On the Edge of Gone

by Corinne Duyvis

  I’m shaking. Full-on shaking. I don’t even know if I’m breathing. All I know is that I have to move forward. I have to get closer.

  “Iris.” It comes out a gasp.

  I release the clutch. The scooter slows. Bumps into the canoe. Iris has a paddle in her hand. She’s no longer moving. She’s staring at my eyes while I stare at the rest of her. Her coat. Her legs. Her hair, cut short to her ears instead of hanging halfway down her back. The scratched and scuffed canoe. Her chin. Her face is sharper, smudged with dirt, but it’s her face, hers.

  “You’re alive,” I say. Then: “You’re here.”

  Iris lets out a startled laugh. “And you have a water scooter.”

  “You’re here.”

  Iris pulls the paddle into the canoe and reaches for my water scooter. She tugs herself closer, then climbs on, the scooter swaying under her added weight. I sit, still and confused, as I feel my sister settling in behind me.

  I felt that same presence yesterday, when we found that family and dropped them off by the highway. I’d been so tense at having a child sitting behind me, I’d barely been able to focus.

  “Iris,” I say, more of a statement than anything else.

  “Can I . . .” Her voice sounds shaky. I feel a light pressure on my shoulder. “Can I?”

  “I hurt my left arm.”

  She says nothing.

  I forgot the most important part. “Yes,” I whisper.

  Iris is so careful, like she’s concerned one wrong move will startle me away from her. One wrong move will break me. One wrong move will send me up in a puff of smoke, like I’m not really here.

  Her hand slides around my waist, under my sling. The other wraps around my good arm. She’s slow, so I can tell what’s coming. Her head rests against my back. She squeezes, short, hard.

  I grab her hand with mine. She sucks in a breath, and then she trembles and she sobs and all I can do is lean back and stare into the dark, dazed and happy.

  “I was going to go home,” Iris says.

  We’re sitting across from each other, a flashlight pinned between us. Iris sits on the back of the scooter, cross-legged, while I’ve awkwardly turned in the driver’s seat. I tap a clawed hand on my thigh. My gloves mute the feel, so I tap hard, my fingers tense.

  “I was going to,” Iris continues. She toys with the wrapper to the breakfast bar I gave her. “I was waiting here because . . . I was scared of what I’d find at the apartment. I stopped at Gorinchem, but they said you never came, and I didn’t know if you were stuck at home, I . . .” She shakes her head as if confused. “How did you get that scooter?”

  “We never made it to Gorinchem.” I tell her everything: my final talk with Dad and how worried he was about us; Mom ignoring Iris’s disappearance, then insisting we wait for her; the Nassau; looting the airport; the flood; meeting Samira and Nordin two days ago. I gesture at my arm. As much as it hurts, it’s become a point of pride. It’s proof: I went out there. I can do more than read about cats.

  “All that,” Iris whispers when I’m done. Her voice is rough. She’s spent days with an ill-fitting air filter. I gave her a spare I’d brought, but the dust must have gotten deep into her lungs. She keeps taking off the filter to cough. “All that.”

  “All that,” I confirm, “and you weren’t even at Gorinchem. Where were you? How did you get here?”

  “And you’re on a ship?” She shakes her head a second time. “You’re serious. You’re on a generation ship.”

  “Yes.” I wasn’t supposed to tell her that, but I don’t care. Iris. Iris!

  “You’re leaving the planet.”

  “Yes!” When Iris left, we were as good as doomed. We were barely managing even before the comet hit. Rations, triple door locks. I didn’t mind those. I minded everything else. I minded the mass suicides, the violence, the refugee camps, the flyers, the street preachers misusing emergency proximity messages to warn about hell. I minded dying.

  I smile a bright, nervous smile. “I did it, Iris. I’m on a generation ship. And I’m working on getting you on board. The Nassau takes off on Friday; we have a few days.” I’m about to launch into an explanation when it hits me that she never answered my question. “How did you get here?”

  Iris gestures at the canoe we tied to the scooter. The current keeps slamming it into us, then yanking it away. “I found this.”

  “I mean, how did you survive? Where were you?”

  Iris is always quick—quick-minded and quick-witted and quick-talking. When she’s slow, it’s a deliberate kind of slow for my benefit. Her blank stare now doesn’t feel deliberate.

  I’m about to ask again when it’s like something inside her mind flicks back on. “I couldn’t leave Belgium on time. I found a shelter on the way. Then I had to figure out how to cross the water.”

  “You never came back from the party.” I feel petulant to bring it up.

  “In Belgium, I met someone who was organizing a private shelter. A permanent one. A whole group of us discussed the logistics. I didn’t mean to worry you. I thought I was helping us . . . find a place.”

  “Well, we’ve got a place now.” Iris was looking for a way to survive, and I’m the one who found it. I found her. It’s all falling into place. “We have to tell Captain Van Zand and Els you’re back. They didn’t want Mom on board because she’s so unreliable, but you can work! And you’re young! They want younger people on board.”

  She tilts her head. “Why?”

  I open my mouth to explain. It’s obvious. The Nassau is a generation ship, so they need people to actually . . . It clicks. “Oh.”

  “Exactly. Not happening.” She doesn’t seem bothered. She’s even smiling. It’s a faint, crooked smile, one I almost recognize as the one she used to have.

  I recognize it as something else, too. It looks like Mom’s.

  The thought jolts me. I push it away, focusing on what I was saying before, the words tumbling out easily. “Still! You can work! I’ve only worked for a few days, but Els says she likes having me there. It might mean that you and Mom get moved higher up the waiting list.”

  “How is Mom?”

  “She’s . . . she’s Mom.” I laugh. It fades when Iris doesn’t join me. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her like this since right after Dad left. She’s desperate to get on board. I told her I’m working on it, but I don’t think she believed me. I told her about searching for barrels, but . . .”

  “Barrels?”

  “Yes. The missing supplies I mentioned.”

  “Blue barrels?” She coughs again, taking off her filter and covering her mouth with a filth-crusted sleeve. “With a white lid?”

  My hand stops tapping, a still claw on my leg. At first I think, She’s found a barrel. I can trade it for energy and finally get to Gorinchem.

  Then I look at Iris across from me, her hair matted and too short, her skin dirty, her voice rough from days of dust, but Iris nonetheless. She’s here already. I no longer need to get to Gorinchem. “You saw a barrel?”

  “Washed up. Not far from here. You’re telling me it’s from your ship?”

  “If it is,” I say, my words slow, “we might not need that waiting list anymore. If you explain to the captain you found it . . .”

  “We can get on board. Really? Even one barrel would be our ticket in?”

  I hadn’t even thought in terms of we and our. Iris is right, though. This is Mom’s best chance of getting on board.

  “Yes. Anyone with supplies gets on board, guaranteed. Does the barrel contain seeds? Is it intact? Unopened?”

  “Don’t know. How can I tell if it’s seeds without opening it?”

  “There’s a number branded on one edge. If the third-to-last number is a two, it’s seeds.”

  “OK.” She studies the scooter we’re sitting on.

  “Yeah. The scooter will be faster and safer,” I say when I realize what she must be pondering.

  “What?”

  “The scooter. To pi
ck up the barrel. We can leave the canoe behind.”

  She hesitates. “There won’t be room for the barrel and the both of us.”

  “Then we’ll take the canoe and drag it behind us.”

  “It’d go faster without. Just one of us.”

  That means Iris, since she knows where to find the barrel. “But what if you . . . There’s no GPS. It’s dark. The water is dangerous. What if you get lost?” I’m babbling. If she leaves on this scooter, I’ll be here in the dark. It’s like nothing will have changed. I’ll be back to being alone, and desperate, and not knowing where my sister is.

  She’s right, though.

  And it’s not like I’m not used to staying behind.

  “OK.” The word has a sour taste. “I’ll wait. But here, use my tab. You’ll at least have a map.” I fire it up with a twist of my wrist, but Iris shakes her head.

  “I remember the route,” Iris says. “You need your tab.”

  “But I’ll wait right here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Waiting, floating around a playground, seems like nothing compared to what I’ve been through. “Yes. I’m sure.”

  Iris’s lips settle into the same smile as before. “Nah. Keep it. I’ll be back soon.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  OUR TRIP BACK TO THE AIRPORT IS SLOW, me and the barrel on the scooter and Iris in the canoe. We give the Nassau a wide berth so they won’t see the glow of our lightstrips yet. I point out the remains of the airport to Iris as we pass—the collapsed roads, the parking garages, the departures deck. Iris barely looks.

  I fall silent. I focus on maintaining the scooter’s speed. A low hum, so Iris can keep up. It’s only been days since the flood, but the ever-present water has become almost normal. Only when I stop—really stop—to think about the grass that lies meters underneath, the roads we’ve driven over dozens of times now buried and gone, does panic itch up on me and wind long, narrow fingers around my throat.

  So I don’t stop. I don’t think about it.

  This is temporary. This world is done for. I’ve known that for over half a year. The ship is home now, and I’ve got Iris, and that’s what matters.

  We finally halt at the building Mom is in and we drag the scooter and canoe halfway up the rubble. We use the same rubble as a stepping-stone to the next floor. The wall is gone entirely, letting us climb up easily, though I muffle a scream when my arm catches on the floor.

  Once inside, Iris leans forward, hands on her legs. “Sorry,” she pants. “I need a second. I haven’t . . . eaten much lately.”

  I shift my weight from foot to foot. We’re so close to getting back on the Nassau—warm, bright, clean, safe. The sooner we’re there, the sooner we’ll know if Iris can stay. And the sooner she can eat and recover.

  “I can run and get Mom myself,” I offer. I sound surprisingly tentative. I strengthen my voice as I continue: “I know this place. I’ll be quick.”

  It takes a minute to convince her. Then I’m off, faster now that I’m on my own, darting around the debris and taking care not to slip on mud-slick ground. The airport has never felt comfortable—it’s cold, all mess and stink and dark—but I’m learning my way around, the images in my mind in line with what the airport is now rather than overlaid with what it used to be. I’m at the office within minutes.

  I let air hiss out through my teeth as my flashlight illuminates an empty room. Mom’s bag leans against the couch, her shoes by its side. The blanket is all twisted up. An empty can of ragout lies in the middle of the room. I go back to the hall where I found her yesterday. My voice bounces off the walls. “Mom!”

  She’s not in the hall, either.

  “Mom! This is important!”

  I trail through the airport, hyperaware of how Iris must be waiting for me. I told her I’d be quick.

  “Mom!”

  I hear her before I see her. Steps. Mumbled words, barely audible over the rush of wind and water. I point my flashlight at the direction her voice is coming from. Nothing.

  I step around a gaping hole in the ground. A set of escalators, still and rusting, leads into the black. This used to be a terminal, I think, with gates farther down this broad hallway.

  I move on, my flashlight aimed straight ahead. The wind cuts me deep. I yank at my hood as I take a closer look. The terminal goes only so far. Maybe ten or fifteen meters in, the walls disappear, turning it into less of a hallway, more of a pier. Farther down, it’s not even that: the entire rest of the structure got swept away.

  And there, at the very end with nothing but darkness behind her, is Mom. She doesn’t react when I call out. I pick up my pace.

  She’s not wearing her coat or shoes. She’s got socks on, dirty wet ones, with holes that her toes stick out of. The beam of my flashlight catches on red stains on the ground. She’s cut herself.

  I point the light at her face again. She blinks at the brightness, turns away. I’ve seen this look. She’s gone. She’s walking, she’s seeing, she’s muttering things I can barely understand, but she’s gone. Her body turns in a slow half circle as she looks around, her eyes on some distant thing I’ll never see.

  I’m cold even in my coat and gloves, but Mom’s wearing only a baggy sweater. She lets her arms hang limp at her sides instead of rubbing herself warm, as anyone else might. I bet she doesn’t even have goose bumps. I bet she doesn’t feel any of the cuts on her soles.

  I bet she could walk two meters straight ahead and fall into the nothing, and not even care.

  “I was going to get you on board,” I tell her, wind whipping around us. “I was going to get you what you wanted.”

  All the elation I felt over Iris and the barrel seems like days ago. I look at Mom’s shredded feet. I want to go to my room. My room at home, not the Nassau. I want to wait this out the way I always do.

  “Come on, Mom,” I say after a minute, and reach for her hand.

  Mom lets herself be led. Every now and then she sees me. She’ll say something nonsensical, and five seconds later another thing grabs her attention and she’s staring a million kilometers ahead again.

  After several minutes, we’re near where I left Iris. I’m about to call out, stopping myself just in time.

  I hear voices.

  There’s no point in asking Mom to wait or be silent. I let go of her arm and speed up. The voices sharpen. I recognize Iris’s, but not the second voice. I shuffle closer.

  “. . . stole it . . . ,” the unfamiliar voice says.

  “I promise, I’ve never set foot on the Nassau. I understand your concern. I found the barrel outside.” Iris has a tone of voice I know. I’m not arguing, I’m explaining. I’m staying cool. I’m not a threat. Please don’t see me as a threat. “My sister is a passenger on your ship. She asked for my help in looking for the missing supplies. I came here to find her.”

  “You came to the airport instead of the Nassau itself?” The man snorts. “Look, I’m taking that barrel back on board. You decide whether to take it up with the captain.”

  Iris is angry. Even in the silence, I can tell. Her voice barely betrays it. “Could we perhaps look for my sister first?”

  We’ve discussed our story on the way to the airport, so I know what to say. I’ve been practicing the words. The only problem is that our story involved Mom. Supposedly, I’d found Iris in town earlier today, and she told me she knew of a better place for Mom to sleep. They’d gone together and stumbled on the barrels I’d told Mom about. The story is simpler without Mom. Hell, the story is true without Mom. I did find Iris, and Iris did find the barrel. I still have to take a moment to adjust my story before I dare step around the corner.

  “Iris?” The awe in my voice is genuine. She’s been gone for over a week. Seeing her like this barely feels real. She stands straight, right in front of the rubble where the scooter—and barrel—are parked, as if guarding them.

  “Denise! I found one of those barrels we talked about!” She gives me a pointed look.


  I’m silent for a moment, but once it clicks, I think I sound convincing enough: “You’re sure? Is it intact?” I glance at the man she’s talking to, to see if he buys it. Iris’s flashlight lights him from below. I blink in surprise. Beard, telescope slung around his shoulders. “You’re Captain Van Zand’s brother? You warned me about the tsunami.” You’re the one who grabbed me and tried to throw me out.

  “You’re the girl . . . Oh. You’re sisters?” When I nod, he adds, “You weren’t supposed to tell anyone about the ship.”

  I’m prepared for this. “I wouldn’t have, but when she mentioned the barrel . . . I got the impression supplies mattered more than secrecy.”

  “Will you let us take the barrel to the Nassau?” Iris coughs.

  “Yeah, yeah. All right. I had to make sure, you know?” He shifts his attention to me. “I will tell my brother what happened here.”

  The threat is clear: If this barrel doesn’t get back to the ship, you won’t, either.

  “Of course.” Iris smiles.

  “Thank you,” I say belatedly. “For warning me about the wave the other day. And sorry. For, um. If I hit you.”

  “Yeah.” He narrows his eyes as he moves past us. “All right.”

  Iris’s smile turns into a frown once he leaves our sight. “You hit him?”

  “Not very hard,” I say. “I think. How did he even find you? The airport is huge!”

  “And dead silent. He heard me cough. Where’s Mom?”

  “She’s high. She hurt herself.”

  “Of course.” Iris sounds more tired than frustrated. I’m oddly pleased to realize how easily I recognize that. I like my friends on the ship, but they’re still just that—friends on the ship. A former teacher, a cute boy, a kindhearted girl. Iris, I know. She’s familiar, like retracing my footsteps on the beach or snuggling into the same dent in my pillow at night.

  “How badly hurt is she?”

  “Not terribly.” I kept an eye on the bloodstains as Mom and I walked. They were small. Infection would be a bigger problem, but we can prevent that.