by Toby Neal
My mother played a role as a Senator’s wife, but she fought for me as best she could, especially the last time we saw each other, when Dad wanted me to stay in Washington in a secure bunker.
Mom understood that I’d fallen in love and needed to be with JT—that he was my future. She gave me her blessing to go, knowing she might never see me again.
Susanna Johnson would never have expected her daughter to be a caregiver.
“Hey.” I lift the patient’s chin, forcing those dull eyes to look up. “June Sproat. What’s going on? Are you thinking of suicide?”
The woman blinks once, long and slow. A yes.
I let go of the woman’s chin and step back. Anger is followed by a crush of sympathy. It’s impossible to guess all the horrors this woman has passed through since Scorch Flu first broke out. She’s not the first suicidal patient we’ve seen, and she won’t be the last.
But this woman can’t give up, not when so many have died and she has someone who needs her.
“Uh. We all struggle with negative thoughts and feelings since the Scorching. Do you want to talk about it?”
A single shake of her head, no.
What can I do? I’m no counselor. Melody will know what to say. She’s so good with people. “Just a minute.”
Melody is kneeling at the coffee table doing a puzzle with Cassie in the waiting room. “Melody, can you come here a minute?”
My best friend rises with a reassuring smile to Cassie. “Be right back, hon.” She is totally gorgeous, even with no makeup on, wearing a set of purple scrubs. I’m so glad Melody is in my life again, no matter how shitty a day we’re having.
A wave of gratitude wipes out the simmering anger and despair that Mrs. Sproat triggered in me. I’m so lucky compared to most left alive.
“What’s wrong?”
I usher my friend into the exam room and shut the door. “Mrs. Sproat is suicidal.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Melody shows nothing but kind concern as she fetches a rolling stool and scoots over to Mrs. Sproat. She clasps the woman’s hands in hers. “I’m sorry you’re feeling this way. I met your daughter, Cassie, and she is lovely.”
The woman nods.
At the sink, I wash my hands and tidy up supplies, listening.
“Tell me about Cassie,” Melody says.
“She’s ten.” Mrs. Sproat’s voice sounds like the rattle of corn in the bottom of a metal bucket. “She’s a good girl.”
“I can see that. She’s worried about you.” Mrs. Sproat hangs her head, shame infusing her posture. “Tell me why you want to die.”
I twitch at the starkness of the question, but Mrs. Sproat replies. “Everyone is gone. My parents. My husband. My brothers and sisters. My son, Cassie’s brother. He was only two.” Her voice trembles. “We have a small farm outside of North Fork.” She twists her fingers. “I can’t keep it up alone.”
“I understand why you feel overwhelmed. Lots of people do. You’re not alone. We can help you. Do you two need food?”
Mrs. Sproat nods.
“Good. We have a communal meal at the rec hall every night. My mother-in-law makes an amazing lasagna.” Mrs. Sprout doesn’t respond. “We’ll have someone bring some over to your place if you like. How does that sound?”
“Cassie would appreciate it.” Mrs. Sproat is still looking down.
Melody stands up and moves behind her. “Do you mind if I massage your shoulders a bit? Very therapeutic if you’ve been tense.”
“I don’t know what good it will do.” But the woman allows Melody to rub her shoulders.
Melody goes on. “We are working hard to grow food at the Haven to help the whole town. JT and the Sheriff have organized some work teams. Would you like us to send some guys out to help, check out what you need done on the farm? In return, you’d share some of your food when harvest time comes.”
“I’d like that. Yes.”
“And I’ll come too. Maybe help you in the house if you need it,” Melody says. “I bet a little spring cleaning is in order.”
“Probably.” The woman sighs, and her hands fall open on her lap. Tears slip down her cheeks. “Thank you.” Her shoulders sag under Melody’s skillful touch.
“I’ll go keep Cassie company,” I say.
Out in the waiting room, Cassie has made a little progress on the huge puzzle. “You seem to have a knack for that.”
“I like putting things together,” Cassie says. When she looks up I see pain in her eyes, the same pain that is pulling her mother down toward death.
“We have a lot to put back together, but you are good at it.” I kneel beside the child. “Hopefully your mom will feel better soon.”
Hunting for the brightly colored pieces beside the girl is soothing. Gradually I relax, knowing Melody is the best medicine for whatever ails Mrs. Sproat. “I’m hunting for a missing piece, too. In my science lab. I’m trying to make a vaccine for the Scorch Flu.”
“And I’ve no doubt you will succeed.” A familiar voice, roughened and scratchy, speaks from the doorway. There is a guard at the entrance, so this must be a patient.
I look up into the face of a tall, thin man with a thick silver beard and unkempt gray hair. He wears tattered clothes that were once good quality, and he has the same piercing blue eyes I see every day when I look in the mirror.
“Dad?” My lips are numb with shock.
Chapter Six
Dad
I gaze down into my own eyes, set into the face of my best friend.
Elizabeth inherited Susanna’s delicate features, ashy blonde hair, and slender frame. But those eyes with that steely glint in them, even through her glasses, came from me. We share a diamond core of strength, a hardness of will that Susanna never possessed.
Elizabeth rises slowly as we stare at each other.
She has filled out since I saw her in Washington. Her face is pink at the cheekbones and her eyes are clear, her skin unblemished by the dark circles she wore when I saw her last.
Susanna would be so pleased that she is doing well.
My heart hammers as emotion squeezes off my voice.
All we ever wanted was Elizabeth’s happiness and safety. As a United States Senator, I gathered wealth and power around me like a warrior brandishes his weapons, in order to protect my small family and make the world a better place. Before the Scorching, nothing could touch us.
But I failed.
Now I must tell Elizabeth that Susanna is gone.
My daughter’s eyes roam up and down, taking in the evidence of the weary road I traveled to get to her. After Susanna’s passing, the rest of the government fell around me but I escaped, taking an armor-plated Humvee and driving out of Washington. Over the thousands of miles it took to reach my daughter, I changed.
I left in a Humvee, and arrived on foot. I started in a suit, but arrived in rags. I set out a man in mourning, and arrive a harbinger of death. But I survived. My hands have squeezed the life out of men, stolen food and supplies, and helped the dying take their last sip of water.
Everyone who survived has changed.
How will I tell Elizabeth that I failed to protect what was most precious to me? All these miles later, I still don’t have the answer.
Elizabeth looks behind me, her eyes scanning through the windows onto the street of North Fork. “Where’s Mom?” Her voice is tiny, the answer already dawning in her eyes.
She knows.
“Lizzie.” I take a step forward, reaching out a hand and setting it lightly on her shoulder. Her bones feel small and light as a bird’s. She tilts her head to look up at me, those brave, bright blue eyes filling with tears. “She’s gone.”
“Scorch Flu?” The question comes out low and rough.
“Yes.”
Tension leaves Elizabeth. She sags with a strange kind of relief. There are so many more violent and devastating ways to die than Scorch Flu.
I rub her shoulder, up and down, feeling strength along with delicac
y through the thin scrubs she wears. Her lip trembles and the tears escape. It’s as if every disagreement we ever had, including the last, melts away. I wrap my arms around Elizabeth and she leans into my chest. Once again, Susanna has brought me closer to my daughter.
I have missed her so much.
Elizabeth pulls in a deep breath and shudders out a sob as I rub circles on her back.
The little girl, still crouched next to the jigsaw puzzle, backs away from us, her gaze frightened.
A door opens and Melody Parker steps out. Her face is creased with concern, and when she sees me looking like a disheveled homeless man holding Elizabeth in my arms, fury flares in Melody’s gaze. “What do you think you’re doing?” She reaches for a gun at her hip.
Melody is carrying a gun.
That sweet, gentle girl is fierce now.
When the two girls were growing up together, Elizabeth was always the fighter. But now, Melody has drawn a nine millimeter and aims it right between my eyes, her gaze alight with a terrifying fire.
She could kill me and sleep well tonight.
“Melody, it’s me. John Johnson. Elizabeth’s father.”
Melody’s eyes widen in surprise and she holsters the gun as she crosses to us, pausing to reassure the little girl.
“What’s going on?” Melody asks as she reaches us. Realization dawns that I’m alone, even as she asks the question.
“Susanna is gone.” The words are painful burrs that want to stick in my throat.
Melody puts her hand on Elizabeth’s back as her eyes shine with grief. Melody loved Susanna, too. Elizabeth continues to cry into my chest and my own emotions well up.
I miss Susanna’s quiet confidence and unique strength every day. She didn’t have a diamond at her core like Elizabeth and me; she was a reed that bent with the winds, capable of swaying through any storm…except this one.
Susanna was my best friend, the only person who truly understood me, the only person who knew the deepest secrets of my heart.
I rest my cheek on the crown of my daughter’s head, breathing in her unique scent of vanilla and something antiseptic, the mark of her work on her body.
Memories from the day Elizabeth was born filter through my mind: the way Susanna held Elizabeth to her breast. The suckling noise Elizabeth made when she found nourishment there. Her tiny hands spread across Susanna’s pale skin.
My own emotions on that day wash over me afresh: the joy and fear of being a parent. Nothing can protect me from this terrifyingly intense love, and Susanna’s no longer here to share it and guide me. Tears track down my cheeks as once again I mourn my wife, my best friend, my faithful disguise.
Chapter Seven
Ana
The scent of turned soil fills the air and fat, slow buzzing bees circle me as I crouch in my garden among the plants. Here, and in the kitchen, are my favorite places at the Haven. They were my favorite places at home in Philly, too.
I pluck another zucchini flower from its prickly stem. I’ll stuff them with goat cheese, and deep-fry them as an antipasto for the family. There’s not enough here to satisfy the needy in town, and besides, fried flowers don’t travel well. I’m preparing a lasagna again, even though it will be the third time in the last two weeks…but those are the easiest noodles to make.
I never expected that making pasta would become a necessity, as it has since the Scorching. Dolf got me a food processor with a pasta maker attachment, but I prefer the crank one, the kind I grew up with. Rolling out yards of dough with my mother and grandmother were some of my happiest memories, and now it’s as routine for me as it was for them.
Before placing the zucchini flower on top of the others in my basket, I pull back the delicate petals to inspect the interior, making sure there are no bees trapped inside. Good. Nothing but the pale-yellow stamen.
I stand, stretching my back, feeling tight muscles ease, looking at the beautiful land around me.
The mountains that surround the Haven are some of the biggest I’ve ever seen. Our trip out here was my first visit to the West. Growing up in Chicago, then moving to Philly as a young bride and new mother, there was neither time nor money for travel.
Paul and I took our honeymoon in Italy…and made love under a warm sun like this, with the scent of jasmine and rosemary all around us. Luca got started there. What a perfect memento from the honeymoon, we used to joke.
That pasta can’t make itself. A sigh escapes as I head for the gate. Though young Paulie might’ve started it. That boy loves helping me in the kitchen. So strange and such a blessing that my Dante and his wife Melody brought home an orphan who shares the same name as my departed husband.
Is God sending me a message? If so, what could it be, after all we’ve been through with the Scorching?
Daisies have sprouted at the base of my tomato vines. I stoop to yank them free, and my fingers touch the earth. Gardening is as sustaining as the food I grow.
And this garden is healthier, bolder, better than my small backyard plot in Philadelphia. No need to bring in soil from outside. The Haven is a real farm, something I now realize I’ve always longed for.
I fought so hard to stay in Philadelphia when the Scorch Flu came, clinging to a place where I never felt truly at home. Fear and stubbornness made me hang onto the neighborhood where my children were born and my husband and son died.
I see now that this is where I belong, though I’d never admit that to JT and give the boy a bigger head than he already has about his powers of premonition.
I’m so proud of him and his new role as a deputy for North Fork.
The Sheriff is a good role model for him, for all of the boys. Hal Osgood’s such a gentleman too, taking off his hat and opening the door for me. I like how he appreciates my cooking. “You’re something special, Ana Luciano,” he says. I even like the way he takes my arm when we walk outside, even though there’s no reason to.
But I’m fine alone. My children are my life, always have been, and that’s enough for me.
The crack of a gunshot echoing in the woods jerks my head up.
Where are the children? I saw the boys headed down to the basement for one of their meetings, so they’re safe.
Nani, Luca’s wife and Avital, Dolf’s wife, both heavily pregnant, were napping in the living room when I went to the garden. Elizabeth, JT’s wife, and Melody drove the Humvee for their shift at the medical clinic, with Gummer from town to guard them.
Lucille!
I haven’t seen my daughter since this morning when she mentioned going hunting. Maybe that shot was her…but a prickling at the back of my neck precedes a wave of fear because I know the difference between the sound of a shotgun and a nine millimeter.
Gripping the handle of my basket, I hurry through the gate, not even bothering to close it to protect my garden from the rabbits and deer.
Something is wrong, I just know it.
Chapter Eight
Roan
My hands are balled into fists, every muscle strung up tight to keep from going after Lucy and hauling her into the cabin to make her mine.
I heard her stifled sob and knew she wouldn’t want me to see her cry. The girl’s proud, and she should be. I hurt and humiliated Lucy, and her words ring in my ears: “Fine. I’ll leave you alone. If that’s what you want, I’ll leave you alone forever.”
She means it. She’s done chasing me.
Go get her, dumb ass!
No.
It’s better this way.
I have to stop this before it goes any further. Nothing has changed. I am who I am: damaged, a man with a past and no future. Not the man for her. She should have some nice do-gooder from town, one of the surviving deputies maybe, a flannel-shirted white boy like Gummer.
We’re done.
I drag my eyes from the spot where she disappeared into the trees and notice my eagle feather on the ground. Lucy must have knocked it out of my hair while we were kissing.
Golden tipped with black, the
feather was a gift from Phil Standing Rock, the one bright spot in my screwed-up adolescence. “Only warriors can wear an eagle feather in their hair,” I protested when he gave it to me.
Phil just shook his head. His braid, blacker than my grandfather’s but just as long, swung side to side with that gentle, persistent movement. “We can make our own traditions, Roan.” He held the feather out to me, a beautiful reminder of wild majesty. “You’re brave, Winterboy. But the eagle feather does not just show us courage.” He ran his hand along the length of the quill, from the white fluff at the base to the golden tip, his expression thoughtful. “The eagle only has two eggs. All living things are divided—man and woman, evil and good, light and dark. Like the colors of this feather. Keep it safe. Learn its lessons.” He held it out to me and I took it, already planning how I’d hide it from Grandfather. “Man is a duality—he deals kindness and hurt, generosity and greed, foul and sweet, love and hate. Look to the eagle feather to remember that.”
Taking the feather, a symbol of Phil’s trust in me, gave me a thrill of confidence.
Maybe I wasn’t all bad.
Grandfather didn’t like me hanging out with Phil after school at his garage, working on cars. He wanted me earning money, though, so Phil paid me a little something and I told Grandfather I was mowing lawns.
Now the feather’s frazzled and the spine’s broken. Bad luck, a terrible omen.
I stroke the vane, bringing the barbules back into alignment, hooking them into smoothness. I curse as I sit on the porch, shaping what remains of the feather.
Light and dark. Man and woman. Lucy and Roan.
Grandfather told me Phil didn’t want to see me after I was sent to jail because I’d shamed him. But I kept the feather, taking it with me when I was sentenced. Five years later, when the guard passed me the plastic bag of what I’d had on my body when I went in, the feather remained. Trapped and suffocated as I’d been, but still strong. Still unbroken.
Funny that after all these years, kissing Lucy is what finally cracked it.
