intricacies of English grammar and syntax. Unless he admitted to himself, it was him. J. Robert Oppenheimer had finished the bomb.
J. Robert Oppenheimer had dropped it onto Hiroshima, then to Nagasaki.
≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾
Staring in the old mirror by the entrance, through shadowed, icy eyes, he tried to memorize the blankness of the face. Reconcile the new wrinkles, the tighter set of the jaw. The sunken cheeks, the pursed lips.
Everything screamed nothing, a void sucking in the substance of his soul and leaving a shell behind. He raised his heavy hand, experimentally stretched bony fingers. And before they could wrap around the face before him, he touched glass. The palm pressed against the reflection's cheek. The head— his head—leaned towards the pseudo-touch.
“Wake up.”
He turned to the source of the snap, seeing blurry. He blinked. “I'm not asleep.”
His vision cleared. Kitty raised an eyebrow, pale features wrinkled with disappointment, almost disgust. Irony dwelled in the worry mingling among her cold face. “Don't be a liar.”
He couldn't find a response to that. Not even deep in his chest, or behind his eyes. So he nodded, and lowered his fedora deeper into his eyes. No one would catch his sleeping gaze anyway, no one but her. The shame was strong enough to hide it regardless.
He heard her scoff, but they didn't make eye contact again, facing the door. He stifled a cough with a numb fist.
“Momma?”
A muffled sigh. He stared at the door, hearing her distancing footsteps on wood. “What, Peter?”
“Where's Papa going?”
“We've been over this—”
“Where's he going? For how long?”
Cloths rustled, and her gaze burned into the back of his head. He forced himself to look at Kitty's raised eyebrows in expectation. At Peter’s still and straight posture, avoiding his father's gaze.
Robert had spent the night tossing and turning (and coughing), building arguments and painting scenarios of the following day. But with a glance out the glass of the door at the expectant transportation, he could only mutter, “I'll be back soon.”
“Don't go—”
“Let your father do his job, Peter.” Her voice was as comforting as she was able. He imagined her staring down at Peter with the mingling of warm and cold. Then Kitty scoffed when sniffles began, which in turn, turned them into a small whine. “Don't be like this. He'll be back!”
He'd stalled enough. Burst through the door, hearing distant cries of children and the raging shouts of his wife, drowned out under the roar of rain. Legs strode towards the awaiting carriage. But he had to look up, for everything was quiet. He looked up and waited for the dark, stormy skies to bleed white, then erupt into a tower of flames.
“Dr. Oppenheimer?”
Something snapped. He blinked, pushing salty rain off his eyes, and looked at the fallen fedora. Picked it off the floor. Faced Albert's disillusioned, hopeless face before he'd walked away. Blinked away the vision.
“Dr. Oppenheimer.”
He'd been standing there for a while. He'd be late for…what was it? Another press conference, most likely. Or some political assembly about the development of the hydrogen bomb. Or another class of young physicists he'd inspired to continue his work.
He wanted no part in any of it.
But, like any true coward would, he pushed the soaked fedora over his eyes with a shaking hand, and brought his drenched, cold, hollow body inside the carriage. “Sorry,” he managed, oddly hoarse.
He stared out the window throughout the ride, missing good chunks of the stilted conversation the man attempted. (Who was this man? Some physician acquaintance? A politician?) Towering pines and mountains stretched into the distance, while he looked for fire in the sky, searing white raining down on broken cities, ravaged skins, hanging limbs, melting bodies that only knew to scream, and sandstorms stretching for miles. He couldn't find it, though he felt he did, for his visions grew vivid and real by the day. And through it all, the other man's voice buzzed in his ear.
But when the prolonged silence settled, Robert would hum, or nod, without looking away from the sky in the horizon. But then his nodding wasn't enough to dispel the overwhelming stillness. He nodded, nodded anyway. Awaited the man to break the silence with his voice, loud as thunder, loud as hydrogen bomb. Or for the voice to be soft, and singlehandedly stop the inevitable explosion that followed it. But the voice didn't pipe up. And the explosion didn't return.
He coughed, three times, into his hand. Stared at the blood.
For a moment, he feared the explosion had gone on inside him.
≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾
After the deafening applause and searing debates and mind-numbing interviews, he stood before his home, moon brilliantly glowing down on the roof and the road. He lowered his head to avoid its sweltering brilliance in the dark night. But the sight was still beautiful.
He caught a glimpse of his wife in the window, basking in the warm hue of candlelight and the moon itself. She was striking, even with her fiery eyes, disappointment winning the war against worry. But she stood straight and alert.
At least she's sober, he pathetically thought. She had ruled reality with far more expertise than him.
But now that the day was done, and the cataclysm hadn't rained down on them, his body was fatigued but his mind clear. His throat burned, forced him to cough. His heart could soar with relief. You're alive. Just come into the house. You won't die at your own hand tonight.
He hoped he wouldn't lose what stood in front of him due to political debacles as well as humanity's apocalypse, as he stepped inside, lighting a cigarette to avoid Kitty's gaze.
Peter stood before him, instead.
He waved the match off, the fire prickling his fingers before extinguishing, and took a long drag. The windows were closed due to the rain. He made his way to open one, and exhaled the smoke. Ignored the smarting in his throat. Cleared his throat. “What're you doing up?”
The child shifted balance between his feet, but dared to look up at him. “I wanted you to read to me.”
Robert pulled out his watch from his pocket. “It's almost midnight, Peter.”
“I tried to sleep. Don't tell momma. I don't mean to anger her.” He took a step forward. Then another, less tentative, for Robert hadn't moved. “Would you read to me, papa?” He looked up at him with building hope, eyes wide and bare.
Robert wanted to test the width of his son's smile as he exhaled again, and mumbled, “Alright.”
The smile bloomed wider than his prediction. Shaken from his childish dread, Peter approached him and took his arm under little fists. His face fell for a moment at the man's flinch. But it grew happy again, when Robert didn't pull away. Lively and naïve, he stared up at Robert with a strange admiration.
Oh, he heard himself within, fighting not to shake. He's trying to know me.
Robert nodded slowly, and put off the cigarette. Peter dragged him up the stairs with a barely suppressed giggle, and something either broke or healed inside of Robert's chest. He couldn't explain it. He ignored it. But it only broke–healed further when Peter glanced back with a free, relieved grin.
They reached his room. Peter jumped on the bed, reached for the book on the bedside table, then stood to offer it to his father.
“Don't stand on the bed, Peter.”
“Sorry.” He sat cross-legged, fiddling with his hands.
Robert stood, still. Everything he'd done and said had come out stilted, unnatural. The goosebumps had returned, with the raw, gaping maw in his gut. He tried to shake away a vision of that one picture he glimpsed before choosing to never look again. That one picture of a little girl, hair and face burned off on one side, skin hanging off her neck. Her eyes were dull and hollow.
He fought to look at the wide, vivacious gaze of his son, but it had grown anxious. “Papa?”
With a stilted nod, he shuffled to the small chair beside the bed. Pulled the book from his tight hold upon his chest. Unsteady hands opened it, and slowly passed the pages.
Peter didn't say anything, but the covers reached his nose. His eyes dreaded something. Robert couldn't figure out what. But deep down, he dreaded it too.
Back at the first page, Robert took a breath. Cleared his burning throat, holding back a cough. But as he read aloud the blurring words, he sounded hoarse.
It'd been a long day of talking, he reassured himself. He'd reminded himself of this every day. It'll be gone in the morning.
Maybe the hoarseness had to do with the heaviness in his chest, too. Not just the lump in his throat.
But his chest eased as Peter's eyes soothed, and a little hand sought to hold his own.
Goosebumps and flinches be damned, Robert allowed the aching touch. For some reason, it lulled Peter to sleep faster than the reading could.
≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾
He dragged tired feet to their room, and he met Kitty's appraising eyes. “You finally read to him.”
Robert swallowed, though it hurt. Nodded.
She nodded back, satisfied. “That'll shut him up for a few days.”
The aftermath of a child touching him and falling asleep with a lifeline grip on his hand proved to be more humiliating than previously hypothesized. He burned, embraced by freezing cold. His hands trembled, so he hid them in his pockets. The goosebumps increased, like scars on his skin. He thanked the heavens he still wore his three-piece suit, so she wouldn't see. His lungs were constricted, his stomach twisted, and the lump in his throat burned worse. He hoped his eyes were awake, though his fedora hid them from her.
He coughed to snap himself out of it, and walked into the bathroom. Dropped the hat on the floor. Cupped water and brought it to his face. Then he balanced himself on the sink, staring into a hollow, pallid reflection, with sunken cheeks and haunted eyes.
What in the hell was wrong with him?
Instead of hearing Kitty echo his thoughts (as she usually would), cufflinks clicked off his wrists. His suit jacket slipped off thin shoulders. Dexterous hands unbuttoned his vest, and pulled it off as well. Loosened the tie from its knot, freed him from the dress shirt.
Then, a firm, yet secure hand pressed on his bare back. It warmly rubbed his shoulder blades.
Only when he loosened under the touch, did he realize he'd been rigid, and hunched.
“Wake up,” she said. But this time, the order was softer. Her worry was winning the war.
Robert looked at his hands, feeling so heavy. “I'm trying.”
“You can try harder.”
He nodded. “You're sober.”
“Your voice.” She sighed. “It's still too deep.”
“It'll be better tomorrow.”
“Uh-huh.”
He dared to look over his shoulder, but she stared at his reflection with cold eyes and wrinkled features. They were scrunched up in concern. “I'll be okay, Kitty. I read to him, see. He held me.” I let him try to get to know me, he couldn't bring himself to say.
“You're sick and asleep during the day.” Kitty raised an eyebrow. But her hand pressed on his back. An anchor. “You don't sleep at night. You're also coughing all night, which doesn't allow me any sleep either. You're always looking at the God-damned sky or at nothing. Sometimes you ignore me, but perhaps you simply don't hear me. Are you listening?”
“I'm listening.”
“Your voice, Robert.”
“I talked all day.”
“It'll be better tomorrow,” she mocked. But then she dragged her free hand over her face. In a moment, she looked much older. Almost as fatigued as he felt. “I won't take in the sheets. Not until you're not acting shell-shocked. And ill. You shouldn't be acting ill.”
“I'm not acting.” He paused. “I'm not ill.”
Her hand trailed over his lower back, his waist, his bony wrist. Then, she cupped his pronounced cheekbone. “When I make breakfast tomorrow,” she began, “you will eat it. And then I'll know you're not ill.”
He couldn't find the words to tell her, that it hurt to swallow. He couldn't find the words to say he was so tired he couldn't find the will to eat. That would prove her right. She was always right. He didn't want to lend her the satisfaction.
Then again, she didn't seem very satisfied with being right.
Her eyes grew furious under a veil of calm. “You won't leave me a widow with two children, because I'll make sure to torture you in the grave if you do.”
Robert's lips pulled up in a ghost of a smile. “Duly noted.”
She smiled dully back. “Now shower and go straight to bed.”
“Yes, ma'am.” He coughed. Poor attempt at a chuckle. It came out with a wheeze. She couldn't hide her perturbed gaze as she closed the bathroom door.
Worry had won the war.
After an eternity of standing under the pouring of rain and ashes, cruel yet protective hands pulled him out and tried to slap him from the trance. It didn't work. She dried him instead, and placed the sleeping garments on the sink.
She had her back on him as he finally slithered into the bed. The moonlight shone down on her shoulder and neck, giving her dark hair a bluish hue. She was alive. She hadn't died at his own hand. And neither had his son, nor his daughter.
He was alive, to watch her pretend to sleep under the weight of worry. He was alive to realize she still loved him, and he still loved her touch and her security hidden under the hatred.
They were still alive.
With that, tired eyes fluttered closed.