by Amanda Leduc
There are no eggs from Joseph anymore. Heather no longer speaks to Joseph, apart from saying hello when they pass on the vine-ridden street. She doesn’t really speak to anyone apart from B and the girls, who are babbling now—mostly nonsense, sometimes a few words of something only they can understand. They are tiny but fierce. They pull themselves up by the legs of tables and wobble around the house from one piece of furniture to the next. Greta is always first in line. Jilly, more timid when it comes to new adventures, laughs the loudest. Neither of them goes anywhere without looking to see where the other twin is first. Their eyes follow her everywhere.
Their backyard is soon a lush jungle of green. There is no in-between time, no in-between place. In the morning she cuts the vines back from the stairs and in the evening they have grown to overtake the porch again.
Look at the wildflowers grow, she hears people whisper. Look at the lilies, look at the bushes that have come up almost out of nowhere. Look at all of it, so bright and alive.
A week or so into spring, brightly coloured boxes arrive on their doorstep, holding new clothes for the babies and an invitation. Please join us in the city square for a spring celebration. We would like to come together to celebrate the lives of those we’ve lost, and express gratitude for all that we’ve accomplished together. It’s signed Tasha and the Council.
“I don’t know why it bothers you so much,” B says, as they dress the girls in their new outfits. “The Council is trying to stay positive. Why is that so hard for you to get?”
“This is more complicated than just trying to stay positive. People died during the winter,” she says, the words short and clipped. “Even though the Council did so much. It’s eating away at Tasha, too, even if she’s not talking about it. If it hadn’t been for the Food Angel, we all might have starved.”
“Fuck the Food Angel!” B hisses. “We survived because we prepared. Because we worked together. Because Tasha and Annie didn’t give up. That’s why. Not because some mysterious hoarder decided to be generous.”
“But what do we do now—plant gardens again and wait to see if we’ll have food for next winter? What happens if things don’t grow a second time? Do you think Tasha—”
“What have you got against Tasha?” B yells. The girls watch them, transfixed and terrified. “She gave you vitamins, for God’s sake.” His face darkens. “She would have helped you get rid of the baby if she’d thought it was safe. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”
How could she think that? The memory is in every shadow on his face, in every strained hello he gives her in the morning. “She’s a doctor,” she says. “That’s her job.”
“She didn’t have to stay here, though,” he argues. “They didn’t have to help us gather supplies or build the greenhouses or get wood for the winter. They could have kept on going when they found out the hospital was destroyed. But they stayed. We’re here—you’re here—because of them. Jesus, Heather. What’s your problem? Where’s your faith?”
She laughs at this—high, almost hysterical. Faith in what? In centaurs? In other magical beasts that prowled the mountains around them long years before any of them were born? Faith in the ground that teems beneath them, in a world that chokes the food they plant and offers them poison berries instead? In the vegetation that creeps relentlessly in to drown the city?
Or does he mean faith in regular people, in the miracles they work with their own hands? They have survived one winter, yes. That is a kind of miracle.
But that was because of Estajfan. If they continue to survive, it will only be because of Estajfan. Tasha has nothing to do with it.
“I don’t hate her,” she says, finally. “But I don’t trust her either.”
It’s B’s turn to laugh now. “Are you serious?”
“Fine. I knew you would say that. Never mi—”
“You think she’s got some kind of nefarious plan? That she’s going to—what, hoard all of the food so everyone else starves?”
“Why is she here? Why here, B? Why spend the whole winter here and ration the goddamned food and practically take over a small mountain city no one cares about? Why not somewhere else?”
“Here is as good a place as any.” He pushes the stroller past her, out through the front door. “And maybe she saw too many of us falling apart and figured she could help.”
“Right,” she says, pretending not to get the dig. “Because Tasha has no problems of her own and is taking perfect care of her own family.”
“What?” He’s genuinely surprised for a moment, then rolls his eyes and continues down the walk. “Oh, for Chrissake. You don’t even know her family.”
“I know you think she’s strong and unflappable, but I see how she neglects Annie in favour of saving everyone else. And when she can’t save everyone else—I’ve seen her in the greenhouse, B. I know what she does when she’s alone. She’s telling herself—and us—stories too. That we’ll survive if we stick together, that everything will be okay if we just hold on. But what if she’s wrong? What if things aren’t going to be okay?”
“Won’t they?” he says, exasperated. He doesn’t stop pushing the buggy. The girls laugh loudly at the bumpy ride over the overgrown road. “How long do you think we’d survive all on our own? How long did Randall and Stella make it? Candice and Seth and the baby? We’re only here because we stuck together. And we only stuck together because Tasha and Annie saved us.”
“How is holding on to the idea of pulling through going to help us when there’s no one left?” she says. And then, “Have you talked to Annie? Have you asked her how she feels about Tasha? Because I guarantee you Annie’s not feeling the same saviour vibes that you are.”
This time he does stop, and turns to her. “What is wrong with telling people that we’ll survive if we stick together? What’s the alternative—that we’re all doomed? Is that it? Is that what you want us all to say? Because if it is—why bother eating at all? Why bother taking the girls out on those goddamned walks? Why bother anything?”
“Tasha’s not looking after her own family—that’s my point,” she says. “I know she wants to help. But she’s a fanatic. She’s neglecting the person closest to her because she’s hell-bent on saving the city.”
He’s beyond exasperated now. “And that’s a bad thing? I want to survive. Don’t you?”
“She wants to save the city because she thinks that’s going to save her,” she says, the words clicking into place like solving a puzzle. “And if—when—it doesn’t, everything she’s built will fall apart.”
He starts walking again. “She almost died during the winter along with the rest of us,” he says. “How is that saving her, exactly?”
“She’s telling herself a story,” Heather says. “One where she’s the only one making the right decisions.” He’s pulled ahead of her—she speeds up to try and catch him. “You know about her parents, right?”
“Yes,” he says. “They died in a fire. What does that matter?”
“I don’t think she’s over that,” she says. “I think she’s still trying to save them. I think she thinks that if she saves us, it will redeem her. Somehow.”
B looks back at her, his eyes filled with loss. “We’re all trying to save our parents,” he says. “Even if we can’t.”
She reaches out to him, finally, wrapping her fingers around his wrist. “But that’s just it,” she says, softly. “We can’t. We survive by moving on, and moving forward. She hasn’t. She refuses to let go of things she can’t control, even when they’re already lost to her. And everything about that makes me nervous.”
B shrugs her away. “Yes,” he says. “Like how you moved on and forward by not talking to anybody for a year after your father threw himself off that mountain. Like how you move forward now by telling the children silly stories about magical mountains and queens who murder geese.” He registers her shock. “You thi
nk I don’t hear you telling those stories to the girls? My God, Heather—if that’s your idea of moving on, I think I’ll stick with Tasha.” He pushes the stroller ahead again, and this time she lets him go.
* * *
As they draw closer to the square, they join a crowd. Little girls in faded dresses, little boys who run around, red scabs on their knees. Parents who look as tired and grey as Heather feels. At the square, people mill about, antsy and unsure. Someone has pulled an old wagon into the middle of the square and heaped it high with coloured boxes. Tasha is out front, greeting everyone, and as children shyly approach, Tasha’s people—Annie and Kevin—climb on board and start tossing boxes out into the crowd. The children cry out with delight as they rip the boxes open on the grass. More clothes, some toys, more colouring books and crayons. Things salvaged and stored for months, it would seem.
“Where’s Elyse?” Heather asks B when she reaches him.
He looks around. “Maybe she’s resting. She’s not well. Which you would know, if you’d been paying attention to anything else.”
Of course I know, she wants to say. Instead she turns back to the boxes, to the scraps of wrapping paper that now litter the ground.
B sees the scraps too. “I don’t remember storing wrapping paper.”
She can tell by the look on his face that he doesn’t remember storing clothing, or the other gifts that the children are unwrapping on the grass. Dolls and building blocks. Clay modelling kits. There is even chocolate—small bars that Annie pulls out of one of the boxes and tosses into the crowd.
Tasha approaches them just as B catches a chocolate bar. He can’t keep the surprise from his face. “We had chocolate?” he says. “We had chocolate all this time?”
“I wanted to be able to save something special for all of us when we made it through the winter,” she says. Always the same calm, knowledgeable voice.
Heather thinks of Tasha in the greenhouse—an animal crouched down on the floor, writhing and wild.
B fingers the bar, watching Tasha. And what about the people who didn’t make it through the winter? he wants to say—Heather can see it in his eyes. Instead he unwraps the chocolate and breaks off two small pieces, squats down, and tucks them into the mouths of his girls.
“Here,” Tasha says, and hands a bar to Heather. “How are you feeling?”
How is she feeling? At once stretched and lost—as though she is both a ghost and something more than herself.
“Any problems?” Tasha prods. “More spotting?”
She can feel B watching. “No,” she says.
Tasha nods. “I’m glad to hear it. You know where I am if you need me.”
“Yes.” Heather says. “I know.”
“Tasha,” B says, and she turns to him. “How much food have you got hidden away?”
Her voice is still light, unconcerned. “It’s mostly just the chocolate.”
“And all these—gifts?” B moves his arm in a wide circle. “Just waiting for better weather while people died in the cold?”
Tasha flushes. “We had to make some har—”
“I know,” he interrupts and looks away from her. He seems so disappointed that Heather almost feels sorry for him. “We’ve all had to make hard choices. I get it. But—people died, Tasha, while you sat on all of this.”
She won’t meet B’s eyes now. “I know the names of everyone who died,” she says. “Believe me, Brendan. I know. But I also knew that if we survived the winter we would need something…celebratory.”
“And if we plant the gardens again and nothing grows?” Heather asks. “What kind of celebration will we have then?”
Tasha looks at her, but doesn’t reply. Instead she walks back to the trailer and climbs up on it, then holds up her hands for silence.
“I am so glad to see you,” she calls out when even the children are quiet. “To see each and every one of you.”
The tired lines in the faces of everyone around them seem to lift a little.
“We’ve been through so much,” Tasha calls out. “But we survived because we did it together. And we will continue to survive because we’re doing this together.”
There is a smattering of applause.
“We’ll plant the gardens soon, and more—we’ll create a proper farm,” Tasha says. “We’re clearing the vines from the roads and soon we’ll send out scouting parties. If we’ve survived, other people must have too.”
She continues to speak, and the applause grows louder. The faces around Heather and B begin to shine with something other than fatigue.
You can do it, Tasha says. Her eyes burn with hope and love. We can do it. The clapping becomes a cheer, becomes a chant. Tasha. Tasha. Tasha.
Heather feels the words lift around them and become something else. A legend, a story.
There once was a city in the shadow of the mountains. Then winter brought the cold, and many of them died. But with the spring came warmth and hope, and the strongest among them held hands out to the weaker and lifted them up to the sun.
We will be whole again, they said.
We will find others, they said.
We must believe in something larger. We must believe we’re not alone.
She thinks of Tasha, weeping on the greenhouse floor.
“Where will the animals come from?” she hears herself call. The clapping dies down. “For the farm. A proper farm needs cows and chickens, at least. Where will they come from?”
“We’ll find them,” Tasha says. “The scouting parties will be looking for animals, too.”
“And if you don’t?” Heather says. “What then? What if there are no animals and the gardens don’t grow again and we have to survive another winter—what then?”
“Maybe the Food Angel will come back,” someone yells, in a voice that’s only half joking.
“We can’t rely on the Food Angel,” Tasha says. “We have to rely on each other.” She looks straight at Heather, her eyes so bright they look feverish. “The gardens will grow this year. They have to.”
“You don’t know that!” Heather cries. B puts a hand on her arm; she shrugs him off, steps forward.
Tasha opens her mouth to speak, but an outraged yell drowns her out. They turn, as one, to see Elyse walking toward them, half dragging what looks like a bundle of rags. As she gets closer, Heather sees that it is a bird, brown and mottled. A chicken. One of Joseph’s chickens.
The yell comes again and now they see Joseph, striding up the road behind Elyse.
“Tasha!” he yells. “Tasha!” He begins to run, passing Elyse, making for the trailer. He is weeping, incandescent with fury. “You fucking hypocrite. You goddamn murdering piece of shit.”
“Joseph,” Tasha says. “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”
“She killed one of my chickens!” he shouts, thrusting a finger at Elyse. Elyse lays the dead bird gently on the ground. There is blood splotched over her face, splashed up her arms. In her other hand she holds a knife; she sets that down on the ground too. She pays no attention to Joseph, staring at Tasha and Annie. “I did what had to be done,” she says. “He won’t let us take the hens for eggs, but we can eat them, at least.”
Tasha looks troubled, and suddenly so tired. “Elyse,” she says. “You can’t do that.”
“He can’t do that!” Elyse cries. “We barely survived the winter. And he had chickens in the house that whole time!”
“Four chickens are not going to feed a whole fucking city!” Joseph yells. “Three chickens even less. What’s wrong with you?”
“The rest of us are starving!” Elyse shouts. There’s a grumble around them after she says this, a whisper of unease through the crowd.
“Elyse. Just stop,” Annie says. “You’re only going to make things worse.”
“Why am I the only one who sees what we need t
o do?” Elyse cries. “We’re going to starve if we don’t make even harder decisions. You can’t celebrate any of this aw—” She bends over and coughs heavily, her shoulders heaving. She stumbles forward, then rests her hands against her thighs and heaves again. Her cough is thick and wet, insistent. All-consuming. When she is finally able, she straightens, her face resolute. “It was just one chicken.”
“She’s not just a chicken,” Joseph says. His voice breaks. “She and the others are all the family I have left.”
“Joseph,” Tasha says. “I’m so sorry.”
“This is all your fault!” he shouts at her. “I should have left months ago. We all should have left months ago.” He gestures wildly to the dead bird at Elyse’s feet. “You want that chicken? Fine. Take it. I am leaving this place. Fuck all of you.” He turns and begins to stalk back to his house.
A man breaks away from the edge of the crowd and follows him.
Then another person, a woman this time.
Another.
Another.
“Joseph,” Tasha calls. “Joseph.”
None of them turn around.
At last, Tasha turns back to the crowd still standing in front of the wagon. “We’ll be all right,” she says. “Don’t worry. We have a plan.”
But the spell is broken now. People begin to drift away from the square to their homes, leaving whatever else Tasha might have said to them unspoken.
“Maybe they should go,” Elyse says, after most of them are gone. “That’s more food for us, anyway.”
Tasha’s eyes rest on Heather, who has stayed with B in the square. “They’ll come around,” Tasha says. “You’ll see.”
The next morning, Joseph’s house is empty. He and his chickens are gone.
* * *
The weather gets hotter. They eat a bowl of rice a day, topped with one can of beans, split between the two of them and the girls. They plant the gardens, and hope, as their stash runs out.
