On the Edge of Gone

by Corinne Duyvis

  “Sweet.”

  Mirjam guides us into a kitchen, where she weaves between people rushing to prepare dinner and points me to an industrialsized dishwasher and empty cart. “Unload, stack the clean plates on that cart, stack the glasses, too, no more than four high, and dump the silverware in those bins. Forks, spoons, knives.” She points at each bin. “Wash your hands first. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I say, relieved to not have to work with food. The kitchen smells good—even if there are so many smells I’m already distracted placing them all—but my culinary skills begin and end at making sandwiches.

  Mirjam moves away, and for a moment I wonder whether she simply assigned me her job and is now hightailing it out of here, but instead she hauls open another dishwasher nearby and starts plucking out plates, three or four at a time.

  “My father and I normally do this together,” she says, piling the plates noisily on a cart beside the dishwasher, “but he got enlisted to help check for damage from the impact.”

  I gingerly remove the plates. I hate that noise when they hit and scrape against each other. The bustle of the kitchen behind me is loud enough as is. I don’t want to break anything, besides.

  “Sorry, you mind if I talk? I’m a talker.”

  “What? No.”

  “Good.” Her stack of plates is already twice as high as mine. “How’d you get on board so late? I thought selection was over and done with.”

  “Ah . . .” A smaller plate got mixed in with the large ones I’m working on. I’m tempted to put it back into the dishwasher by the other plates that size, but that’s—that’s probably weird, I think, and Mirjam is looking, so I just set it aside for a stack of its own. “We were selected early on. We couldn’t make it on board sooner.”

  I have no idea if that lie will hold water, but Mirjam is nodding. “Gotcha. I was happy to move on board, myself. Someone broke into our house the other month—looking for food, I guess—and it didn’t feel safe after that. Plus, it was cold. We had to board up the window they broke, and couldn’t find anyone to fix it properly.”

  “That sucks,” I say—usually a safe response.

  “Tell me about it.”

  I have a nice stack of plates now. I put my hands on each side of it, straightening the stack before reaching for the first batch of small plates. There’s a sense of relief when I add them to the single plate I set aside. “Max said his computer skills got your family on board.”

  “He likes to brag about that.”

  “So . . . I’m sorry, my mother arranged this whole thing, I never got involved . . . How does that normally work? I know the government ships selected people based on skills and held a lottery for the rest, but this isn’t a government ship, is it? Was it any different?” I haven’t wanted to ask Michelle or Els because I’ve already embarrassed myself enough around them, and I avoided asking Max in case he would realize I’m not an official passenger. I have to ask someone, though. The more I know, the better I can plan.

  “It came down to the same thing. Skills and luck. My father tried to get us in first, but they had enough teachers already.” Mirjam moves on to the cutlery. She grabs fistfuls and drops them in the appropriate bins, barely even needing to look. “Why won’t your mother tell you about it?”

  “Um . . . she just wants to put it all behind her.”

  “Well, I know that feeling. You want the long story?” At my hopeful nod, she tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Captain Van Zand—just Driss van Zand back then—owned half a dozen factories and refineries, including a ton of land with goods warehoused for later processing. He had stacks of money, too, but that didn’t do anyone that much good, huh?”

  The government had tried to stabilize the economy, but euros wouldn’t keep anyone fed after the comet hit. All of a sudden, canned food went further than credit cards.

  “The government needed Van Zand’s resources to get the permanent shelters set up; he gave them full access in return for a smallish ship they’d written off as unusable. He got it fixed up—mostly—and let on board anyone who helped with repairs or donated supplies. Repairs went slower than he expected, though, which is why the Nassau is still here when all the other ships have already left. We’re supposed to take off in two days, I think?”

  “Thursday,” I confirm, glad to have something of value to add. Two days doesn’t leave me with much time to find Iris, bring her back, and get us all spots on board, but right now I should focus on Mirjam’s explanation.

  “We almost managed to launch before impact, but . . . we didn’t make it. And now the repairs are on hold because of the impact and debris.”

  The sight of the debris had stopped me dead in my tracks, but Mirjam sounds so matter-of-fact, she might as well be talking about that soccer team she wants to set up.

  “So, Van Zand had the ship, basic supplies, and some staff and passengers, but he still needed specific jobs filled. Teachers, cooks, farmers, doctors, biogeneticists, craftspeople, chemists, astrophysicists, yada yada. He spread the word in the right circles, but kept the ship’s location hush-hush. I think he didn’t even tell people there was a ship, just hinted at a way out. So people found out about the opportunity on the down low, applied, and Van Zand and a team he put together judged—”

  “Michelle?” I watch someone go past, pushing a cart with a giant steaming pot of soup.

  “Who? I dunno.” Mirjam is stacking glasses now. The clink-clink-clink almost drowns out her voice. “They judged the applicants’ skills, age, health, number of dependents, all that, and made selections. Those people got picked up and brought to the ship in groups. Some of them tried to bring friends along, I think, and got their acceptance revoked. Poof! Dumped by the side of the road with a bunch of suitcases.”

  “Harsh.”

  “Um, necessary,” Mirjam says. “You saw the riots when the government ships were boarding people, right? We could tell close relatives we had a spot on a ship, just to put their minds at ease, but without any details. And definitely not the location.”

  “I just mean . . .” I chew my lip. “I have a sister.” And a mother. And me.

  Mirjam’s harshness fades. “Ah, shit. Too old to come on as a dependent? I know Van Zand made exceptions and let some people bypass the rules. There’s also a waiting list for applicants who didn’t quite make it, and for the families and friends of those who did. Is she on there? What does your mother do? If she’s important, your sister stands a better chance.”

  I give her the same spiel I gave to Michelle. “And I work at an animal shelter. Worked. I’m good with cats, but that’s not exactly useful.”

  “Heh.” Mirjam clangs her dishwasher shut and comes over to help with mine. I steel myself, but she doesn’t say a word about my slowness. “I like cats. I always planned that, once I got my own apartment, I’d visit the animal shelter first thing. Not for a cute kitten, but for a cat people don’t adopt as often, you know? A black one or—”

  “Actually, it’s the disabled ones that are hard to place,” I correct her, though I know I should really focus on the waiting list. “People don’t see them as worth the trouble when there are healthy cats to take. It’s especially difficult for cats with both physical and behavioral issues.”

  “I guess that makes sense.” Mirjam walks around me with handfuls of silverware. “Maybe I’d have taken one. Hadn’t crossed my mind before.”

  “Someone at the shelter would’ve told you.”

  “Yeah.” Mirjam tosses the knives in one bin and sighs. “I’m sure they would have.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  OCTOBER.

  The air was chillier by the day, yet Iris and her friends looked every bit as glamorous as in summer. I stepped off my bike and watched them shout to one another from halfway across the park, lugging carts over the lawn and carrying crates of drinks. Nearby speakers blasted music from a local Moroccan rock group.

  “You came!” Iris jogged to me. “Can I?”

  I nodded, e
mbarrassed as always, and she wrapped her arms around me and grinned by my ear. I returned the hug, one hand twined around her ribs.

  “We’ve missed you here, you know.”

  “Oh?” I eyed Iris’s friends. Two of them had put down a crate to dance, heads tossed back, laughing. I liked the idea of them wanting me here, but it was hard to believe. Whenever I attended these small festivals Iris and her friends organized around the neighborhood, I sat at a distant table. I liked the music, the food, the atmosphere, but I never really participated.

  “They like you,” Iris said. “They’re not sure you like them, but they like having you around. You’re honest, and say smart shit sometimes. I mean, I’m never around to hear when you do, but that’s what they tell me.”

  I laughed, hiding my blush. “Real nice, Iris. You want to hear what kind of honest things I tell them?”

  “Ouch. I don’t think I do.” Iris beamed. “It’s only right that you’re here for our very last festival. I have to help Kev and Anna set up the stage—Oh, damn, and call that bakabana guy. Food has been impossible to arrange. But go chain up your bike and we’ll talk about the Way Station in a minute, OK?”

  I shook my head without thinking about it.

  “No?” Iris already stepped away, but now she lingered.

  “I—” My breath caught in my throat.

  “You told them? That you’re not coming anymore?”

  I nodded, then shook my head again, then squeezed my eyes shut. Worse, I wanted to say. Worse. I’d held the panic at bay ever since leaving the Way Station hours before. I could keep it up a few hours longer to enjoy the festival. I’d nibble on warm bakabana and awkwardly turn down cute boys’ invitations to go dancing by the stage but feel flattered that they asked. I could do this. I could.

  “Take your time, sweetie.” Iris was back by my side.

  I made an odd sound in my throat. Another shake of my head. I managed to say, “Wednesday.” And: “A vet is coming. Wednesday.” I swallowed a lump and finally finished the sentence. Tears plunked onto the grass. “They’re putting the animals down.”

  As helpful as Mirjam was, most people I approach share Engine Room Guy’s reaction: they’re harried and confused and don’t want a stranger mucking with their work. I always felt the same way when we got a new volunteer at the shelter—they’d lift the cats wrong or leave the cages only half cleaned—so I can’t even really blame them.

  I circle my way back to the kitchens but slip into a nearby bathroom first.

  And come face-to-face with Mirjam. She’s standing in front of the mirror. The skin around her eyes is swollen; red-white splotches paint her cheeks. She’s been crying. Why would she be crying? She seemed fine when I left the kitchen half an hour ago. I stare, blink, trying to think of what I’m supposed to do.

  “What?” Mirjam snaps.

  “I’m sorry.” I scramble back. “I’ll go. I’m sorry.”

  I find another bathroom a few hallways away, offering my help to nearly everyone I pass. My mind is stuck on Mirjam: both her teary-eyed face, and her earlier explanation of how people had gotten onto the ship. We might not stand a chance the normal way, but Mirjam said that Captain Van Zand had made exceptions. He—or Michelle—might do the same for us. I have to keep trying.

  Still, by evening, my tenacity feels suspiciously like desperation.

  “Hi,” I say to a woman chugging a bottle of water. “This may be a strange question, but is there something I can help you with?”

  She looks around the hallway like there might be someone else talking to her, her water bottle hovering by her lips.

  “Your work, on the ship. Can I can help you with anything?” Smile, I think, hands still.

  “Why?”

  I’d like to say, So I can impress Michelle or Because it’s nice to be looked at with gratitude instead of pity, but I say what I’ve told everyone who asked: “The lockdown is getting to me. I’m trying to kill time.”

  “The lockdown just ended. Like five minutes ago.” She shrugs. Her water bottle sloshes. “You could probably help in the laundry rooms.”

  “The lockdown just ended. The lockdown just ended.” My hands flap. So much for keeping them still. All of a sudden, neither Mirjam nor the ship’s application process matters. I try to find words of my own. “Wait—we can leave the ship?”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s still raining dirt. But the worst is over, and we want the engineers to continue repairs as soon as possible, so . . .”

  Iris.

  “I have to go!” I almost shout. By the time I remember to thank her, I’m already up two flights of stairs and swerving toward the third.

  Mom isn’t in our cabin. I’ve barely seen her all day. I check the time on my tab, then realize just how long “all day” is: it’s dinnertime. The thought makes my stomach rumble. With my running around the ship, I completely skipped lunch.

  I’m getting used to an apocalyptic diet, I think, which has me smiling wryly.

  The lockdown is over. Iris. Iris!

  The more I’ve thought about it, the surer I am that if Iris is alive, she’s in the Gorinchem shelter our family was assigned to. She might’ve been late—she’s late all the time; she’s almost as bad as Mom—but that only means she’d have gone straight to the shelter rather than taking the long way around to meet us.

  If we can find her anywhere, we’ll find her there.

  From my nightstand, I grab the can with the remains of that morning’s mushroom ragout, spooning up bites as I jog back out again. I spot Mom in the third dining hall I check. She’s at a long table, laughing, her back to me.

  “Mom!” I cross the room. I have to step between her chair and her neighbor’s to see her face properly, and the nearness bugs me, but I push past it. “Mom, the lockdown is over. We can”—something is wrong, I realize, but too slowly—“go out to the shelter and find”—I swallow, my eyes meeting Mom’s shiny red ones—“Iris.”

  “Honey!” Mom rests her head against my hip.

  I flinch. I barely keep from backing into the woman behind me.

  “Oh, honey, don’t be like that. I’m just happy to see you. Isn’t this ship great? And look! Matthijs is here!”

  Matthijs? I set the ragout can on the table and follow Mom’s excited gaze. She’s talking about the man across from her. He’s tall and slick and tan and definitely familiar.

  “Little Denise?” he says. “Wow! I barely recognized you.”

  Little Denise. Now I remember him. He used to come over, years back when Mom still worked and her coworkers hadn’t yet dumped her for going overboard on the drugs. They’d pick her up or drop her off or sit on our couch and sniff the same crap Mom did.

  I never liked Matthijs. I never liked any of them. They leered and laughed too loudly, too late at night, and when Iris and I woke up the next morning the room would be a mess and sometimes one of them would be asleep on the couch, a trail of drool in my favorite spot. Sometimes they’d nudge us and make some racist joke that Mom tsk-tsked at but still didn’t stop them from telling; even Matthijs, who’s Indo, would say shit about my lips or hair and Iris’s—Iris’s everything, because back then no one outside of our family knew she was Iris yet, but they still knew something was different about my so-called brother, and—

  I’m bashing my fist into my collarbone. I try to gather my thoughts. They scramble out of reach like startled cats.

  “Honey, honey! Why don’t you calm down?” Mom reaches for my fist. I yank it back and slam my shoulder harder. Knuckles hitting flesh. Again, again, again. I can’t look at Mom like this. I hate those eyes. They’re too shiny, too restless and eager. She’s still smiling that sappy smile I wish I didn’t recognize.

  “Iris,” I say. “There’s no more lockdown. We can drive. Iris.”

  I look around the table. They’re staring at me, all five or six of them. I can’t count right now. I can’t look at them, either, so I just crane my neck and stare up at the ceiling.

>   “Iris,” I say again.

  “Honey, honey, why don’t you sit down? These people are so smart, Denise, God, you’ll love them. I was just telling them, I was just saying . . . this ship is like its own life. Do you get that? This ship is like its own life.” She tries to catch my gaze and nods, all seriousness.

  I hit myself louder. Again, again. The thudding reverberates into my lungs. “I have to go.”

  I squirm out from between Mom and the woman behind me. I snap my head down so I’m looking at the ground instead of the ceiling, and I’m still hitting my shoulder, and I forget the ragout but don’t want to go back.

  “What’s wrong? Honey!” Mom calls after me. She giggles, high-pitched, like she said the funniest thing.

  I flee.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE COLD AIR IN THE LOADING BAY where we entered the Nassau dizzies me. I breathe in deeply, as if that’ll help my throat and lungs adjust. All it does is hurt.

  The loading bay was empty when we arrived yesterday. Now, people in slick overalls mill about; some ride carts with unrecognizable equipment in the back. Two women push a floating transport down the ramp. Cold wind blows in, making the hair on my arms stand on end. I should’ve brought my coat.

  Mom’s car stands at the side of the bay. Head down, arms tight by my side, I avoid looking at the massive nothing of outside. My hand beats a tattoo against my thigh, the keys I hold supplying a pleasantly delayed beat. Hand—keys. Hand—keys. I slip through the crowd, hoping people either don’t notice me or don’t care, right up until I sidestep around a cart and Max comes up from behind it. He lights up. “Heyyy, Denise. What’re you up to?”

  I hide the keys and keep walking. This is a bad time to run into a new friend—if that’s what he is. “Nothing.”

  “Cold place to be up to nothing.” Max cocks his head. “Did Mirjam ever find you? She’s supposed to be joining us soon. Oh—oh! You should come with us, too!”

  Behind Max stand two girls and another boy, all dressed warmly. The boy holds a hammer and a pick in mittened hands, while one of the girls grips a crowbar like she’s threatening to smash someone’s face in. “We’re raiding Schiphol,” she says.