Thomas once towered over everybody else in the room. His hands were as big as a lion’s paws, but his touch was gentle, and he liked nothing better than making people laugh. Especially me.

​

It’s been a long time since I saw that cheeky look in the corner of his eyes, checking me, making sure I was reacting to his jokes with at least a smile. These days I have to make an effort to see his body under the sheets of his hospital bed in the living room. If it weren’t for his labored breathing, I might believe he dissolved, though it’s not like he can get up and walk away.

​

Our son is coming over later. I arrange my most comfortable chair so Jonah can sit next to Thomas’ bed, take his hand, talk to him, pretend his dad can take part in a conversation. Jonah is a perfect version of what his dad looked like thirty years ago: same build, blue eyes, large nose, his hair completely gray already, like Thomas’ was in his mid-forties, too.

​

Jonah is busy at work, but he doesn’t just drop by because visiting a bedridden elder gives him points. Often he stays after the black counter on his left wrist has acknowledged the visit and he’s been awarded his two points.

​

It’s still early and I don’t expect Jonah for another hour. Time for me to sit at Thomas’ side and hold his right hand, the one free of all gadgets. I watch his face, his sizable nose and his eyes, always closed now. There is no reaction, but I like to imagine that somewhere and somehow, my touch registers.

“I’m a little anxious,” I tell him. “When he left on Sunday, Jonah told me we needed to talk. Do you have any idea what it could be about? His promotion, maybe?”

​

The line between Thomas’s eyebrows is clear cut and deep.

​

“It’s a shame we can never really talk about his job with Jonah. Such strict privacy rules for members of the Counting Authority,” I say. “He doesn’t even tell me if having me for a mother affects him at his job.”

​

Thomas’ face stays still. I sigh. Our son is ambitious, and I would hate to be an impediment to his career.

​

“I worry what we did is holding him back. You were a teacher then, then a principal...” I smile. He was so proud to be promoted.

​

“You were always fighting to do things right, to make those young people see and understand what was happening. And with me being head of ...” I can’t say the name. I used to work for a human rights organization. If I said its name now, the counter on my wrist would buzz and I would be deducted at least five points for stirring political unrest.

​

To protect my points, I don’t dare speak of the demonstrations we organized, when thousands and thousands spilled out on the street to protest the point system. The shouting made me feel alive. To have that courage again!

​

All the dystopian novels we used to read – all banned now — they have young heroes or heroines growing aware of the situation around them. They are full of energy to fight the system.

I laugh to myself, a cynical laugh. I’m the opposite of them. I look at my hands, my wrists: They’re spotted with age and seem to become thinner each day. Lowpoints don’t get the best food.

I pick at the counter on my wrist, wriggle it. Stop it. Better hold still.

​

Remember saying what you thought, I want to ask Thomas. Remember we could wear what we wanted, break off contact with people we didn’t like, decide to visit our parents or not and the only one who cared was them.

​

I see us at a dinner table with friends, leftover spaghetti drying in a chipped blue bowl. We’re drinking beer, talking politics.

​

“We used to make jokes about politicians,” I whisper into Thomas’ ear, covering the counter on my left wrist with my right hand. “And you fell in love with me because I was the most outspoken woman you’d ever met.”

​

Not a good character trait these days. I lean over to smell my husband’s hair. It’s still thick, soft, and curly, just like it was when we first met.

​

If there were any statistics about how many of us wear the counter voluntarily, I wouldn’t believe them anyway. I have no way of knowing how many are forced to or how many have tried to remove it.

My fingers fiddle with the gadget on my wrist again, but gently, so as not to offset it: I have about an inch of flexibility up or down my left wrist. They usually leave this bit of wriggle room for hygienic and dermatological reasons, though if you get a tough official from the Counting Authority, you might not be so lucky.

​

The display is large enough for anyone within a yard or two to see my low score: 837, currently. 1000 is the norm, what we got when the system started. 

​

Thomas has 1019 points. Because of his physical state his points were frozen on the day of the accident. It is unlikely he would have received the same treatment with a count below 990. Not that it matters much to him – he’s been in a coma for over three years. But this is how I know I must never get sick. It’s been hard to even access my thyroid medication. There is only one doctor in the city who will treat under 900s, and her practice is a little over five miles away from here. I’m not allowed to drive anymore – you need 980 points for that – or to use public transportation, 900 points. Even for riding a bike you need 850 points.

​

So I walk. I walk a lot for a 74-year-old woman. Not so bad: for every 15,000 steps, I get 0.25 health points. You can only get three health points a week, otherwise I would not be a lowpoint.

​

Mostly though, I stay in the house. I take care of Thomas, and also I can’t afford to be oblivious outside. Once, when I could still take the bus, I wore my headphones and sang along to my tunes, my eyes closed. I’m a terrible singer and people on the bus registered me for public disturbance. I was deducted five points. I made the mistake of looking at the passengers around me, to inquire why they hadn’t asked me first, before registering me with the Counting Authority.

​

None of them met my eyes. Two young men, one tall and lanky, the other small and with a lazy eye, pointed their counters at me to film me. Complaining is the worst: non-acceptance is always punished by a 10 point deduction. Those put me over the public transportation edge. I had to get off the bus: too low to ride... I could see the tall one smirk.

​

It’s ridiculous that the one thing I can acquire points with is taking care of Thomas: He is my husband, I would do all I’m doing anyways. I change his bedding, wash him, change him. All that makes me feel close to him.

​

Of course I’d much rather travel with him, like we used to.

​

Back when traveling was still an option, we would ride to Italy in our red Golf, and the longer the ride, the goofier Thomas would get. He spoke in faux Tyrolean accents with me, singing cheesy songs, yodeling with all his heart.

​

We would stop at the second rest stop after the Italian border, and the first coffee in Italy was a triumph for him.

​

“Doppio,” he would order. The extra caffeine would inspire him to new heights of yodeling. Next to him in the car, I would make up Italian names, because to our ears, any Italian place name sounded both invented and fantastic.

​

Today, even if we had the 1350 points required for international travel, if such a thing as the European Union still existed and we could cross borders easily, Thomas would be deducted points for risking his health with a double espresso at his age, my behavior would be considered both risky and risqué, and our point count would plunge in front of our eyes.

​

I hear Jonah at the door. He’s had the keys to the apartment since they brought Thomas back from the hospital. He’s also been chipping in with the rent. We never imagined living like this, being maintained by our son.

​

He drops off something in the kitchen, then his steps approach the living room.

​

“Hey, Mom.” He doesn’t kiss me. Physical proximity to a lowpoint or joyful interaction – they might lower his point count. I look for the smile he usually gives me, but his face is still.

​

“I’ve put some food in the kitchen. I brought coffee too,“ Jonah says.

​

I go to the kitchen and boil the kettle. I haven’t had coffee in over a month. What with trade having become more difficult since the dissolution of the European Union, there is none for lowpoints. Part of me wants to take the packet of coffee, tear it open and let its contents rain out of my kitchen window onto the street. Who wants your damn coffee anyway, I imagine shouting. Instead, I carefully cut open the packaging and make a cup of strong coffee for Jonah. I will make thinner coffee for myself later. Make it last. Not even Jonah can procure coffee for me without problems.

​

Fucking idiots, damn fucking idiot control freaks and their fascist system.

​

I feel a familiar buzz on my left wrist. I must have said those words out loud.

​

“Lilith Muller, you have been deducted one point for cursing. You have been deducted five points for uncalled political statements. Total points are now at” – there’s a little pause – “831.”

​

I swear that the deep male voice coming from the counter is reveling.

​

“Repeat: 831.”

​

Like the number on the display isn’t clear and easy to read. One day I’m going to smash the thing against a wall.

​

 “Mom,” Jonah calls. “What’s up?”

​

I get his coffee ready – no milk, half a spoon of sugar – and walk over to the living room. I place the mug on the table near Thomas’ bed, where Jonah can reach it easily.

​

“Mom, what is this? How did you lose more points?” His brow is furrowed as he looks at me, his voice tense. “This has to stop. This isn’t only about you anymore.”

​

“What do you want me to do? I do what I can to bring my points up, but whenever I do, something else happens.”

​

“I don’t get it. Nobody else in the family is under 1000. You know that most of us are much higher than that.”

​

Something is off, I can feel it.

​

“Mom, this can’t go on. Lydia is finishing school this year and she wants to go to university. And Henry and Lynn will want to go in a few years.” Jonah has three children, all of them good students. 

​

“What’s that got to do with anything? You know I do what I can.” I’m not going to curse again. I’m going to stay calm.

​

“Do you?” The vein on his temple is swelling, but his voice is civil. I wonder how much of an effort it is for him to keep aggression out of his voice. Maybe it’s second nature to him to take deep breaths instead of letting his anger show. Always in control, so his point count will stay up.

​

“Of course I do.” It’s true. I try my best. I’m just not very good at it. Maybe it’s my age, maybe my general lack of self-control?

​

“All right,” Jonah says. “Have a seat, Mom. We should talk.”

​

I study my son’s face and sit down at the far end of the couch.

​

“Mom, this isn’t easy.” Jonah sighs. “I hate asking you this. But you know about Lydia. You know how limited access to higher education is these days. She needs 1200 points just to be considered. Now they’ve come up with this new way of calculating points for the application. Any family member with a count below 1000 means they deduct 50 points from her number. Below 900 means 100 points.”

​

“What? My low count will stop my granddaughter from getting into university?”

​

“It’s a new policy,” Jonah’s expression is grave. “Make sure only the truly deserving get into higher education.”

​

“Imagine that had been the case when you were her age. You’d never have gotten in, both of your parents activists against the point system.” My laugh is cynical again.

​

“I’m aware of how fortunate I am,” my son says. “But Lydia isn’t this lucky.”

​

“I’ll raise my count. I’ll do anything. All sorts of community service. I’ll go clean the streets at night.”

​

Who would look after Thomas, then?

​

“Mom, how long have you been below 900? Did you ever even have 1000, apart from the very first day?” As I’ve said, Jonah has his dad’s blue eyes. But in Thomas, they never looked so cold.

​

“It’s not just Lydia,” he says. “It’s also my promotion. My count is one of the best in the city, but they’ve refused to give me more responsibility at work.”

​

“And what do you suggest I do?” I try to hold my hands still, stop them from shaking.

​

“There is no easy way to say this.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “You need to get a divorce.”

​

“What?”

​

“If you get a divorce, I can disown you. It’s a new thing. Children can disown parents now, but only if their parents are healthy. I can’t disown dad. But I can disown you.”

​

I stare at my son.

​

“It’s not that I want to disown you. I love you, Mom. But I also love my children, and they need to live in this world, they need to make a future.”

​

“And you want that promotion.” I am very stiff. If I relaxed my muscles, my whole body would be shaking.

​

“It would be dishonest to deny that,” he says.

​

“Jonah, you are our son. You know how much I love your father. We’ve been together for forty-eight years.”

​

I try to swallow.

​

“What about your father? Do you want strangers to take care of him?” I try to swallow again, but I can’t. “Is this what your dad and I raised you to be?”

​

For a second, his face looks exactly like it used to when he had done something wrong as a kid, but this softness and insecurity soon disappear.

​

“Mom, I wouldn’t ask this if it weren’t for the best for all of us, including Dad.”

​

“How can this be for his best?”

​

“Look at you. You’re thin, you’re becoming frail. How long can you keep this up anyway?”

​

“I’ve been doing well enough.”

​

“Yes, but for how long? We can get someone professional to look after him. With my promotion, there will be more money. With my points, I have access to the best care workers.”

​

“I am the best care worker for your father.”

​

“I didn’t make the rules! You’re not even supposed to live in this neighborhood anymore! The only reason you’ve been able to stay here is because the Counting Authority are doing  me a favor,” he says. “But this can’t go on forever. People are talking. Your neighbors have been complaining because you’re bringing down the value of their houses.”

​

He never told me that before.

​

“I will help you along. I will find a good place for you. People your age are not put in re-education programs. There are villages outside the city. You can live with like-minded people. They are also all lowpoints, but they’re all about your age. They’re usually there for repeated minor infractions, or political opinionatedness without action – like you. Look, I have some pictures here.”

​

He gets out one of his electronic devices and opens a gallery. He has this all figured out.

​

“Mom, you need to make up your mind. You can’t stay here, and dad needs a safe place.”

​

I shake my head at my son.

​

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he says. “You think about it. But really, I don’t know how I could keep you in this apartment.”

​

I’m silent.

​

“Think of what you’d be doing for me. For Lydia – and for your other grandkids. You’d be opening doors for us.”

​

He gets up and looks me in the eye for a brief moment, like a skeptical stranger, till he turns over and walks out the living room, out the apartment.

​

“You forgot to say good-bye to your dad,” I want to say, but no words are coming.

​

I walk over to Thomas, sit down. The chair is still warm from our son’s heat. I take Thomas’ hand.

Jonah’s last words reverberate in my head: “You’d be opening doors for us.”

​

“What am I supposed to do, Thomas?” I ask. 

​

But however hard I squeeze his hands, my husband has no answers to give.

 

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