On the Edge of Gone

by Corinne Duyvis

  “How did you get this thing, anyway?” Matthijs grins. “I love how I told you you couldn’t get one, and by the end of the day, bam! There you are.”

  I keep my eyes straight ahead. It’s silly, how uneasy he makes me. He’s acting normal. He’s friendly, by any objective standard.

  I just keep thinking of little Denise, of Matthijs’s lazy sprawl and lazier smile, the way he didn’t give a shit there were ten- and twelve-year-olds in the apartment he got high in, ten- and twelve-year-olds left alone in the apartment he picked up Mom from.

  “I got lucky,” I say.

  “Oh, come on. Details.”

  I’m silent for a moment, swallowing a lump of effort from pushing up the scooter. We’re nearly at the loading bay. “I traded with a couple I met near my apartment. The scooter for the food my mother and I had stored.” I want to leave it at that—short and sweet—but he’s looking at me with that same lazy grin from years ago. I want to wipe it off his face. “And my mother’s ketamine.”

  The grin only grows wider. I wish I hadn’t said anything. “Ouch,” he says. “Was it a lot?”

  “All she had stored.”

  “Your mother OK with that?”

  With a last grunt, we push the scooter into the loading bay, onto horizontal ground. I stand upright and let my spine crack. I can’t believe I ever thought of the light inside as faint—compared to lightstrips and flashlights, it’s like I’m staring into the sun. I keep my eyes on the floor while I get used to it, but still see Matthijs looking at me expectantly in my peripheral vision.

  “I haven’t told her.”

  “Might be smart. How’s she doing, anyway?”

  “You could check,” I say mulishly. “She’s close.”

  “I’ve been a little busy.” He gestures at the water outside.

  “OK.” I step back. “Good night.” The words come automatically—it’s what you say at night when you part ways—but all they do is make Matthijs frown.

  “Seriously, Denise, how’s she doing? I’m worried. I always thought she’d sort herself out after she got fired, but she looks even worse now than she did back then.”

  “She’s not happy about being left behind.” I almost tell him she asked me to smuggle her on board. The memory makes me prickly again. I’m being useful. They like me here. I can’t throw that away.

  “Your mother’s such a sweet woman. She’s a mess, but she’s sweet.”

  Again, I hold my tongue. People tell me this a lot. Mom is so sweet, and so caring. Mom is so eager to help. Mom is such fun at parties.

  Aside from Iris, Matthijs is the first one to call her a mess, though.

  “I probably should visit her,” Matthijs muses.

  I take a second to consider that. The way Mom practically shouted the word alone comes back to me. “Yes. I think she’d like that.”

  And she might ask him to smuggle her on board, instead of me.

  “I missed you at lunch.”

  I stop abruptly at the sound of Max’s voice. The hallways are nearly empty this time of night, but I hadn’t heard his footsteps at all.

  “Sorry, I worked through lunch.” They noticed I wasn’t there? They wanted me there? All of a sudden, I wish I had been.

  “Did you go outside again? Is your arm any better?” Max comes up beside me, squinting as if thinking. Without giving me time to respond—or giving himself time to breathe—he goes on. “I’m sorry if I was, I don’t know, intrusive last night? About your mother? And your being autistic? I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. I was just kind of relieved to find out. Is that weird?”

  I frown. I could understand hesitant or surprised, even intrigued. But: “Relieved?”

  “You, um, you never looked at me. Lack of eye contact is an autism thing, right?”

  “Yes. Sorry.”

  He makes a face. “Don’t be sorry! It’s not bad. I just misunderstood; I thought maybe you didn’t like me. Does it hurt you or something? Can I ask that?”

  “Eye contact? No. Maybe it hurts for some people, but not for me. It’s . . .” I’ve tried for years to put it into words. All the things I want to compare it to—music that’s too loud, flavor that’s too strong, images that flash too quickly—are different for other people, too, so it never feels quite right. At least the halls are quiet, the lights pleasantly dimmed; we have our privacy. “I can do it for, like, half a second. Anything longer is just too much. Too intense. It scrambles my brain.”

  It’s intimate, I think but don’t say aloud.

  “Right,” he says slowly.

  “Like a shock,” I say, trying again. “Like a jolt that goes through me the second I make eye contact, or someone touches me when I don’t expect it . . . like those things are suddenly so present, so loud and intrusive. It’s so overwhelming I can’t think right.”

  Both my body and brain are tired after my trip into town, and I need to catch up on last night’s missed sleep, but I want to explain, even if simply talking about it already makes me feel uncomfortably warm. At least Max asked, rather than using the autism entries on his tab as a Handbook to Explaining Denise the way Mom does.

  And I think—I hope—Max is asking not because he wants to know how it works, but because he wants to know how I work.

  And I want him to.

  “So, no. It’s not because . . .” I lick my lips. “That’s not it.”

  His grin stretches wider. “Well. Good.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  THE FELINE ANATOMY BOOK SITS ON my bedside table. It’s big enough to take up half the surface.

  Thoughts of Max fade. Even thoughts of outside. I just feel . . . heavy. My fingers linger on the edge of the cover. I stare at the cat on the front, a beautiful calico tabby with a fleck on her nose. We were brought a cat like that at the shelter, months ago.

  We killed her along with the others.

  I want to take the book into bed with me, flick through the pages and memorize the different vocalizations and the name of that free-floating bone in their chest, but I don’t pick it up. I’m not sure why I even brought the book. I deleted the files on my tab for a reason. It’s silly. It’s weak. It’s useless. I’m going into space. I’ll live there and die there, and I’ll never see another cat in my life.

  I have work in the morning. I should brush my teeth and sleep. I let my hand drop from the cover.

  My brand-new routine is a mess, but it’s a routine. I get up at seven forty-five, and I start work at nine; today, Els and I catalog the supplies I sorted yesterday and run calculations depending on which of the water-soaked seeds can be salvaged and which ones can’t.

  I update the ship on the state of the repairs, and I have lunch with Fatima and Max and Sanne and spend half of it blushing at a story of Fatima’s about a classmate of hers, though not blushing nearly as hard as Max. Then he tells a story of his own and grins in a way that makes me heat up even more.

  This is normal, I think. Work and friends and crushes.

  So I tease them back. I talk about yesterday’s trip outside. I tell Max about my plan to find Iris. I return to work with Els.

  I imagine doing this for years to come, except with Iris joining me for lunch and listening to my stories of working on the public information system. I’m good at what I do. Els said so. Iris would be proud.

  I like this routine. I have to: it’s the only future I have.

  I visit Mom and try to hold on to the fluttering lightness even when I tell her, No, I’m working on it, please, please, no.

  I ride the water scooter back into town. Matthijs said to let him know if the scooter acts up again, but it deals smoothly with the wind and currents. I like the purr of the engine—at least when I can hear it. The howling wind and sloshing water drown it out half the time. The foam of whitecaps spills over the edges as I fight to keep the scooter straight.

  I stare at the emptiness ahead and overhead. Not much longer, I think. Five days. Not much longer now.

  “I’ve gotta
eat these beans,” Nordin says after we spend an hour roaming through an abandoned building. I checked my own apartment again, too, inside and out, not letting myself linger on the absence of any signs of Iris. “I’ve gotta eat these beans, and I’ve gotta eat them now, or I’ll descend into cannibalism.”

  Samira laughs. She checks the old-fashioned watch around her wrist. Their tabs ran out of power days ago. With the sky pitch-dark, there’s no other way for them to tell time and know when to wait for me at the AMC or when to pray.

  The watch batteries can’t last forever, either, a voice whispers at me. The food will run out, too.

  We find a sheltered spot in an empty apartment—no wind, less seawater stink—and Nordin filters water while Samira uncaps the jar of brown beans I found them, miraculously still whole and airtight.

  “You want some?” she offers.

  “I’m fine, thank you.” Even after sneaking away bits for Mom, I eat plenty on the ship—and I’ll eat even better months from now, once we have crops to harvest and no longer need to rely on stored supplies. Samira and Nordin don’t have that to look forward to. I have a breakfast bar in my backpack, too, that I don’t know how to give them.

  Samira retrieves their spoon. “You didn’t take that much food from your safe, did you? Not for two people.”

  “I don’t like brown beans.” It’s only partly a lie: I do like one brand.

  “You’re being picky?” Samira laughs. “Now?”

  “She doesn’t want the beans, Sami.” Nordin pokes her thigh with his foot.

  “Well, she’s got to eat.”

  “I’m eating,” I assure her. “Just not while I’m here.”

  Samira keeps her eyes on me as she sticks a spoon into the jar. I look away, shining my flashlight here and there. This used to be an apartment—the cracked wood of the floor and the rotting wallpaper evidence that. It looks like no one has set foot here for years. It feels like that, too. The floor is ice-cold even through the fabric of my coat. It’s hard to imagine that, only one or two weeks ago, people might have been snuggled in a corner, watching TV with a cat purring nearby and the heater on.

  That’s what life is supposed to be like. Not—this.

  “What are you two planning?” I ask. “You can’t keep this up long-term.”

  “We visited more shelters today,” Nordin says, his mouth full. He holds his filter to his face, taking it off only to scoop up another bite.

  Samira nods. “We told them about the woman who took the third water scooter eastward for help. It might encourage them, knowing that help is on the way. They’re working on building rafts themselves—they want to send more people to get help, and send the weaker people to safety, too. Anyone who can’t survive on the rationed food levels.”

  “Rafts will be slow,” I say. “It took me all day to reach the Bijlmer. And it’s dangerous. If you hadn’t knocked me off, it would’ve happened on the way back. And the cold . . .”

  “Yeah, and it’s not like there’s an oasis of food waiting when they reach the shore.” Nordin lets out a half laugh. “All the east of the country has going for it is that it isn’t underwater. People there are just as screwed as we are.”

  Iris, I think.

  “It’s not a perfect plan,” Samira says, “but it’s what we have. We’re helping the shelters communicate and trade what supplies they have left. I help as a medic, too.”

  It must be nice having the skills to help. Being valuable no matter what. If anyone has a chance of survival, it must be Samira, but looking at her now—in her ragged clothes, gulping down cold beans—it’s hard to believe that.

  “They thank us with food and energy for the scooters,” she goes on. “Sometimes, anyway.”

  “What about going east yourselves?” I ask.

  “We’re not leaving our family.” She practically stabs the jar with her spoon, then hands it to Nordin. “When you say it took you all day to come here on your raft, where were you coming from?”

  I normally avoid lying, but I can do it convincingly when needed. Aside from the time it takes me to come up with the words, it’s no different from any other conversation. Smile when appropriate. Attempt eye contact. Think my words through so I don’t clam up. There can’t be much more to it.

  I still don’t like lying, though.

  “Nieuw-West,” I say. That part of town is roughly the same distance and direction as Schiphol, so it’s believable. “We stayed in a community center.”

  “You said you weren’t in a shelter for the impact, right?”

  I scramble to remember what I’ve told her. “Right. It wasn’t a shelter. Just a sturdy building.”

  “I’ve seen you checking your tab.”

  Nordin frowns, looking from her to me.

  “How did your tab survive?” When I don’t immediately answer, Samira goes on, “The shelters were lined with materials to safeguard electronics. If you weren’t in one . . .”

  I hadn’t thought to hide it, but she’s right. An impact like last week’s—God, it’s been a week already?—causes some kind of EMP burst. “We were in the basement for the impact itself,” I lie. “Maybe it was lined with the same material as the shelters.”

  “Maybe,” Samira echoes. “Did we tell you? Our shelter wasn’t even properly protected. All the electronics fried. People with pacemakers died. Others lost the use of their prosthetics. A few hundred people had to survive on candles and flashlights. We were lucky to find replacement tabs in other shelters, on the wrists of people who’d died. What I mean to say is . . . even the shelters aren’t always safe. Some took a lot of damage. Constructing the permanent shelters and generation ships must’ve taken priority over the temporary ones.” She doesn’t even sound bitter. Instead, her eyes sharpen as though she’s homing in on something. “But you somehow stumbled on a basement that safeguarded you perfectly? You’re eating well enough to turn down food, you don’t look nearly as dirty as you should being outside all the time, you don’t stink, you wear new clothes . . .”

  I voice the words “Thank you” before I realize this isn’t the right situation.

  “You’re not even worried about your arm. Your scooter is charged every day. Are you at a real shelter?”

  I stare at Samira’s jeans, which are stained and torn.

  “Why would you lie? We thought we were helping you.”

  “You are,” I say, glad to have at least part of an answer.

  “So? Can you explain the rest?” Samira throws up her arms. “I don’t want to put you on the spot. I know this is difficult, I know you’re . . . probably not neurologically typical . . . but I just want an answer, OK?”

  “My mother and I prepared well” is all I can come up with. I clamber to my feet, my eyes still anywhere except on Samira’s. “I’m sorry. You are helping me. I’m going out to look for more food. OK? I’m sorry. I’m going out. I’m going out. I’m—”

  I slam my mouth shut and turn to find my scooter.

  I meant it when I said I’d look for more food, but I find myself scanning the water and rubble for blue plastic more than for the sight of wrapped food or floating jars.

  I don’t know if I can tell Samira no if she asks for the scooter back. They’re not looking to save a single sister trapped inside a shelter—they’re looking to save everyone in those shelters.

  The thoughts creep back in every time I think I’ve got them pushed away in favor of rough waters and the lightstrips on my scooter. I’m near the park where Iris organized the final Flavor Fest three—four?—months ago. I drift closer. I’d been quiet that evening, thinking of the cats at the Way Station, but I’d liked the smells of the food, the way a boy stood up for me and winked when a musician teased me about walking past the stage with my hands clamped to my ears; I’d liked the way Iris got swept into a dance near my table, the way she bent and shimmied in front of me and wagged her finger at me.

  “It’s the last Fest, sweetie,” she’d whispered, far enough from my ear so I woul
dn’t recoil from her breath. “It’s now or never.”

  Her eyes had glimmered with tears when she pulled back. I’d let her pull me into a dance and I’d laughed and almost forgotten about how the animals were dead and the rest of us would follow.

  Now the park is a mess of branches and roots. They cast long, gnarly shadows on the water as I take out my flashlight and sweep it across. No sign of blue barrels. I rev up the engine, push the scooter farther. I must be near the pond. There’s that old playground the city was planning on tearing down. A twisted jungle gym emerges from the water, somehow still standing.

  No blue.

  I aim my flashlight left. The swing set is gone. The merry-go-round is lodged in tree roots in the distance.

  My hand freezes when the light hits the slide.

  No blue, but there’s movement.

  A figure sitting on top. Turning her head. Shielding her eyes at the glow.

  I drop the flashlight. It bounces from the scooter, splashes into the water. I’m still staring at the same spot in the dark where the slide stood.

  “Iris?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  SHE’S CALLING MY NAME AND I’M LEANING over the edge of the scooter, grabbing the flashlight I dropped, the half-submerged beam bobbing up and down. I muffle a scream as the movement shoots pain through my arm.

  “Denise!” she shouts.

  There’s splashing. There’s screaming. The flashlight dips under my fingers, then—there—I clench my fist around it and aim the light back to where it was.

  The slide is empty. No one sits on top. For a fraction of a second, it’s like I made it all up. The slide was always empty. I never saw Iris, wide eyes, gaunt cheeks, her hair a mess. I never heard her voice.

  But the water is still splashing.

  I lower the flashlight, illuminating a canoe, a hunched figure.

  “Denise!” The word rings out over the water.

  I almost drop the flashlight a second time. I clamp it between my knees and grip the clutch to push the scooter forward. A light ignites near the canoe. Iris has her own flashlight. It shakes and blasts right in my eyes and then on the scooter.