by Em Garner
I’m caught, I’m stuck, I can’t get it undone. I’m trapped. I slap at the glass myself, then hold back. I can’t act like that, even if I want to. But then I feel the driver’s arm across me, his hand clicking the belt. I tense, I jerk, startled and freaked out, but his face is kind.
“You’d better go after her,” he says. “Before she hurts herself.”
I yank my heavy backpack out of his car, careful enough to know I don’t want him driving off with it, but I can’t carry both mine and the one my mom dropped. I drop mine beside hers, and I run.
“MOM!”
She doesn’t slow until she reaches the wall. She goes to her knees beside it, both hands clutching the cold metal. The ground is frozen, which saves her from getting muddy, but it also tears at her pants. She’ll be bruised, maybe even cut up.
The cold air burns like fire in my lungs as, panting, I drop down beside her. “Mom. Please. Come back to the car.”
Her hood’s fallen off her face. I haven’t seen her in light this bright, and I’m sorry to see the shadows around her eyes. The hollows of her cheeks. She has cracks in the corners of her lips, which are dry. Her hair tangles in the wind, blowing. She is my mother, and she used to be so beautiful, but now I struggle to see anything lovely in her.
She’s crying. Bright tears are slipping down her cheeks. She weeps silently, rocking, with her hands gripping the wrought-iron fence. Her forehead hits the metal, not hard enough to bruise, but it’s definitely leaving a mark.
“Mom, please.” I can only manage this in a whisper.
I put my hand on her shoulder. Beneath my fingers, the layers of clothing soften what would otherwise be bony and sharp, since she’s gotten so thin. “Please. Mom. Please.”
She doesn’t hear me, or she can’t. Her grief is so great, it overwhelms her. She shakes with it, and I worry it’s the Mercy Mode kicking in again. If it hasn’t already, it might soon, just from her agitation. I don’t think I can go through watching that again.
I’ve never been to one of the memorials. I know my dad is probably in one of them. We know he’s dead, even though nobody was ever able to tell us when or where, who’d done it. Where they’d put him. It seemed pointless to visit any of the places they’ve decided shouldn’t be forgotten, the places we should commemorate. He could be here, under the dirt and concrete, jumbled up alongside a lot of other bodies, or he could be anyplace else. He could be in none of them. All we know is that he’s gone.
She knows he is gone.
My parents fought sometimes, but they always made up. My mother sometimes seemed exasperated with my dad, who could be absentminded and whose sense of humor often included things she didn’t appreciate, like farts. She complained that he didn’t pick up his socks or when he forgot to bring home the dry cleaning. Their arguments never lasted long, and they kissed more than they fought.
Now she presses her face to the place in the dirt where he might be, and I can’t refuse her the chance for this grief.
I know that what I felt for Tony is nothing like this. We were too young, we didn’t have time, we were just kids. I loved him because he was the first boy to really pay attention to me, and I’ll admit there were times I had a fantasy or two about what it would be like to marry Tony. Have some kids. Argue with him fondly about his taste in cars, whatever it was.
But that was nothing like what my parents had. I lost my dad. She lost her husband. I remember overhearing my mom say once to her best friend that if something happened to my dad, she’d never get married again. I can’t begin to understand how it feels to love someone that much, to have made a life with that person, to have children with him, and then to lose him. I put my hand on her shoulder, but there’s nothing I can say or do about this except try to show her that I love her.
A shadow falls over us. It’s the man from the car. He has a handful of tissues. His eyes glint, shiny, as he gets down on the ground beside us. He hands me the tissues, and I press one into my mom’s hand. She doesn’t use it, but she doesn’t drop it, either.
“Your mother?” he says, and I nod. “Your mom hasn’t been here before, has she?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“But she knows what it is, doesn’t she?” He looks around the field. On the highway, not so far away, cars zip past without even slowing. The wind picks up, ruffling the weeds. He looks at me again. “Funny, how they know what they’re not supposed to know.”
He knows. Maybe he knew the moment he stopped. But, as with the lady at the bus stop, I don’t see condemnation. Nor pity, either, which I’d take even if it made my skin crawl.
“My wife,” he says, then stops. He swallows hard, shakes his head. “My wife.”
He doesn’t have to say anything else. I don’t know if he means she’s in one of these mass graves, or if she’s at home, wrists restrained and wearing a shock collar to keep her subdued. It doesn’t matter.
He understands, that’s what matters, and the three of us sit there together for a very long time.
FIFTEEN
THE DRIVER’S NAME IS MR. BEHNEY. HE EASES my name and story out of me with a few carefully asked questions that have me talking before I think I should keep quiet. I tell him about Opal. About having to leave the apartment. He says very little after that, but he looks thoughtful.
There never used to be a gate in front of the entrance to the neighborhood, but there is now. Mr. Behney slows the car before he turns in. I lean forward to get a better look.
“Are you sure?” He sounds doubtful.
“It’s open.” I point to the other side of the metal gate, the one behind the stone planter with the sign that says Spring Lake Commons. Nothing’s planted in it now. The gate is open on the far side. “See?”
He sighs, but makes the turn. The car inches forward through the opening. The trees have overgrown here, too, with branches that reach to scrape the sides of the car, but in half a minute we’re past that.
The road’s full of potholes, like something chewed it up and spit pieces of it back out. That’s from the treads of the army vehicles, not from regular cars. It’s not scary knowing what caused the holes. It’s scary knowing how long they’ve been there without being repaired.
We don’t pass a single car as I direct him down the long roads to our house. Spring Lake Commons is a huge neighborhood, not like the ones in town with big houses on tiny lots, all crammed together. Here you can’t even see most of the houses from the street, even in winter, with the leaves fallen off the trees. Driveways are long and narrow. There are a lot of hills. The neighborhood’s built onto a mountain, so the streets can be steep.
The only thing that crosses in front of us is a pack of dogs, all sizes. I see a couple of golden retrievers, a German shepherd, a Saint Bernard I’m sure belonged to the neighbors down the street. They look scruffy and wild, and they don’t pay us a second’s attention as they streak across the road. Mr. Behney puts on the brakes a little too hard. “My God.”
“They’re just dogs,” I say, my voice a bit too shaky to convince him. “Lots of people had dogs out here. That’s all.”
He gives me a sympathetic look and starts the car moving again. We follow the long, twisting road, make a turn or two. For a minute I’m afraid I’ve forgotten, actually forgotten how to get to my house. Everything looks different overgrown and not taken care of. Then I recognize the bend in the road.
“It’s just up here, on the left.” I point, leaning forward, eager now.
My stomach should be used to twisting and knotting by now, but this is different. I’m anxious, but excited. I want to go home. Oh, how I want to go home.
There’s a fallen tree blocking the end of the driveway. It’s knocked down some wires and sent the telephone pole tilting at a steep slant. Mr. Behney can’t get up the driveway, so he pulls up as far as he can to park.
“Velvet, are you sure this is what you want to do?” He peers through the windshield, clearly not impressed.
“Yes.”
I don’t tell him we have no other choice. He’s just nice enough that he might tell us to come home with him—and I’m almost desperate enough to want him to. But what if he doesn’t? What then? “It’s our house. I think it’ll be better for her. You know, be in a familiar place. It might… help.”
They’ve told us nothing can help. Well, except the collars, and those are meant for prevention, not progression. I look into the backseat, hoping to see my mom straining toward the door, but she’s sitting quietly without expression.
He nods. “Yes. It might.” He turns off the car. “I’ll walk you up.”
“You don’t—”
He shakes his head. “I’ll walk you up. Come on.”
He helps my mom out of the car. She doesn’t pull away from him when he links his arm through hers. We have to climb over the tree, and she struggles but manages with his help, while I carry the backpacks.
We have a long, steep driveway. By the time we get to the top, Mr. Behney’s huffing and puffing and so am I. Those bags are heavy. Only Mom seems unmoved. She stands in the drive and stares up at the house. I wonder what she’s thinking. I wonder what she can think.
I don’t have a key, which is so stupid, I want to kick myself. Then I remember the spare key hidden in the plastic rock in the rosebushes by the front door. The bushes are bare of blooms but full of thorns, and one scratches me as I reach for the rock. The key’s still inside, and sucking at the blood on the back of my hand, I pull it out.
“You have a broken window.” Mr. Behney puts a hand on my shoulder as I’m fitting the key in the lock. “Let me go first.”
He’s older than my dad, with a belly. He doesn’t look strong. It’s nice, though, that he offers, when I’m sure he must be as nervous as I am. I don’t want to let him go first—I feel like I could defend myself better than he can. He goes first, anyway.
“Looks okay.” He sounds relieved and steps farther into the house. “C’mon in.”
He’s wrong. It doesn’t look okay. Someone’s been in our house. The dining room’s immediately to the right, and the table inside has three claw-and-ball feet in the air. The fourth leg’s missing. The chairs are broken and overturned, the curtains shoved to the side. The door to the left that leads into the living room is closed. The family room’s straight ahead, and I push past him to check it out.
The furniture here, too, has been overturned and trashed. The fireplace screen is missing, and someone took a piece of burned wood and drew pictures on the walls. There’s a window broken back here. The bookcases have all been dumped, books everywhere, pages bent and torn.
Connies didn’t do this. They’re destructive, murderous, violent, but they don’t care about vandalism. Regular people did this, just because they could and get away with it. My stomach twists again.
Mr. Behney’s moving around the house, looking for who knows what. From the family room, I can see into the kitchen. The sliding glass door that Craig broke was boarded up when we left the house, and at least it still is. The fridge hangs open, the light not on. There’s no stink of spoiled food, at least, since whatever was in there’s long gone. I expect to see the dishes shattered, but they’re all in the cupboard.
Everything’s covered in dust, the floor gritty with dirt that crunches under my shoes. All the hanging plants are dead and dry, but the bushes outside have grown up lush and thick against the windows. It makes the inside of the house dark, with moving shadows I catch from the corners of my eyes.
My mom walks slowly, following me. In the kitchen, she stops. She looks around. She painted this room with sunflowers, bright and cheerful. Everyone always complimented our kitchen. She walks to the wall and strokes one of the flowers.
“We’ll clean it up, Mom. Don’t worry about it.”
Her head turns toward the sound of my voice.
“We’ll clean it up,” I tell her again. “Just like new.”
Mr. Behney’s feet sound on the stairs, and in the next minute he’s in the kitchen. “Whoever messed around down here didn’t do much damage upstairs.”
He pauses, looks embarrassed. “I think they stole some things, but they didn’t ruin the rest.”
I shrug. “It’s okay. I don’t think we’ll miss much of what they could’ve taken.”
He nods. He flicks the light switch. Nothing happens. “You’ll need to get the power turned on.” He goes to the sink, turns the faucet. Water comes out.
“We have a well,” I tell him. I don’t mention that I probably don’t have the money to pay for electricity, which was included in our subsidized rent before. Not to mention that the fallen tree out front looks like it ruined the wires. “My dad always said the pressure was so good that even with the power out, we’d have water. I guess he was right.”
“Velvet, are you sure about this? Really?” Mr. Behney looks around.
My mom’s moving around the kitchen, slowly touching things. She shrugs out of her coat as we watch. She lets it fall to the floor without paying any attention to it. I remember doing the same thing when I was a kid, only she’d yell at me to pick it up. I don’t yell.
“Look at her,” I say softly. “She knows this place. What if they’re wrong about them? What if they can get better?”
“That’s the problem, Velvet. Nobody knows. It hasn’t been long enough for anyone to know. There aren’t enough resources to do the sorts of testing required. This,” he gestures at her, “is maybe the best anyone can do.”
“That’s why I had to bring her here. To do the best I can.” These words taste right, like truth, even if it’s more complicated than that.
“I’m not sure it’s safe for you girls out here alone.”
“We can take care of ourselves. We did it before. We’ve been doing it for over a year.”
He fumbles in his wallet to pull out a business card. “Ignore the stuff on the front. I don’t work there anymore. But here.” He scribbles a number on the back. “If you need something, anything, you call me, Velvet, okay?”
“Sure, Mr. Behney, thanks.”
He looks into the family room, at the overturned chairs and the scrawled obscenities on the walls. I see a struggle on his face. I think he might be ready to offer more than a number. Just minutes ago I half hoped he would, but now that we’re here, in our house, I know I can’t ask him to take us on. He’s a stranger. This isn’t his responsibility. It’s mine.
“I’ll find out if there are still patrols that come through here. Make sure someone checks on you.”
I nod, though that might be the last thing I actually want. “Sure. That would be great. Thank you.”
He pulls a couple of bills from his wallet and presses them into my hand, though I try to pull away. “No, take this. You can use it. You have your mom and sister to worry about now. And I have… only me.”
My fingers curl over the money. I don’t look to see how much it is, but tuck it into the pocket of my jeans. “Thanks.”
There are people in the world who are kind and good, the same way there are bad ones. I wish it were easier to figure out who’s who. Or what kind of person I’d be if I weren’t who I am.
“You’ll be okay?” Mr. Behney asks.
“Yeah. I think so. Lots of cleaning to do, but that’s okay.”
We both look at my mom, who’s moved into the family room. She’s touching the couch, the chair. She runs her hands along the mantelpiece like a blind woman trying to see the world with her fingertips. She’s still silent in her inspections, but she’s not crying. That’s good.
“Well.” Mr. Behney slides his palms together with a little clap. “I guess I’ll let you get settled.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I’m not looking forward to that part of it, even while I’m eager to check out my room, see what’s left.
He looks at my mom, then back at me. “Not many would do what you’re doing, Velvet. You know that.”
I shake my head and think of how he mentioned his wife. “I think more would do it than you think. She’
s my mom, Mr. Behney. Wouldn’t you do it for someone you loved?”
His mouth thins. I’ve said something wrong. His eyes glisten; I don’t want to see him cry. That’s too intimate, too embarrassing.
“I waited too long,” Mr. Behney says. “I couldn’t decide if I could handle the responsibility, and I waited too long. They sent her back to the lab. And once that happens… they don’t come back.”
I have nothing to say. My mouth opens, no words come out. I’m not full of advice or wisdom, I’m still a kid. Adults are supposed to have the right words to say in situations like this.
He doesn’t seem to expect anything. He looks at my mom again. He squeezes my shoulder. Then without saying anything else, Mr. Behney leaves through the front door.
In the pantry, there are cans and jars and bottles and boxes. My mom had always joked that she shopped in bulk in case there was an Armageddon. The joke doesn’t sound funny in my head when I remember it, but I’m glad she’d done it because at least it means we’ll have something to eat, even if it’s plain white rice.
The rest of the kitchen is a mess I ignore for now. My mom’s found a nest of cushions and plops down in them. I have a vision of them being filled with mice or worse, squirrels, but though I run to her and pull her up, the cushions aren’t even chewed. That’s lucky, at least.
“Mom,” I say. “We’re home.”
It’s really too much to hope that she responds to this, but of course I’m disappointed when she doesn’t. I sigh and squeeze her hands. I sit back on my heels. I’m suddenly so tired, all I want to do is take a nap. The room, in fact, spins a little bit.
“Let’s get the couch set up. Maybe light a fire. At least it’ll be warm.”
There’s still some wood in the basket next to the fireplace, even if the rest of it is thrown all over the room. I pick up all the wood I can find and put it back in the basket. The floor and walls around the broken window are dark with mold. Leaves have blown inside, and I gather those up, too, stuffing them into the wood basket I use to help start the fire.
