Chapter 7
Logan
We spend the night in Cascade Locks because Zoey is enamored by the sheer majesty of the Columbia River Gorge. I am too. Raw basalt cliffs, cloaked in stunning evergreens, tower high above the river. Wispy, low-hanging clouds shroud the cliff-tops, giving the place an other-worldly aura. The air, cool and moist, soothes my lungs after the hot, dry dust we encountered on the Great Plains. I feel like I’ve been transported to some surreal alternate universe, more amazing than any I’ve encountered in my virtual reality games.
Wednesday morning, we drive along the Columbia. The fresh, clear water is such a contrast to the murk of Lake Michigan. Zoey’s torn between staring out the window and using the Net to look up everything she sees. She finds a video of one of Jefferson Cooper’s speeches from his first campaign, four years ago, and plays it.
Standing in front of the green, white, and blue Cascadian flag with its Douglas fir tree silhouetted in the foreground, Cooper looks more like a rock star than a president. “Whether climate change is man-made or naturally occurring is of no consequence,” he says. “What matters now is how we respond to it. If we’re to leave anything to our children, we need to make changes. We need to harness the power of the wind and sun—to build dams to collect the rain, since we can no longer rely on snow pack. Urban and rural citizens must put aside their differences and work together to ensure there’s enough water for everyone. It’s only if we come together as a community that we can build a nation that will not only survive, but also thrive in the decades to come.”
Even though I’ve been in Cascadia for barely a day, Cooper’s passion wakes a sense of patriotism in me. My own leadership abilities are limited to a quiet, behind-the-scenes approach, and I’d never be comfortable speaking to the masses, so I can’t help but admire his charisma.
“Too bad someone didn’t have that much sense fifty years ago,” Zoey says. “Then we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
We arrive in Portland by mid-morning, but our house isn’t ready, so we stay in a downtown hotel. I’m astonished by how friendly the people here are. When you pass them on the street, they meet your eye and smile, rather than looking away as they would back home.
Dad, who won’t start work until next Tuesday, takes us on multiple tours of the city and surrounding valleys. Portland is a smorgasbord of colorful sights. Food carts offering vegan, organic, and GMO-free options. Street musicians in dreadlocks and tie-dyed hemp clothing. Bubbling drinking fountains, right out on the sidewalk, that never stop running.
I’m struck by the irony of this last wonder, since signs everywhere pay testament to Cascadia’s progressive stance on the shortages caused by the climate crisis. “Supplement with solar.” “Power down for a strong future.” “There’s enough for everyone if we water on assigned days.” My cynicism spurs Zoey to research the issue, and she learns the water in the fountains is recycled. I should have known better than to get between her and her hero. She’s already gone loopy over Jefferson Cooper’s re-election billboard and forced us to listen to every Frequent Deadly Lightning song in existence.
It blows my mind to be in the midst of so much lush, fragrant vegetation. Trees, shrubs, grass, and flowers—I see more green in a few days than I have in my entire life. And it drizzles the whole time, something just as astounding. I swear, heaven itself couldn’t be as stunning as the state of Oregon.
By Friday morning, the movers have everything unloaded, so we’re able to leave the hotel. Our new house is actually an old one, built in 1908. It isn’t very big, but compared to our utilitarian place back home, it has character. And the small yard is a mass of raised beds, filled with blooming plants, something Mom will appreciate. It seems so strange to be here without her, and I can tell from Zoey’s waning bubbliness that she’s feeling the loss. For her sake, I hope Mom ties up the lose ends that kept her in Chicago soon.
We spend the weekend getting our furniture situated and belongings unpacked. This is followed by Memorial Day—which they continue to celebrate in Cascadia—so I get one last reprieve from school. I try to talk Dad into letting us study online for the rest of the year, since we only have a few weeks left, but he tells me it’s best to get a head start on making new friends.
When I arrive at Cleveland High Tuesday morning, I’m given the option of going straight to class or watching a series of videos on Cascadian history. Even though I’ve studied the subject in depth, I opt for the videos. Better than having to face a crowd of strangers first thing in the morning.
I’m led into a small room at the back of the office. The half-dozen desks have tablet-style computers imbedded in the tops, just like back home. I suspect the entire system is the same, with teachers only through sixth grade, at which point the desk-vids, with their access to the cloud-based curriculum, take over.
The reasoning is that only little kids need nurturing, and discipline can be maintained without teachers in the upper grades. Sensors in the desk-vids detect if a student’s gaze strays for more than fifteen seconds and give a warning beep. That’s usually enough to keep me focused, but some kids aren’t as able to stay on task, so cameras are used to monitor what’s going on in the classrooms. If anybody causes trouble or refuses to do the work, someone’s sent in to handle the situation. Dad thinks the whole system has an Orwellian reek—and I’ve heard President Cooper agrees—but I’m used to it. It’s not like we don’t still have advisors and a tutoring center.
I power up the desk-vid and log onto the cloud.
“In October 2057, Jefferson Cooper, singer/songwriter and leader of the indie rock band, Frequent Deadly Lightning, composed The Tom McCall Song. The lyrics outlined his disdain for the U.S. policy of diverting power and water from the Pacific Northwest to the rest of the country. It was a sentiment shared by many in the region, and the song went viral, resulting in Cooper being inundated with requests to speak out about the climate crisis.”
It’s nothing I don’t know. In fact, the video leaves out a lot of details, like the fun the media had when Cooper appealed for someone to take charge and become a champion for the Northwest, and his bass player pointed out he was already filling that role. But it’s a quality production that provides a good glimpse of Cascadian pride, and it’s better than sitting in physics class.
“Cooper’s grassroots efforts to form Cascadia, a country named in honor of a populist movement dating back to the 1970s, met with wide approval. The area would include the bioregion of the Columbia River Basin—Oregon, Washington, Idaho, western Montana, and southern British Columbia—along with northern California.
“Though the campaign was popular, it didn’t gain steam until retired U.S. Senator David Daskalov, impressed by Cooper’s passion and charisma, took the budding young leader under his wing. With Daskalov providing legal advice, Cooper drew up the McCall Initiative, a petition for secession named for 20th century Oregon governor Tom McCall. Cooper went on to approach the leadership in the various state and provincial governments, persuading them to hold special elections to vote on the issue.”
The next part candy-coats things, making the call to secede seem simple. But my reading has told me it wasn’t that easy. Even though the measures passed with overwhelming majorities, the state governments were so busy bickering over their liberal vs. conservative agendas that the movement stalled. Cooper had to go over their heads, recruiting the U.S. senators and congressmen from the area to form a committee.
“The first meeting of the Cascadian Congress took place in Portland, Oregon’s, Benson Hotel in January of 2059. A constitution was drawn up, and a declaration of secession filed with the government.”
The video goes on to explain Cooper’s bargain with the U.S. and how he got nominated for the presidency, another thing Daskalov had a hand in.
“In a grand address, Daskalov outlined the qualities and values needed in the first leader of this new nation, concluding that Cooper, who had done much of the hard work already, was the ideal man for the job.
&
nbsp; “By this time, Cooper was ready to step down and go back to his music. But public outcry became so strong that he agreed to run for office, forming the Cascadian Party.”
The video glosses over the protests of people who doubted a 28-year-old rock star with no previous political experience had what it took to be president. It mentions Daskalov’s death from a heart attack, but not the speculation that the loss would make Cooper crumble. However, it does cover one of the biggest surprises of the campaign.
“Rick Sarto, mayor of New Seattle, who had initially opposed locating the Cascadian capitol in Portland, abandoned his own bid for the presidency to align himself with Cooper. Though they differed on several positions, Cooper was impressed enough with Sarto to select him as his running mate.”
The presentation ends with a summary of the landslide victory, and just like in 2059, I’m gratified by Cooper’s ability to rally and prove his opponents wrong. It’s nice to know that, in Cascadia at least, the majority of citizens realize youth doesn’t necessarily equal incompetence.
The desk-vid shows me several more videos, one of which details how, after the military bases in the region were secured, troops were given the option of returning to the U.S. or re-pledging their allegiance to Cascadia. This is of particular interest to me, considering my career goals, but I’m not sure I’m ready to dedicate my future to this brand new nation.
After I finish watching, I have to face the inevitable—finding my way around in an unfamiliar school. As a football team captain and leader in JROTC, you wouldn’t think this would intimidate me, but the truth is, I’m not good with crowds. The desk-vid won’t allow me to stall, so I proceed to my regularly scheduled class, English.
Academically, changing schools is not an issue. All the ones in America use the same government-mandated curriculum. Apparently those in Cascadia do, too. Cleveland High appears to be on a lesson plan identical to that of my old school, down to the day. Which means I have a week’s worth of work to catch up on. I should have anticipated this and studied on my own, but the landscape unfolding around me has been a lot more interesting than homework.
After English, I go to lunch, which is equal parts loud and lonely. At home, I was always surrounded by friends. Here, I’m invisible. I thought I’d prefer that to having to deal with a mob of strangers, but I was wrong.
When lunch is over, I consult my schedule and head for trigonometry. The desk-vids make it so there’s no need to move from room to room, but years ago, a panel of experts argued that if kids don’t get exercise and social time, they’re more likely to become disciplinary problems. As an athlete, I laugh at the idea that walking from one class to another constitutes real exercise, but I’m glad they’re not allowed to park us in one place for seven straight hours.
The rest of the students in trig are taking a quiz I haven’t studied for, so I spend the period catching up on some of the lessons I missed. I’m in the middle of a problem when the intercom blares. “Logan Voigt, please report to the main office.”
My stomach instantly goes into lockdown. Zoey. I switch off the desk-vid and head for the door.
In the office, I receive the news I’m expecting: I need to go pick up my sister because she’s sick.
“We couldn’t get a hold of your father,” says the secretary, who has purple hair and two piercings in her left eyebrow.
I’m not surprised by the news. No doubt, he’s busy going through company orientation. What annoys me is that they’d try to call him when I’m clearly listed as the emergency contact in Zoey’s paperwork. My school is only a few blocks from hers, so they’ve got no business disturbing my father on his first day at a new job.
“Do you have a vehicle?” the secretary asks.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Dad prefers public transportation, and Portland’s light rail goes straight out to the Intel campus, so he let me use the Toyota this morning. The secretary signs me out, and I jog to the parking lot. I know the situation can’t be desperate, or the nurse at Zoey’s school would’ve sent her straight to the hospital, but my heart still pounds as if I’ve narrowly avoided fumbling a perfect pass.
At Winterhaven School, the secretary directs me to the nurse’s office, where I find Zoey lying on a cot. She’s about two shades paler than her normal ghostly hue, and I know what this means. Why can’t the poor kid catch a break?
“Hey, Sparky,” I say, sitting down beside her and squeezing her shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” She sounds as pale as she looks. “I just wanna go home.”
“She lost consciousness in her classroom,” the nurse says. “But she was at her desk, so fortunately she wasn’t hurt.”
“No, I just made an idiot of myself in front of thirty kids.”
“You can always blame it on the school food,” I suggest.
Zoey doesn’t even attempt a smile. I feel for her. I’d be disgusted with myself, too, if I’d made that sort of entrance at Cleveland.
“I wish Mom was here,” she says.
“So do I.” She’d be able to get a smile out of Zoey, or at the very least, coax her into accepting the hug she so obviously needs. Mom calls every day, but it’s just not the same as being with us.
“Let’s go.” Zoey pushes herself up off the cot, and I help her to her feet.
“Do you think you can make it to the car on your own, or should I carry you?”
She gives me the evil eye. “If you try, I’ll bite you.”
Hearing that much fight in a voice that’s so weak twists at my heart.
I make things easier on both of us by starting Dad’s SUV with my phone and directing it to meet us at the front entrance. Zoey insists on taking every step herself, but she leans on me heavily. When we get to the car, she collapses into the front seat.
“I’m never coming back to this school.”
“Can’t blame you there,” I say. And Dad won’t make her. She’s missed more classes than she’s attended, but it hardly matters when she’s smart enough to teach herself.
At the house, I carry Zoey inside because she’s short of breath now. There’s only so much damage I’ll allow her to do in the name of preserving her dignity. Denise, the new homecare nurse, shadows us down the hallway. She’s older than the one we had back in Chicago, about our grandma’s age, and her eyes are kind.
After a quick evaluation, she gives Zoey the news we’re both expecting. “We’re going to need to put you back on your PVAD, honey.”
Zoey groans and scowls at her. She made it clear on Sunday she has no use for Denise. But then, she’s never liked any of her nurses. It has nothing to do with how competent they are, or even if they’re friendly. They’re just one more reminder of how she’s not like other kids.
I leave the room while Denise attaches Zoey’s ventricular assist device to the port implanted below her collar bone. She’s not a baby anymore, and she won’t put up with her older brother seeing her bare chest.
When Denise is finished, she lets me back in. Zoey’s sitting up in bed wearing her pajamas, a scowl, and the PVAD vest she hates. It has a hidden pocket to hold the pump that helps her failing heart do its job. The device isn’t very big, but when you’re in the fifth grade, anything that makes you stand out is social suicide.
Denise scrolls through Zoey’s records on her MedEval then turns to me with a puzzled look. “According to this, it’s been less than a month since your sister last used her PVAD. Could this date have been entered wrong?”
I think back. “No. I remember she was upset because she had to wear the vest to Mom’s birthday dinner. That was May second.”
Denise consults the MedEval again. “Zoey, how long has it been since your doctors mentioned an implanted device to you? Most MB kids your age have one.”
“No!” Zoey’s eyes go wide. I wouldn’t have thought she could get any paler, but she does.
Denise turns to her, full of grandmotherly charm. “Honey, it would make your life so much easier. You wouldn’t
have to worry about episodes like the one at school today. You understand it would be completely hidden, right?”
“I’m not your honey,” Zoey says, her voice as jagged as shrapnel. “And I don’t need a …” she stops to catch her breath, “… damn implanted device.”
“Can we talk a second?” I motion Denise toward the door with a jerk of my head.
She follows me into the hallway.
“Look,” I say. “We all know Zoey’s going to need that surgery eventually, but you’re not going to earn any points by arguing with her. She’s scared to death of the idea.” I explain how the last time, when she got her port, she had a near-fatal reaction to the anesthetic, and what should have been outpatient surgery turned into a month-long hospital stay.
“I know, Logan. I’ve read her medical records. And she isn’t the only MB patient who’s had such a strong reaction. But that was almost four years ago, and we’ve learned enough about the disease since then to prevent that sort of thing in eighty percent of cases. It’s in her best interest to have the procedure.”
“It’s in her best interest not to be terrified.”
“Of course.” Denise nods and softly touches my arm. “But it’s my job to work with your sister’s medical team to educate her and your family about her options. We have a duty to keep you updated about the latest medical advances. And we’ll do that, but you need to do your part. Zoey’s just a little girl. Your family can’t keep allowing her to dictate her own medical care. You have to stand up to her and do what will keep her as healthy as possible.”
I know she’s right, but I also know how hard it is to see my tough, sassy little sister scared half out of her mind. And that kind of stress can’t be good for her.
“Please,” I say, “don’t mention it again until you’ve talked to my dad.”
Denise agrees, and I go back into Zoey’s room to cheer her up. But by now she’s got her laptop out and is lost in another world.
I take pity and don’t try to bring her back to ours.