"Come stay another night with us and maybe we can come up with something that works better for everyone," Aunty says with her arm wrapped around Matt's shoulders.
"No. It has to be now—but thank you."
"You are welcome to stay here with us, you wouldn't have to be separated from Thomas," Jose says with the desperation in his voice only thinly veiled. "Let's go back inside and keep the heat in."
"No," Matt says curtly.
"But—" Ellen starts to speak; and, when Jose puts his arm around her, she dissolves into a fresh round of tears.
Thomas wraps Ellen's tiny waist in a tight hug and then gives an equally tender embrace to Jose. Thomas' normally cheerful face is distorted in a pinched mask of confusion and grief. He loves his new parents. But his loyalties to his brother are ingrained. He's too young to be faced with such a big decision. Really, there isn't a decision being offered to him. Jose and Ellen aren't refusing Matt. They've begged and pleaded, but begrudgingly submitting to Matt's right to Thomas. Thomas is just rolling with the punches.
"I'll be back," Thomas says resolutely to Ellen. "I'm sure God is doing this for a good reason." Then turning to his big brother he asks with such innocence, "We can come visit, can't we Matt?"
"We have to go now, bud," Matt says avoiding Thomas' question.
"God will bring me back again." Thomas says to Ellen, looking up into her eyes with steadfast faith.
Thomas looks at each of us one more time and his patented smile reclaims its rightful place on his cherubic cheeks. He has such childlike faith. Something we are all supposed to carry. We aren't ever supposed to lose the faith that comes so easily to a child—faith mixed with imagination and devoid of life's long history of disappointments. Faced with such a hard situation, Thomas just assumes that God has a great plan and that it will all work out. He's more faithful than me. I'm learning a lot about myself this week—and I'm not proud of what I'm finding.
"Thanks again. You've all been great." Matt nods a final goodbye to Aunty, Jose, and Ellen. I keep my wet eyes trained on Matt’s face, but he doesn't look at me again. I know I was awful to him in the beginning, but I thought maybe we were over that. I guess he really doesn't like me. I know I totally deserve it.
Matt and Thomas walk down the front walk towards the street. As they go, Aunty calls to Thomas who is following after Matt but glancing back at us every step or two, "Thomas, read your Bible and trust Jesus. We'll all be together again real soon. It's not long now. Take care of Matt. We'll be praying!" The last promise Aunty yells loudly into the wind.
As Matt and Thomas reach the street, they start to blur in the fuzzy white static of the falling snow. Aunty, Jose, Ellen and I stand in the cold and watch as the boys turn left down the road towards the gate. I can't seem to stop crying. Aunty puts her arm around me to comfort me as they disappear around the bend.
As we step back inside, I notice the coat that Aunty got for Matt hanging over a chair by the door. I compulsively grab it and dash back out into the falling snow. He should have it. It's freezing out here! I'll say I'm sorry, too. I desperately need to say I'm sorry for the way I treated him.
I run down the sidewalk, and Aunty calls after me to be careful. It should be easy to catch them since I'm running; but, as I round the bend and see the gate straight ahead, they are gone. They've vanished. I run the distance to the North gate and ask, out of breath, if the guards have seen them and let them through. They haven't. He must have gone out the way he came in. And I don't know where that could be. They're gone.
Matt is gone.
I didn't get to apologize.
Devastation sticks a knife and fork into my chest and starts to feast.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Lesser Of Two Evils
Three of the scariest, craziest, most emotionally full days of my life have turned the corner into a long, quiet, dull, depressing week. It's Saturday now. Matt and Thomas left on Wednesday. I've spent the last three days trying to feel normal and never achieving it. I've gone to work, but at work I see the Elders and they ask me how I'm feeling and if I've thought of any other valuable information about my attacker.
The "Outlet Mall Stalker" is the name I've given him.
It would make a good headline if we had a newspaper. We don't—but apparently we don't need one. Everyone has heard about what happened. Everyone I pass looks sympathetically at me. Like I'm dying of cancer and don't have long to live. Maybe they're right. If the scientists want me, what will stop them? I can't fathom a life where I never leave the compound again. At some point I will step out of these gates again, maybe just to end the incessant questions and fears that are plaguing me. I picture myself walking out and waving my arms and yelling at the sky, "Here I am, come and get me!"
Tim Markowitz stopped by the Inn on Wednesday evening after Matt and Thomas left. Apparently his only reason for coming was to say "Hi" and check on me. He brought me some cookie cutters he found somewhere—he said where but I can't remember—to cheer me up.
Aunty had a field day with that.
I think I thanked him, but I don't think I looked very thankful. And I definitely didn't look interested. I excused myself and went to my room hoping he'd take the hint and leave. I'm sure they talked about me as soon as I left. Aunty probably told him I was still distraught about the attack or something. When I came back out of my room an hour later he was still visiting with Aunty in the Parlor. It was such a nightmare. I just wanted to be left alone to cry about my horrible life. Tim stayed for one more cup of tea and some cookies before finally heeding the subliminal messages I had been screaming at him from inside my head.
"Leave!"
"I can't stand you!"
"You are totally gross!"
"Go away!"
Aunty kept shooting me dirty looks and motioning at me to smile whenever Tim wasn't looking. For one reason or another he left looking more interested and confident than normal. Inconceivable, because I couldn't be making it more clear that I'm not interested.
I can't quit thinking about Matt. I hate that I realized what a great person he was after two days of treating him with loathing indifference. No, I treated him worse than that. It was more like outright hatred. I wish I could have a do-over. I would be so much kinder. I'd ask him about himself and try to get to know him. I'm not so full of myself that I think it would've mattered or that he would've stayed. I just think maybe I wouldn't hate myself so much. And maybe he would've looked at me and said, "Goodbye." That would've been nice.
I can't fall asleep at night. I toss and turn and worry; and, when I do manage to sleep, I have horrible dreams. Ellen gave me more of her homemade chamomile tea to help me sleep. It doesn't seem to help. I've gone to visit Ellen twice in the last of couple of days. Even though we had only spoken a few times in the last year, I suddenly feel close to her because of our mutual loss.
She has cried during both of our visits. She's so worried about Thomas and misses him so much. I think she thinks I'm real sad about losing Thomas too, since he stayed with us a few days. I am sad about him leaving, of course I am—but really it's Matt I can't stop thinking about.
I haven't told anyone. They would probably be appalled. Aunty might have guessed, but we haven't talked about it, and I've been avoiding deep conversations. Ellen would never guess my true feelings, but she was there that day with Matt and saw that he had good qualities. So I feel like she's the only person who ever would understand. At least more than the others would.
I know it's stupid. What do I know about him? Very little. He's a zombie who loves his little brother. He is handsome. He has a good sense of humor. His green eyes are mesmerizing. That's not enough information to form such an attachment is it? I'm sure there are a bunch of classic psychological things playing into this.
Such as: The attack at the outlets has left me feeling mortal and vulnerable. I'm trying to make up a relationship to feel secure.
Or: I've bonded with someone wh
o reminds me of my attacker like that Stockholm syndrome thing.
These reasons make more sense to me than actually falling in love with the first zombie boy I've spent a total of two days with.
I haven't devoted myself in at least a week, and I know that's a big part of my deteriorating mental state. I keep meaning to. I know it would make everything better; but, for one reason or another, something else comes up or I doze off.
Whatever.
I am pretty un-devoted right now. I've heard of people losing their healing and their faith. I won't let it get that bad. I just need to stop moping. The only solution I can come up with for the moping is napping.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A Doodle Makes Me Cry
The doorbell wakes me and I groan in frustration. It took forever for me to fall asleep and it feels like that was just a moment ago. I pull the covers over my head. I'm sure Aunty will take care of whoever it is. It rings again a minute later. And again.
Ugh!
I crawl out from under my warm, velvety pink comforter and put on some old flip-flops. A quick check in the mirror shows that my hair is still somewhat in place. I rub my cheeks and chew on a dry mint leaf. I don't want whoever is at the door to know I was napping in the middle of the day. I know that people nap and there's nothing to be embarrassed about. It's a privacy thing—it's no one's business but my own if want to nap.
The doorbell rings a fourth time and I hurry to the front of the house a little irritated. It better not be Tim again. I think my good manners have run out.
Through the curlicue leaded glass pattern of the front door, I see my friend Harmony. I've been avoiding her, too. She already stopped by once this week, and I told Aunty to apologize for me—I had a bad headache.
My convenient headache wasn't really that bad; I just don't know what to say to her. She'll probably want all the details of what happened. I don't know how to talk about it. I like to go fix other people's problems. Honestly, other than the post-apocalyptic life I'm stuck with and the traumatizing childhood memories, I rarely have any serious problems of my own.
At least I still have my sense of humor.
I try to look happy to see Harmony as I unlock the door and invite her in. She looks shy and uncomfortable as she walks into the foyer, her tall, bony frame slumped over in bad posture. That's just her usual way though—humble and unassuming. She's wispy and thin with long wavy auburn hair and gray eyes. She would look like a ballerina if she carried herself with more confidence and better posture. She doesn't care about fashion, but somehow everything she wears looks good on her. She's a year younger than me, just 15, but she is several inches taller than I am.
I think her best feature is her lips. I wish I had lips like hers. They are full and beautiful and when she smiles, she's gorgeous. She stands awkwardly on the foyer rug as I shut and lock the door behind her. We smile unsurely at each other for a second, and then Harmony reaches out and gives me a quick hug. We don't usually hug. I wish so badly that things could at least be normal with her.
"I'm fine," I say with a shrug and a smile, easing out of her skinny arms. "Sorry, I guess I've been hiding."
"I know,” she says softly. “And I know you don't want to talk about it. You don't have to okay? Just let me come over and we'll act like everything's normal." She puts her hands up in a non-threatening, "I surrender" gesture.
Wow, the girl knows me well.
"My mom sent you some stuff. Homemade chocolate to cheer you up and some papers she wants you to look over."
Harmony's mom, Sherry, is fun to work for and always extra nice to me. The chocolates are just one example of the many ways she dotes on me. The papers are probably for next week's lesson. Because Sherry is the teacher for our age group, I often see the lessons beforehand, help put them together, and then hear them again in my Sunday morning class with the other teens.
"So—show me what you got!" Harmony says enthusiastically, referring to my fated shopping trip. "Did you bring me anything?"
"Yeah, I did," I am smiling already. "It's in my room."
I model everything I got and Harmony does the best friend thing and tells me it all looks fantastic on me. I brought her a bunch of things and she blushes with each new thing I hand to her. But I know she genuinely would've been okay if I hadn't brought her anything. If I had gotten tons of new things and nothing for her, I don't think she would have been anything but happy for me.
Harmony seems overwhelmed with all of the new clothes; and, when I show her the matching cross necklaces I got for us, she gets teary. Making her so happy is helping me feel good again. Who needs a boy anyways? If we don't have much time left here, there's no point in crushes. No time for dating when dating's main goal is marriage. I just need to get back into my regular pattern, and that crazy couple of days with Matt will eventually fade into a bitter-sweet memory.
Harmony and I hang out all afternoon. I, of course, end up telling her every scary detail of our trip. It feels better this time, cleansing somehow, the second time I tell it. I trust her with my life, and I know she's not weighing my words in light of how they'll affect the community—unlike the Elders. She cares about me. I somberly tell her about the picture of me that we found in the zombie's hand. She is horrified when I tell her what Aunty concluded about Pravda allowing me to get away. We brainstorm for awhile about what it could mean.
"Show me the shoes," she says with a derisive tone that she can get away with because we are best friends.
I haul the pink heels out of the back of my closet and notice the bags of toys we got for Thomas but never delivered. It's for the best that he didn't see the toys. He would've had to leave them all behind. It would've only been more disappointment for him. My heart has that stabbing pain again.
I model the goofy shoes and let down my pride and laugh with her and let her make fun of me. They still make me feel taller—and thinner.
When we're done giggling, I ask my closest friend the question that's been plaguing me all week, "Why me? What makes me special from all the other people here? I'm not important to the community, not unique in anyway."
"Of course you are important!" Harmony says, her full lips in a pout—defending me. "Everyone here is important!"
Her enthusiastic encouragement makes me think of a line from a kiddy superhero movie we watched once at the U.R. The mom says to her superhero son, "Everyone is special." He in turn mumbles, "Which is another way of saying no one is." I remember thinking that line was clever. We talked about it after the movie. We are all unique and special in God's eyes, yadda yadda. But there's a ring of truth there. If everyone is special, then really no one is special, you know?
"Who could've taken the picture?" I have wracked my brain for the answer all week.
I try, again, to remember that sunny afternoon. What had I gone out on the porch for? It dawns on me suddenly—Harmony brought the reminder that I needed.
"The doorbell!” I shout at Harmony. She looks at me confused, wondering if I just heard something that she didn’t. “That day! Someone had rung the bell and I had been napping! I was hoping Aunty would answer it. When it rang a second time I jumped up and fixed my hair real quick; but, by the time I got outside, no one was there.”
Harmony is staring at me with wide eyes as I unravel my mystery.
“I walked down the side of the porch to look for whoever I had missed, but didn't see anyone! It wasn't a big deal, so I had forgotten all about it! I just figured I had taken too long to answer the door and whoever it was left thinking we weren't home!"
I realize, now, that it had been a set up. Sitting across from me on my bed, Harmony’s gray eyes are huge. She stares at me with concern as we realize we've come across a very important clue. I look down at my hands. The seriousness on her face is freaking me out.
I haven't gotten to the Matt part of the story yet. I decide to tell it because of Matt's secret way in. It might be being used by someone other tha
n Matt. I quickly fill her in about his time here, leaving out the gambit of feelings I ran through over those three crazy days.
"The key thing is that I'm certain he came and went from the community through some secret way in that he found," I sum up after telling her that he had disappeared around the bend and the guards confirmed he hadn't left through the gate. This is scary news to her too. The gate is the only thing that helps us feel safe living so close to our hostile neighbors.
"Is it possible some other zombie found the same way in? Are you really sure Matt doesn't have something to do with it?" she asks.
Just like the elders had.
"It seems way too coincidental to me," she continues reasoning, "him showing up within an hour of your, uh, attack. I bet you were so scared to see him standing there at your back door."
"I guess I was a little scared."
Don't judge me for leaving out my terror. I'm not good at being vulnerable.
"So then, maybe it isn't anyone we know at all," she says hopefully.
We both want this theory to be true. While it's scary to think that zombies can come and go from our community unnoticed, it is worse trying to imagine that one of the Living would do this. Really it's impossible. If one of the Living was working with zombie scientists to hurt me, they'd have to be living out of fellowship and they'd risk losing their healing. The disease coming back would be a dead giveaway. Surely someone in the community would've noticed and reported it to the elders.
"So what was it like, being around him? He was right upstairs while you slept?" she asks looking horrified.
"It was—weird."
I just can't talk about him with her. How would I explain all the confusing feelings? That first night, falling asleep, I had been so mad and scared. And then I had that horrible dream, reliving the awful moments in the car at the mall. But the next day, everything changed. I found Matt more and more fascinating. I found myself liking him. When he left, it was hard to believe how much of a turnaround I had done in so short a time. It physically hurts me in my chest when I think of him. My heart actually aches.
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