The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(104)
20 Echoes
Dorothy opened her eyes.
She was on the floor, seated on a cushion in the hondo of the Gotami Buddhist Temple, which wasn’t as dark as she remembered. There were more prayer sticks burning than candles and light streamed into the hall through windows, painted gold and red, that were previously boarded up and hidden from view by tapestries.
She looked about, marveling at the sandalwood smoke swirling in the daylight. To Dorothy it appeared as though she were seated at the bottom of the ocean, looking up as motes of dust were carried by the currents of smoke like plankton in the sea.
When she saw that she was alone, she called out, but her voice merely echoed in the hollows of the building. She stood, noticing sounds from the street—car engines, the rumble of electric buses, the beeping of a delivery truck backing up—noises that didn’t make sense in the wake of a natural disaster. She remembered how after previous tropical storms, all she heard was an eerie silence, occasionally interrupted by the sound of supply drones, the cawing of returning seabirds, or the gurgle of overflowing storm drains.
Dorothy touched her hair, which was dry, touched her stomach, which was devoid of the nausea and the sickness she’d felt. When she peeked into the grand hallway, the sleeping mats were gone and those who came seeking shelter from the storm were nowhere to be found. The building even smelled different, like fresh paint or cleanser. The floors appeared recently mopped and the wall sconces held newly lit cones of incense. Down the hall she retrieved her shoes and reached for the door. When she opened it, she squinted at the brightness of the morning sun. She felt the chill of dawn surrender to the warmth of a summer day, a gentle breeze caressing her skin, the sky clear with nary a cloud, just a passenger jet high in the sky, leaving behind a billowing contrail. Japanese tourists clustered on a street corner, throwing up peace signs as they took photos using selfie sticks. Behind them, painted on the side of a building, was a mural of the Seattle Seahawks, proclaiming them The Defending Super Bowl Champs. Dorothy’s nose itched with the strange, vaguely familiar smell of exhaust smoke and she realized the cars were all running on noisy, outdated, combustion engines. She felt her hip vibrating, reached into her pocket, and pulled out an antique smartphone. A text arrived from someone name Anjalee. Where R U? A guy is here to see you. Dorothy looked up and down South Jackson Street. She spotted a billboard with a large queen on a chessboard. The headline read: YOUR MOVE. In the corner was the logo for Syren and beneath it the familiar tagline: More Than Love?.
Dorothy put the phone away and looked around for a cab or an Uber, then patted her pockets as she realized she didn’t have money, credit cards, or any form of ID whatsoever. It was a clear day, though, perfect for walking.
* * *
“There’s our beautiful girl!” Anjalee said, arms wide open as Dorothy stepped off the elevator and into Syren’s Belltown headquarters, where she was showered with adoration in the form of cheers, streamers, and fistfuls of confetti in the shape of tiny red and pink hearts. The women on her team, especially those who hadn’t been invited to the awards dinner, wore T-shirts printed with the company’s motto. They were all wide-eyed smiles, jumping up and down. Dorothy understood that when the company went public, they’d all become stock-option millionaires, for a while.
Dorothy shook confetti from her hair. Paper hearts stuck to the soles of her shoes with each step. “You didn’t have to do all this…” Then as the crowd parted, Dorothy saw, once again, the real-time data stream monitors in the lobby.
Anjalee took Dorothy’s arm. “I think you’d better get used to having confetti in your hair. Because we just hit eight million users, overnight.” Anjalee brushed confetti from her shoulder. “We made CNN, the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times, Wired, and even Scientific American and Psychology Today. Plus—I’m not going to name names—but we paid a few celebrities to go social…”
“You’re running my scrubbing algorithms to weed out spam bots.”
“Of course.” Anjalee pointed to the monitor as numbers flew by. “That’s how fast your world is going to change. Buckle up, you’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.”
Anjalee led her down the hall, which was flanked by floor-to-ceiling portraits of powerful, iconic women. They breezed past the programmers’ bullpen, past staffers who were clapping and cheering in slow motion, then up the stairs to the loft, where Anjalee pointed to a corner office. “That’s yours now. We’re setting you up with a publicist and we’ll get you some media training so you’re more comfortable doing on-camera interviews. Oh, and there’s one other thing.”
“Oh?” Dorothy feigned surprise.
“There’s a handsome young man waiting for you inside. He’s been here all morning. I swear we didn’t arrange it!” Anjalee smiled coyly, her eyes seeming to twinkle with mischief. “I’m going back to my corner, but I expect a full report.”
Dorothy suppressed her anger as she watched her leave, then noticed the silhouette of the man in a dark blue suit who moved behind the frosted glass.
She opened the door and saw that he was staring out her new window, appraising the view. She cleared her throat and said, “Hey.”
He slowly turned. The silent partner who had been footing the bill for this view, this building, her salary, and all her hard work. Syren’s mysterious angel investor.